A is for Aardvark

By Slave Paul

 

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It is not often the case, in the fast paced and oftentimes cruel world of the Gynarchy X, that justice is truly seen to be fair and just. I, sadly, can truly say that for what I am about to receive, I am truly deserving!

Possibly for the last time in my life, I am to be the centre of attention. Sadly for me, I am indeed the central character in this scene, for I am the soon to be the tried and accused prisoner in the dock!

I have given up all hope of a lenient sentence, for I am truly guilty of one of the most heinous crimes possible to commit in the glorious Gynarchy X States - I am guilty of male-tax evasion! I made the choice; it’s my fault! I chose not to pay the recently increased Female Enjoyment Enhancement Tax (commonly referred to as FEET tax). As my arresting Officer pointed out ‘You obviously feel that you are above the law and that females do not deserve the finer things in life! You will pay for that, in one way or another HA!’

I fear that the gallant, young, Chinese Officer was indeed correct; I would be made to pay! My only chance now was to show utter remorse, and hope for anything other than a life sentence!

There she is - the chubby, blonde clerk of the court reading out my charge for all to hear! I look around to survey the stunned faces of the public gallery. They are mortified at the gravity of my crimes. Just think, moments from now they will be watching me ….

‘I said, how do you plead prisoner in the dock?’

I was so intimidated by my surroundings that I had nearly missed my chance to plead for sweet feminine clemency!

‘Oh begging your pardon, Madam Judge! If it so pleases you, Ma’am, this wretched male prisoner confesses to all of the terrible crimes that he has been accused of, if it so pleases you Madam, and he humbly and respectfully begs to be treated like the criminal filth he is Madam!’

There, that should do it; at least I will have won her over by my shameful, male fawning!

‘Well, thank you for finally dignifying the court with an answer, prisoner! In court terminology we would simply reply, ‘Guilty to all charges Madam!’ As for the sentencing, I will decide on your fate, if you don't mind, Sir?’

A loud giggle was heard in the gallery. One of the female crowd was quite amused by the Lady Judge’s sarcastic humour at my expense. I had evidently failed to impress my ‘Empress’, so-to-speak!

A queue of recalcitrant males was forming behind me; this was going to be a busy day for the female law; lots of sentences to hand out! The good Lady Judge had finished twirling her pen through her powerful fingers:

‘Prisoner in the dock, in view of the serious nature of your crime, your sentence would ordinarily be an automatic life sentence in the foothole dungeons! However, this is your first crime, so I am compelled to be more lenient! It is therefore the sentence of the court that you spend the rest of your life as a personal footslave to a mistress following purchase at the public auction of male prisoners scheduled in five weeks’ time. All proceeds to go to the female tax relief fund! Have you anything to say, convict?…. No? Well take him away then!’

In a way I was quite relieved; it could have been worse! To be sentenced to a life of punishment when one is innocent of all crime must truly be a terrible experience. I had to take what was coming to me because I did deserve it (maybe not all of it). At least I would not be spending the rest of my life underground!


I had five weeks locked in a cell in which to consider my future. I may be lucky and get purchased by a young, pretty girl! There are surely many worse things in life than kissing a pretty maiden’s feet and shoes all day long?

A day before the prisoner-slave auction, we were all lead out from our cells to have our heads shaved. This was not a pleasant experience. We then had our auction lot numbers drawn onto our heads with marker pens, as we were told (to much female guard merriment) that we were to be secured in the stocks for the night before the auction, so that our numbers could be seen clearly!

As I was now a ‘lifer’ as they put it, I was given a new name. It was tattooed onto my right hand for all to see. I was now called Footslave 417042. Hardly a name to aspire to!

Now we were left hanging just inches from the floor in our tight fitting wooden beams nearly three inches thick!

 

Stocks1

 

The next day it was our job to try and sell ourselves as best we could! I was Lot No7. The morning sun brought a little relief to my tired and aching, confined-in-wood limbs! A large crowd of young women (and rather alarmingly some men) had already started to assemble in the town square! I was subjected to all manner of humiliations. I was prodded and probed for pain response; my hands were tested for softness by having girls’ sweaty, nylon clad toes dragged over the palms of my captive hands in order to ensure I had no calloused skin to snag their delicate foot garments!

I was whipped, caned, tweaked and pinched all through the morning.

