The Gynarchy

Part 1 – Trainee Footslave no. 7865DF

A ‘Gynarchy’ is a State ruled exclusively by women.

Barbaria is one such Gynarchy. Its supreme ruler and all its government ministers are women. Its laws are all female-orientated, and it is a wonderful country to live in – if you are a woman.

Not that all men live oppressed lives in Barbaria – not by any means. There are, it’s true, many male slaves in the Gynarchy, but there are just as many free men who do very nicely in this society thank you very much – a free man can still lead a successful and fulfilling life. But in the Gynarchy the very top jobs are all reserved for women, which is the natural order of things – even the most ‘alpha’ of ‘alpha males’ in Barbaria was happy to acknowledge that.

And so at the very top of Barbarian Society is ‘Supreme Mistress Ruler Julia Caesar’– not often seen in public; reputedly about 30 years old, and said to be very beautiful. They say it is appropriate that she have the name ‘Caesar’ in her title for she is, by all accounts, a bit of a despot. And the Society she rules over with a rod of iron certainly bears a passing resemblance to Ancient Rome – at least in its cruelty and rigid system of slavery. They even have regular ‘games’ in the capital city’s ‘Colosseum’ at which the free citizens have ‘sport’ with their more recalcitrant slaves (we shall be going to the ‘Games’ later in this story!)

But, for all that, Barbaria is not Ancient Rome. It is a modern, European country – with all the usual trappings of modernity: electricity; cars; planes; TV; computers etc. It’s just that, in amongst the high street shops and restaurants are the male slave markets and the whip shops.

Our story does not focus on the elusive and aloof Supreme Mistress Ruler Julia Caesar; nor does it focus on her Court – the ruling elite of female government ministers known as ‘Superior Mistresses’ e.g. ‘Superior Mistress Angelina’ (The Minister for Education) or ‘Superior Mistress Brigitte’ (The Minister for Employment). Nor does it even focus on the privileged aristocracy e.g. ‘Lady Amanda’, who reputedly owns 170 male slaves on her vast estate in the countryside; or ‘Lady Rowena’, who is one of the most diligent slave-trainers in the country.

No – our story focuses on some of the more ordinary citizens of Barbaria – the middle class and working class ‘mistresses’. By tradition all ‘ordinary’ working women in the Gynarchy of Barbaria who are aged 25 or over are referred to as ‘mistress’, followed by their job title, followed by their first name. So, for example, you might have ‘mistress traffic warden Angelica’; or ‘mistress lawyer Trudy’. If they are between the ages of 18 to 25 they are referred to as ‘miss’, instead of mistress, out of deference to their age (in Barbaria youth is prized above everything else’) so, you could have ‘miss shop assistant Sandra’ or even ‘miss student Rachel’. This applies regardless of their marital status though few women tend to marry in Barbaria before the age of 25.

And yes, they do get married - to men! For, as we have indicated already, there are plenty of free men in Barbaria; normal, heterosexual men; manly men; alpha males - men to whom the women of Barbaria are attracted. Since such men have no particular social status in Barbaria, however – other than that of being husbands – they tend to just be referred to as plain old ‘Mr’ followed by their girlfriend’s or wife’s surname (bizarrely, the only time the woman’s surname tends to be used!) Thus, ‘mistress lawyer Trudy’ may well be going out with, or even be married to, ‘Mr Smith’ (meaning that ‘mistress lawyer Trudy’s’ birth name was Trudy Smith). It’s a Barbarian social convention that helps to stress how dependent the male is on the status of the female. Even an ‘alpha’ male is considered nothing in Barbaria without being attached to a female, even if he goes out to work and isn’t just a ‘house-husband’.

Free ‘alpha’ males do receive one major social recognition however; beta males (slaves) were expected to address them as ‘sir’ (or ‘master’ if the slave is directly employed as a personal slave by the free man’s wife or girlfriend).

In case you’re wondering, no males have ‘proper’ names until they reach the age of 18 (only nicknames) at which point they must decide on whether they want to live as free ‘alpha’ males or enslaved ‘beta’ males.

Ah yes – the ‘beta’ males. Some would say the epithet ‘beaten’ males would be more appropriate. You see, Barbaria, being a State based on the principles of gynarchy and female supremacy is nothing if not a fair society. It recognises that many men are born weak; born submissive; born slaves – and it allows them to live their lives as slaves – the slaves of superior women. All men are given the choice at the age of 18: live life as an ‘alpha’ male – date women; get married; become a house-husband or even, perhaps, get a job. Or, if they are so inclined, enter one of the many slave-training Academies (like the one owned by lady Rowena’) and live the rest of your life as a slave. If you do opt for a life of servitude, however, you can expect to be beaten and oppressed by your female betters, for it is, after all, only natural for superior women to want to beat and humiliate inferior, submissive males. They have to express their feminine dominance somehow!

The hero, or rather anti-hero, of our story is one such submissive ‘beta male ‘– trainee footslave no. 7865DF. Yes, beta males, or slaves as they are routinely called, are initially allocated a number, rather than a name, once they take the momentous decision to live life as a slave to women. It is only, however, if and when they are owned by a woman that they will be given a ‘slave name’ – consisting, logically enough, of their female owner’s first name followed by the word slave. So, if, for example, trainee footslave no. 7865DF ended up being purchased by ‘miss student Rachel’, he would henceforth be known as ‘Rachelsslave’ They say that in the olden days he would have been known as ‘slave no 7865DF property of miss student Rachel’, but you can see why over time such a mouthful would have shortened into ‘miss Rachel’s slave’; and then ‘Rachel’s-slave’ and eventually just ‘Rachelsslave’ without the hyphen or apostrophe. That’s the way language evolves!

However trainee footslave no. 7865DF was not yet honoured to bear a female’s name – and he might never do. For not all male slaves are privileged enough to end up as personal slaves to women. Only the very best of the ‘beta’ males are selected for such an honoured position – and for every ‘personal’ slave there are dozens of so-called ‘public’ slaves.

The slave ‘hierarchy’, in this acutely hierarchical society, is as follows: at the top are the personal body servants of women. Many beta males aspire to be the personal body servant of a woman, for obvious reasons – they may not be deemed fit to sleep with a superior woman, but they are, nevertheless, attracted to women, and the idea of pampering and serving a woman’s soft and curvaceous body (full body massages; bathing her etc.) has its obvious appeal for an aspiring male slave.

But though many beta-males may aspire, few are chosen. The failure rate at ‘personal body slave’ training courses is very high. Besides, not all working women can afford a personal body slave – many, if not most, just make do with their alpha-male husbands!

Below the personal body slaves in the slave rankings are the personal footslaves. Being a woman’s personal footslave is also considered to be something of a ‘privileged’ position for a male slave – not quite as prestigious, of course, as being entrusted with the pampering of the mistress’s entire body, but at least you get to serve the humblest part of a woman’s beautiful body: her soft and feminine feet. And her footwear, of course.

Becoming a woman’s personal footslave also involves having to complete an intensive training course – and not everyone passes it. And so the majority of beta males actually end up in public servitude to women; they carry them around the shops on their backs as horses (‘pony-boy slaves’); or they carry the ladies bags on their backs (‘porter-slaves’); or they shine their shoes at the railway stations (‘shoeshine-slaves’); or, if they have failed to make the grade in all other forms of servitude, as public footslaves – required to submit to the daily humiliation of not just shining women’s shoes and boots in public with a cloth and shoe polish, but of actually licking ladies’ shoes and boots clean with their slave tongues, and even sniffing and licking their dirty socks and bare feet in public.

Yes, a public footslave is considered the lowest of the low in Barbaria.

But there was one thing considered even worse for a slave, status-wise: that of being a ‘hooded’ slave – a hooded slave of any description. It was the one thing universally dreaded by all beta males – being forced to wear a black, rubber or leather, slave-hood, for it was a well-established fact that being hooded meant being viewed by everyone as a mere ‘object’ or a ‘thing’. It was often imposed on disobedient or disrespectful slaves as a punishment, for it completely dehumanised them. Even if your slave name (e.g. ‘Rachelsslave’) was emblazoned across the black, rubber forehead of your slave-hood it effectively meant you could be beaten and abused at will by your female masters and betters without being viewed as a human-being and without the ability to elicit any sympathy or pity through your anguished facial expressions.

Yes, being a ‘hooded’ slave was a dangerous and fearful thing.

Trainee footslave no 7865DF had decided, therefore, at the age of 18, that he was a natural beta male, and that he wanted to be a slave – but his aspiration was to be a non-hooded, personal footslave to a beautiful, young woman. He therefore put himself forward for the mandatory one year footslave training course, and was now coming up to his graduation and was actively looking for a mistress to serve.

The way most slaves found mistresses was through a State-sponsored website known as ‘Slave Finder’, where women could advertise their requirements. As we join trainee footslave no. 7865DF he is looking through the website and one advertisement in particular has caught his eye:

“Young, professional, married couple, (she 25; he 28), require personal footslave for the mistress of the house. Duties to include the following:

• General care of the mistress’s feet, including foot-massage, foot-washing, complete pedicure etc.
• General care of the mistress’s footwear, including shoe and boot cleaning, sock washing etc.
• Constant attendance at the mistress’s feet

The successful candidate will be ultra-submissive and can expect to be disciplined by means of the whip. The slave may also be required to wear blinkers, but shall remain unhooded.

Must be fully conversant in slave-speak and have certificate confirming successful completion of footslave training course at a recognised Academy.

To humbly apply for an audition contact mistress Alicia or master Paul by email at…” followed by their email address.

As far as trainee footslave no. 7865DF was concerned the advertisement ticked all the right boxes. He wasn’t overly keen on the idea of possibly having to wear blinkers, but it wasn’t uncommon to see personal footslaves wearing such humiliating eyewear (many mistresses felt it helped their personal footslaves, and especially inexperienced footslaves, to really concentrate on the mistress’s feet and footwear without any unnecessary distractions), and, more importantly, he could remain ‘unhooded’.

Furthermore the couple concerned were married (he very much wanted to be part of a ‘stable’ relationship), and ‘mature’ (at least from his perspective as a now 19 year old).

Most importantly of all, for him, the advertisement also mentioned ‘constant attendance at the mistress’s feet’ – and this was absolutely crucial to trainee footslave no. 7865DF, for not all mistresses required their personal footslave’s constant attendance at their feet. Indeed, he had been warned by his trainers at the Academy that some mistresses liked to keep their footslaves locked up in floor-boxes, surrounded by their dirty boots, shoes, tights and socks, and only releasing them as and when they wanted their feet washed or their footwear put on their feet or taken off their feet. Trainee footslave no 7865DF didn’t want to be that sort of footslave. He wanted to accompany his mistress on his hands and knees everywhere she went, observing her pretty feet throughout the day as she went about her daily business – serving her feet in public as well as in private.

Yes, the advert warned that the applicant ‘can expect to be disciplined by means of the whip’ but there were very few slaves in Barbaria who weren’t subject to the whip. Being whipped by your masters and betters was par for the course if you were a humble slave. And, speaking of ‘humble’, trainee footslave no. 7865DF was confident that he could meet the ‘ultra-submissive’ stipulation of the advertisement, for, his female trainers at the Academy, whilst they may have queried his aptitude on occasions, had no problem with his attitude. Trainee footslave no. 7865DF was considered to be a natural, beta-submissive.

As if to illustrate this point a whole raft of submissive thoughts now ran through his head: if I’m successful at my audition that means I will henceforth be known as ‘Aliciasslave’ (he liked the sound of that); I wonder if the mistress is beautiful? I wonder what preferences she has in footwear? Boots or shoes? Stockings or socks? I wonder whether her feet really smell, or does she keep her feet fastidiously clean? (something in between would be nice!) I wonder who does the disciplining in the house – would the master be permitted to beat me or would the mistress prefer to do it herself? I wonder what job the mistress has? I wonder what job (if any) the master has?

Of course, there was only one sure way to find out the answer to all these important questions – apply for the audition!

But there was one major, potential sticking point: “Must be fully conversant in slave-speak and have certificate confirming successful completion of footslave training course at a recognised Academy” the advertisement had said. Trainee footslave no. 7865DF had no worries on the first part of this stipulation – his female trainers had all been genuinely impressed at the speed with which he had acquired ‘slave-speak’ (the humble, self-deprecating and verbose language of the downtrodden male slave) – but he had not yet officially graduated from his footslave training course, though he was due to receive his certificate at the end of next month. He was confident, however, that this wouldn’t be a problem when he explained it to his potential new owners at the audition. After all, the fact he would be applying before his certificate was actually issued only indicated how keen he was to start his life of abject servitude at a woman’s feet – didn’t it?

Without further ado, therefore, he composed an email application – a good opportunity to demonstrate his humility and adeptness at humble slave-speak:

“Oh pray, mistress Alicia and master Paul, I am trainee footslave no. 7865DF at the Central Footslave Training Academy, and I hereby humbly beseech an audition for the position of personal footslave to the mistress Alicia, as advertised on the Government-sponsored ‘Slave Finder’ website, if it so pleases you superior mistress and master. This dirty slave is now 19 years old, has been fully trained in all aspects of female foot-servitude at the Central Footslave Academy, and would deem it an inestimable honour to serve the feet and footwear of a superior woman such as the revered mistress Alicia in the capacity of her personal footslave. This dirty slave is truly submissive and fears the whip. This slave begs and implores the mistress and master for the opportunity to demonstrate his willingness to serve the mistress as her footslave at an audition, and at a time and place that is suitable for the mistress and master.

This slave humbly awaits the response from his masters and betters and

assures you of his obedience and humility at all times.

Your obedient servant,

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF”

It was a fairly well–phrased application but then, he had been shown how to phrase an email application by the trainers at the Academy. No doubt that is why he managed to get an audition the following week – his first ever footslave-audition.

Boy was he nervous! As he knelt, dressed only in his plain, brown slave tunic, in mistress Alicia’s and master Paul’s living room, awaiting their arrival, his heart was pounding.

He had been shown into their home by their uniformed maid – again, a not uncommon feature of domestic life in Barbaria. The Gynarchy could not quite bring itself to acknowledge the phenomenon of female submissiveness towards men, but it did allow submissive women to adopt subservient roles, such as household maids, vis-à-vis other women. Maids, however, were still very much higher up the social scale than male slaves. Free men were allowed to address maids by their first names (e.g. Polly) - even though it was the mistress of the house, the wife or girlfriend, who was the official employer of the maid - but a male slave would still have to address the maid as ‘mistress maid Polly’.

(Don’t know why I chose the example of ‘Polly’, because mistress Alicia’s maid was actually called Imogen!)

Anyway, footslave-applicant 7865DF had duly kissed 20 year old mistress maid Imogen’s shiny, black patent leather, low-heeled, court shoes, which she was wearing on dark, nylon stockings, just as soon as she had let him in through the front porch of the house. He admired a tiny ladder running along the fine-denier nylon over the arch of her dainty, left foot as he did so. It was the correct thing to do, for a good footslave must be ever-attentive to the footwear of the superior woman whose feet he is kissing – whatever her own social status - and besides even ‘submissive’ women liked having inferior male slaves grovelling at their feet and admiring the tiny imperfections and flaws in their superior, feminine footwear. Furthermore, it was good practice for the inevitable kissing of mistress Alicia’s feet that he would have to perform over the next hour or so during his ‘audition’

Needless to say his ever-helpful trainers at the Central Footslave Training Academy had told him exactly what to expect at an audition. He would first be expected to pay his respects to his potential new mistress by kissing her feet (some people say this is actually the most important part of any audition and that a mistress’s mind is often made up in those first few seconds of humble foot kissing); this would be followed by a question and answer session with the mistress and master putting various questions to him (he, of course, would not be permitted to question them – that would be ridiculous: a slave quizzing his potential employers! Ha! Ha!); and finally they would demand that he demonstrate some of his practical footslave-skills on the mistress’s feet.

His kindly female trainers at the Footslave Academy had warned him that it was always difficult to know exactly what the practical element of the audition might involve – it was very much down to the individual mistress concerned, but generally he might expect to be ordered to lick her boots clean; or to take off her boots and massage her socked feet; or even to take off her socks and suck the mistress’s bare toes clean. The only thing that could be said with some degree of certainty about the ‘practical’ element of the footslave-audition was that the more work it involved, generally speaking, the better it was going. If a mistress had already made up her mind not to employ a slave she was hardly likely to waste much time feeling his lips and tongue on her bare feet!

And so he knelt in front of the luxurious, black leather sofa, head-bowed and awaiting the arrival of his potential future employers. Mercifully, they didn’t keep him waiting too long. After some 15 minutes or so he heard the door behind him opening and a man and a woman move round to sit in front of him on the comfortable sofa.

As he had been trained to do by the Academy, trainee footslave no. 7865DF remained silent, kept his head low, and concentrated his eyes on the feet and footwear of the mistress. As she was now seated directly in front of him he was pleased to see that mistress Alicia was wearing smart, black, hemmed trousers (part of a black trouser suit) and black, zip-up, block-heeled, round-toed ankle boots. Because she was sitting with her right leg crossed dominantly over her left leg in front of him he could also just see the elasticated top of a bright yellow, thick, ankle-length, bootsock inside her right ankle boot which was now hovering in the air directly under his kneeling face. He was pleased because this was precisely the sort of footwear he admired most on a woman – businesslike and yet practical; smart and mature, yet ‘young’; sensible, yet with just a hint of rebelliousness and individuality – as expressed by the bright yellow bootsocks.

