Footslave Stories

The Kick-Start Treadmill

2017-11-07T06:11:00.000-08:00

I am, by all accounts, a fundamentally lazy, treadmill footslave-prisoner, and need to be kick-started of a morning; and of an afternoon; and of an evening!

Or so my navy-blue uniformed prison wardresses say.

My prison wardresses therefore always make sure to wear heavy shoes or boots – more often than not with reinforced toe-areas (or even steel-toecapped) – so that their delicate, feminine tootsies are suitably protected from any harm and damage whenever they must kick me in the face in order to get me moving; or indeed when they must kick me in the face in order to make me stop – for I am a ‘kick-stop’ treadmill slave as well as ‘kick-start’ one!

Just to add to my pain and consternation, my treadmill – to which I am permanently tethered – is located in the female guards’ kitchenette area, next to their tea and coffee making facilities! It’s not that the footslave-dungeon is short of space, or anything; rather it’s a fiendishly female move to augment my male-prisoner suffering, as I must smell their delicious tea and coffee throughout my long, arduous, working day, knowing that I shall never be offered any liquid refreshments to help quench my treadmill-induced thirst (my only daily sustenance is a bowl of tasteless prisoner-slave mush and a scoop of stale water first thing in the morning before I start work; and I do mean first thing – I am woken at 05:30 A.M. every morning, ready to start working the treadmill at 06:00 A.M. My working day ends at midnight!).

Being located in their dungeon-kitchen I also, of course, get to hear all my treadmill-guards’ idle chit-chat and feminine gossip; their discussions on their social lives; their thoughts and opinions on the female politics of the day; on the economy; on fashion; on their boyfriends. Not that any of my guards would ever dream of chatting to me; it’s against the prison rules. I am there to work – and the only communications I ever receive from my superior, female prison guards take the form of

· curt and abrupt orders to ‘move’; to ‘stop’; or to ‘move faster’;

· the encouraging sting of the their shared, treadmill-drivers’ thin, black leather whip;

· and, of course, their female kicks to my gormless and helpless, male-prisoner face from their individual shoes and boots!

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

China

It is coming up to lunchtime and I have already been walking the treadmill, non-stop, for some 6 hours. My current driver – miss Dai-Yu – is nearing the end of her shift, and will, no doubt, be looking forward to going home soon!

Her relief this lunchtime, however, is guard-mistress Galina, who has earlier rung officer-mistress Dai-Yu on her mobile phone to inform her she is running a little bit late. I distinctly overheard miss Dai-Yu telling her not to worry – but she is, nonetheless, clearly anxious to get away on time today, as her whips to my shoulder-blades have become noticeably more frequent and irritable as the extra minutes tick by. Perhaps she has a rendezvous with her boyfriend; what young lady wouldn’t be keen to get out of this below-ground, windowless and claustrophobic dump when her manly boyfriend is eagerly waiting for her outside in the fresh, clean air?!

Miss Dai-Yu is a very beautiful, dark-haired guard-mistress of Chinese origins, who always wears nice boots and socks beneath her navy-blue, uniform trousers. Her black leather, zip-up ankleboots are quite high – almost calf-length – but she nevertheless invariably hitches up her navy-blue, bootcut trouser-hems when she is seated above and in front of me on the treadmill, meaning that I am guaranteed a nice glimpse of the tops of her black, cotton bootsocks with the yellow dragon logos as I walk the treadmill in my bare, male-prisoner feet , my pained face level with her female-guard, booted feet as they rest in front of me on the metal footplate!

Another reason why I like working under guard-mistress Dai-Yu is that her exotic, Chinese-themed socks are always neatly pulled-up, thereby denying me a glimpse of her soft, feminine, Chinese leg-skin inside her boots; that’s a touch of superior-female class, I always think! She modestly reserves her smooth, oriental skin for her beloved boyfriend; it is not for the likes of me – a dirty, treadmill prisoner-slave at her feet.

You have to admire her haughty and prudish, Chinese-girl attitude – and her loving fidelity for her free-male boyfriend!

Although she is softly-spoken, she is harshly-booted – her black leather ankleboots containing stylishly pointy toe-ends which can cause considerable damage to my face when officer-mistress Dai-Yu feels so inclined (thank God, her spiked heels are never thrust into my face; can you imagine the pain and damage they would cause?!).

However for the most part – except in circumstances such as now when she is late being relieved from her post – officer-mistress Dai-Yu is quite a reasonable taskmistress, and is sparing of my face with her boots, preferring to urge and cajole me on to better efforts in walking the treadmill by means of the thin, leather whip cutting into my bare shoulder blades, rather than the pointy, leather boot cutting into my cheekbones. And all the while showing me a glimpse of Chinese-girl, black and yellow bootsock; such a kind and considerate Chinese officer-mistress!

Her relief, the red-ponytailed mistress Galina, thankfully arrives only some 15 minutes late – somewhat flustered and apologetic to her female colleague for her uncharacteristic tardiness:

‘Oh…I am so sorry, Dai! My dental appointment was overrunning! Is Alistair waiting for you outside?’

Alistair is the name of miss Dai-Yu’s white boyfriend (like I said, I hear all the female gossip, being located in the guards’ dungeon-kitchenette area!)

‘Ha! Ha! No problem, Galina – make him wait! We not go anywhere special today!’

From the corner of my eye – which I temporarily take off miss Dai-Yu’s left, fully pulled up, dragon-decorated sock-top – I can observe that officer-mistress Galina is wearing her familiar, round-toed, chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots again today! Good! I’m in for another foot-prisoner treat – for mistress Galina always wears ropey-looking pairs of socks inside her boots which, like miss Dai-Yu’s much smarter-looking socks, are at least partially on view to me whenever the officer-mistress is seated in front of and above me on the ‘driver’s’ chair; and I do like a bit of sweet, feminine bootsock to look at whilst I’m toiling away!

Also today, given that red-haired officer-mistress Galina is somewhat flustered and had been rushing to get here, her socks will, presumably, be somewhat hot and sweaty inside her boots? Not that I shall get to smell them, of course – an officer-mistress’s boots always remain firmly on her feet whilst she is on duty! But the very thought that my flame-ponytailed, Russian, officer-mistress’s feet are perspiring heavily into her sweaty socks as she sits regally above me applying the whip to my lazy back and shoulders, is a not unpleasing one!

Do you see how pathetic I have become in this miserable place? Excited by the mere thought of a pair of sweaty, unkempt, female socks in front of my prisoner-face!

Miss Dai-Yu, in her relatively clean boots and socks, suddenly gives me the signal to stop turning the fixed-position treadmill. She kicks me with the pointy toe of her right boot in the middle of my ugly conk – quite hard:

Kick!

‘Stop, slave!’

I duly stop, for there is nothing to be gained from disobeying an officer-mistress – not unless you like being kicked repeatedly in the face!

Mistress Dai-Yu’s black and yellow cotton bootsocks disappear from view as she climbs down from the raised chair in front of me, her Chinese-girl boots vacating the metal foot-rest in front of my face for yet another day.

The two superpower girls – one Chinese and one Russian – chat happily away to one another at their shift changeover, and even embrace one another as officer-mistress Dai-Yu assures an apologetic officer-mistress Galina yet again that she was not in the least bit put out by the latter’s atypical tardiness (not, strictly-speaking, true, as the fresh, extra whip-marks on my back and shoulders will testify to!)

Officer-mistress Galina makes herself a warming cup of tea to go with her sandwiches before formally starting her shift , as officer-mistress Dai-Yu packs up her things. The two young women are laughingly and jokingly talking about what they are planning to do with their respective boyfriends this evening. They are talking to one another completely uninhibitedly – as if I wasn’t there. Which, to all intents and purposes, I’m not – being a non-person with no human rights; in these girls’ mischievous eyes I’m just a human treadmill-machine; something which starts when you kick-start it; and stops when you kick-stop it! So, they have no need to feel inhibited in front of a machine, have they?

And so I must humbly listen as officer-mistress Dai-Yu shamelessly informs officer-mistress Galina of her intention to provide oral sex for her boyfriend, master Alistair sir, this evening. I must say, he’s a lucky man to be having such luscious, Chinese-girl lips around his male member – though in an ideal world I myself would be content to merely sniff officer-mistress Dai-Yu’s discarded, black and yellow bootsocks in the corner of the master bedroom whilst she ‘gave head’ to the master-sir.