Some young women actually deigned to speak to us, in order to ask us pertinent questions! One such girl (extremely pretty with auburn, curly hair and a svelte figure) bent down to my enforced kneeling position and asked in a Welsh accent:

‘How are you liking the stocks, slave? I hear that it is the elbows that actually go first, and not the shoulders, you know?’

‘Begging your pardon, Madam prospective buyer, but this humble fool in the stocks can report that he is indeed suffering in this tight, humiliating grip of rough wooden confinement, Madam. This slave can also report that it is indeed the elbows that ‘go first’ madam, closely followed by the neck, and then the shoulders, Madam!’

‘Oh good! Always nice to have an urban myth cleared up! I am glad you like this tight wood. If I were to purchase you, I would be riveting you into a permanent, five-inch-thick, mahogany cangue that is two-feet-square! That will learn you good, boy! HA!’

I did not care too much for that idea at all!

My next speaking visitor was a giant of a girl! She was truly huge in every dimension. She waddled towards me in her bulging, zip up leather, ankle boots (flat heeled of course). The ground shook beneath my sore knees! She knelt down in front of me to survey my face. I was not supposed to meet her gaze, of course, but a furtive glimpse revealed a pretty, if somewhat reddened, face caused by high blood pressure, no doubt. Frizzy, blonde curls framed her pleasing, happy looking face.

At least, she seemed happy, and if she purchased me, she would be too out of shape to whip me into shape, so-to-speak! Maybe this would not be such a bad thing, after all?

‘Hi, slave! You look like a fine specimen! I bet you would be happy with me as your footmistress, eh?’

‘Oh yes, Mistress! This slave would indeed be honoured to become your personal property, Madam!’

‘Well, I’m sure that is what you would think initially, boy!’

She reached round behind the wood of the stocks and clamped her sharp, scissor-like fingernails around my defenceless, right nipple! AAAWWH!

‘Oh yes, quite a good screamer then? I will tell you now, boy, if I win you in the auction you will be my special slave. You see, I already have a left foot, and a right foot, slave! All I need now is a torture slave! Daddy has given me the money to buy one (hopefully you) just to suffer for my pleasure! You will be spending your life from now on in chains; on the rack; your feet in the crusher; your thumbs screwed into presses; your head in a vice-like helmet of pain! Oh joy! HA!’

Oh mercy, no!

The insanely mad and chubby, spoiled daddy’s girl needed two free men to assist her back up onto her feet before she could move on to formally register her interest in me. I just had to pray that someone with more money than sense liked the look of me, and was willing to enter a bidding war with my prospective, full-time torturess! (unlikely).

My final visitor in the stocks before the auction was quite stunning to behold. She had long, reddish/golden hair, and a pale white complexion with girlish freckles. She looked strangely familiar? She gazed down at me through black sunglasses and surveyed her slave auction brochure. Then she suddenly dropped to my ignominious level, and stared into my face!

‘Is that you, Paul?’

Who was she? She obviously recognised me?

The stunning young woman removed her glasses. Suddenly I recognised her! It was Michelle from school! She was not quite the natural beauty then! Indeed, I remember that she was quite strange looking at school!

‘Yes, Miss Michelle. It is me, Madam! I have been sentenced to footslavery for life for non-payment of the FEET tax, Madam!’

She laughed and then ran her fingers over my artificially bald head.

‘Remember what you used to call me at school, Paul? Think hard, now!’

She seized my earlobe tightly between her fingernails and pinched! I was struggling to remember through the pain!

Aardvark! You used to call me aardvark, you nasty, vile, male cretin! At least I have got my nose artificially fixed, whereas you still look the same - a hideous, small, little man! HA!’

So that was why I did not recognise her; she had had her nose fixed!

‘I would love to win you, so I could make you suffer for all of those little insults you passed me when we were kids! I wonder how much to bid for you?’

Oh no! What a position to be in! Two women, each hell bent on making your life a living hell full of humiliation and suffering, prepared to enter a bidding war over you!

I was not the most popular person at school (that was an understatement), but my sudden rise to humorous popularity came at Michelle’s expense. I had a knack of pointing out her many faults, including her witch-like nose, to the merriment of her much prettier, fellow female students! It was fair to say that I was a bully! But, this ugly duckling had metamorphosed into a stunning picture of womanhood since our last encounter. I, on the other hand (the one that was not tattooed with my slave number), was now a fool in the stocks, awaiting a life of pain and humiliation (although in what ratio depends on the outcome of this auction!).


