Gynarchy Fools Volume 5
Swish...Crack
Aaaaaiiii!
Mercy! Oh pray, master! Oh pray!
Each and every stinging, biting, excoriating whip-cut to my already deeply scarred, middle-aged, bare back – expertly delivered to me in slow time by her strong and mighty boyfriend, master Daniel sir – increases even further my pretty, young mistress's utter contempt for me as a slave, for it diminishes me in her female eyes (a whipped man is a weak man), along with:
- Every scream of unmanly pain on my part
- Every feverish plea for mercy
- Every desperate kiss to her dirty, black ankleboot-leather as she watches the whipping, seated comfortably in front of the kneeling-stocks in which I am now prostrated and confined
- Every self-demeaning nuzzle of her scrunched-up, speckled-grey, bootsock top, accompanied by a pathetic, maleslave whine
Yes, her sensuously dilated pupils are not for me, but for the handsome, young man with the whip; the man she intends to marry; the man who keeps her personal boot and sock slave in line; who makes the latter show her some respect.
He is the master, and I am the slave; I am the weak, and he is the brave.
I must pray to him, in front of the mistress, so that she will become even more lubricious for him, her potent lover; and contemptuous of me – her impotent, writhing and whining, boot-kissing, sock-nuzzling, whipped slave!
Swish...Crack
Aaaaaiiii!
Mercy! Mercy! Oh do, master!
After the whipping, many other young women in the neighbourhood come to smilingly inspect and finger my whip-wounds, whilst I sobbingly kiss their scruffy, street-soiled boots or sneakers; for they too are very admiring of master Daniel sir, and his prowess with the whip!
'How are you liking it, whipped slave? Are you savouring the pain your master has inflicted on you?', they mockingly ask me.
'Yes thank you, madam. If it pleases you, madam', I respectfully reply (for I don't want another beating!)
They laugh at me, and then go about their normal business, leaving me in abject pain.
And rightly so – for I am not worthy of their pity; only of their dismissive contempt and approbation.
I am powerless and defeated.
The Defeated Fool by patheticus on GoAnimate
My mistress’s sister-in-law – who happens to be a comely, blonde-haired, air stewardess – comes to mock me in her pretty uniform, consisting of tan-nylon stockings and blue leather courts beneath her bright blue, uniform skirt, as I languish in the kneeling stocks in my mistress’s back yard, post-whipping:
‘Ha! Ha! Aren’t you ashamed and embarrassed to be nothing but a whipped fool, cringing and blubbering with pain in the stocks, footslave?’ she asks me whilst holding up the highly-polished toe of her right, court shoe to my lips for respectful and penitent kissing.
I admire the delicate creases and folds below her ankle in her finest denier, flesh-toned, nylon stocking-material as I humbly lip-kiss the blue leather of her proffered, court shoe:
‘Oh yes…sob…sob…kiss… kiss… mistress; if it pleases you…sob…sob…kiss…kiss… pretty cabin-crew mistress?....kiss…kiss…sob…sob…’
She switches feet beneath me.
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t you wish you could be a free man – a real man, like my brother-in-law? Married to a beautiful, young woman like my sister, and enjoying her respect. And, of course, holding the whiphand over her household slaves, instead of being on the receiving end of the whip all the time? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress… sob…sob…kiss…kiss; if it pleases you, pretty flight-attendant mistress …kiss…kiss…sob… This slave regrets that he could never aspire to pleasure a mistress as a free man, madam…. kiss…kiss…sob…sob… since he is but an impotent fool, madam…sob…sob…kiss…kiss… And nor could he ever be worthy to hold the whip-hand, madam…kiss…kiss…sob… since he was born to be on the receiving end of the whip, pretty madam…kiss…kiss… if you will be so kind and understanding to a whipped slave, magnificently beautiful madam?…sob…sob…kiss…kiss…’
She lowers her left foot to the ground, as she is tiring of maintain her sweet feminine balance on one shapely, nylon-stockinged leg:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave! You just stick to what you know best – kissing the feet of your betters, and being whipped. Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes thank you, madam…sob…sob…’
She turns her back and her court heels on me, and catwalks away. I am not one of her precious airline passengers, seated in first class and deserving of her professional pampering. I’m not even an economy class passenger, whom she must just make comfortable. I’m merely her sister’s grounded footslave – confined in the kneeling stocks with a sore, whipped back, and going nowhere.