I’ve never met him, of course – but sniffing his Chinese girlfriend’s sweaty, black socks whilst she brings him to orgasm with her mouth would be an inestimable honour and a privilege for the likes of me!

But I’m only daydreaming, of course! Socks – let alone sex – are completely off the agenda for me; my prisoner-slave life is all about work; and the best I can hope for is to hear about the sexual activities of my female masters and betters, and admire their pre-intercourse socks as they are seated in front of me on the treadmill!

And so, officer-mistress Dai-Yu’s boots and socks walk out of my life for another day, as they are soon replaced on the metal footrest in front of me by the similar, but more chunky-heeled and round-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots of officer-mistress Galina, the red-haired, Russian mistress.

The Russian boots are also more scruffy and scuffmarked than the Chinese boots had been.

Russia

Officer-mistress Galina is sexily ginger and tall, and, despite her scruffy and unkempt boots, always looks stunning in her navy blue, prison-guard’s uniform – but her best feature, as I intimated earlier, is the invariably ropey nature of her equally scruffy socks inside her boots. Today I am not to be disappointed, as the Russian officer-mistress arrogantly hitches up her bootcut, navy-blue trouser-hems in front of me to reveal a pair of grey-white, twisted and bobbled, ankle-length bootsocks with a single, pleasing, blue stripe along the elasticated tops.

I have observed these particular girlboot-socks many times before – in fact, I do believe officer-mistress Galina was wearing these very same socks during her shift yesterday evening! Ha! Ha! Only a down-at-boot, treadmill footslave would notice such minor details; nobody else will be aware of, or care about, officer-mistress Galina’s unhygienic, secret sock practices!

Mind you – the realisation that her socks are two days old, combined with the fact that she has been rushing to get here thereby building up a sweat in her two day old socks, thrills me to the footslave-prisoner core! I think such callous, feminine disregard for the sock-sensitivities of a male, treadmill-footslave is actually quite appealing in a young, ginger-ponytailed woman, for it eloquently demonstrates the utter, female contempt in which officer-mistress Galina holds me!

And rightly so.

Officer-mistress Galina may be quite chatty and friendly with her fellow, female prison-guards, but her tone with me is always suitably abrupt and professional. As is customary, as soon as she has settled herself into the driver’s chair in front of and above me, and grabbed hold of the driver’s whip, she presents each of her reinforced, scuffmarked, black leather boot-toes for me to kiss in turn – the black, scuffmarked boot-toes to match the scruffy, grey-white anklesocks!

Then, the same right boot-toe which I have just respectfully kissed is quickly drawn back and lunged forwards in order to kick me harshly in the centre of the face:

Kick!

‘Move, slave!’

Officer-mistress Galina likes to reinforce her opening command with an accompanying whip-sting – just in case her reinforced boot-toe hasn’t been enough to get the message across to me.

Swish…Crack!

The crack of the whip echoes around the dark, kitchenette-dungeon walls.

I am, I should explain, not allowed to answer my guards back; not even to verbally acknowledge their orders; not even in humble slave-speak. Indeed, even an involuntary gasp of pain resulting from a particularly severe boot-kick or whip-cut is enough for me to be punished by having my meagre slave-mush rations withdrawn for a week. I must operate in total silence – my obedient legs doing all the treadmill-talking on my behalf!

It’s a harsh regime – but then, I am being punished in this footslave-dungeon! I lost my right to converse with my female betters when I upset my last mistress by laddering her tights. I have to acknowledge that I fully deserve my life sentence in the footslave-dungeons – I mean, what’s the point in an incompetent, personal footslave who actually ruins a lady’s hosiery, rather than caring for it?

Oh the love and care I would afford to officer-mistress Galina’s grubby, white bootsocks if only she would let me! But it’s out of the question, of course; I can look, but not touch.

She kicks me, and whips me again:

Kick!

Swish…Crack!

‘Move faster, slave!’

Double pain – in my shocked face and shoulder-blade!

I don’t know why I’m so shocked by the pain! Officer-mistress Galina does like to set a steady pace with the boot and the whip at the beginning of her shift; she’ll settle down shortly, and start texting her friends on her phone. Besides, receiving the whip from her isn’t all bad – every time she applies its fearsome sting I get a wider glimpse of her grubby and twisted, grey-white socktops as her navy-blue uniform trouser-hems flap around her shapely, Russian-girl anklebones – and, unlike officer-miss Dai-Yu, officer-mistress Galina is not concerned to hide her bare, lower legskin from me. She doesn’t give a damn if I catch a glimpse of her pasty-white, East-European, leg flesh above her blue-striped, white cotton socktops, for she knows I am powerless to touch her superior, feminine bare skin!

As I had predicted, the stinging whip is soon put down in favour of her cell phone, on which she starts working on her texts and social networking site. All I have to do now is keep a steady, respectable pace beneath her on the treadmill, and continue to admire her scuffmarked, black leather ankleboots and grubby, white socks, hoping that they will remain firmly on the metal footplate in front of me until the final ‘stop-kick’ of her shift.

Another officer-mistress – bespectacled, African-Caribbean officer-mistress Phoebe – enters the kitchen after a few minutes, to make herself a cup of coffee. Officer-mistress Phoebe isn’t on treadmill-monitoring duties as such today – though I have had the privilege of her lace-up, black leather anklebooted feet and black socks resting on the foot-plate in front of me many times before. A quick, furtive glimpse over towards her African-Caribbean feet confirms that she is wearing those self-same , lace-up ankleboots with the delightfully clumpy heels – though her navy-blue, officer-mistress trouser hems are, frustratingly, hiding her socks as she stands next to the kettle.

I’m nevertheless confident that bespectacled, officer-mistress Phoebe will be wearing plain, black anklesocks inside her boots; she always does – not that I shall be getting to see them today. Sadly!

‘Hi, Galina! How’s your tooth?’

‘Hi, Phoebe! Well, it’s lot better now, thanks! I saw dentist this morning, and he gave me filling!’

I feel jealous – not of the dentist who was able to give flame-haired officer-mistress Galina a filling; but of officer-mistress Phoebe, who is in a position to converse with my treadmill-taskmistress and politely enquire after her wellbeing. For I would dearly love to discuss officer-mistress Galina’s tooth with her; and, indeed, discuss her boots and socks with her – for I would love to know all about them; their provenance; their history; their comfort, or otherwise, on her Muscovite feet. They are, after all, the socks and boots of the young, red-haired woman who is currently in a position of absolute power and authority over me!

And I must never forget that!

The black girl and the white girl continue to chat with one another in a friendly manner for several minutes, before officer-mistress Phoebe leaves the kitchenette-cum-treadmill-dungeon to return to her admin desk, whilst officer-mistress Galina returns to her texts.

No more impromptu boot-kicks or whip-cuts for me, so I must have been maintaining a satisfactory pace, despite the distraction of a black girl’s black, lace-up ankleboots in the room!

Indeed, I receive no more pain throughout officer-mistress Galina’s six hour shift, and her scuffmarked, right boot-toe only makes painful contact with my permanently bruised face again when her relief arrives – bang on time!

Kick!

‘Stop, slave!’

I stop.

‘Hi, Galina!’

‘Hi, Padmal!’

India

Officer-mistress Padmal must have swapped shifts with one of her colleagues, for she never does the evening shift! Even officer-mistress Galina seems surprised to see her:

‘I thought Teertha was my relief?’

‘Yes, she is being doing a half-day today, so I am being agreeing to cover the first half of her shift for her, isn’t it?’

Ah – that explains it; one Indian-girl, prison-guard mistress, miss Padmal, doing a favour on behalf of another, miss Teertha! That’s nice!

And seeing miss Padmal is a very nice surprise for me – for, unlike virtually all the other officer-mistresses, miss Padmal always elects to wear a navy-blue, knee-length, uniform skirt with thick, black woolly tights and shiny black, chunky-heeled, round-toed, single-strapped, mary-jane style shoes on her dainty, Indian feet. No masculine-looking trousers for her!

