Demoted

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Psst!… Have you heard the news?

All the office-mistresses are laughing at me, and gossiping about me, because I have recently been demoted.

I used to be the office shoe-shiner, lickshining the office ladies’ dirty shoes and boots as I crawled on my hands and knees from desk to desk; it is considered a relatively prestigious position, for a footslave. But now, thanks to the false accusations of one particular office mistress, mistress Coleen - who happens to be sleeping with the Managing Director and who accused me of not removing an ugly scuffmark from the side of one of her shiny, black court, office shoes – I have been unceremoniously demoted to the role of a fixed-point, ornamental office shoe-kisser.

No longer do I get to crawl around the office in relative freedom, seeking out ladies’ shoes and boots to lickshine; instead, I must now wait for them to come to me in the lobby entrance to the ladies’ lavatory on the basement floor. Here I must humbly and respectfully kiss the proffered shoe or boot toe of each office lady as she enters the facility, and then subsequently as she exits it. AND I MUST STRESS - NO MORE LICKSHINING BOOTS OR SHOES EITHER; JUST KISSING!

It’s a truly humiliating demotion for a once fully-qualified shoelicker like myself!

As I said, however, the sight of me – with my stupid, masked, demoted head projecting from the wall in the lobby entrance to the restroom – is causing no end of amusement and merriment for the office ladies, especially since my pink- rubbery, head mask is what’s known throughout the Glorious Gynarchy as a ‘footfool’ mask, designed to make me look irredeemably foolish and stupid. It gives me deliberately wonky and misshapen eyes and a downcast mouth; pointy, asinine ears; and, as if that weren’t humiliation enough, the following words are ignominiously emblazoned on the front of it in big, bold, black letters for all to see:

‘FAILED SHOELICKER’ ‘FOOT-MORON’ ‘QUEER FOOTKISSER’  ‘FOOTSLAVE-NINCOMPOOP’ ‘PLEASE KICK ME’

To crown it all, quite literally, there is a row of tiny, black, rubbery, model-sized, shoes running along the top of my facemask – a mixture of little rubbery courts; ankleboots; sneakers; and ballet flats – all with a tiny pair of red, rubbery lips attached to them, and all designed to emphasise my lowly status as a humble shoe and boot kisser for women.

And so, even now, some two weeks after my demotion, the ladies are making fun of me as I humbly kiss the toe areas of the same feminine footwear I used to skilfully lickshine. They certainly don’t feel any sympathy for me, and for two reasons:

  1. They believe I must be guilty of the crime of not removing a dirty scuffmark from the side of mistress Coleen’s shoe, since my false-accuser was a woman, and in the Gynarchy of Barbaria a woman’s word is law; and
  2. The new office shoelicker-slave, my replacement upstairs, is, by all accounts, much better looking, and a much better boot and shoe shiner, than I ever was – or so they gleefully tell me. I must say, though, I haven’t seen any evidence of that on the office ladies’ shoes or boots to date!

The Deriding Desi

Take, for example, the footwear of the beautiful, young, black-haired, dusky-complexioned, office woman who is approaching my confined face right now – on her way into the ladies’ basement restroom. I instantly recognise her delicious, black leather, round-toed and chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboots beneath the bootcut hems of her dark purple, office trousersuit. This is miss Imtithal, the 29 year old Pakistani girl from Accounts, whose boots I had previously been licking on a regular basis for some 7 years – without any word of complaint on her part – diligently divesting them of their accumulated street dirt and grime, mixed in with general dust and detritus from the office corridors.

Her white, Pakistani-girl teeth are beaming broadly as she prepares to deride me on her approach:

‘Ha! Ha! Are you still being here, footkissing slave? Have you really not been moving since you were last kissing my boots yesterday afternoon? Ha! Ha!’

Of course, it’s a rhetorical question – for the gloating miss Imtithal knows full well that I am now kept permanently entombed in this office-restroom, lobby wall, with only my head poking out, and with the wooden footblock fixed to the floor directly beneath my face doubling up as my hard pillow at night! So, of course, I haven’t been anywhere!

But miss Imtithal deserves a polite and submissive reply, being the superior, Pakistani female that she is:

‘Yes miss Imtithal; if it pleases you miss Imtithal. This slave must be ever ready to serve and to kiss the feet of his female betters, if it would be so pleasing to you mistress Imtithal?’

She laughs out loud at me, and then, hands on slender Pakistani-girl hips, superciliously positions her right, booted foot onto my humble footblock for kissing.

