Dullard-Footslaves’ Asinine Anecdotes Volume 2
Asinine Anecdote no. 11 – Smouldering In The Stocks
Even though it’s the Sabbath, it’s not a good day to be confined in the public kneeling-stocks in the middle of the town square on Domina Island – land of the Righteous – for the sun is baking down. Already after just two hours my sunburnt, naked back is already starting to peel, which doesn’t auger well for my forthcoming whipping!
But relief appears to be at hand, as two kindly-looking young women – one blonde, one brunette – the daughters of the local Reverend who has placed me here, are fast approaching me, replete with their parasols, fresh from morning matins.
They are both in their early twenties – misses Abigail and Giselle. At just 20, miss Abigail – the blonde - is the youngest of the two, and is fetchingly clad in her summer Sunday best consisting of a pair of flat, strappy, white leather, open-heeled and open-toed sandals, and white cotton anklesocks to match, along with her pretty, all-white, plain, ankle-length, summer dress and matching Righteous-girl, pure white bonnet. Her white parasol has a scene from the bible on it – the feeding of the 5000, I believe.
Miss Giselle, the brunette, is slightly older by a couple of years, and is betrothed to a young Righteous man named master Simeon. She is therefore dressed in the Sunday-best garb of a soon to be married domina – consisting of the same style of white bonnet, but with a white pinafore over a navy-blue cotton, ankle-length dress, and thick, black, woollen stockings over flat-heeled, black leather, laced-up ankleboots. Her Righteous feet must truly be sweltering inside such boots on a day such as this, even though her plain, black parasol is doing a good job of deflecting the rampant sun away from her semi-Righteous head (engaged to be married she may be, but domina-mistress Giselle has a bit of a reputation for flightiness about these parts!)
The two nominally Righteous young women are chatting about me, excitedly, as they approach me in my sunburnt helplessness across the hitherto deserted public square. They are excited because they both know that, even now, their father will be oiling the whip for my back, as the crowds will soon gather to witness my public flogging!
It is the blonde girl, miss Abigail – all in white – who speaks first:
‘What thinkest thou, Giselle? Shall we deliver temporary succour to the infidel in the stocks?’
‘Ha! Ha! Not likely, Abigail! We have come to gloat over him, as exhorted by our father in his sermon just now. Remember?’
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, my dearest Giselle – I remember it well! It’s just that… the dullard slave seemeth so forlorn and pitiful ‘neath the baking hot Gynarchy sun; surely we could at least take turns to sit on him for some moments, over his wooden crossbar, in order to offer him some respite from its cruel rays which beat down upon him so mercilessly? After all, it bodes ill for his poor back so soon before his Righteous fustigation with our father’s whip!’
‘Ha! Ha! Like I care, Giselle! I couldn’t care less if his back is already peeled to the bone ‘ere our father’s whip lacerates him further! The sinner must be punished!’
‘Well… I suppose you are right, Giselle. It is not for us to apportion mercy to such a wretched sinner-slave! Wilt thou instead have him kiss thy feet?’
‘I wilt!’
And with that Righteous domina-mistress Giselle steps forwards and, taking great care not to inadvertently shield me from the sun with her heat-deflecting parasol, positions her right, anklebooted foot on the parched ground directly beneath my kneeling and sweating face, raising a cloud of stinging, Gynarchy dust in my imprisoned eyes as she does so:
‘You there – the infidel in the stocks! Kiss thou the dirty ankleboot of thy Righteous, female better, and praise and bless her for coming to gloat over thine unenviable predicament! Ha! Ha! Kiss thou my boot on the toe, sinner-slave!’
I am too weak to verbally praise and bless this young woman on this hot and sultry, summer’s morning, but equally I am too weak to argue with her haughty commandment to kiss her leathery boot-toe – and so I duly lower my dry and parched lips to the dusty, warm toe of her proffered, scuffmarked, black leather ankleboot. On the way down I notice some bobbling in her black, woollen stocking, thanks to her flirtatious hitching-up of her Righteous-domina, ankle-length dress-hem on the religious pretext of affording my mouth uninterrupted access to her Righteous bootleather (but, in reality, in order to tease me with the shapeliness of her young-womanly anklebone!)
The dry boot offers my lips no respite from their desiccation. I quickly realise that my only hope of moisture would come from the white-socked feet of miss Giselle’s blonde sister, miss Abigail. Such pretty socks – but certainly bound to be immersed in her young-womanly, foot moisture on such a hot and sticky day as this!
