It can be a cold and lonely place – being confined in the local, sink-estate, kneeling stocks late at night, when the good folks of the neighbourhood have finished mocking you for the day and retired to their respective, warm and cosy flats or houses to smoke crack. Only the owls come out at night to hoot their wise old derision at you.
But there is, occasionally, some kindly human soul who is equally prepared to brave the autumnal cold and darkness in order to keep a helpless prisoner-slave in the night-stocks company, and tonight I am graced by the presence of one such selfless, young lady of the Gynarchy.
I don't recognise her or know her name, but I do know that she looks very pretty, well wrapped-up as she is against the frosty, autumnal air in her thick, black anorak and matching, black-denim, bell-bottom jeans. I also admire her cheap-looking, plain black leather loafers, and the occasional flash of what appears to be incongruously white sock, as she smilingly makes her free way towards me across a crackling sea of frosty, dead leaves. Mind you, I have little choice but to admire her shoes and socks, pinioned as I am on my hands and knees, and with my forlorn face surrounded by thick, rough, dead wood as I am obliged to stare respectfully downwards at the sink-estate wasteground on which my betters walk!
I catch a long enough glimpse of her long, black hair, and pretty, smiling features, however, to quickly establish that she is of Pakistani origins; and her lovely accent when she deigns to address me, confirms it:
'Ha! Ha! How you are liking it, prisoner-slave? How you are liking being all alone and in pain in the kneeling stocks on this dark and frosty evening, isn't it? Ha! Ha!'
I'm quite used to being mocked by now – this is my fourth consecutive day and night in the stocks. And I have four more days and nights to go, so it's just as well that I have become accustomed to it, and don't 'rise’ to it; not that I could rise, of course – being weighed down by such ignominiously heavy and unforgiving wood! I therefore give an appropriately contrite and fearful response to the mocking Pakistani girl – fearful, because this unknown, twenty-something-year-old no doubt knows that she can do whatever she damn well likes to me; out here, I am in her precocious, Pakistani-female power and at her magnificent, Muslim-girl mercy:
'Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you pretty, Pakistani mistress madam, truly this slave is suffering greatly in the stocks, mistress – but deservedly so, if I may say so madam?'
She laughs heartily at my suitably obsequious response:
'Ha! Ha! Poor slave! Would you be liking me to be staying a while and keeping you company, isn't it?...'
It must be a rhetorical question, for she has already pulled up the so-called 'mocking chair', supplied by the authorities for anyone to sit on whilst they mock the prisoner-slave in the uncomfortable stocks! She makes herself comfortable, stretching out her shapely, bejeaned legs in front of me so that her black-loafered and white-socked feet are resting in the dirt immediately beneath my confined face:
'...Ha! Ha! I will be staying here for a while so that you may be admiring my shoes and socks, isn't it prisoner-slave? See how my white socks are patterned, so there is much to be keeping your stupid slave-mind busy while I am reading my book, isn't it?'
'Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress. God bless you, pretty mistress!'
'No talking, slave; just be studying my shoes and socks!'
Suitably rebuked, I shut up, and obediently start to study the young, Pakistani stranger-woman's shoes and socks, as I have been bidden to do.
She's quite right, of course; her anklesocks, which I had initially perceived as being pure white beneath her black, bell-bottom, jean hems as she had walked up towards me, although they are white-based, are, in fact, heavily patterned with Christmassy themes – even though it's still only late October! I'm guessing this young, sink-estate, Pakistani woman can't afford to be too seasonal in her choice of socks, since she is undeniably poor. But at least her unseasonably festive socks are enriching my life, and I realise that I should be honoured that she, a Muslim girl, is deigning to wear Christmassy-themed, white socks at all, for she is almost certainly, out of the kindness of her Muslim-girl heart, doing so just to brighten up my pitiful-prisoner existence!
So, I set about studying her seasonal socks in great detail, whilst the wearer of the socks betters herself even further by reading her racily-covered, romantic fiction book above me.
The first thing I notice is that her Christmas-themed socks are very shapely; she has shapely anklebones, and that adds kudos to the socks, as it beautifies them even further, in my downcast eyes!
Secondly, as I have already indicated, they are white-based, presumably to represent the snow of a traditional, Gynarchy Christmas (or possibly just because they are sweet feminine socks?)
The ‘patterns’ in her slush-white socks involve a mixture of:
- A stereotypical, fat, jolly, red-coated Santa Claus riding through the night sky on his sleigh, pulled somewhat predictably by a couple of reindeer, at least one of which has a shiny, red nose
- Some multicoloured boxes of tastefully wrapped Christmas presents
- Some sprigs of green holly and mistletoe (oh, what wouldn't I give right now to kiss this prickly, but holy, Pakistani girl’s socks beneath the mistletoe, which, despite its name, is actually depicted just below her shapely, socked anklebone!)
