I reckon that my new mistress's mother – 45 year old mistress Caroline – pint-sized though she may be, is nevertheless a female force to be reckoned with!
I base that assertion on the fact that she has come out, fresh and early in the morning – fully clothed in her winter-warm, navy-blue anorak and matching, dark blue jeans with plain, black loafers – to the back yard whipping-post of the modest, terraced house she shares with her unmarried, 22 year old daughter; the very same back yard whipping-post to which I have just spent my first, shivering, semi-naked night tethered like an animal, because she reportedly cannot bear to have a male slave sleeping indoors, near to herself and her daughter, like a 'proper', free-man about the house would do!
And she has come out into the cold, early-morning air – not to comfort me; or to check-up on my wellbeing; or even just to feed me some of her leftover breakfast; but to angrily warn me that her daughter, Zara, my aforementioned new, personal footmistress, is the apple of her eye, and can do no wrong – and that I must therefore be pleasing to her daughter, or suffer the consequences of her unforgiving, household whip!
I must respectfully ‘cup and kiss’ her daughter's feet every time she deigns to enter my presence, and verbally fawn and grovel to her – never taking my eye off the ball of her pretty foot; for her daughter is my infinite better. Nor must I think of her daughter in libidinous terms, since I am not good enough for her daughter in that sense – being a mere dirty slave; and besides, her daughter is engaged to be married to a 'fine and handsome, young man' called Ben ('master Benjamin sir' to me), to whom I must afford equal respect since he too is my better – even though I am, by law, not permitted to kiss his actual feet or footwear; only the dirty ground in front of his feet!
Fully-clothed mistress Caroline then crouches down in front of the whipping-post at which I am tethered, slumped on my hands and knees, in order to show me the household whip she had earlier threateningly referred to. I can now see that it is a thick-girthed but tapering, three-feet-long, stretched and twisted, bulls-pizzle whip; it looks very sore, as my mistress Zara's mother lovingly runs it through her somewhat podgy, 45 year old fingers.
As she shows me the whip, her middle-aged, jean hems ride up above the tops of her plain black, loafer shoes (thanks to her crouching position) to reveal that she is wearing dark-coloured nylons beneath her jeans and on her still-shapely, 45 year old, anklebones – though I have no way of knowing whether they are kneehigh, or full length, nylon stockings or pantihose. They may even be ankle-length, nylon socks! However, ever-mindful of the nearby whip, and my vulnerable position tied to the whipping post, I repeatedly kiss mistress Caroline's plain black loafer shoes on the rounded, scuffmarked toe-areas, as well as her nylon-protected anklebones (however high that dark nylon may extend beneath her blue jeans), in a slavish gesture of compliance with her wishes, and by way of a clear indication of my fear and trembling before her, her daughter, and her daughter's manly fiancé!
Just then, her daughter Zara – my new personal-footmistress – and her fiancé, master Benjamin sir, emerge from inside the house into the back yard, likewise fully clothed, but hand in hand, and evidently having just slept together under mistress Caroline's accommodating roof, judging by the warm glow on their fresh, 20-something faces!
My mistress's mother stands up again and makes way for me to kiss her daughter's all-important feet – though the fact that my hands are tethered to the whipping post means that I am unfortunately unable to first worshipfully 'cup' my mistress Zara's feet before kissing them, as instructed by mistress Caroline madam. I'm sure she will forgive me for that, under the ignominious circumstances!
My new footmistress Zara is wearing a fetching pair of plain black leather ballet-flats, and I am gratified to see that she is wearing matching, plain black cotton anklesocks inside those flats beneath her black cotton, bootcut trouser-hems. Also, thanks to the fact that she graciously hitches up each flapping trouser-hem in turn as she presents each foot to me for kissing, I can see that those full-length, black, bobbled anklesocks cover an equally shapely pair of feminine anklebones as her mother's. It is therefore with a genuine sense of uncapped worshipfulness that I kiss my new, 22 year old mistress's plain black shoes and socks on this cold and frosty morning – in full view of her sneering, young fiancé.