Having respectfully kissed the dry boots of the brunette, therefore, I am yearning for the succulent, white socks and moisturised sandals to approach my shrivelled lips. But they hold back – ostensibly through a sense of Righteous young-womanly modesty; but I suspect also through an unstated desire not to afford me any succour from my judicial suffering. The more she lingers around the stocks, the more miss Abigail concludes that her feistier, flightier sister is quite right – the slave must not be shown any mercy whilst he awaits his fast-approaching chastisement in the stocks; and she too is aware of the dewiness in her socks, especially around the reinforced toe-areas!
So instead she crouches down in front of my face, and sneeringly torments me through smouldering, gritted girl-teeth:
‘Wherefore dost thou not sing thy praises to my sister and her boots, dirty prisoner-slave? Art thou not red-faced with shame at thy sinfulness? Here – perhaps I may assist thee in thy shamefacedness?’
And with that the seemingly innocent miss Abigail, parasol in her left hand, libidinously slaps me hard across both cheeks with the free palm of her pretty, right hand, before straightening up again to a position of feminine, moral rectitude:
‘I say, Giselle, let us go for some iced tea before his flogging starts! My mouth is truly parched!’ she suggests breathlessly.
The whiter than white miss Abigail then watches me with a wry smile from underneath her biblical-themed parasol as she speaks of her parchment – a wry smile reflected in the sudden creasing of her pure, white anklesocks as she turns to walk away from me, showing me a pair of disdainful, dusty-socked heels!
Cursed are they that hunger and thirst after a Righteous girl’s socks; for they shall not be fulfilled.
Asinine Anecdote no. 12 – A Student Of Sock
My 25 year old mistress - mistress Chelsea - is relaxing after a long, hard day at work, on the sofa – laid back in the arms of her manly boyfriend, with her socked feet resting side by side on the edge of the sofa in front of my kneeling face.
My face is close enough to detect the faintest whiff of footsweat emanating from her socks – but, sadly, I am not permitted to nose or sniff her socks during such intimate moments, lest I annoy her boyfriend and make him jealous with my lustful appreciation of his girlfriend’s socked nethermost regions. And so I am under strict instructions merely to unobtrusively study my mistress’s socks whilst she snogs the master-sir above me, even though I have been following the same pair of socks on my hands and knees all day – albeit whilst they were still partially hidden inside my mistress Chelsea’s now discarded nearby, grey and white, low-top, lace-up sneakers!
At least I can now study the socks in their entirety whilst they adorn my young mistress’s sweaty, warm feet!
I decide to focus in on her right sock – the one closest to my kneeling face.
First – the overall impression of the sock:
It is white – with a single, thin, grey stripe running through the middle of the white, elasticated are at the top of her sock.
It is a so-called, sneaker-style sock – i.e. short; just covering my mistress’s shapely, white anklebone, but not her upper ankle (when she is wearing her sneaker only about an inch or so of upper sock is visible to the world – though the rest of the world isn’t really that interested; only me – and possibly you?)
It is made of cotton, and it is thinly stitched – though with several distinct weaves and patterns within the overall sock – which I will come onto in more detail in just a moment.
It gives the overall impression of being smooth and clean , with just one or two faint yellowish patches along the reinforced instep and lower toe-areas of the otherwise pure, white, angelic sock (my mistress Chelsea, incidentally, is no angel – but her moral laxity is none of my damn business! She is still my infinite superior – being female – however dissolute her behaviour with free men. This is her fourth ‘boyfriend’ in as many weeks, but it is not my place to judge; it is my place to study female sock!)
There is one little speck of black fluff near the base of her socked heel. I have no idea where it came from, or what it consists of. But I know where it’s going – eventually; inside my footslave mouth – for I fully intend sucking it off my mistress’s white sock once she divests her feet of her socks prior to her forthcoming, inevitable, sexual congress with the young, free man currently seated on the sofa above me with my mistress’s brunette-head on his manly and aroused lap!
But for now I must merely make a mental note of it – and hope it doesn’t fall off as my mistress’s sock is a living sock, on a living, young woman’s foot; it is, therefore, moving from time to time as she flexes her young-womanly foot muscles with libidinous pleasure. I can only see one permacrease as such – just around the edge of her outer toe area; but there are other, temporary, sock-creases coming and going all the time in front of my face, as she responds with subliminal lasciviousness to the oral attentions of the masculine master-sir on her own mouth, and the happy couple indulge in their lecherous foreplay.