Lots 1-6 sold relatively quickly. Now it was my turn! The Auctioness walked over to my enforced, kneeling position whilst Lot number six was being removed from his stocks to the sales office.

‘Ladies, here we have a convicted, female-tax dodger, condemned to life as a footslave. As you can see, he has nice, big hands, fit to massage your tired, sweaty feet in the evenings. And a good, long tongue to use on your dirty footwear! Shall we start the bidding at 12 Fems?’

12 seemed a little low to start with, I thought!

‘Fifty!’ shouted the scary, spoiled-brat of a blonde, would-be torturess!

‘Eighty!’ shouted Miss Michelle!

‘175.50!’ retorted my dreaded, future, frizzy blonde owner, as she haughtily bent over to tug at the padlock on my stocks!

I was almost in tears at the prospect. The auction fell silent in astonishment; nobody had ever bid so high on a mere prisoner-footslave before!

‘Going once….. Going twice….. Are we all done?…. Sol…’

‘TWO HUNDRED!’

Wow! The crowd was blown away!

‘Two hundred Fems I am bid!... Going once… Going Twice…. Sold to Miss Michelle for TWO HUNDRED FEMS!’

I was so relieved that I nearly passed out! The blonde mistress, conversely, was so enraged at being thus humiliated that she kicked me hard in the unprotected face, and waddled off into the sun! This helped bring me round just as the lock was being removed and the attention was turning to slave No. 8 on my left.

I was now kneeling in front of my new owner, Miss (or from now, on ‘Mistress’) Michelle. She looked down through her sunglasses at me, as she clicked her long finger nails and blew bubbles with her gum. She was smiling a wicked smile!

……………………………………………………………..

We arrived at Mistress Michelle’s opulent house on the outskirts of the capital in time for the sun to go down. Once inside, she just looked me up and down as I knelt trembling on the floor terrified of what was to come. It took her a while to speak to me, but finally she murmured in a very calm, low tone:

‘Well, what am I going to do with you, slave Paul? Something especially wicked, I think, eh? I need time to think, so I am going to lock you in my basement for a couple of days. Alright?’

She said this as though I had a choice! I was ‘gently’ kicked towards the door of the basement. As I was tossed inside and the light went on, she hesitated, and then suddenly halted altogether:

‘Wait! I’ve had an idea!’

She then bent down to roughly pull off her spike-heeled, black leather, ankle boots. This revealed a somewhat bobbled-up pair of black, cotton, ankle socks that were carelessly wrenched from her clammy feet and tossed towards me. They both landed in my kneeling lap! I assumed that I was supposed to kiss her sweaty, bare feet, as a demonstration of my humility, or something?

WHAM CLUNK!

The door was slammed shut, and the light turned out!

A voice came from the other side of the door:

‘You can stay in there and sniff and then lick my dirty bootsocks clean for a couple of days, until I decide what to do with you, SLAVE!

……………………………………………….

Two agonisingly slow, and smelly, days passed by. I had little else to do to amuse myself other than feel my way around her worn-down bootsocks with my fingers. They filled the small, cramped quarters of her suburban basement with their stale, musty odour. I had no option but to breathe it in, as I pondered my future life of humiliation!

Outside my cell door, plans were afoot (quite literally) to make my life as miserable as possible.

I was finally removed from my cell on day three. I had been a footslave for just three days now, and had only caught a fleeting glimpse of this young woman’s bare feet. I had not even kissed her boots yet?

‘Hello, footfool Paul. How are you today, Footfool Paul?’

She kept emphasising that word ‘footfool’, as though it was my new name, or something?

‘What do all footfools have in common, slave?’

‘Begging your pardon, Mistress Michelle, but this humble slave would have to say, being a slave to women’s feet?’

‘Well, derr! Of course! But what else do all footfools have in common? Think, facial features…’

‘Oh no! Please, not that, Michelle! Please, anything but that!’

I was terrified! Was she really going to have me fitted with a dreaded footfool’s mask? Surely she wouldn't do that; not even to me – her erstwhile sworn enemy?’

