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After I was chained and hooded for several hours on a rigid bar, it was decided to change the procedure. The chains were replaced with ropes, and the hood was removed. It was merciful. Except for the fact that I was stretched and suspended upside down.

#rope bottom #barefoot boy #bdsmax

What is it with the Feet ?!

Why the feet ?!

I had been asked recently (again) what it is with our fixation on my feet.

Now, I must admit that neither my owner nor myself have any psychology degree. We have not studied how humans tick or anything like that. This is just the two of us and a pile of experience. I am not sure if anything of it can be generalized but – well – that is how it goes for me:

Does fetishism play a role in it?

Yes, I think so. And there you are already into the great unknown. Neither internet presentation nor scientific research give you an answer how foot fetishism works, where it comes from and what it really does.

There are theories and ideas out there. Early childhood experiences may play a role. Also the brain areas busy with sexual experiences and those ‘managing the feet’ seem close. A bigger overlap between the two areas might lead to foot fetishism.

We just don’t know. But I think an element of foot fetish will certainly have played a role in developing our relation.

But there is more to the feet than just a foot fetish. Human beings stand upright. In fact there are all sorts of graphical depictions how becoming human went hand in hand – well foot in foot may be – with becoming upright. Take the upright pose away from a human being and you take away a lot of the human stance.

You can even find it all through language: ‘humans make a stand’, ‘humans stand up to be counted’, ‘humans go the extra mile’, … removing the standing, the going and you remove a lot of the notion of being human.

When I wake up in the morning with my feet shackled and chained to the bed, I do not make a stand and I certainly go nowhere. I wake up and one of the first conscious feelings is that I am not in control of my feet. Someone else is.

When at home on the sofa, my feet shackled together and chained, then I have a ask permission to stand, permission to walk. My feet are someone’s property. I must ask to be allowed to use them for walking.

When we are out and about, me being barefoot with a short walking chain, then I do feel that I am owned. I might be allowed to be upright but I will not stride out, let alone run.

And foot torture – mind you, it is important to me that it is torture, not punishment!

Punishment puts the slave in charge. Behave well and you are fine. Misbehave and you hurt. So, in a quirky way I would get nothing out of punishment. I would after all be still in charge. There is still place for choice though: cane or leather strap, whip or baton but it is never about if I get tortured only about the how.

And torture now – that is very different from punishment. Torture is applied independent of what I do, how I behave. Torture is more like a bitter medicine. I think for me it replaces pain-of-the-mind with pain-of-the-body.

Having the soles of my feet whipped is an intense experience. There I am on my back. Hands tied. I cannot interfere. I will not cover my feet, swipe the cane away or anything like that. I am gagged. I will not plead. I will not beg for mercy to cry out when I cannot stand it any longer. I am blindfolded. I will not see what comes for me. I am alone in my head. I will not anticipate a blow but only feel the sting of the cane when it bites into my sole.

The expectation alone drives away a lot of my demons.

Slavery and torture is certainly not a ‘game’ for us. There is no ‘safeword’. A safeword would put me in charge of my life. Such game would be of little use to me. Barefoottorture … there is all sorts of musings about reflexology. Is the human body depicted into the soles of the feet? I do not know. But there is a thousand thousand nerve endings in the soles of the feet. And – yes, I do believe that my soles provide some window to my soul. Is the bastinado the evil sister of reflexology? When offering my condemned feet at least I feel that I am offering my all: soles and soul. When my owner executes my feet there is certainly no safeword. I cannot save my soles. I cannot save my soul. It is not about me enduring torture. The very idea is that I cannot endure. My owner is breaking me, breaking the flawed, damaged human being and carefully rearranging the shards to form a content – a happy slave.

My owner breaking me – that did on rare occasion become quite literal. First time I had received a hefty bastinado. On hands and knees for a day and a half. Walking like on egg shells for another day and then slowly, slowly getting on with it. It had been a few days and some stinging pain remained and getting home from work one day I realized that all was not well. A swift detour to A&E and when I finally arrived home, I arrived on crutches with my foot in a plaster cast.

