Work Wheel Slave's Lament

'Oh pray, oh pray, I once was gay; happy and carefree, but now I am misery.'

I have been sentenced by the Female Courts to a life of ‘relentless toil’ on the Gynarchy work wheel. Day and night, day in and day out, for 365 days a year, I must ‘work’ the wheel – with only 4 hours respite per day for sleeping. And I must sleep standing up – chained to the wheel. There is no escape. This is my life, and will, eventually, be my death.

But, of course, my miserable existence is not just confined to hard labour; I must also suffer the pain and indignity of the whip on my back – wielded by a succession of shift-working, uniformed taskmistresses. They only work 8 hour shifts, so they are perennially fresh and keen to spur me on to ever greater efforts on the wheel, however weary my old body and bones may have become. And, I must say, the whip is a great stimulant to ever greater effort on my part; its sting is a remarkable force for banishing work fatigue in a work slave!

Added to the indignity of the whip, I have the humiliation of having to constantly look at the booted feet of my uniformed taskmistresses resting in front of my sweating face, as they are seated on a high chair of taskmistressly power directly in front of and above me, their feet outstretched onto a wooden footrest at my face-level. And I don’t just have to look at them; I must smell them too – the musty aroma of highly polished, black boot leather, often mixed in with the smells of whatever street dirt and detritus they may have been walking in on their way into work. Frequently I am even required to tastetheir boots, as many a taskmistress will often require me to kiss-respect, or even lickshine, her dirty boots. Again, If I baulk at such a challenge, the whip is never far from my back!

Just about my only solace in life is the occasional flash of plain, grey bootsock when a taskmistress’s blue uniform trouser-hem becomes inadvertently caught up in her boot-top (I’m sure that 9 times out of 10 I am treated to an inadvertent glimpse of female bootsock, for I can’t imagine many of my cruel taskmistresses would deliberately indulge me with the intimate sight of their socks!)

And let’s make no bones about it – my taskmistresses are indeed cruel – but that’s meant as a compliment, for it makes them ideally suited to their job. They have the right temperament to slowly work a man-slave to death over many years of relentless toil and whipping. No wonder there is a long queue of Gynarchy girls waiting to join the Gynarchy Taskmistress Service (GTS). It’s a well-paid job too. Needless to say, my hard labour is unpaid, but my taskmistresses do pick up bonus payments for themselves if I exceed 5000 revolutions of the wheel per day. (That’s, I suspect, why I invariably have to work harder if the taskmistress needs a new pair of shoes; or if it’s her boyfriend’s birthday; or if she’s saving up for a well-deserved holiday in the sun!)

Of all my cruel taskmistresses, the cruellest (meant as a compliment) must surely be blonde-ponytailed Miss Zara madam. She’s only a junior taskmistress; just 20 years old and still on probation, by all accounts. But I’m sure she will quickly rise through the ranks, given her predisposition to cruelty and her innate ability to get the most work out of me. It is rare that she does not earn her 5000+ revolutions bonus payment during her shift.

Why? Quite simply, because of her judicious use of the whip. She is a very demanding young lady, and brooks no excuses for slacking on my part, least of all physical exhaustion. She is also in the habit of not cleaning her boots before a shift, meaning that I have her muddy boots in front of my face throughout her stint in the taskmistress’s driving seat. Thankfully, however, she is also wont to have wonky trouser-hems, meaning that the one saving grace of being supervised by her is that I invariably get to see the top of at least one of her plain grey, uniform bootsocks. To be perfectly honest, it’s the sight of that slither of thick, grey, feminine sock that inspires me to ever greater efforts on the wheel, every bit as much as the sting of her whip – for I want to please her socks. I think her socks are brilliant, and I only wish I could nose them and nuzzle them whilst I am toiling.

However, sadly for me, a taskmistress’s socks are out of bounds for a work-wheel slave; only her dirty boots may be touched (by my lips and mouth), and even then only on the condescending orders of the wearer of the boots.

Junior taskmistress officer-mistress Ms Zara madam (to give her her full, official title) is a young woman of few words. ‘Move, slave’, at the start of her shift; ‘Stop, slave’, at the end of her shift, or at the beginning of her lunchbreak, which she spends eating and drinking in front of me; or, occasionally, ‘Slave, lick my boots’, an order which, again, tends to accompany her lunch break. It is not uncommon for a taskmistress to make the work-wheel slave ‘rest’ during her mealbreak, so that the vibrations from the wheel don’t upset her delicate, feminine digestive system. But they also relish seeing a slave ‘eating’ the dirt from their boots whilst they themselves are savouring delicious, human food high above him!

Each barked order is also, of course, accompanied by a stroke of the whip across my bare back, arms or shoulders. But, other than that, junior taskmistress officer-mistress Ms Zara madam is content to let her whip do pretty much all the talking, and to just sit, and whip, and watch me work. It goes without saying that I am not permitted to speak – not even to cry out or groan under the sting of the female whip; ironically, any such sounds will only merit me even more whip pain!

There is one exception to my ‘no speaking/no sounds’ rule, and that is if a taskmistress specifically orders me to repeat the ‘work-wheel slave’s lament’, usually in front of visiting members of the public who are watching me from a nearby gallery.

The ‘work-wheel slave’s lament’ is a poem designed to express my shame and contrition at having to be punished eternally on the wheel, and it goes like this:

‘Oh pray, oh pray, I once was gay;

Happy and carefree,

But now I am misery.’

It’s rather quaint, and I understand it dates back centuries. Generations of work-wheel slaves have been compelled to recite such a self-deprecating rhyme for the bemusement of their taskmistresses and members of the general public who have come to gloat. Sometimes I am required to repeat this humiliating mantra again and again, for the whole of my shift – purely for the amusement of my betters. They call it ‘working the wheel whilst waxing lyrical under the whip’!

And so I continue to work, and get whipped, and occasionally wax lyrical on the infamous work-wheel of weariness. And what, if anything, does all my relentless toil on the work-wheel achieve? Well, in one sense, absolutely nothing. It is entirely nugatory work. The wheel does not generate electricity; nor does it help to grind corn; but it does efficiently punish me, by making my life miserable – as the work-wheel slave’s lament so eloquently puts it. And I thus must have the greatest respect for the wheel, and for the lovely taskmistresses who supervise my punishment on it, including the taciturn, muddy-booted junior taskmistress officer-mistress Ms Zara madam – she of the whip and few words. Her ponytailed power over me is absolute, and I will work harder – not just because she requires some new, finest denier stockings to go with her latest party frock; but because of that glimpse of her plain, grey bootsock.

The sock of a goddess.