My kneeling instructions are to repeatedly kiss the lady’s shoe or boot – at respectful one second intervals – bobbing my head up and down until such time as the worshipped, female, office shoe or boot is withdrawn from the footblock.

I therefore lower my lips to the dusty, rounded toe of that oh-so-familiar, Pakistani-girl, zip-up ankleboot, and kiss it. I then raise my rubbery, pink head for one second; the boot stays put on the block; and so I lower my lips towards its rounded toe again.

Meanwhile miss Imtithal cocks her pretty, unencumbered, dark-haired head to one side to get a better view of my humiliation from on high, and continues to verbally mock me as my head repeatedly bobs up and down on her outstretched, booted foot (she clearly isn’t desperate for the loo this morning!):

‘Ha! Ha! Just think, queer footkisser, this time two weeks ago you were being permitted to lickshine my nice boot; to be cleaning it with your tongue, and to be tasting it, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! And now you can only be kissing it on the toe end! Ha! Ha! How the mighty are being fallen, isn’t it?’

‘Yes indeed mistress Imtithal…pause… kiss to Pakistani-girl, office boot-toe… if it pleases you mistress Imtithal…pause… kiss to Pakistani-girl, office boot-toe…’

She is quite right – I can’t even get a decent taste of her dirty bootleather by merely kissing it. Oh how I miss that bitter taste of young, arrogant, Pakistani woman bootleather!

Miss Imtithal deftly changes boots beneath me, and so I again pause for one second before lowering my rubbery-masked head to the equally dusty – and dare I say it scuffmarked – rounded toe of her left boot.

What on earth is that replacement bootlicker upstairs doing Doesn’t he even know how to lickshine away a lady’s boot-scuffmarks?!

Meanwhile, miss Imtithal continues with her derisory diatribe of me:

‘Ha! Ha! And not only that, but you can no longer be catching a glimpse of my socks inside my boots, isn’t it footslave-nincompoop? Ha! Ha!’

Now this last jibe does hurt, for miss Imtithal always used to wear – and presumably still does wear – the prettiest, female socks inside her boots; various pastel shades of lilac; pink; yellow; green; and orange. I used to live for a furtive glimpse of her anklelength bootsock-tops inside her boots whilst I was lickshining the uppers as she sat above me on her swivel chair at her office desk – and she knew it! She would invariably hitch up the hem of her ubiquitous, dark purple, bootcut trouser-hems as I knelt by her feet under her desk, ostensibly in order to afford my ankleboot-licking tongue unimpeded access to the very tops of her ankleboots, but in reality just to tease me with her sweet, pastel-shaded, cotton bootsocks.

Mind you, she was always just a ‘sock-tease’ – never letting me touch her socks, as such. I was never permitted to kiss them; lick them; or even sniff them. But at least she did permit me to admire them, and eulogise them, as I lickshined her surrounding bootleather. You know the sort of thing:

‘Oh pray mistress…bootlick…bootlick…Oh beautiful mistress Imtithal… bootlick … bootlick… your socks, mistress!...bootlick…bootlick… I can see the folded-over tops of your pretty bootsocks, mistress-madam! ...bootlick …bootlick …Oh thank you, most beautiful, young, Pakistani mistress-madam… bootlick …bootlick…God bless you mistress Imtithal, madam…bootlick…bootlick…’

How my slavish hankering for her socks used to amuse her, and how she used to indulge me – sweet and kind Pakistani mistress that she is!

But not any more – now she has no office-mistressly pretext for hitching up her bootcut trouser hems (other than to humour me, which would be inappropriate behaviour when interacting with an ignominiously demoted footslave) since all I am required to do now is to respectfully kiss her outstretched, black leather boot-toe!

Oh the agony of it – of knowing that a sweet, pastel-coloured, Pakistani-female bootsock is so near, and yet so far, as I humbly kiss Pakistani office-girl, black leathery ankleboot! Yet it is now just such agony, etched, it seems, even on the outside of my pink-rubbery footfool-mask, which amuses the mistress Imtithal so much!

She is still due a reply to her mocking, teasing question about my fondness for her socks:

‘Oh yes mistress Imtithal... pause…kiss to Pakistani-girl, outstretched boot-toe… if it pleases you mistress Imtithal …pausekiss to Pakistani-girl, outstretched boot-toe… truly this slave is hankering after a view of your socks…pausekiss to Pakistani-girl, outstretched boot-toe…if it is so pleasing to you mistress Imtithal… pause…kiss to Pakistani-girl, outstretched boot-toe…’

‘Ha! Ha! But I am being having no good reason to now be showing you my socks, queer bootkisser, isn’t it? Since you are being demoted to a mere doorstopper-slave? Ha! Ha!’