For an hour of so my owner and tried our best not to look at the elephant in the room, or rather my toes peeking out of a nice white plaster cast. Then my owner burst out with all sorts of apologies and miscalculated and really sorry … while I burst out with the confession that having my feet broken by my owner felt … right. Just right. Now, we do like long distance hikes. We like climbing. So, destroying my feet was out of the question but we came to the conclusion that if a broken metatarsal was a side effect of my treatment – so be it. And it was lovely when a week after my first break we visited friends and they had organized a wheelchair for me to get around. Being pushed through town in a wheelchair by my owner … pure bliss. I mean barefoot in shackles and chain would be one step more wonderful but the feeling of relying on someone to get me around – nice!

Over the years we have thought of hobbling. But I think this will (and should?) remain a mind-game. Hobbling is the crippling of a slave’s feet to restrict its walking permanently. There are some gains to be had: I cannot really be out and about in town barefoot in shackles and chain. Would I love to? Oh, yes! It would be nice to be publicly restrained. It would feel good. It would feel right and I would feel liberated. This is not so much about the public statement of being enslaved but it is about the feeling of being free from deciding, free from my own will when out and about.

Would hobbling work? If I would have for example a big toe trimmed away – as with shackles and chain I would feel with every step (well, every other step) that my walking is restrained. Would I like that? Yes. Yes, most certainly.

I know several people who rely on, in some case quite powerful, drugs to cope. I think for me pain is the drug: anxiety-anti-dote, depression-suppression, fear-cure, … all that and more. If the side effects I suffer is – in the worst case – needing crutches for some days, that is fine with me. If that is better than the – sometimes severe – side effects of medical drugs … hard to say. It certainly works for me. But, yes – every medicine is a balancing act between benefit and side effect. To me enslavement and torture work just fine. Enslavement as a medicine takes away some of my responsibilities and leaves me feeling liberated and able to cope. Torture for me acts like a ‘brain reset’ clearing out spiralling thoughts of anxiety, worry and fear.

Torture helps me to ‘let go’. Torture breaks my will. I am not obedient. Obedience … now, that is choice: behaving good or not; following orders or not. That is a lot of responsibility. If I have to be obedient then I could well run my own life. What would be the point?

A hammer is not obedient. Driving a nail with firm blows, you don’t think: ‘now, this is an obedient hammer!’ Turning a stubborn bolt with a wrench, you would not think: ‘oh, what an obedient wrench.’ A tool is a thing. A tool functions. Torture helps me let go of my will and want and to function. Functioning carries no anxiety.

A caring, skilled craftsman would not abuse a tool for a job it cannot do. My owner would never abuse me for a task I cannot manage. Sitting on the sofa, hands tied behind, feet shackled and chained and with a gag in my mouth, my owner comes. ‘We need to figure out how much material we need.’ My feet get unchained. I am led to the desk. My feet get locked my hands untied.

I can do this. Not easy but I am good at thinking in three dimensions, seeing sheets unfold and come together into desired forms. I calculate. I check. I draw and redraw. Not easy. A complex shape but finally I am done. Nice! Good!

My owner comes along. I get my gag out. ‘Look ,this is fitting here and that part comes from this sheet.’ We talk. We discuss. ‘Brilliant!’ I am proud. I function well, very well indeed.

I get a loving, caring kiss. I am gagged. Dinner soon. I am led to the table. I kneel down. Hands tied behind, my walking chain is locked to my hands. Easy. Comfortable. Unyielding. My owner pulls a bag over my head, shields me from the passing of time and from expectation. I am locked. I am safe. I look forward to being fed by a loving, caring and strict owner. I am a slave.

I love the feeling of my bare feet in shackles and chain.

And when I present my bare soles for execution, I willingly kiss the rubber baton that will break me.

#slave #enslaved #barefoot #tied feet #shackled feet #foot torture #bastinado #falaka #soles #chained #barefootbondage #barefoot boy