My New Office Footmistress Vadoma




As I kneel submissively beneath the desk kissing my new office footmistress Vadoma’s shiny, black leather loafers beneath her black cotton trouser hems, I am acutely aware of three things:

1. She is a very pretty girl; mid to late twenties; with long, jet-black hair; a slim figure; and a dusky complexion (she is, I understand, of exotic Romany extraction – though her softly-spoken accent is that of a Gynarchy-born girl)

2. She is a very powerful and self-assured, young woman – despite being a rather lowly clerk within the office; despite being so softly-spoken; and despite my being nearly twice her age! She certainly doesn’t sound at all intimidated as she talks down to me, even though, in a different world, I could easily be old enough to be her father (or, at the very least, her sugar-daddy!)

3. Her plain, black anklesocks are heavily bobbled and creased, which is in sharp contrast to the neat shininess, and outward cleanliness, of her smart, patent black leather, office loafers

As I continue to kiss said loafers, and admire said socks – directly in front of my kneeling, office-footslave face – she calmly, and matter-of-factly, explains some office truths to me:

· That I am her personal office footslave, and must keep myself only unto her feet and footwear, unless she specifically orders me otherwise

· That I may only ever look her in the foot – never in the eye; or, indeed, above the ankle. She explains that this is because she is better than me

· That I must never speak unless commanded to speak by her

· That I can expect to be in frequent pain, as she loves to discipline footslaves with the whip (at this point she takes her black leather, thick-girthed, office bull’s-pizzle whip out of her desk drawer above me, and rubs it gently across my hunched and cringing shoulders as a reminder to me, if I needed one, as to just how prone and vulnerable I am beneath her! She then rests the thick whip on her lap.)

· That I shall be expected to not only worship and admire her feet beneath her office desk, but also to crawl behind her to loafered-heel wherever she goes inside the office – including to the restroom – so that my eyes are never taken off her office shoes and socks.

· However, I am to be very much ‘office-bound’, and shall never be permitted to follow her outside the building e.g. if she pops out to the local sandwich bar at lunchtime with some of her colleagues; or in order to meet up for lunch with her boyfriend. In her absence, she explains, I am to kneel beneath her office desk – eagerly awaiting the return of her black shoes and socks, and admiring the residual marks left by her office shoesoles in the carpet.

· She stresses that my fundamental role as her personal, office footservant is to study, respect and admire her office footwear, labially worshipping her shiny, black loafer shoes in particular, though my duties can extend to removing any dust stains from the sides of her black anklesocks with my mouth, and nuzzling out any creases in her socks with my footslave-nose

· I am not –repeat not – to sully her already shiny black shoes with my slave-saliva, unless she specifically orders me to lickshine a dust or dirt mark off of them. She stresses to me, both verbally and through the action of fingering her bull’s-pizzle whip on her black-trousered lap above me, that I am not even to touch her shoes with my dirty, slave tongue even whilst I am paying my labial respects to her shoes, as I am right now by kissing them. Lips – yes; tongues – no! That seems to be her somewhat quirky rule (even though my tongue is, it would seem, permitted to lick dust off the side of her sock, along with the rest of my dirty, maleslave mouth! Go figure?)

· My new office footmistress Vadoma opines that, providing I follow all her rules, and can absorb the sting of her whip without complaining, she is confident that we will get along just fine as office-footmistress and footservant. However, if I displease her, she will have no compunction whatsoever about laying into me with her beloved pizzle-whip!

She then pauses, and her shiny, black loafer shoes temporarily leave my lips as she takes a swig of her warm, morning coffee, before swivelling her feet around towards me again and continuing with her lecture:

· She kindly informs me that, in order to help me concentrate on my office foot-duties towards her, she has already placed an order for some specialist office supplies, namely:

o Leather blinkers for my temples, which will block out the distractions of her female office-colleagues’ feet from my humble vista

o A Heavy, wooden cangue on castors, which shall be fitted permanently around my neck and ensure that I perpetually keep my head low and bowed next to her feet – even when I am crawling behind her to heel down the office corridors. She also gleefully explains to me that she has paid extra for the humiliating words ‘I am the pathetic, office-footslave property of mistress Vadoma. Please do not distract me from my humble foot-duty of concentrating on my beautiful, Romany mistress’s office shoes and socks!’

o Electronic ear plugs which will block out all office sounds from my consciousness, apart from my mistress’s voice when she speaks, softly, into a tiny microphone on her lapel

· Finally, my mistress Vadoma explains that at night-time; at weekends; and during her periods of annual leave or sick leave etc. I am to be left in the charge of the female, office cleaners, who will be responsible for feeding and watering me every day. Whilst my default position shall be to remain chained up beneath her empty, office desk – still admiring the carpet marks left by her flat shoesoles – the female cleaners can use and abuse me in any ways they see fit, with her full blessing.