She is also such a sweet and delicate looking young woman – quite petite and skinny; though her shiny shoes can sure pack a punch, as my bruised face can visibly testify.

Petite of stature she may be, but she seems to tower above me like a veritable, Indian-girl colossus as she climbs up into the recently vacated treadmill-driver’s chair, in place of her Russian colleague.

It is now India in the driving seat!

I respectfully kiss her shiny, black, mary-jane shoe toes each in turn s they are presented to me.

What I particularly like about officer-miss Padmal – apart from her woolly-tighted legs and shiny, black, mary-jane shoes – is the fact that, whilst she will happily chat to her female colleagues in her broken English, she never speaks to me; not even to verbally command me to ‘move’ or to ‘stop’. The delicately-boned and taciturn Indian girl lets her shiny, black shoes, and black leather whip, do all the talking!

And so it is merely with a sudden creasing of her black, woolly tights, and a concomitant kick from her rounded, mary-jane shoe-toe, that I am kick-started into action at her superior, Indian-girl feet shortly after officer-mistress Galina has vacated the dungeon.

Kick!

No words; no verbal command.

Thereafter copious amounts of silent shoe-kicking and whistling whip-sting ensure my continued, efficient operation of the heavy treadmill – kicks and whips always delivered in silence, but with great attention to detail, such as whip-cut overlays when a particularly strenuous effort is required of me; miss Padmal knows that the strength of my efforts will be analogous to the amount of pain I am suffering from her shiny, black leather shoe-toe and her matt, black leather, driver’s whip. She is very clever that way, and learnt her trade driving animals on her family farm back in rural Gujarat.

At the end of her half-shift, when her fellow Indian-officer relief, miss Teertha, appears, I am temporarily stopped from walking by another silent, but swift, kick to the face from a black, shiny mary-jane shoe, and my aching leg muscles can finally grind to a halt.

Kick!

How do I know it’s the kick-signal to stop? Because, unlike the other shoe-kicks exhorting me to move faster, it is not accompanied by a crack of the Indian whip! Plus, of course, miss Teertha has entered the dungeon-room!

I only wish the throbbing sting in my bare back and shoulders would grind to a halt also, but I fear it shall linger with me for some time yet – especially in and around those overlays!

The sweet mary-janes climb down, and a familiar pair of much less sweet-looking, steel-toecapped, blocky-heeled, black leather kneeboots replace them on the footrest – though the boots are, for the most part, hidden beneath those damned, navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems again!

You wouldn’t know they were an Indian girl’s boots – were she not conversing in Hindi with her fellow, now talkative, officer-mistress. Perhaps if I could speak Hindi officer-mistress Padmal would be more inclined to boss me about verbally?

Anyway, I am soon left alone with the unforgiving, and cold-to-the-kiss, steel-toecapped jackboots of the somewhat sturdier, Indian officer-mistress, miss Teertha – a beautiful , but stockily-built, young Desi woman.

Having kissed the cold steel, I brace myself for the inevitable kick-start to the face from one of those self-same, unforgiving, steel toecaps:

Kick!

‘Move, slave!’

I see stars, so harsh is the cold steel, chisel-shaped boot-toe on my prone and vulnerable, treadmill-prisoner face!

Looking on the bright side, however, I know from experience that I won’t be receiving any more whip-cuts during this next three hours of miss Teertha’s half-shift – which will take us up to midnight. She’s not a whipper – but she is a kicker; very much so! In fact, I can only assume she chose to buy a pair of heavy, steel-toecapped kneeboots precisely because she enjoys kicking helpless and vulnerable treadmill-prisoners like me in the face so much.

And she is perfectly within her female rights to do so! This is a male prison, after all!

I just hope she doesn’t damage my teeth with her steel toecaps, for, unlike officer-mistress Galina, I have no chance of receiving any dental treatment should I require it! The Female Health Service is certainly not for the likes of me – a dirty, male prisoner slave – so any resultant toothache would simply have to be endured along with my continual face ache and back ache!

As expected, stocky officer-mistress Teertha gaily kicks me with abandonment throughout her stint on the treadmill driver’s chair – and, unlike her much shyer and more diffident colleague, miss Padmal, miss Teertha does like to reinforce her kicks to my face with verbal commands:

‘Kick!…Move faster, slave!...Kick!... Faster!...Kick!…Faster!’

Throughout the onslaught of Indian-girl, steel toecap on my face I am semi-conscious of the fact that officer-mistress Teertha is, almost certainly, wearing a pair of garish, multicoloured, cartoon-themed socks inside her kneehigh boots – not that I have the remotest chance of seeing said girlsocks today, of course, well-hidden as they are deep inside her warming, winter kneeboots.

But I know about her Indian-girl sock-preferences because, in the spring and summer months, she will often wear her black, low-top, lace-up sneakers to work – and then her ubiquitous, cartoon-themed socks are very much on view in front of my bruised and mesmerized, treadmill face! (Her summer sneakers are, naturally, much softer on the face than her steel-toecapped, winter boots, but she compensates for this by even more frequent kicks to my treadmill nose and cheekbones!)

There is no reason to think she would not be wearing similar, cartoon socks inside her kneehigh boots during the wintertime, and so I torment myself with the thought that the socks protecting her podgy, Indian-girl toes and fleshy, brown ankles inside her reinforced-toecapped boots are laughing at me and mocking me, the way cartoon socks are supposed to do!

My face is well boot-bruised by the end of miss Teertha’s 3 hour shift; I should be truly grateful it was only a half-shift today!

But I am actually sorry to see her go as her steel toecaps climb down from the chair, and as she then turns out the light before locking me away in the deserted, pitch dark dungeon-kitchenette; for I love being under her booted, female power! It keeps me on her steelcapped-toes!

After she has gone, I ruminate in the pitch darkness about all my treadmill officer-mistresses of the day, and internally praise and bless them for disciplining me with their respective shoes and boots, as befits a penitent and diligent footslave-prisoner.

In particular, I think about officer-mistress Dai-Yu graciously performing oral sex on her boyfriend, master sir Alistair, and I imagine myself humbly sniffing her crumpled up, black and yellow bootsocks in the corner of her boyfriend’s bedroom as I drift off to a fitful sleep on my cruel treadmill…

Footslave Chronicles Volume 3

2017-10-29T16:08:00.000-07:00

The third volume in a collection of essays chronicling the experiences of humble footslaves, both public and private. Regularly updated with new chronicles.

Chronicle no. 8 – The Footslave Stand-In

One could hear her shouting and complaining even from outside the rent-a-slave showroom; she appeared to be having a go at her father, of all people:

‘Shut up, papa! It is all being your damned, stupid fault in the first place! If you weren’t being so incompetent none of this would be being necessary, isn’t it?’

As they entered the showroom – the trio of father, mother and petulant daughter – the man looked suitably sheepish.

They were Indian, and the girl, like her mother, was a stunner – even though she was dressed rather dowdily in a blue bomber jacket; scruffy, blue denim jeans; and a pair of black, misshapen, crochet-styled Ugg boots with thick, ribbed stitching all down the sides and uppers. To be fair, the young Indian woman had added a dash of colour and panache to her outfit, by wearing a brightly-coloured, stripy scarf and matching, rainbow-striped socks inside her black boots – socks which were only just visible beneath her frayed jean-hems thanks to her excellent fashion-decision to turn down her ribbed, calf-length Ugg boots at the collars, thereby exposing at least a small slither of her socked ankles to the waiting world.

This spoilt-brat, young Indian woman clearly had some class – which she appeared to have inherited from her mother, a smartly and traditionally-dressed Indian lady in her mid forties, wearing a bright, yellow sari beneath her beige-brown overcoat, and open-toed, strappy sandals with bare, pedicured feet (unlike her daughter’s feet, her middle-aged, purple-painted, Indian toes must be freezing, however! There is a definite chill in the air outside the showroom today; you can notice it whenever the door to the showroom opens and any customers walk in!)

And right now there is a distinctive chill in the air inside the showroom, as the spoilt, Indian girl continues to berate her elderly father in public:

‘You damned fool! How can you have been so incompetent! Is this not being one of the most important days of your daughter’s life? Or are you not caring about your daughter’s happiness?’