But back to the sock-stitching. As I indicated before, there are a number of things to note in the pattern of the stitching in my mistress Chelsea’s short, white anklesock:
1) Starting at the top – on the elasticated area, which is a centimetre or so in diameter – the stitching is quite thick and ribbed, with vertical stitching. It forms a distinctive line all the way round the top of her sock; and, of course, as I have already mentioned, it is adorned by a single, light grey stripe running through the middle of said vertical stitching – grey to match the decorative, grey stripes on my mistress’s white leather sneakers (my mistress Chelsea is nothing if not colour-coordinated in her attire; even her underwear has a grey stripe running through it!). The stitching in the millimetre deep, grey sock-stripe is also thick and vertical. I haven’t, yet, been able to count the number of grey stitches running right around the top of my mistress’s sock today , but I shall do so later – when it is stationary and discarded, lying on the floor of her bedroom whilst she is making love on the bed above me to this latest young beau n(whose name escapes me – and probably her!). When I counted the stitches in the grey line the last time she wore this particular pair of sneaker-socks (about a week ago) there were 350.
2) Next, immediately below the grey and white vertical stitching of the sock’s upper-elasticated part, is an inch or so of thinner, vertical stitching (extending to maybe two inches towards the back of her heel area. It ends in a distinct area of horizontal stitching, and is an area of sock which is much to be admired – for it protects my mistress Chelsea’s delicate, pink-white heels from the rigours of her inner sneaker-lining throughout her long, hard day standing on the floor of the sports-shoe store she works in. I imagine that vertical, white stitching over her heel area has a goodly amount of footsweat in it – though, as I said, it is not (yet) my place to lick it or to suck it, or even to sniff it. That will come later when the socks are off! The aforementioned piece of black fluff, incidentally, is stuck to the very bottom of this vertical-stitched heel-area. I don’t know if that’s significant or not?
3) Then, below that, is the horizontal-stitched, reinforced, and therefore seemingly quite fluffy, instep and sole area of the young-womanly sock – divided into several grooves by slightly thinner lines of horizontal stitching. I know from previous experience of these socks that the same stitch-pattern pertains all along the sole of the sock – currently hidden from my view as my mistress Chelsea’s feet are resting on the sofa – and this, of course, is the area of sock with the most bobbling, given its relative ‘fluffiness’. It is also where most of the temporal sock creases are appearing and disappearing in tandem with my mistress’s foot-muscle movements.
4) About an inch or so from the front of the sock begins the distinctive area of reinforced stitching around my mistress’s toe-area. This is where the permacrease is – caused by the angular nature of the sock stitching as it accommodates my mistress’s jutting little toe (I can just make out the dark red hue of her painted toenail beneath the white sock material – as some of the reinforced stitches on the toe-area of sock are stretched open by her toes within; and, of course, her toes are occasionally wriggling with delight inside the sock, causing movement in the permacrease, though it never disappears entirely (unlike the temporary creases along her socked insteps). The bottom of the reinforced toe-area also contains the most distinctive area of yellow-stained footsweat – but it is quite faint, and would be almost imperceptible to the free-human eye; it only looms large in the slave-human eye!
5) Remember, all the way through this detailed description of my mistress’s sock, that it is fundamentally white!
6) Finally, we have the crowning glory of the sock – the fancily-stitched upper – lines and lines of horizontally-stitched little holes through which tantalizing glimpses of my mistress Chelsea’s pasty-white footflesh are just visible. It’s like a latticed effect. I can even see the occasional little blemish on her footskin through the sock – such as that purply-blotchy area near her toe-cleavage area (some sort of distinctive birth mark on my mistress’s foot). It is this large, latticed area of stitching that gives this particular pair of my mistress’s white socks their distinctive flavour, in my humble opinion (literally so, since I enjoy the feel of the latticed stitching on the roof of my mouth whenever I am mouthwashing them, which I shall be doing later, after my mistress has finished having sex and is finished with her socks for the day…
Oh – she’s getting up! Time for sex!
She curtly and abruptly orders me to peel her sweaty, white socks off her feet whilst she, and the master-sir, divest themselves of the remainder of their clothing and make their way over to her nearby bedroom.
I’m glad I just had enough time to describe my mistress’s white socks to you in detail (or one of them at any rate) before I must take them and sniff them, in a crumpled up ball, in the corner of my mistress’s bedroom.
I think you are now entitled to call yourself, like me, a student of sock!
Asinine Anecdote no. 13 – Flattery in 400 words
My Indian mistress – 24 year old miss Lakshmi – has given me a clipboard with a blank piece of paper on it, and has demanded that I express, in no more and no less than 400 words, why I am honoured to be her personal footslave.
So here goes:
Beautiful goddess-mistress Lakshmi, if it pleases you beautiful goddess-mistress Lakshmi, I adore being your personal footslave because you are better than me, and because you are so beautiful, and it is a thrilling experience for a male creature as ugly as myself to be associated with such Indian-girl beauty, even if it is only in my humble capacity as a personal footslave accompanying your divine feet.
I also very much admire the stinky aroma of your feet, which is unique and personal to you, mistress, and fills the air that I breathe; for I live with your feet, mistress.