Thus, they can use her office bull’s-pizzle whip to beat me; they can have me kiss their own feet (and lickshine their office-cleaner shoes or boots if they so fancy!); and they can even unchain me from my mistress’s vacant desk and use my tongue to lickclean the dirty office floors – both carpeted and uncarpeted – if it helps them to complete their daily, office-cleaning chores more quickly and efficiently. My mistress Vadoma explains that she basically doesn’t care less what the office cleaning-girls do to me, providing I am chained up beneath her desk and ready for return to the office – whenever that may be!

So there you have it – the terms and conditions of my humble, office-slavelife from now on, as dictated by my office-junior mistress Vadoma.

I am a fast learner – and as one of those terms and conditions is that I must not speak to her unless invited to speak– I instead show my appreciation of my new office-mistress’s kindness in taking the time to explain all of the above to me by temporarily ceasing to kiss her black, loafer shoes in order to nuzzle some of her black-sock creases on her right ankle.

I can hear her breathing a sweet sigh of female mastery and contentment over me – though only because I have not yet been fitted with the slave ear-plugs!

Thinking above the boot

My new, personal, office-footmistress, miss Vadoma, has today angrily whipped me with her bull's-pizzle whip for 'thinking above the boot'!

She caught me looking at her sexy, dark grey anklesock-top above her brown leather, office-ankleboot rim – and as far as she is concerned that's a complete no-no. Especially when she has specifically ordered me, via the tiny microphone on her lapel, to focus on the dirtmarks soiling her office bootsoles. For she is, I am quickly discovering, a fundamentally prudish, young woman, and she does not approve of her personal footslave lusting after her exposed socktop, set against the pleasing background of her smooth, dusky-hued, Romany-girl ankleskin. Instead, she believes I should be contemplating how I am going to have to remove those dirty mud stains from her brown bootsoles by lip alone later in the day (since she will not, again for reasons of sweet feminine modesty and propriety, allow my dirty slave-tongue to touch her precious, Romany-girl bootleather!)

It's not that I don't admire her brown, office ankleboots. Indeed, if anything I prefer them to her shiny, black loafers, for – although the boots, like the shoes, are flat-soled (being brown, Chelsea-style boots) – they exude even more female power and authority than her loafers, and make her socks more of a mystery to me, as I am left wondering what sort of patterns, and creases, are in the stitching of her grey, cotton bootsocks below the vertical lines of stitching in the elasticated tops!

It was, by the way, only her socktop I was focussing on – not her beautiful, young-womanly legskin! Honestly! But I am getting to learn the hard way i.e. via the biting sting of her bull's-pizzle whip on my back, that this attractive, softly-spoken, dark-haired, young, gypsy woman, in whose power and at whose mercy I now reside beneath her office desk, does not take kindly to my eyes rising above her anklebone.

Perhaps she should fit me with a forehead-blinker to match my newly-fitted side-blinkers, in order to prevent me from looking upwards as well as sideways?!

I cry into my cangue, and tear my eyes away from her sock, as she resumes her seat on the office swivel-chair above me! Lesson learned!

High levels of concentration

Disappointed by my performance hitherto, my new footmistress Vadoma has now taken things a stage further and, in addition to my office-supplied blinkers, ear-plugs and cangue, she has had my brain impregnated, at her office employers’ expense, with an electronic tracking device known as a ‘concentrator’, which forces me to think only of her outer footwear.

Specifically it is set to ‘shoes’ and ‘boots’ – so, if I try to think of anything else, I receive a jolt of excruciating pain through my temples which soon brings my slavish thoughts back on track!

What miss Vadoma doesn’t appreciate, of course, is that this device effectively prevents me from admiring her socks – which she has specifically left unprogrammed into the concentrator device due to my predilection for focussing on her elasticated sock-tops, rather than the main body of her socks – thereby allowing my eyes to simultaneously stray onto her upper ankleskin.

Miss Vadoma doesn’t like that!

Of course, this also means that my mind is in agony whenever she specifically orders me, via the ear-plug microphone, to suck a dustmark out of, or to nose-straighten, her black or grey officewear anklesocks (she never seems to wear any other colour of sock) – as I am then obliged to temporarily take my mind off her shoes or boots whilst doing so.

