Everyday Scenes of Footslavery Volume 3
Scene no. 1 - The Semi-Clandestine Footslave
The three 19 year old girls – collectively comprising a fine representation of the Gynarchy's multi-ethnic, female makeup as one just happens to be Chinese, one African-Caribbean and one Indian – are gathered around a kneeling and terrified, 45 year old male footslave (who just so happens to be white) in the Indian girl's bedroom.
The illegal slave has been acquired for her by her boyfriend on the black market – illegal because a young woman has to be at least 21 years of age to own a personal footslave in the Gynarchy.
And so the girls are in a bit of a quandary:
The Chinese girl: Oh my God, Shireen, what are you gonna do with it, and that?
The Indian girl: Ha! Ha! I don't know? Like, whip it, and that, I suppose?
The black girl (swishing a single-tailed, brown leather whip – supplied along with the slave by the black marketeer – through the oestrogen-rich, bedroom air): Can I whip it, and that, though?
The Chinese girl: Ha! Ha! But it's a footslave, and that, Shireen! You're supposed to make it kiss your feet, and that, though?
The black girl (still eagerly swishing the whip, perilously close to the flinching footslave's naked, kneeling back): Innit though?
The Indian girl (miss Shireen): I know!...
She stretches her right, green-converse, grubby-white-laced, high-top, sneakered foot out onto the bedroom carpet beneath the kneeling footslave's quaking and bowed face. He humbly observes the elasticated top of a fetching, bright yellow anklesock deep inside the Indian-girl sneaker, contrasting sharply with her soft, brown ankleskin and equally soft and fine dark black, downy hair on her lower leg beneath her light-grey cotton, calf-length legging:
Miss Shireen: Kiss my sneak, slave, and that!
The mesmerised slave immediately lowers his lips to the canvas and rubber-smelling greenery of beautiful, dark-haired miss Shireen's arrogantly outstretched, right sneaker-toe.
The whip-wielding black girl: Ha! Ha! This is so cool! Can I have him kiss my foot as well, though, Shireen?
The 45 year old slave glances nervously over towards the black girl's plain black ballet flats and short, white sneaker-socks; he notices that the black girl's calves, unlike the Indian girl's (his mistress's) are totally smooth and hairless; shimmeringly so!
Miss Shireen (switching green-conversed and yellow-anklesocked feet beneath the kneeling footslave's face): 'Course you can, and that, Beverley! It's, like, your footslave too – and Wei-Ling's – far as I'm concerned, though?
The three girls laugh gleefully as the middle-aged manslave proceeds to humbly and fearfully kiss the proffered, musty smelling, black leather ballet flats of the smooth-skinned, Caribbean girl, miss Beverley, followed by the grubby white keds of the Chinese girl, miss Wei-Ling (who is wearing a fetching pair of grey and white checked kneesocks on her shapely, oriental legs; the slave likes the way her chequered socks seem to tower above him as he kisses her grubby-white, rubbery sneaker-toes!)
Miss Wei-Ling: We can't keep it here, though! It's, like, an illegal, and that?
Miss Shireen: I know! God, does you fink I'm fick, or something, Wei-Ling?
Miss Wei-Ling: No! I'm just sayin', you could keep it in my brother's lock-up, and that, if you like?
Miss Beverley (still fingering and toying with the whip by flicking it, gently, across the foot-kissing queer's prone and vulnerable, bare back) : What, that smelly old place? Ha! Ha! It stinks – and there, like, ain't enough room to swing a cat in there, let alone a whip, an’ that! Ha! Ha!
Miss Wei-Ling (the one still having her keds-feet kissed): Whatever! I just thought it would be a good place to hide it, an’ that?
Miss Shireen: I ain't keepin' it - my Dad would kill me!
Miss Beverley: I could keeps it for ya, babe! We've got lots of room in our cellar, and my Dad wouldn't mind; in fact, he'd be cool with it – coz I'd make him be cool wiv it! Ha! Ha!
Miss Shireen: God, your dad is so cool, Beverley! Not like mine!
Miss Wei-Ling: Ha! Ha! Yeah –your dad's , like, dishy, and that, Beverley!
Miss Beverley (embarrassed): Shut up! He just, like, does whatever I aks him to, and that! Ha! Ha!
Miss Shireen: Ha! Ha! Sorted then! We'll keep it in your cellar, Bev!
Miss Beverley: Only if I gets to whip it every day, though?
Miss Shireen: Deal!
The Indian girl and black girl shake on it, spit on their right hands, and high five one another.
