Good News

Regular customer-mistress and local girl, Ms Arabella madam, has some great news to tell me – her middle-aged fiancé master George sir’s visa has been approved and he will be joining her in the Gynarchy next week in order to get married. She sounds genuinely thrilled and I humbly congratulate the mistress on her good news, and wish her and master George sir all the very best for the future. I express the hope that they will be very happy together.

Ms Arabella madam then orders me to kiss her feet 1000 times (500 times per foot) and instructs me to utter the following mantra in between each footkiss:

‘God bless master George sir, for he is a truly magnificent man, if it so pleases you mistress Arabella madam.’

Miss Arabella madam knows full well that this is particularly galling for me, as I very much fancy her (not just her socks), but I am powerless to do anything about it. I haven’t a hope in hell of competing with master George sir for her female affections, since he is a wealthy and powerful free man and, if truth be told, a much better man than me. I am just a humble head-in-the-wall, public footslave with absolutely no assets or prospects. I am incapable, even, of having sex. The best I can hope for is to be permitted to kiss master George sir’s feet when he arrives back in the Gynarchy, and effectively cede defeat to him.

Small wonder, then, that she looks down upon me with a mixture of pity and contempt writ large on her pretty, female face. For I am the ultimate male loser – forced to kiss another man’s beautiful, long-haired girlfriend’s plain black loafer shoes, and to admire her thick-weaved, plain grey anklesocks, as he prepares for his lifetime of happiness and sexual intimacy with her. To the winner – the woman; to the slave – the socks. ‘Twas ever thus, and ‘twill ever be in the great and glorious Gynarchy of Barbary’ (as the saying goes!).

And so, as an overjoyed Ms Arabella madam eventually turns to walk away from me with a supercilious and smug grin on her pretty face, I am reduced to hankering after the backs of her socks, and must steal myself for the forthcoming humiliation of having to kiss my love-rival’s feet – most probably on his wedding day – and must resign myself to a lowly lifetime of perpetual loneliness and servitude, as befits a humble-head slave.













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