Speaking of whom, my mistress Zara then gigglingly steps to one side and invites her boyfriend to stand directly in front of the wooden whipping-post where I am tethered and kneeling with my head humbly bowed, so that I may duly kiss the ground in front of his superior, freemale feet in accordance with the Gynarchy’s laws, since he is my mistress's favourite and fiancé. Master Benjamin sir smilingly takes her up on her offer, and my mouth respectfully touches the dirty ground of the terraced-house, back yard on which he walks.
My mistress Zara and her boyfriend then explain to madam Caroline that they have to rush off to catch their bus into college, and my mistress Zara exhorts her mother not to release me from my back yard bondage until they get home, as she knows that her fiancé, master Benjamin sir, is keen to try out the household whip on me!
It transpired, however, that I didn't have to wait for master Benjamin to return home from college later that day before I experienced my first, stinging taste of the bulls-pizzle whip, for, as soon as the happy young couple were gone, mistress Caroline madam angrily reminded me of my 'flagrant disobedience in not first cupping her daughter's ballet-flated feet before kissing them', and pronounced impromptu sentence upon me of 50 harsh lashes, which she then proceeded to deliver with her own fair hands cupped around the bulls-pizzle, whip handle!
Needless to say, I accepted my punishment with pain, humility and resignation, since having my arms tethered to the whipping post was, on reflection, no excuse for disobeying mistress Caroline's orders. I can see that now – thanks to the enlightening sting of the whip!
Yes – my mistress's middle-aged mother is most definitely a female force to be reckoned with!
It is only natural that the morose, early-morning, slightly overweight, 30-something, black customer-mistress on my sit-down, public shoelick stall should reek of bad breath, body odour, and sweaty feet, since she has been up on those feet all night working hard, cleaning the surrounding railway station, and is shamelessly sockless inside her plain, black loafer, cleaning-lady shoes!
But she doesn't give a fig about her unfeminine, bodily smells and excretions as I lick-attend to her dirty, scuffmarked loafers – largely because I'm just a two-bit, male, public footservant whose job it is to deal with female smells and unpleasantness every waking moment of my lowly life! I should be used to it! And if I'm not yet used to it – if I visibly grimace or baulk at my customer-mistress's bad breath, body odour or foot sweat – the public-use whipping stick will soon make me willingly embrace such unpleasant smells! For these should be the everyday odours of a public footslave's life!
Oh, but when the beautiful, black customer-mistress silently breaks wind above me, I can't help but choke on the gust of foul-smelling, inner gut-air emanating from beneath her noxious, night-shift- cleaner's skirt! She clearly has no superior-female regard for me whatsoever, and despises me!
And rightly so – for, as a slave, I should feel honoured to be breathing in her expelled, intestinal air!
The fat, middle-aged, uniformed, prison-governess mistress seems suitably impressed as she inspects her young officer’s work on my bare back and shoulders by poking and prodding my open whip-wounds with her prison-governess stick:
'Mmm....very good! See that his wounds remain untreated and are allowed to fester!' she declares commandingly.
'Yes, ma'am!' responds the pretty, young, blonde-ponytailed, prison-guard mistress who happens to be supervising me on the treadmill at the time, though she has temporarily hopped down from the treadmill-supervisor's raised chair in front of me in order to respectfully stand to attention in front of the prison-governess.
The junior officer then politely invites the prison-governess to climb up into the supervisory seat of female power herself, in order to have her governessly, black leather, uniform ankleboots respectfully kissed by the 'whip-scarred, treadmill prisoner-slave' – an offer the 40-something prison-governess mistress takes her up on, albeit with some difficulty, given her rather large size!
The treadmill well and truly weighs a ton as the governess-mistress settles herself down into the raised chair formerly occupied by her relatively lightweight, 20-something, blonde-ponytailed officer-mistress:
'You there, the dirty treadmill-prisoner, kiss and lick the prison-governess's black leather ankleboots in front of your face, and verbally praise and bless her for inspecting and poking your whip-wounds on your back!', barks the belligerent blonde girl.