Miss Wei-Ling (feeling somewhat left out): And can I bring my dirty kneesocks over to it every day and make it, like, mouthwash them, or somefing?
Miss Shireen & Miss Beverley (in unison): Sure you can!
The three young Gynarchy women all laugh as they happily agree to joint, semi-clandestine ownership of their soon to be underground sockwasher!
Scene no. 2 - The Helpless Sock-Cluck in the Pillory
Picture the scene – I am kneeling, helpless, in the town square pillory, surrounded by a gaggle of modern, young women, all gloating over my public humiliation and punishment. None of them know me – I'm just a faceless, behind-the-scenes, public laundry-room, sockwasher-slave who mouth and handwashes dirty female socks for a living – socks left by their owners and wearers, whom I never see, in baskets for subsequent collection from the laundry after they have been pre-soaked in my mouth, washed by my hands, pressed by my face, and dried by my breath.
It may be raining, but a goodly crowd of female onlookers (and their freemale partners) have nevertheless gathered to mock and torment me, some of them painfully poking me with sticks.
Needless to say I am forced to look at my tormentors' feet as they poke and prod at me – and, who knows, in all probability some of the female socks I see beneath my face, inside the wet, feminine ballet-flats, sneakers and ankleboots, may well be socks that I have laundered in the past; I keep a pathetic eye out for any distinctively-patterned socks that I may recognise, for I never forget a sweet feminine sock!
A placard attached to my pillory declares my heinous crime in big, red letters:
Damage to a laundry customer-mistress's sock
(I inadvertently tore a hole in an unknown customer-mistress's red and white sports sock with my teeth whilst I was humbly laundering it inside my mouth – it had required vigorous sucking due to the copious amounts of sweet and sour, feminine footsweat contained in its cotton fibres; not that I’m making any pathetic excuses – I deserve all I get!)
As they poke me, aided and abetted by their boyfriends, several of the modern, young Gynarchy women verbally berate and mock me, including:
· A hot, young blonde woman with black trousers, black ballet-flats and creased, navy-blue anklesocks (whilst poking my bare, red-raw, recently whipped ribs on my sore, right flank with a muddy, wet stick) : Ha! Ha! Do you think if I took off my socks and put them in your mouth you could possibly launder them without ripping them to shreds, sockwasher-slave?
Her boyfriend: Ha! Ha! I wouldn't risk it darling! It's obviously a faulty sockwasher, and needs replacing! Ha! Ha!
The blonde girl's navy-blue socks crease even more inside her rain-dampened, black leather ballet-flats with laughter at her manly boyfriend's witty remark.
· A black girl whose bright red and yellow, calf-length, cartoon-themed socktops crease and fold on her smooth and shapely, black legs atop her red canvas, converse-style sneakers as she kindly crouches down to rub some of her fresh nosepick onto my confined face: Ha! Ha! Have some of that, sock-cluck! Ha! Ha! If you was to pick holes, an’ that, in my dirty socks wit' yoh teef, I'd soon takes you to my flat and pick holes in yoh back wit' my steel-thonged scourge-whip, innit though slave? Ha! Ha!
Everyone laughs – not just at the beautiful, young black woman's slimy, green and beige nosepick stuck to the side of my face, but at her threat to excoriate me with an illegal whip, and within full earshot of my two, nearby, black leather kneebooted, uniformed female-police guards (who are also laughing at her threatening, mistressly language towards me!)
· A demure and giggling, Japanese girl who – at the instigation of her Japanese boyfriend – has slipped off one of her chunky-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboots in order to hold her stinky, white-socked toes up to my kneeling nose; the reinforced stitching on her sock-toes is yellowy-brown stained with cute Japanese-girl footsweat: Ha! Ha! Srave-o sniff Japanese-girl sweaty, white bootsock-o! Ha! Ha! You a dirty-sock sniffing queer-o! Ha! Ha!
Her gleeful boyfriend adds his Japanese-yensworth whilst prodding me with his dirty stick with one hand, and steadying his dark-haired girlfriend with the other: Ha! Ha! That right, srave-o! You a queer – you sniff-o my girlfriend dirty, white sock-o! Then you take my girlfriend sweaty sock-o in your ugry mouth-o and suck sock crean so that I not have to smell girlfriend stinky socks-o when I make love to her later tonight! Ha! Ha!
