Female Power Volume 1

Scenes of Absolute Female Power over the Lowly Male Slave

image 1. Sitting on the Fence

The fat, 20-something, black girl with the short, black hair – dressed from head to toe all in yellow, with a yellow T shirt; yellow shorts; yellow, slip-on sneakers; and short, yellow, almost imperceptible, ‘no show’ socks – is legitimately whipping her middle-aged, equally overweight, white manservant in the semi-detached privacy of her suburban back garden. Let us sit on the fence overlooking her garden, and admire her young-womanly whipwork!

See how the whipped slave twists and writhes with every stinging cut of the thin, whippy, suburban, punishment rod across his suspended back, and the contortions of pain on his already wrinkly, fat face!

For her part, she remains youthfully dispassionate and professional, laying on the many whip-strokes at regular intervals, and choosing her targets intelligently, for she does not want to inflict overlays on him – not yet, anyway; they will come later.

· See how her short, yellow socktops crease and fold above her low-top, yellow sneaker-rims

· Hear the swish of the thin and supple, house-whip rod as it cuts through the air of her backyard like a knife

· Hear the crack on his back as the rod breaks both the sound barrier, and his flesh

· Hear the slave’s shrill cry of utter maleslave impotence and despair

She interrupts her whipping rhythm occasionally in order to refresh herself with a cold glass of water – as well she might, for it is a hot and sunny, Gynarchy summer’s day, and she is sweating a lot. As is the slave, of course – but, quite rightly, there is no refreshing water for him; not on his red-raw back, nor down his dry and parched throat; for he is undergoing righteous, suburban punishment!

His black mistress utilises her refreshing downtime to survey her handiwork hitherto on his naked and glistening back. She looks pleased at what she sees – 20, red-rawing stripes on the miscreant’s torso, many of them wrapping around his lower ribcage. She appears to be eying up where to place the next batch of 20 strokes. And it seems she has plenty of strokes to play with – 100 in total; and plenty of time to deliver them to the slave. He’s not going anywhere, after all, suspended as he is by chains from her wooden whipping post! And she has got all day; she’s not meeting up with her beloved boyfriend Samuel until this evening, so she may as well pace herself and spend most of the afternoon recreationally whipping her slave!

The slave gasps and groans as she finishes her drink and moves back into her ominous, whipping position several paces behind him. Once again she stretches forward her fat, right, yellow-muled foot on the turf in order to gain good purchase on the ground, and, once again, we see her short, yellow sneaker-sock crease and fold below her brown-skinned anklebone in tandem with her outstretched foot. Is it just my fevered imagination, or is that short, angular sock now disappearing at an even more acute angle down the back of her broad, yellow sneaker-heel? It could be – for with the amount of sweat she is exuding there must, surely, be some sock-slippage inside those hot and warm sneakers?

She licks her lips in order to savour the last vestiges of water (and partly in anticipation of laying on the next 20 lashes), before raising her strong, right arm behind her and catapulting the thin, whippy, rattan rod back down onto its immovable target.


The pain echoes around her garden – disturbing, but not annoying, her neighbours, who are enjoying a summer’s afternoon of sunbathing in their adjacent, backyard. Suburban whippings are a common sight and sound in the Gynarchy – so they take it all in their stride!

The slave writhes and pleads for mercy, but already his yellow-clad, black mistress is eying up her next stroke (who’s the real yellowbelly here – the magnificent and strong mistress, or the whining, self-pitying slave?). She won’t deliver it straight away. Like we said, she’s in no rush – and, in any case, she wants her slave to feel the waves of burning pain rippling throughout his body from each and every, individual whipcut, before delivering the next one.

So she temporarily rests her rod in her pretty, black fingers, and waits until all his male fuss has died down. Then she resumes his pain:



Several hours later, and we are still sitting on the fence. The whipped slave, however, is now cut down from his bonds, and desperately kissing his black mistress’s triumphant, yellow sneakers, and what’s left of her visible, short yellow socktops, in grateful appreciation for her kindness and mercy in stopping at the 100 strokes she had originally sentenced him to (for there would have been nothing – no Gynarchy law or protocols – preventing her from arbitrarily deciding to prolong his punishment even further, for another 100 lashes perhaps; only the fatigue in her whipping arm may have prevented her from continuing with his chastisement!)