My supervisor-mistress – petite and comely mistress Iffat – is a very popular young woman about the office; not just because she is a very outgoing, talkative and friendly girl – but because she makes sure that I, in my capacity as the roaming, office footslave, don’t just routinely lickshine her fellow, female office-workers’ dirty, office shoes and boots, but that I also show abject, footslavish respect for them, by first kissing and worshipping the fouled footwear.
Take miss Naila’s black leather, office ankleboots, for example. Miss Naila, like my supervisor-mistress miss Iffat – is a beautiful, young, dark-haired woman of Pakistani origins, and so the two of them initially converse happily with one another in Urdu high above me when my supervisor-mistress Iffat first approaches miss Naila’s desk, with me in ignominious tow on my hands and knees behind miss Iffat’s plain, black suede loafers and short, navy-blue sneaker-socks.
But then, my friendly mistress Iffat’s tone suddenly changes when she switches to English in order to bark her orders down at me:
‘Slave, be kissing miss Naila’s boots and socks, and then be lickshining them clean, especially around the dirty heels!’
‘Yes, miss Iffat madam. At once, miss Iffat madam!’
Now, don’t get me wrong: kissing the stylish, blocky-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up, black leather ankleboots and plain black cotton, bootsock-tops of a lovely, young woman like miss Naila – whilst she is seated at her desk – is something of a joy and an honour for a foolish, middle-aged, male footslave such as myself. But that still doesn’t lessen my sense of shame and impotence when miss Naila very deliberately crosses her right anklebooted foot over her left so that the former is hovering in the air directly at my kneeling face-level, and then, equally deliberately, hitches up her black polyester, trouser-hem in order to afford my lips access to her scrunched up and twisted, black socktop, against the enticing backdrop of her beautiful, soft brown legflesh.
Kissing a bright, young woman’s sock is, somehow, much more humiliating than kissing her boot-leather. I mean, one can hardly lickshine a sock, whereas kiss-licking a female boot has some purpose – that of divesting it of its offensive street dirt and detritus, and bringing it back to a lovely shine for everyone to see. But the sock will be hidden again beneath her trouser-hem, just as soon as I have finished worship-kissing it. I’m not even commanded to straighten it, or iron out the creases in the top, with my mouth!
Furthermore, the germs on her outer boots (and they must be legion) are somehow less humiliating than the germs on her sock; for her sock germs are much more intimate, being related to her personal, and normally private, footsweat!
It’s just so frustrating – but, woe betide me if I betray any footslavish consternation or concern on my face, for my supervisor-mistress Iffat’s thick-girthed and back-bruising, bulls-pizzle whip is never far from my kneeling-back.
Which is yet another reason why my mistress-supervisor Iffat is so popular around the office – she sure knows how to whip the office-footslave, and keep him in line! And the office ladies do very much like seeing me whipped – since I am such an unpopular and despised, male fool!
The two beautiful Pakistani girls laugh triumphantly, as I humbly kiss the desk-incumbent’s pretty socktop – first on her amused right ankle; and then on her left. Misses Iffat and Naila then nonchalantly carry on with their private conversation in Urdu above me, whilst I diligently lickshine the cold outsides of miss Naila's chunky, black leather ankleboots – from the rugged bottoms of her bootsoles, through the aforementioned blocky bootheels, to her smooth, upper bootrims directly below her creased, warm black cotton socktops – tasting, savouring, and then swallowing whatever she has been walking in.
No wonder my popular, Pakistani supervisor-mistress sees me as a fool, and only ever speaks to me in a non-friendly, disparaging manner; my foul mouth is full of her various, female colleagues' sock germs, and boot or shoe dirt!
My 23 year old, black mistress – mistress Joy – is excited because her powers as a part-time, good young lady magistrate have just been increased. Previously she was limited in the severity of the punishments she could hand down – a maximum 100 lashes; 3 days in the stocks; and/or 20 years in the underground slave-mines.
Now, however, she has been given authority to impose an unlimited number of lashes on the prisoners arraigned before her in the male dock; a maximum of 3 years in the stocks; and life imprisonment in the underground slave mines!