Besides, the very fact that she was wearing boots and socks meant that if he was pleasing to her, she would have the opportunity of making him take off her boots and socks in order to worship her bare feet at the ‘practical’ stage of the audition - something she could not have done, or rather would have been unlikely to do, if she had been wearing stockings or tights under her black trousers.

The signs were therefore all good!

Of course, he couldn’t help but form a general impression of his potential mistress even though he was morally and socially obliged to concentrate his attention on her superior, feminine feet and footwear. He somehow established, therefore, that she was slim, quite tall, with a good figure and blonde hair. She had some sort of frilly, white blouse on underneath her black suit-jacket. From his appropriately submissive kneeling position he couldn’t really examine her facial features, but he could tell that her blonde hair was secured back in a fetching ponytail by means of a bright yellow hairband. A bright, yellow hairband, no doubt, designed to match her bright, yellow bootsocks. Or was it the other way round? What male could possibly hope to tell what was going on in the mind of a superior female when it comes to fashion statements?! He only knew that he liked what he saw!

As for the master, trainee footslave no. 7865DF could hardly even remember his name, but was vaguely aware of him sitting beside his wife on the sofa, and holding a single-tailed, brown leather, cowhide whip.

The slave-applicant kept his head humbly bowed over mistress Alicia’s swinging-in-the-air, right, black-booted and yellow-socked foot and remained silent as the superior couple sized him up. They were speaking about him almost as if he wasn’t there (something trainee footslave no. 7865DF would have to get used to):

‘Mmm…not the best looking of the bunch that we’ve seen so far!’ declared the mistress to her husband.

‘Ha! Ha! Yeah, he is a bit of an ugly looking freak isn’t he, sweetheart?’ concurred her husband, master Paul. ’His face looks like it could actually do with a good kicking to put it into shape! Ha! Ha! Let’s see what he looks like with his ugly lips attached to the toe of your boot, darling!’ he went on to suggest, not wishing to dismiss the slave quite so soon in the audition process before the latter had even had the chance to demonstrate his humble boot-kissing skills on his pretty, young wife’s ankle boots.

‘OK!’ chirped mistress Alicia happily, uncrossing her legs and placing her right, shiny black, ankle-booted foot onto the plush, cream-coloured carpet directly below the kneeling slave’s bowed head:

‘You heard my husband, slave, kiss the toe of my boot!’ she snapped.

It was a voice that sounded well used to ordering slaves about. Trainee footslave no. 7865DF suspected that he mustn’t be 25 year old mistress Alicia’s first personal slave. What had happened to her last slave, he wondered momentarily?

But he didn’t really have time to worry about that! Right now he had to make up for his physical ugliness by making a good impression with his slave lips on the toe of mistress Alicia’s shiny, black, zip-up ankle boot. As he quickly lowered his lips to the toe of her right boot he was disappointed that the top of her bright yellow bootsock was no longer visible, as the hem of her right trouser leg had ridden down again to cover the top half of her ankle-boot thanks to the repositioning of her precious foot on the floor.

He would have liked to have studied the top of that sock closer up – to study the pattern of the stitching, for example. Nevertheless he was still hopeful that he might get the opportunity to remove her boots and kiss or massage her socked feet during the practical part of the audition – if he could get that far. Oh pray, mistress Alicia, if it pleases you, sweet, feminine mistress Alicia, please let me pay homage to your precious, yellow bootsocks, if it so pleases you, most powerful and merciful mistress Alicia; please let me lick the dirt off your stinky, sweaty, yellow bootsocks and then suck your precious footsweat out of your stinky socks inside my slave mouth. Oh pray, mistress Alicia. If it pleases you, mistress Alicia!

That was what he was thinking as he lowered his lips to the toe of her right boot.

This first kiss, he knew, was absolutely crucial. A lady could always tell the degree of submissiveness and devotion contained in a slave’s foot-kiss – even through her boots and socks! And so he conveyed as much humility and submissiveness in that first kiss to the shiny, black, rounded toe of mistress Alicia’s block-heeled ankle boot as he possibly could. His slave breath momentarily left a condensation mark on the otherwise pristine, shiny, black leather of her boot-toe:

‘Hmm…not bad!’ was the mistress’s verdict. ‘Now the other one!’ she barked, withdrawing her right boot across the carpet from under his nose and replacing it with her left, booted foot, giving him an exciting glimpse for the first time of the top of her yellow bootsock on her left foot – albeit only for a brief second until her trouser leg rested over the top of her left boot also (he surmised from this that when she was standing still her trouser hems would only just cover the tops of her ankle boots. Again, this was the style of daywear clothing that trainee footslave no. 7865DF liked in a superior young woman: ankle boots fully on display with the exciting treat of the occasional glimpse of sock as the mistress walked about – yes, footslaves are a bit sad like that!).

Once again his slavish lips made contact with the toe of mistress Alicia’s black leather ankle boot, temporarily causing it to frost over.

‘What do you think, honey? Is it worth going on?’ enquired her husband, master Paul, irritatingly breaking the spell of the moment, at least as far as trainee footslave no. 7865DF was concerned.

‘Erm…maybe. I was really hoping for a better-looking footslave, but I have to admit he does know how to kiss a lady’s boots with proper respect, as befits a slave! …Let’s see how we get on with the Q&A!’ decided mistress Alicia after a brief moment of hesitation.

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF’s heart leapt with joy! He had passed the first hurdle! He had overcome his physical ugliness and offensive appearance to the mistress and satisfied her that he knew how to pay his proper respects to a lady’s boots. He was still in with a chance of making the acquaintance of her socks and even, hope against hope, of being her personal footslave!

And he so much admired mistress Alicia already and wanted to be her personal footslave – not just because, unlike him, she was intelligent, erudite and good-looking, nor just because she was dressed in a way he admired, but because of the haughtiness and dominance in her attitude. This young woman was a natural slave-owner. She would know exactly how to treat him. How to degrade and humiliate him. She was every male slave’s dream!

And trainee footslave no. 7865DF was now absolutely determined to pass his audition and become ‘Aliciasslave’!

Part 2 – The Audition

And so with the initial, boot-kissing niceties out of the way it was time to get down to the serious business of prospective personal footslave no. 7865DF’s audition to become ‘Aliciasslave’, starting with the Q&A session.

It was mistress Alicia herself who set the ball rolling by asking the first question:

‘So, trainee footslave no. 7865DF, what makes you think that you are worthy to be my personal footslave?’

It was the opening question he had been expecting – thanks to the excellent coaching given to him by his trainers back at the Central Footslave Training Academy. Trainee footslave no. 7865DF’s answer was, therefore, well-rehearsed, although it wasn’t any the less heartfelt just because it was rehearsed:

‘Please mistress Alicia, if it pleases you most respected and beautiful goddess-mistress Alicia, this dirty slave could never be worthy of the honour of being the personal footslave of the mistress’s divine and superior feet, if it so pleases you most superior and feminine mistress Alicia, but, if such an inestimable honour were indeed to be bestowed upon this humble, dirty footslave by his most gracious and superior master and mistress, the slave would indeed endeavour to serve the mistress’s glorious feet to the utmost of his humble ability, if it so pleases you most sweet and feminine mistress and most strong and powerful master.’

Trainee footslave no 7865DF was quite pleased with his grovellingly rehearsed answer. He had genuinely meant every word of it. But master Paul, it seemed, wasn’t convinced:

‘That’s all very well, slave, but just reading through your application form leads me to the conclusion that you are not sufficiently contrite and submissive to serve my beautiful wife. Just listen to your arrogance…

“I am trainee footslave no. 7865DF at the Central Footslave Training Academy, and I hereby humbly beseech an audition for the position of personal footslave to the mistress Alicia”

…You have actually used the personal pronoun twice in just one sentence, referring to yourself as ‘I’. I can’t believe such arrogance in a slave! You appear to be all “I…I…I and me…me…me!”

I mean, it’s almost like you think of yourself as an individual, with a sense of your own self-importance, rather than just as a thing – an object – which is what you actually are.

Is that what you think, slave? Do you think that you are somebody? Are you so high and mighty that my wife and I should perhaps think of you as some kind of equal, or something?’

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF could have kicked himself! How on earth could he have let the personal pronoun slip into his application email – and not just once, but twice! It was the most basic mistake a slave could make, and his ‘slave-speak’ coaches at the Academy had indeed drummed the message into him day after day, week after week, month after month - he was a mere women’s footslave; a thing; an object – not a free person – and must always refer to himself out of a sense of his own humility and self-deprecation, in the third person as, for example, ‘this slave’, or ‘this dirty slave’ – never ‘I’ or ‘me’! To do otherwise would be likely to earn him his mistresses’ wholly justifiable wrath.

Master Paul was quite right therefore – trainee footslave no. 7865DF’s application form did make it sound as though he was full of himself. He must put matters right immediately:

‘Oh pray, master, if it pleases you master, this dirty, arrogant slave apologises most profusely for its unforgivable arrogance, and begs its superior master and mistress to punish it forthwith, if you would be so kind, superior master and mistress. Please beat this slave with the whip, master. This filthy, conceited slave begs the master to beat the arrogance out of him, that he may better serve the mistress as her lowly and undeserving foot-flunkey, if it so pleases you master.’

Although the humble and contrite footslave couldn’t see it (for he was staring dutifully at mistress Alicia’s black, leather ankle boots as they rested on the floor) mistress Alicia had a smug grin on her face as she listened to the slave’s desperate attempts to explain himself to her masterful husband – presumably thereby indicating that she, at least, was somewhat placated by the trainee footslave’s evident penitence. Yet again, however, the astute master Paul was able to identify failings in the footslave’s attitude:

‘Mmm…”Please beat this slave with the whip, master…beat the arrogance out of him”, mocked master Paul mimicking the pathetic footslave’s whining. ‘It’s all about what you want, isn’t it slave? I mean, it may well be that, if we did employ you, we would have to beat the arrogance out of you – but that should be our decision, surely? Don’t you agree, slave, or do you have an opinion of your own that you feel you should share with us?’

Yet again, trainee footslave No 7865DF saw the error of his ways. He was now visibly sweating and his mouth had gone quite dry. The audition, suddenly, was not going well. He was truly having to think on his knees. He sensed that, for all her justifiable repulsion at his physical ugliness, mistress Alicia quite liked him. But her husband, master Paul, clearly wasn’t so convinced. Yet he would have to somehow ingratiate himself to the master if he was to stand any chance of becoming mistress Alicia’s personal slave. It was highly unlikely that mistress Alicia would employ him against her husband’s wishes:

‘Well…answer my husband, slave!’ she snapped as if to reinforce that very point:

‘Oh pray, master, oh pray, mistress, this slave once again apologises for his arrogance and throws himself on your mercy, most superior and all-powerful mistress and master. This ignorant, insolent slave is completely at his mistress and master’s disposal, if it so pleases you mistress and master.’

‘Ha! Ha! That’s more like it, slave. You can rest assured that we will beat the arrogance and insolence out of you, but all in our own good time!’ declared the master.

Trainee footslave no 7865DF breathed a sigh of relief. The audition had not been terminated. He was still in with a chance!

‘Let’s move on to the practical test, honey,’ chirped mistress Alicia.

The practical test – hopefully I can do better in my practical than I’ve just done in my oral, thought trainee footslave no. 7865DF to himself (yet again, incidentally, betraying the fact that he still thought of himself, totally inappropriately, in the first person!)

‘Sure sweetheart,’ agreed her husband, reaching down beside the leather sofa on which he and his wife were seated in order to pick up a pair of his wife’s dirty, white sneakers with two light grey, ankle-length, cotton socks scrunched up inside them. He then somewhat unceremoniously threw them down on the floor in front of the kneeling trainee footslave no. 7865DF:

‘Slave, these are a pair of my wife’s dirty, old sneakers and sneaker-socks. You’re going to remove her ankle boots and socks from her pretty feet and put these sneakers and socks on her feet instead. You will talk us through each and every stage of the process, and tell us your innermost thoughts as you do so. Begin!’

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF was again relieved. The ‘practical test’ was apparently not going to be a difficult one – in fact, it should be ‘bread and butter’ to a personal footslave – changing his mistress’s footwear. A humiliating and degrading task, of course – given that the mistress was perfectly capable of taking off and putting on her own shoes and socks. But at least it was a relatively straightforward chore – not like having to wash the mistress’s bare feet, for example (potentially messy if he splashed any dirty foot water on the nice, clean carpet of their living room floor); or even worse – having to give the mistress a full pedicure! He had been dreading that possibility given his state of extreme nervousness:

‘Yes master and mistress; at once, master and mistress.’

As he humbly crawled forward to pick up the discarded sneakers and socks he remembered to begin his running commentary on his innermost, pathetic, footslavish thoughts, for the entertainment of the master and mistress:

‘Oh pray, mistress and master, if it pleases you, mistress and master, before this dirty slave touches the mistress’s divine sneakers with his slave fingers he must kiss the sneakers as a demonstration of his admiration and love for the mistress’s superior footwear…’

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF duly placed two respectful kisses on the dirty white toes of the two discarded sneakers…

‘…and the slave must also kiss the mistress’s grey sneaker socks, if it so pleases you mistress and master, for those superior, feminine socks have previously been in contact with the mistress’s divine feet and the slave is not worthy to touch the sweat on the mistress’s socks without first kissing that residual footsweat, if it so pleases you mistress and master …’

Mistress Alicia happily cocked her pretty, blonde, pony-tailed head to one side as she watched the slave kissing her dirty, sweaty, light-grey sneaker socks inside her dirty, white sneakers.

Trainee footslave no. 7865 truly admired the sneakers and socks. The sneakers were high-tops, and had Velcro fastenings across the uppers, rather than laces, giving them quite a ‘chunky’ appearance. The overriding impression, however, was of deeply ingrained dirt along the entire length of the sneakers. The white areas covering the toes were even beginning to chip and flake away – revealing the grey canvasy lining underneath. They were clearly a favourite and well-worn pair of feminine sneakers – comfortable, but tatty.

As for the light grey sneaker-socks, they too showed some signs of wear and tear – in particular the reinforced area around the toe of the inside-out sock which was scrunched up inside the top of the left sneaker showed the first signs of thinning, although a hole per se had not yet developed. Trainee footslave no. 7865DF particularly admired the fact that the stitching in the feminine sock was minute – almost imperceptible. He had also detected, whilst kissing the sneaker-socks, a faint aroma of stale, feminine footsweat – mistress Alicia’s footsweat!

His heart was pounding as a result – but he must verbalise his feelings and thoughts for the mistress and master, as he had been ordered to do:

‘Oh mistress and master, if it pleases you mistress and master, this slave truly admires the mistress’s sneakers and sneaker-socks. If this slave may be so bold, he has the impression that the mistress is very fond of wearing her beautiful sneakers, and the slave is jealous of the sneakers and the sneaker-socks as they have the inestimable honour of protecting and comforting the mistress’s superior feet and of directly absorbing the mistress’s superior footsweat, if it so pleases you mistress and master.’

The superior couple made no comment as they merely watched the would-be personal footslave and listened contentedly to his fawning self-abasement.

The slave next turned his attention to the black, zip-up, block-heeled, round-toed ankle boots that mistress Alicia was currently wearing as she sat on the sofa in front of him with both her feet now resting on the carpet – the boots he was now going to have to take off her feet. Although they were reasonably shiny and had clearly been recently polished (he could smell the black boot polish), they were not ‘patent’ leather – and the closer his face got to the rounded toe of her right boot the more tiny scuff marks he could see in the leather toe of the boot.

This presented trainee footslave no. 7865DF with something of a dilemma. Only he was, and only he ever would be, close enough to the boots to be able to observe those tiny scuff marks. Should he, therefore, mention them to the mistress – or would she rather not know about them? He was confident that she would have had no objections to his pointing out that her dirty, white sneakers were clearly a ‘well worn’ item of footwear – since that was plain for everyone to see. But, for all trainee footslave no. 7865DF knew, these ankle boots she had on now were mistress Alicia’s best and smartest pair of ankle boots. They were clearly meant to look smart and well-kept, given that she was wearing them with her smart, businesslike, trouser suit. She might, therefore, take offence at his drawing attention to any tiny defects in the smart pair of ‘lived in’ boots.

Yet he clearly had to say something about her glorious boots. Having dithered and prevaricated somewhat, he opted for the following eulogy to her ankle boots:

‘Oh pray, mistress Alicia, if it pleases you mistress Alicia, this slave kisses and admires your beautiful, black ankle boots, and in particular praises the almost imperceptible little creases and lines in the leather of the mistress’s boots, as they indicate to the slave that the boots have been moulded and contoured through regular wear to ensure that they fit comfortably onto the mistress’s divine feet over her soft, yellow bootsocks.’