And the cruel concentrator device doesn’t like that!

Limited Socks

It's been a week now, and one thing I have come to realise is that my footmistress Vadoma doesn't talk much – at least, not to me; not through her lapel microphone.

That's because she thinks she's better than me – which she is.

I do think it's cruel that she won't include the word 'socks' in the lexicon of acceptable thoughts by the concentrator device, for, whilst her shoes and boots are interesting to behold all throughout the working day, there is likewise much to be admired in her socks. Like today, for example – a black loafers and socks day – when her socks are thick, black, ribbed... OUCH!

The concentrator pain kicks in – too much focussing on the socks!

What I do find is that, if I merely keep her black socks in my peripheral vision and thoughts, the pain in my brain is just about tolerable. So I can get away with limited socks!

But today I must focus on a scuffmark on the side of her otherwise polished and swivelling, right, black leather loafer shoe as she sits, cross-legged above me at her office desk – a scuffmark which I can kiss, but not lick!


Something very exciting happened to today (exciting, that is, for a dullard, office footslave!)

My mistress Vadoma suddenly switched off the concentrator device (temporarily) and announced, through her lapel microphone, that she required me to nose the side of her black, ribbed anklesock on her outer right anklebone, as her ankle was itchy.

She warned me not to nose her sock too vigorously, lest I take off the scab on her itchy sore underneath – she just wanted the itchiness to be soothed.

I am not a party to her ankle scab – unfortunately – so I have no idea how big, or how small, the scab is; or even exactly where on her shapely, feminine anklebone it is located (the sock is too thickly ribbed to give me any clues!) But, lest she changes her mind, I dive right in – and, as footslave-luck would have it – I managed to get my nose directly onto the itchy scab, and gently soothe it through her black sock material!

The whole process only lasted a minute or so – but I was pleased that I had pleased my mistress Vadoma; and delighted to have been permitted to nose her rich, black sock!

Night Shift

The two night-shift office cleaners, complete with their shiny, blue tabards, are relaxing with their dainty, female feet up on the office coffee-lounge table, chatting away to each other in fluent Hindi (not unreasonably, given that they are both Indian ladies), whilst I, being on loan from my daytime office-mistress, miss Vadoma, am doing the cleaners’ work for them – that of cleaning the dirty, office floors – though, unlike them, I must use my tongue since, being a mere dumbass male slave, I can’t be trusted with sophisticated cleaning equipment such as a bucket and mop!

One of the Indian cleaning-mistresses – the one with the incongruously shiny-white leather and gold-trimmed ballet flats and bobbled, black anklesocks beneath tapering, navy-blue, trouser-hems – suddenly summons me over to her in her beautiful, Hindi accent:

‘Slave! Why you are not cleaning my dirty feet, isn’t it? Why you are permitting me to be walking around with muck on my shoes and dust on my socks? Is it because you are being a lazy and impudent slave?’

I crawl over to her ballet-flated and socked feet on the low-lying coffee table, as befits a lowly, office footslave being addressed by a superior cleaner-mistress.

The cheeky answer to her petulant question – the answer bound to get me whipped – would be something along the lines of ‘because you haven’t asked me to clean them, mistress!’ The respectful answer, however – the one less likely to get me whipped – must be along the lines of ‘oh pray forgive me, cleaner-mistress madam. Truly this slave apologises for his wilful neglect of the mistress’s dirty, white shoes and dusty, black socks, and prays for the mistress’s permission to rectify such wanton negligence this instant, mistress, if you would be so kind and understanding to a lowly footservant, most respected, cleaner-mistress madam?’

I choose the latter because I am a cowardly, contemptible, male slave who fears the whip!

She kindly – via a peremptory and contemptuous wave of her delicate, Indian hand – signals her gracious, female permission for me to mouth-attend to her white leather ballet-flats and black socks. Fortunately for me, miss Vadoma – my daytime desk-mistress – has remembered to switch the fiendish concentrator device off tonight, so I am able to concentrate on another woman’s shoes and socks, and attend to them with all due diligence (it's a private arrangement she has come to with the office cleaners!)

