Paul, The Confessor

By Slave Paul

It was such a lovely warm evening here in the good old Gynarchy. Just the right early autumnal weather for an evening walk.

I had just finished a late shift at work when:

Stop! Thief! That young woman has stolen my wallet!’

The young woman made off at high speed across the cobblestones of the ancient town, as fast as her impractical feminine footwear would permit. Her high-heeled ‘CLICK CLACK’ sound echoed down the narrow streets and alleyways as she sprinted for freedom with my freshly liberated wallet! I was in hot pursuit but it was safe to say that I was no athlete! I was a poor second in this race for sure! All I could do was to scream as loud as I could for the female police!

As we both ran through the streets at dizzying speed, I slowly began to close in on the pickpocket! I could see her shoulder length, brown hair from behind, and was intently focussing on every detail that I could, as I was near to exhaustion and had to prepare myself for the option of failure! As I focussed on her clothes, my gaze went suddenly back from her footwear to the brightly coloured jacket that was flying behind her in her wake. She had festooned the jacket in brightly coloured buttons and pin-badges! This was a synch! All I needed to do was to report her description to the police and…… THUD!

I suddenly tripped and fell head over heels!

As I attempted to once again give chase, I floundered against a pile of empty packing crates in order to regain my breath. All was silent now, no high-heeled click clack sounds; nothing! I slowly started searching the bins, and gaps between the houses, for any sign of my thief; but nothing! To my utter relief and surprise, I espied a female police officer! I was so relieved. Who said there’s never one around when you need one?
‘Excuse me’ Miss. I need your help!’

‘Alright, Mister. Let’s have those hands up high in the air, please! No sudden movements!’

The Police officer, in this case a rather attractive and svelte redhead, pulled the revolver from her holster and pointed it squarely at me! She was reaching for her handcuffs that were attached to her belt!

‘I am arresting you in the name of the female law. You have the right to remain silent!’

She clicked both of the handcuffs shut behind my back, rendering me utterly helpless! Seconds later, my light-fingered, female thief stepped out from the darkness!

‘Is this the one that was chasing you, Miss?’

‘Oh, yes. This is the one, Madam! Ooh, I am so lucky that you were here to protect me, Ma’am! I shudder to think what he would have done to me if you were not here!’

I tidal wave of fake tears ensued, and an award winning, almost Shakespearian, performance from the female miscreant immediately won over the female police officer! I tried to explain my plight as best I could. But all that the officer said in response was:

‘I am sure you have proof of that outlandish accusation, don't you Sir?’

‘Yes, yes! Just search that woman, and you will see! She has my brown leather wallet in her back pocket. LOOK!’

To my amazement, the young thief actually allowed the officer to conduct a pat-down search of her! Rather unsurprisingly, however, the search revealed nothing! She had obviously stashed the wallet away for a return visit later.

The female Officer now turned her attentions back to me, as the pretty brunette in high-heeled, knee-high ankle boots laughed and moved in for a better look.

‘Can I ask to see your travel permit, Sir?’

‘Travel permit? What are you talking about?’

‘All free-males visiting the Gynarchy X need a travel permit. It is the law! Where is it, Mister?’

Her voice was becoming more agitated now. I had obviously strayed over the border into the strange and foreign land of the Gynarchy X! I was in real trouble now!


I was dragged before a 24-hour mini-court at around 2AM! I had been locked in the back of a rather hot and smelly police van for so long now, I was quite happy to be out and able to move around, even if it was in a kangaroo court setting!

The stern-faced, female judge looked down with a contemptuous glare staring out from her long, black, shiny, flowing locks. Her china-doll-like complexion was quite something to behold. The proceedings did not last long however!

‘Prisoner in the dock, you have been accused of pursuing a female of the Gynarchy X with a view to causing her bodily harm, and of being present in the aforementioned Gynarchy X without the necessary visas and entry permits. Both of these offences are a category one crime. How do you plead?’


A sense of terror was hard to mask in my strained response.

‘Very well, I am therefore handing you over to the “Special Unit” for further interrogation. I set the period of custody at 72 hours from now! Take him away!’

What in heaven’s name is the “Special Unit” ?

As it transpired, in the Gynarchy X, the female authorities are given a set time to ascertain a prisoner’s guilt or innocence utilising ‘advanced interrogation techniques’. Normally these are not needed, as the standard judicial court proceedings are sufficient to gain a conviction, or, in very rare cases, an acquittal!

In view of the seriousness of my alleged crime, the lady Judge had prescribed the maximum of 72 hours under the control of the Special Unit! This was an elite group of female interrogators who would ruthlessly, and mercilessly, probe the accused until a confession was achieved!

I was stunned and horrified! I was immediately led into a holding cell and locked up. The guard securing the door passed a slip of paper through the gap by the food slot at the base of the heavy, wooden, cell door. I went to pick up the slip and read it. It was a kind of pamphlet containing information for newly incarcerated male suspects! It read in big bold red letters:

So, you are about to be brutally tortured. Prepare for immense pain and suffering as you undergo a series of state of the art, modern and classic, torture techniques under the expertly cruel, feminine hands of our professional Torturesses! You are totally alone. WE are in control of your destiny here. A simple confession will save you immense pain and degradation in this sorrowful place!

I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew I was being woman-handled by a group of three hefty, female prison guards and being thrust along a long, winding corridor. As we reached the end of the passage, I was met by a very attractive, short, but perfectly proportioned, young female guard. She had long, mousy-blonde hair that reached just above her waist! She was wearing a striking pair of non-regulation, spike heeled, black leather ankle boots to make up on the height difference! She also had two-inch-long finger talons that were painted jet-black! Her piercing, blue eyes scanned me with a warm, friendly look.

‘Hi there, Sir! My name is Officer Mistress Michelle, and I belong to the Special Unit! You now belong to me! I am in charge of your interrogation for the next 71 hours, so we had better get started, hadn't we?’

She clicked her fingers, and her friendly features changed in an instant to an ominous glare! Her burly, currently nameless, hench-women began ripping off my clothes, with no care whatsoever! I was left standing there in front of my soon-to-be torturers, wearing only my boxer shorts!

‘Okay, Sir, (I have to call you that by law until you are found guilty; which you will be!). We need to give you the ‘tour’ to start off with! I hope you like seeing our little collection of painful wares! HA! Unless, of course, you wish to sign this?’

She thrust a clipboard against my bare chest with a letter attached to it stating my full name, and the words:

I hereby confess to the following heinous crimes against femininity…

I simply replied ‘NO’, in the most defiant manner possible (through the terror).

‘Oh, good! I hate it when we get a weak one in! I love a challenge! Come along then, Sir. Let us show you around!’

We began the dreaded tour of this insane shrine of feminine cruelty with a trip to the ‘whip chamber’. Mistress Michelle delighted in showing me the special, temperature-controlled, whip rack. It apparently held 174 whips; 45 punishment canes; 12 scourges; and 2 ‘scorpions’?

The ‘Scorpion’ was helpfully removed from the rack and brought closer for me to see. The long, black finger-nails of Mistress Michelle caressed the dreadful looking torture implement.