Ha! Ha! See how he desperately seeks to quench his raging thirst with her ankle-sweat! But, despite her inevitable sweatiness from her exertions with the whip on this warm and sultry day, the fat mistress remains cold and aloof as the slave kiss-worships and praises her whipping shoes and socks.

Indeed, she casually turns and walks away from him, rod in hand, as she heads back into the welcome shade of her home – leaving the whipped slave to lie on his exhausted stomach in the blazing sunshine (it would be much too painful for him to turn over onto his back, or even crawl over towards the relative shade of that nearby tree), and soak up the female sun’s cruel and unforgiving rays onto his whipped, and soon now also to be sunburnt, red-raw back!

Yes, his suffering is far from over yet; even the mosquitoes and midges will take their pleasure of him before the day is out; as we have done.

The Peaceful Aftermath by patheticus on GoAnimate


image 2. The Whipped Slave


Cut his back.


Apply the lash.


Hear him groan!


She’s the master!

3. Two Admirable Young Women


The slim and slender, dark-haired, young white woman – in the grey hoodie-top and matching grey leggings, with pockmarked ankle skin above her low-top, pastel-blue, lace-up, leather sneakers and short, nominally white, angular, sneaker socks – temporarily places her plastic, see-through, shopping bag down onto the ground next to my sneaker-licking face at my sink-estate, public shoelick-stand.

I can’t help but noticing that there are several packets of condoms inside the bag, from which I deduce that she is:

a) Sexually active

b) Sexually responsible

In view of this, I am overwhelmed with an even greater sense of respect for this young, East European woman – given that she is clearly sexually attractive to men, though I myself, of course, shall never get to have sex with her, as I am just a permanent footslave.

I surmise that she is of ‘East European’ origins when her phone rings, and I hear her ‘negotiating’ with a male punter in her strong, Slavonic accent. Again, I am filled with renewed respect for her, as I watch the involuntary movements in her short, grubby-white, angular sneaker-socks, which operate in tandem with her subliminal, ankle-muscle flexes. For I now conclude that she is a hard-working girl – a self-employed businesswoman in an esteemed (in the Gynarchy) profession; that of selling her feminine, bodily charms to wealthy free males.

Good on her! I like a young woman who can stand proud on her own two sneakered feet – even if she earns her living mostly lying down!

She finishes her phone call, nonchalantly switches blue-sneakered feet beneath my face, and rolls up a cigarette, which she casually starts to smoke above me, even though I am, officially, a ‘no-smoking footslave’. Again I am full of admiration for her, for she clearly knows how and when to break the rules – in front of a slave, for one thing, since I can hardly rebuke her and ask that she extinguish her self-rolled, mistressly cigarette!

She doesn’t talk to me whilst I lickshine her dirty and street-soiled, pale-blue sneakers. I’m not one of her punters, after all; I’m beneath her – the lowest of the low. So it would be quite wrong for her to engage in conversation with me.

All too soon she withdraws her still-scuffmarked, left sneaker-toe from my face, and, with a sexy creasing of her white anklesock, casually picks up her bag full of condoms, and walks away from me. Off to ‘do business’ with a real man, no doubt – leaving me to dream about what might have been, were I a free man with money and a working penis, as the leathery-scuffmarked taste of her cheap, streetwalker sneakers lingers inside my impotent, not to say impudent, public-footslave mouth.



She is followed shortly afterwards, at my humble public shoelick-stand, by a truly righteous young woman – by which I mean a member of the Gynarchy cult of ‘The Righteous’, who live in a homestead nearby. This young, 20-something, blonde-haired lady of Germanic origins, by way of contrast to her Slavonic predecessor, is covered from head to toe in traditional ‘Righteous’ clothing – a white bonnet; a grey pinafore; a long-sleeved, black, ankle-length dress; black woolly tights; and plain black leather loafers.

No bag of condoms in her white hands – only a bible. No doubt she is on a mission to convert the fallen women on this grotty sink-estate to the path of righteousness; she just missed one!

Like her fallen, female compatriot, however, she treats me with proper, female disdain – and lets her musty-smelling loafers and thick, black woolly tights do all the talking as she places them, one after the other, on the well-used, wooden footblock beneath my perma-kneeling face.

I lick avidly on her outer shoeleather, as her shoes are quite muddy (from her work in the fields? The Righteous are nearly all farmers by profession) and I do very much appreciate the extra vitamins and sustenance I can gain from the mud attached to a beautiful, young, Righteous woman’s shoe!

