The Ritual of the Knout

My blonde and slim, 32 year old, Russian mistress, mistress Yekaterina, is a very religious girl who originates from a small hamlet in Siberia, and she is a firm, orthodox believer in instilling righteousness and proper behaviour in her sinful and wayward, personal footslave. It is perhaps no surprise, therefore, that when she disciplines me she likes to do so in a highly ritualistic and fervent manner.

She will invariably inform me of my crime and punishment the night before, summoning me to her boudoir just before she retires to her bed, and whilst she is consequently dressed in her pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers.

I am required to kneel before her furry-slippered feet as she sits on a chair by her bedside cabinet – with her dreaded and bloody, punishment knout dangling threateningly between her legs (it is very much her preferred implement of slave-chastisement) – and listen to her ritualistically pronounce sentence upon me in her strong Siberian accent:

‘You the dirty slave, for sin of disrespecting me I hereby sentence you to the 25 strokes of the knout, to be well laid on across backs of your bare legs and buttocks while you are being secured over the punishment trestle. The punishment shall be inflicted on you first thing tomorrow morning. You may now kiss my feet the 10 times, and retire to your cell.’

It’s almost like she is reading out my sentence in front of the Female Court – but this is not a courtroom; it’s her bedroom; and there is only one person in the audience – me!

Sobbing – for I know my punishment is going to be severe (when my mistress Yekaterina declares that the knout shall be well laid on, she means well laid on!) – I respectfully, and penitently, kiss her white-furry-slippered feet beneath the hem of her silken dressing-gown, admiring her prominent, Siberian-blue, foot-veins on her pasty white, former peasant-girl ankleskin as I do so.

I kiss each slippered foot 5 times, alternating between left and right – again, all part of her preferred punishment ritual. I then have the indignity of crawling downstairs to my basement footslave-cell, where I shall spend a sleepless night worrying about my impending pain, whilst my mistress Yekaterina says her prayers and then retires to her warm and cosy bed, where she will sleep soundly whilst dreaming of knout.

What’s that you ask? In what way had I merited such harsh, Siberian punishment? I must confess my ‘disrespect’ had involved a furtive glance on my part away from my cold, Russian mistress’s office ankleboots over towards the sweet and warming, black, office ballet-flats and matching, black socks of one of her office colleagues – miss Whitney. It had only been a fleeting glance – but skilfully picked up by my ever vigilant and possessive mistress Yekaterina, nonetheless; and here in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, a mistress’s possessiveness is nine tenths’ of the Female Law!

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I know the ensuing punishment ritual all too well.

At 06:00 A.M sharp my mistress Yekaterina appears at the door to my basement-cell, already fully dressed in her ‘whipping’ outfit consisting of her beloved, black leather, square-toed and chunky-heeled, zip-up, officewear ankleboots – appropriately enough the very same ones I had so fatefully allowed my footslave eyes to stray from the day before – worn with a severe, black trouser suit consisting of black, bootcut slacks; a black jacket; and a white blouse. She looks smart, with only her ubiquitous, brightly coloured, peasant-girl headscarf revealing her East European ethnicity.

Her ‘whipping’ outfit, in effect, doubles up as her everyday office outfit – but it is now being worn with the intent to intimidate and scare me, since it is the closest attire my mistress has to that of a professional, Gynarchy Female Police officer uniform, the main difference being that they would be dressed in navy-blue slacks and jackets!

She is also, ostentatiously, carrying her beloved, multithonged knout. I think my mistress Yekaterina actually has aspirations to be a professional police-whipmistress, rather than a civilian office-clerk – delivering public floggings to recalcitrant slaves in the central town square – since she’s a great believer in the power of the whip to instill fear and discipline in a slave. But she’s running out of time; most of the professional police-officer whipmistresses are very young women in their early twenties, at the peak of their physical strength and fitness. Still, she can always pretend, like she is about to do now!

She orders me to crawl after her to anklebooted-heel as she leads me up from my cell and out into her back yard where the wooden, punishment trestle is permanently based. It’s not yet dawn, and so my mistress Yekaterina helpfully illuminates the trestle by means of a highly-directional spotlight which is affixed to the outside wall of her property – so that we can both see what we are doing. I think she likes to punish me first thing in the morning because it is traditionally the coldest part of the day, and the cold exacerbates the sting of the whip on my bare flesh, as well as reminding her of her beloved homeland!