He couldn’t, unfortunately, actually see her yellow bootsocks at that precise moment in time, due to the fact that her booted feet were both resting on the floor under the hems of her smart, black slacks. But he had, of course, caught an exciting glimpse of bright, yellow bootsock earlier on when mistress Alicia had been sitting with her right leg crossed over her left in front of him. He was further excited at the thought that he would soon not only be seeing, but also touching, mistress Alicia’s bright, yellow bootsocks! What a privilege! What an honour!

But first he had to pay his respects to her outer footwear – to her boots. He humbly kissed each rounded leather boot-toe, feeling the tiny scuff marks and creases in the black leather under his slave lips as he did so.

His running commentary continued:

‘And now mistress Alicia, if it pleases you most blessed and beautiful, feminine mistress Alicia, this slave will humbly pull down the zip on his mistress’s right boot with his slave mouth in order to remove it from her divine foot. The slave will use his mouth because his dirty fingers are not worthy to touch the zip of the mistress’s superior boot, if it so pleases you most gracious and merciful mistress Alicia.’

‘Make sure you don’t get my wife’s sock caught up in the zip whilst you are pulling it down with your mouth, slave,’ interjected master Paul – perhaps concerned that he was being forgotten about.

‘No master, indeed master, this slave will indeed be cautious, most powerful master.’

Best to fawn and verbally grovel to the master at every opportunity if it helped to win over his support for the cause of trainee footslave no. 7865DF becoming mistress Alicia’s personal foot lackey!

And so trainee footslave no. 7865DF unzipped mistress Alicia’s right boot with his slave mouth – as he had been trained to unzip a lady’s boot at the Central Footslave Training Academy. He admired the sight and smell of the mistress’s bright yellow bootsock as it now came into view in all its glory directly in front of his face:

He removed his mouth from the zip and verbally expressed his admiration for mistress Alicia’s yellow bootsock:

‘Oh mistress Alicia, if it pleases you sweet, feminine mistress Alicia, this slave truly admires the mistress’s thick, yellow bootsock, and can feel the warmth from the mistress’s sock on his face. This slave is not worthy to be so close to the mistress’s superior sock, and must kiss it immediately as a mark of his respect and admiration for the sock…’

And with that trainee footslave no. 7865DF duly pressed his lips to the stretched material of the bright, yellow sock covering mistress Alicia’s outer ankle bone – with her boot still dangling partially on her foot – and kissed the thick, latticed stitching of the sock.

The sock did indeed feel soft and warm, but it was only after he had removed the boot completely from her foot that trainee footslave no. 7865DF caught the comforting whiff of delicate, female footsweat in his slave nostrils. He noticed too that there were black stains on the sole of the sock under the toe area, and little balls of blackened-yellow sock lint covering the heel of the sock – a sure sign that the socks, like the boots, had been worn many times before:

‘Oh pray, mistress, the smell of the mistress’s superior, socked foot is just divine. Truly this slave is honoured to be on his hands and knees and serving the mistress’s socked feet.’

He repeated the process with her left boot until mistress Alicia was sitting on the sofa with both her yellow-socked feet resting on the floor in front of him - her discarded, black leather, block-heeled, ankle boots now lying somewhat forlornly to one side on the plush, white living room carpet. She wasn’t exactly doing any thing to help him with the removal of her footwear – e.g. raising her feet off the ground – but she wasn’t doing anything to hinder him either. She is a kindly mistress, trainee footslave no. 7865DF thought to himself.

He should, of course, have expressed that thought out loud – as he had been ordered to do by the master. But he didn’t.

Dirty, disobedient slave!

‘And now mistress, if the mistress will be so kind, this slave will make so bold as to touch the mistress’s divine socks with his dirty slave fingers for the purposes of removing the mistress’s yellow bootsocks from her feet, if it so pleases you mistress Alicia…’

And with that, trembling with excitement, trainee footslave no. 7865DF at last got the opportunity to touch mistress Alicia’s beautiful yellow bootsocks – or at least the elasticated tops of her beautiful yellow bootsocks, the tops he had admired from the moment he had first set eyes on them – as he carefully and respectfully peeled the socks down over his mistress’s shapely ankle bones and off her precious feet.

As he placed the discarded socks inside the discarded boots to one side he now admired the little tank tracks in the mistress’s bare flesh just above her ankles where the elasticated tops of the socks had left their marks. He said as much:

‘Oh mistress, this slave admires the tank tracks in the mistress’s lower calf muscles caused by the elasticated tops of the mistress’s bootsocks, but humbly begs permission from the mistress to lick and soothe away those tank tracks, if it would be pleasing for the mistress for her slave to do so.’

He was taking a bit of a gamble with his somewhat audacious request, but it seemed to pay off:

‘Very well, slave, you may lick the lower part of my calves in order to return the circulation to my calf-muscles – but make sure you are gentle with your slave tongue on my flesh, and keep your dirty tongue over the tank tracks. I don’t want your slave saliva spreading over the rest of my legs and ankles!’ declared mistress Alicia.

Master Paul appeared to lean forward at this point to make sure the slave obeyed his wife’s instructions to the letter!

‘Yes mistress Alicia. This slave obeys his mistress,’ responded trainee footslave no.7865DF almost robot-like. But then, wasn’t that precisely what mistress Alicia and master Paul wanted – a robot-like machine for a slave? An obedient ‘thing’?

Whatever, trainee footslave no.7865DF relished the opportunity to ‘lick away’ the tank tracks left by the mistress’s thick, yellow bootsocks on her shapely, soft, bare calf-muscles. The tiny flesh-ridges in mistress Alicia’s soft, feminine leg-skin felt superb under his male-slave tongue. What a privilege!

After some two minutes of the slave flesh-licking his wife’s calf muscles, master Paul appeared keen to see the slave proceed to the next part of the practical test. Perhaps he was a bit jealous of the slave?!

‘That’s enough licking, slave. Now put my wife’s sneakers and socks on her feet!’

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF immediately stopped licking:

‘Yes master. At once master.’

He picked up mistress Alicia’s right sneaker from the floor, pulled out the scrunched up, light grey (almost white) soft, cotton sneaker-sock, pulled it the right way out , scrunched it up again in his slave fingers, and then gently pulled it over mistress Alicia’s bare, unpainted toenails and up over the arch of her pretty, soft, bare foot – up to the top of her ankle bone.

His only regret was that he had not had longer to study and examine his mistress’s bare feet – thanks to the impatience of the master. However, he thought to himself, if I can only pass this audition I will doubtless have plenty of opportunity to admire mistress Alicia’s bare feet in the future – for I shall be her personal footslave; I shall be ‘Aliciasslave’!

That’s what he was thinking, but this is what he was saying:

‘Oh pray, mistress, this slave is truly honoured to touch the light grey sneaker-sock of his mistress, especially knowing that the sock is unwashed and contains the residues of the mistress’s precious footsweat. Please permit this dirty slave to kiss the mistress’s soft, grey sneaker-sock once again, this time whilst it adorns the mistress’s precious foot!’

Master Paul was angry. Yet another ‘request’, almost a ‘demand’, from the supposedly humble footslave:

‘I can’t believe this creature’s arrogance, darling! Don’t let him kiss your sock – not unless you want him to kiss it!’

Mistress Alicia fancied denying the slave his request. Her husband was quite right. It was important to show the slave who was boss:

‘Permission denied, slave! Just get on with putting on my socks and sneakers!’ she barked down at him, before turning her pretty face to smile lovingly at her husband seated beside her.

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. Please forgive this dirty slave for his presumptuousness, most merciful mistress Alicia!’

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF could have kicked himself again, or flagellated himself if he could have gotten his hands on the brown, leather, single-tailed whip currently being held by the master of the household – master Paul. How stupid could he be – and just when things had appeared to be going so well!

He quickly pulled the other, light grey sneaker sock onto mistress Alicia’s left foot, and then peeled back the Velcro fasteners on the tops of both her high-top, dirty white sneakers in order to place the said sneakers on his mistress’s feet. As he cradled each of her grey-socked feet in his hands prior to pulling the sneakers onto her divine feet, trainee footslave no. 7865DF wanted to make it clear to the mistress that he was taking great care over his humble, not to say humiliating, task – the task of putting a young woman’s sneakers and socks on her feet for her, even though she was perfectly capable of doing so herself:

‘Oh mistress Alicia, if it pleases you mistress Alicia, this slave is taking great care not to crease the mistress’s grey socks inside her sneakers as he places her beautiful sneakers on her feet, as nothing is more important to the slave than the comfort of his mistress’s sweet and delicate, feminine feet inside her precious footwear, if it so pleases you mistress.’

The tone of his voice conveyed his absolute sincerity, and mistress Alicia smiled smugly to herself.

Finally, with the sneakers safely on his mistress’s feet, and the elasticated tops of her thin, grey, ankle-length, sneaker socks just visible below the rim of her dirty, white, high-top sneakers, trainee footslave no. 7865DF respectfully kissed the flaky toe of each sneaker as an indication that his work, as far as he was concerned, was done. He had successfully changed mistress Alicia out of her black, zip-up, ankle boots and thick, latticed-stitching, yellow bootsocks into her dirty white, Velcro-fastened, high top sneakers and thin, light grey, cotton sneaker-socks.

But lest he start to feel too triumphalist, he now had to listen to the verdict of the master and the mistress on his performance:

‘Hmm…just one or two points, slave,’ began master Paul in a somewhat ominous tone. ‘Firstly, I noticed that you just discarded my wife’s ankle boots and yellow bootsocks on the floor, without thinking to respectfully kiss the boots and socks again after you had taken them off her feet. Do you think that is appropriate behaviour in a slave – to just dump your mistress’s boots and socks on the floor without paying your proper respects to them?’

Once again trainee footslave no. 7865DF was annoyed with himself. He was annoyed with himself because the master was quite right. Hadn’t he picked anything up at the Footslave Training Academy? A footslave must never discard his mistress’s boots or socks without respectfully kissing them – for they have just come off the mistress’s divine feet!

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF could only put his negligence down to nervousness. Once again he grovelled an apology:

‘Oh pray, master and mistress, if it pleases you master and mistress, this slave is truly sorry for his wanton neglect of the mistress’s discarded footwear, which is caused by the pathetic slave’s nervousness in front of such a superior and all- powerful mistress and master, and can only plead for the mistress’s forgiveness.’

Master Paul laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! It’s not my wife’s forgiveness you should be begging for – it’s her boots and socks whose forgiveness you should be craving, slave! Isn’t that right, darling?’ suggested master Paul.

‘It sure is, honey! Slave – kiss my discarded ankle boots and bootsocks and plead for their forgiveness!’ ordered mistress Alicia.

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF was glad for the opportunity to make amends. He crawled over to the black, ankle boots with the yellow bootsocks scrunched up inside them, showered all four items of recently discarded feminine footwear with humble kisses and begged their forgiveness:

‘Oh pray mistress Alicia’s boots; oh pray mistress Alicia’s bootsocks. Please forgive this insolent, disrespectful slave for neglecting to pay his humble respects to you after he had placed you on the floor. Please show sweet, feminine forgiveness and mercy towards this dirty, arrogant slave, if it so pleases you mistress Alicia’s boots and socks.’

Both master Paul and mistress Alicia laughed out loud at the pathetic slave – begging forgiveness from a pair of superior, feminine boots and socks:

‘Ha! Ha! Well, dear, do your boots and socks forgive him?’ enquired master Paul of his wife.

‘Erm… yes and no, honey. They forgive him, but they still want to see him punished. They want to see you whip him, if you would be so kind, honey!’ decreed mistress Alicia.

‘It will be my pleasure, sweetheart,’ smiled master Paul. ‘And there’s another failing he should be punished for, darling,’ he continued.

His wife looked quizzically into his handsome face as she couldn’t think of any other failings on her prospective new footslave’s part.

Master Paul elucidated:

‘I don’t recall him asking you whether or not you wished your grey sneaker socks to be turned over at the cuffs as he put them on your feet, darling? He just seems to have assumed that you didn’t want them turned over!’

Mistress Alicia now agreed with her husband:

‘Ah yes…you’re quite right, honey. As it so happens I didn’t want the cuffs turned over, but the slave wasn’t to know that and, you’re quite right, he didn’t think it worth enquiring of me – his mistress – what I wanted!’

‘Dirty, arrogant slave!’ barked the master. ‘Call yourself a fully-trained footslave! I can see that if we do take you on we will have a lot still to teach you!’

Master Paul then turned to his beloved wife:

‘What do you think, honey? Is he good enough to be your personal footslave. Is he pleasing to you – in spite of his failings? Do you want him?’

Mistress Alicia appeared to ruminate on the matter for a few moments. Trainee footslave no. 7865DF held his breath. His whole future was about to be decided!

‘Mmm…let’s see how he takes the whip first, honey. Why don’t you give him 30 lashes – ten for his self-centred arrogance; ten for disrespecting my discarded boots and bootsocks; and ten for failing to check whether or not I wanted my sneaker-socks turned down at the cuffs. If he can take the pain with humility and resignation like a slave – I’ll take him!’

Trainee footslave no. 7865DF duly took the pain ‘with humility and resignation like a slave’, and was informed by mistress Alicia and master Paul that he had passed his audition.

He was ordered to report back to their house in a week’s time when they would fit him with his slave collar containing his new name – ‘Aliciasslave’.

He was overjoyed!

Part 3 – Aliciasslave

Six months later and it’s sad to say that the former trainee footslave no. 7865DF, now known as ‘Aliciasslave’, was somewhat disillusioned with life as the personal footslave of mistress Alicia, or ‘mistress telephone-sales-assistant Alicia’ to give her her full title.

Yes, he wore his slave collar containing his new personal slave name with humility. Yes he felt honoured to be the personal footslave of such an attractive young woman as mistress Alicia. But a number of factors had lead to his disillusionment – had disabused him of the fantasy of what it meant to be someone’s personal footslave.

Firstly, he was still, even after six months of diligent foot-servitude, kept permanently blinkered. The leather blinkers on either side of his forehead were designed to help him concentrate on his mistress’s feet at all times – to help him avoid unnecessary distractions like, for example, the pretty feet and footwear of other mistresses. However, they were very much associated in this society with either probationary or disobedient footslaves. Society viewed the blinkers as something of a mark of a shame – a sign that the wearer was, at best, lacking in experience as a personal footslave or, at worst, was not yet fully committed to serving exclusively his mistress’s feet. They were associated, therefore, with both inexperience and incompetence, and Aliciasslave, perhaps somewhat arrogantly for a down-in-the-dirt, young woman’s personal footslave, liked to think he was neither of those!

His owners had marked him out as both inexperienced and incompetent in another way, however – which was the second reason for his disillusionment. Most slaves in the Gynarchy of Barbaria wore a plain, short, brown slave tunic – similar to that worn by slaves in Ancient Rome. Mistress Alicia and master Paul, however, preferred to keep Aliciasslave semi-naked. He was permitted to wear only his slave collar, his blinkers and his white slave shorts. Their reason for keeping him semi-naked was so that they would have permanent access to his bare back, for mistress Alicia and master Paul, it had transpired, were great believers in the power of the whip. They would regularly whip Aliciasslave on the flimsiest of pretexts – or even on no pretext at all.

To put it bluntly, they simply loved wielding the whip – and barely a day went by without mistress Alicia’s single-tailed, brown leather, cowhide whip making the acquaintance of her personal footslave’s bare ribs. Which was all very well but the whip marks on his bare back, combined with the leather blinkers, all gave the impression to the world outside that Aliciasslave was an inexperienced, incompetent, disobedient slave who required the constant stimulus of the whip to keep him in line.

In reality he was a devoted footslave to his mistress Alicia, but no amount of humble and attentive service to her feet and footwear could apparently obviate her desire (and that of her husband, master Paul) to apply the whip to his slave back. For this reason also Aliciasslave was feeling somewhat disillusioned and depressed. He could, it seemed, do no right and his best would never be good enough for his strict and merciless mistress and master.

Thirdly, and perhaps most significantly of all, he found life as a personal footslave both frustrating and boring! Frustrating because he, of course, had no say in choosing the footwear that his mistress Alicia wore every day, nor did he have any say in how exactly he was required to serve her feet and footwear each day.

Following his successful audition, for example, he had fully anticipated that he would be spending many hours washing, sucking, licking and massaging mistress Alicia’s beautiful, soft, feminine, bare, white feet. He had been very much looking forward to attending to his mistress’s bare feet, since it would be the only form of intimacy with a woman he would ever experience as a footslave.

But, disappointingly, mistress Alicia rarely bestowed such an honour upon him. Perhaps she was worried that her husband might get jealous at the sight of the humble slave fondling and caressing her pretty, bare feet. Sure, the footslave did have to wash her feet regularly, but only using a sponge and a bowl of water. She did not even like, it seemed, having his bare tongue cleaning out the sweaty balls of toe-jam from between her sticky, stinky toes. Indeed, Aliciasslave sometimes got the impression that his mistress couldn’t stand to have his ‘ticklish’ slave tongue anywhere near her bare feet.

And so, he found himself mainly attending to her socked and booted feet – attending to her outer footwear, rather like a public footslave on the streets would do! And yet he was supposed to be ‘better’ than a mere public footslave. He was supposed to be a highly-trained, young woman’s personal footslave - intimately familiar with every sweat-excreting pore of his mistress Alicia’s soft, bare, white feet ; with every line in her precious, feminine footskin; with every vein running along the pretty arch of her foot; not just with the stitching in her socks or the creases in her leather boots.