I have to acknowledge the veracity of her mocking statement, for I am now reduced to being naught but a ‘doorstopper’ slave – causing the superior, office ladies to stop, briefly, by the restroom door in order to have their office boots or shoes worship-kissed by a demoted footslave:

‘No mistress Imtithal…pause…kiss to Pakistani-girl, proffered boot-toe…indeed not, if it pleases you superior mistress Imtithal…pause…kiss to Pakistani-girl, proffered boot-toe…’

Mercifully, she finally withdraws her left, anklebooted foot from my footblock:

‘Ha! Ha! So you will not be knowing what colour of socks I am wearing inside my boots today, slave. I will not be telling you! Ha! Ha!’

‘No mistress Imtithal. Thank you mistress Imtithal. God bless you mistress Imtithal.’

I lower my head in pink shame – the shame of an ignorant footslave who doesn’t even know what colour of socks his customer-mistress is wearing deep inside her hot and sweaty, chunky-heeled and zipped-up, office ankleboots!

‘Ha! Ha! Be waiting here, slave. Do not be going anywhere; I shall be back soon and requiring you to kiss my boots again on my way out, isn’t it?’

‘Yes mistress. Of course mistress. This slave obeys the mistress.’

Again, she is making the mocking point that I, unlike her, cannot move anywhere, as she gaily steps through the door into the ladies’ restroom in order to powder her nose.

Meanwhile, I kneel and stare through my pink-rubbery, wonky eye-slits at a black mark on the brown, wooden footblock where the sole of her boot has just been; yet I dare not lick it off – for I am monitored 24/7 by CCTV cameras, and any unauthorised bootdirt-licking – even just residual bootdirt that has fallen off the bottom of a young, Pakistani goddess’s boot – would be sure to see me severely punished by my female employers. And so I resist the temptation to fill my stomach with some humble fare!

After some 5 minutes or so miss Imtithal re-emerges from the ladies’ restroom, apparently relieved to see that I am still here, as she plonks first her right, and then her left, booted foot down onto my wooden footblock once again, and stands imperiously over me with her dainty Pakistani hands on her equally dainty Pakistani hips, whilst I pay humble lip-homage to the still-dusty, rounded toes of her black leather, fully zipped-up, sock-hiding, chunky heeled ankleboots.

No time to chat on her way back to her office, though, it seems; presumably she’s had her fill of mocking me for today – got it all out of her system, so to speak, along with goodness only knows what else!

She doesn’t even say good-bye to me as she strolls off happily down the corridor.


Holier Than Thou, Miss Hosanna

As she does so, she greets, in passing, one of the other familiar office ladies – mistress Hosanna – who is seemingly heading my way. Mistress Hosanna is a sarky, sassy, very religious black girl – younger than miss Imtithal; about 21 or 22, I would say. She’s a junior clerk in the Insurance Dept.

But for all her religiosity, she is full of herself – and thinks she’s all that; which, of course, from my humble point of view, she is! I mean, I’m the one who’s been demoted around here – not her. Her career can only be on the up, since females are never demoted in the Gynarchy!

She is, as per usual, dressed scruffily-casually in a pair of blue denim jeans, black ankle socks, and black ballet flats. I can’t even see from my lowly vantage point – face downwards staring at the footblock – what she is wearing on her upper body parts; but my guess is it will be equally casual – a revealing, white T shirt, or some such like.

Miss Hosanna may believe in God; but she does not believe in dress codes!

I can hear that she’s noisily chewing on some gum as she plonks her ballet-flated foot down onto the footblock beneath my face:

‘Kiss the toe of my black leather ballet-flat, footslave nincompoop!’

The ladies, without exception, seem to like that particular, disparaging word emblazoned in bold, black lettering on my otherwise pink-rubbery, footfool mask!

But I don’t mind her curt and abrupt manner; in fact, I consider myself lucky, both to be spoken down to by such a holier-than-thou, young black woman, and to be permitted to answer my customer-mistresses respectfully back. For many so-called ‘ornamental footslaves’ like myself are required to be dumb, and since it’s patently obvious what slaves like me are required to do – kiss feet – there are many places where giving spoken orders to an ornamental, footkissing-slave next to an entrance or doorway is considered superfluous.