I like the way you often wear your pretty, black leather ballet-flats with the shiny, plastic toe areas, and your plain, black cotton, full-length anklesocks, for I like the way the shiny black toes of your ballet-flat shoes contrast so sweetly with the matt black of your soft, leather insteps, and the bobbled black of your socks, mistress.
I like the way your socks crease and fold around your shapely anklebones, miss, as I follow them to heel throughout the day.
I like the way you insist on having me kiss your shoes and socks at designated periods of your choosing throughout the day – as a reminder to everyone of your absolute, young-womanly power and authority over me, and in order to denigrate and belittle me. And yet, selfless and giving young mistress that you are, you are never averse to sharing me with your female friends, and having me kiss their shoes, boots and socks also, in order that they too may realise that they are better than me.
I like the way you particularly demean me in front of your manly boyfriends, making me kiss the ground in front of their feet, and speak to them respectfully with a lisp, thereby indicating my effeminacy and impotence vis-à-vis their mighty, free-male power. I am also indebted to you for letting me stay and smell your sweaty, discarded, black anklesocks and ballet-flats in the corner of the master-bedroom whilst you are making love to a real man in my footslave presence.
And finally I admire your dexterity with the whip, mistress – and the fact that when you whip, you whip to cut, and you cut to hurt. Your expertise with the whip is legendary, mistress, and I count myself blessed to be the recipient of your whip on a regular basis.
I’m pleased to say that mistress Lakshmi was satisfied with my 400 word summary, and consequently gave me 400 lashes – over a 40 day period – by way of a reward; one cut for every sycophantic word!
Asinine Anecdote no. 14 - The Bittersweet, Morning-After Pill
It's the morning after my beloved, 23 year old, jet-black-haired and nose-pierced, chav-mistress - miss Poppy - has made love for the first time to her new boyfriend - 48 year old master-sir Derwent (who is married, and old enough to be her slave; he's only 4 years younger than me!)
As they lie beside one another on my mistress's bed, holding hands and still kissing and canoodling, I am faithfully kneeling at the foot of the bed with my nose still respectfully buried in my pretty miss Poppy's hastily discarded, black leather, low-top, lace-up sneakers and navy-blue, sneaker socks. The socks smell stale with yesterday's footsweat, since I have not been given the order to mouthwash my mistress's socks overnight. An oversight on her part, but then, she did have other things on her mind - such as the master-sir's penis!
As I kneel with my nose in her sweaty socks and sneakers my bare, bent over back is still throbbing from the whipping I received from the master-sir immediately prior to their lovemaking; he had been experiencing some difficulty in 'getting it up', and so my mistress Poppy had suggested he whip me in front of her to see it that helped him.
It did - and I am glad that my sore back has helped the mistress and master-sir to achieve orgasm (something which I have never experienced, and never will, being an asexual, male slave, of course - but it's nice to know I can facilitate my betters in achieving happiness).
Now, as master Derwent-sir swings his black, hairy, male legs out of the bed in order to get dressed and make his way into work, my young mistress-madam orders me to stop sniffing her sneakers and socks, to kiss the dirty floor in front of the master-sir's bare feet, and to thank him for whipping me and satisfying her.
I, of course, do everything my mistress Poppy commands, much to the master-sir's amusement. He promises my mistress Poppy that he will see her again next week, when his wife is once again working nights, and stoops down over the bed in which she is still lying to kiss her one last time.
After he is gone my mistress pops in a morning-after pill and then enjoys a leisurely cigarette in bed, before swinging her smooth and hairless, female legs out from underneath the sweaty bed-clothes, pulling on her T-shirt, underwear and chavvy, black cotton tracksuit-bottoms with the double-white stripes down the sides, and then ordering me to put her stale, navy-blue, sneaker socks and black sneakers back onto her unwashed, white feet.
She too is getting ready to go out to work in the local shopping-mall where she is employed as an information-booth assistant, but what her enquirers (and admirers) won't know is that she enjoyed sex with a much older, married man last night, thanks in part to the whipped slave kneeling behind her black sneaker-heels hidden beneath the information-booth counter. Nor will they know that she is wearing day-old, navy-blue, sneaker socks inside her sneakers - socks that still smell of her pre-coital footsweat, and whose (to my shame now slightly wonky) elasticated, navy-blue, cotton tops it is now my privilege to kneel and stare at all day, along the contours of her shapely, white insteps; the semi-secret socks of a superior, young, nose-pierced chavette who has had extramarital sex with a free man in my humble, maleslave presence!
It is such an honour for me to share in such intimate semi-secrets, even though it's a bittersweet, morning-after pill for me to have to swallow, given the still throbbing whip-stripes on my raw, naked back!
Asinine Anecdote no. 15 – The Scowler
Indian cleaner-mistress – miss Gita – has a lovely smile; except when she’s speaking to me, her local public footservant.
