I am a part public/part private footslave.
My master Kevin and mistress Kirsty employ me to lick clean female footwear – specifically ladies’ ankleboots – out on the streets at my makeshift, public bootlick-stand during the daytime. And then, during the evenings, I must serve my mistress Kirsty as her personal foot-rest at home.
I suppose you could say that I get to experience the best of both worlds when it comes to being a footslave; or should that be the worst of both worlds, since my married master and mistress are very cruel towards me, and very demanding.
They have instituted, for example, a system of customer-feedback from the ladies I serve out on the streets during the daytimes, in which the female-customers are asked to leave a card marking my performance in 5 key areas:
I can be awarded up to a maximum of 5 points for each section of my C.H.O.R.E card, and at the end of each week, at 06:00 am on a Sunday morning, I am whipped by a factor of 5 lashes for ever point I have fallen short of the maximum, possible score!
Thus, on a bad week, when I have been busy serving lots of disgruntled and hard-to-please, arrogant, young bootwomen out on the streets, I might be due for an almighty thrashing of anything up to 100 lashes. Even on a good week, when my customer-mistresses have been in a good mood and disposed to give me high-marks, I can still expect as many as 20-25, Sunday morning whip marks!
Master Kevin does the whipping, but mistress Kirsty does the toting up – every Saturday evening – and I’ll swear she sometimes can’t count properly! She certainly always seems to err on the side of caution when it comes to adding up my chore-cards, for I always seem to end up getting more whips than I am expecting!
To add to my public humiliation, every Sunday morning, after my whipping, master Kevin sir places a sign on the wall above my kneeling and bowed head at my public bootlick-stand (for I must continue working 7 days a week – no rest for the whipped!) declaring to the female world just how many lashes I had received at their behest, and thanking all my customer-mistresses for their feedback. For that very reason most of my regular customer-mistresses like to visit my backstreet bootlick-stand on a Sunday, just so they can see the results of master Kevin sir’s handiwork on my back, and revel in my pain and suffering!
Today is a typical, busy Sunday afternoon in the town square where I lick ankleboots for my master and mistress’s living, and my 27th regular customer-mistress of the day is standing over me with her pretty, right leg outstretched onto the wooden footblock before me as I kneel in the backstreet dirt and lickshine her dirty and dusty, street-soiled ankleboot.
As I said before, I specialize in ankleboots only, since my master and mistress opine, quite rightly, that a part-time public footslave like myself lacks the skills to tongueclean other, more complicated types of ladies’ footwear, such as ballet flats, low-cut shoes and sandals – since my inexperienced slave-tongue might inadvertently stray onto female sock or nylon stocking; or even worse onto bare, female flesh!
Similarly, I am not skilled enough to be permitted to lickshine a lady’s knee or thigh-length boots, or even her calf-length boots, since there would be too much bootleather for my inexperienced, part-time tongue to cope with, and I would inevitably take too long! Most of my lady-customers are in a hurry, and just want a quick and uncomplicated lick and a shine to their short, street-soiled ankleboots.
But when it comes to mouth-cleaning ladies’ ankleboots, I am most definitely the trained slave for the job! For I do have considerable experience of tongueshining ankleboots, thanks to my own blonde mistress Kirsty’s predilection for wearing them herself.
But back to regular customer-mistress no. 27 – the gloating, 23 year old, dark-haired and dark-skinned, Indian student-mistress, miss Nadia. Miss Nadia is a true, Indian beauty – a shapely figure; dark, penetrating eyes; ultra-soft, smooth, young looking skin, such as I get to see of it – which is mainly the skin on her shapely, Indian calf-muscles atop her distinctive, dark green bootsocks.
I will say one thing for her – Miss Nadia may enjoy mocking me and lording it over me, but at the same time she is nothing if not obliging towards me as she towers over me in her Sunday ‘best’, consisting of her student-girl, dark-blue, denim jeans and black leather, chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, zipped-up ankleboots! For she always, without fail, graciously hitches up the thick, dusty hems of her jeans to afford my anklebootlicking-face full and unimpeded access to the very tops of her boots, thereby affording my mesmerized eyes a surreptitious glimpse of her soft, brown, forbidden, Indian-girl legskin atop her wrinkled and creased, green cotton bootsocks.
Oh how I love her precious, green socks and soft brown skin – even though I must focus in on her black boot leather! I think that’s why she has been marking me down lately on my C.H.O.R.E scorecard– she has detected my inattentiveness towards her upper bootleather, and has been revelling in my slavish inability to take my eyes off her pretty legs and socks!
She has certainly noticed, as I endeavour to lickshine the zipper area of her outstretched, fully-exposed, right ankleboot, both the makeshift sign which master Kevin left on the wall above me earlier this morning, declaring that my punishment for poor, public bootlicking-performance this past week had been 73 lashes!