‘This is an exact replica of the terrible Scorpion lash used in Ancient Rome! The multi-tailed lash has sharp, hooked barbs of steel shaped like a scorpion tail knotted to the ends of the tentacles. As the lash strikes the skin, it is dragged across the prisoner’s back until the scorpion blade catches on the flesh. It is then the decision of the Mistress whether to withdraw the lash by flicking upwards, or to yank harshly cutting deep into the dermis of the suspect! Which do you think I ordinarily prefer to do? Show mercy? Or maim?’

The apparent joy of the women present was enough to break the atmosphere as female laughter broke out!

I was then dragged away to another chamber that held all of the iron torture implements! They were listed off to me as some kind of bizarre inventory. Each item was brought out from the gloom for me to survey, as the two heavy-set girls maintained their vice-like grip on my neck and arms from behind. A ‘Scavenger’s Daughter’, designed to slowly crush its victims; a steel yoke designed to severely restrict movement so that the torturer can do her work; a device called a head crusher (no explanation necessary); a plethora of thumb screws; a rather rusty looking, foot crusher, which was callously placed next to my right foot and demonstrated (fortunately with no ‘occupant’ inside it this time); and a dozen or so other insane-looking devices that surely originated from an insane, female mind?

Next we were off to the so-called “High-tech suite”. A brightly lit, white walled, almost surgical room, filled with ‘medical’ type restraints of all sizes. Something called a “Cramp Inducer Machine” was wheeled out, and verbally demonstrated to me. All manner of probes and strange looking, fearsome, stainless steel items were presented on steel trays for me to forcibly examine!

The final leg of our tour brought us to a personal favourite of Mistress Michelle’s: ‘Old faithful' as she referred to it - the rack!

‘No device has proven so successful throughout history in tearing the truth from its victims,’ she gleefully explained. ‘The torturer has ultimate control over the tension, and the time between the stretching! We have nearly three days to perfect the art!’

Suddenly, and rather roughly, a red button on a white box which was like some kind of amulet was placed around my neck and padlocked on.

‘This is it. This is your way out of this dreadful place, Sir! Press it, and we will stop all of this now. All you have to do is sign this confession! Now, we have wasted nearly an hour and a half of torture time, so we need to get started!’

My heart started racing with fear!

‘Which item of pain would Sir like to try first? Not the rack, I will save that to last, I think? How about a lengthy stay in the public stocks? That will ease you in nicely, and allow us time to sleep, ready for your real torture to begin tomorrow!’

‘Please, Mistress! I don’t…’

MY mouth was suddenly gagged with a rough, wooden, pear-shaped plug that was strapped firmly in place!

As we reached the stocks outside the Special Unit building, I paused in the cold night air to look at them. They were nearly six-inches-thick! Set in concrete and directly in the path of the main road. Come the morning, I would be a laughing stock (both literally and figuratively).

My cold feet were placed in the stocks, and the top section closed and locked with a chunky, ancient looking lock. My wrists were then fastened to the top section by means of a rusty bar that had semi-circles bent into it. This was then padlocked to the wooden section rendering my arms useless! I was completely immobilised in something that held me bolt upright and afforded me no privacy whatsoever! My arms were already aching from the close restraint. Mistress Michelle inspected the locks one last time as the other girls left for home! As she tugged at the locks she closed in on my right ear. Her hot breath was a welcome comfort:

‘I hope you make the most of your little rest in the stocks, Sir. I will come back and let you out at midday tomorrow, unless you press the red button before then!’

With that she bit down hard on my earlobe causing a loud scream to fill the empty, cold, night air!

How could I press the red button with my hands confined in the stocks?!


That night, all I could do was sit and fidget around on the hard, and deliberately narrow, wooden bench in a futile search for comfort. To be held so rigidly in such tight, unforgiving bonds is torture enough! Worse still, was the mental torture of pondering what was to come next? I started to wonder about pressing the red button for release there and then, until I remembered that was impossible due to the metal hand- stocks. I was almost grateful to my bonds for saving me from a terrible mistake in a moment of male weakness!

As the night wore on, I found myself thinking about Mistress Michelle and her cohorts. Surely they were not really that cruel? Surely they were not really going to torture me? One thing was for sure, I was already in great pain due to their efforts! I was freezing cold now too!

About an hour from dawn, I heard some rowdy sounding teenage girls stumbling through the town centre towards the main road on which I was pilloried! All I could do was to hunker down as much as I could and hope they did not notice me!

I drew a deep breath and kept motionless. It really hurt my back to bend yet further down in order to conceal my face behind the top of the stocks!

‘Hey! Look girlsh! There’s a man in the shtocksh! HA! HICK (Belch)’

In hindsight it was a stupid idea to try and hide! The lamp over my head afforded me little chance of privacy, and, although my head was out of sight, my hands and feet were lit up like beacons to attract any unwanted female passers-by! This pre-punishment was all very carefully calculated!

The three drunken females approached my illuminated corner of shame.

‘Hey, little man, what are you in the planks for? HA!’ asked the ringleader – a gorgeous goth.

I was so scared and confused (not to mention immensely embarrassed at being confined virtually naked in front of these rather attractive, yet wholly inebriated, young women), that I stammered when I finally decided on a response!

‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but I have been confined here by something called the “Special Unit” prior to my interrogation, if it so pleases you?’

‘WOW! The Special Unit, hey? They will make mincemeat of you, man! Ha! Ha! How are you enjoying your rest in these lovely, comfy stocks?’

‘Sadly this prisoner has to convey that he is in immense pain, Miss, as the stocks are rather tight and the bench is very uncomfortable, Miss!’

Immense laughter was the result of this feeble, pathetic response!

‘Well, little man, if you think the stocks are bad, just you wait until they start on your sorry ass tomorrow! You will be begging to be put back in the stocks, I can assure you! You see, I have an apartment that is located just two hundred yards away from the Special Unit. It cost a fortune! I wanted to be close so I could hear the legendary screams of judicial-female-induced, male torment! What music it is to my earsh!’

This goth girl sounded almost as sadistic as my soon to be torturess, Mistress Michelle! As we were politely talking, her artificially pink-haired, young acquaintance was busy holding a cigarette lighter up to my bare left foot and striking the flint!

‘If it so pleases you, Miss, I would like to express my most sincere gratitude to you and your …..ARRRGH!’

‘HAHA! If you scream at a little harmless foot torture, just think what you will do when they get you on the rack, prisoner?’

The head goth-girl then seated herself next to me on my bench. The stocks were built for two, but I was, sadly, the only occupant tonight. She put her left arm around me and pretended to kiss me on the cheek as her friend photographed us! All I could do was keep still, and try not to get high on her heady, alcohol-laden breath! As this was all taking place (out of my control) she was busy working her arm round my shoulder in order to clamp my left nipple between her sharp, feminine finger nails and pinch down as hard as she could!


The third girl, who was dressed somewhat more unusually demurely for her age (late teens), had done nothing until now. She smirked at my pain and reached into her handbag. She produced a permanent pink marker pen and disappeared out of sight behind me. All of a sudden I was all of a quiver, as a cold tip was placed on my back and some words were outlined on my still, as yet, un-whipped flesh! This went on for some time.