‘I really am being very sorry, Parni darling! But I am sure that we can be sorting something out in this fine showroom, isn’t it?’

The poor man’s feeble attempt at placating his angry daughter has only limited success, as she is still huffing and puffing and stamping her dainty, Indian-girl feet in her oversized, black-ribbed Ugg boots:

‘Well, be getting on with it then, you damned fool!’

How can she get away with talking to her father like that? I always thought that Indian girls were very respectful of their elders? Surely her mother will have words with her?

‘Yes, Achir! Get on with it, you nincompoop! It is inconvenient enough that we are having to drag ourselves all the way down here on such a bitterly cold day, isn’t it? Hurry up, damn you!’

‘Yes, my dear!’

Hmm…a henpecked husband, evidently!

But then – I’m hardly one to talk; I’m a henpecked slave to the female! At least the Indian man is a free man, and can walk on his own two feet in the presence of women – unlike me, the male slave, who must crawl on his hands and knees in their superior, female presence.

I lower my gaze to the petulant and spoilt, young Indian woman’s black, ribbed Ugg boots, out of respect for her and, if I’m honest, out of an element of fear of her – for this is clearly a young woman who enjoys absolute power and authority over others; even her doting parents!

I stare at the thick, black rubber soles of the crotchety, crocheted, sheepskin Ugg boots as the sheepish, and suitably rebuked, elderly Indian man explains the reason for his wife’s and daughter’s anger to the rent-a-slave trader, a bearded Arab man in his early fifties known only to me as master-sir Ahmed:

‘Please, this is being my beloved daughter Parni, who is being turning 21 years old tomorrow! We are being arranging her coming of age ceremony, but unfortunately the personal footslave we are being choosing for her will not be arriving on time from India tomorrow…’

His daughter interjects at this point:

‘Because of your damned, foolish incompetence, papa!’

‘…Yes, my darling! I really am being most terribly sorry, my dear!...Anyway, kind sir, I am hoping that you can be renting us a slave for the day, so that my daughter may be having a footslave to trample on during the ceremony!’

Ahh – now I understand! I’ve heard all about these ‘coming of age’ ceremonies amongst the expat Indian community living here in the Gynarchy! They are, by all accounts, quite lavish and drawn-out affairs – a chance for an extended circle of family and friends to celebrate the legal coming of age of a prized daughter, who can now lawfully own her own status-symbol, personal footslave at the age of 21.

Such ceremonies are, by all accounts, second only in importance and lavishness to a daughter’s marriage – especially amongst wealthy, upper-caste Indian families, such as this one – and they culminate in the young woman’s trampling of the footslave’s face before her gathered family and friends, prior to his being masked for life behind a footfool’s rubber mask, decorated with little, rubbery female shoes and boots!

I have also heard about how such, wealthy Indian families prefer to import their daughters’ future footslaves from India, as they like to see their young women’s upper-caste feet trampling all over a suitably lower-caste, downcast male. In this case, however, it seems that there is a delay in importing the requisitioned slave, and he will not be arriving on time for tomorrow’s ceremony! No wonder the young Indian lady is angry and upset!

But it’s an ill wind that blows no good, as the saying goes …and, being mixed race and quite dark-skinned, I could pass for an Indian man, on a good day – which appear to be master-sir Ahmed’s exact thoughts:

‘Well, sir, I’m afraid I do not have any Indian slavemen in stock at the moment, but allow me to propose this swarthy-skinned, mixed race slave for your daughter. He would be making a most excellent stand-in for your daughter’s slave at her coming of age ceremony!’

‘Ha! Ha! You are meaning a stand-on, isn’t it?’ quips the girl’s mother, in a valiant attempt to lighten the mood.

‘Shut up, mother! The slave is being much too pale and ugly for my feet! Are you being wanting to be totally embarrassing me in front of my friends tomorrow?’

‘But, darling Parni, his pale ugliness will only be enhancing the natural beauty of your soft, brown feet even more, isn’t it?’ retorts her mother, less used to being shouted at by her petulant daughter.

She has clearly hit a nerve; the younger woman is happy to take advice from her mother, when it makes good sense:

‘Mmm…very well; I will try him under my boots. Salesman, lay him prostrate at my feet!’

‘Yes indeed, stunningly beautiful young madam! At once!’

Master Ahmed-sir is always happy to obsequiously indulge a petulant and rude customer – if it leads to a successful rental!

I am unceremoniously dragged out of my showroom cage and roughly forced to lie flat on the ground, my face resting in front of the girl’s thick, black Ugg-boots with my left cheek turned uppermost – ready for the weight of her right Ugg boot to come trampling down on it.

It does so – without delay. Soon I can feel, and smell, the cold, thick, rough black rubber sole painfully squashing my upturned cheekbone. All I can think about is miss Parni’s rainbow-coloured bootsock now towering above my face. Even this arrogant, Indian girl’s stripy anklesock is higher, and better, than me.

She complains, again, about my ugly face, however:

‘Tch!...His face is not even grimacing, mama! I am wanting everyone to be seeing a pained expression on his damned, ugly face when I am standing on it, isn’t it?’

I could kick myself with the scuffmarked, rounded toes of this Indian girl’s thick, black, ribbed Ugg boots! Why didn’t I think to make myself look more pained beneath her pretty boot-pressure? I guess I’m more of a natural boot-kisser, than a boot-rest!

Fortunately, her clever and wise mother knows just how to make my excuses:

‘Do not be worrying, my dear! Tomorrow you will be wearing your high-heels, isn’t it? And the fool will soon be grimacing under the pressure of your spiked heels digging into his cheekbones, isn’t it?’

Again, her daughter recognizes the intrinsic value in what her mother is saying:

‘Hmm…You are being right, mama! I will be digging my heels most painfully into the wretch’s face tomorrow! Ha! Ha! He will even be crying out in pain, if I am having my way!’

This is the first time the stroppy, young woman has laughed, and the sense of relief in the showroom is palpable – amongst her father; her mother; salesman master-sir Ahmed; and her soon-to-be-rented footslave!

For I shall regard it as an honour to be this petulant, young woman’s footslave stand-in at her forthcoming ‘coming of age’ ceremony tomorrow; or her footslave ‘stand-on’, as her mother so wittily put it!

The rental agreement is duly signed by her father, and master-Ahmed sir makes me kiss the girl’s black ribbed Ugg-boot toes before I am ordered to crawl behind her thick, misshapen heels out towards the Indian family car, where I am unceremoniously and disappointingly put into the boot (I had hoped to be the young woman’s footrest in the back of the car!)

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

The following day, however, I did play the humble role of her personal footslave, being inducted under her feet in front of her extended family and friends. Since it was a non-speaking role on my part, none of them (apart from her parents) were any the wiser that I wasn’t her actual footslave – imported from India! I looked the humble part!

And my God, master Ahmed-sir was right! What a stunningly beautiful girl miss Parni truly is, especially when dressed up to the nines in her semi-diaphanous, turquoise-green sari, and with a pair of delightfully high-heeled, strappy, gold leather sandals on her slender and shapely, Indian-girl anklebones. She did indeed elicit a grimace and a scream as she dug her spiked, diamond-encrusted, sandal heel into my upturned cheekbone just before the black rubber footfool mask was placed over my damaged face, declaring me, falsely, in big, bold, red lettering, to be her permanent footslave-property:

Property of beautiful goddess-mistress Parni

One particularly nice little touch, I thought, was that there was even a little, black-sheepskin and rubber model of her favourite, pair of black, crocheted Ugg boots dangling from the top of my ‘borrowed’ footfool mask, along with a tiny pair of symbolic rainbow-coloured socks – her favourite boot-sock combo, dangling ignominiously from my rubber face!

Everyone indulged miss Parni on her 21^st birthday, and congratulated her on coming of age. Her big day went, seemingly, without a hitch, and she was pleased!

Oh how I would have loved to remain forever as the ill-tempered and spoilt miss Parni’s personal footfool – but it was not to be! Her actual footslave, chosen for her by her parents, arrived from India by parcel post some two days later, and the mask was duly transferred onto his lucky face whilst I was promptly returned to the showroom.