At least, I assume she’s beautiful. It’s quite hard to tell under all that stuffy and staid clothing, and that demure, white, 17th century bonnet. But, given that she’s a young woman in her twenties, it’s a fair bet that she is beautiful!

I find myself, sinfully, lasciviously wondering how often, if ever, her private lady-parts have been entered by a free man – undoubtedly another member of the Righteous cult, of course; the Righteous don’t ‘mingle’ with the general Gynarchy populace. Which is why it’s such an honour for me to lick Righteous farmyard-dirt from this Righteous young woman’s unclean shoes.

Unlike me, of course, her shoes can be cleansed of their defilement – by my footslave-tongue. But this young woman knows there is no hope of redemption for me – a sinner-slave, who even brings himself to think about her hidden, lady parts high above him beneath the confines of her thick, cotton dress and self-Righteous bloomers!

She demurely switches loafered feet below me, hitching up the dusty, and in places frayed, ankle-length hem of her dress just enough to afford my footslave tongue access to her dirty shoeleather –and just enough for me to be able to admire a tiny hole on the shapely-ankle area of her thick, black, woolly tight. These holey tights may even be ‘hand-me-downs’, for the Righteous are not wealthy when it comes to their material possessions. They are wealthy only in spirit, and in Righteous haughtiness.

Well, the Righteous, young women are, anyway!

I inwardly thank the pure, young woman for my meal of impure and humble mud-pie from the surfaces of her plain, loafer shoes as she too turns her back on me, and walks away from me – a hopeless, lost cause, with again the lingering taste of good, honest, female muck in my mouth!


image 4. Fair Game

It was kindly explained to me (even though no explanation was necessary) that young, blonde-haired, prison-officer mistress Judy was going through her period, and that as a result she was feeling somewhat tetchy. I had therefore been chosen at random – as a dirty, male prisoner-slave – to be locked in a punishment cell with her, where she could do whatsoever she liked with me in order to relieve her premenstrual tension and frustration.

In the event, officer-mistress Judy chose to:

· Punch me hard in the face

· Slap me across the face with both the fronts and backs of her hand (in fact, she well and truly ‘slapped me silly’!)

· Kick me in the face with the reinforced, rounded toes of her black leather, officer-uniform boots

· Kick me in the groin with those selfsame boot-toes

· Cane me 50 times with the punishment rod across the backs of my bare thighs and buttocks

· Apply the prison lash more than 70 times to my bare back and ribcage

· Punch me in the solar Plexus, thereby winding me and ‘knocking the stuffing’ out of me

· Have me lickshine her dirty, lace-up, uniform ankleboots by way of a thank you to her, for taking out her monthly, young-womanly frustrations on me

I, of course, had no choice but to suck it all up, and verbally praise and bless her with every blow to my battered and bruised body, since a male prisoner-slave is in no position to defend himself against the righteous, premenstrual indignation of a beautiful, young officer-mistress.

The cruellest thing she did, however, was deny me a sniff of her red and blue spotted bootsocks – the same socks I kept getting tantalising glimpses of as she vigorously kicked my male-prisoner head in!

Afterwards, she felt much better. I just ached all over. And justifiably so – for when you commit an offence and become a male prisoner-slave in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, you’re anybody’s to beat, kick and punch. You’re ‘fair game’ for the fairer sex, so to speak!

A number of officer-mistress Judy’s female colleagues subsequently came to laugh at me in my cell – the middle-aged man beaten up by a slip of a blonde girl. I kissed their boots also.

image 5. Addressing Down

My Indian mistress, miss Nitya, prefaces her every commandment to me with the phrase ‘whipped slave’, as a timely reminder to me that I have been sorely whipped in the past, and shall be whipped again, if I fail to obey her…

image 6. A Natural-Born Bootmistress

Some mistresses are born – not made.

My 33 year old, mistress Joanna is one such mistress. Short and squat; not terribly prepossessing, with her greasy, brown hair and permanently stale, chain-smoker’s breath; but full of herself – and her own sense of superiority over the likes of me, her personal footwear-servant, such that she can barely bring herself to even look (down) upon me!