The girls read aloud what they were writing at each stage:

‘Whip here, here and here’, on my back

‘Cut here, here and here’, on my legs

‘Stinky foot cheese goes here’, around my nose

‘Foot-crap goes in here’, above my mouth

‘Crush here’, on my left (now sorely singed) foot

‘Burn here’, on my hitherto un-injured right foot

‘Break here’, on my left thumb

In the end, I was awash with helpful little instructions for my soon-to-be-fully-rested torturers! The head goth-girl then stood back, after finally releasing my nipple, in order to photograph me in my terrorised state! She then announced that none of the suggestions could be completed by them, as they were not professional torturers; all except one that is…. STINK GOES HERE!

All three girls then drunkenly took it in turn to remove their sweaty socks and force me to sniff them out loud as the others filmed my shame! The head girl went first. She was wearing dark, black, wooly knee-socks that were hard to remove. She had been wearing them for nearly two days by now, and those chunky black-heeled boots made her pretty, virginal-white feet sweat quite badly! Her contrasting black, glossy toenails reflected the light from the overhead lamp into my face, thus further humiliating me! Her socks were thrust up my unwilling, unprotected nose!

Next was ‘Lighter girl’. She had small, lime green socks on inside her similarly-coloured ballet flats. They slid off her sweaty, bare feet with ease! Almost as though they wanted to be thrust up my nose! I can report that they were indeed very smelly, but not nearly as tangy as those of the nameless head girl before her!

The final set of socks were going to be the ones that belonged to the rather demure looking brunette - the budding young artist that was responsible for festooning me in helpful little torture suggestions! She was wearing very highly polished, black leather ankle boots with flat sensible heels. Her boots were removed by the head girl! This was done with a great sense of merriment, for it transpired that the young ‘artist’ was actually barefoot inside her leather boots! No socks at all; just sweaty-looking, slightly reddened, bare, white feet that had been rubbing unprotected against the sweaty, leather boot material inside!

They all laughed as the demure girl mounted the bench on my left hand side this time. She had to be assisted in raising her rancid, bare feet to my unwilling face! My nose was soon cocooned in her soles and assaulted with feminine foot stink! Her feet were so sweaty, they actually started to remove some of the so-called permanent marker pen ink. (Pen and ink rhymes with stink for a reason!)

Finally I was left alone to focus on my mundane nagging pain in my cramped and confined muscles. It was almost a relief!


I certainly got no sleep that night! I just about had enough strength to make it through the few hours of daylight that we had in this season. It was finally approaching midday, my release! I had been photographed in the shameful wood of sorrow at least one hundred times by complete strangers. I was becoming something of an attraction it seemed! I was also completely exhausted. I never knew that sitting bolt upright for twelve hours could be so uncomfortable and achingly tiring. It was all for one purpose, of course - to lower my resistance to torture and interrogation!

This thought of impending, acute agony and inquisition quelled any sense of relief that I may have had, when I saw Mistress Michelle and her henchwomen returning with the key to the stocks!

‘Hi, Sir! Hope you had a good rest? I see you did not press the button for release. You must be hard core! I will start you on some of the more advanced interrogation techniques (torture) HA!’

The young women studied my helpful body art and assured me that they would doubtlessly be following the pain inflicting advice of the female public!

The first day of my interrogation included:

• Hanging in irons for three hours

• Having a rake shaped like a woman’s bare foot, with real, jagged, sharp, female toenail clippings inserted into the brass toes, dragged over my back

• Four hours with a trained whip-Mistress (all but the dreaded Scorpion was used, as this was akin to a death sentence)

• My feet held in iron stocks over burning coals

• An hour in the thumb screws

• Five hours in a regular pillory on tip-toes (this was achieved by placing my feet into torture shoes that had spring-loaded spikes which would pierce the soles of my feet if I dared to place them flat on the ground!

At the end of this arduous day of constant questioning, and pain, and near constant face slapping, I was locked into a ‘little ease cell’ for the night. The idea was to afford me no rest at all, so that I was good and weak in the morning! I was quite proud of myself that I had survived my first day of interrogation without confessing to fake crimes. Still, I had another two days to go!


My second full day of judicial hell started at 06:00 A.M sharp! Sharp, because it was punctuated with a surprise caning in front of all of the female officers of the Special Unit!

‘I hope you had a bad night, Sir? Today we will be stepping up the intensity of your pain a notch or two! Unless, that is, you want to confess now?’

‘Thank you, Mistress Michelle, for your kind concern, but I have nothing to confess to, Madam!’

‘FINE! Fetch the foot crusher, Shelly! Let’s start as we mean to go on!’ SLAP!

My left foot was mercilessly crushed in the evil device for two hours straight! The redhaired girl operating it (officer-Mistress Shelly) knew just when to stop so it would not injure me permanently. This was followed by:

• Two hours in the head crusher

• My first and only meal (a bowl of dead toenail clippings and female foot dirt, force fed to me)

• An hour with a brutish, female wrestler who literally tied me up in knots

• Two hours of rope suspension torture

• An hour with Mistress Michelle, a hot poker, and some rather rusty looking torture tongs

• Four hours on the wheel

• Six hours turning the crank under the lash

My suffering was finally ended at 23:00 hours. I could not wait to get back to the relative discomfort of the little ease cell!

‘Okay girls, let’s put him in the scavenger’s daughter for the night! That will sort him out, for sure!’

I have to confess (not literally) that this dammed nearly did sort me out! It was agony being confined in a steel frame, sat on the cold stone floor, with no possible movement! I had another seven hours of torment before we started again at 06:00 A.M. again tomorrow! My fingers were starting to twitch towards the red button that hung around my neck! I summoned up what little strength I had left to stop myself! I could get through this; I knew I could!


The next day Mistress Michelle was furious! She was stunned that I had not broken during the night! Most men would have succumbed by now! But she still had a few hours to break me! She brought out the big guns for one final day of torment!

They had to take turns at slapping me in the face as their hands were red raw! I had to repeat ALL of the tortures I had undergone over the last two days! I spent thirty minutes under each torture; no mercy was shown. Constant slapping, and kicking, and taunting, and mocking, and tormenting was all that was afforded to me. No sleep; no water; no food (except girls toenail clippings); nothing but pain!

I saw the clock on the wall; only another three hours to go! Then I would be free!

Mistress Michelle had to ask for permission from her commanding officer for the next part. She was granted unlimited power over me at 13:10 hrs. She looked elated!

‘I’ve had enough of playing, Sir! I’m afraid that it has to be the rack for you! I suggest you confess now!’

I was terrified, but had no energy to answer her!

‘Very well! Rack him!’

This was it! My last challenge! I had to break the rack, or it would break me! My ankles were secured in solid wooden stocks. My wrists were secured in iron bracelets attached to an ‘A’ frame above my head. This was connected to the large drum, and fine-pitched ratchet mechanism, to give maximum control over the body-shredding power of this device!

I heard the first clicks, and immediate pain was the result. Mistress Michelle was an experienced tortures; she knew when to rest me, and when to rack me. I was stretched and stretched until I could take no more. I felt near death. I had to do the unimaginable…. press the red button announcing that I was ready to confess! I looked at the clock as the ratchet was released. I had only got another twenty minutes until they had to release me without charge! If I could drag out the written confession process?

No such luck! I was given the papers to sign or told that I would be immediately stretched another four inches on the rack, regardless of whether I pressed the mercy button again! I simply had to sign! I passed out afterwards.