None of miss Parni’s wider circle of family and friends ever knew that the pain-faced footslave on whom she had trampled at her coming of age ceremony was a mere stand-in for her real footslave. But I still have a pampered and haughty, Indian girl’s cruel, diamond-stiletto, heel mark indelibly etched into my left cheekbone – as evidence that my story is all true!

Chronicle no. 7 – Sweet on me?

Most respected, fat, blonde, regular customer-mistress Clare is such a tease!

As she sits elegantly above me on my suburban, sink-estate, public shoelick-stand, looking truly resplendent in her ubiquitous black denim jeans and distinctive, green and brown speckled, shiny-rubber ankleboots and thick, black cotton socks, she mercilessly torments me about my previous customer-mistress, the skinny and petite, Indian-mistress, miss Rabia, who stepped down from my shoelick-stand just 2 minutes ago:

‘Ha! Ha! I reckon that stick-insect miss Rabia is sweet on you, slave! Ha! Ha! I was watchin’ the way she was lookin’ at you while I was waitin’ in the queue an’ that, an’ I reckon she wants you as her personal foot-bitch though, innit slave? Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes, mistress Clare?’

I am, of course, curious to know why customer-mistress Clare – whose opinions I very much respect, given her superior, feminine intellect and her excellent, if very individualistic, taste in footwear – would think that miss Rabia, the rather fragile and unremarkable-looking Indian girl, would be considered ‘sweet’ on me, and want me as her personal ‘foot-bitch’!

‘Oh yeah, slave! You wouldn’t have been able to see it, an’ that, coz you was, like, havin’ to concentrate on lickin’ her boots, an’ that, but I could see that she wants you, an’ that! I could see it in her big, brown eyes! Ha! Ha! I know it sounds silly, an’ that, slave – but I reckon she was, like, wearin’ those dirty, black ankleboots and white socks just for you, an’ that, innit though? Ha! Ha! I mean – you does like her boots and socks, an’ that, innit slave?’

It’s very hard to think back admiringly on a previous customer-mistress’s footwear – however appealing – when one is trying to focus on the equally appealing footwear of one’s current, blonde, chavvy customer-mistress who is seated high above one; especially when the latter’s footwear is so strikingly distinctive – ankle-length, green and brown speckled, rubber boots! So rare! So precious! And yet, so cheap – their beauty only increased by mistress Clare’s thick, black bootsocks covering her fat, fleshy-white cankles underneath.

I do so like fat, feminine ankles covered in thick, black sock – there is so much more sock to admire!

But, as I lick the outsides of her cheap, rubber, khaki-coloured, ‘camouflage’ ankleboots I try to think back to the much skinnier Indian-girl’s relatively smart, black leather, zip-up, chunky-heeled and round-toed ankleboots and plain, white anklesocks on her slender, brown anklebones.

I think, on reflection, that miss Clare may have a point – I have to admit that I do also quite like scuffmarked, black leather ankleboots and creamy-white cotton anklesocks on soft, brown, Indian-female skin; it’s the contrast between the white of the cotton and the brown of the skin! And there can be no doubt that miss Rabia was delighting in showing off her socks to me, since I recall how she had deliberately hitched up the hems of her smart, navy-blue, bootcut, office-trouser legs in order to give me a full and unimpeded view of her plain, white socktops.

I hadn’t really thought about it at the time – but, thanks to the vigilance and astute observations of mistress Clare, I can see now how the Indian-girl’s socks may indeed have been designed to seduce me.

I answer miss Clare’s question truthfully:

‘Oh yes, mistress Clare! This slave does indeed admire the boots and socks of customer-mistress Rabia – as indeed he admires the boots and socks of all his respected and beautiful customer-mistresses, including your own, if you would be so kind most respected customer-mistress Clare?’

I just wanted to make it clear to blonde customer-mistress Clare that I was equally admiring of her cheap, green and brown, rubber ankleboots and thick, black socks – lest she feel I was disrespecting them in favour of another customer-mistress’s more expensive-looking footwear.

‘Ha! Ha! Oh come on, slave – surely you must, like, yearn, an’ that, to serve a pretty Indian mistress as her personal foot-bitch, innit though? Ha! Ha! Just think – havin’ to worship and serve her pretty, black ankleboots and white socks, an’ that, on her fine, Indian ankles all the time! Ha! Ha! Wicked, man! Ha! Ha! Gettin’ to, like, know them intimately, an’ that; their tastes and smells, innit? Ha! Ha! I mean – if you was, like, miss Rabia’s personal footslave, or somefing, you’d get to see the rest of her white socks inside her boots, innit? Ha! Ha! Not just the elasticated tops of her socks, an’ that! Ha! Ha! You’d get to see, like, all the yellowy-brown bootstains on the soles of her yummy, white socks, or somefing? Hmm…Yum! Yum! You’d like that, slave, wouldn’t you? Ha! Ha! Indian-girl, yummy white, stinky socks, innit though? Mmm!...Not to mention, like, all her flaky, dry footskin and moist, stinky toe-cheese, an’ that? Ha! Ha! Mmm…lovely! You’d like that, wouldn’t you slave? Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you, though? Ha! Ha!’

Miss Clare certainly knows how to turn an uneducated, male footslave on – even with her talk of another woman’s socks and feet!

‘Oh yes mistress, Clare! If it pleases you, mistress Clare!’

Part of me wishes to add:

‘But even more so, I would dearly love to attend to your chavvy, rubber boots; thick, black socks; flaky, dead footskin; and stinky, fat toe-cheese – if it would be so pleasing to you, most sweet and kind mistress Clare? To be your personal foot-bitch, madam! Because your feet and ankles are so delightfully misshapen and fleshy, most respected, fat chav-mistress!’

But, of course, I don’t dare to say any such thing, because I am a timid and ineffectual footslave!

It apparently does please the selfless customer-mistress Clare, however, that she is successfully turning me on to her fellow customer-mistress’s boots, socks and feet:

‘Ha! Ha! You know what? You’re pafetic, slave, innit though? Ha! Ha! Salivatin’, an’ that, over the very thought of a skinny, Indian girl’s stinky, white socks! Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what, slave, would you like me to put in a good word for you, or somefing, with miss Rabia? Be like, a matchmaker, or somefing? I’m sure she’d be happy to, like, buy you, an’ that, if you’d really like to be her personal foot and sock bitch, innit? Ha! Ha!’

I am somewhat taken aback by goddess-mistress Clare’s kind offer to be a matchmaker made in heaven, as I continue to lickshine her bitter-tasting, brown and green speckled, sink-estate, cheap rubber ankleboots beneath her scrunched-up, thick black bootsocks:

‘Oh pray, mistress Clare, I’m not sure, mistress Clare!’

She laughs at my diffidence:

‘Ha! Ha! Oh come on slave – what is it they used to say in them olden times, an’ that?... A faint footslave-heart ne’er won a fair lady, an’ that!... Ha! Ha! Don’t you want to be an Indian girl’s personal boot and sock bitch? I’m sure she’d, like, whip you, an’ that, every day – if that’s what you’re worried about! She’s bound to impose her strong, masterful will and aufority on you, innit though? Ha! Ha!...’

I am somewhat bemused that customer-mistress Clare seems to think, like so many young, sink-estate women, that, as a slave, I actually crave the sting of the female whip, and yearn to be nagged!

‘…Then again, I can see why you might be nervous about missin’ out on all your other customer-mistresses’ nice boots and socks, an’ that! Like mine! Ha! Ha!’ continues to mock miss Clare. ‘I mean, miss Rabia is a very nice girl, an’ that, but I has heard that she’s, like, a bit of a psycho, or somefing? Ha! Ha! She’d probably keep you locked up, an’ that, in her personal dungeon, or somefing, and insist that you only worship her dirty socks and boots all the time, an’ that! Ha! Ha! There’d be no more variety, an’ that, in your life – an’ they say that variety is the spice of life, innit footslave?’

How could I possibly disagree with such clichéd statements by mistress Clare when confronted by such a unique and individual pair of khaki-coloured, shiny-rubber ankleboots?

‘Oh yes mistress Clare. If it pleases you mistress Clare!’