‘Ha! Ha! 73 lashes? Ha! Ha! You must certainly be being in the most exquisite of pain, is it slave?’
I love being mocked in her cute Indian-girl accent, since such female accents are normally so polite and civil towards the male. It only serves to emphasise my complete lack of masculinity in her disparaging, Indian eyes that such a lovely accent is used to mock and laugh at me:
‘Yes, mistress Nadia…lick…lick…Thank you, goddess-mistress Nadia… lick…lick… God bless you, divine mistress Nadia!... lick...lick…swallow…’
‘Ha! Ha! You are being most deserving of your whipping, dirty slave, since you have been being a most impudent and cheeky fellow of late, isn’t it? I have been seeing you when you have been lusting after my socks inside my boots, instead of concentrating on your humble tonguework, isn’t it?’
I know I’ve been rumbled again by the insightful and intelligent miss Nadia. No point in arguing about it – or with her assessment of my fully meriting my chastisement of the whip at the hands of my co-owner, master Kevin sir:
‘Oh pray mistress Nadia…lick…lick…swallow…gulp…. pray forgive me mistress Nadia…lick…lick…if you would be so kind to a freshly footslave, mistress Nadia?’
Mistress Nadia withdraws her right ankleboot from my face, which is bowed over the well-used, wooden footblock, and hitches up the dusty and frayed hem of her left jean-leg prior to stretching forth her left, booted foot onto the same, somewhat rain-damp wood (it was raining heavily earlier on in the day):
‘Ha! Ha! Of course I am forgiving you for admiring my socks! After all, you are only being a subhuman slave, isn’t it? But I am still very much marking you down for not being cleaning my boots properly! Ha! Ha! I am thinking that at least 10 of those 73 lashes you received must be being from my own low marks for your incompetent handiwork, for my boots have been remaining disgustingly dirty all throughout this week even after I have been visiting your damned stall every afternoon on my way home from college, isn’t it?’
I feel wretched. If truth be told, the disappointment in mistress Nadia’s gloating voice is more of a chastisement to me than even master Kevin’s well laid on whipstrokes will be! For, although I am unable to please women in any other ways, I damn well should be able to lickshine their black leather ankleboots to their complete satisfaction! It is, after all, supposedly what my tongue does best; I get enough practice at it!
I feel truly ashamed, and yet, even in my shame, I am still lusting after the top of mistress Nadia’s twisted, green cotton bootsock just visible inside the depths of her black leather, fully zipped-up ankleboot. Even whilst I’m apologising to her, and seeking to lick off the dust and dirt from her boots which I have clearly, in her esteemed, well-educated estimation, neglected throughout the week, I am wondering internally whether she is wearing the same, green anklesocks she had on yesterday when she stopped by to have these same ankleboots licked on her way home from college!
I mean, just how many pairs of plain green bootsocks can an impecunious, Indian student-girl own?
‘Yes mistress Nadia…lick…lick…lust…lust…Pray forgive me, mistress Nadia…lust...lust...lick…lick…This slave feels truly shamed of his poor performance on your boots this past week, mistress…lick…lust…and acknowledges to the superior mistress that he is fully deserving of his harsh punishment, most beautiful and respected customer-mistress Nadia… lick…lick…lust…lust…lust…’
This is agony! To be facially so near, and yet so far, from her forbidden, green socks! Oh if only I was a fully-qualified sock-servant! Even my mistress Kirsty won’t let me mouthwash her dirty socks – the most intimate I ever get with them is when she rests her sweaty-socked feet on my upturned face of an evening whilst she is relaxing on the sofa with her manly husband, master Kevin sir, in front of the television.
I feel such a failure!
‘Indeed you are being deserving of your master’s whip, dirty useless slave, and be thinking of that while your back is being all sore and stinging – be contemplating how you have failed to properly serve the dirty boots of your most beautiful and respected Indian customer-mistress, isn’t it?’
‘Yes mistress Nadia!...lick…lick…kiss’
Contemplating mistress Nadia’s sweet boots and socks whilst experiencing a throbbing, smarting back – it’s enough to make a semi-naked maleslave blush!
19 year old miss Annabelle is the next young-female gloater to stop by and enjoy reading of my recent demise under the whip – all whilst having her leather ankleboots licked!
Miss Annabelle is a somewhat snooty English rose – mousy blonde hair; rather pointy features, including a snooty nose which is just made for looking down upon inferior beings such as we public footslaves; and a real attitude problem – the problem being that she is impossible to please!
Unlike miss Nadia before her, I think mistress Annabelle likes to cause me trouble; she revels in her absolute, young-womanly power over me; in her power to mark me down and have me whipped! Even on a good week, a fair percentage of whatever low number of lashes I receive will have been due to mistress Annabelle’s perennially low marks!