She is determined to put her new-found powers into action, and has already decided that the next prisoner to appear before her – whatever his crime (or, indeed, whatever his guilt or innocence) shall feel the full force of her law; she will sentence him to an indefinite number of lashes for the rest of his life, and 3 years in the stocks followed by life imprisonment in the underground slave mines.
And I, as her personal footslave, shall have to observe the excited reactions in her boots and socks beneath the magistrate’s bench as she passes sentence on the poor unfortunate!
In the event, the prisoner before turns out to be a petty criminal, accused by a young woman (and therefore automatically deemed guilty) of the crime of not showing enough respect to her boyfriend, by not bowing the head to him and kissing the ground in front of his feet.
Good lady magistrate miss Joy feigns outrage at the footslave’s insulting behaviour towards the freemale sexual partner of the lying, young woman, and immediately condemns the elderly maleslave-prisoner to:
· An unlimited amount of lashes for the rest of his life (but to be delivered in blacks of 50 once a month so that the he has time to recover from each flogging before the next batch of whipcuts is delivered to his wrinkly, old back)
· The maximum period allowed under the law of three full years in the kneeling stocks
· Followed by life imprisonment in the underground slave-mines
She also, by way of a little soupcon of superfluous sadism, required the elderly man to write a 1000 page letter of apology to the much younger freeman whom he had allegedly slighted, begging his forgiveness and assuring him of his innate superiority over the convicted prisoner.
The young accuser-mistress was delighted that female justice was being seen to be done – even though she felt the elderly slave was cheating the requisite amount of pain and suffering by virtue of his advanced age, and therefore ‘life’ would probably only mean a few years anyway. Hell, he might not even make it out of the stocks!
But, what else could the good lady magistrate have done?
And speaking of the latter, I was compelled to observe (and admire) how her black leather anklebooted feet were jiggling excitedly up and down beneath her imposing magistrate’s desk as she gleefully exercised her new, female powers and passed draconian sentence down upon the prisoner. I observed how the very tops of her plain, black cotton bootsocks creased and folded in rapid tandem with her subconscious foot-movements, and how the very leather in the sides of her ankleboots creased in line.
I also admired the flapping of her metal zipper-pulls against the upper sides of her boots. I admired them because these are the jiggling boot-zips of a bright and black young woman wielding absolute power over a helpless, male prisoner-fool, who just so happened to be in the wrong dock at the wrong time i.e. the very time when miss Joy wanted to put her newly increased sentencing powers into cruel and unusual practice!
Prisoner-Fool in the Dock by patheticus on GoAnimate
Immediately after your flogging, just as soon as you are released from the public whipping post, you shall slump limply to the ground, and slither through the dirt in pain, on your naked belly and completely unaided, towards your pretty mistress-accuser's feet, where you will sobbingly and blubberingly kiss her dusty, black canvas, low-top, laced-up, keds sneakers and beg her sweet feminine forgiveness.
Throughout your pain, and the humiliation of kissing her black rubber sneaker-toes in public, you shall look up at her black, frilly, cotton anklesock-top, and contemplate how she is better than you, and the instigator of your pain. You shall beg your triumphant accuser-mistress from your lowly, prostate position, for the privilege of kissing her on her superior sock, but shall accept her subsequent denial of your request with humility and resignation – as befits a down-in-the-dirt, freshly-flogged, footslave fool!
Instead, you shall make do with gently nuzzling her lacy, black sock-top beneath her black leather miniskirt.
You shall then, to the mocking jeers of the mainly female crowd of onlookers, crawl ignominiously away to your accuser-mistress's shoe cupboard where, surrounded by the musty aroma of her many discarded, young-womanly shoes and boots, you shall lick your slave whip-wounds and yearn to recover speedily from your flogging, so that you may resume your daily servitude towards your pretty accuser-mistress's feet and footwear, whilst recognising that your maleslave fate lies in her dainty, feminine hands, and that she may not take you back to her feet, but instead banish you to the underground slave-mines, never to see her lacy, black anklesocks again!
You shall cry yourself to sleep at night with this thought, and rue the day you earned her young-womanly wrath and displeasure.
Fool!
It is the end of my week long period of secondment to the feet of my mistress’s beautiful, dark-haired and sultry cousin, miss Meirav (whilst my mistress Avigail and her family have been away in Israel on holiday).