Meanwhile, the prison-governess mistress has hitched up her navy-blue-uniform, trouser hems so that I get to see her personal-preference, no-nonsense, plain black bootsocks inside her uniform ankleboots (the prison doesn't appear to have a set, uniform code for sockwear inside the boots, as all my supervisory officer-mistresses wear different coloured socks inside their boots; the blonde-ponytailed officer-mistress on duty at the moment, for example, is wearing white socks with little, pink-heart logos along the elasticated tops inside her laced-up, uniform ankleboots!)
I obediently kiss and lick the broad, rounded boot-toes of the fat governess-mistress, as I have been blonde-officer ordered to do:
'Oh pray, governess-mistress...kiss...kiss...God bless you for visiting me in this place of male-prisoner correction and torment, mistress ...lick...lick... and thank you for poking and prodding the sore whip-marks on my bare back and shoulders, governess-mistress madam!... kiss...lick...kiss...lick... I hope my putrid back does not offend you, madam? ...kiss...lick...kiss...kiss...'
'Ha! Ha! On the contrary, prisoner! Your whipped back pleases me! Now get back to work!'
And with that the prison-governess shows the blonde-haired, junior officer how it's done by slashing me hard across my bare shoulders with her prison-governess inspection stick, thereby opening up yet more cross-wounds on my already whip-cut back, and forcing me to start walking the treadmill again through the sheer power of pain!
I appear to have passed the inspection, but must not now pass out! That would be a shame – to miss the sight of the all-powerful prison-governess's glorious, black ankleboots and black socks supervising my continued hard-labour on the prison treadmill!
What an honour!
Longstanding, 33 year old, dark-haired, Pakistani office-mistress Sobia is back from her posting abroad, and looking fabulous – richer; even more successful; even more dominant! And understandably so, given that she has just come back to the Gynarchy on well-deserved promotion!
As she takes up her seat on my office-corridor shoelick stall, I gush over her familiar, plain black office-loafers and matching, black anklesocks beneath her slightly raised, black cotton, office trouser-hems:
‘Oh pray, mistress Sobia! Oh bless, goddess-mistress Sobia! Oh mistress – your shoes; your socks! Oh I have missed them so much, if it pleases you most magnificent mistress Sobia?’
She laughs at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Less fawning and more licking, isn’t it slave? Be putting your tongue immediately where your mouth is, and lickshining the dirt off my shoes. And do not be touching my socks until I am telling you to!’
It’s a cruel stipulation – for I yearn to nose her Pakistani-girl, office socks; to ascertain whether they smell any differently, now that she has been promoted and is going up in the world! They certainly don’t look any different; in fact – I recognise this particular pair from before her 12 month posting abroad, thanks to the distinctive lines of bobbling and greying along the insteps! But I wonder if they smell any differently – now that she is an executive manageress!
Her loafers aren’t new either; I recognise them too. And they taste surprisingly the same – like any other pair of shiny black, patent leather loafers, despite her female promotion upwards in the world; they taste bitter; and dusty; and dirty. Oh but this is now executive shoedirt and dust – to be especially respected and savoured; just as the creases in her black socks are now executive sock-creases; and the sweat ingrained in her perpendicular sock-stitches is executive footsweat. I must be even more admiring of office-goddess mistress Sobia’s footwear from now on, since she has climbed even higher up the ladder of female success, and the Gynarchy’s social scale!
I, of course, remain, as always, at the very bottom of that scale – though my tongue now has the inestimable honour of licking executive, Pakistani-lady shoes; so I guess that’s a promotion of sorts for me too?
An executive face-slap!
‘Be getting on with your lowly work, foot-flunkey! I haven’t got all day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, goddess-mistress Sobia! Sorry, goddess-mistress Sobia!’
An executive rebuke! Truly I am going up in the world after all!