Another reason why I consider myself lucky is that miss Hosanna, for all her egotistical faults, is wearing socks which are pleasingly visible inside her plain, black, bible-bashing ballet-flats. OK, so they may be plain old boring, everyday black anklesocks to match her unremarkable, soft, black leather shoes – but at least they are the socks of a beautiful, young woman which are close-up and personal to my face, and not hidden inside a pair of female boots like their predecessors!

I am therefore treated to the sight of well-worn, bobbled, black cotton sock as I kiss black girl, black leather, ballet-flat toe – sadly, just the once, for arrogant and impatient miss Hosanna is clearly in a bit of a hurry to enter the restroom, if not the kingdom of heaven!

She certainly won’t be in a hurry to get back to her work – in all the 18 months or so I served her in my former capacity as the office shoelicker, I never once recall lickshining her ballet-flats whilst she was actually doing any work! Indeed, if I recall, she was always either reading her bible, or talking to her boyfriend via her cellphone. Or both!

She continues chewing noisily on her gum above me as she presents her second, semi-reluctant foot for me to kiss – again, just a single, respectful kiss to her soft toe-leather; I think she is literally just going through the motions before she goes through her motions, if you catch my drift?

Nevertheless, I am delighted to observe a tiny hole in the top of the plain black, cotton sock on her left foot, through which I catch an exciting glimpse of pure and holy, blackgirl-footskin.

That was probably the highlight of my day!

Miss Hosanna stopped again to have her ballet flats kissed on her departure from the restroom. She wasn’t in such a hurry this time, as I had predicted, and each ballet-flated foot stayed on my footblock, being repeatedly kissed, for about 2 minutes each. Not that she spoke to me again during this time – she was on the phone to her boyfriend.


Cold & Calculating Miss Coleen

Next up is my redheaded nemesis – mistress Coleen, the Managing Director’s PA-cum-mistress, in the ‘romantic’ sense of the word, as opposed to the slave-owning sense – although the Managing Director is, reputedly, totally besotted by her, and like putty in her sweet feminine fingers!

As, indeed, am I, for, cruel and vindictive though she may have been towards me, I do have to acknowledge that freckle-faced, mistress Coleen had every female right to report me for my perceived, maleslave inadequacy vis-à-vis her patent black leather, two-inch-heeled, pointy-toed court shoe – even if she was wrong about it (that shoe was spotless when I’d finished licking it; not a scuffmark in sight – I’d swear to it in the Female Court, if I had a whip-wish!)

Irish goddess-mistress Coleen is today wearing that same pair of shiny black courts, and finest denier, dark nylon stockings beneath her short, black office skirt. She’s in her early forties – mutton dressed as lamb some of the more bitchy, younger ladies of the office might say behind her back! But I would never speak of her behind her back; my place is to praise and honour her, and her shoes – by kissing them. For she is, self-evidently, my better – having effectively put me here!

Understandably, mistress Coleen is particularly keen to mock me, her personal victim, as she places her right, court-shoed foot onto my footblock:

‘Ha! Ha! I hope you are enjoying the new footkissing position I managed to secure for you, dirty, useless slave?’

‘Yes mistress Coleen …pause…kiss to pointy-toe of court shoe…Thank you, goddess-mistress Coleen…pause…kiss to pointy toe of court shoe… God bless you mistress Coleen!…pause…kiss to pointy toe of court shoe…’

I notice a tiny crease appear, and then just as quickly disappear, in the finest-denier, dark nylon stocking around her still-shapely anklebone, as her nylon-stockinged foot-muscles flex in an involuntary, delighted reaction to my humble, submissive act of kissing her victorious, and vainglorious foot!

‘Ha! Ha! Good! I’m glad to hear it, footslave! I had to pull quite a few strings to get you where you belong – holed up in a wall next to the ladies’ loos, kissing their dirty feet all day! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress Coleen …pause…kiss to pointy-toe of accusatory, court shoe…Thank you, goddess-mistress Coleen…pause…kiss to pointy toe of accusatory, court shoe… God bless you mistress Coleen!…pause…kiss to pointy toe of accusatory, court shoe…’

What else can I say? This is where I belong; since she has decreed it so, and her lover, the managing director, can never say no to her!

The rumour is that she only had me moved as a favour to a fellow-Irish girlfriend who wanted to get rid of her personal, household footslave, but kindly wanted him to have a reasonably prestigious role somewhere else, as he was deemed a rather good ladies’ shoe-shiner.