I woke many hours later, secured to a bed in a hospital. The Special Unit had a 100% success rate in securing confessions! A copy of my confession was deliberately pinned to the wall for me to read when I came to. As I was strapped down tightly, so I had little option but to read the ignominious paper:

‘I Paul… hereby confess fully to the following crimes against the feminine State of the Gynarchy X, and humbly and respectfully beg to suffer mightily under sweet female justice as a result:

1. Attempted bodily harm to a female of the State

2. Being present in the State with no male visa or valid male pass

3. Breaking male curfew

4. Resisting female arrest

5. Wasting Female Police time

6. Wasting the time of the Special Unit

7. Damage to torture equipment belonging to the State (the cane that was used to whip me into unconsciousness on the second day actually broke across my backside!)’

I was in deep trouble! Barely a week later, I found myself reportedly fit enough to be sentenced in the Female Courts. The sentence was handed down by a mean looking, brunette lady judge. Very well suited to her job I thought!

It transpires that she intended to ‘dump me off’ on one of her more problematic re-offenders, some young lady called Miss Juliet?

‘Prisoner in the dock, I hereby sentence you to life as a personal foot slave to Mistress Juliet. You will be responsible for keeping her in-check, and will take full responsibility for any breaches of the court-appointed regulations and sanctions placed upon her! I hope your life is long, and filled with shame and dirty feet! Take him away!’

As I was led away to the cells to begin my intensive foot-slave training, my helpful, yet rough, chubby, pock-marked Mistress-guard explained that Mistress Juliet was something of a thorn in the good lady Judge’s side. It would be my life-long job to keep my new Mistress in check! I did not know what she meant by this? All I did know was that I was about to suffer a humiliating induction into the world of female-foot slavery, whether I liked it or not (I most assuredly did not!).

Once clad in my new clothing consisting of white, cotton slave shorts and heavy, permanent leg irons, I was secured to the wall of a below-ground dungeon by heavy-locking, wrist shackles. My instruction sheet was left with me explaining my fate, and what I needed to do in future to avoid terribly harsh punishments!

The three week intensive foot-worship course was thrust upon me by my more than willing Guard Mistress Bianca. She had dirty, reddish hair that flowed down her back. The single, bare lightbulb in my cell seemed to highlight the unflattering craters on her feminine face from all different angles. For one week all I attended to was her boots, shoes, and flats. These all had to be lick shined and kissed one thousand times a day! The second week brought the added humiliation of nothing but sock and nylon worship! Mistress Bianca would helpfully wear a plethora of different inner foot coverings in order to introduce me to the different textures and induced foot aromas.

The worst for me, was the horrid, black uniform, ankle socks that she had obviously been saving for best (or worst in my case!). The thinning. bobbled sock material was steeped in nose-shreddingly strong foot cheese! This was closely followed with three days of near constant nylon foot worship!

The dreaded final week had arrived. The week that Guard Mistress Bianca had simply named ‘BARE’, was upon me! Mistress Bianca opined (through an evil female grin) that I would most likely be required to perform ‘BARE’ foot duties a majority of the time. The chubby, white feet of Guard Mistress Bianca will never leave my mind. The moment I was ordered to peel the sweaty, black socks from her feet will be forever ingrained on my deepest memory cells! The sheer sight and smell of them was enough to make me sick!

I was sorely whipped for disrespecting her!


What seemed like an eternity had finally passed. I had been successfully rushed through the essential, minimum-required, prison foot-slave course. They must obviously want me to begin my services as soon as possible?

I bid a less than fond farewell to Guard Mistress Bianca and her nauseating feet! I could only hope that my new Mistress had much more appealing feet, and a better demeanour!

Two days later I was introduced to her! A stunning, natural beauty called Mistress Juliet (Julie to all of her friends, but certainly Mistress Juliet to me). Mistress Juliet was a tall, buxom, curly haired brunette with long, shiny tresses that reached her midriff! She had jade green, innocent looking eyes; a milky white complexion; and a very attractive feminine figure! She wore a flowing, summery, chiffon dress - mainly white, but with brightly coloured flowers printed along the dusty hem.

This partially covered her all-important feet! She was almost barefoot. Her precious un-painted toes seemed to overhang the edges of the most impractical looking, thinly built sandals that I had ever seen. She may as well have been wearing no shoes at all!

Our rather unorthodox introduction was completed as the prison, delivery-driver Mistress rather roughly forced my face into Mistress Juliet’s feet, so that I could begin kissing them. The driver left for the van and momentarily halted to turn and say:

‘Now, Julie, make sure you stay out of trouble; or else!’

As I focussed on her dusty, natural feet circling me in a rather bare living room, I pondered on the trouble maker tag that she had been assigned. Surely the authorities were wrong? She is so innocent looking!

Over a mild whipping session in the back yard a few hours later, Mistress Juliet revealed that she was a bit of a free spirit, or hippy, if you will. She despised the oppressive law makers, and in particular the awful lady Judge that had sentenced her beloved boyfriend to twenty years on the prison treadmill for not agreeing to take a punishment that had been issued to Mistress Juliet following a run-in with the law over a drug related offence!

‘The good news is that you will now be my appointed whipping boy slave! That means that I can start getting back at that old witch and her law pigs! I intend to keep you as my slave, but in line with my all-natural approach to life. I am therefore going to keep you locked outside as nature intended, naked and in my swing pillory! It is made from reclaimed oak timber and hessian rope and suspended from one of Mother Earth’s miracles - a beautiful plum tree!’

I was not at all happy about this latest announcement! Her ‘swing pillory’ was close to the wall of her garden. The wall was barely three feet high so passers-by would be able to look in on my naked shame! With no further discussion, Mistress Juliet roughly removed my slave shorts and flung them up into the branches of the tree! She then grabbed at my hair and tugged me over to the swing pillory. Once there, the heavy wooden jaws were opened and my neck and wrists were secured through the respective holes and locked shut. The four inch thick timber frame was suspended from hessian ropes that swayed in the breeze.

‘Wow! You look groovy, slave! Let it all hang out man! HA!’

Mistress Juliet then mounted my swing pillory, kicked off her thin, stroppy sandals, and used her bare, dusty feet to push us both back and forth in the afternoon sun. The pain (for me) was quite indescribable – harsh, then soft; then harsh again - as we moved to and fro in tortuous tandem! All the while, I was ‘comforted’ by the warm, fleshy, hippy thighs wrapped tightly round my head, and the sight of my new Mistress’s feminine, naturally pretty feet rocking us in the tree. I was almost enjoying myself, when she suddenly just jumped down and left me in the garden. I was still swinging on my knees, hanging in a wooden frame naked and alone in the ever dropping temperature of the growing darkness!

As I swung there in the breeze, assuming that my stunning natural beauty was cosily tucked up in her bed, I was totally unaware that she was, in fact, at that very moment out on the streets busy throwing eggs at police cars and spraying the word ‘PIG’ in big, bold pink letters all over the local police station!


The next day I was awoken gently by a slightly warm, soft sensation on my face. It was Mistress Juliet! She was sat opposite me on some kind of reclining camping chair. She was using her bare right foot to rock me awake. This caused a painful spasm, and a loud unmanly screech, to emanate from my contorted, convict body!

‘Morning, slave boy! Lick my feet for me; they are covered in egg!’