The irony is that she believes I am the one with the attitude problem! As she stands above me and hitches up the grey, cotton bootcut-trouser hem of her left leg (miss Annabelle is left-handed, not that that makes her particularly cruel or sinister) to reveal her dark brown, pull-on, pixie-boot style ankleboot in all its folded-leather glory, she well and truly mocks me for my abject failure to please my various customer-mistresses – herself included – throughout the week, as evidenced by the high whip-count on my bare and kneeling back before her:
‘Ha! Ha! 73 lashes! You deserved each and every one of them, slave, for I don’t much care for your attitude towards my boots!’
‘Yes mistress Annabelle…I mean, no mistress Annabelle…Pray forgive me, mistress Annabelle.’
I always get tongue-tied when I must speak to English-rose, customer-mistress Annabelle. She always sounds so posh and plumy; upper-class. Maybe she is – though her boots are ordinary enough.
She must have been walking a fair bit in this morning’s rain, for the lower insteps all along the sides of her boots are an even darker shade of brown – dampened and splashed by dirty rainwater. There is much to lick clean here – I must concentrate and do a good job, for today’s scorecard will count towards next Sunday morning’s flogging, and I could do without any more unnecessary lashes!
As she imperiously and snootily extends forth her left, wet-booted foot onto my footblock I catch a glimpse of pure, white, aristocratic bootsock. Very soft; very feminine; just like mistress Annabelle herself. Yet my fear of her means that I shall not allow myself to become distracted by her white sock. Despite her opinions to the contrary, I always maintain a professional and diligent approach to my work when dealing with miss Annabelle’s brown leather pixie boots, in part because they are amongst the most difficult public ankleboots to clean – having so many creases and folds in the leather where street dirt and dust can accumulate.
Today, as I remarked upon earlier, most of the damage to her boots appears to be along the lower insteps – caused by muddy rainwater – and that fact too helps me to politely ignore her white sock-top, since my mouth must concentrate on her lower bootleather.
Mistress Annabelle is a great lover of the whip, and whilst I am removing her lower bootdirt with my tongue she is keen to know what it’s like to be soundly whipped by a strong man:
‘Ha! Ha! Tell me, dirty footslave, where does your master Kevin hurt you the most when he whips you? On your shoulders or across your ribs?’
This is not a conversation that I wish to have, for it reminds me of three things:
- That I am perpetually subject to the whip;
- That I am repeatedly whipped by another man, who is thus regarded as my superior by the various customer-mistresses, including mistress Annabelle (just one of the regular, female instigators of my regular, male whippings) even if he is a second-class citizen in the Gynarchy, being a mere male. At least he is a free male, and not an embondaged male like me!
- That the whip hurts!
Small wonder, though, that mistress Annabelle is whip-curious. After all, being a snooty, young, upper-crust woman living in the Gynarchy she shall never be whipped, though she may well have the opportunity to apply the whip to a male slave when she’s old enough (young ladies have to be at least 21 years old to own a personal slave in the Gynarchy, even if they were born with a silver spoon in their upper-class mouths!)
But I must answer her question, however demeaning and uncomfortable it is for me:
‘Oh pray mistress Annabelle…lick...lick…if it pleases you rich and powerful miss Annabelle madam …lick…lick…lick… this slave particularly fears the sting of his master’s whip across his bare ribs, mistress…lick…lick…if you would be so kind and understanding to a lowly and impotent, male slave, most beautiful English mistress… lick… lick…lick…lick…’
Too right I do! There is nothing worse than a so-called ‘wrap-around’ stroke – when the cruel, single-tailed, brown leather whip bites into your bare ribs as it curls around your torso – and master Kevin sir is, unfortunately for me, highly adept at wrap-arounds, as the criss-crossed stripes on my back eloquently demonstrate!
I can feel my ribs smarting even now as I diligently lickshine the dried mudstains of the lower sides of mistress Annabelle’s brown leather pixie-boots! The brown whip would go nicely with her brown boots – be a fitting fashion accessory.
Better not tell her that!
She laughs out loud at my obsequious and super-submissive reply:
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Good! I’m glad to hear it, slave! Let’s hope your master continues to work your ribs well, then! For you deserve it!’
‘Yes mistress Annabelle…lick…lick…I do indeed deserve it, mistress Annabelle...
lick…lick… because of my inability to please my superior customer-mistresses, madam… lick…lick…lick…lick… like your good self, miss… lick…lick…lick… And thank you for your honest and accurate appraisal of my poor performance throughout this past week, mistress Annabelle …lick …lick ...lick …lick...’
I can hardly believe my own ears! I’m actually thanking mistress Annabelle for adding to my cruel whip total whilst diligently mouthcleaning the bottoms of her dirty boots – and all whilst ignoring the top of her temptingly attractive plain, white cotton bootsock, peeking out from inside her upper ankleboot! Now, that’s girl-power for you! True girl-power, combined with the threat of the whip!