And precisely because mistress Alicia had a habit of wearing her favourite pair of black, leather, block-heeled, zip-up, ankle boots along with a pair of black slacks– the same pair of boots and slacks she had been wearing during his audition – to her place of work, where she sold insurance to customers over the telephone, all her personal footslave ever got to see was the back of her black ankle boots whilst he was kneeling under her desk at her feet. He would have preferred to have at least had a view of her socks – at least she wore different coloured socks every day! He knew that much because it was his job to dress her feet every morning. But, disappointingly for him, her constant seated position at her office desk meant that the hems of her smart, black slacks ordinarily covered the tops of her black, ankle boots – thereby hiding the tops of her socks from his view. It was so frustrating! A personal footslave should at least be able to stare at his mistress’s inner footwear – her socks - throughout the day as they absorbed her precious footsweat and foot odour! Se even liked to wear her ankle boots about the house!

Of course, life wasn’t all bad. Mistress Alicia was a keen badminton player in her spare time (no doubt that was where she got her strong right arm - the energy from which he only fully appreciated when she was using it to wield her brown, leather whip across his bare back) and so he got to stare at her crisp, white badminton socks inside her equally crisp, white, keds when she was on her way to and from the badminton club. During the badminton match itself he was required to kneel by the side of the court ready to take off his mistress’s white keds and massage her sweaty, socked feet in between games. Yes, he did enjoy mistress Alicia’s badminton evenings very much!

But just about the only other time he was fortunate enough to have an uninterrupted view of his mistress Alicia’s socks was when he accompanied her, and her husband master Paul, once a month to ‘The Games’ in the town’s main sports stadium – known affectionately by the residents of Barbaria as ‘The Colosseum’, after its Ancient Roman counterpart.

And, rather like the Ancient Roman public entertainment of ‘bread and circuses’, the Barbarian Games were a means of both entertaining the crowds and publicly punishing and humiliating recalcitrant slaves. Mistress Alicia and master Paul both loved going to the Games, for it invariably meant seeing slaves getting publicly flogged – and they both loved witnessing public floggings administered by professional whippers (invariably strong and muscular female police officers, dressed as female gladiators in line with the ‘Ancient Roman’ theme of the Games!)

For his part Aliciasslave also enjoyed their monthly trips to the Games because, aside from her badminton matches, it was one of the few times mistress Alicia tended not to wear her sock-hiding, black, leather ankle boots. For her excursions with her husband to the Games she normally wore her favourite pair of well-worn, grey-white, high-top sneakers – the very same sneakers Aliciasslave had been required to put on his mistress’s feet as part of his audition all those months ago.

And today was one such day – a trip to the Games! Mistress Alicia had, as expected, chosen to wear her dark blue, tracksuit bottoms and crisp, white, ankle length, sports socks along with her grey-white, high-top sneakers to the Games today. Although the sneakers were chunky high-tops, the tops of her socks were, thankfully, still visible to Aliciasslave above the tops of her sneakers whenever his mistress was in a seated position - as the elasticated hems of her navy blue tracksuit bottoms obligingly rode up to just above her ankles, exposing not just the tops of her socks but even a glimpse of her soft, smooth, bare, white calf-muscles.

Even more excitingly for the humble footslave, his mistress’s snowy-white, cotton sports socks had two thin, matching, navy blue hoops running along the elasticated tops giving him something genuinely interesting to look at through his blinkered eyes as he knelt at his mistress’s feet in the ‘Colosseum’. He would be able to observe how the navy blue hoops in the stitching of his mistress’s socks creased and folded as she flexed her feet in front of his face!

And, in the stadium, he would have nothing else to look at – for the seating had ben specifically designed with personal footslaves in mind. Even without the humiliating leather blinkers on either side of his forehead, Aliciasslave would have been quite unable to see anything other than his mistress’s feet as he knelt in a specially adapted hole beneath her seat – the back of her sneakered feet positioned directly in front of his face as they rested on the ground in front of him, so close that he could smell the very leather and rubber of her dirty, white, chunky, high-top, velcro-fastened sneakers.

Although he could only see and smell his mistress’s rubber and leather sneakers, he could, of course, nevertheless hear what was going on in the Stadium – not just the actual events but also the running commentary that echoed around the Stadium via the public address system. As mistress Alicia and master Paul settled into their seats above him, Aliciasslave dutifully focussed on the already creased navy blue and white tops of the backs of his mistress’s sports socks as he heard a pleasant, young, female voice opening the proceedings over the public tannoy:

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the 65^th session of the Barbarian Games!’

A cheer went up amongst the crowd. Mistress Alicia and master Paul cheered also. As mistress Alicia cheered her right, sneakered foot left the ground temporarily and she flexed her foot muscles causing the top of her blue and white sock to crease and fold directly in front of her footslave’s face. This was such a treat for Aliciasslave - to observe the movement in his mistress’s shoes and socks at such close, intimate quarters!

The public address announcement continued:

‘We have three main events for your entertainment this afternoon. Firstly, a disobedient personal footslave must hunt his mistress’s sweaty, pink sock! He shall, of course, be blindfolded, and if he fails to locate the sock by scent alone he shall be severely flogged!’

Another cheer rang out around the crowd, punctuated with cries of ‘Whip him!’; ‘Flog him!’ - mainly, it has to said, from female voices. Mistress Alicia’s voice was one of those excited female voices. Her personal footslave, kneeling in a hole under her seat directly behind her sneakered feet, concentrated hard on the tops of her socks as she shouted, whilst her husband, master Paul, put his arm lovingly around his excited wife’s shoulder and kissed her on the side of her cheek.

The female public announcer continued:

‘Our second event will involve a boot-licking competition by 5 disobedient and incompetent public footslaves. Each slave shall be required to tongue-shine the dirty, knee-length boots of the respective mistress who has accused him of incompetence, and only one of the bootblacks shall escape the punishment of flogging. The judge in our boot-shining competition this afternoon shall be superior mistress Farhida, esteemed minister for Education!’

Another cheer rang out, followed by polite applause for the female government minister who was going to decide the fate of the bootblack slaves.

‘And finally,’ continued the young woman over the public address system, ‘we, of course, have our slave-races!’

A massive cheer rang out around the entire stadium. The ‘slave-races’ were always considered the highlight of the afternoon’s entertainment – and not just because mistresses could place bets on the outcome of the race. It was also such enormous fun to see the poor, male slaves, struggling on their hands and knees around the deliberately pebble-dashed racetrack of the stadium with their ‘jockey’s – invariably heavily-built women – sitting on their backs, their dirty, feminine riding boots secured in metal stirrups dangling on either side of their pony-slaves’ heads, goading their rides on with repeated blows of their riding crops across the backs of their kneeling human-ponies’ bare, hind legs.

Almost inevitably one or two of the ‘ponyboys’ would collapse under the weight of their plump, female jockey – for which misdemeanour they would be flogged for the delectation of the baying crowd. Indeed, all the losing ‘ponies’ could expect to be flogged. Only the race winner would escape a flogging, although he would still have to publicly kiss his female jockey’s dusty, leather riding boots as she stood on the podium to receive her winner’s rosette at the award ceremony.

Mistress Alicia subconsciously crossed her ankles behind her as she snuggled happily into her master Paul’s arms as he sat beside her. The tops of her blue and white sports socks were now well-creased at the back inside her dirty, white, high-top sneakers – not that anyone in the Stadium knew or cared about that insignificant detail; no-one, that is, apart from her personal footslave, Aliciasslave, who was now so obsessed with the tiny creases in his mistress’s socks that he started to count them – a difficult process since mistress Alicia was subconsciously continuously moving her feet causing the creases in the tops of her socks to appear and disappear.

The free men and women in the Colosseum were, of course, free to concentrate their attention on something much more interesting than the creases and folds in a young woman’s socks – they were now mocking and jeering the hapless, blindfolded personal footslave who had in some way displeased his mistress and was now being publicly humiliated by having to locate, by scent alone, one of his mistress’s dirty, unwashed, sweaty pink socks. No doubt he must have displeased his mistress by failing to wash her socks properly – or some such similar crime!

Rather selfishly, Aliciasslave felt no sympathy for his unseen fellow-footslave who was now suffering so publicly in the arena of the ‘Colosseum’ in front of the baying crowd. Indeed, Aliciasslave’s only thoughts at that precise moment in time were that he wished he could take off his own mistress Alicia’s high-top sneakers and smell her sweaty, white sports socks.

Needless to say the blindfolded footslave down in the arena wasn’t having much luck locating his mistress’s dirty, pink sock in the vast stadium. Some of the crowd, including mistress Alicia and master Paul, were trying to ‘help’ the unfortunate slave by shouting out to him when he was getting ‘warmer’ or ‘colder’ as he searched, blindly, for the smelly pink sock, which was, in actual fact, lying forlornly to one side on the extreme right of the arena floor. However, the spectators weren’t really ‘helping’ the slave – they were merely mocking him since they were shouting ‘colder’ whenever he was actually getting nearer to the sock, and ‘warmer’ as he inadvertently crawled away from it.

And that was as it should be, for the whole purpose of the game ‘Hunt the mistress’s smelly sock’ was not for the insubordinate footslave to actually find it! In fact, the stadium employed female students - dressed as Roman maidens in togas and strappy, leather sandals - to ensure that if the slave looked to be in danger of actually finding the sock it could be surreptitiously moved away from him. He literally couldn’t win, and his flogging was just as guaranteed as if his mistress had arranged for him to be flogged on the spot without the foreplay of the ‘game’. That was what made the Games in general so enjoyable for the spectators – a guaranteed outcome of a slave-flogging every time!

After some 15 minutes of fruitless searching a loud siren indicated that the blindfolded footslave’s time was up. The young, female commentator’s voice gleefully announced his fate over the public address system:

‘Ha! Ha! Ladies and gentlemen as you can see the obdurate footslave has failed in his task of locating his mistress’s sweaty, pink sock by means of his sense of smell. As a consequence he shall now receive 15 lashes of the bull-whip whilst secured in a kneeling position in front of his mistress’s feet. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the incompetent footslave’s beautiful, young mistress - mistress nurse Tanya!’

A loud cheer and applause rang out as mistress nurse Tanya waved happily to the crowd and made her way to the raised seat on the ‘punishment podium’ in the very centre of the arena. From his sunken hole behind his mistress’s sneakered feet Aliciasslave couldn’t see any of this, of course, but the raised seat in the centre of the podium on which mistress nurse Tanya was now making herself comfortable meant that her no-longer-blindfolded and about-to-be-bullwhipped personal footslave could be secured on his knees at his mistress’s feet (as befits a footslave undergoing punishment). Meanwhile the public whipper - a young, muscular policewoman of Afro-Caribbean origins, dressed as a female gladiator complete with roman-style sandals that laced up to the top of her shapely, black calf-muscles, and who had been specially trained in the art of bull-whipping - skilfully wielded the fearsome long, black leather bullwhip through the air until it landed with a sickening crack across the recalcitrant slave’s bare back and shoulders.

It was quite a spectacle, and even just the noise of the heavy bullwhip swishing through the air was enough to cause Aliciasslave, kneeling at his mistress’s feet in the slave-hole under her seat, to involuntarily flinch – to say nothing of how he felt when he heard the crack of the bullwhip on bare, male slave-flesh, followed by the scream of pain from the unfortunate slave, followed by the roar of approval from the crowd.

Mistress Alicia was roaring her approval as well, and she uncrossed her sneakered ankles again as she appeared to lean forward in her seat in order to try to get a better view of the slave’s punishment. As the saying goes, ‘it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good’, because, somewhat guiltily, Aliciasslave felt glad that his mistress was now leaning forward to get a better view of his fellow-slave’s suffering, as the consequential new positioning of her feet afforded him a much clearer view of the backs of both her clean, crisp, blue and white, sports socks above her dirty, white sneaker tops.

Moreover, as mistress Alicia punched the air triumphantly with each and every crack of the bullwhip, her socks creased, and Aliciasslave, pathetically, enjoyed watching the backs of her socks crease and fold in sync with the blows of the whip. He even took advantage of his mistress’s concentration on the bull-whipping to surreptitiously nuzzle the folds in the tops of her soft, blue and white socks with his pathetic slave nose.

All too soon, for both the spectators and for Aliciasslave, the public chastisement of mistress nurse Tanya’s personal footslave was over.

‘Ladies and gentlemen please show your appreciation for our bullwhipper today, mistress police constable Danielle!’ announced the young, female commentator over the tannoy.

A round of applause echoed around the Stadium together with wolf-whistles from the free men in the crowd, and cheers of congratulations for a job well done from the ladies.

Mistress Alicia was now settled back in her seat again and, once again, she had crossed her legs behind her at the ankles, causing yet new creases and folds in the tops of her socks. However, Aliciasslave had now spotted a dirty, black mark on the back of his mistress’s left sneaker, and decided to focus his attention on that for the time being. After all, staring at a mark on your mistress’s sneaker is every bit as interesting for a pathetic footslave as staring at the tops of your mistress’s socks, for such a mark raises all kinds of questions in your footslave-mind. How long has the mark been there? How did it get there? Will I be required to lick it off later? If so, what will it taste like?

It would be easy for a personal footslave to become completely obsessed by such a mark on the back of his mistress’s sneaker – and Aliciasslave found himself becoming so obsessed. Then again, he had little else to obsess about in his miserable life, other than the folds in his young mistress’s socks and the black stains on the backs of her sneakers - being nothing more than a down-in-the-dirt personal footslave to an attractive, besneakered and besocked young woman.

Meanwhile, above and beyond him, in the real world of the arena, the next event – the ‘Boot-licking Competition’ - was well under way. As Aliciasslave now focussed his humble gaze on the dirty mark on the heel of his mistress Alicia’s left sneaker, he heard the mocking voice of the female commentator, laughing and jeering at the five public footslaves who - in an effort to avoid the pain of a public bullwhipping at the fair hands of the muscular, mistress-police-constable-cum-gladiatrix Danielle - were desperately trying to lick clean the deliberately mud-smeared, knee-length, leather boots of their five, respective, dissatisfied, female customers who had earlier each reported them to the authorities for perceived failings in their performance as public foot-lickers in the town square.

The five accusing mistresses were each seated comfortably in a row on the main punishment podium, whilst the 5 accused public footslaves were each kneeling in front of their respective female accusers’ knee-length booted feet. It goes without saying that all of the accused were presumed guilty. The purpose of the boot-licking competition wasn’t to establish innocence – it was, rather, to punish the 4 worst. Only the winning slave would escape a public flogging.

Needless to say also, none of the 5 public footslaves was in the least bit concerned that his success in the boot-licking competition would mean the punishment of his 4 unsuccessful colleagues. It really was a case of every footslave for himself in such circumstances – and avoidance of the pain of the bullwhip was a mighty incentive to self-preservation!

After some 20 minutes of ferocious boot-licking and tongue-shining the siren indicated the end of the competition and superior mistress Farhida, the government minister for Education, smilingly stepped forward in her own shiny, brown, patent-leather, knee-length, zip-up, boots in order to inspect the freshly-licked boots of the five women seated in a row on the podium.

She chose the winner (the winning mistress got a rosette and the winning footslave got to sob with relief) and the female voice over the tannoy duly announced the flogging of the 4 losing slaves. Again – 15 lashes of the bullwhip each; again whilst they were kneeling at their respective female accusers’ feet!

This time mistress Alicia, to her own footslave’s consternation, stood up to witness the floggings, thereby causing the elasticated hems of her navy blue tracksuit bottoms to fall down onto the tops of her high-top sneakers - all but obliterating the frustrated footslave’s view of his mistress’s beautiful, feminine, white sports socks inside her sneakers. Only a small slither of white, cotton sock remained visible on the outer side of her right foot – so Aliciasslave continued to concentrate his attention on the dirty, black mark on the back of his mistress Alicia’s left sneaker.

‘Ha! Ha! Yes! Oh Yes! Flog Him! Whip him!’ his mistress Alicia was shouting excitedly as she stood up – her voice just one of many in the baying crowd of onlookers – all just as anxious as she was to see justice being done on each of the 4 shoeshine failures.

Finally, it was time for the highlight of the afternoon – the slave-races – and mistress Alicia settled down again into her seat. The blue and white tops of her socks were, consequently, once again exposed to her footslave’s eager view as his mistress purchased two ice-creams from a young, female, student ice-cream vendor (clad like most of the other stadium staff as a Roman maiden) – one for herself and one for her husband. For his part Aliciasslave found himself wishing he could lick the backs of his mistress’s ice-creamy-white sports socks. They were the only refreshments he desired!

Which was just as well because mistress Alicia certainly wasn’t about to buy her personal footslave a real ice-cream!

The main slave-race soon got under away and there was much merriment and laughter throughout the crowd as one unfortunate ponyboy-slave collapsed almost immediately under the weight of his particularly heavy female jockey. It seemed that no amount of kicking him in the ribs with the reinforced, mud-splattered toecap of her fat, black, leather riding boot could induce that particular pony-slave back onto his knees in order to rejoin the race.

