Xmas Cracker
Having humbled me in their superior presence, the happy Xmas couple then embrace one another high above me. It makes me feel very humble, and lonely, to have to observe the mistress’s Christmassy-themed rubber boots creasing and folding at the ankles as she embraces her lover in lust directly in front of me – those same boots whose lingering, rubbery taste still fills my menial mouth…
Meanwhile my menial mind starts to wander and I imagine myself accompanying this happy, copulating couple back to their apartment where I must kneel beneath their festive dinner table which is laden with delicious, hot, Xmas fare as they dine heartily with their friends and loved ones high above me. I am, of course, not permitted to partake of any of the festive food – not even their scraps and leftovers – as I am just a Christmas slave! Instead, I must kneel silently and unobtrusively next to the mistress’s socked feet (she has now taken off her rubber boots inside her warm and cosy, festive home leaving me with the aroma of her sweaty-socked feet to endure as I kneel on the floor next to her thick-socked ankles and calves – and Christmassy-themed, red and white socks at that!).
Although my mind is very much focussed on the mistress’s socks, and the subliminal creases and folds which come and go in them as she joins in the merriment and laughter above me, my own foolish face cracks a smile at one point as the master-sir cracks a witty joke which has everyone in stitches high above me. Unfortunately for me, however, my slave smile is witnessed by the mistress’s sister sitting next to her at the dinner table, and she immediately reports me to the master-sir. The latter is outraged and the mood amongst the happy revellers sours as there is no greater crime that a Gynarchy slave can commit than to crack a smile in the presence of his masters and betters. It is disrespectful!
The master-sir – who, as you can see for yourself is a brute of a man – invites his informant, his sister-in-law, to fetch the whip from its drawer in the nearby living room, and then invites the rest of his gathered family and guests to accompany him outside to their back garden whipping-post where, he informs them, he intends to fustigate me with a full fifty, festive lashes for my footslavish impertinence in cracking a smile at his wife’s socked feet. He verbally berates me in front of his guests, asking me if I think I am too high and mighty to focus on his wife’s socks at the dinner table, and whether I am of the opinion that I am worthy enough to join in with the merriment and frivolity of my superiors? It’s a rhetorical question, of course, and I apologise profusely to the master-sir, his guests, his wife, and his wife’s socks – kissing the latter from their thick-ribbed cuffs all the way down to their sweaty, reinforced toes.
But my humility and contrition will not save me from the bitter sting of the winter whip – and, as the master and his guests fetch their coats in readiness for my public whipping in the garden (for, as you can see, it is bitterly cold outside with snow on the ground), I have the added indignity of having to reapply his wife’s rubber boots onto her socked feet – boots and socks that will gleefully witness my pain and suffering as I writhe under her husband’s mighty whip!
I shiver with cold, as well as fear, as, secured to the whipping post, I await with bated breath and bare back for the first crack of the yuletide lash! There is, of course, no greater pain known to man than the burning, searing pain of a well-applied whip, and this master-sir is truly an expert at wielding the whip! I dance my pathetic dance of pain, and unwillingly sing the whip’s praises, as my Christmas cracker bites, much to the amusement of the master-sir, his wife, and their esteemed guests. Indeed, my writhings and moanings are turning them all on, and soon there is a veritable heathen orgy taking place around me, with multiple Christmas copulations amongst the gathered throng of my betters.
Afterwards, as I am slumped in pain on the dirty, snowy ground, even I get to lick someone – albeit the master’s wife again, and merely on the outsides of her dirty boots again…
The couple move off, the sound of their footsteps cracking through the snow, and I awake from my reverie. I am alone again, out on the cold, harsh streets of the Gynarchy, awaiting my next foot-customer or customers on this freezing cold, festive evening. Not for me the warmth of a beautiful young woman’s socks which are now wantonly walking away from me. What was I thinking? I am just an anonymous, public footservant. No-one is ever going to invite me into their festive home! But at least my back is warmed by a wall, rather than a whip. Life isn’t all bad!
As the happy couple walk arm in arm away from me, I crack the faintest of subtle, footslavish smiles…