The insults, like the rain, are water off a cluck's back, but it seems that I just can't escape from the degrading sights, smells and tastes of sweaty, used, feminine socks even when I'm being removed from my stinky, sock-laundry room and punished on a rare, public outing in the town square stocks. Still, at least I am, for a change, getting to see and know the pretty, female wearers of the socks I am surrounded by!
I must damage socks more often!
Scene no. 3 - The Mid-Slave-Life Crisis
I have a crush on 23 year old, blonde-ponytailed, customer-mistress Alice who is a regular visitor to my local, sink-estate, public shoelick-stand.
In the regular world, of course – outside the Glorious Gynarchy – a 'crush' is normally associated with a younger woman having being besotted by an older man; that's the natural order of things. And yet I must be more than twice customer-mistress Alice's age! But here in the topsy-turvy, role-reversal world of the Gynarchy it is quite normal for a pathetic, older male slave to have a crush on a younger woman!
Not that he can ever do anything about it, of course! Miss Alice barely even notices me – the nondescript, two-a-penny, public footservant on her local sink-estate – as she unthinkingly presents her ubiquitous, pink and white, low-top, lace-up sneakers for me to kiss and then lickshine most every day on her way into work (I believe she works as a check-out girl in a local supermarket, though I could be wrong as I never get to leave my public-footslave stand, so I can't exactly follow her to sneakered heel – more's the pity!)
All I can be sure of is that she will subconsciously hitch up her ubiquitous, blue-denim, jean hems as she positions each dusty, grubby-white-sneakered foot in turn onto the low-lying, wooden footblock beneath my face to reveal an equally ubiquitous slither of pure, white sneaker-sock – sometimes with little, red, heart-shaped logos – below her smooth and shapely, pinky-white, blonde-girl anklebones.
I'm realistic enough to know that she's no virgin – being a 23 year old beautiful, young woman living in the Gynarchy – but her pink and white sneakers and short, white sneaker-sock combo always make her seem so sweet and innocent to me!
She rarely deigns to talk to me, since she is nearly always engaged in animated, blonde-girl conversation on her mobile phone with one of her mates whilst she is utilising my complementary, sneaker-worshipping services, but on the rare occasions that she has spoken to me – if only to criticise me for 'missing a bit' on the side of her sneaker (i.e. a bit of sink-estate streetmud), or to warn me not to brush my nose against the top of her white sock – my heart goes all of a footslave-flutter, for it is such an honour to be talked down to by such a superior, young, female being!
She is, of course, blissfully unaware of my middle-aged-slave besottedness towards her, and barely thinks of me as anything more than a piece of public street-furniture – a thing that lickshines her dirty, shop-girl sneakers and is not even worthy to touch her socks! Indeed, that's if she even thinks of me at all, since I'm just a small and insignificant part of her blonde-girl subconsciousness. But her sneakers and socks loom large in my affections, even if the little red heart logos on the tops of her short sneaker-socks are directed towards her freemale boyfriends, rather than at me!
It's as if I can see her young-womanly affection written large on her socks, but not touch it – not even with the tip of my kneeling nose – since I am unworthy. Even I – an ignorant, male slave – can understand that!
Oh, but I can still dream of being her personal footservant – of licking, sniffing and washing her bare, blonde-girl feet and socks – whilst another real man takes care of her other, more libidinous young-womanly needs!
Scene no. 4 – Not to be Trifled With!
The twenty-something, headscarfed, former-peasant-girl-turned-businesswoman, Pakistani girl is just off the plane from Karachi, and is utilising my public footgreeting services by having her feet respectfully kissed for free on the airport arrivals’ concourse.
She may be a fresh-faced arrival, but she’s also a natural footmistress – hitching up her right, black cotton, bootcut trouser leg to reveal not only the full wonder of her shiny, black plastic, flat-loafer-style, slip-on shoe, but also her clean, white sock, as she simultaneously adjusts her black dupatta-style headscarf around her pretty, Pakistani-girl face.
The sock is virtually seamless and stitchless, but somewhat creased and bobbled as I apply my lips to her shiny black, rounded shoe-toe.
She mocks me in her cute Pakistani accent:
‘Ha! Ha! How you are liking it, slave? How you are liking being the slave of my shoe and sock?’
I am overwhelmed – not just by her beauty, and by the fact that she knows how to mock me in English – but by her explicit, young-Pakistani-businesswoman permission for me to kiss her on the bobbled sock!
I therefore praise and bless her, before raising my lips onto her shapely-socked anklebone:
‘Oh pray, Pakistani mistress! God bless you, Pakistani mistress! Truly this slave is honoured to greet the beautiful mistress’s shoe and sock, if it is so pleasing to you Pakistani businesswoman mistress-madam?’