· Angelica spotted the runaway footslave hiding at the bottom of her garden
· His bare back looked well-whipped and sore
· Being a nurse by profession, she could have gone over and attended to his wounds
· Instead she called the Female Police and had him arrested
· Several days later his grateful footmistress, a young black lady, invited Angelica over to her house to watch the runaway footslave being punished for running away
· The young black woman then made the whipped slave kiss Angelica’s angelic-looking, white ballet-flats 700 times each, and thank her for turning him in to the Female Authorities
· Angelica was delighted that she had done the right thing, and her frilly, white anklesocks creased and folded around her lower ankles with sadistic pleasure as the failed runaway slave was forced to repeatedly kiss her outstretched, off-duty ballet-shoes
· Angelica also received a letter of commendation from the local mayoress for her public-spirited actions in turning in the escaped footslave to the authorities
· The local Female Newspaper subsequently published an article praising Angelica
· I think she has every right to feel proud of what she did; just as it was right for the runaway slave to be sorely whipped!
· For in the Gynarchy of Barbaria a male slave is enslaved for life; and deservedly so!
It’s an absolute, Gynarchy-prison truism that as soon as one’s treadmill supervisor-mistress enters one’s cell – whomsoever she is – you crawl over to her feet (if your chains are long enough to let you do so) and kiss and bless them, in a faux-display of enthusiasm and pleasure at her entering your presence, as well as an effort to elicit sweet feminine mercy and compassion in her; for this young, uniformed, female authority figure will now have you in her absolute female power for the next 4 hours or so, and has unbridled authority to utilise the stinging whip across your bare back and shoulders!
In short, you make out like you are pleased to see her, even though you fear her, and what she might be about to do to you! And you do so even if your heart sinks – even if you know from bitter, previous experience, labouring on the treadmill under her charge, that no amount of foot-grovelling will elicit compassion and mercy in the particular, young treadmill-mistress who has just entered your cell.
Like, for example, stern-faced and hardnosed, black, treadmill-supervisor mistress Sonia – she of the pricklish temperament; ticklish feet; and excruciatingly painfulish whip! Hell, she never even wears uniform boots and socks – just plain, black, civilian ballet-flats and dark nylons; how could you possibly be pleased to see her? And yet, you must honour and glorify her as if she were your favourite supervisor-mistress in the whole, wide prison (since that is very much the limit of your world), and kiss her uniform-exemption, plain black ballet-flated and dark-nyloned feet beneath her frumpish, below-the-knee-length, navy-blue, uniform skirt, as if she were a white sock wearing, black leather anklebooted kind of treadmill-supervisor mistress – the kind you genuinely admire!
Treadmill supervisor-mistress Sonia knows full well, of course, that your initial grovelling at her supervisory feet is born of fear rather than a genuine respect – a slavish grovelling as synthetic as her dark nylons – but she will soon whip some genuine respect into you, despite your weaselly words pathetically petitioning her for mercy:
‘Oh pray, goddess supervisor-mistress Sonia…ballet-flat kiss…ballet-flat kiss…ballet-flat kiss…ballet-flat kiss… Oh thank you for entering my presence with your whip, mistress… nylon-anklebone kiss…nylon-anklebone kiss… nylon-anklebone kiss…nylon-anklebone kiss… Please work me hard, most respected and admired treadmill-supervisor mistress Sonia… ballet-flat kiss…ballet-flat kiss…nylon-anklebone kiss… nylon-anklebone kiss… whilst showing sweet feminine mercy on my back and shoulders with your whip, madam… nylon-anklebone kiss… nylon-anklebone kiss…nylon-anklebone kiss… if you would be so kind and understanding to a dirty, male prisoner-slave in your absolute power and at your sweet feminine mercy, black officer-mistress?... nylon-anklebone kiss… nylon-anklebone kiss…’
You try to focus your kisses on her nyloned anklebones as we footslaves know full well that the way to a lady’s heart is often through the feel of a slave’s trembling lips on her ankles – foolishly forgetting, in your haste to elicit mercy, that black supervisor-mistress Sonia is unusually ticklish, as well as pricklish!
BIG MISTAKE! Almost instantly the whip does precisely what you were hoping it wouldn’t do – and cuts a swathe of hurtful pain through your bended, right shoulderblade. You have gotten off on the wrong foot – or, more accurately, the wrong part of her foot; you should have concentrated your lips on her outer ballet-flat!