That’s the rumour anyway, and who am I to query it with mistress Coleen? She owes me nothing – not even an explanation – for her cruel action against me in having me demoted, even though, as I kiss her left, court shoe I search in vain for even the faintest trace of an ingrained scuffmark. I’m telling you – there was no scuffmark on the side of her shoe when I finished lickshining it those two weeks ago! Her shoes were then, as they are now, pristine – so pristine that I can even now see my rubbery refection in them, along with the shameful word ‘Nincompoop’ (back to front, of course - poopmocniN!)

I expect, however, that if anyone will get the credit for the pristine shininess of her shoes from now on, it will be that supposedly good-looking replacement shoelicker upstairs – the slave of her friend!

Bah!

Mistress Coleen didn’t even stop for her feet to be kissed on exit – more’s the pity (she was clearly keen to get back to work on, sorry with, her boss!)


The Philanthropic Philippine

The next office-mistress to approach me is, perhaps, the most humiliating of all – for it is the highly sarcastic, Filipina office-cleaning mistress, miss Yvelis, complete with bucket and mop, ready to clean the ladies’ toilets.

She too, however, is entitled to stop and have her flat, shiny black plastic, square-toed, slip-on shoes kissed before she enters the restroom, even though her only business in that rest-room is to clean it!

Like miss Colleen madam, she must be in her forties by now, but because she is so petite she looks younger. Her cheap, navy blue and red, cartoon-themed socks make her look younger as well. As I lower my lips to touch the toe of her outstretched, dirt-stained, right, black-plastic shoe, a gormless-looking, bright-red, cartoon monster of some sort is laughing back at me from the side of her sock beneath her deliberately hitched up, black cotton trouser leg.

Mistress Yvelis as if does all the talking for the mocking sock-monster, feigning surprise at my demise from my erstwhile ‘lofty’ position of roaming, office shoelicker:

‘Ha! Ha! Dirty slave no longer allowed to lick lady dirty shoe? Ha! Ha! You only kiss shoe, yes? Ha! Ha!’

She knows full well this is the case! I’ve been answering this same, repeated question from her for over two weeks now. And the sock monster must know the answer too, for she was wearing those same socks yesterday when she had questioned me about my newfound, lowly status:

‘Yes mistress Yvelis…pause...kiss to toe of cheap, shiny black, plastic shoe…if it pleases you, Filipina cleaning-mistress Yvelis...pause…kiss to toe of cheap, shiny black plastic shoe’

Her Filipina ankle-muscles flex triumphantly, causing the bright red face on the sock-monster to crumple, as if into an even greater fit of laughter:

‘Ha! Ha! You kiss Yvelis ladyshoe many times until I tell you stop…you not kiss ladysock, queer slave. Only shoe! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress Yvelis…pause...kiss to toe of cheap, shiny black ladyshoe…I obey you mistress Yvelis…pause…kiss to toe of cheap, shiny black plastic ladyshoe…’

I like the Filipina girl’s mocking sock – even though it’s laughing at me, and even though I’m forbidden to touch it. For it is entitled to laugh at me, just as its superior, Filipina wearer is, and I am unworthy to touch it. That’s because I’ve been righteously demoted, at the behest of a superior female, and I am now fit only to kiss ladies’ outer shoe and boot leather (or shoe plastic in the case of Filipina cleaning-mistress Yvelis). I have been made low, and a cheap, public laughing stock, and mistress Yvelis’s sock should, quite rightly, have the last laugh at me!

But demoted though I may be, I am far from being demotivated. If I cannot live to lick ladyshoe, I shall live to kiss it, as I am now – so obsessed am I by the feet and footwear of my female betters. And the more they mock me, the more I admire them; I praise and bless them for taking the time out of their busy, female schedules to ridicule me and humiliate me.

My rubbery, ornamental footfool-mask says it all:

‘FAILED SHOELICKER’ ‘FOOT-MORON’ ‘QUEER FOOTKISSER’  ‘FOOTSLAVE-NINCOMPOOP’ ‘PLEASE KICK ME’

Fortunately for me, the philanthropic Philippine cleaning-lady, miss Yvelis, kindly accedes to the request writ large on my confined face, the only one to do so thus far today, and she graciously kicks me in the face with the scrunched-up, square-shaped toe of her right, plastic shoe both before and after she cleans the ladies toilets with her dirty mop!

But then, she always does!

Ha! Ha! Dirty slave not allow to lick lady dirty shoe. You only kiss shoe. You kiss my lady shoe many times, until I tell you stop. You not kiss lady sock, queer slave; only shoe! Ha! Ha!

The End

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