As my equally beautiful and raven-haired mistress Avigail comes to collect me, and return me to her own familiar, pink-sneakered and white sneaker-socked feet, she asks the dreaded, all-important question of her Israeli cousin:
‘Well, Meirav? Was he a good footslave? Was he nice to you?’
I brace myself for mistress Meirav’s reply!
It’s not that I should have anything to fear, for I feel that I have been a good footslave to miss Meirav:
· Getting to know her feet and footwear
· Providing her with expert pedicures of a morning
· Not baulking at the taste of the streetdirt on her shoes or boots whilst I am licking it off
· Not grimacing at the aroma of sweat on her stinky bootsocks at the end of each day as she lays them over my upturned nose for me to sleep unmanfully under
· Addressing her always in the language of humble slavespeak, as befits a seconded slave who is a ‘guest slave’ in a superior young woman’s household
· Submitting to her natural, female authority, and humbly taking the whip without any complaint or resistance (resistance by a male slave to the female whip is always futile, in any case!)
But, that’s how I view my footslave-performance over the past week; my temporary-mistress Meirav may have seen things differently. Or, she may even just wish the pleasure of seeing me punished by her cousin, even though I have endeavoured to be a ‘nice’ footslave, to the very best of my ability, throughout my week-long secondment!
Miss Meirav speaks, whilst I must hold my tongue:
‘Well, there is just one thing, Avi. You see my frilly, black and white anklesocks on my feet?....’
She is currently seated in an armchair in her living room, and stretches out her legs in parallel before her, so that her blue denim jeans ride up her shapely, Israeli ankles to reveal the frilly-white tops of her otherwise plain, black cotton anklesocks inside her shiny, black plastic loafers (cheap, plastic loafers which I must have dutifully licked to a satisfactory shine on literally dozens of occasions over the past week or so!)
Miss Meirav then continues…
‘…Well, if you look closely, you can see that they aren’t completely straight and even on my ankles; the left one is slightly lower than the right!’
My mistress Avigail is seemingly apoplectic with rage, and immediately comes over to cuff me across the face for the unparalleled cuffs on her pernickety cousin’s lacy anklesocks! She then grabs her punishment-ledger from her tracksuit pocket in order to write me out a punishment chit, which she shoves angrily into my kneeling, smarting face:
‘Slave, take this chit to the local house of correction; I have asked them to give you 200 lashes across your bare back for ineptitude and insubordination towards my cousin Meirav’s socks! How many times have I instructed you to straighten socks with your mouth? And yet still you are incompetent and neglectful of a superior young woman’s socks! Bah! Well, maybe the sting of a professional whipping will teach you proper respect for the condition of your female betters’ socks? Be off with you, pig!’
I crawl out of the room, sobbing and with my tail (i.e. my redundant penis) between my legs. I now have to find my way to the local whipping house, where I shall be the recipient of, no doubt unparalleled, pain – and all because one of my host mistress’s frilly anklesocks was a little bit wonky!
But I suppose I deserve all I get, since I’m just an impotent, and incompetent, male slave.
Addendum: After my unparalleled punishment, I had to crawl back to mistress Meirav’s house and humbly blubber my apologies into her lacy, black and white anklesocks in front of my mistress Avigail, before duly straightening them to my mistress Avigail’s satisfaction with my penitent mouth. Only then, was I allowed to return to my own mistress Avigail’s (perfectly straight) white sneaker-socks and pink sneakers!
My beautiful, bright-red-haired, mistress Tammy is enjoying all the famous sights of Barbaria, the capital city of the Gynarchy, as he makes her regular commute into work on a Gynarchy bus; sights including:
· Julia Caesar Square
· The Golden Statue to Goddess-Mistress Julia Caesar (the reputed founder of the Gynarchy)
· The Female Parliament Building
· The Interactive Museum of Female Domination
· The Superior Female Art Gallery
· The Supreme Female Court
· The Central Whipping Post & Male Prison
· The Male Slave Market
· The Exhibition of Female Achievement
· The Young Ladies’ College of Central Barbaria
As I am her personal footfool, and must follow her on my hands and knees to grey-sneakered heel, the only sights I get to see which are perhaps worth mentioning, are the stretched, elasticated, and thick-ribbed, snowy white tops of her white cotton ankle socks atop her laced-up, grey sneakers; and the subliminal movement in those white socks as she subliminally flexes her commuter-girl ankle muscles whilst looking out the window.