But it’s too late now – you have inadvertently riled her, and now must suffer the consequences of black supervisor-mistress Sonia’s pricklish and capricious temper for the next four hours, all under the biting sting of her supervisory whip as you hard-labour on the unforgiving treadmill, regaled only by the sight of her uninspiring, plain black, dusty ballet-flats and ticklish, black-flesh-toned nylons covering her ankles, and with no exciting, female boot and sock to comfort you in your forthcoming hours of need!
I think you’ve just scored a very unfortunate own-goal, my friend!
The pretty, 20-something, Indian customer-mistress simply wants her black kneesocks straightened and pulled up above her black leather ankleboots. I think she is just too lazy to pull up her own socks (as she has every right to be!)
‘Be pulling my socks up my legs, slave! And do not be touching my bare skin while you are pulling them up, or I will be having you sorely whipped! And I am wanting to be hearing my socks rubbing most gently against my lower legskin while you are pulling on them, you damned, impudent sockslave!’
‘Don’t worry, darling! I’ll soon teach this dirty slave some respect for your feet and socks!’
Macho master Alistair sir – always very protective of his pretty, young wife miss Zoe madam – then proceeds to belabour me with his bulls-pizzle whip whilst I kneel at his wife’s geekish, grey-woollen- kneesocks-over-black-woollen-tights, covered feet.
Not really my thing – socks over tights; I much prefer socks which are in direct contact with a young woman’s footsweat. And heavily-bespectacled, mousy-haired mistress Zoe is neither conventionally beautiful, nor conventionally footsweaty! Indeed, her temporarily discarded, brown leather, strappy high-heeled sandals actually allow her tights and socks covered feet to breathe!
But, like macho master Alistair says, I must learn proper respect for his wife’s unconventional, lower-legwear tastes, and that is what the bulls-pizzle whip will do – beat some much-needed, footslavish respect into me. How dare I visibly turn my nose up at his wife’s plain, grey, woollen kneesocks – just because they aren’t in direct contact with her flesh! I deserve to be whipped for my footslavish insolence, and I humbly confess as much to the master sir and mistress madam – both before and after the angry whip has taught me my painful lesson!
I don’t think I’ll be making that same mistake again!Teaching me a lesson! by patheticus on GoAnimate
‘Slave, I didn’t give you permission to lick my instep! Guard, come here please!’
The prickly, slender and very beautiful, young, black, businesswoman customer-mistress calls over the nearby public-shoelick-booth guard.
‘You called me, madam?’ he politely enquires, whip in hand.
‘Yes! This dirty footslave has just licked the side of my black, court shoe without permission! I only told him to kiss my black shoe-toes! I want him whipped!’
‘Certainly, madam! I do apologise on behalf of the slave, madam, since he is forbidden to answer back! How many lashes would madam like the slave to receive?’
‘No problem, pretty madam. Please just sit back, relax, and enjoy witnessing the disobedient slave suffering at your feet, madam!’
The anonymous, black customer-mistress follows the male guard’s advice (I think she quite fancies him), and her dark nylons crease ever so slightly around her shapely, black anklebones beneath her knee-length, black-pinstriped skirt as she readies herself for my whipping.
Those same, dark nylons screw up with female-positive delight at every agonising stroke of the guard’s manly whip to my bare back and shoulders. This haughty, young, black businesswoman is clearly revelling in my trumped-up pain (for, my mouth hadn’t been anywhere near her court-shoed insteps, but, like the guard says, I am just a slave who is forbidden to answer back!).
I therefore bite my falsely-accused tongue, and take my punishment like a slave, from a real man!
‘Excuse me, old slave man; my girlfriend has just stepped in some mud. Can you lick it off her shoe for her please?’
‘Yes certainly, master sir; it will be my pleasure, master sir!’
You see – a bit of politeness never hurt anyone. Mind you, if I had declined the master-sir’s polite request, the whip would, no doubt, have been swift to hurt me!Politeness never hurt anyone by patheticus on GoAnimate