She always scowls when she is addressing me – her pretty, forty-something, Indian face riddled with contempt as she barks her orders down at me:
‘Slave be eating my dirt! Be eating the dirt from Gita shoe; swallow – or I am beating you, isn’t it?’
She looks older when she scowls.
It is cold and windy, and she is well wrapped-up in her heavy, black anorak, with the hood done up, and her thick, blue denim jeans. Only her footwear – bizarrely – leaves her exposed to the harsh, biting, winter wind, since she always insists – come rain, hail or shine – in wearing her jeans at half-mast, thereby exposing a slither of soft, brown, Indian-woman ankleskin above the top of her short, red and grey, sneaker-style sock inside her shiny, black plastic loafer-shoe.
I think she scowls and bears the cold just so that she can torment me with the sight of her sock resting on bare, Indian-female skin – for she knows I can touch neither with my footslave-lips without her explicit, Indian-female permission; and she has never deigned to grant my lips permission to touch her bare ankleskin or ropey, red and grey sock. ‘Be eating my dirt’ is all she ever commands me to do – referring solely to her shoedirt; the dirt on her cheap plastic, black loafer soles; the dirt on her flat, black loafer heels; the dirt on her rounded, black loafer toes; the dirt on her shapely, black loafer insteps; the dirt on her otherwise shiny, black loafer uppers – and all so near, and yet so far, from her skin and sock!
And so she shivers and scowls whilst I consume her cheap-plastic-shoe dirt – until, that is, one of her fellow office-cleaners, a free male, passes by. Then her pretty, middle-aged, Indian face politely lights up as she recognises him, and as he complements her on her great beauty in having her shoes lickshined by a dirty, public footslave!
She looks so much younger, and sexier, when she smiles.
She thanks the free man for his kind remarks, and for offering to whip me if she is in any way dissatisfied with my efforts. But she reassures the free man that she can, and will, discipline me herself if my tongue performs below par on her shiny, black plastic loafers. And so the free man happily moves on, with a ‘see you later, Gita’!
She waves to him and gives him the thumbs up – then her cheery and warm smile transforms into a contemptuous scowl again as she lowers her gaze to inspect my feverish tonguework on her right , loafer shoe.
She kicks me with the shiny, rounded toe in my bowed and respectful face:
‘Tch! You are missing a bit, stupid slave, isn’t it?’
She is right, of course – and therefore perfectly within her rights to kick me sharply in the face, with a tut and a scowl. Even if she were wrong, she’d be within her rights to scowlingly kick me in the face!
I lower my mouth to the offending, tiny slither of cold, wet mud near the back of her right, plastic instep. I am not allowed to answer a customer-mistress’s rhetorical questions – as she is my better; I must simply repent and obey, as befits a suitably scolded and chastened, public footservant.
Even when she leaves me – with both shoes glistening clean – she does not smile; for she wouldn’t wish me to see any sweet, feminine satisfaction etched on her pretty, Indian-woman face. That look she reserves for other free human beings – her equals (or nearly equals in the case of her husband and other free males). A footslave is merely something to be scowled at, shouted at, criticised and kicked!
And rightly so; she has every right to be angry with me, as I am a slave!
Asinine Anecdote no. 16 - Concentrating on Her Sock
I do find that the best way to serve my personal, West-African footmistress - miss Precious - in a manner that pleases her (or, at any rate, in a manner that is least likely to displease her and invoke her young-womanly anger) is to concentrate on just one aspect of her feet or footwear whilst I am kneeling beside them throughout the day - a sweaty pore on her bare, black footskin; a torn stitch in her black leather ballet-flats; or an individual stitch in her office sock.
Today, for example, my office-clerk-mistress Precious is demonstrating to all and sundry her complete and utter contempt for me by wearing a garish, multicoloured, cartoon-print pair of 'fun' socks along with her serious, black leather, office ballet-flats and matching, black cotton, office trouser-suit hems! Not only is she selfishly putting her own, young-womanly foot comfort above my footslavish pleasure, by covering her bare, black footflesh with socks; they are a particularly frivolous and disrespectful pair of leisure-time socks to wear in front of your kneeling footslave at work, but my sweet and kind, black-African mistress is, of course, perfectly entitled to wear whatever type and style of anklesock she damn well wishes inside her ubiquitous, plain black ballet-flats!
I therefore must respect and admire her choice of sock throughout the day, however frivolous they may seem, and, as I indicated above, I find the best way to do that is to focus in on just one stitch in her 'pretty' sock, and to mentally worship and honour it whilst she is wearing the soft sock on her leathery-calloused foot.