The creepy old, grey-haired master-sir – a former magistrate, apparently – has me arraigned in his dark and gloomy, windowless, mansion-house basement before the imposing, wooden, makeshift magistrates’ bench on which he is seated, surrounded happily by his three daughters, all of whom look to be in their twenties, and dressed appropriately for flighty young women of their age i.e. shamelessly short skirts and heels!
As I kneel before the family I can see right up the girls’ legs – though the heavy, wooden cangue around my neck modestly prevents me from seeing up-miniskirt!
The creepy-sounding master-sir is doing all the talking:
‘Male prisoner in the dock, you have been selected by this unofficial court for perpetual male punishment on behalf of all those submissive males who have offended against women by failing to please them sexually. Since you are the lowly representative of such crimes against women, you shall be severely punished by three representatives of the fairer sex – namely my three beautiful daughters, who are now seated next to me in holy judgement over you.
They are – from left to right, my beloved daughter Jessica; my beloved daughter Andrea; and my beloved daughter Philippa. You shall begin by kissing their respective feet as I describe to you their individual roles in your male punishment regime – beginning with the feet of my daughter Jessica on my far right...’
I sense that I am in no position to argue, and so awkwardly shuffle my cangued head over towards the shiny, black patent leather, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up ankleboots, and matt-black cotton, no-frills anklesock-tops, of the tall and slim, blonde-haired miss Jessica; no frills black socks – to match the sombre surroundings!
Her boots taste well polished, however!
Meanwhile, the creepy master-sir continues with his sadistic speech:
‘Jessica shall be your chief gaoler in this place of subordinate-male punishment. She shall see to it that you are taken from this secretive, basement courtroom and locked in your cramped, solitary-confinement, punishment cell 24 hours a day for an indeterminate period at her pleasure. In that same cell you shall labour for 16 hours a day on the heavy treadmill – which is where my second daughter Andrea comes in…’
I shuffle my mortal coil over towards the second young blonde woman seated on her father’s immediate right – the even more stunningly beautiful and sexily dressed miss Andrea, in her pink leather halter-top; pink leather miniskirt; and pink patent stilettos on bare, white feet (I notice a prominent, blue vein on the front of her otherwise seemingly flawless, right foot as I lower my lips to her shiny, pink shoe-toe – but that vein’s somewhat unsightly prominence could just be caused by the unnatural arching of her foot in those six-inch-high stilettos)
‘…Andrea is an accomplished whipper, and shall be your treadmill-taskmistress. She shall sit in judgement over you whilst you walk the heavy treadmill, and ensure, by means of her stinging whip across your bare back and shoulders, that you maintain a steady pace…’
I notice the excited, Miss Andrea’s foot-vein pulsate pleasurably at the talk of her applying the whip to my hard-labouring, solitary back!
‘…If, despite the sting of the female whip, you are still found to be wanting in your hard labours on the treadmill, my third, and youngest daughter, miss Philippa, shall apply other forms of woman-made pain to your male-prisoner body. She is a trained torturess – I taught her myself – and knows every pain-nook and nerve-cranny in a male-prisoner’s body.’
I shuffle my face past the master-sir’s carpet slippers (for some reason he is in his purple dressing gown, though embellished to make it look like some sort of magisterial robe!) and lower my lips to the shapely, modern feet and ankles of the young blonde woman seated on his left. She is wearing the skimpiest pair of blue lycra shorts imaginable, and a pair of chunky-heeled, high-top, white leather, lace-up sneaker-boots, with thick, white woollen, cableknit socktops cascading over her upper sneaker-boot rims.
Lycra Croft?
Her footwear smells the nicest, as I pay labial homage to my would-be torturess’s boots, feeling the jaggedness of her multitudinous, metal-rimmed, lace-eyelets on my lips as I kiss-worship her tall and mighty footwear (at one point, an eyelet even pierces my stiff, upper lip – a sign of things to come? For surely a ‘trained torturess’ loves to draw blood?)
The creepy, old master-sir then addresses his three daughters directly:
‘Very well, my dears. You may now take him down and do with him as you will. And may the Lord have mercy on his suffering soul!’