The cold, naturally, doesn’t bother her – she’s used to it; she even takes off her jacket and rolls up her shirt sleeves in preparation for my beating. I, on the other hand, am shivering – and not just because I am naked; but because I am cringing and male-fearful.

Delivering an early morning whipping also helps to put my Russian mistress in a good mood for the rest of the day; so who am I to argue?

I endeavour to concentrate on her dusty, black leather ankleboots beneath the flapping hems of her black cotton, bootcut slacks as she walks around me in her shirt-sleeves, securing my bare arms and legs as she affixes me prostate over the deliberately uncomfortable, wooden punishment trestle. An awkward wooden splinter even digs sharply into my bare stomach as I am tied down over the punishment-contraption; the splinter has been there for ages, but my mistress refuses to remove it or sand it away, as she approves of anything that adds to my physical discomfort during the ritual of punishment.

I am concentrating on her upper boots in the desperate hope of catching an early glimpse of her socks inside them. As the saying goes here in the Gynarchy:

‘The early bird catches the worm, just as the early footslave catches the sock!’

My mistress Yekaterina is deliberately wont to hitch up her black, bootcut slacks to almost half-mast, so that her sock-tops become visible to her personal footslave whenever she is seated at her office desk (hence I can have no excuse for glancing lustfully at the socks of other office women!). Occasionally, however, even when she is just walking about – as she is now – I can catch a sneaky peek of her socks inside her boots thanks to the subliminal movement in her bootcut trouser-hems. But not this morning, it seems; this morning my mistress’s bootsocks remain, disappointingly, well and truly hidden inside her boots until the moment she sits down in front of me.

I wonder which pair of socks she has elected to wear for my beating today?

I don’t have too long to wonder, for, as soon as my butt-naked body is secured prostrate over the punishment trestle, my mistress Yekaterina, ritualistically, drags her garden-chair over towards the front of the trestle and, hitching up her already half-mast, black bootcut, officewear trouser-hems takes up her seat of power in front of me, the brown leather lashes of her knout dangling alongside her casually stretched forwards and crossed over at the ankles, black leather, anklebooted feet.

I now have a clear and unimpeded view of the upper parts of her ankle-length bootsocks, and even a slither of smooth, bare, feminine-white legflesh above the elasticated sock tops. I must say, my clever mistress Yekaterina has done herself proud with her choice of ‘whipping’ socks today; she has elected to wear her black, cotton anklesocks with the pink-hearts theme running through them – a reminder of her simultaneous power (the black), and femininity (the pink hearts), as she goes about the brutal business of ceremoniously knouting me!

Again, as per her usual punishment ritual, she places a ticking time-bomb – or rather alarm-clock – down on the ground next to her dusty boots, and gleefully informs me that it is set to go off in one hour’s time, at which point she will commence punishment. In the meantime, she nonchalantly informs me, I am to kiss her boots and socks, and beg for ‘the young-womanly mercy and compassion.’

I am, of course, happy to comply – not because I believe I have the faintest prospect of eliciting any clemency in my strict and stern, Siberian mistress (she simply loves applying the knout too much to ever contemplate reducing either the severity or quantity of the allocated strokes), but because her boots and socks look so nice and welcoming stretched out on the dusty concrete of her back yard below my prostrate and hanging face.

Because of the casual and relaxed positioning of her feet, crossed over at the ankles, I can not only get to see a considerable quantity of my mistress’s pink-heart-themed, black socks inside the gaping uppers of her ankleboots; I am also afforded a mesmerizing view of her dusty, black bootsoles, and the dirt-encrusted treads. I can even, thanks to the bright spotlight, make out one or two little stones stuck in some of the thick, black bootsole-treads.

I make a mental note of them as I shall, no doubt, be required to extract them with my tongue later this evening.

But, for now, my duty is to contritely kiss this brightly-headscarfed, former peasant-girl’s ankleboots and socks, all to the sound of the ticking clock! My kisses become more and more feverish as the minutes tick by, for I know the hour of my terrible punishment is fast approaching. However, my mistress Yekaterina ensures that I continue to kiss her boots and socks with appropriate forethought and respect, using the sturdy handle of her leather knout to point to specific areas of her boots (often the dirtiest), and her socks (often the most creased) by way of a timely reminder to me of her absolute, female-authoritarian power over me, and my complete helplessness at her feet. I can’t even choose for myself which areas of her Russian-girl boots and socks to feverishly kiss!