She informs me she is adding a further 4 lashes to my scorecard by marking me down under the section ‘Results’.
I can assume they will be the first 4 of many next Sunday morning (if I haven’t already been marked down by my many previous customer-mistresses this Sunday afternoon!)
Black, high-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up ankleboots, over black anklesocks, on black feminine skin beneath black cotton, bootcut trouser hems – it really doesn’t get any better than that!
And that’s what I’m faced with next as regular customer-mistress Josie approaches my public bootlick-stand. Again, like the ladies before her who are all well-used to the protocols involved in having ones boots publicly lickshined, she nonchalantly hitches up her right trouser-hem before presenting me with her street-soiled ankleboot.
The difference with 25 year old miss Josie is that she likes to direct every fine detail of my humble bootlicking; ensure that each and every morsel of street-mud is consumed by my tongue in the order in which she determines, often thereby leaving the ‘juiciest’ morsels until last. It is only because she has such exacting and fastidious standards that she regularly marks me down. There is nothing malicious about it, so I can’t really blame her for her contribution to my whip-pain.
I love the way her slender, black index finger descends in front of my kneeling face to point to the precise area of boot she wants licked. Today, it’s the spiked, black leather heel area – it has mud splattered all down the tapering inner side, and miss Josie has decided that the only way she can divest her precious, right bootheel of it offending mud is to penetrate my gaping mouth with it, and to rub it along the inside of the roof of my mouth until the mud comes off – regardless of what damage she might cause to the delicate membranes inside my oral orifice!
What’s more important to her – the cleanliness of her boot, or the well-being of my mouth? No contest! Even I wouldn’t seek to contest the superiority of a young woman’s boot over my mouth!
Of course, as black mistress Josie twists her right anklebooted foot around on the footblock in order to afford her spiked-heel access into my submissive, receptacle mouth, I can’t help but observe the concomitant wrinkling and creasing of her soft, black cotton anklesock inside her boot. But, if truth be told, I am pathetically unable to become aroused by the sight of a beautiful, young black woman’s plain black bootsock inside her boot as my mind is currently preoccupied with the impending, high-heel assault on my mouth. I am hoping and praying that miss Josie’s spiked, leather bootheel won’t damage the inside of my mouth too much, if only because she is sure to mark me down if I get blood on her precious, black bootleather!
‘Open wide, slave!’ she barks down at me as her aggressive, female boot enters my passive, male mouth.
‘Yoth mothtrith’, I attempt to reply with my mouth full of black-girl muddy bootheel.
I’m sure to lose more points for that – speaking to a mistress with my mouth full. How rude!
I said at the beginning that I enjoy the worst of both worlds, being a part time public footslave and part time private footslave.
So what’s the worst thing about being the personal footslave of a beautiful and powerful, young, married, blonde woman in the evenings – after a long, hard day lickshining ankleboots out on the streets – I hear you ask?
Well – it’s smelly socks! My evenings are dominated by the aroma of my mistress Kirsty’s smelly, sweaty bootsocks – which, as I said before, she likes to rest on my upturned face whilst she is relaxing on the sofa with her husband, master Kevin, after a long, hard day at the office.
Today – Sunday – was of course, for her a rest day, as she works in an office 9-5, Mondays to Fridays; and so she is wearing her non-workday, multicoloured, thin-striped anklesocks on her weekend feet this evening – feet that have been festering inside her favourite pair of shiny pink plastic, flat-heeled, lace-up ankleboots all day. Her ‘boxer-boots’, as she calls them.
Mistress Kirsty may be a dumb blonde, but she sure knows a thing or two about style and colour-co-ordination. The multicoloured, stripy socks go very well with her striking, shiny, pink plastic ankleboots, and turn many a freeman’s head. But I only wish I could turn my head away from the smell when her boots are off and the bottoms of her sweaty-socked feet are resting on my upturned nose and face.
It’s not her fault – the cheap, pink, plastic boots just don’t allow her pretty, feminine feet to breathe throughout the day!
She doesn’t care about the stink, of course – and nor does her beloved husband Kevin; because they are too far removed from it. Only I am close enough to her sweat-moistened socks to have to inhale them, but that’s all just part and parcel of being a bright, young woman’s personal footservant – the aroma of stale sock.
As she cuddles up above me into the arms of her manly husband, thereby causing her sweaty socks to crease and fold around my kneeling, girlsock-imprisoned nose, I hear her whisper sweet nothings into his ear:
‘Don’t clean the whip yet, Kev! I want to run my fingers through it first before we go to bed!’
She’s a natural sadist, you see! Like I said – I live in the worst of both worlds; smelly socks and ankleboots in my face, and the burning, biting whip on my back!