I then put my mouth onto her sock, and kiss it.
She laughs at me, and further adjusts her dupatta-headscarf above me, before switching loafered and socked feet beneath my face and again hitching up her black cotton trouser-hem:
‘Ha! Ha! And the other one, slave!’
It’s a command – not a question. So I shut up and obey!
Like I said before, this young woman is a natural footmistress – and is most definitely not to be trifled with!
Scene no. 5 – Catty!
OK – so I know she likes cats!
As the thirty-something, petite and comely, white-miniskirted, Japanese customer-mistress extends her right foot beneath my kneeling face for public kissing, I can see that her white sneaker, and matching white, cuffed-over anklesock, are festooned with images of cats.
Indeed, she specifically orders me to kiss her on the cat-logos, and to thereby show my footslavish respect for her feline predilections! For whatever a stranger customer-mistress likes – I must like; and that extends beyond her style-of-footwear preferences to her general likes!
If she likes sport, for example, I must enthusiastically enquire as to her sporting achievements; if she likes food, I must attentively enquire as to her favourite meals; if she likes cinema, I must respectfully enquire as to her preferred film genre; and if she likes men, I must discreetly enquire as to her sexual exploits (or even if she likes women!)
It’s just plain, public-footslavish politeness – and demonstrates an interest in one’s customer-footmistresses!
I prefer dogs myself, but this somewhat eccentric Japanese girl clearly likes cats – even to the extent of carrying a personal cat-o-nine-tails with her; and so I am particularly respectful of her sneaker and sock cats, and politely enquire as to the well-being of her pet moggies as I diligently kiss her cat-themed, footwear logos! For oddball, young women like this can, in my humble experience, be considerably catty if they suspect any lack of respect towards them on a public footslave’s part!
And rightly so!
Scene no. 6 – Snap!
She gleefully informs me that the chevron patterns in the stitching of her pure, white anklesocks match the criss-crossing, red stripes on my bare back as I kneel at my public shoelick-stand lickshining her black leather ballet-flats.
The tall and slim black girl is being mockingly cruel towards me, but might snap if I don’t congratulate her on spotting the similarity in her white-sock, and my red-whip, patterns – especially since she is ever so slightly tipsy!
And so I praise and bless her – and her socks – and humbly kiss the apparently whipmark-like, sock chevrons as she drunkenly takes another swig out of her brown beer-bottle above me.
Scene no. 7 – Reading her Footwear
You can tell a lot about a young woman’s dismissive attitude towards you when she shoves her public foot beneath your kneeling, footslave face for respectful kissing:
· If she is wearing a pair of scruffy old, unkempt, grubby-white sneakers and matching, run-down anklesocks she is indicating her utter, young-womanly contempt for you, and for your male footslave feelings
· If she is wearing frilly or lacy, pastel-shaded anklesocks with soft, black leather ballet-flats she is demonstrating her superior femininity over you
· If she is wearing fun, multicoloured, cartoon-themed socks she is laughing at you
· If she is wearing a pair of bootcut-trouser-covered, black leather ankleboots she is expressing her sock-modesty over you
· If she is wearing long socks on her shapely legs she is declaring that she is stronger and higher than you
· If she is wearing a smart pair of stilettos and tan-nylon stockings she is demonstrating her businesslike female power and authority over you
· And if she is barefoot in sandals she is just foot-teasing you!
Yes – you can never read too much into a young woman’s public footwear!
Scene no. 8 – The Trophy Mistress
My fat and ugly, middle-aged master sir – master Ian sir – has left me, momentarily, alone with his latest trophy wife (he’s been married 6 times!) – a 22 year old Sri Lankan girl whom he met recently at a business conference (she was one of the chambermaids in his hotel in Colombo).
I have to congratulate the master-sir (again!) – for she is a truly charming and beautiful, young woman; petite and slender, with long, shimmering dark, curly hair and exceptionally pretty features, including her big, brown, Sri Lankan eyes!
What I particularly like about her, though, is her casual, faux-smart outfit consisting of a cheap black polyester trouser-suit over a white blouse, and – more particularly from my humble, kneeling footslave point of view – her cheap shiny black plastic, low-heeled, slip-on loafers and pure white anklesocks, worn beneath her bell-bottom-shaped, trouser hems.