- Some happy elves – Santa's little helpers – busily making Christmas presents presumably for all the good footslaves of the Gynarchy – and, thus, most decidedly not for the likes of me!
- A triangular, bauble-decorated Christmas tree, with a Christmas fairy-angel on top
- And to crown it all, the words 'Merry Xmas' are written in big, bold, red letters against the snow-white, cotton backdrop of sock just below the narrow, girly-pink, triangular-bunting-themed, elasticated socktops
So my Pakistani tormentress-mistress is quite right – there is much going on in her full-length, Christmas-themed, white anklesocks to keep me amused; and likewise much for me, a footslave-prisoner, to admire!
And that's before one even starts to contemplate the movement in her socks, as she subliminally flexes her sweet-feminine, foot muscles whilst reading her book. Jolly, fat Santa's bright, red coat creases and folds with every stretch of her shapely, right ankle, creating the impression that he is laughing heartily at me – the pretty, Pakistani girl’s serious sock-studier!
Meanwhile, I can’t help noticing that the stitching in the white cotton socks is perpendicular, and narrow. These must be a suitably warming pair of socks for her feet, even though they are made of only cotton, and not wool – and are not that thick. I'm glad the Pakistani mistress's feet are not cold, however, and are warmly protected by her autumnal sockwear – for I am truly shivering in my male-nakedness in the stocks! Still, I deserve to be left out in the cold, for I am being punished for being male; this young woman has done nothing wrong, being female, and therefore deserves to be warm and comfortable as she sits in front of me, keeping me company at the stocks! (I do hope she doesn't decide to warm my back up with the nearby, public-use whip, though!)
She suddenly, subconsciously, reaches down to scratch an itch on her left anklebone, and I am afforded an exciting, and totally unexpected, glimpse of beautiful, Pakistani-girl, bare brown ankleflesh! I lower my gaze in shame back to the main body of the sock, for such bare-skin delights are not for the likes of me! As if reading my filthy mind (as opposed to her filthy book), having dealt with her irritating ankle-itch the modest, young, Muslim woman pulls up her left anklesock to once again completely cover her naked flesh, and damselish decorum is restored! It also means Santa's coat is now much less creased on her left sock, as if he has finally composed himself (the Christmas logos, I should explain, are identical on both, matching socks; so two Santas for me to study; two Christmas trees etc.)
One mustn't neglect the young woman’s shoes, of course! They may be just an ordinary pair of everyday, plain black leather, round-toed and somewhat scuffmarked, flat-heeled loafers, but they do, thankfully, reveal a goodly amount of sock! Imagine if she was wearing ankleboots, and only her pink-elasticated, bunting-themed socktops were visible to the naked footslave-prisoner eye! All those Christmassy, cartoon logos going to waste! Unthinkable! So I inwardly praise and bless the girl's musty-smelling, black leather loafer-shoes, for so wantonly revealing the main body of her socks to me! If only she would subconsciously dangle the slip-on shoes off the ends of her socked toes – then I would get to see her sock-insteps and heels! But that's not going to happen; this young lady is not here to give me a cheap thrill – she's here to humiliate me!
After some three hours she finally puts down her book, and stands up. She then stretches forth her right loafer-shoe up to my kneeling lips:
'I am leaving you now, slave. Be kissing my foot, and praising and blessing me for showing you my socks, isn't it?'
'Yes mistress!... kiss...kiss...Oh thank you, pretty Pakistani mistress!...kiss...kiss... God bless you for sitting with me on this cold, autumnal evening, mistress...kiss...kiss...kiss...and for keeping me company with your beautiful socks, sweet and kind, Pakistani mistress madam!...kiss...kiss...kiss...kiss...'
She then holds her left foot up to my kneeling face for me to pay the same unctuous homage to it.
Then, just before she leaves, her parting shot:
'Ha! Ha! I am off to be making love with my husband now, slave, in our nice, warm, cosy bed. Be thinking about my dirty, white socks lying in the corner of my bedroom while I am making love to my husband, and be imagining that you are inside my house smelling the socks most diligently, dirty sockslave! Ha! Ha!'
I'm sure that the Santa Claus on her right foot winks at me as she turns to leave!
'Yes, mistress! This slave will obey your commandments, mistress. Thank you, and God bless you and your husband, mistress! Merry Christmas, mistress!'
I hope that was the right thing to say, even though it’s still only October, and she possibly doesn’t celebrate Christmas? It certainly would appear so, for I hear her mockingly triumphant, Pakistani-girl laughter echoing around the deserted sink-estate as she disappears into the otherwise silent night, taking her (un)seasonal socks with her...