Dungeon Pillory

My Roman master-sir and domina-madam have sentenced me to 150 days and nights in the dungeon pillory. It is only Day 2 of my confinement, but already they have kindly come to visit me. The master-sir leans forwards right into my confined face and asks me how I am liking it? Did I have a ‘comfortable’ first night in the dungeon pillory, and am I ‘looking forward’ to the next 149 nights? I can smell his bad breath as he mocks me thus to my face.

Being a devoted slave to my master and mistress, I most humbly and respectfully inform the master-sir that I had, regrettably, experienced a goodly amount of discomfort in the pillory, and I confess my worries to him that some of my muscles might atrophy, given the length of my entirely justified sentence, begging his most masterful pardon, master sir?

He laughs at me and says I should have thought of that before scratching his foot whilst washing it. He lifts up the hem of his toga to show me his slightly scratched foot. I again humbly apologise to my master-sir for my slavish ineptitude at foot washing and beg his masterly forgiveness. He then turns his attention to my gaoler-sir, asking him to ‘scratch’ me with his whip ‘oftentimes’. The gaoler-sir indicates he will be only too happy to oblige!

Throughout all of this, my master’s wife, my domina, is giggling and chuckling to herself through the bars of my cell at my abject humiliation and suffering before much better men than me in whose POWER and at whose MERCY I reside. When the magnificent visiting couple eventually turn to leave, I feel a sense of slavish abandonment. I do hope they will visit me again tomorrow, that I might once again suffer their mockery and express my slavish penitence for my foolish misdemeanour with an even more aching back and neck!

My Roman master-sir berates and mocks me as he shows me the cause of my suffering - his scratched foot!

My humbling view of the cause of my demise...

...my master-sir's left foot

I have oftentimes been obliged to kiss my master's toes with my lowly lips

But, right now, they are out of reach and, instead of my master's familiar toe-smell, I must inhale his angry, bad breath!

As you can see, my body is already scarred by the gaoler-sir's WHIP!

The WHIP! The dungeon WHIP!

The face of the man who holds the WHIP!

The feet of the man who holds the WHIP!

These toes too shall doubtless be kissed in supplication for mercy by my lowly lips!

The dainty, pedicured toes of my domina-mistress, which I would much rather be kissing

Not that she looks inclined to intercede on my lowly behalf for clemency!


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