The three young women giggle, before rising up from the bench, kissing their father affectionately on the cheek, and then leading me harshly to high-heels on a leash out of the makeshift ‘courtroom’, where I must cangue-crawl down an equally gloomy corridor towards what will presumably be my punishment-cell, cum workhouse, cum torture chamber!
I awake to another day as a humble, personal footslave in the Gynarchy of Barbaria. As the horror of my condition once again sinks in, I contemplate how I can look forward to another day of:
· Focussing intently on my pretty, 22 year old, dark-haired, Chinese student-mistress’s boots and socks (It’s a week day – so it will be her college-wear, chunky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots and white cotton, ankle-length bootsocks)
· Inhaling the increasingly vinegary smell of my mistress’s white bootsocks as the day progresses, culminating in her socked feet relaxing on my face this evening
· Whip pain – for barely a day goes by when I am not lashed across my bare back and shoulders by someone better than me (usually my pretty mistress herself, but sometimes one of her student friends)
· Being humble and respectful towards everyone I meet – kissing the feet of all the other student-mistresses whom I encounter, and the ground in front of the feet of all the freemale student-masters whom my mistress introduces me to
· Being shouted at, criticised, and ordered about by everyone; basically, being spoken down to – as a slave should be
· Not talking back – for my oriental student-mistress has me in a regime of absolute silence (I am forbidden even to cry out in pain or beg for mercy under the sting of the whip – on pain of yet more whipping!)
· Going hungry – for, ungrateful though it sounds, my meagre, daily rations of tasteless slave-mush, boot and shoe dirt, and salty toejam are never enough to fill the aching void in my footslave-stomach)
· Being suitably downcast, fearful and oppressed in my demeanour and expressions – for nobody likes to see a happy and contented slave, least of all my pretty, oriental mistress
· Discreetly observing, and approving of, my mistress’s sexual promiscuity as she beds yet another free man who tickles her fancy (I don’t tickle her fancy, and therefore can be assured of yet another day of permanent sexual frustration)
· Admiring the free male(s) who get to enjoy the warmth of my mistress’s body – since I only ever feel the coldness and harshness of her young-womanly contempt; and rightly so
· Being despised by all and sundry, for being a weak, whipped and impotent, male fool; again, rightly so
· Knowing that tomorrow will be much the same; and the next day; and the next – with only, perhaps, a change in her dominant footwear to her sneakers, if it happens to be a weekend or rest day for her. It won’t be a rest day for me, of course – be it sneakers or ankleboots on my mistress’s superior feet – since a footslave’s work is never done, and I am her personal footslave for life (I reckon I have about 20 years to go, being in my fifties; most slaves in Barbaria live until they are 70, at the longest). Unless, of course, she dumps me for a younger model
The door to my footslave-cell clanks open, and I catch my first glimpse of my mistress Siu-Li’s footwear for the day. I was right – she is wearing her ubiquitous, chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots with a pair of cute, feminine-white bootsocks, as per usual. I catch just a glimpse of her twisted, white cotton socktops below her skinny-tight, black denim, jean hems as she stretches forwards, in turn, each dusty and scuffmarked, oriental, boot-toe on the dirty cell-floor beneath my kneeling face for respectful, early-morning kiss-greeting by her humble footslave.
She is also carrying her coiled-up, black leather whip.
The day has begun; another day in the Gynarchy paradise… a day of boots, socks and the whip!
It is truly an honour for me to lickshine the friendly, black customer-mistress’s dirty, black sneakers, and to nuzzle her red and white tube socks, as she is standing over me, speaking friendlily on her phone to someone who is obviously better than me (I know they must be better than me, because they have to be free to own or use a phone!)
Of course, the black customer-mistress is not friendly with me – the public footservant. With me, she is appropriately cold and curt, merely directing me to the areas of her sneakers which need lickshined the most, before proceeding with her much more friendly telephone conversation. But nor is she unduly hateful towards me. For example, as I have already indicated, she is not averse to having her white tube socks respectfully nuzzled by a public footfool, even without ordering him to do so – providing it’s just the lower halves of her socks!
That’s because she knows the power of her socks!
I don’t mind that she’s sharp with me; I’m just flattered that she sees fit to acknowledge my presence at all, sneaker-licking and sock-sniffing slug that I am!
The Friendly Girl's Footfool by patheticus on GoAnimate