As I was busy licking the offending, dried egg off Mistress Juliet’s bare feet, I was unaware of the two burly-looking, female police officers approaching from behind!

‘Okay Juliet! This is no joke this time; you are under arrest!’

Mistress Juliet looked back in all innocence, and replied that she was completely innocent of any wrongdoing, and that she had been here all night:

‘But Officer, I was here all night with my slave! Isn't that right, slave boy?’

What could I do? I simply had to back up my Mistress!

‘Begging your pardon, most respected female officers of the law, but this slave’s Goddess-like Mistress is indeed quite correct; she was here all last night, visiting me in the stocks, if it so pleases you officer-Mistresses?’.

‘Quiet, slave! You're under arrest too, for lying to the Female Police and trying to dispose of evidence by licking your Mistress’s feet clean!’

Mercifully, the female officers would not take me in naked, so my shorts were fished down before my stocks were opened! I was immediately shackled and thrown in the back of the van, as Mistress Juliet was helped into the passenger side so we could be whisked away to the police station. As it transpires, Mistress Juliet was captured on seven different CCTV cameras defacing police property! The dreaded lady Judge looked down at us both in the dock and announced that for every section of punishment handed down to the Mistress, I was to suffer ten times more. One for each of her precious toes that I had allowed to get into trouble!

‘Miss Juliet, it is the sentence of this court that you shall receive twenty lashes of the single-tailed, punishment whip! You may defer the punishment to your slave, or one of the nominated prison whipping boys!’

‘Whatever, you old hag! Just whip him and get on with it!’

MAKE THAT FORTY LASHES!’ (please be quiet Mistress!)

‘Footslave in the dock, for the crime of lying to the female police’ and attempting to dispose of evidence, I sentence you to ten lashes of the single-tailed, punishment whip, to be delivered in the public kneeling stocks. The additional sentence of your Mistress is therefore deferred to you, and the total number of lashes is now set at 410 lashes! Take him away!’

Even in the cruel excesses of the Gynarchy X, 410 lashes is tantamount to a death sentence! I found out later (after sufficient time for the terror to set in) that, for this very reason, the ‘compassionate’ Lady Judge had split my sentence into groups of 10 sets of 41 lashes (one set per month).

Later that same night I was finally released from the Female Courthouse to be escorted home by my mischievous Mistress Juliet. Once safely home, she cooked her dinner, as I was made to nuzzle her discarded, flimsy, strappy sandals in the corner of the living room. Outside the small house, a heavy thunderstorm was brewing! I felt all cosy and safe; a warm feeling swept over me as I rejoiced at the thought of a cosy evening huddled up to Mistress Juliet’s feet on the sofa!

But Mistress Juliet suddenly leapt up and screeched:

‘Oh quick slave I must fit you into the stocks before the rain comes! I don't want to get wet, and you will have a wonderful view of mother nature’s firework show! HA!’

There I was, once again hanging in the tree, inches off the dusty ground (soon-to-be a quagmire of mud and water) cold and alone!

No sleep was possible that night. I was terrified that the tree that held me captive might get struck by lightning! Even the tree was mocking me, by throwing its soft, rotten, plum fruit down upon my confined head!

Finally, in the misty morning, I could see my Goddess-like Mistress approaching with a bowl of what looked like food.

‘Hey there, slave man! I have come to feed you up, so that you will be strong enough for your first 41 lashes tomorrow morning! I have some nice, all-natural soup for you to drink. No nasty preservatives or E-numbers in this bowl. Here, open wide for the aeroplane! HA!’

Mistress Juliet then proceeded to take a large spoonful of the watery soup mix in the wooden spoon and set out for my gawping mouth. The soup looked like some kind of spring vegetable, or onion based concoction. I could see through the transparent, brownish-tinted liquid that small bits of what looked like dried onion and some greenery were floating around in it. I was so hungry I could not wait! The soup spoon finally reached my lips. I took a deep sniff in anticipation and excitement. To my astonishment, however, my olfactory response to the soup was to induce vomiting! It smelled revolting!

‘Ha! Silly slave boy! It’s my new special slave soup! I will tell you the recipe, if you promise to keep it secret? It’s:

· Twelve used female tennis socks, boiled for three hours

· 1 OZ of grated foot filings (from the local pedicure salon)

· Ten toenail clippings (belonging to yours truly); those are the dried oniony looking bits

· And some good old-fashioned, nourishing toe-jam!

Tuck in, slave! We have four pints to get through!’

As my Mistress Juliet had gone to such an effort in preparing my first meal in three days, I thought it would be rude to turn my nose up at it (not that it would have been possible in these vice-like stocks anyway). I simply had to lie, and report that the ‘nourishing’ soup was indeed a meal fit for a humble foot-slave, and that it had indeed fortified me for my impending whipping tomorrow. I also assured the Mistress that I would not embarrass her by screaming for mercy on the first judicial blow of the whip! (I hoped).

Mistress Juliet was suitably impressed with my contrite and humbly oppressed attitude, and so she rewarded me by letting me lick the mud from her dirty, bare feet that was still amassed around my knees, where the constant swaying in the stocks had worn away the grass.

I was then left to rest for the day in order to mentally prepare myself for the impending, public whipping! At least I had a bare footprint of Mistress Juliet left in the mud beneath my stockaded face to look at!


The next day arrived all too swiftly! I was collected by the Female Police Force and escorted to the town kneeling-pillory (at the time all I could think was ‘great; another pillory to kneel in!’) . This pillory held me rigidly in place. Fortunately for me, Mistress Juliet had confined me in the pillory swing in such haste the previous night, that she had forgotten to remove my slave shorts, so I would not be forced to face my first real, public whipping au-naturel!

A baying female crowd had already gathered to witness my misfortune. A rather unhelpful police woman was busy scribbling my offence and sentence in pink chalk on a nearby blackboard for all to see and gawp at! At least the young woman who had confined me in the stocks was of a very slight and petit build. She struggled to lift the pillory beam on her own. What use would she be at whipping me into an anguished frenzy?

Then came the mocking female laughter. Behind me appeared a veritable giantess of a woman, clutching the dreaded, pre-oiled, punishment whip! She came round to the front of the pillory so I could see her (well, her feet anyway). Judging by the immense shadow that she cast, she must have been as tall as she was broad! She had legs like oak trees! A mane of curly, chestnut locks engulfed a bulging, angered, feminine face staring out at her embondaged fresh prey – i.e. me!

The town clock started to chime nine bells (the appointed time of official punishment for slaves in the Gynarchy X). I could see the whip trailing along the dusty ground behind me until it was out of sight! I wanted to beg the fearsome whip-Mistress to remain in front of me for a while, so that I may praise her pull-on, knee-high, black leather, blocky heeled, whip-mistressly boots! I particularly wanted to thank her for presenting me with the face-high view of a slither of black and pink, stripy kneesock protruding from her upper, right bootrim, but I don't think she would have been all that impressed! She only had two things on her violent female mind - my back and her whip!

In a few seconds of silence and baited female onlookers’ breath, I steeled myself and resolved not to break under the lash. If I had to take it, I would at least take it like a man; they could not take that from me, at least!

‘Stand by, ladies, lash one…’


‘Phooarargh!... No – wait! Stop! Mercy… mercy!...’