The alarm goes off just as I am focussing my lips on one of the little pink heart logos near the top of her left anklesock. Suddenly the sock is withdrawn from my lips as my mistress reaches down to switch off the alarm, and the same pink and black sock then ominously disappears from view altogether as she rises up out of her chair in order to walk behind me and measure my buttocks and legs for the first stroke.

To be fair, my mistress Yekaterina does prepare the nerve endings in my buttocks, and on the backs of my thighs, for the impending pain by gently drawing the lashes of the whip across them, and then tapping them equally gently in order to, as it were, ‘wake them up’ – so that the first, agonizing bite of the knout is not such an overwhelming shock to my bodily system!

She also gives me a number of clues as to what I’ve got coming, so that I can brace myself appropriately. It’s all very predictable, and ritualistic; almost canonical:

1) She casually informs me that, despite all my contrition and humble kisses during the last hour to her whipping-boots and socks, I am still to receive my full quota of 25 strokes of the knout, well laid on. She explains that it’s the law, and she has no choice but to obey the law (a law, I feel like pointing out, which she herself has decreed in the privacy of her own home!)

2) She then forewarns me verbally, before applying each individual stroke of the knout, by purposively uttering the ominous words ‘Stroke coming, slave!’

3) I then get a visual clue that the stroke is imminent as her right, anklebooted foot twists on its chunky, black leather heel as she raises the knout up behind her (due to my prostrate position over the punishment trestle I can humiliatingly observe my mistress’s boot-movements as she stands behind me wielding the whip; I even get to see flashes of pink and black as her right bootcut trouser-hem flutters around her ankle in tandem with the movement in her right, whipping boot!)

4) I then hear the heavy swish of the dreaded, multithonged knout as it cuts through the cold, back-yard, early-morning air on its down way to meet my bare buttocks.

5) Then, at last – at long last – I feel the searing bite of the cutting knout-pain, beginning across my buttocks, but spreading almost instantaneously throughout the rest of my being.

6) I cry out, in dismay and disbelief – for despite all the preparation time my mistress has kindly given me, the sheer, stinging agony of the multithonged knout is still a shock!

7) I then hear my mistress count out the delivery of the first stroke, in Russian – ‘Raz!’; she will then – not graciously, but on the contrary with the deliberate intent of prolonging my punishment-agony – wait a full 10 seconds before uttering once again the dreaded, English words: ‘Stroke coming, slave!’.

Swish…crack!

‘Dva!’

And so the personalised punishment ritual continues, with my screams of male pain and dismay becoming increasingly vocal, especially when she begins to deliver deliberate overlays, despite having the whole of my bare legs, from juddering thighs to trembling ankles, to fustigate!

What must the neighbours think of my dawn chorus of screams?

I’ll tell you exactly what they think – they think that their slightly oddball, peasant-headscarf-wearing, East European neighbour, miss Yekaterina, has every human right to discipline her slave early in the morning in her own back yard, and they even feel a certain sense of quiet satisfaction, as they listen to my screams of pain from the warmth and comfort of their own beds, that female justice is being seen to be done, and that female domestic power continues to reign supreme in the suburbs of the Glorious Gynarchy’s capital.

As for me, I have the final part of my mistress’s punishment ritual to endure – the repeated kissing, and blessing, of her now considerably dustier boots as she stands in front of me, slightly out of breath, but utterly victorious in her female whipping-power. She is standing, rather than seated, at this point of the ritual, hands on hips; her warm whip still dangling by the outer side of her right, zipped-up ankleboot; her pink and black, heart-themed socks now frustratingly hidden again from view by her dusty, bootcut trouser hems, but no doubt that bit sweatier inside her boots thanks to her early-morning exertions with the non-female whip! It’s a humble reminder to me of my utter helplessness and powerlessness in the face of my Russian mistress’s boots.

‘God bless you, mistress Yekaterina…sob…sob…kiss...kiss… and praise be to you for chastising me in such a lovely way, mistress Yekaterina...throb…throb…kiss…kiss…’

I can’t wait to get my mouth on those former-peasant-girl boot stones stuck in the thick treads of her dusty whipping-cum-office boots!