Nor does she speak much to me – other than to bark one of two curt orders down at me, always in an unfriendly and dismissive tone:

The verbal order ‘Boots’ means (depending on the context) either:

· Slave, fetch my boots; or

· Slave, take off my boots; or

· Slave, kiss-worship my boots; or

· Slave, lickshine my boots; or

· Slave, concentrate on my boots; or

· Slave, bury your nose in my discarded, sweaty boots

Similarly, ‘Socks’ means either:

· Slave, fetch me a pair of my bootsocks; or

· Slave, put my socks respectfully onto my feet; or

· Slave, respectfully remove my socks from my feet; or

· Slave, kiss-worship my socks; or

· Slave, massage my socked feet; or

· Slave, sniff my socks; or

· Slave, nuzzle the tops of my socks above my upper ankleboot-rims; or

· Slave, bury your nose in my discarded, sweaty socks; or

· Slave, mouthwash my dirty socks

My mistress Joanna only ever wears boots and socks – even in the height of summer. And so she has no need to mention any other articles of her clothing to me, since I am merely her personal footwear-slave.

As I explained, these one word commands must be interpreted correctly by me according to their context – or woe betide me with the whip!

I once overheard my mistress Joanna giving some slave-husbandry advice to a younger mistress. She advised her never to develop any feelings of fondness or sympathy for her slave, not even to give him a name – since a slave was just a thing; a piece of property that can easily be replaced. Also, the slave must know its lowly place, and have undying respect for its mistress – hence the mistress must always remain cold, aloof and disparaging towards her slave. She also advised the young woman to whip her slave hard and often – and I can honestly say that my mistress Joanna practises what she preaches in every regard!

I am inwardly proud, though outwardly humble, to belong to my stand-offish mistress Joanna, and to be the personal boot and bootsock-servant of such a plain and haughty, unprepossessing, young(ish) woman; for she really knows how to put a slave in his place, and make him feel unloved and uncared for; like a piece of dirt beneath her boot – fit only to deal with her nethermost regions (her feet), and, even then, only her foot coverings.

Some day, no doubt, she will cast me aside like an old, unwanted boot – long before she ever gets rid of her beloved, brown leather, low-heeled, lace-up, calf-length boots that she likes to wear virtually all the time. But until then I must serve her with all my heart and ability, since I am truly privileged to be the slave of a natural-born bootmistress!

And some men must find her attractive – for she is never without a boyfriend or sexual partner, whom she does show kindness and love towards. Then again, in her eyes a freeman is her almost-equal; not a piece of lowly dirt, like me!

image 7. Swish Crack Pain Sock

Prison-officer mistress Sevgi really likes to build up the fear and tension in a hapless prisoner-slave before his routine punishment-caning.

She will, therefore, join him in his punishment cell and sit next to him on a stool for two hours whilst he is ignominiously confined over the wooden punishment trestle in readiness for his caning – her right leg crossed dominantly over her left with her right, booted foot and ankle hovering in the foreboding, punishment-cell air just below his hangdog face – all the while verbally teasing and tormenting him about his forthcoming pain, which she herself will very much enjoy inflicting upon him.

She begins by telling him that he has only two hours left of (relative) absence of pain, secured face downwards over the uncomfortable, wooden punishment trestle as he is, before the cane will strike; and, thereafter, she continues with a regular countdown to his 'paintime', at initially 10 minute intervals, based on her observations of her watch, until she reaches the -20 minute period, at which point she starts to count down the individual minutes!

Likewise, when she reaches the -5 minute stage of the cruel countdown, she increases the count rate to 10 second intervals, until finally she stands up and walks behind him at the 60 second stage in order to ready herself for the actual application of the long-awaited pain to his bare buttocks and thighs.

With just 30 seconds to go until the application of his first cane-pain, officer-mistress Sevgi will start to gently 'saw' the whippy, rattan cane across the prisoner-slave's flinching and trembling buttocks in order to stimulate the nerve-endings and make them even more receptive to the forthcoming pain – pain which she will have already attempted to describe to him as 'biting'; 'searing'; 'burning'; etc., not that she herself has ever experienced the biting, searing burn of the cane (or ever will!)

All the while she was sitting next to him on the stool, the slave will have had an involuntary, up close and personal, view of miss Sevgi's twisted and thick, navy-blue-uniform socktop next to her Turkish-flavoured, bare legskin below her slightly raised, navy-blue-uniform, trouser hem. Her teasing socktop will have been twisting and creasing even more beneath his face as she excitedly, but subliminally, flexed her shapely, feminine ankle muscles inside her heavy, low-heeled, black leather, laced-up ankleboot at various stages during the pain-countdown. Surely she must have realised the effect her thick and twisted, navy-blue socktop was having on his psyche in the humiliating build-up to his pain?