‘Oh well, I suppose I’ll just have to tell mistress Rabia to back off then, innit? Tell her you is, like, not interested in bein’ her personal foot-bitch, an’ that? That you just ain’t ready to serve her spicy, Indian boots and socks in, like, any kind of personal capacity, or somefing? Ha! Ha! Reckon I’ll just tell her that you thinks her dirty, black boots, stinky, white socks, an’ flaky, sweaty toe-cheese just ain’t good enough for you, an’ that – innit though, slave?’

I baulk and quake at the thought of chavvy, socktease customer-mistress Clare telling another mistress – who is, apparently, sweet on me – that, in effect, she and her highly prized, spicy Indian feet and footwear are just not good enough for me!

‘Oh pray mistress Clare, if it pleases you mistress Clare, please don’t tell the mistress Rabia that I am rejecting her, most sweet and kind mistress Clare. This slave will most assuredly be sorely whipped if you do so, mistress Clare! Oh pray, mistress Clare! Truly I fear the female whip, mistress!’

‘Ha! Ha!...Truly I fear the female whip, mistress...You really are a pafetic little worm, innit though slave? Ha! Ha! Expectin’ me to do all your dirty work for you, an’ that? Hah! What a snake in the grass, though! What a creep, though!’

And with that, fat chav-mistress Clare gathers up some sweet feminine phlegm in her pretty, blonde mouth, leans down and spits on me – the pathetic, little worm cum snake in the grass – on behalf of her ‘rejected’ fellow customer-mistress.

I humbly admit my shame to the superior mistress, and beg her blonde-haired forgiveness:

‘Yes mistress Clare. This dirty slave is indeed pathetic. Thank you for spitting on me, mistress Clare. Please forgive me for being so wretched, mistress.’

‘Kiss my socks, slave!’

I am only too happy to bury my lips in the creases and folds of blonde mistress Clare’s thick, black, cankle-hiding bootsocks.

Crazy though it may sound, I’m beginning to wonder whether my luck may be in, and if she is actually the one who is sweet on me?

Or possibly even sweet on miss Rabia, an’ that?

Chronicle no. 6 – Hearing Voices

Being the personal footwear-slave of my mistress Carmela is certainly pressurized enough! She is a beautiful, petite, 23 year old girl of Latina origins; very feisty; always hyperactive; and very demanding – so much so I fear I might be cracking up under the pressure!

What makes matters even worse, however, is that she is extremely rich – and consequently she can afford to employ a footslave-overseer, Kwame; or mister Kwame sir to me (as per my mistress’s instructions).

All I know about mister Kwame sir is that he is a thirty-something, tall and stocky black man who is very handy with the female whip! And he takes his job of being a rich, Latina lady’s personal-slave overseer very seriously indeed. Wherever my mistress and her personal footslave go, he goes too!

Taskmaster Kwame, and his dreaded whip, are therefore my constant, nagging companions.

Today, for example, I am accompanying my long-dark-haired, Latina mistress on her way into college. I am crawling along the pavements on my hands and knees, endeavouring to keep my elderly, footslave face close to my mistress Carmela’s dainty, Latina, student-girl heels. She is wearing her favourite pair of pink leather, kitten-heeled booties (half-ankleboots which only reach up as high as her shapely, lower anklebones), and crisp, white, scrunched-up anklesocks beneath the light grey, turned-up hems of her blue denim, designer jeans.

Mister Kwame sir, and his supervisory whip, are, in turn, hovering behind me – ready to strike at a moment’s notice – and I can be sure that he will be concentrating on me every bit as much as I am endeavouring to concentrate on the backs of my Latina mistress Carmela’s pink, leather student-booties and scrunched-up white anklesocks!

Mister Kwame sir is a hard, African taskmaster (or a ‘diligent’ taskmaster if seen from my mistress Carmela’s point of view), and likes to continuously berate me as I crawl down the public street to heel, and to cajole me with his whip – all in order to inspire me to ever greater public devotion towards my mistress’s boots and socks, and in her full hearing, of course!

As for my mistress Carmela, she loves it – her slave-supervisor’s masterfulness over me; the sound of the whip periodically slicing without mercy through the cold, winter air and splattering down ignominiously onto my prone and vulnerable, bare back; the attention she receives from passers-by; the admiring glances of free men; the jealous looks of other, less-well-off, young women who are not financially secure enough to employ such a hunky and manly, personal footslave-overseer like mister Kwame sir for their weedy and wimpish, personal footslaves! (They, sadly, just have to discipline their personal footslaves themselves!)

And so, as I desperately try to keep up with my fast-paced and fit, young, Latina mistress, African taskmaster Kwame, who is also much younger and stronger than me, keeps me in line through a combination of verbal encouragement and the sting of the whip.

He continuously reminds me of my duties in his thick, West-African accent as he studiously whips me along the street:

‘Keep your gaze low, slave…whip!... Look only at your mistress’s socks…whip!... Go on, old slave, do as you are told…whip!...whip!...Respect your young mistress’s socks ...whip!... Pay homage to her socks with your eyes ...whip!...

whip!… Admire the creases and folds in the backs of her white socks as she walks along, dirty slave!...whip!...Admire the patterns in the white stitching …whip!...whip!... Filthy pig!...whip!...whip!…Girl’s sock whore!...whip!... Don’t think about anything else, slave…whip!....only her white socks!....whip!... Think about how nice they look on the backs of her heels…whip!... Admire the way they contrast so nicely with your mistress’s soft, smooth legskin…Mentally beg to bury your face in her white socks... whip!...whip! ...Pray to them and bless them …whip! ...for they are the socks of your mistress and better, you wretched, dirty old slaveman…whip!...whip!...’

Mister Kwame sir never laughs, you will note; he takes his job much too seriously ever to laugh at me or even just to exult in his delegated, free-male power over me!

Then, when my mistress Carmela is seated on the train, with me lying prostrate on my stomach on the dirty, carriage floor beneath her – my head serving as her pink-booted footrest – taskmaster Kwame will be seated beside her as an almost-equal (being her free-man employee, as opposed to her bonded slaveman like me), but continuing all the while to lean down, evil whip in hand, in order to dutifully monitor my footface-rest behaviour:

‘Stare at the insteps of your mistress’s pink, leather booties slave…Admire the creases in the leather running all along the side of the boot which is resting in the dirt directly in front of your ugly slave-face…don’t look up at her white sock…let it tower above you as it covers her anklebone, for it is better than you…it is a superior young woman’s sock, and you are just a beautiful, young woman’s sock-slave!... Now concentrate on the zipper on the side of her half-boot…admire the black felt of the zipper-track, and how it contrasts with the surrounding pink leather on the side of her boot…Seek out the dust particles in the black felt with your eyes, and imagine running your nose down the groove of that felt zipper!...Now imagine undoing that short zip with your slave-teeth and nosing the side of your mistress’s soft, white sock!...You can imagine it, but you must not do it…You are not worthy to touch your mistress’s white sock with your mouth or face…you are just a worthless, dirty footslave!… Her clean, white sock is too good for you, slave!...’

Mister Kwame sir finds it more difficult to whip me in the restricted confines of the train carriage, but he still draws admiring glances from many of the other lovestruck females on the train. Such obedience he can instill in a young lady’s footslave – they would just love to see him whipping me using his manly, rippling biceps! (This is their point of view, you understand – not mine! I don’t relish being whipped by a strong, muscular man! Or even by a feeble, young woman, for that matter!)

We are in the college cafeteria now, and mistress Carmela is enjoying a casual snack with her female college friends. Several pairs of attractive, young-womanly shoes, sneakers and boots surround me underneath the college-cafeteria table, but the ever vigilant taskmaster Kwame makes sure my footslave-eyes don’t stray even for one second from my own mistress Carmela’s pink leather booties and pure, white, scrunched up anklesocks.

He now speaks in lowered, almost whispered, tones to me, and merely rubs the business-end of the whip threateningly across my existing whip-sores, so as to cause me the maximum amount of pain and anxiety that he can, without disturbing the young ladies’ conversation. Such a considerate and gentlemanly, African taskmaster!

‘Focus on your mistress’s boots and socks beneath the table, slave…Observe the way one of her white socks is lower than the other…Ponder how that may have happened, for I shall whip you for that later, slave…Count the difference in the number of creases on your mistress’s right and left socks, and work out how her left sock could have possibly slipped further down inside her pink ankle-boot…Beg the left sock for mercy and forgiveness, and implore it to have you whipped by me later!

