Pissed

The black master-sir is pissed. Pissed in the sense of being angry, that is. Pissed off! Not pissed as in drunk – though he has been drinking; I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

And the reason for the almighty master-sir’s righteous indignation? That I apparently failed to show my appreciation for the creases and folds in his girlfriend’s grey socks! The master-sir is convinced that I had disrespected his girlfriend’s plain grey bootsocks, by not studying them and extolling their virtues in a cravenly verbal manner whilst I had been lickshining her black leather ankleboots. He now wishes to know if his girlfriend’s sock creases aren’t good enough for me, or something? Am I too high and mighty to eulogise the wrinkles and imperfections in his pretty girlfriend’s socks? After all, I am supposed to be a ‘sock-fancy’ (socks-fancier) am I not? What sort of behaviour is that in a purported sock-fancy?

Now, far be it from me to contradict an angry master-sir – especially in the presence of his girlfriend. But I was under the impression that a public footslave and socks fancier like myself was forbidden by law from speaking – even to eulogise a customer-mistress’s socks – unless he is first commanded to speak by a master or mistress?

I think you’ll find I’m right – but, as I said, far be it from me to contradict a mighty master-sir. Now that I have permission to speak – insofar as I have been asked a series of direct questions by a customer-master and therefore must answer him – I must take the opportunity to apologise to him, and to his girlfriend, most profusely for disrespecting her socks. If he says I did it, I did it. That’s another feature of the Gynarchy’s laws -  a free man’s word trumps a slave’s word; just as a female’s word trumps everything else in a female court of law!

And so, summoning up my knowledge of humble slavespeak, I gush forth my abject apologies:

‘Oh pray master-sir, oh pray mistress-madam, begging your pardon master and mistress – please don’t beat me masters – this stupid, ignorant and impudent slave apologises most profusely for any offence he has caused to the mistress and her socks, master. Oh pray, master! Oh pray! Truly this slave is indeed a humble sock-fancy, and is most enamoured by the creases and folds in the mistress’s grey bootsocks, master sir, and regrets any offence his bad attitude may have caused to the master and mistress, if you would be so kind and forgiving to an humble, public footservant, thanking you kindly most mighty master-sir and most magnificent mistress madam? Oh pray, masters! Oh pray, your blacknesses! Please don’t hurt me, your high blacknesses! Oh pray! Oh pray!’

The master-sir, still seemingly incandescent with rage, informs me that it is not enough for me to apologise to him and his girlfriend. I must also apologise directly to her socks! He then bids his pretty girlfriend to hold her one of her socked ankles up to my face, so that I might offer my profuse, public apologies to it personally.

The young woman duly obliges him, and I find myself pathetically apologising to her superior sock for any offence I may have caused it; or is it a ‘her’ (it is, after all, a female sock):

‘Oh pray, black mistress’s sock, if it pleases you beautiful black mistress’s grey bootsock, truly this slave apologises to the sock for any disrespect he has shown towards her by not commenting favourably and with excitement on the numerous creases and folds in the sock’s soft cotton material, mistress the sock, if you would be so kind and understanding to an unworthy sock servant, mistress the sock? Oh pray, mistress the sock! Oh Pray! Pray forgive me, mistress sock!’

The master-sir then asks his girlfriend whether or not her sock is satisfied with my apology, and she informs him it is not. The master-sir for his part then informs me that accordingly he is going to ‘whip my ass’ with the public-use wall whip which he has already angrily grabbed off the wall-hook above my humble head. He then starts to belabour me about the face with the whip, urged on by the mistress-madam (and her socks which are now creasing and folding with laughter at me!)

Again, it is most definitely not my place, and most certainly not during punishment, to contradict such a mighty and magnificent master-sir, but isn’t he whipping my facerather than my ass? Oh well, I suppose one way or another he is whipping me across the cheeks! And, let’s face it, I deserve it – for being a footslave fool if nothing else.

If I had enough movement in my head I would turn the other cheek – not that I need to as the master-sir attacks me from both sides anyway.