‘Stand by, lash two….’



‘Standby, lash three…’


She was like a whipping metronome! The pain was indescribable! I had thoroughly failed to maintain any dignity! I am ashamed to admit that I unreservedly begged and pleaded my way through the first ten agonising lashes, before we reached the first five minute rest period.

The insanely cruel whip-mistress simply placed her booted feet forward for me to kiss and further beg for clemency! She was becoming steadily more aroused by my suffering! She counted the seconds before the next set of ten cutting lashes; all I could think of was that the final set would have one extra lash to make the total up to 41; and we were only at 10!

She walked off behind me to start again.

‘No, please come back Mistress! Please, no more!’

Little did I know that my woefully inadequate display of suffering and lack of discipline had disgusted my Mistress Juliet, who had simply left the town square on the completion of the tenth lash!

‘Stand by, lash eleven…’


My eventual, and long awaited, 41st lash was delivered with as much zeal and ferocity as the long ago delivered number 1!

I was now left for six hours to publicly suffer in the kneeling stocks, and take all of the passing female derision and hatred.


I was finally back in the relative safety of Mistress Juliet’s pillory swing.

Later that night as I swung in the breeze I tried to relax, knowing that my next appointment with the cruel whip-mistress was 31 days away! Unfortunately for me however, my beloved hippy-chick Mistress was far from relaxing! She was currently in full flight down the many bending and winding streets and alleyways. She was fleeing a burning car! A harrowing experience for any young lady, but, particularly harrowing when it was this same young tearaway lady who had started the fire in the first place, and who now had the whole female police force bearing down on her!

What made things more dangerous was that the owner of the aforementioned car was none other than the Right Honourable Lady Judge Mistress Stevens! The self-same woman who had sentenced me to foot-slavery and handed down the 410 lash addition!

Sadly Mistress Juliet’s flimsy, strappy sandals were no match for the sensible, chunky, running boots of the highly trained female officers. Mistress Juliet was soon under arrest once more!


The next day my pretty Mistress and I found ourselves in the all-too familiar dock once again. The good lady Judge just stared down at us, clutching her fountain pen between clenched hands. I just looked down at Mistress Juliet’s pretty, sandal-clad, dusty bare feet on the wooden, courtroom floor. What would be the sentence this time?

SNAP! The fountain pen snapped asunder, spraying ink all across the courtroom (fortunately it landed on nothing of consequence - just my face, which caused some sniggering from the public gallery).

‘I HAVE HAD ENOUGH! This is the final straw, Miss Juliet! I intend to make YOU regret the day that YOU ever crossed me, girl! YOU will suffer MY wrath as it seems that ME punishing your SLAVE has no remedial effect on YOU! It is therefore the sentence of this court that you personally shall be sat in the town stocks for twelve hours!’

Once again, all I could selfishly think was: ‘Oh great, another twelve hours in the stocks!’ Then I realised, she called them ‘stocks’, and not the kneeling pillory? And why only twelve hours? Surely she was talking down to me, and not my beloved, innocent Mistress Juliet?

Lots of murmuring was occurring behind us. Further clarification was needed from the Judge:

‘That’s right, Juliet! I have sentenced YOU to twelve hours in the stocks! A fitting punishment for such a rebellious young woman! Let this be a warning, Judge Stevens is not to be trifled with!’

This was unprecedented! Never before in the history of Gynarchy X had a female been sentenced to the stocks! Such a harsh sentence; so unfair! It caused an outcry from the gallery. The court had to be cleared. Reporters were lined up to interview my Mistress. I was so shocked that I even forgot that this meant that I myself would have to spend 120 hours in the stocks (ten times more than the Mistress - one hour for each pretty feminine toe).


That night I was allowed to remain in the house as a distraction to my beloved Mistress. She was pacing the floor in a nervous state. She finally settled down in her seat and ordered me to paint her toenails in preparation for the next day!

‘Begging your pardon, Mistress Juliet, but, what colour would the Mistress like her pretty toenails painted?’


My job for the night was thus to paint each of my Mistress’s toenails a different, vibrant colour in glossy, artificial, luminous lacquers. Mistress Juliet had always had such natural-looking feet, it was quite a contrast to see them looking so heavily done up!

Neither of us slept well that night!


The next day Mistress Juliet appeared from her bedroom dressed somewhat more sensibly than usual. Gone was the low-hemmed, summery dress, and in its place a very sensible, utilitarian pair of blue jeans. A summary, floral top was still her upper garment of choice. On her stunning feet, she wore her ubiquitous thin, impractical, strappy sandals.

A loud knock at the door…

‘Open up! Police!’

All hopes of a last minute reprieve for the Mistress were dashed. It was a long walk to the stocks!


We finally arrived in the town square. The normal, slave, kneeling pillories were situated dead centre in the town, and were very modern additions. The stocks that were going to be used on my innocent Mistress Juliet were the original town stocks that pre-dated the Gynarchy X by over one hundred years! They were actual ‘stocks’ (to use the correct term, simply for confining the victim’s feet as opposed to a pillory that is meant for the neck and wrists of the prisoner). They had been mercifully modified with the addition of a soft, fluffy cushion on a newly made wooden bench. At least Mistress Juliet would be comfortable. On the left hand side of the stocks was a large wooden post with a chain and an iron collar (meant for me).

The dreaded moment came when Mistress Juliet was assisted to the bench, and her pretty feminine ankles placed between the rough wooden planks of injustice. This was cruel and unusual punishment in the extreme! Surely the law had lost its sense of moral decency?

CLICK! The padlock snapped shut, imprisoning the first ever woman in the stocks in Gynarchy X history. This was not a proud moment for anyone to behold, least of all Mistress Juliet. She simply pouted and tried to hold back the tears as she defiantly folded her arms across her free upper body. She looked like a sulking two-year-old!

Next came my small part to play. I was to be shackled by the neck at my Mistress’s pretty, and brightly coloured, bare sandal clad (just) feet. I was to be her ‘guardian’, it seems! I would not fail her this time!


My protection job swiftly turned to shame diversion. Mistress Juliet ordered me, under her breath, to slowly remove one of her sandals and feverishly lick, suck and kiss every square inch of her bare foot, in full view of everyone!

‘Do it slowly, and make it look as though you have never enjoyed any other experience nearly one-thousandth as much as the privilege of licking my feet clean now!’

What could I do but obey?

Under orders, I broke the rule of the foot-slave, downtrodden expression and replaced it with a sheer state of ecstasy and joy! It did the trick too! The reporters lapped it up! Thousands of pictures were taken of me looking mesmerised by the inconceivable beauty of the Mistress’s stockaded, bare feet! I sucked so hard on her small toe on the left foot, that the nail varnish actually started to come away! All of a sudden this was a public spectacle of my shame and pathetic existence, and not her cruel and unusual punishment! Judge Stevens would doubtlessly be furious! Mistress Juliet was not in the least bit contrite. She was lapping up the attention, and now speaking gaily to the reporters in her usual defiant manner, disrespecting the Judge once again, only now to a much wider audience!

Normally when I am locked in the stocks, I am allowed some rest. But my mouth was in agony after all of that sucking and licking, and my lips were red raw from all of the barefoot kissing! My Mistress had quite hard heel-skin due to being barefoot nearly all of the time.