Just think – those same navy-blue socktops are now hidden from view beneath her matching, navy-blue-uniform, unisex, trouser hems as miss Sevgi stands behind him, sawing the soon-to-be-swinging cane across the anxious prisoner-slave's exposed and vulnerable buttocks!

Suddenly the thick, navy-blue socktop inside her right ankleboot becomes fleetingly visible once more as miss Sevgi stretches forth her right foot on the dust of the dirty, punishment-cell floor in order to raise her cane high up into the air behind her, in readiness for the first stinging strike...

Swish...Crack!... Pain!... Sock...

image 8. Down Amongst The Boots & Socks

I am surrounded by female boots and socks.

That's because I am dutifully kneeling beneath the female security guards' dinner table.

The boots are all the same – black leather, low-heeled, lace-up, uniform ankleboots; but the socks peeking out over the tops of the boots, below the thick, navy-blue, cargo-pant hems, are different:

  • The plain, black bootsocks of fat and 40-something, no-nonsense security-guard mistress, miss Alison madam – to be respectfully sniffed at
  • The fun, yellow-duck-themed, pale-blue bootsocks of 30-something, happily married, security-guard mistress, miss Alice madam – to be studied and admired as the teasing socks of another (better) man's fun-loving wife
  • The grubby and bobbled, thick white towelling socks of 20-something, pint-sized, Pakistani security-guard mistress, miss Nayla madam – to be affectionately nuzzled
  • The plain grey, thick-ribbed bootsocks of 30-something, tall and bespectacled, black-African security-guard mistress, miss Eboney madam – to be nose-tracked, from the elasticated tops, all the way down the individual lines of vertical, ribbed stitching to the upper rims of her uniform ankleboots
  • And finally, the shorter, almost invisible, narrow, elasticated, brown socktops of 20-something, mixed-race (Romanian/Jamaican) security-guard mistress Elvira – to be appreciated for their smooth, dark, shin-revealing shortness!

Each and every one of them, the socks of my betters. Truly I am where I belong, and feel totally secure – down amongst the female security-guard mistresses’ uniform boots and individualistic socks!

image 9. At Her Beck And Call

This household footservant certainly has his work cut out keeping his demanding footmistress happy!...

At Her Beck And Call by patheticus on GoAnimate


image 10. You Only Live Once

The Singaporean customer-mistress seated high above me on the public-shoelick throne of female power is insanely beautiful!

It's not just her perfectly proportioned, facial features; it's not just her petite, feminine build; nor is it her beautifully beige anorak and pale, blue, skinny-tight jeans. It's her pale grey, low-top, leather sneakers with the pink tongues and grubby-white laces, combined with her short, bright blue, ankle-exposing, sneaker socks – short socks with three designer, yellow spots just visible on each side; Singaporean-girl socks right in my face, as I lickshine the Female City-State, street dust and grime out of her slightly scuffmarked and leather-flaky, rounded sneaker-toes!

To be in the presence of any young woman's socks is an honour and a privilege; to be up close and personal with her socks whilst she is actually wearing them on her feet, inside her shoes or sneakers, is an even greater honour; but to be this close to the short, blue and yellow-spotted, sneaker socks of such a supremely beautiful, young, 20-something woman – and a Singaporean one at that – must surely be one of the highlights of any public footservant's career?

I simply have to grab the opportunity to kiss-worship such a superior, spotty sock, below such a shapely, oriental anklebone, even if it means being publicly whipped for public-footslave impudence. As a slave, you only live once – but you will be whipped and beaten many times.

And so, as I near the end of my tongue-cleaning of the leathery-scuffmarked upper of her left, pink and grey sneaker, I signal my admiration for the Singaporean girl and her Singaporean socks by respectfully, and audaciously, kissing each of the three, tiny, yellow sockspots once each, all in a row – and then brace myself for the likely consequences; perhaps several stinging, Singaporean scolding slaps to the face? Or several cuts of the public-use, whipping stick? Or, most fearful of all, being angrily reported to the Female Police for insubordination – for I have not sought, or obtained, this beautiful, young, Singaporean woman's sweet feminine authority to mouth-touch her spotty, bright blue and yellow socks!...



I am now permanently breaking rocks in the underground slave-mines, under the constant sting of the female whip. But I still think it was worth it – those three unsolicited and unauthorised kisses to the beautiful, Singaporean girl's soft cotton sockspots.

Like I said, you only live once!

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