Today - as she is seated at her office desk above me, tucking into her breakfast of a bacon roll, I have chosen a single red stitch on the side of her right sock which forms part of the plump 'nose' of some fictional, cartoon animal whose face is, mockingly, staring back at me from the outer surface of her sock.
I have chosen this particular stitch because:
- It is prominent, a forming part of a semi-permanent crease over my black mistress's outer anklebone
- I therefore have to wonder just how sweaty that particular stitch will be, compared to the rest of her sock, at the end of the long, hard, working day. After all, through not being in constant contact with her precious footskin throughout the day - unlike, say, the reinforced sock-stitches beneath her sweaty, black toes - it should, in theory, smell and taste less perspiring at the end of the day. I shall be interested to find out later!
- The red sock-stitching making up the grinning cartoon-animal's nose is surrounded by a much larger area of blue stitching - making up the rest of its face - and that makes the red stitching seem all the more special, and worthy of my footslave-concentration, though I do not regard myself as worthy to concentrate on all the red stitches - only on one of them!
My pathetic, pained expression on my ugly, male face as I focus in on something so frivolous as a black-girl's red sock-stitch pleases my sweet and kind, African sockmistress very much, as my intense devotion to my mistress's incongruous, brightly-coloured, work sock amuses her co-workers. How pathetic - to have to spend one's entire day kneeling and staring at, and studying, and admiring, and thinking about a single stitch in a crease on the side of an African office-girl's sock; without even getting to touch it! Ha! Ha! What a loser! Haven't I got anything better to do?
No, I haven't!
Of course, the epithet I use to describe my mistress Precious as being 'sweet and kind' is slavespeak for 'bitter and twisted' (a bit like her sock!), and, despite all my best efforts to please her by concentrating on the side of one of her socks, she will often find occasion to whip me!
At such times I feel it is only proper to desist, temporarily, from focusing on her rednose-sock stitch, and to concentrate on the pain she is inflicting on my bare back! I know that many slaves choose to concentrate even more on their mistress's footwear whilst they are being whipped - in an effort to take their mind of the stinging, burning pain of the female whip. But I think that is, actually, disrespectful!
After all, your mistress is expending a lot of her precious time and energy in whipping you, and it seems to me only right, therefore, that a stupid slave should concentrate on the resulting pain, and fully appreciate its stinging agony! He should be appreciative and grateful for each whip-strike, and wondering exactly where the next stroke will fall. Will it, for example, be a direct overlay, sending his pain receptors into sudden orbit? Or will his precious mistress seek to open up new wounds, on new skin, where the whip has not fallen before?
Either way, as soon as the whipping is over, I refocus on the same, red sock-stitch on the side of my mistress's right sock - if I can find it, though, due to the movement in her socks during the whipping, the sock-crease on which it had featured may have disappeared, making it hard to identify, in which case I shall simply choose another one, for I am merely the worthless, whipped slave of my African mistress's precious, cartoon sock - the frivolous sock of my infinite better!
Asinine Anecdote no. 17 – First Impressions
They say that first impressions count!
See if you agree with my first impressions of the following customer-mistresses on my public shoelick-stall, just from their manner of delivering their orders to me:
1) ‘Hi, slave! Would you mind giving my black leather shoes a bit of a lick and a shine for me, please? I’d like it if you could concentrate on the toe-areas as they look a bit grey and scuffmarked! Oh, and don’t touch my black socks with your nose or your face – just concentrate on my dirty shoeleather, there’s a good slave!’ Impression: Kindly
2) ‘Yo slave-bwoy! F***ing lickshine the s**t off my white sneakers, an’ that, yeah? An’ like, make sure you gets all the f***in’ cr*p, an’ that, off of them, yeah? Or I’ll, like, f***in’ whup ya, or somefing? F***in’ get a move on, slave, yeah?’ Impression: Skank
3) ‘You will be lickshining my black leather office shoes, isn’t it footboy? And do not be disrespecting me by nosing my nylon stockings while you are attending to my dirty shoes, isn’t it? You are just being a lowly shoelick, and are not being worthy to touch my nylon stockings on my feet, isn’t it?’ Impression: Meticulous
4) ‘Kiss each of my shoes 100 times, slave, and don’t look me above the ankle while you are doing so. Then kiss me on my socks – again 100 times each – and then beg me not to whip you. When you are begging for mercy, however, look me in the eye, and thereby give me the excuse I need to punish you – for disobeying my orders not to look at me above the ankle. Then cry out in pain with every whip stroke I give you, and thank me for whipping you in such a lovely way!’ Impression: Psycho
5) ‘You a dirty srave-o! You lick Haruka dirty kneeboot nice and shine! Ha! Ha! You a fool – you a Japanese girl’s boot-creaner! Ha! Ha!’ Impression: Foreigner
6) Silence Impression: Deaf-Mute (or possibly preoccupied with listening to music on her MP3 player)
Well, what do you think of my first impressions? Am I right, or am I right?