The twelve hours had passed mercifully quickly for the Mistress! Now it was going to be my turn. It wouldn't be so bad, I suppose? 120 hours sitting on a padded bench is not exactly ‘torture’?

Wrong again!


It seems that I was to spend the whole of my sentence in the far more uncomfortable and aptly named “sitting duck stocks”. Wrists and ankles confined in the same hefty plank of wood, causing agonising back and shoulder cramps after only two or three hours. To add insult to literal injury, the good lady Judge had also brought forward my next whipping session by a full 29 days, despite medical advice to the contrary! Tomorrow morning, following another sleepless night, I was going to be whipped senseless by a man-hating, mad woman in full view of all of the townsfolk!

One small mercy, I suppose - my new, lower position will mean that I am that much closer to the whip-Mistress’s pink and black striped sock-tops. Small mercies! sighhh…

Small mercies were now all I lived for. One such small mercy came in the rather unexpected form of my subsequent harsh, second whipping. Owing to all my recent punishments and enforced near starvation ration, I was very weak at the moment. This meant that I lost consciousness after just the second set of ten brutal lashes! When I came to, I was battered and severely bruised. My lack of consciousness seemed to have served as no deterrent to the curly headed whip-mistress!

I was now left alone as the sun went down. I was cold, lonely, ashamed and in terrible cold sweats of cramped pain! These sitting-duck stocks were awful! So tight around the wrists, and my hunched position made it hard to breathe full breaths. I resigned myself to my fate, all I had to do was get through 120 hours. Then I did the maths – that’s five whole days! Oh Lord, give me strength!

Throughout the early hours of the first evening many female visitors came to mock and tease me on their way to dinner dates and parties etc. One soon-to-be reveller (a short, dark-haired, oriental lady in a leather mini-skirt and high heels over red and black striped knee socks) stopped to place her shoed feet on the cross-beam of my sitting-duck stocks for kissing. My nose was so close to her tight, stripy, oriental socks I could feel their warmth!

Much later that night, as I was again drifting in and out of consciousness, I was once again afforded some much unwanted attention. This time it was a group of six pretty, young females on their way back to a hotel following a hen party! They were all dressed in highly elaborate party frocks, and massively impractical, high heeled, glamorous shoes! The bridesmaid was the most feisty of the group. She was somewhat dishevelled looking, and worse the wear for drink!

The redheaded, curly bridesmaid was busy fumbling with the muddled contents of her handbag. She laughed loudly as she produced her favourite luminous, pink lipstick and proceeded to decorate my face, and in particular my lips, with the feminine makeup! She then proceeded to use her mascara on my eyes (sharply jabbing the left one causing many tears). This cruel mockery continued as several disparaging and hurtful words were painted on my face with the waterproof mascara brush! This caused much merriment in the group! My new temporary name was ‘Foot-whore’.

Now the redhead decided to make my overly-decorated face get to work on her feet! It was decided by her friends (now sitting in a drunken semi-circle around my stocks) that I should be made to thank her by kissing, sniffing and licking her nylon clad feet in full public view! Her shoes were hurriedly removed and she placed her left foot on the crossbeam of my stocks for kissing. The enforced hunched position I was in meant that my face was already just inches from the thick, solid wooden foot rest!

The smell was cringeworthy! Her nylon clad toes wiggled with delight in the cold, night air as the camera flashes burst into life to commemorate the on-going, hen-party merriments! My mouth was eventually red raw as the rough nylon material was continually thrust in and out of my gawping mouth causing friction burns! This went on for twenty minutes, ten minutes per foot!

Finally, a change was signalled! The buxom, blonde bride-to-be was ushered forward. She was wearing a white dress and high heeled white shoes on bare feet. She had well shaped, stocky legs that tapered sharply at the ankle. Lots of whispering could be heard, but I could not make out the words. Rather unsurprisingly, my first humiliation was to kiss the shoed toes of the soon to be married young lady. This done, I was then used as a shoe removal tool as the shoed feet were placed one at a time in my stockaded hands in order to pull the virginal white, leather foot coverings off.

This revealed a stunning pair of strong-looking, well-proportioned, feminine, milky-white feet. Her contrastingly painted, deep glossy black toenails were shining in the moonlight for all to see. They were so glossy that I could use her big toes as mirrors, which was a shock as my appearance was truly shameful! As I kissed the first toe, sharp pain invaded my body from all directions. One of the girls who was sat on the ground was busy snapping a discarded rubber band on the sole of my confined right foot! Another girl, out of sight behind me, was busy jabbing my sides with her long fingernails!

This caused me violent spasms, and my back and shoulder muscles locked up in a fiery rage of pain!


Such mockingly evil, female laughter had never before reverberated so loudly around the streets!

Now came the second part of my secret surprise humiliation. My blonde, soon-to-be Mrs. Mistress, sat herself on my crossbeam facing me! We were being filmed on camera phones from all angles for this part. Her buxom bosoms were almost right in my face! I was becoming rather aroused by all of this close attention by such a stunning, natural beauty! I was, after all, still a man (even if that man was now a foot-slave).

Now came the bit they were all whispering about. Her plump, sexy, bare feet were thrust down between my captive legs. Her long, well-pampered, black-lacquered toenails began probing my insignificant male area! I was on the verge of breaking through my flimsy, prison-issue, slave shorts! Every time this happened, her pretty feet were cruelly withdrawn! I was deliberately left wanting more! This happened six times over the next forty minutes!

Eventually the gaggle of girls left me, stating that tomorrow the pretty bride would be fully satisfied by her new, manly husband, while I had to remain in the sitting-duck stocks alone and unloved (and unsatisfied).

So cruel (but true!)

‘Bye, Foot-whore! See ya! Wouldn't want to be ya! HA!’


The coming days brought little relief. I was mocked severely for the new artwork on my ugly features. The pain of the sitting-duck stocks was never ending! Every day I was rudely awoken by some cruel vixen, throwing some kind of foot-related detritus into my defenseless face. The shame was ongoing, seemingly neverending, and soul destroying!

Little did I know that back in the real, free people’s world of the Gynarchy X, a storm was brewing. My beloved, law-hating, hippy-chick Mistress Juliet was busy gathering supporters who were backing her campaign to have the lady Judge removed from office! The cruel and unusual punishment meted out to Mistress Juliet had hit a nerve in the town. The Judge was furious at the outcry for her to resign as the high-court Judge! Worse still, the cruel punishment of the stocks on the innocent Miss Juliet had not only failed to quell the rebellious streak within her, it had fired her spirit still further! She was now more determined than ever to ruin the good Lady Judge.

A hitherto unheard of (in the Gynarchy X) petition was hastily drawn up and circulated amongst the female populace. Feeling against the lady Judge was growing. Something had to be done to diffuse the situation!

The final few minutes of my confinement in the heinous, sitting-duck stocks rolled around agonisingly slowly. I counted the seconds on the large wall clock that was deliberately opposite my contorted position in the busy, high street. The officer Mistress who locked the padlock five days ago was once again present with keys in hand. If truth be told, she had been present for nearly twenty minutes now, just studying my anguished, exhausted features. She too was counting the seconds, as she did not want to release me from my wooden bonds a second early, thereby defying the ruling of the court (and lessening my sentence and suffering!).