A proper flogging, therefore, awaited him!

As the race neared its climax mistress Alicia was once again up out of her seat, this time accompanied by her husband, master Paul – and she was actually jumping up and down with excitement. Aliciasslave presumed this was because the pony-slave his mistress and master had placed a bet on was winning!

As his mistress Alicia jumped up and down he caught only furtive glimpses of her snowy-white socks inside her sneakers, and it was quite impossible for him to concentrate on that dirty, black mark on the heel of his mistress’s left sneaker. Aliciasslave wished his mistress would keep still! But, of course, it’s not up to a dirty, downtrodden footslave whether or not his mistress stands still. He is in no position to wish for anything, but must simply concentrate on his mistress’s feet and footwear as best he can.

Judging by mistress Alicia’s final leap into the air at the conclusion of the race, and the warm and loving embrace she then gave her husband Paul, their ‘horse’ had indeed won them both some money! For his part, Aliciasslave concentrated on the ingrained dirt in the thick treads of mistress Alicia’s right sneaker-sole as she coquettishly raised her right foot up behind her into the air whilst ‘snogging’ her beloved husband. Aliciasslave, unfortunately, didn’t have time to lick the dirty sole of his mistress’s right sneaker, but he did, just, have time to run his nose slavishly and adoringly along several of the dirty, dusty treads.

The sneaker sole smelt strongly of rubber, and he was annoyed and disappointed that his mistress didn’t keep her foot up in the air long enough for him to lick the sole clean. ‘Why won’t she do that for me?’ he sulked rather foolishly to himself. ‘What’s more important to my mistress – snogging her husband on the lips or having the dirty sole of her sneaker licked clean by me -her personal footslave?!’

The answer, of course, he realised in his heart of hearts, was that ‘snogging her husband’ was more important to mistress Alicia. Indeed, if Aliciasslave had learnt anything during the first six months of his personal foot-servitude to mistress Alicia (and he clearly still had a lot to learn!) it was that he was a singularly unimportant element of her life – disposable; forgettable; a mere appendage to her feet and footwear. He was not the centre of her universe - even if her shoes, boots and socks were the centre of his! If anything, master Paul was the centre of her universe, and Aliciasslave, pathetically, was jealous of the master.

Yes, being a personal footslave to an attractive young woman in the Gynarchy of Barbaria really wasn’t the ‘prestigious’ position he had been lead to believe by his female coaches in the Central Footslave Training Academy! The best one could hope for, it seemed, was a furtive nuzzling of the tops of one’s mistress’s socks.

There surely had to be more to foot-slavery than this!

Such rebellious thoughts festered and grew in Aliciasslave’s still not entirely subdued and submissive mind over the coming weeks and months until, one night, something extraordinary happened – he decided to run away! Not the wisest decision he had ever made – for the penalties for a runaway slave in Barbaria if caught (and they always were caught – sooner or later) were severe.

But Aliciasslave just wasn’t thinking straight. All he knew was that there must be more to life for a footslave of his abilities – some other mistress, perhaps, who would appreciate his bare foot-massaging skills; who would positively encourage him to suck the sweaty toe-jam off her bare feet and toes; who wouldn’t wear sock-concealing ankle boots nearly all the time, but who would wear shoes and sneakers that allowed him to study her socks throughout the day; that was if she even wore socks, of course! She might, during the summer months at least, wear pretty, feminine sandals on bare feet – something his mistress Alicia never seemed to do! Yes, there must surely be some mistress out there who wouldn’t just whip him for the sake of whipping him, but who would only whip him when he needed to be corrected! He even, in his more extreme moments, fantasised about being a public footslave. Perhaps that would bring even more variety into his dull and monotonous life?

Foolish, impudent, self-centred slave!

Whatever, he suddenly felt compelled to runaway – and so, one Saturday morning, in the small hours whilst his mistress and master were still sound asleep, he arrogantly extracted his slave nose from its usual night-time position inside the tops of his mistress’s still warm, sweaty-smelling, black, leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up, ankle boots and crawled quietly out of mistress Alicia’s and master Paul’s bedroom into the unknown.

May the goddess be with him, for he was now a male footslave on the run in the Gynarchy of Barbaria!

Part 4 – The Runaway Footslave (i)

Because it was the dead of night, Aliciasslave managed to stay in the shadows of the almost deserted city streets. His main problem was, of course, that he was clearly identifiable as a slave – blinkered; collared; and naked apart from his slave shorts. Nevertheless, because he was now outwith the Law, he decided he may as well get up off his knees and walk or run on his own two feet - a novel experience for a footslave who had lived life on his hands and knees since the very first day of his training course at the Central Footslave Training Academy.

Part of him felt guilty – guilty that he was letting down his trainers who had put so much time and effort into training him up as a good and obedient footslave at the Academy. He even felt guilty at letting down his mistress Alicia. He began to get cold feet – both figuratively and literally. But he had already gone too far to go back now. He had made his decision and sealed his fate!

Somehow, in his heart of hearts, he knew that he had made the wrong decision. But his priority now must be to escape from the city before daylight broke. And so he headed for the hills surrounding the capital city of Barbaria.

He eventually happened upon what looked like a deserted barn in the countryside. It would provide him with a hiding place and shelter – if not food – whilst the slave-hunters were out looking for him. For they were bound to be doing so. It was now 07:30 am. He knew his mistress’s routine. Even though it was a Saturday morning she would be awake by now – would have noticed that her footslave wasn’t where he should be – lying on the floor by the side of her bed ready for her to step on with her bare feet as she got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. She must have reported him missing by now.

Oh what had he done!

He curled up into a frightened and vulnerable ball in a dark corner of the deserted barn and, in a desperate attempt to forget his predicament, drifted off to sleep.

It was, however, as befits a footslave with a guilty conscience, only a fitful sleep. Several hours later he was wakened by the sound of female giggling and laughter outside the barn. Then the barn door slowly creaked open.

One of the girls – and there appeared to be two of them – screamed as soon as she saw him:

‘Oh my God! There’s someone in here, Jenny!’

The girl who had screamed looked to be in her early twenties – blonde, with long, straight hair tied back in a ponytail, and wearing a black bomber-style jacket, with a white shirt and black denim jeans, tucked into a pair of knee-length, extremely muddy, plain black, rubber Wellington boots. Her blonde ponytail reminded the forlorn Aliciasslave of his own mistress.

The other girl, evidently called ‘Jenny’ – a brunette, who looked a few years older than her Wellington-booted companion - was much more skimpily dressed in a red, sleeveless top, navy blue leggings that came down to the tops of her shapely calve muscles, and shiny, bright red stiletto shoes (also displaying signs of some mud-staining) on her bare, white feet. The first thought that entered Aliciasslave’s head was that that mistress ‘Jenny’, unlike her younger compatriot, was hardly dressed appropriately for walking around in a muddy old barn!

His second thought was to immediately lower his eyes to the two mistresses’ feet – as befits a slave. Even a rebellious runaway slave – indeed, especially a rebellious runaway slave who has just been discovered – needed to show respect for his female betters; for he was now trapped and in a truly vulnerable position.

Mistress Jenny, it seemed, had clocked what he was immediately. Her voice was much calmer:

‘Well, what have we here, Becky? I do believe we’ve got us an itsy-bitsy little runaway slave-boy!’

The now 20 year old Aliciasslave couldn’t really object to being described as a ‘boy’ – he was, after all, not a real ‘man’ – and never would be thanks to his decision at the age of 18 to become a male slave!

‘A runaway slave?’ exclaimed the younger booted woman, incredulously – whom Aliciasslave now knew to be mistress ‘Becky’.

Her slightly older, and evidently more worldly-wise companion, laughed at her friend’s naivety:

‘Ha! Ha! Well think about it, Becky! If it’s cowering like a slave; looking us in the foot like a slave; blinkered like a slave; collared like a slave; and has got whip-marks all over it’s bare back like a slave – it is a slave!’

Mistress Becky now appeared to be more at ease:

‘Oh yeah. Suppose so,’ she concurred. She really had no choice other than to concur with her friend Jenny’s unassailable logic.

For his part, Aliciasslave had already decided that any negotiations he conducted would have to be with the astute young, brunette mistress Jenny rather than the pretty, blonde, ponytailed, but evidently quite slow-on-the-uptake, mistress Becky. (Equally he had to acknowledge to himself that however ‘thick’ mistress Becky appeared to be – she wasn’t as stupid as him. For she wasn’t the one cowering in the corner and at the complete mercy of others!)

‘Ha! Ha! Go and read the name on his collar, Becky’ suggested mistress Jenny.

Mistress Becky, even if she had gotten over the initial shock of seeing a semi-naked man in her barn, was evidently still somewhat cautious about the whole situation:

‘You go!’ she retorted.

Mistress Jenny just laughed at her friend’s diffidence, and the shiny, red, spike-heeled shoes now approached the kneeling and cowering runaway footslave through the muddy and straw-covered floor of the dirty barn. Aliciasslave submissively concentrated his gaze, through his leather blinkers, on the young woman’s shoes – although he prepared himself mentally for a possible slap across the face. After all, he was a disobedient, runaway slave who had deserted his mistress Alicia. A slap across the face from another representative of the female race was the least he deserved.

But, with typical, sweet, feminine mercy, mistress Jenny didn’t slap him. She raised her hand to him, but only to get a grip on the leather slave collar around his throat. She read the inscription on the collar out loud:

‘Aliciasslave – personal footslave of mistress telephone sales assistant Alicia. If found please contact mistress Alicia or master Paul on Barbaria 65489, or contact your local Female Police Station,’ she read out loud.

‘Ha! Ha! You’re right, Jenny – he is a runaway!’ exclaimed mistress Becky on hearing her friend read out the inscription – now, suddenly, feeling confident enough to approach the slave herself.

The shiny, red stilettos were therefore soon joined by the mud-encrusted, black rubber Wellingtons in front of the kneeling footslave’s face.

‘Ha! Ha! Make him kiss our feet, Jenny! After all, his collar says he’s a footslave!’ squealed mistress Becky excitedly.

Aliciasslave was forming the impression that mistress Becky, at any rate, was not used to having a slave.

‘Ha! Ha! Why don’t you order him to kiss your boots yourself, Becksy!’ replied the evidently much more experienced mistress Jenny.

Aliciasslave felt a slight twinge of disappointment as he would have much rather paid his respects first to the red stilettos of mistress Jenny – not because they were prettier and more feminine that mistress Becky’s clodhopping, great, muddy Wellingtons - but because it was clearly going to be mistress Jenny who would be the one to decide his fate.

Nevertheless, a slave – especially a runaway slave – is no position to dictate events.

Now clearly much more relaxed and emboldened, the, black, right Wellington boot of mistress Becky was suddenly stretched forward on the straw-covered floor of the draughty, old barn - so that the mud-splattered toe of the young woman’s rubber boot was directly beneath Aliciasslave’s face. He was now the one who was, justifiably, terrified.

‘You, the footslave…kiss my boot!’ ordered the now authoritative voice of the blonde, ponytailed, twenty-something mistress Becky.

‘Y…Yes, m…mistress Becky. At once…m…mistress Becky,’ stuttered the slave.

His stuttering earned him the slap across the right cheek of his face, which he had earlier been expecting, from mistress Jenny who was still standing next to him:

‘That’s “miss stable-girl Rebecca” to you, dirty footslave!’ screamed mistress Jenny. ‘And you will address me as “mistress media-studies student Jennifer” – is that clear, slave?’

She gave him another slap, this time with the back of her hand across his left cheek – just to reinforce the message that he was required to address his two female superiors by their full ‘Barbarian’ titles. His head was now ringing with pain.

So, ‘miss’ stable-girl Rebecca must be between the ages of 18 and 25, as she did not yet require to be addressed with the title of ‘mistress’. Similarly, ‘mistress’ media-studies student Jennifer must be a mature student aged 25 or over. He hadn’t noticed any rings on her finger whilst she was slapping him to indicate that she was married.

Whatever, Aliciasslave immediately proffered his abject and slavish apologies to both the all-powerful young women. He may have been a rebellious runaway but, ultimately, you can’t take the slave out of the submissive male:

‘Y...yes, mistress media-studies student Jennifer. This slave apologises, miss stable-girl Rebecca’, and with that he lowered his slave lips to kiss the muddy toe of the stable-girl’s black, rubber Wellington boot.

How that rubber boot seemed to tower above him, even though it was only knee-length! But then, he was, literally, a down-in-the-dirt runaway slave – fit only to lick the rubber boot-dirt off a ponytailed stable-girl’s muddy, plain black Wellington boot.

He felt the rubber toe of the boot crease and fold under his lips as miss stable-girl Rebecca wiggled her toes inside it in delighted reaction to the slave’s humble act of obeisance. This man was truly in her power! She liked that!

Her friend, mistress media-studies student Jennifer, was, however, apparently less impressed by the footslave’s performance:

‘Cup your dirty, slave hands around my best friend’s boot while you’re kissing it, slave! Make out that you’re worshipping it – like it’s the most precious thing your slave lips have ever been allowed to touch: the muddy toe of a stable-girl’s dirty, black Wellington boot! Ha! Ha! Worship it, slave-boy!’

Aliciasslave did exactly as mistress Jennifer ordered him, to the evident pleasure of her best friend, miss Rebecca, who now clapped her pretty, feminine hands with delight as the humble, down-in-the-dirt footslave reverentially cupped his hands and literally ‘worshipped’ the rubbery toe of her boot as he kissed it.

She then switched feet under his nose:

‘And the other one, slave!’ she barked.

Mistress media-studies student Jennifer, laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, Becksy, make the fool taste the dirt of your muddy wellies! Make him shine them up with his tongue – after all, he’s supposed to be a footslave. He must have been trained properly in the art of boot-licking!’

Becky smiled at her best friend Jenny, as a way of thanking her for her encouragement:

‘You heard my friend - dirty, disgusting piece of runaway filth. Cup your hands around the toe of my left boot and lick all the mud off it. I want to be able to see my face in it!’ demanded the pretty, blonde, stable-girl mistress.

‘Yes, miss stable-girl Rebecca. At once, miss stable-girl Rebecca,’ fawned the pathetic runaway footslave.

He spoke as though miss stable-girl Rebecca was asking for the possible – but in his mind he was thinking that no amount of mud-licking could ever leave her Wellington boot so shiny that she would actually be able to see her reflection in the plain, black rubber! He hoped that wouldn’t mean further punishment-slaps across his face. He determined that he would do his best.

He therefore obediently cupped his hands around, and put his tongue to work on, the outstretched rubber-toe of miss stable-girl Rebecca’s left, Wellington boot.

‘Ha! Ha! That tickles!’ exclaimed the inexperienced foot-mistress Rebecca. ‘Jen, I can feel his tongue through the toe of my boot!’

Aliciasslave wondered, not that it was any of his damned business, whether or not miss Rebecca was wearing any socks inside her boots. Was he actually tickling her toes through her socks as well as her boots?

‘Oh Jen, make him lick the mud off your shoes as well. I want to know if he tickles your feet too!’ proposed miss stable-girl Rebecca to her friend.

‘Ha! Ha! He definitely will tickle my tootsies,’ replied mistress media-studies student Jennifer, ‘because I’m going to make him take off my shoes and suck on my sweaty, bare toes!’

‘Ha! Ha! That’s gross, Jen!’ exclaimed miss stable-girl Rebecca.

‘Ha! Ha! That’s brilliant, mistress!’ thought Aliciasslave to himself. ‘Why couldn’t you have been my mistress? You are just the sort of mistress I’ve always wanted - kind; considerate; dominant. And, what’s more, you don’t wear socks and you like having your bare feet licked! Oh how I wish I could become Jennifersslave!’

Mistress media-studies student Jennifer could, of course, have merely kicked off her red stiletto shoes, but, quite rightly, she made the footslave physically remove them from her pretty, bare feet before bestowing upon him the inestimable honour of sucking the sweat from between her bare toes.

Aliciasslave didn’t need to be told to cup his hands around mistress Jennifer’s pretty, bare, right foot. He even went so far as to gently cradle it in his slave hands as she raised it off the ground slightly for him to kiss and suck – so much did he genuinely worship her pretty, white foot!

He adored the feeling of ‘mistress media-studies student Jennifer’s’ toes wriggling inside his slave mouth. Oh if only his ‘mistress telephone sales assistant Alicia’ had let him do this more often he would never have run away! This was what being a personal footslave was all about – shrimping ones’ mistress’s toes; licking away all the sticky sweat and little pieces of superior, feminine toe jam with your inferior, male slave mouth and tongue.

Mistress Jennifer’s toenails were, perhaps predictably, painted bright red to match her bright red, stiletto-heeled shoes – and Aliciasslave could feel little flakes of toenail paint coming off in his mouth also. He hoped she wouldn’t punish him for this – but he would have been more than happy to revarnish her toenails for her if she required it.

‘Eww…how can you stand his tongue on your bare toes, Jen? That must really tickle like hell!’ declared the ticklish miss stable-girl Rebecca.

Yes, miss Rebecca positively did remind Aliciasslave of his own mistress Alicia – definitely a socks and boots girl!