Asinine Anecdote no. 18 – The Nondescript Footkisser
I am deliberately made to look nondescript – a thing jutting out from the restroom inner wall – so that the ladies who use me to kiss their feet think nothing more of me than they would of the toilet flush mechanism; or the wash-hand basin; or the hand dryer machine that blows warm air onto their hands.
I’m just the piece of equipment that kisses their feet as they egress the communal, office restroom. Indeed, my jutting-out-at-ground-level head is covered in beige rubber – to match the colour of the wall – with gaps only for my eyes and mouth, as the female authorities recognise that I need to see to kiss. But those eye and mouth slits in my beige, rubber mask are my only contact with the outside world.
Some ‘ornamental footkissers’ (for that is my official title) do have a bit of personality, in so far as they have disparaging, derogatory words written on their masks; words such as:
‘Queer Footkisser’; or
‘Shoes; Boots; Socks’; or
‘Dirt’.
But my employers have left my rubbery mask totally blank, to emphasise my nondescriptness, and to make sure I blend even more into the wall and into the subconsciousness of the female staff who use me.
They literally use me without a second thought!
That’s not to say, of course, that the mistresses lack individuality and personality. Every pair of black office ballet flats, black leather ankleboots, or black office courts is different, and individual to the mistress who is wearing them.
They reek of their individual foot-DNA, and are worn, of course, with an array of differing foot-ethnicities, and various types of hosiery.
Some mistresses, for example, will wear short, plain black, sneaker-socks with their black leather ballet-flats – but no two pairs of black sneaker-socks are the same! Some will be more bobbled than others; some will have logos on them; or splashes of patterned colour on the insteps; or fancy stitching. To the rest of the world they are just seen as short, black socks – but from my lowly perspective they are all unique, and deserving of my close study and admiration, however fleetingly (given that the average sock will only be below my ballet-flat kissing face for one second since that’s all I do – quickly kiss the toes of each lady’s shoes, one after the other, as she presents them below my face immediately prior to exiting the restroom!)
You also get to know, and recognise, the outer footwear of the office-mistresses – for, like the socks, no two pairs of black leather ballet-flats are the same. Some will be scuffmarked; others will be pristine. Some will have decorative, black leather bows on the rounded toe-areas; others will have straps across the uppers; others will be, literally, plain. And they will all smell differently – of their individual mistresses – with varying degrees of mustiness depending on the amount of mistressly footsweat that has interacted with the soft, black shoeleather.
The same goes for the ubiquitous, black leather, office ankleboot; just think of all the differing styles of boots I encounter during the day (for nearly all he office mistresses have to relieve themselves at some point or other during the working day!). Boots with clunky heels; or kitten heels; or stiletto heels; or flat heels. Lace up boots; zip-up boots; patent leather boots; matt leather boots; suede leather boots; pixie-style boots with cuffs; Chelsea-style boots with elasticated sides.
Even when two pairs of black leather, office ankleboots appear to be the same make and model, they differ because of the way their individual wearer wears them on her feet. They will be contoured to the shape of her feet; they will be dirt and dust stained in different places, depending on where the individual mistress has been walking; and they will be presented to me for kissing in an individualistic way!
For example, some ankleboot-wearing office mistresses will subliminally hitch up their black, office trousersuit-hems to reveal their bare black, brown, white, olive or yellow ankleskin; or the tops of their socks. Some bare ankleskin will be smooth; some will be pockmarked or otherwise blemished; some will be silky smooth; some will contain tiny, feminine hair-follicles. And when it comes to the socks – some will be nylon; some will be cotton; some will be woollen; all will be twisted to some degree or other – but never in exactly the same place, for these are living, breathing socks we are talking about, affixed to a lady’s ankles inside her warm, clammy ankleboots!
Other boot-wearing mistresses will subconsciously choose not to expose their bare ankleskin or inner bootsocks to my bootkissing gaze. That’s their prerogative – for they are the ones with individualism and personality. I’m just a bootkissing thing, which automatically kisses whatever form of dirty, female footwear is placed beneath my permanently bowed face, as a sign of respect by the enslaved male for the superior, free female.
I’m a nothing.
Asinine Anecdote no. 19 – Footslave-Tourettes
Unfortunately for me as a public footslave, I suffer from footslave-tourettes. I can’t help shouting out whatever I see:
‘BOOTS!... SOCKS!... DIRT!... SWEAT!...
… WHIP!
