Submissive Males Volume 8

1. Foot-Hellhole

In my subterranean foot-hellhole, buried up to my rusty, iron-collared neck in shale, I kiss boot:

Sniff sock:

And never get to see the pretty faces of my visitor-tormentresses seared above me:

And rightly so – for I am fit to look only at rock, boot and sock!

2. Behind the Grille

I am an at-seat, Gynarchy Railway carriage footslave:

All day long I must lie behind the grille, staring at the backs of my customer-mistresses’ feet – whatever their subconscious seated position:

Feet always so near – and yet so far; for I cannot touch them.

I am a public foot-prisoner behind bars!

3. Public Mockery

The Gynarchy Authorities positively encourage overseas tourists to mock and torment prisoner-slaves in the stocks:

And so the prisoner has no choice but to taste, and smell, the shoe of his Asian tormentress:

Under the gaze of his mocking betters:

4. Turning the Crank

It’s a variation of the prison treadmill – the dreaded Gynarchy Crank!

As with the solitary-confinement treadmill, the prison-taskmistress is uniformed and booted, and seated directly in front of, and above, the hard labouring prisoner-slave – with her feet resting on a metal footplate just inches away from his sweating face; only, he isn’t required to turn a heavy treadmill with his feet, but rather a heavy crank with his hands!

And, because of the repetitive motion of turning the crank, his face is continuously bobbing up and down in front of the taskmistress’s booted feet – in tandem with each painfully slow rotation of the heavy, iron crank-bar – meaning that the prisoner-slave has the added humiliation of having to kiss his female supervisor’s boot-toes with each downward rotation of the crank (failure to do so leads to a cut of the taskmistress’s whip across his bare back and shoulders!)

70, 000 rotations – and thus 70, 000 concomitant kisses to the taskmistress’s boot-toes – is the average daily sentence for a prisoner on the Gynarchy Crank. No wonder many of them lose their minds, and become a bit cranky!

As evidenced in this smuggled poem, written by one such ‘cranky’ prisoner-slave:

The Crank

My bones creak, along with the crank.

Round and round they go;

Up and down they bow;

My lips touch boot on each downward turn,

Lest the whip make my shoulders bleed and burn,

Whilst I study my taskmistress’s socks,

And yearn to be breaking rocks!

Anything but this,

Would seem as bliss,

As I must turn the heavy crank,

With the Female Court to thank

For my sentence of humble hard labour!

5. The Footpig Down on the Farm

My new personal footmistress – mistress Barbara, a bright, bubbly blonde with large breasts and a shapely, hourglass figure, who lives on a small farm outside the city – is kindly enlightening me (though she is by no means obliged by Law to tell me) as to the reasons why she requires a new personal footservant:

1) Her previous personal footservant became lazy and disrespectful, and subsequently expired under the whip

2) She has had several operations on her heels and ankles which have left them weakened, and she therefore needs to wear heavy, lace-up ankleboots all the time, with thick, grey woollen socks (never dainty feminine shoes or sandals)

3) As a consequence, her feet tend to sweat and smell a lot and, whilst she has absolutely no compunctions whatsoever about imposing her sweaty footstink on the likes of me – a mere slave – she would be mortified to think that any ‘proper’ human being (i.e. a fellow free person) might be offended by the stinky aroma of her hot feet. Indeed, my new footmistress Barbara goes further, and says that as far as she is concerned I can live in her footstink, as I am not worthy to breathe fresh air like females and free males! But for her stinky footair to extend to the noses of the free would be just plain rude!

4) Therefore, my daily, not to say hourly, task is to ‘de-stinkify’ her feet by continuously sniffing the sweaty aroma from her socks up my nostrils (regardless of whether or not they are inside her boots at the time, or if she is wandering around the house in her sweaty-socked feet); or by sucking the sweat out of them (if specifically directed by her to do so); or by lick-cleaning her bare, sweaty feet (again, only if specifically directed to do so)

5) That is my primary purpose in life, though I have other foot-related duties as well, such as lickshining her boots; hand and mouth washing her dirty socks; face-pressing (or ‘face-ironing’) her freshly laundered socks; or just kiss-greeting her feet – be they bare, socked, or socked and booted – by way of a reminder to everyone of my admiration, fear and respect for her.

6) To assist me in focussing on her feet and footwear, I shall be required to wear a heavy, irremovable, metal slave-collar which will perpetually weigh down my neck and head, making it well-nigh impossible for me to look, or think, above her anklesock-tops (which, she adds, is just as well – since I have no business thinking of her above the ankles!)

7) I shall also be fitted with a set of perma-blinkers, so that I cannot be distracted by goings-on around and about my footmistress’s feet

8) The final method of discipline shall be the aforementioned whip (which led to the slow and painful demise of her previous, incompetent and disrespectful footslave). Mistress Barbara explains that because of her sciatica she is, unfortunately, unable to ply the whip herself across my back (more’s the pity), but she assures me that her loving husband is more than capable of doing so, and will not stint to flay my back red raw if she asks him to (or even if she doesn’t; she laughs to herself at this point!)

9) She then had me follow her to booted flat-heel – on my hands and knees – to my ‘slave sleeping quarters’ in her pigsty, which, she explained, I would share with her pigs, as well as sharing in their slops, since I am nothing but a personal footpig to her.

10) Lastly, she stretches forth her right, booted foot on the dirty, pigsty floor directly beneath my kneeling face, and instructs me to thank her for her gracious, introductory lecture, and to then further show my appreciation by kissing her 17 times first on her scuffmarked, black leather boot-toe; then 17 times on the area of her bootlaces; then 17 times on her upper bootrims; then 17 times on her upper, grey woollen bootsock (why specifically 17 times, I have no idea!). She warns me that I am specifically NOT to let my lips touch the smooth slither of bare ankleskin just above her sock and below her elasticated, navy-blue, trouser hem, as that is a whippable offence (I therefore ensure that my upper lip ventures nowhere near the twisted, elasticated top of her bootsock, because I very much fear the smart of the whip!). The watching pigs grunted with disdain at my craven fear and subhuman humility.

Mistress Barbara then despatched me to the ‘collaring barn’, where her husband was waiting with my heavy, metal slave-collar and a soldering iron. And thus began my new life as a bubbly, blonde mistress’s footpig – down on my knees on the farm!