‘Ha! Ha! Yeah, it does a bit! But at least my toes now feel nice and fresh. They had been getting a bit sweaty inside my heels!’ responded her friend.

Glad to be of service, goddess-mistress media-studies student Jennifer, thought Aliciasslave to himself.

His humble joy, however, was short-lived.

‘I suppose we ought to dob you in to the Police now, runaway slave. Ha! Ha! You’re going to be so whipped!’ exclaimed mistress Jennifer suddenly, the glee in her voice palpable as she dried her slave-saliva-washed feet on the kneeling footslave’s hair and then placed them back into her spike-heeled, bright red, shiny leather stilettos.

‘Ha! Ha! Too right, Jen!’ confirmed her compatriot, miss Rebecca. ‘I wonder if they’ll give us a reward? Perhaps they’ll also let us watch him being whipped!’

Aliciasslave’s heart sank. ‘No! No! Please don’t hand me in, mistress Jennifer. Please let me stay here as your personal footslave! I don’t care about miss Rebecca – but you were made to be my mistress!’

That was what he was thinking – but he verbalised his thoughts much more respectfully as follows:

‘Oh pray, mistress media-studies student Jennifer; oh pray, miss stable-girl Rebecca; this dirty, no-good, runaway footslave pleads with the two beautiful young mistresses for sweet, feminine mercy, and to be allowed to remain here as their personal footslave. Oh pray, mistress media-studies student Jennifer, oh pray, miss stable-girl Rebecca, please don’t hand this piece of filth over to the Police. Use me and abuse me for your own pleasure, please young mistresses, I beg of you!’

So heartfelt and genuine was his plea, Aliciasslave, you will have noticed, even deviated from the conventions of slave-speak, by referring to himself in the first person again.

Or perhaps he was just being his usual selfish self!

‘Ha! Ha! No chance – slave! You’re a runaway, and we’re going to collect our reward and see you whipped!’ decreed miss Rebecca, now quite breathless with excitement at the thought of the good fortune that had so unexpectedly befallen her and her best friend Jenny.

‘Erm…Becksy…can I have a word?’ interjected mistress Jennifer, pulling her Wellington-booted friend gently by the arm over to the other side of the barn.

Aliciasslave could no longer hear what the girls were saying as they were whispering to one another. But he couldn’t help feeling this could only be good news.

The whispered conversation between the two female friends was actually going as follows:

Jennifer: Why don’t we hang onto him – just for a while?

Rebecca: What? How do you mean hang onto him? He’s a runaway slave! We

have to report him or we’ll get into trouble ourselves! I could lose my

job!

Jennifer: No you won’t. Listen…nobody else knows he’s here, right?

Rebecca: Yes…but….

Jennifer: And nobody else up at the house ever comes here – right?

Rebecca: Yes…but…

Jennifer: So, where’s the harm in keeping him here for a couple of days and

having some girly fun with him? Think of it, Becksy, he’ll be

completely at our mercy. It is the weekend, after all, and we both have

plenty of free time. We can do whatever we like with him…make him

tongue- polish all our shoes and boots; make him mouth-wash our

dirty socks and tights; make him clip our toenails with his slave teeth

and then swallow all the clippings! Tee-hee! There’s absolutely

nothing we can’t make the fool do – he’s completely in our power.

Don’t you see?

Rebecca: Yes, but what if he runs away again? I mean he might mention us to

the authorities and tell them that we failed to hand him in?

Jennifer: Honestly, Becky, don’t be such a wimp! You heard his pathetic

whining just now – he wants to be our slave. And besides, who would

believe the word of a raggedy-assed, runaway slave over two

beautiful, free young women such as us? Even if somebody did

stumble across him here in the barn we could deny all knowledge!

Come on, Becksy, what do you say? You must have lots of dirty boots

and socks that need a good tongue-cleaning?

Rebecca: Just for a couple of days, you say?

Jennifer: Just for the weekend – then we’ll hand him in. I promise you!

Rebecca: Okay then! Let’s do it!

And with that the two girls embraced each other and giggled before making their way back over to where the cringing runaway footslave was awaiting his fate.

It was, not surprisingly, mistress Jennifer who informed the footslave of his fate:

‘Ahem…we’ve decided, in view of your pathetic whining, not to hand you over to the Female Police, dirty slave. Instead we will keep you as our own slave - but only for a probationary period. You will be our personal footslave and will have to take care of our feet and footwear, and if you fail to please us we will hand you straight over to the authorities. Do you understand, slave?’

Aliciasslave understood perfectly. He was confident that he would please the two young mistresses – just as he had been confident of passing his audition to become Aliciasslave some six months earlier. He now cupped his hands and showered both the girls’ feet with grateful kisses – cupped and kissed the shiny red stilettos; cupped and kissed the black, rubber Wellington boots:

‘May the Goddess bless you mistress media-studies student Jennifer; May the Goddess bless you miss stable-girl Rebecca! This slave will be a good foot-servant to you both! Oh pray, mistress Jennifer; oh pray miss Rebecca; may the Goddess bless you both!’

Tears of genuine relief streamed down his humble face and onto mistress Jennifer’s shoes and miss Rebecca’s boots, cutting little tear-tracks through the shoe and boot mud like tiny streams running through a series of muddy embankments.

Mistress Jennifer, however, didn’t seem all that impressed with his humility and gratitude. She kicked the slave’s face away with the harsh, pointy toe of her designer stiletto:

‘Mmm… I don’t like that collar around your neck with the name ‘Aliciasslave’ on it. You’re no longer the ‘personal footslave of mistress telephone sales assistant Alicia’ – you’re my slave now; sorry – our slave…’

Jennifer smiled apologetically at her younger friend Rebecca for her momentary slip of the tongue…

‘…and we don’t want you marked as some other woman’s slave, do we miss Becky?’

‘Definitely not, mistress Jenny,’ responded her best friend.

For his part, Aliciasslave didn’t want it either. He no longer regarded himself as the personal footslave of mistress Alicia.

He was such a fickle slave! He deserves to get caught – and whipped!

‘Becky, would you like to go and get some strong scissors, or a knife or something, from your room? We need to cut off his leather slave-collar! Also try and find one of those mangy old mutt’s dog collars and we’ll put that around our new slaves neck instead! Oh, and while you’re in the house, you might want to bring some of your dirty socks and tights, or else bring some of your dirty riding boots for him to clean. We ought to be putting our new footslave to work straight away!’

Miss Rebecca laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! No problem, Jen. I’ve got all that. Back in a few minutes!’

‘Oh, and Becksy…I nearly forgot. You also need to fetch one of the riding crops from the stables. Judging by the marks on this slave’s back he needs to be constantly whipped!’

‘Ha! Ha! Cool – I’ll bring my own riding crop. It’s got a specially reinforced leather tip which gives it extra bite!’ replied a now happy, blonde-ponytailed miss Rebecca as she turned in her black Wellington boots to head out of the barn, leaving Aliciasslave temporarily alone with his new mistress in her shiny, red stilettos.

Was he indeed about to become ‘Jennifersslave’ and ‘Rebeccasslave’? Would his new makeshift slave-collar have both their names written on it?

He could hardly wait to find out!

Part 5 – The Runaway Footslave (ii)

Whilst she was waiting for her friend Becky to return with the riding crop; the sharp scissors or knife to cut off his existing, leather slave-collar; the new makeshift dog-cum-slave-collar; and some of Becky’s own dirty socks, tights and riding boots for their newly acquired footslave to clean, mistress Jennifer circled her kneeling prey like a lioness stalking a wounded wildebeest:

‘Keep your eyes on my shoes and feet, foot-flunkey,’ she roared, keen to ensure that the erstwhile runaway footslave was in no doubt that he was now completely in her power – even if that power and authority weren’t exactly ‘legitimate’!

‘Tell me, slave, when you upped sticks from your mistress’s home did you literally run away, or did you crawl away – did you crawl on your hands and knees through the dirty streets as befits a down-in-the-dirt footslave? Ha! Ha! Are you a “crawlaway” rather than a “runaway”? Ha! Ha! ’

Mistress Jennifer was laughing profusely at her own joke, and the slave formerly known as Aliciasslave thought it only polite to laugh at her funny joke along with her. His politeness, however, only served to earn him a searing kick with the pointy, red-leather toe of her right stiletto in his still-tender-from-previous-whippings ribs:

‘How dare you, slave! How dare you laugh in my presence or display any signs of happiness or contentment! Don’t you realise what it means to be my slave? My God, I’ll soon wipe that silly smile off your ugly slave-face! I’ll make damn sure that you experience nothing but misery and humiliation from now on!’

The slave formerly known as Aliciasslave wished he could kick himself. He had broken one of the fundamental rules of enslavement - drummed, and on occasions beaten, in to him so many times by his female trainers at the Central Footslave Training Academy – that a humble footslave must always maintain an air of being downtrodden, miserable and afraid. Not surly, as such – surliness is equally unattractive in a slave. But masters and mistresses expect a slave to be continuously miserable, contrite, and fearful of them - otherwise they will only feel they aren’t managing their slave properly. A footslave is a piece of property; not a friend to laugh and joke about with.

He apologised at once to mistress Jennifer for his inappropriate behaviour:

‘Oh pray, mistress media-studies student Jennifer, if it pleases you mistress media-studies student Jennifer, this slave abjectly apologises for his momentary lapse of humility and contrition, and begs the mistress to punish him as she sees fit.’

Hah! I’ll tell you what I think would be a fitting punishment for a lowlife, runaway footslave like you – we should break your legs! That way you wouldn’t be able to run or crawl away!’

The slave formerly known as Aliciasslave hoped mistress Jennifer was still in joking mood.

But she wasn’t laughing any more.

Fortunately, the mood was lightened by the arrival back of miss Rebecca, still wearing her black denim jeans tucked into a pair of muddy, plain black Wellington boots, and now laden with all the paraphernalia of slavery that her friend Jenny had sent her to find:

‘I’ve managed to get just about everything you suggested, Jen!’ exclaimed miss Rebecca proudly.

‘Cool!’ responded her friend. ‘Let’s have a look!’

The two twenty-something girls, naturally, tested out the whippy, brown, leather riding crop first. Rebecca proudly showed Jennifer the reinforced leather tip she had mentioned to her earlier. For her part, mistress Jennifer them kindly ensured that the humble, kneeling footslave had a good smell of the entire length of the brown, leather riding crop as she drew it slowly along his upper lip directly under his nose. She explained to her friend Rebecca that it was always important for a slave to get the scent of the whip that would be gracing his bare back.

It was also mistress Jennifer, the ringleader (or should that be ‘ring-mistress’, for the slave formerly known as Aliciasslave was increasingly feeling like some sort of performing circus animal for the two girls) who used the sharp knife (Rebecca couldn’t find any suitable scissors) to cut off his existing leather, slave collar with the name of his former mistress Alicia engraved on it.

Rebecca had thoughtfully brought a felt-tip pen in order to write their slave’s new name on the brown, leather dog-collar that they had decided would replace his slave collar around his throat, but the girls had yet to decide what to call their new slave:

‘I don’t like the conventional “Jennifersslave” or “Rebeccasslave”. He needs some sort of humiliating name that reflects what he actually is – a dirty, disobedient, downtrodden foot-dork,’ opined mistress Jennifer.

Miss Rebecca seemed to ponder her friend’s words for a moment or two:

‘How about calling him just that – “Footdork”?’ she suggested somewhat tentatively.

Her friend Jenny burst out laughing:

‘Ha! Ha! Footdork! I Like it! Come here, Footdork! Kiss my feet, Footdork! Eat my toe-jam, Footdork! ….Yes, Becksy, I like it! Well done!’

Becky beamed with pride, and promptly wrote their footslave’s new name on his ‘new’ (or, more accurately, ‘second-hand’ slave-collar, for it was a hand-me-down collar from Rover the pet Alsatian!) before crouching down in front of him – the muddy, black rubber in her Wellington boots creasing and folding in front of his face as she did so – in order to fasten the replacement collar around the kneeling slave’s neck:

‘I brought Rover’s old leash as well, so that we can lead him around the barn like a dog!’ she explained to Jenny.

‘Cool!’ responded her older friend. ‘I suppose he will need to get some exercise! Go on, Becksy – attach it to his collar and try it out!’

The blonde, ponytailed miss Rebecca promptly attached the leather dog-leash to a metal loop on ‘Footdork’s’ new collar and stood up straight. She then gave a tug on the lead:

‘Come on, Footdork! Walkies! Heel!’ and she pulled him along the dirty, straw covered floor of the barn as he crawled behind his mistress’s rubber-booted heels like an obedient puppy dog.

Not wanting to be left out of the dog-walking scene, mistress Jennifer, who was still holding the brown, leather riding crop, walked behind the duo, and periodically brought the whip down on the kneeling slave’s bare back and shoulders as an encouragement to him to ‘keep his nose close to miss Rebecca’s heels’.

Footdork’s nose was indeed up close and personal to miss Rebecca’s Wellington-booted heels. In fact, thanks to his leather blinkers, which his new owners had decided to leave on, the black-rubbery backs of mistress Rebecca’s dirty, mud-stained, Wellington-booted heels were just about all he could see – and his nose was so close to them as she walked along that they were equally just about all he could smell – the rubbery smell of black, female Wellington boots.

As he crawled after her heels, observing the creases and folds in the black rubber coming and going in front of his blinkered eyes as she led him along on the leash, he found himself wondering whether miss Rebecca’s socks (for she must, surely, be wearing thick bootsocks) were also creasing and folding inside her boots. And did they smell of the rubbery insides of her boots? Oh how he longed for miss Rebecca to order him to take off her black Wellington boots and attend to her socks. Yes, he preferred the very feminine, red, stiletto-heeled shoes on the shapely, bare feet of mistress Jennifer. But a footslave also needs to know exactly what sort of inner footwear his booted mistress is wearing!

He needs to know!

But he equally needs to realise that a slave has no say in what his mistress does or does not choose to reveal to him. And miss Rebecca, it seemed, wasn’t interested in disclosing her inner footwear to him that afternoon.

At least – not the inner footwear she had on at that precise moment in time, for, after he had endured some 10 minutes of being whipped around the barn at her rubber-booted heels, miss Rebecca decided it was time for Footdork to get a whiff of her dirty, white gym socks that she had retrieved from her laundry basket back in the big house.

She first thought it only right to warn her friend Jenny of the impending smell:

‘Ha! Ha! You might want to take cover, Jen! These bitches are really minging! I’ve even brought some surgical gloves as I don’t want to touch them with my bare hands! I’m afraid I was wearing them virtually all day yesterday and the day before!’

‘Ha! Ha! But didn’t you go on that five mile run yesterday?’ enquired mistress Jennifer.

‘Yip, sure did! And the day before I spent three hours in the Gym – and all in these same, white, gym socks. Would you like to see them?’ she asked her friend, pulling on her white, surgical gloves as she readied herself to extract the sweaty, white socks from a plastic, carrier bag!

‘Eww …no thanks, Becksy! I think I’ll pass on that one, if you don’t mind! Just get them over Footdork’s nose quickly so that he can sniff away all the stink up his ugly, slave nose!’

Miss Rebecca laughed as Footdork braced himself in readiness for the stinking, feminine, white gym socks to be placed by the surgically-gloved miss Rebecca over his prone and vulnerable nose.

Of course, the girls had been exaggerating somewhat. Becky’s unwashed gym socks were not some sort of industrial-strength, irradiated, nuclear waste that required careful handling. It was just their wicked sense of humour.

Nevertheless, Footdork did detect the delicate aroma of vinegary, feminine footsweat as the first, yellow-sweat-stained, white gym sock was placed over his nose (miss Rebecca kindly made sure the biggest yellow stain, on the sole of the sock under the toe area, was directly over Footdork’s nostrils).

‘Ha! Ha! Breathe in deeply through your nose, Footdork! We want you to clear the air and vacuum up all of miss Rebecca’s foot-stink!’ barked mistress Jennifer, giving Footdork yet another inspirational cut of the reinforced leather riding crop across his left shoulder as she did so. ‘Come on – audibly sniff!’

How the girls laughed at him as he complied with mistress Jennifer’s humiliating order – the order to smell out loud her girlfriend’s sweaty, white and yellow, two day old gym sock!

But it was a smell fit for a footdork.

Of course, it was inevitable that having sniffed both the dirty, white socks he would then have to mouth-wash them. He was, in point of fact, grateful for the taste of miss Rebecca’s salty sock-sweat in his mouth as his mouth had become rather dry since he had run away. Miss Rebecca’s sweaty gym socks were the first nourishment he had had since his ‘escape’, if you discount her precious Wellington boot-mud and mistress Jennifer’s equally precious stinky toe-jam!

He spent the rest of the afternoon sniffing and mouth-washing the sweaty toe- ends of a pair of mistress Rebecca’s thick, woolly, plain grey tights and then tongue-shining a pair of her brown, leather, mud-and-grass covered riding boots followed by a pair of her pink and white sneakers – apparently the self same sneakers in which she had been wearing her sweaty, white gym socks for the previous two days.

After some 3 hours of socks, tights, riding-boots and sneakers worship, however, the girls appeared to tire of tormenting their new plaything and, from their conversation, Footdork gathered that they had to go and get changed in order to meet up in the town with their boyfriends for a fun night out clubbing.

He was somewhat disappointed (though, as a mere slave, he had no right to be) that virtually the whole afternoon had been taken up with sniffing and licking miss Rebecca’s dirty socks, tights, boots and sneakers for, nice though her footwear was, it was really mistress Jennifer’s bare feet in her bright red, shiny leather stiletto heels that he had wanted to worship and pay homage to.

On her departure, however, the kind-hearted and empathetic mistress Jennifer seemed to sense his distress, as she crouched down beside him in the corner of the barn and whispered teasingly in his ear:

‘Don’t worry, Footdork. I’ll be back to tomorrow, and I promise to bring you some proper food, for you must be really hungry, you poor thing! And, if you’re really lucky I might even let you pedicure my feet – my toenails do need trimming. Bye bye, slave! See you tomorrow!’

‘Bye bye, Footdork!’ added miss Rebecca

Footdork wasn’t sure whether to wish his two mistresses a goodbye in return. It might be a trap – after all, a humble slave isn’t really in a position to wish his mistresses and betters anything at all. He can’t decide their fate. On the contrary, they are the ones to decide his fate, for they, quite rightly, have all the power.

But he decided that not to say anything, after they had been so kind to him in taking him in and not dobbing him in to the Female Police, would just be plain churlish:

‘Oh pray, mistress media-studies student Jennifer, oh pray miss stable-girl Rebecca, this slave humbly and eagerly awaits your return, if it so pleases you most sweet and kind, feminine young mistresses.’

The girls just laughed at him – so he had been right to wish them goodbye. If he had been wrong, they would most assuredly have whipped him!

By the following morning, the Sunday morning, Footdork was truly ravenous. The two young women’s boot dirt, sock sweat, and toe jam just hadn’t been enough to sate his hunger, and it was therefore (appropriately enough for a slave wearing a leather slave-collar around his neck that once belonged to a pet dog) with a Pavlovian sense of anticipation that he greeted the arrival of his two, young mistresses as they opened the door to the barn again. If he had a tail, he would happily have wagged it!

The first thing he noticed this morning was that both girls were wearing sneakers. Miss Rebecca was wearing her pink and white sneakers with what appeared to be short, white sneaker socks with a matching pink trim under her black, denim jeans – the same jeans that she had been wearing the day before. Likewise, mistress Jennifer was still in her ankle-length, tight-fitting, navy blue leggings, but this time she was wearing plain, white, lace-up, canvas sneakers on her pretty feet. Unlike miss Rebecca, mistress Jennifer did not appear to be wearing any socks inside her ‘keds’:

‘Hi, Footdork! Have you missed us?’ chirped mistress Jennifer. She sounded like she was in a really happy mood.

She had asked her slave a question and he had to answer – be it a trap or not:

‘Oh pray, mistress media-studies student Jennifer, oh pray miss stable-girl Rebecca, this slave is truly honoured by the presence of his most beautiful, sweet feminine mistresses, if it so pleases you most kind and merciful mistresses.’

‘Pass me the sick bucket, would you Becksy!’ exclaimed mistress Jennifer, and the two young ladies laughed.

‘Well, are you ready to pedicure my pretty feet today, Footdork?’ enquired mistress Jennifer, rhetorically.

Rhetorical question or not, Footdork was again required to answer his more senior mistress:

‘Oh pray, mistress media-studies student Jennifer, if it pleases you most sweet and kind mistress media-studies student Jennifer, this slave is truly honoured that you would think of this dirty, no-good slave as being in any way fit to provide a pedicure for your soft, feminine, divine feet, if it so pleases you most gracious and benevolent mistress media-studies student Jennifer.’

‘Ha! Ha! I do so love listening to your humble slave-speak, Footdork, even if it does have a tendency to make me want to throw up!’ quipped his witty mistress, mistress Jennifer.

‘Now, are you ready for your breakfast? I’ve brought you some toast and marmalade!’

Food! Proper food! At last. Footdork was more than ready!

Miss Rebecca was giggling.

‘Of course,’ continued mistress Jennifer, ‘it has to be toast and marmalade that is fit for a footslave – so I’ve been “toasting” your bread in my sneakers, and I’m afraid the “marmalade” consists of my toe jam! But then, you’ve already acquired a taste for my toe jam from yesterday, haven’t you Footdork?’

Miss Rebecca was by now in hysterics!

For Footdork, however, it genuinely didn’t matter if his bread was ‘toasted’ inside mistress Jennifer’s sneakers and if the marmalade consisted of her sweaty toe jam. Like she said, he had acquired a taste for her toe jam, and so long as the bread was real it would still provide him with at least some proper nourishment.

He therefore answered his mistress Jennifer truthfully, remembering not to display any unslavelike pleasure at her joke:

‘Oh pray, mistress media-studies student Jennifer, if it pleases you mistress media-studies student Jennifer, this slave will indeed be honoured to taste bread that has been toasted inside his divine mistress’s precious sneakers and has been flavoured by her sweaty toe jam, if it so pleases you most generous and kind mistress media-studies student Jennifer.’

‘Ha! Ha! Do you thing he’s taking the piss, Jen?’ enquired miss Rebecca, presumably somewhat concerned that Footdork wasn’t as repelled and disgusted as she was by the idea of eating bread that had been warmed inside her friend Jenny’s keds and flavoured with young-woman toe jam!

The more experienced mistress Jennifer, however, knew that Footdork was most definitely not ‘taking the piss’:

‘No, Becksy, I think he’s just genuinely acquired a taste for such humble fare. I’ll bet his former mistress used to feed him her toe jam all the time!’

No she didn’t – that’s partly why I left her, thought Footdork to himself!

Mistress Jennifer pulled over an old, wooden box and sat down on it whilst miss Rebecca remained standing. Footdork was next ordered to ‘remove his toast from the toaster’ by untying mistress Jennifer’s dirty, white sneaker laces and removing her white, canvas sneakers. Sure enough she had lovingly prepared two slices of sweaty, warm bread for him inside her warm sneakers – plain, white bread of course to match her plain, white sneakers.

The bread was also covered in little lumps of yellowy-orange toe jam, sprinkled with little black bits of dead, feminine toenail.

As he tucked in to his hearty breakfast, mistress Jennifer assured him there was plenty more marmalade if he wanted it:

‘Just scrape it out from underneath my toenails if you need it, Footdork!’

Miss Rebecca really did think at one point that she may need the sick bucket, but her enjoyment of the footslave’s humiliation overrode her feelings of nausea, and she was alright.

After his main course was finished mistress Jennifer explained to Footdork that, as a special, one-off treat, he could file her toenails with his slave teeth and then swallow her toenail clippings, as part of the pedicure she had preordered. She explained to him in some detail exactly how he was to go about delivering the ‘pedicure a-la-footslave’:

‘Firstly, you need to soften the cuticles of my toenails and remove the remaining, old, red toenail paint by sucking vigorously on each of my toes individually. Make sure you generate plenty of slave-saliva as you are, effectively, having to wash my sweaty, bare toes in your mouth.

You then have to blow dry them with your slave-breath, prior to clipping the tops of my toenails with your slave teeth.

This is the tricky part, slave, for you must be ultra careful not to damage my toenails, or to hurt me in any way. Miss Rebecca will be watching over you with the riding crop, and will not hesitate to use it on you if you pinch or hurt my toes in any way…’

Miss Rebecca swished the whippy, brown, leather riding crop through the air behind Footdork’s prone and vulnerable back as he knelt in front of the barefooted mistress Jennifer - purely as a means of reinforcing the message that he would be performing the pedicure under pain of the whip!

‘…Then you must swallow all my toenail clippings before, finally, repainting my toenails with this red varnish,’ and with that mistress Jennifer produced from a small, leather handbag a tiny bottle of bright red toenail paint containing an equally tiny brush.

Footdork listened to all mistress Jennifer’s instructions with some impatience. ‘Do you really think I don’t know how to mouth-pedicure a young woman’s feet, mistress Jennifer?’ he thought to himself. ‘I am a graduate of the Central Footslave Training Academy, you know!’

Of course, he didn’t say that. He merely said ‘Yes, mistress media-studies student Jennifer, as it pleases you mistress media-studies student Jennifer.’

And then he got on with it, with the very chore he would have happily performed for his former mistress Alicia if she had ever requested it! He pedicured mistress Jennifer’s feet. He sucked her toes, he trimmed her toenails with his fully-trained slave teeth, he swallowed her toenail clippings, and then repainted her toenails with the tiny brush held in his slave mouth.

To her palpable disappointment miss Rebecca had absolutely no pretext for using the whip on him. Even mistress Jennifer was, secretly, impressed.

Miss Rebecca whipped him anyway.

Nor did Footdork’s excellent performance as a pedicurist do him any good in the long term, or even in the medium term.

For the very next morning, the Monday morning, he was awakened not by the feet and footwear of his beloved mistress Jennifer and miss Rebecca, but by the dirty, muddy sole of a uniformed, female police officer’s heavy, black, leather ankle boot on the side of his face – a boot pressed down on the side of his right cheek so hard that it left an imprint of the WPC’s boot treads on his skin.

All he could see through his leather slave-blinkers – directly in front of him, was the uniformed, navy blue trouser hem of the woman police constable’s left leg and the side of her left, zip-up ankle boot.

All he could hear, at first, as the WPC attached heavy and painful iron shackles to his helpless arms and legs, were the giggles and laughter of his two new mistresses, mistress Jennifer and miss Rebecca, somewhere outside the barn.

He then overheard mistress Jennifer talking to another WPC:

‘Yeah, officer, we just found him sleeping in here this morning and called you guys straight away. Isn’t that right, Becky?’

‘Sure is,’ replied a not-too-convincing sounding miss Rebecca.

‘Erm… will there be a financial reward for handing him in, do you think?’ mistress Jennifer was asking the young, female Police officer outside.

‘Oh, I should definitely think so, Jenny,’ responded the WPC. ‘You might also, if you’re lucky, get to participate in his punishment. It really all depends on what his mistress wants to do with him!’

‘Cool!’ exclaimed mistress Jennifer and miss Rebecca in unison.

Of course, as ‘Footdork’ was carted off to prison to await his fate, nobody in the Female Police Service was fooled for a moment by the girls’ statements to the effect that they had only just come across the runaway slave that Monday morning. After all, he had fresh whip marks all over his back and was wearing a tatty, old, brown leather dog-collar with the name ‘Footdork’ handwritten on it in decidedly girlish handwriting!

Nevertheless, the two public-spirited young women were given a cash reward of $2000 each, and were kindly invited, by the runaway slave’s former owner, mistress Alicia, to participate in his public punishment and humiliation at the forthcoming games in the so-called ‘Colosseum’ in the town centre.

Jenny and Becky could hardly wait!

Part 6 – A Participant in the Games

And so the personal footslave formerly known as ‘Aliciasslave’, more recently nicknamed as ‘Footdork’ by the lovely mistress Jennifer and miss Rebecca, now found himself in a bit of a pickle.

Or, more accurately, in Police cells – awaiting, he had been warned, the attendance of his mistress Alicia, the woman from whom he had deigned to runaway, who had apparently expressed the desire to visit him in his cell in order to gloat over him following his recapture and downfall.

The uniformed, female guards to the cells saw to it that he was treated in a manner befitting a recaptured, runaway footslave. How they loved having a dirty ‘runaway’ to play with in the cells! There really was nothing they couldn’t do to him – for he was an outlaw; outside the protection of the law; completely at their mercy!

And the female guards had little mercy.

One uniformed guard in particular, the tall, blonde, ‘mistress guard Irina’, seemed to take especial pleasure in humiliating and tormenting the outlaw. She had truly relished ripping off Footdork’s leather blinkers and replacing them with a black, leather slave-hood – a hood which all male slaves dreaded having to wear as it dehumanised and anonymised them. A hooded slave was considered fair game for any cruel mistress – for example, a mistress like mistress guard Irina - to punish and hurt, for the hood was seen as a symbol of attempted male rebellion against female authority, and consequent perpetual punishment.

Moreover, once a hood went on - it never came off again.

Mistress guard Irina had chosen Footdork’s black, leather slave-hood with care – she chose one that was piglike in appearance and had ensured that it was embellished in large, white letters across the forehead with the words ‘Would-be runaway footpig’ for all to see.

And lest the ‘would-be runaway footpig’ should miss his old blinkers, the kindly mistress guard Irina also ensured that the pig-shaped hood contained blinkers that could even be closed over his eyes in order to ensure that he was confined in total darkness. Not only that, his pig-shaped mouth could be sealed up as well by means of a zip if the mistress so desired it - with one of her sweaty, used socks inside it thereby giving her footpig a goodly taste of her stale, feminine footsweat. Furthermore the hood’s large, flat, pig-shaped snout had holes in it which enabled the mistress’s other sweaty sock to be attached to it on the outside – thereby ensuring that the would-be runaway footpig could be forced, again if the mistress so desired it, to literally taste and breathe in nothing but his mistress’s stale sock-sweat as the dirty, used sock dangled humiliating from his pig-shaped snout.

It was, in short, an ingenious, custom-made hood and the would-be runaway footpig should have been very grateful to mistress guard Irina for commissioning it for him, and for testing out the mouth and snout mechanisms with a pair of her very own, sweaty, black, police uniform bootsocks, one of which was currently filling up the slave’s sealed mouth, and the other of which was dangling from the footpig’s leathery snout as we speak.

Yes, the would be runaway footpig looked and felt truly ridiculous as he knelt in the corner of his dimly lit, dank and windowless cell, his female guard’s sweaty, black bootsock dangling from his leather pig-shaped snout, and with only the mocking laughter of his female guards for company as they periodically opened the viewing-hatch to his cell door to have a good look at him in all his shame and misery.

Mistress guard Irina had kindly left the eye slits in his hood open so that he could see the black bootsock dangling from his nose. She thought he would appreciate the sight of the numerous tiny, white pieces of sock-lint attached to the black sock as it would add to his humiliation and degradation to know that her black, police-uniform sock was, in effect, contaminated with sock lint from a pair of her white, sports socks. It was humiliating for him because it indicated that she often continued to wear her black work-socks after her shift had finished inside her ‘free-time’ footwear, thereby leading to a cross-contamination of sock lint from her non-work socks! Yet he could only dream about what mistress guard Irina’s white, sports socks must look like – for he was a prisoner in the Police cells, and was not a party to mistress guard Irina’s social life outside the Police station. He could only taste and smell where she had been in her free time – through her dirty, black, white-sock-lint-contaminated bootsocks.

As he knelt, head suitably bowed, in the corner of his cell facing the cell door, shackled to the back wall of the cell by means of a thick, heavy chain attached to the back of his leather slave hood, the would be runaway footpig (for that was now his new name) braced himself for some more mocking, female laughter as he heard the hatch in his cell door yet again being opened.

There appeared to be two female guards this time as they were laughing and giggling to one another outside the cell door. However, this time, after just a few seconds, the keys jangled in the heavy lock and the cell door creaked open to allow the two young women to walk inside.

From his kneeling position, head bowed and staring at the floor past the black bootsock that was dangling from his leathery pig-snout, the would be runaway footpig could see instantly that they were the unmistakable, rather large, black ankle-booted feet of his tall female guard, mistress guard Irina – the owner of the pair of dirty, black bootsocks which currently adorned his nose and mouth. He knew it was her not just because of the size of the boots, but by a caked-on mud stain running along the lower, outer side of her left boot – the same mud-stain that had been on her left boot for several days now.

How he ached to lick away that muddy boot-stain for his guard mistress Irina! But she wouldn’t let him. She said she didn’t want his socksweat-stained tongue spreading her stale footsweat over her nice, leather police-uniform boot!

As he had already gathered, however, mistress guard Irina was not alone, for standing beside the black leather ankle boots and black police-uniform trousers were a pair of shapely, bare, feminine ankles in high-heeled, bright yellow, strappy sandals beneath calf-length, bright yellow leggings with elasticated hems. The shapely, feminine ankles seemed to wobble slightly in their high-heeled sandals as the female owner tried to get a firm grip on the uneven, cobble-stoned floor of the dreary holding cell.

It was only when the owner of the ankles, clearly a civilian, spoke that the would be runaway footpig realised who it was:

‘Ha! Ha! Look at him! What a fool! Dressed like a pig with a lady’s sock hanging from his snout! Ha! Ha! Oink! Oink! What a cretin! What a schmuck!’

It was mistress telephone-sales-assistant Alicia – the mistress from whom he had run away! Just as he had been promised by the guards for several days now!

His heart raced! Bizarrely, he actually thought for a brief moment that his mistress may have come to take him back – rather than just to gloat over him!

And, if truth be told, he longed to be back at her feet! He missed her feet! Yes, he had been disappointed somewhat at her taste in footwear – the ubiquitous boots and socks; never the chance to serve or admire her bare feet. That was partly why he had runaway in the first place – that, and the constant beatings. But just look at her now – strappy, bright yellow sandals on bare feet! He could happily stare at those sandalled feet all day! He knew that she had always liked yellow, but perhaps she had turned over a new leaf – perhaps she now preferred to wear open-toed sandals as opposed to closed-in boots with thick bootsocks. Look – her toes were even lacquered; bright red!

The would be runaway footpig wanted to bless his mistress Alicia; to beg her forgiveness; to plead with her to severely punish him, and then to take him back.

He wanted to say all that, but mistress guard Irina’s sweaty, black bootsock inside his sealed mouth meant that he could only grunt like a pig, appropriately enough.

Mistress Alicia appeared bemused by her runaway footslave’s grunting noises:

‘Ha! Ha! I do believe he’s trying to oink something, officer?’

‘Yes, madam, but I’m afraid he’s having difficulty making himself understood because my other dirty bootsock is currently clogging up his mouth! Would you like me to remove it so that you can hear what he’s trying to grunt?’ offered the kindly mistress guard Irina.

‘Ha! Ha! Might as well, I suppose, if only to enable him to kiss my feet. To be honest I couldn’t really care less what the dolt has to say, but I will have him pay his respects to my feet!’ responded mistress Alicia, somewhat ominously.

Mistress guard Irina left her other sock attached to the holes in the would be runaway footpig’s black, leather snout as she unzipped the aperture covering his mouth and pulled out the now saliva-sodden black, feminine bootsock.

‘Ha! Ha! My dirty sock appears to have had a good overnight soaking!’ declared mistress guard Irina, examining the wet sock in her pretty hands.

‘Ha! Ha! He always was a good sock-sucker, officer. I never had any cause for complaint on that score!’ replied mistress Alicia.

No cause for complaint! Maybe my mistress Alicia will indeed have me back, thought the slave formerly known as Aliciasslave to himself, rather optimistically it has to be said.

He knew that he had to apologise at once to his mistress Alicia for his inexcusable behaviour, and throw himself on her mercy.

Although his mouth still tasted of sweaty, feminine bootsock, he wasted no time in humbly pleading his case:

[Warning: the following paragraph is full of the most sycophantic slave-pleading you are ever likely to encounter. If you are offended by verbal diarrhoea, please proceed directly to the subsequent paragraph]

‘Oh pray, mistress telephone-sales assistant Alicia, if it pleases you most beautiful, merciful and magnanimous goddess-mistress Alicia, this dirty, no-good footpig truly throws himself on your mercy, and pleads with his all-powerful young mistress for her most blessed feminine mercy! Oh pray, most glorious mistress Alicia, this weak and feeble slave craves the severest punishment for his unforgivable insolence and disobedience in attempting to runaway from the power and authority of his most benign and generous mistress, and begs for the sting of the whip on his mutinous back. Oh pray, goddess-mistress Alicia, this about-to-be-whipped-and-punished footslave pleads only for the inestimable honour of serving his most blessed mistress’s feet and footwear once again, following his just and well-deserved punishment, if it so pleases you most kind and gracious goddess-mistress Alicia. Oh pray, mistress Alicia! Oh pray, mistress Alicia!’

Believe it or not, mistress Alicia seemed to hold out some hope for the slave, as, charitably, she didn’t dismiss his pleadings straight away. Instead, she extended her right, strappy-sandalled foot until it was resting on the dirty, cobbled floor directly under her runaway footslave’s nose:

‘Kiss my foot, slave!’ was all she said.

The slave formerly known as Aliciasslave was only too happy to oblige.

He puckered his lips and rained several respectful, devoted kisses down onto his mistress Alicia’s red-painted toenails (with mistress Irina’s black bootsock still dangling humiliatingly under his snout in front of him and somewhat getting in the way!) until his one-time mistress suddenly withdrew her yellow-sandalled foot from under his face:

‘Now go to hell, footpig!’ she snapped.

Mistress guard Irina laughed with glee. Truly, hell hath no fury like a mistress scorned. And hell, for the would be runaway footslave, could only mean one thing - public humiliation and punishment at ‘The Games’ in the town’s ‘Colosseum’!

Mistress Alicia then addressed officer Irina directly:

‘Officer, would you please make it known to the authorities that I wish the runaway footpig to be kept permanently hooded. I don’t want him back – I want him to serve as a public footslave in the dirtiest corner of the dirtiest part of town you can find. Let’s see how he likes spending the rest of his miserable existence as an anonymous, ladies’ footlick, licking the filth of female strangers’ dirty, streetwear boots and shoes, and sniffing their sweaty socks and tights through his footpig-snout!’

Irina was overjoyed. It was moments like this that gave her real ‘job-satisfaction’:

‘Yes, certainly Madam. And do you wish to participate in his forthcoming public punishment at the Games?’

‘Too right I do! Just try and stop me!’ exclaimed mistress Alicia.

The would be runaway footpig would have liked to try to stop mistress Alicia from turning sharply on her high heels and exiting his cell - to plead his hopeless case with her once again - but mistress guard Irina was busily swapping over her dirty, black bootsocks so that the saliva-sodden sock that had been soaking inside his mouth all night was now dangling from his nose, and the still sweaty sock that had formerly been over his nose was now deep inside his slave mouth, which she once again zipped shut.

All the would be runaway footpig could do therefore, was sob like a pig into his female guard’s socks as the two superior women slammed his cell door shut behind them.

He wasn’t confined for long in the Police cell – only about a week in total, for, luckily for him, the next ‘Games’ in the ‘Colosseum’ were scheduled for that Saturday afternoon.

The would be runaway footpig was the fifth ‘event’ on the bill, so he had some time to wait in the cells of the Colosseum before he was led out on a leash - still, of course, hooded, but mercifully without mistress guard Irina’s black bootsocks adorning his face - on his hands and knees into the bright sunshine of the arena behind the brown, strappy, laced-up-to-the-calf-muscles, Ancient-Roman-style sandals of one of the many ‘Roman-maiden’ dressed students who was employed as a slave-minder at The Games. It was good part-time work for a female student if you could get it!

All that the would be runaway footpig could hear as he emerged from the darkness of the cells into the brightness of the massive arena was a roar of feminine disgust mixed with mocking laughter. In amongst the general cacophony he could hear individual female voices, although he didn’t recognise any of them:

‘Ha! Ha! Look at the piggy-wiggy! Ha! Ha! Oink! Oink!’

‘Ha! Ha! Piggy-wiggy is about to get bullwhipped! Ha! Ha! Squeal, piggy-wiggy! Squeal!’

‘Ha! Ha! Where are you going to run to now, footpig? Are you being lead to the slaughter? Ha! Ha!’

Footpig sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to be slaughtered! But he knew anyway that the Gynarchy of Barbaria never imposed the death penalty – not even on runaway footpigs – as the female authorities preferred to make recalcitrant male slaves live a lifetime of suffering rather than experience the very ‘masculine’ concept of a merciful death.

The young, female-student, roman-sandalled feet in front of him led him up some wooden steps and onto a wooden platform in the centre of the female dominated arena. There appeared to be five women sat on a row of chairs on the wooden platform, and as the terrified footpig gradually got his bearings he realised that he recognised at least some of the feet!

He recognised the black, zip-up, block-heeled, round-toed ankle boots and thick, yellow bootsocks of his erstwhile mistress Alicia; the pink and white sneakers and short, white sneaker socks with a matching pink trim of miss Rebecca; and the navy blue leggings and plain, white, lace-up, canvas sneakers of mistress Jennifer – only this time she was waring them with a pair of navy blue ankle socks. So his ‘captors’, as well as his former mistress, were clearly going to take part in his public humiliation – whatever that was going to be! (he knew that nearly all public punishments at the Games involved some sort of ritual humiliation prior to corporal punishment with the mighty bullwhip!)

He didn’t recognise the two other women’s feet, but he just had time to admire a pair of shiny, black, patent leather, ankle length, Chelsea boots with elasticated sides and plain white, feminine ankle socks peeping over the top of them, and a pair of flat, brown loafers with short, black, below-the-ankle sneaker-socks, before the roman-sandalled student rather unceremoniously kicked him into a kneeling position in front of mistress Alicia’s crossed-over, black-ankle-booted and yellow-bootsocked feet.

No sooner was he ‘in position’ than a female voice made an announcement over the tannoy:

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we now come to item 5 on your programme for today – the public shaming and whipping of a would be runaway footslave!...’

A cheer, mainly a female cheer, rang out around the stadium.

The female announcer continued:

‘As you can see, ladies, this disobedient slave has now been permanently hooded as a footpig, and, on the directions of his mistress – mistress telephone-sales-assistant Alicia – is to spend the rest of his life as a public footslave…’

Another feminine cheer rang out around the female arena, punctuated by the cheers of some free males.

‘…But first, ladies and gentlemen, the footpig is to suffer the humiliation of having to identify his mistress’s feet and footwear by scent alone! In a moment, our beautiful Roman assistant, miss Hayley, will seal the leather slits over his eyes and mouth, leaving him with just his sense of smell through his pig-shaped leather snout to identify the smell of his mistress Alicia’s feet. He will first of all be required to identify the smell of her boots; then the smell of her socked feet; then the smell of her bare feet. If he guesses correctly in all three rounds he will be spared 3 lashes of the bullwhip - meaning that he shall receive just 12 strokes of the lash…’

Feminine boos now echoed around the arena, indicating that the audience did not want the slave to succeed and escape the extra lashes.

‘…Ha! Ha! , but rest assured, ladies, if he fails to identify the smell of his mistress Alicia’s feet in any of the three rounds he will receive the full punishment of 15 hard lashes with the feminine bullwhip!’

‘Hooray! Hooray!’ the crowd shouted in unison, clearly thirsty to witness a full 15 lashes.

‘…On the podium this afternoon we have the following ladies, who have all kindly agreed to take part in the footpig’s humiliation..’ continued the female announcer.

‘Firstly we have his two brave, captors - Miss stable-girl Rebecca!...’

A cheer went up.

‘and Mistress media-studies student Jennifer!...’

Another loud cheer.

‘Then we have our two volunteers from the audience - Miss librarian Fiona!...’

Another cheer.

‘and Mistress accountant Philippa!...’

Another cheer.

‘And last, but not least, the would be runaway footpig’s former mistress herself, mistress telephone-sales-assistant Alicia!...’

The loudest cheer of all went up, followed by sustained applause. Footpig saw how mistress Alicia’s black ankle boots and the tops of her yellow bootsocks creased and folded in front of his kneeling, hooded face as she acknowledged the applause.

It was the last thing he saw before the roman-sandalled female student assistant, miss Hayley, duly sealed shut the leather slits over the eyes in his slave hood, and then zipped up the leather opening over his mouth – without so much as giving him the opportunity to kiss the rounded toes of his mistress Alicia’s black ankle boots and to beg her again for sweet, feminine mercy!

‘…Ladies, would you kindly change seats so that the slave can begin by smelling your outer footwear. Remember, ladies and gentlemen of the audience, the footpig must identify his former mistress Alicia’s booted feet by smell alone. He cannot see his mistress’s boots; nor can he taste them; nor is he allowed to touch them with his face. He must rely on his footslave sense of smell!...Ladies, are you ready?’

The 5 ladies sitting triumphantly on the podium must have indicated physically that they were ready, for none of them was stupid enough to give away their position to the kneeling, hooded footslave by speaking.

Then again, that is only to be expected of the intellectually superior sex.

‘…Very good,’ continued the announcer over the public address system. ‘Miss Hayley, please will you direct the slave’s nose to the feet of the first mistress?’

Footpig felt the female student’s soft hands grabbing the back of his neck and pushing his nose down to where the first lady was sitting. However, miss Hayley kept his head fairly high up in the air, from which he surmised that the lady concerned must be siting, as his mistress Alicia had been, cross legged – with her right foot dangling in the air.

Although he couldn’t see it, it was clearly a dangling-in-the-air foot that he was being directed to sniff.

He breathed in deeply through his nose and heard his sniff echo around the now subdued arena – they must have placed a microphone close to his nose so that the audience could hear, as well as see, his foot-sniffing humiliation.

He was sure he could smell leather boot – although there was always, of course, the danger that the leather of his pig-snout was confusing matters. In spite of that, he was convinced he could smell feminine boot. So, it must either be the black, block-heeled, zip-up ankle boot of his mistress Alicia, or the black, shiny, elasticated Chelsea boot of one of the two ‘stranger’ mistresses – miss librarian Fiona or mistress accountant Philippa. He didn’t know which was which, but somehow felt that the loafers would belong to the librarian and the smart Chelsea boots to the accountant?!

Not that it mattered which was which – all he had to determine was whether or not they were the boots of his mistress Alicia in front of him – those boots he had licked, kissed and smelt so many times before!

Think! Think! Is it likely that mistress Alicia would have remained seated in the first chair – perhaps a deliberate ploy just to confuse him?

He barely had time to ruminate on this before miss Hayley had dragged him over to the second chair where again he was required to audibly sniff a dangling-in-the-air, feminine foot. He was sure, this time, that he could smell the distinctive, musty aroma of sweaty, female sneaker-canvas – these must surely be the white keds of mistress Jennifer!

The next whiff appeared to smell plasticky, mixed with a hint of rubber. The pink and white sneaker of miss Rebecca? Would she want to sit beside her friend Jennifer initially for comfort? Could well be!

The next foot smelt very much of polished leather. Could be a boot, but more likely the brown leather of the loafers?

The fifth and last foot was the hardest of all to identify. Hardly any smell at all! That threw a bit of a spanner into the works! Do shiny, patent leather Chelsea boots smell? Perhaps not? He, unfortunately, didn’t know. He’d never served a pair of feminine Chelsea boots before. If only he could use his nose to try and feel for the elasticated sides!

‘Time’s up, slave!’ Announced the female voice over the tannoy. ‘The slave will now declare the number which he believes corresponds to his mistress Alicia’s feet – was it foot number 1,2,3,4 or 5, slave?’

The footpig had made his mind up. It must surely have been the first foot he sniffed – such a distinctive aroma of feminine boot leather:

‘Oh pray mistresses, if it pleases you mistresses, this slave believes his mistress Alicia’s boots were at number 1, if it so pleases you masters and mistresses,’ he declared over the microphone.

The crowd seemed to give nothing away by their reaction! Was he right or wrong? Was he still on course for a 3-lash reduction in his whipping?

He had no idea – and it suddenly occurred to him, ominously, that even if he was correct he could be declared to be wrong. The purpose of this ‘Game’ was not to lessen his punishment, but to publicly humiliate him and amuse and entertain the baying crowd!

For the next round the lady-announcer asked the ladies seated on the podium to again change seats prior to removing their outer footwear. Footpig would now have to try to identify his former mistress Alicia’s sock smell!

Again, he wished he could just brush his nose up against the socked feet that were being presented to him to sniff. He was convinced he could tell from the texture of the material whose socks were whose. After all, mistress Alicia’s thick, yellow bootsocks would be easily distinguishable from miss Rebecca’s thin, pink and white, cotton sneaker-socks. But as he sniffed each of the five, dangling in the air, socked feet he had no way of knowing if he was smelling black, yellow, pink and white, plain white or navy blue socks.

The aromas did, however, vary considerably – and he was reasonably confident that he had identified his mistress Alicia’s sock smell at number 3 this time. After all, he had been in her employ for the best part of a year and had nose-massaged and sniffed mistress Alicia’s socked feet on many occasions. Yes, the fourth and fifth pairs definitely smelt too strong to be his mistress Alicia’s feet – and the first two pairs hadn’t smelt strongly enough! It must be number 3.

That, at any rate, was what he declared as his answer over the microphone.

Again, the mainly female crowd gave nothing away.

Finally it was time for ‘round 3’ of the ‘foot-smelling’ game. This was the round where the 5 ladies took off their socks and presented their bare feet for the ‘blindfolded’ footpig to sniff. Could he identify his former mistress Alicia’s bare feet?

He remembered how little of her bare feet he had got to see when he had been her personal footslave – part of the reason, as we already know, for his moment of madness in thinking he could run away to serve another mistress who was more partial to having her bare feet pedicured! On the plus side, however, he had mouth-pedicured mistress Jennifer’s sweaty, bare feet whilst he had ben ‘on the run’, and so he should be able to eliminate them from his enquiries!

He was reasonably sure that mistress Jennifer’s bare toes were at chair number 2, and the aroma of the bare feet or foot at chair no. 5 seemed to most resemble the smell of the socked foot that had been at chair no. 3 in the previous round – so he declared no. 5 as his answer for the third round. After all, mistress Alicia’s sweaty bare foot shouldn’t really smell all that differently from her sweaty, socked foot!

So, his answers had been 1, 3 and 5.

For the record, not that it mattered, for he had correctly surmised that he was never going to be declared successful in his foot-sniffing ‘trial’, the correct answers had actually been 1, 3 and 3.

And so, to the delight of the crowd, the ‘would be runaway footpig’, formerly known as trainee footslave no. 7865DF; then as ‘Aliciasslave’; then as ‘Footdork’, received his full complement of 15 lashes of the leather bullwhip, expertly wielded by the resident bullwhipper - mistress police constable Danielle. Afterwards he was cut down and dragged by the roman-sandalled student miss Hayley back into the dungeon cells of the Colosseum, ready for collection and transportation in a police van to his new place of lifelong work and abode as the public, hooded footslave in the dingy and dirty lobby entrance to the ladies’ restrooms at the central railway station of the Gynarchy of Barbaria.

The End