Asinine Anecdote no. 20 – Take A Stroll
Take a stroll through the female streets of the Gynarchy, and you will see, hear and smell sights, sounds and aromas that you won’t get anywhere else:
· The sight of every woman carrying a whip (or having one attached to her shapely, or fat, waist)
· The pathetic sight of semi-naked, male footslaves crawling on their hands and knees behind the heels of their pretty, personal footmistresses
· The mundane sight of public footslaves kneeling before the feet of their many customer-mistresses – lickshining their dirty boots, shoes or sandals
· What you won’t be able to see, unless you are a lowly footslave on your hands and knees, are the individual scuffmarks and dirt-stains on the ladies’ shoes, or the individual stitches and creases in their socks and nylons
· The pleasing sight of anonymous, male ornamental-footkissers at the entrance to virtually every female shop, restaurant, office, or public building
· The pitiful sight of rubbery-masked, male footfools dotted throughout the city for the entertainment of the female
· The occasional sight of a discarded, female food-scraps, chewing gum, cigarette butts and vomit as only females are permitted, by law, to eat snacks in the street, chew gum, smoke, or drink alcohol; that’s because only women are allowed to have fun in the Gynarchy
· The overwhelming sight of mainly pink, but always pastel-shaded, public buildings; for they are female buildings, and this is a feminine city
· The inspiring sight of the pink and white Gynarchy flag – fluttering proudly in the Gynarchy breeze from virtually every other lamp-post
· The ubiquitous sight of the ruling Femdom Party’s female propaganda posters – declaring the eternal victory of the female over the male
· The curious sight of specialist female-whip shops and maleslave-markets
· The impressive sight of the huge, golden statue of the Supreme Goddess resting her feet on the subordinate male – located in the central town square of the capital city, Barbaria, but visible from virtually anywhere within the city
· The laughable sight of maleslave-prisoners languishing in the public kneeling stocks
· The reassuring sight of maleslave prisoners tied to the public whipping posts – either pre, during, or post-flogging
· The judicious sight of recalcitrant maleslave-prisoners being marched, or transported in cages, to the underground slave-mines
· The somewhat incongruous sight of freemales walking arm-in-arm with their female sexual partners, and being fawned over by those very same females who so despise the male slaves!
· The fear-inducing sight of Gynarchy Female Police officers in their smart, navy-blue uniforms (modelled on North Korean female traffic cop uniforms, since the Femdom Party very much admire totalitarian regimes, being one themselves)
· Speaking of which, you perhaps won’t notice the plain-clothes, undercover State Female police, diligently keeping female law and order throughout the Gynarchy, and watching out for any dissenting males (or females!)
· The sound of cutting, female-whip cracks as male slaves, both personal and public, are disciplined and put to work
· The mocking sound of female laughter around the stocks and whipping-posts
· The sharp sound of curt mistress-speak, in many differing accents (for the Gynarchy is a truly multicultural society), barking down orders to footslaves; and grovelling, obsequious, maleslavespeak in reply, usually begging for mercy, or praising and blessing the mistress for whipping him!
· The rattling sound of ‘footslave-carriages’, mixed in with other traffic, as footslaves convey their mistresses along the city streets
· The stereo sound – seven times a day – over the public, female tannoys of the so-called ‘call to footkiss’ , when every mistress is exhorted to stop whatever it is she is doing and have the nearest footslave kiss her feet
· The smell of perfume on the streets – for these are female streets
· The smell of fear amongst the male populace – slave and free; the slaves – because they fear being whipped at any moment; the free males, because they fear being enslaved at any moment!
· The scent of power and victory in the female
· What you won’t be able to smell, unless you are a lowly footslave on your hands and knees, is the pervading mustiness of female shoe and bootleather, and the delicate tanginess of sweet feminine foot-odour, all around you!
Yes, take a stroll through the Gynarchy, and wonder at the uniqueness of the Femdom society all around you; there’s nowhere else quite like it on earth!
Dullards’ Poetry
1) A Footslave For All Seasons
Though he languishes on his hands and knees in the public lavatory,
Deep underground,
He is, nevertheless, a footslave for all seasons.
For he gets to see and to taste, on his customer-mistresses' feet,
The salty sweat of a sandalled summertime;
The dead leaves and detritus of an ankle-booted autumn;
The icy cold of a woolly-socked winter;
And the freshly soiled leather of a ballet-slippered springtime.
Yes, his customers' footwear is varied and seasoned on his lowly, slave lips,
Though throughout the year he feels the same, biting sting of their whips
2) I, The Slave
I, the slave,
Whipped and in pain.
I, the slave,
Lips lower again.
I, the slave,
To female boot-toe.
I, the slave,
Respectful and slow.
I, the slave,
Admiring of sock.
I, the slave,
Flaccid of cock.
I, the slave,
Lowly and mean.
You, the mistress,
Calm and serene.