I obey the master-sir, and do my begging in equally subdued tones:

‘Yes, mister Kwame sir, at once, mister Kwame sir…Oh pray, mistress Carmela’s left, white sock…if it pleases you, mistress Carmela’s left, white sock…please forgive me for allowing you to slip down inside my mistress pink leather bootie lower than your sister-sock on her right foot…And please, I beg of you, don’t have me whipped by the mighty master-sir for such incompetence on my part…Oh I pray to you, sock! Oh pray! Pray have mercy on me, mistress Carmela’s most gracious white sock!’

I must be careful not to raise my voice and disturb my Latina mistress as I beg her white sock on her left ankle for mercy!

Later, in the lecture hall itself, taskmaster Kwame crouches down beside me again, looking diligently over my previously whipped shoulder as I continue to kneel at my Latina student-mistress’s, pink-bootied feet.

He must speak in a very low whisper now, directly into my right ear, so as not to interrupt my mistress Carmela’s concentration on the lecture. I can smell his bad breath, and feel the whip trailing over my back wounds, as he sotto voce denigrates me:

‘Stupid slave!...Don’t take your eyes off your mistress’s pink boots in front of your face…but while you are staring at them, think about her white socks inside her boots again…Think about how hot and sweaty they must be getting by now, and about how you are going to have to smell them and mouthwash them later, under the pain of the whip!…It’s the whip for you, old slaveman, for you have let one of your mistress’s white socks slip down inside her boot!... Wait until I point that out to your mistress – she will have me whip you hard, slave!...Think about the whip, and be afraid, slave!’

And, true to his whispered word, taskmaster Kwame sir does whip me later – mightily so; and at the explicit behest of my mistress Carmela, for I have, as mister Kwame sir has so kindly pointed out to her, clearly failed to put her white socks on her feet properly first thing this morning, since one of them has mysteriously slipped down inside her pink leather, zip-up bootie, whereas the other one continues to stand tall and proud around her shapely, Latina anklebone (albeit in a scrunched-up and slovenly-looking kind of way; designer slovenly!).

I am convinced in my own mind that I deserve to be whipped, and taskmaster Kwame deserves to be the one who wields the female whip over me – since it was he that spotted the sock-slippage on my mistress’s pretty ankles in the first place.

The only thing that isn’t quite clear to me is:

Does taskmaster Kwame sir really exist, or am I just hearing voices?

Is he, perhaps, just a figment of my fevered, footslave-imagination – the voice of my footslave-conscience, urging me on to ever greater efforts at my beloved, Latina mistress’s feet?

It is unmistakeably a male voice that I hear – so it could be my own! But then, why would my conscience have an African accent? I’ve never been to Africa! And the halitosis? Can the voice of one’s subconscious possibly have halitosis? Or is it just my own breath that smells, from constantly having to lick dirty, female boots and suck on dirty, female socks?

Furthermore, if mister Kwame sir is a mere figment of my imagination, how do you account for the biting sting of the female whip now regaling my back and shoulders? That sure feels real enough! Who could possibly be wielding the cruel, female whip so expertly across my bare back if the existence of taskmaster Kwame is mere fanciful thinking on my pathetic, footslave part?

My mistress herself, perhaps? No – it can’t be! I can see her now – relaxing, alone, in front of me, with her bare feet up on the edge of the sofa, her discarded pink leather booties lying just inches away from my kneeling and bowed face as her dirty, discarded socks youthfully gag the insides of my elderly footslave-mouth.

She can’t possibly be the one whipping me!

But, maybe the stinging wounds on my back are from a previous whipping? Maybe the pain from them has suddenly just ‘reignited’? Come to think of it, I can’t actually hear any crack from the whip behind me. I can only feel the pain!

Oh, I just don’t know any more! I’m confused! Like I said – I fear I’m cracking up! You decide the truth, please, whilst I just continue to suck-clean my Latina mistress’s dirty, white socks in my humble footslave-mouth!

Or, perhaps, horror of horrors, even my beloved mistress Carmela doesn’t exist?!

No – no! Like I said, I can see her above me; reclined barefoot on the sofa. And the taste of dirty, white, Latina-student-girl sock is definitely for real inside my footslave-mouth; I’d recognise that taste anywhere! Furthermore, the soft, white, female socks are still warm, and reek of sweet, feminine footsweat. They have certainly been on a beautiful, young woman’s feet, and inside her boots, in the very recent past. And now they are inside my mouth!

Yes, my Latina mistress Carmela most indubitably exists; and she is indubitably a very wealthy, young woman; and I am indubitably her personal footwear-slave.

Of that much you can be sure!

Chronicle no. 5 – Fantasy vs. Reality

Sadly, the reality of being an office footslave does not always live up to the fantasy.

Here is a perfect example of what I mean:

My first office-mistress of the day is 20 year old, Pakistani office-junior mistress, miss Ishrat – a beautiful, but slightly built girl, with rather skinny legs and ankles. I would much prefer it if she were a bit ‘fleshier’ about the anklebone. Not that my tastes in feminine ankles are of any consequence – I must serve them as I find them, and treat them all with an unconditional, footslavish respect! But, in my selfish fantasies, set in a perfect world, miss Ishrat’s ankles would be thicker.

Moreover, again in my ideal fantasy world, she would be much harsher and nastier towards me; miss Ishrat is such an innately sweet-natured and kind young woman that she rarely stoops to the level of disciplining me with the office whip, for example. I sometimes wish she would exercise her perfectly legitimate, female right to impose the sanction of physical pain on me more often, but, regrettably, she does not yet possess the emotional maturity to wield her absolute, female power over the middle-aged, male slave absolutely.

One can only hope that will come with time!

Another disappointment today: as it is snowing quite heavily outside this morning, the far too sweet and kind miss Ishrat has (very sensibly) elected to wear her synthetic, black, shapeless, calf-length moonboots on her delicate, Pakistani-girl feet and ankles, with her ubiquitous, navy-blue, officewear trousers tucked into the tops of them. Extremely fetching though she looks in her misshapen, flat-heeled moonboots and tucked-in trousers, I would very much prefer it if she were wearing her more usual office footwear, consisting of her creamy-sock revealing, black leather, chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboots.

I prefer her in those shapely, everyday ankleboots not just because genuine, female bootleather tastes much nicer than female synthetic-boot material, and is correspondingly easier to lick clean, but because I always like to have sight of a Pakistani girl’s socks inside her boots, or at the very least the elasticated tops of her socks, whilst I am lickshining her outer footwear for her.

It somehow just adds to my overwhelming sense of footslavish humility when I am obliged to observe, close-up and personal, the soft, and often creased, cotton material of her socks whilst she is still wearing them inside her boots – especially when they are such a manky-looking pair of well-worn, cream-coloured socks as those customarily worn by miss Ishrat, and all the more so when they help to ‘fill out’ skinny and bony, feminine ankles like those belonging to such a petite and slender Asian-girl.

It’s just so humiliating to be that close to a skinny girl’s socks whilst she is actually wearing them!

Today, however, it is not to be. Immediately upon her taking up her seat in the communal, office shoelick-chair above me, I am obliged to express my humility and gratitude for the opportunity to serve her by showering her thick, round-toed, sock-hiding, synthetic moonboots with dozens of genuinely respectful kisses, even though they are so cruelly denying me a glimpse of my Pakistani mistress’s creamy-white, sock tops! Reality vs. Fantasy!

Furthermore, I must do so in abject silence – since that is humble office-footslave rule no. 1 (in this office at any rate): The communal, office footslave may not talk to a mistress whilst he is kissing, licking, or otherwise attending to her shoes or boots – under penalty of the female whip!

In my pathetic, footslave fantasies, however, I would much rather greet miss Ishrat with some gushing and verbose, humble slavespeak as I pay labial homage to her shapeless moonboots – verbally express my fear and admiration of her delicate, Pakistani-girl power and authority over me not just through the medium of humble bootkisses and deeds, but in heartfelt, slavish words:

‘Oh pray, mistress Ishrat. Greetings be upon you, mistress Ishrat. And God bless you for honouring me with your divine, feminine presence, Pakistani goddess-mistress Ishrat. Please don’t beat me, mistress Ishrat. Truly this slave will be a good footslave to you, mistress Ishrat, and will worship and honour your beautiful moonboots, if it would be pleasing to you, mistress?’