As I do so, her neighbouring, Indian-girl compatriot – the one with the elasticated, ankle-length, black cotton leggings; the ropey-looking red and grey patterned, short, sneaker-style socks (which deliciously expose her shapely, brown-skinned anklebones); and the plain, black leather, heavily scuffmarked and well-worn loafers – laughs at me and threatens me, on behalf of her equally indolent, nightworker colleague:

‘Ha! Ha! You lick miss Devi white shoes hard, dirty slave! Ha! Ha! You suck dust off miss Devi socks, or we will be paining you very much with the whip, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’

She is referring to the single-thonged, thick, bull’s-pizzle whip lying on her lap, and which has been loaned to them by my day-mistress Vadoma, for the specific purposes of disciplining me and keeping me in line (as we already know, miss Vadoma doesn’t give a damn what the cleaners do with me during the night shift whilst she is asleep at home all warm and cosy next to her boyfriend in her comfortable bed – providing they leave me chained up and ready to serve her again beneath her office desk in the morning!)

‘Yes, mistress…lick…lick… I understand, pretty mistress…lick...lick…suck…suck… Please don’t beat me, Indian cleaner-mistress Madam!...suck…suck…lick…lick…’

Secretly, I’m quite hoping that I get to lick and suck on those somewhat ropey-looking, whip-threatening, lazy black leather loafers and red and grey sneaker-socks as well as the shiny white ballet-flats and bobbled, black socks – for they are the loafers and socks of my self-evident better, being the ones in charge of the whip!

Meanwhile, I am grateful for the stomach-lining mudstains on miss Devi’s otherwise shiny, white ballet-flats, as these two Indian cleaning-lady mistresses have clearly spent the money they are supposed to spend on feeding me my slave gruel and water, on lipstick and perfume for themselves. And very nice they look and smell on it too!


On those nights when the two Indian cleaner-mistresses knock off early and leave me chained up back under my mistress Vadoma's desk at a decent enough time for me to at least get a few hours' kip – alone and in the dark – the pleasingly (but not overly) plump, Pakistani, office security-guard mistress, miss Razia, sometimes likes to disturb my sleep by shining her torch down onto me and kicking me awake with the reinforced, thick rounded toe of her matt-black leather security-boot – primarily in order to make me worship her incongruously feminine, pink and white, flowery-patterned anklesocks inside her masculine and unflattering ankle-length boots!

She deftly hitches up her black uniform trouser-hems, each in turn, and deliberately shines her torch onto the sides of her flowery-socked anklebones in order to highlight the creases in her socks that she then orders me, in her thick Pakistani accent, to respectfully kiss.

Needless to say, if her Indian counterparts have complicitly reset the concentrator device to 'on' (which they invariably have), I will be in absolute agony whilst I am obliged concentrate on their Pakistani, office-security-guard sister's night-shift, flowery socks – since the device isn't set for 'socks'; and certainly not for the socks of the torch-bearing, female security guard!

She leaves me alone in the dark again, secure in the knowledge that I am desperately trying, and failing, to get her pretty, flowery, pink and white anklesocks off my mind, just in order to ease the throbbing pain in my now wide-awake temples!

Getting Harder

My office-footmistress Vadoma has recently started to make my miserable existence at her office feet and at her office mercy even harder – she has taken to regularly injecting me with a solution that keeps me in a state of permanent arousal, knowing full well, of course, that I cannot do anything to satiate my artificially induced lust!

It goes without saying that I would be totally impotent without the injections, as I am just a flaccid and limp, middle-aged, male slave; but the cruel injections mean that every little detail of my mistress Vadoma's feet and footwear fills me with male lust – every little scuffmark or speck of dust on her shoe; every little crease in her shoeleather; every tiny piece of fluff stuck to her black, office anklesock.

The latter, of course, conflicts with the 'shoes and boots only' stipulation which is programmed into the electronic concentrator-device in my maleslave brain, and sends painful shockwaves through my maleslave temples to match the increased blood pulsating through my maleslave member. But there is nothing I can do to stop it as I am, in effect, artificially engineered into being a sock-pervert – shamelessly lusting after my mistress's sock-fluff!

It's even worse when I am being used and abused by the Indian office cleaner-mistresses; I mean, can you even begin to imagine the lust-crazed thoughts which permeate through my sock-track mind when I am confronted with the perversely black and white sock and ballet-flat combination of cleaner-mistress Devi, or the ropey, red and grey sneaker-sock and scuffmarked black leather loafer combination of her slightly older, Indian-girl colleague (whose divine, Indian name I don't even know)?

How they laugh to see my lust for them both – and at the fact that no amount of pummelling on my back with the bull's-pizzle whip they have borrowed from my footmistress Vadoma can dampen my ardour, so powerful is the chemically-induced lust in my male member thrusting forth from within my flimsy, white slave-shorts (which, ironically, are supposed to symbolise my impotence and lack of manhood!)