To be perfectly honest, I know the master-sir preferred her in her hotel chambermaid’s outfit consisting of a black minidress, white pinafore, dark nylon stockings and shiny black, patent leather, high-heels, for I heard him talking about it to her on the phone! He certainly encouraged her to bring her chambermaid’s uniform over with her from Sri Lanka, even though she won’t be needing it any more since my master Ian sir is a very wealthy man who can afford to keep his trophy wife at home all day! Indeed, I’m sure that’s why she has agreed to marry him – so that she can live a young-womanly life of ease and luxury here in the Gynarchy under the sponsorship of a free Gynarchy man; no more scrubbing toilets and making beds for her (she certainly hasn’t married him for his looks or his bad breath!)
I am currently kneeling on the fortunate master-sir’s living room carpet with my face directly next to the, somewhat nervous, young Sri Lankan madam’s shoes and socks whilst she is seated on the edge of the expansive, black leather sofa. She is, naturally, nervous since this is the first time she has seen her new home (the marriage ceremony only took place in the Registry office this morning!) – as well as, presumably, being the first time she has been left alone with her own ‘personal footslave’, as my master-sir has introduced me to her!
Master Ian sir has just popped down to his wine cellar to fetch a bottle of bubbly to celebrate his nuptials, leaving the inexperienced, young slavemistress to ‘get to know’ her footslave. It must be an intimidating experience for her, and her dainty, Sri Lankan-girl feet are certainly fidgeting nervously in their black shoes and white socks – causing the fine stitching in her thin, white cotton socks to crease and fold voraciously in front of my kneeling face – but I am determined to put the young madam at her ease, and not to intimidate her! She is, after all, my new mistress and better – despite her youth (I am a similar age to my master-sir – in my mid fifties), and her inexperience in footslave-handling.
I must say she’s made a good start by covering up her ankles in such a pretty pair of micro-stitched, white ankle socks! They almost look like nylons – though on close inspection they are definitely made of cheap cotton – and they have a slightly brown hue due to her pretty, brown Sri Lankan-girl footflesh influencing the tone of the socks from within!
Normally my master-sir would expect me to await my orders from his latest trophy wife before kissing her feet for the first time – but this young woman is so diffident and inexperienced in what to do, I decide that the proper thing for me to do is to respectfully make the first move and humbly kiss her on the shiny-black, rounded, plastic toe of her fidgeting, right loafer-shoe. Quite apart from anything else it will allow me to conduct an even closer inspection of my new mistress’s creased, white sock – which I am convinced is ankle-length even though its upper disappears beneath her expansive, bell-bottom, black polyester trouser-hem. But it should also put her at her ease, and physically demonstrate to her my submissiveness towards her, and her delegated power and authority over me, as the wife of my master Ian sir!
I choose a tiny scuffmark to kiss on the very edge of her right shoe-toe, and notice how her right foot immediately relaxes upon contact from my footslave-lips; it stops jiggling (and I’m sure I can simultaneously detect a sigh of relief from the young woman!)
I am a housebound slave, and so I have never met this young woman before. I know that she speaks some English, for I overheard her talking all lovey-dovey to the master-sir as he carried her over the threshold of his opulent home just a few minutes ago! But, though it is my place in such circumstances to make the first move on a young woman’s black shoes, it is most definitely not my place to be the first to speak – a slave must never speak unless he is spoken to (how many times has my master-sir drummed that lesson into me with the household, bulls-pizzle whip!)
I therefore simply withdraw my lips from her right shoe-toe, and move them onto her equally pretty (and scuffmarked) left shoe-toe. Again she sighs with Sri Lankan-girl relief; or is it, possibly, a little gasp of delicate Sri Lankan-girl disbelief? Either way she seems much more relaxed following my age-old gesture of slavish submission towards her, and even manages a little giggle:
‘Ha! Ha! You are being my slave. My husband is being your master, and I am now being your mistress, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
At last – the ice has been broken! I have been asked a rhetorical question by my disbelieving new mistress and may now verbally respond to her – indeed, I am obliged to respond to her, precisely because she is my new joint-owner and Sri Lankan-girl mistress.
I keep my head humbly bowed and my eyes focussed on her creased, white socks as I confirm the veracity of her insightful observations:
‘Yes, pretty mistress! I am indeed your slave, as it pleases you pretty mistress!’
I am aching to kiss those finely-stitched, white cotton socks; they look so deliciously warm and inviting – as I said, almost nylonish! But I dare not without the young Sri Lankan woman’s explicit female permission – for kissing sock is so much more intimate than kissing shoe!
She chuckles to herself again:
‘Ha! Ha! My name is being Sithara. What is being your name, slave?’