As the clock chimed, the padlock fell to the floor, and the heavy wooden crossbeam swung open freeing my aching limbs. I was so contorted that it took me a full minute to remove my wrists and ankles from the hateful contraption. My Guard Mistress was in no hurry, however. She was closely monitoring my every flinch, as it seemed to give her a deep pleasure watching my new suffering take hold! Due to my tardiness, I had actually done an extra two minutes in the stocks beyond my designated sentence!

I was finally reunited with my beloved hippy-chick Mistress Juliet! I was so happy to see her (even though she was upside-down). Well, to be honest, I was upside-down. I had to be dragged by my leg irons through the cobbled streets back to Mistress Juliet’s house as my legs were locked in agonising cramps. My head banged along the rough bumps every foot of the way! I was so pleased to see her that I did not really notice that she was busy locking me into her horrid swing pillory contraption again – upside down!

There I was, once again swinging to and fro in the breeze. I may as well be a slave in the perma-stocks! Once secured, she disappeared behind me? I could feel her pulling hard at my hips! Oh no, she was busy pulling my tattered slave shorts off again! She returned to face me as she catapulted my flimsy garment up into the tree branches once more!

‘There, there slave! All as nature intended again! Now you can tell me all about your time in the horrible, sitting-duck stocks as I feed you your nourishing, all natural foot-slave soup. Was it uncomfortable, were you scared? Did you like being teased? Who painted your face like that? How many women’s feet did you have to suck clean?’

At least she seemed to like me; I suppose things could be worse, couldn't they?

As my pretty Mistress settled down to listen to my male tales of woe in the sitting-duck stocks, she gently pressed her dusty, bare, right foot to my face in order to swing me back and forth as the tree creaked above me in the increasingly cool breeze. Maybe I would get to lick her feet clean tonight as a special treat?

Just as we were about to part for the night (her going back to the heated house, and me stopping in her hand-made, ethically sourced, swinging pillory) she went down on one knee and gently patted me on the face, saying softly and lovingly:

‘I am grateful for what you have done for me, and will remember you always’.

What was she on about? Was she going to leave me here, naked and swinging in the breeze? Or worse, was I going to leave her?


Following a sleepless night filled with worry and dread, I could just see my Mistress Juliet approaching from the house. She was dressed in her only semi-posh clothes - her tight blue jeans and strappy, flimsy, bare foot sandals! The same ones she wore when I was locked in that set of town stocks! I could not take that again! Please, anything but the sitting-duck stocks!

Nothing was said; she just smiled at me and mounted my shoulders, using me as an upside-down swing.

About an hour later the Female Police arrived. Mistress Juliet was asked to dress her slave so as to not cause offence to the public. This done, I was finally released from the vice-like grip of the wooden, wing-stock planks. These planks were quickly replaced with polished, steel bracelets behind my back (handcuffs). We then all marched off on foot - the first time I was permitted to walk since sentencing - towards the main town-prison building conveniently located nearby! Once outside the gate, the dreaded female Judge met us with a small entourage.

‘I have the papers here, Julie. Are you still willing to sign? It’s a fair trade!’

Mistress Juliet said nothing. She just pushed me aside, and walked forward to sign the papers that the Judge was clutching. This done, the lady Judge clicked her fingers and grinned widely. Then I could see a similarly restrained, half naked weed of a man being dragged forwards. He was wearing only a pair of yellowish, sweat stained, flimsy cotton shorts, and a nasty looking, black leather hood with the number ‘86’ in bold, white letters on the front and back! The female guards on either arm undid the metal restraints around his wrists and ankles, and then unlocked the leather hood and pulled it off his face! Mistress Juliet was elated and simultaneously shocked!
It was her boyfriend!

‘Oh Brad! What have they done to you? You used to be so well built!’

Mistress Juliet clung to her emaciated former man. The two female guards were now making out towards me, clutching those fetters and, more worryingly, that mask! I was spun to face my beloved Mistress as the guards roughly replaced my lightweight handcuffs with more sturdy wrist shackles.

‘No need for the leg irons, Janey! This one has his own permanent jewellery on his ankles! HA!’

Now, as I faced my sad looking Mistress, she revealed all to me:

‘I’m sorry, slave, but this was too good an opportunity for us to pass up. The Judge has agreed that you can take Brad’s place on the prison treadmill for the next eighteen years, as a sort of prisoner exchange. All I had to do was promise to be good, and stop attacking the heartless bitch! I’m sorry that it had to end like this, but how many second chances do you get in life? I hope they go easy on you. I just love Brad too much to leave him to rot in that evil building. I know that you are strong, and can take it slave! And besides, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you are pleasing me, your Mistress, by serving my boyfriend’s sentence in his stead! OKAY, you can mask him and take him in now, guards! Goodbye, slave, and on behalf of master Brad and myself, thanks again!’

I froze in fear as the mask, still filled with cold sweat from its previous owner of the last two years, was pulled over my head and locked in position thus obscuring my identity. I was now just prisoner no. 86. This made it easier for the guard Mistresses to whip without mercy, and treat the prisoners like mere objects rather than people.

So that was it! Condemned to eighteen years on the treadmill for a crime I didn’t commit! I had to think of a way out, then I remembered…

‘Stop! I have only done two of my whip sessions in the town square, remember? You can’t just lock me away what about my additional punishment?’

I know that it was a feeble and pathetic suggestion but, I was desperate! So desperate, that I was now begging for the stocks and the whip!

This pathetic begging was making the cruel Judge smile wider and wider.

‘Not to worry, prisoner ’86. I will sort it for you! I will arrange to have the burly whip-mistress that you hold in such high regard relocate to the treadmill to supervise you. That way, she will be the one that is responsible for whipping you morning, noon and night, for 15 hours a day, for the next 18 years! HA! Thanks for reminding me, though. I would have forgotten about the additional punishment! I hear that you have been set 5000 treadmill revolutions per day before they feed you, so you had better get started hadn't you? You may take number ’86 away now ladies; we have finished with him!’

‘Help me, Mistress Juliet! Help me, please! Mercy!’

As I looked through the eye slits in my plain, black, anonymity, prison mask, I could see the happy couple -Brad & Juliet - walking away from me arm in arm. A happy ending, for them anyway!


I was now chained to an overhead beam, set up in my wooden pen facing the heavy, wooden, waterwheel- like contraption. My new constant companion of toil and strain for the next 18 years. My temporary supervisor Mistress was all too happy to assist me with her whip in getting to my target of 5000 revolutions per day. Mistress Michelle, from the Special Unit, was working as a supervisor to make some extra money until my new, heavy-set, merciless whip-mistress could be relocated to superintend my works!

In front of my face was a large revolution counter set at zero. Every time I completed a revolution, the number would roll round. It would take nearly half a minute to complete just one revolution. Every ten revolutions, a second drum indicator wheel would rotate. Each section on the drum had another humiliating word like, ‘Unloved’, ‘Pathetic’, ‘Slave’, ‘Crushed’, ‘Lonely’, ‘Prisoner’, & ‘Manacled’, displayed directly in my eye line. I was obviously going to get to know these humbling words well as the years and indicator wheels rolled by!

I had better get started, with a little help from Mistress Michelle;




The End

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