Yes, for all my unseemly lust towards their nightshift shoes and socks, my two Indian cleaner-mistresses don't feel in the least bit threatened or intimidated, since they are very much in control of the situation, and can manipulate my tumescence to their advantage – not by any literal manipulation (more's the pity!) but by using my arousal and attraction towards their dirty socks to make me serve them better, despite the agony such cruelly unprogrammed, sock-focussed servitude engenders in my concentrator-fitted brain! And so they will finish their lazy, relaxing night shift confident in the knowledge that their respective socks have been well and truly divested of all foreign debris and detritus by my shamelessly overly-eager, footslave mouth and tongue!

And I will still remain suitably hard for my desk-mistress Vadoma's shiny, black leather loafers and black anklesocks (or, indeed, her brown leather ankleboots and grey cotton anklesock-tops) when she returns to her office desk in the morning. For my maleslave lust is never diminished – thanks to the cruel injections which she imposes upon me every week. Speaking of which, my next injection is due this Thursday – another chance to lustfully admire the plain white sneaker-socks and pink and white, lace-up, low-top sneakers of the uniformed, office nurse-mistress as she injects my member with the vile, villainous liquid; all through the sea of pain caused by the ever-unforgiving concentrator device!


I’m pleased to report that my beloved office footmistress Vadoma has finally relented, and programmed the word ‘socks’ into my concentrator device.

I think it’s partly because she trusts me more now – trusts me not to take advantage of the comparative footslave-liberty of being allowed to admire and study her black anklesock-tops inside her office boots or shoes, without lasciviously focussing on her bare ankleskin above them (though she has warned me, via the ear microphones, that she has also programmed the concentrator to give me a particularly sharp and painful burst of pain should the thought ‘skin’ ever enter my shoe, boot and sockslave mind!)

But, I’m bound to say, I think her relaxation of the restrictions on my enslaved-mind may also be, in part, due to the fact that her boyfriend has bought her a new pair of black office socks with little, pink pig logos on them – logos which say, amusingly, ‘hogs and kisses’ – and she wishes me to admire both her pig-themed socks, and her boyfriend’s sense of humour.

After all, nobody else is likely to get the sock-joke, hidden as it is inside her brown leather ankleboot-tops or beneath her black cotton, office trousersuit-hems, so it is only right and proper that I, at least, should be made to study and admire her pink-pig-cartoon, black office anklesocks, and mentally praise and bless not only the humorous socks themselves, but also the beautiful, female wearer of the socks; and the freemale purchaser of the socks – who is a much better man than I will ever be!

As the concentrator device is now set to include my office-footmistress Vadoma’s boots and socks, I find myself diligently focussing on all of the following:

· Are her boots and socks comfortable on her pretty feet?

· How many pink pigs are depicted on her black socks in total?

· How many creases and folds (including those invisible to the naked eye deep inside her brown office ankleboots) are contained in the pink and black cotton material of her socks?

· Is there any movement in those sock-creases?

· Are her socks warm and soft to the touch?

· Are her socks clammy and moist around the toe-areas?

· When were her boots last polished and her socks last washed?

· Does she take her boots and her socks off as soon as she gets home in the evening (or rather, have them taken off by her lucky, household footservant), and walk around the house barefoot? Or does she walk around the house in her bare socks?

· If so, do her socks gather up dust from the carpet on the soles?

· And what becomes of her discarded boots? I hope her household footslave is tasked with properly sniffing them, for it would be a shame to neglect my beautiful office-footmistress Vadoma’s residual, inner bootsweat-smells, and let them go to waste!

Providing each of my humble thoughts includes the word ‘boots’, or ‘shoes’, and/or ‘socks’, I am kept free of headachy pain; but any deviation in my enslaved thought processes from her boots (or shoes) and socks will now engender pure agony in me!

And rightly so, for her shoes, boots and socks are deserving of my full, footslavish attention – since they are the shoes, boots and socks of a superior, and very beautiful, young woman!

My footmistress Vadoma has now kindly disclosed to me that it was, in fact, her clever boyfriend who had suggested she programme the concentrator-device to include her socks, as it amuses him to think of me having to concentrate on the pig-themed socks he had bought for her feet! So I have a lot to thank him for!

Who knows, perhaps he will visit my mistress’s office one day, and I will get to meet him and thank him in person; and, if so, I will most definitely congratulate him and praise him on his splendid choice of pig-themed, cartoon-sock for his beautiful, Romany girlfriend and wife-to-be – my sweet and kind, office footmistress Vadoma!

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