Such charming naivety! Introducing herself to me as simply ‘Sithara’ – like I would ever be permitted by the strict master-sir to address her by her first name, not even with the moniker of ‘miss’ or ‘mistress’ before it; my master Ian sir regards me as unworthy to ever utter his girlfriends’, or wives’, names – I must only ever address them as ‘pretty mistress’; but then, she’s not to know that! Then again, she should really know that I’m just a slave, and therefore don’t have a name!
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if you will forgive me pretty mistress, this slave does not have a name, pretty mistress. Please don’t beat me, pretty mistress!’
I must beg her not to beat me – even though I think she, as yet, has absolutely no inclination towards hurting me – as my lack of a personal slavename may be disappointing towards her; and if master Ian sir picks up on that disappointment, he may offer to beat me on her inexperienced behalf!
But she doesn’t seem too upset at my lack of a name; or at my ‘failure’ to address her by her freshly-revealed, and very pretty, Sri Lankan name – Sithara. Indeed, quite the opposite, she just laughs – causing her white socks in front of my face to simultaneously crease with laughter atop her shiny, black plastic loafers:
‘Ha! Ha! You are not even having a name? Ha! Ha! You are being a nothing; you are being a nobody! Ha! Ha! I am being better than you!’
‘Yes, pretty mistress! You are indeed my superior and better, if it is so pleasing to you pretty mistress?’
I decide, at this point, to kiss her rounded shoe-toes once again – just to reemphasise to her that she is indeed my female master and better!
Being much more relaxed now, she actually twists her right ankle to one side in front of my shoe-kissing face, and laughingly delivers her first ever mistressly order:
‘Ha! Ha! You must now be kissing me on the side of my white sock, slave, for I am being better than you. I am being the wife of your master! You must be showing me proper respect, or I will be calling your master-sir and having you whipped!Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, pretty mistress! At once, pretty mistress!’
Bingo! She’s a Sri Lankan ‘sockgirl’ – she likes having a slave’s lips touch her on the thinly veiled, white sock! And she’s not squeamish about having me whipped either!
I’m going to get on very well with my master-sir’s pretty, new, Sri Lankan chambermaid, trophy wife. I only hope this particular marriage of convenience lasts longer than some of his others!
Scene no. 9 – Malaysian Muslim-Girl Foot Modesty
The thing I like about the happy, smiling, blue-denim-jacket-wearing but still demurely-headscarfed, Malaysian-Muslim mistress, is that, thanks to her long, beige-brown coloured, ankle-length skirt her dainty, brown-leather-sandalled foot would be invisible beneath her skirt-hem were it not for the fact that she has purposefully stretched forward her right foot for kissing on my humble, public-footslave part.
Not only that, but she has taken the trouble, despite it being a relatively warm and balmy day, to wear dark-coloured nylons with her flat, strappy, open-toed sandals – thereby ensuring that her Muslim-girl foot modesty shall remain intact, and unsullied through any direct contact by means of my dirty, male-footslave lips touching her precious, bare brown footskin. She will still be able to feel my grovelling, male lips on her dark-nylon-covered toes, but without the indignity of having my dirty, maleslave saliva besmirching her Muslim-girl foot honour!
Yes, she’s a modern, young woman of the Gynarchy, but is still, quite rightly, proud of her rural-Malaysian roots and culture. It is truly an honour and a privilege for me to humbly kiss her on the nylon-stockinged toes!
No wonder she is smugly smiling to herself, and gleefully wriggling her unvarnished, but thinly-veiled, big toe beneath my publicly worshipful lips!
Scene no. 10 – The Pussy-Whipped Slave
I am referred to by everyone within the Gynarchy-Indian household as ‘whipped slave’:
‘Whipped slave, be fetching my black leather ankleboots and white anklesocks, and be putting them on my feet!’
‘Whipped slave, fetch my wife’s slippers!’
‘Whipped slave, come here and be washing our guest’s dirty feet!’
‘Whipped slave, where are my sandals? Be bringing them to my feet this instant!’
‘Whipped slave, be fetching me the whip for your back, for I am being most displeased with your incompetent performance on my boots! Look – they are still being grimy and dirty on the soles, isn’t it, you stupid, incompetent, about-to-be-whipped slave?’
Despite that last remark, my slave-moniker does not actually come from the copious female-whip marks on my indolent and incompetent, maleslave back, but from my being continuously ‘pussy-whipped’!
Either way, it is an apt description of my wretched and submissive condition in this free and dominant, Indian household, don’t you think?
