Gynarchy Life Volume 4
1. Multitasking
The public footslave must show equal respect for the feet of all his female betters – whatever their disposition:
Be it hacked off:
Indifferent:
Or sunny:
2. Dungeon Footslave
Her boyfriend holds the knotted whip, whilst the mistress has her dainty, feminine sneakers and socks kissed by the dungeon footslave.
Yes – the knotted whip will soon be cracking across this kneeling slave’s back if he fails to show proper, footslavish respect for the mistress’s shoes and socks!
And rightly so. For a slave must always respect another man’s girlfriend!
3. Deluxe Sock-Concentrator Device
Most sock-concentrator devices – surgically implanted into a sockslave’s brain to ensure his compliance with the sock-worship laws – merely compel the slave to think about his mistress’s socks with every other thought. Providing that thought involves the word ‘sock’, the slave is covered, and will not experience any jolts of pain in his brain.
But my mistress and master are very rich, and they have implanted a deluxe sock=concentrator into my puny brain – one that compels me not just to think about my mistress’s socks all the time, but to admire them; to think only positive thoughts about them, in a slavish way.
Thus I am forever internally eulogising my mistress’s socks – seeing no wrong in them:
· I regard the creases in her socks whilst she is wearing them as enhancements to the overall beauty of her socks (even I they are her grey and manky ankleboot-socks) as they add mystery and intrigue to her socks
· I am perpetually admiring of the way her socks absorb her precious footpore excretions, and are thus saturated in her superior-female DNA
· I constantly yearn to be one of her socks, as I too would deem it an honour to be immersed in my mistress’s foot sweat and odour (the closest I ever come to that is when my mistress kindly rubs her sweaty-socked feet on my face, thereby transferring at least some of her socksweat juices into my facial pores!)
· Even when she is not wearing socks – and I am thus confined to her live-in sock drawer, I am kiss-worshiping her rolled-up socks; and studying them; and getting to know them – in a manner befitting the humble and unworthy servant of a lady’s socks; and always with the aim of becoming an even better sockslave to her – for there is always room for improvement (and for even more whip-cuts on my bare back!)
My master-sir, my sockmistress’s husband, frequently tests me on my knowledge of, and appreciation for, his wife’s socks – mainly because he gets a manly buzz out of mocking and humiliating me. But at such times of great stress, I always endeavour to convey to the superior man my utter sense of awe and wonderment at his wife’s socks, and seek to reassure him that even the grubbiest and mankiest of her socks are living objects of great power and beauty to me; and I beg to be permitted to continue in my capacity as his wife’s humble, but diligent, sockservant.
The master-sir then examines the concentrator’s electronic records of my sock-devotion, looking for any signs of pain inflicted on my forehead as that would, of course, be evidence of failure on my part – failure to concentrate with humility and positivity on his wife’s socks, and thus an excuse for him to dismiss me from the service of his wife’s socks (for he knows we personal, household sockservants are two a penny, and can easily be replaced!)
I don’t want to be consigned to the underground slave-mines, which is where disused sockservants often end up, so if ever the master-sir does discover any evidence of a wandering brain on my part (which would only ever happen, I’m ashamed to say, if I am momentarily distracted by a nice pair of socks on another young woman) I apologise profusely to him, and invite him to whip me in front of the mistress’s socks – which the master-sir invariably will do, as he very much enjoys disciplining me in front of his lovely wife, and demonstrating his mastery over me.
Yes – life as a sockservant involves being in much pain, either pain on the brain from the deluxe concentrator device itself; or pain on the back, caused by the cuts from the master-sir’s whip. But I wouldn’t wish to be anything else other than my mistress’s personal, male sock-bitch – for it is truly an honour so to serve, and to be forever associated with her socks.
Her socks are my only business:
Her sweaty sock is my life:
I humbly leave it to the superior master-sir to satisfy her beautiful, young-womanly desires:
4. Out in the Cold
It’s freezing cold, and there is snow on the ground. But still the rusty-necked, public footservant must kiss boot – whenever it is presented to him:
The proffered boot-toe of his female better:
5. Coal-Bunker Slave
Hang on! Is that a rusty-necked slave we see down there in the gloom at the bottom of the coal-bunker? And is that a slither of hot, white sock on his mistress’s shapely ankle?
That’s a ‘yes’, and a ‘yes’ – on both counts!
And such a pretty mistress – as she lustfully chews on her fingernail whilst having her sneakers and socks admired down below!
6. Her Highly Appreciative Public
Her job is to publicly flog male slaves in the town square – and it’s a job which she truly loves; especially when she has such a loud and appreciative audience:
