Post-Whipping Socks

It is now several hours since my public flogging of 60 lashes in the town square, and I have been placed back into my hole in the wall. My back is, needless to say, still burning and stinging from the cuts of the whip – I’m afraid it’s very much a case of ‘out of sight, NOT out of mind’ when it comes to my pain!

Meanwhile customer-mistress, miss Arabella madam, and her boyfriend master George sir, have come for some post-whipping gloating over me, with miss Arabella madam having me kiss her feet again as she informs me that she and her boyfriend George had enjoyed watching my whipping so much, and had both been so turned on by it, that they had just finished making love to one another in their nearby apartment.

I remember my slave manners and manage to congratulate mistress Arabella and master George sir on their coitus at my expense in between my humble kisses to miss Arabella’s feet. I must say, she did not let me down with her socks – a bright, yellow pair with vertical lines of trellised, black stitching down the sides and the fronts. And she did indeed manage to secure a front row seat at the whipping so that she could concentrate on the whip-pain reactions on my face whilst I tried my best to focus on her socks in a vain attempt to take my feeble mind off my immense pain and suffering at the whipping post. It had only partially worked – but that’s no fault of miss Arabella madam’s nice socks!

Of course, to be perfectly honest, what I’m really hoping is that customer-mistress miss Mukta madam will return wearing her black-diamond stitched socks, as I had been quite smitten with them earlier in the day.

But first I find myself having to kiss the unsocked feet and shoe of a beautiful, Romany mistress – a reminder to me if one were needed that my servitude is not all about socks!

Eventually miss Mukta madam does visit me again – this time accompanied by her magnificent husband, master Simon sir; and her whip! She laughingly explains to me that she has brought her brown leather whip with her to remind me that I am continuously subject to the whip – not just when I am tied to the whipping post – and that she is perfectly at liberty to whip me anytime she damn well pleases, ‘isn’t it?’. She then skilfully and dextrously dangles the whip over my face as I must kiss her scruffy, red white and blue sneakers again – the same sneakers that have just witnessed me being professionally and judicially flogged in the town square – whilst master Simon sir berates me for not having taken the whip ‘like a man’, and for screaming for sweet feminine mercy from the very first lash! He also says he is glad the Female Authorities didn’t show me any mercy!

I humbly thank the master sir for his astute observations as to my wimpishness and weakness in the face of the whip, but, to be honest, all I really want to do is study that diamond pattern in the weave of Ms Mukta’s black socks, as, despite everything, I am still hankering after socks – especially femalesocks; and especially hers!

The humbling thought occurs to me that my own back must currently resemble a diamond pattern of painful whip marks. It certainly feels that way!  Perhaps Ms Mukta will permit me to kiss the soft and gentle, black cotton diamonds in her sock-stitching on annual, national ‘Sock Show Day’, which must surely be due soon?