‘HA! Got it in one, slave! The footfool’s mask! I want you to be different, though! I don't want to hide your identity. I want people to know that it is you that is my permanent slave. I want your humiliation to be absolute. For that reason, I regret to say, that I cannot mask you. I have, however, planned something else…’

THUMP!

All the lights went out. I was struck from behind and passed out immediately.

When I finally came round, I was laying on my back in a brightly lit room. It could have been an operating theatre, or something with a medical connection anyway? My face and head were stinging and quite tender. I could feel my face with my hands. I was so relieved to feel that my natural skin had not been permanently covered with a tacky, artificially shiny, mismatched, latex fool’s mask!

The door opened, and in walked Mistress Michelle and two women in white lab coats. The three immediately burst into uncontrollable laughter at my appearance? I dropped to my knees, as is befitting in a slave. I just stared at the feet of the two lab technicians. They were bare legged, in high heeled, black and red, shiny patent leather shoes. The most striking thing about them was the huge number of tattoos that they had on their shapely bare legs!

Mistress Michelle sat on the bed and looked down at me through the laughter.

‘Oh, I’m so glad that we can still really see that it is him! I did not want him to look anonymous underneath all that. Well done, girls!’

Anonymous underneath what, I thought?

One of the lab technicians helpfully offered up a mirror. To my horror, my face was now permanently tattooed a sickly green colour! They had ruined my face! Mistress Michelle described what SHE had ordered for me:

‘I decided that you are to be my permanent footfool, so I wanted to have you tattooed. This way, all of your naturally ugly features show through, so you will not have the one mercy that a footfool’s mask provides - “anonymity”. Now all my friends will see me humiliate and degrade you, because of your looks! Your head is now permanently bald, which makes a nice blank canvas, I think, for future additions! Your ears have silly, pointy bits glued to the tops, to help emphasise your foolish side to all and sundry. And I chose the horrid words to permanently adorn your face - they will sum up the rest of your miserable life, Paul! HA!’

 

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I just cried into my hands as the three young women towered above me, laughing and mocking! Surely I could sink no lower?

It would seem that, once again, I was wrong. The next day I was escorted home so that I could, quite literally, sink lower, into the Mistress’s new ‘foot-box’. This was her new pride and joy. It was built into the opulent timber decking. She had it deliberately built into the front elevation of the house, so that everyone would be able to see me being humiliated from the busy road opposite. A bus stop was situated just outside her garden gate, so all of the female commuters could revel in my humiliation!


Mistress Michelle would come and visit me, every now and then. The blistering heat of the Gynarchy summer was burning down on my bald green head! The Mistress was barefoot and approaching with a nice, cool looking, summer fruits drink in her pretty, feminine hand. She sat on the decking, and slurped noisily as she watched me lick my parched and dry, cracked lips! The only thing that would be quenching my footslave thirst, was offerings from in-between her toes!

Mistress Michelle then set about digging around her pretty feet for what she called “delicious slave nourishment”, just for me to enjoy! The crowd at the bus stop were cheering her on. What I did not know was that, above the decking, she had placed a sign explaining my past “un-kindness” to her!

 

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On days where she thought I needed a bit of additional humiliation, she would invite her friends over for a party. She would dress herself up in some pretty, summery frock and pay me a visit before everyone else arrived. She would then delight in saying:

‘Okay Paul, hold still and see if we can get Mr. Aardvark to make an appearance!’

Mr. Aardvark was her code word for the “humiliator helmet”. This was a specially commissioned, wrought iron, head cage similar to the ones used on witches in the olden days, and sometimes referred to as a ‘Scold’s Bridle’. This special re-invention was designed to carry a humiliatingly long nasal appendage! A plate closed off my mouth so that I had to breathe through the long, snout-like, metal tube. Mistress Michelle would then helpfully wiggle her pretty toes around the aperture of the snout, so I could experience the full force of her intimate, unwashed foot smells.

All I could do was to look out through the barred eye holes of the humliator helmet, and hope that I did not recognise any of the other girls from school at the party!

A bell fitted to the springy, steel bar over my head was to attract some much-unwanted female attention whenever I moved a muscle! When anyone would walk by, Mistress Michelle would shout in a shrill tone:

‘And to think he used to say that I had a big nose! HA! What a fool! A is for asshole! A is for Aardvark!’

 

Humiliator

 

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