I realise, of course, that I’m contradicting myself here! On the one hand I have already told you that I wish miss Ishrat would deploy the whip to my back more often; on the other hand I wish I could obsequiously grovel for mercy at her moonbooted feet, and pray not to be beaten by her! But that’s because, whilst I may like the fantasy of being whipped by miss Ishrat, the reality is quite a different matter! Real pain, as opposed to imagined pain, is a whole different ball-game, and no-one could possibly like the biting embrace of the female whip around one’s exposed, male ribs in reality (especially not when wielded by a genuinely angry, young Pakistani woman!)

But it’s a moot point (or should that be ‘mute’ point) in any case – since I am forbidden to verbally beg for mercy. I must confine myself to conveying my fear and trembling before her superior young-womanhood through the medium of my silent lips pathetically bobbing up and down on her artificial boots!

At least, as I repeatedly kiss the outsides of her black, synthetic boots from broad, rounded toes to misshapen uppers, I can be comforted by the knowledge that deep inside those calf-length moonboots lie an unseen, but decidedly manky, old pair of cream-coloured, cotton bootsocks; I can visualize them in my imagination, for miss Ishrat never seems to wear any other colour of bootsocks on her slender, Pakistani-girl feet.

She is not exactly what you would describe as a ‘sock-proud’ young woman!

I continue to festoon the outsides of her cheap, artificial moonboots with genuine kisses of fear and admiration as she sits regally above me on the office shoelick-chair, until such time as miss Ishrat deigns to deliver her entirely predictable orders to me in her delicate and softly-spoken, indeed almost timid, Pakistan-girl accent:

‘Slave, you may now be lick-cleaning my boots for me, please!’

They are entirely predictable, but also entirely unimaginative orders. In my ideal fantasy world miss Ishrat would think outside the boots! She would bark down the following, humiliating orders to me, in a much harsher and more demanding tone of authoritative, Pakistani-girl voice:

‘Dirty slave, be pulling off my boots and smelling my socks this instant! Be sniffing my dirty socks out loud from top to bottom while I am still being wearing them on my feet, and be making damn well sure that everyone is seeing you and hearing you sniffing my socks, isn’t it? For I am wanting them all to be laughing at you as you are being forced to sniff a Pakistani girl’s smelly socks in public, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! You are being nothing more than a stupid girlsock-sniffer, you ignorant fool! I am spitting on you, and denigrating you, you impotent, lowly maleslave-peasant!’

In my fantasies miss Ishrat would then carry out her threat to spit on me from above, noisily gathering up phlegm and mucus inside her pretty, Pakistani mouth before expelling it ingloriously down onto the top of my balding, bowed pate, whilst I humbly and fearfully sniffed her grubby, cream-coloured bootsocks on her dainty, brown feet – creamy socks saturated in stink as they have only just been liberated from the sweat-inducing, inner lining of her warming, synthetic moonboots.

But no such luck! As I indicated before, the reality of the matter is that miss Ishrat lacks the maturity and self-confidence to mistreat me like that. It is with good reason that the Female Laws of the Gynarchy prevent a young woman from owning a personal footslave before the age of 21. They just aren’t ready for it – though they may practice their dominance on public or communal footslaves like myself from the age of 18.

Again, I am forbidden to speak or verbally acknowledge her orders in any way. And so I must indicate my slavish acquiescence with miss Ishrat’s disappointingly polite, humdrum orders to lick-clean her boots, by merely sticking out my tongue and obeying her:

As I indicated before, I’d much rather be licking the smooth leather, and felt zippers, of her usual chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots. I am accustomed to the strong and bitter taste of female-human bootleather, though it is very much an acquired taste. But these synthetic moonboots are virtually tasteless under-tongue. Very bland.

Still, looking on the bright side, at least it means the taste of miss Ishrat’s recently acquired street-mud and snow-slush is not overwhelmed by the taste of her synthetic boot-material, as is often the case with ordinary female bootleather. There is nothing worse, for a footslave, than spotting what you think will be a tasty morsel of brown, feminine bootdirt, only to find it drowned out by the taste of the black, feminine bootleather it is stuck to!

And that’s the whole point about real life, as opposed to fantasy, isn’t it? As I lick clean the slushy, early morning street-dirt from the rough treads of miss Ishrat’s flat moonboot-soles, I must learn to take the rough with the smooth. Okay – so what if her stinky, cream-coloured socks are not visible to me today? Am I not compensated by the peripheral vision of her calf-length, black synthetic boots towering so dominantly and misshapenly above me as I lick their, slovenly, street-soiled soles?

And what miss Ishrat lacks in mistressly experience, she makes up for with youthful impetuousness. For she suddenly kicks me in the face with the ridiculously broad, rounded toe of her right moonboot:

‘BE LICKING THEM HARDER, YOU QUEER FOOT-FLUNKEY!’ she shouts angrily down at me.

Yes, mistress Ishrat. At once miss Ishrat. That’s more like it, miss Ishrat! Please don’t hurt me, mistress Ishrat! Please don’t kick my face in!

That’s what I feel like responding, even though my only response can be to silently obey; to lick moonboot harder.

Yes – I suppose, on reflection, the reality of my footslave-life in the office isn’t all bad, even if it only very rarely lives up (or should that be down) to the fantasy!

Chronicle no. 4 – Deskbound

I am employed as a deskbound office-footslave. Specifically, I am bound underneath the desk of 24 year old miss Jeeval, a beautiful, if somewhat chubby, Indian girl who is one of the office accountants.

My job is to attend to her feet and footwear underneath the desk. Every female office-employee has a personal, deskbound office-footslave like me, but I consider myself particularly fortunate to be allocated to miss Jeeval’s desk – for she has a wonderful sense of style and panache when it comes to her office footwear.

Even when it is freezing cold and snowing outside, miss Jeeval knows how to beautify her feet. This morning, for example, when she enters the office and takes up her seat at her desk, I see that she is wearing an ultra-fetching pair of thick, rainbow-patterned, stripy-cotton towelling socks – all scrunched up around her chubby ankles – inside her chunky, pale pink, low-top, lace-up leather sneakers. Moreover, the rainbow-coloured towelling socks cover the bottoms of her thick, grey woollen leggings beneath her short, grey office-skirt.

She looks the business – and she knows it!

I can tell from her pink sneakers that it must be snowing outside, as I can see little patches of white, melting snow on the lower insteps and thick treads of her walk-to-work footwear. My job, first thing in the morning after she has settled down into her office, swivel seat at her office desk, is to now change miss Kumar out of her chunky and round-toed, girly-pink sneakers, into her smart black leather, block-heeled and chisel-toed, zip-up office ankleboots – boots which, as per usual, she has left underneath her desk next to my kneeling nose all night; Indian-girl, officewear boots, the warm and moist insides of which I have been breathing in all night – out of respect for my 24 year old, Indian desk-mistress.

Miss Jeeval does not need to give me any verbal orders in her cute, Indian accent – for we both know exactly what I must do. It’s part of her winter-morning routine. She arrives at the office; she takes up her seat at her desk and stretches forth her still-sneakered legs for me to ‘boot her up’ whilst her freemale office colleague master-sir John, on whom she is quite sweet, makes her a warming cup of coffee.

I mustn’t rush, of course – for changing a superior, young woman’s footwear is a privilege and an honour which is to be savoured. I therefore begin by paying my humble, footslavish respects to her cold, snowy sneakers – by kissing them ten times (five times each) on the flaky, and snow-sodden, rounded toe areas. A true slave must always worshipfully kiss a lady’s item of footwear before touching it with his hands – otherwise he will be sorely whipped for behaving disrespectfully.

My lips brush against miss Jeeval’s dirty, white sneaker-laces as I kiss the leathery, rounded toes of her thick-treaded, low-top sneakers. They do feel particularly cold under lip this morning– and I gather from miss Jeeval’s conversation with her freemale colleague, master John sir, above me that it is indeed bitterly cold outside this morning; my Indian desk-mistress even takes off her black woolly gloves to let him feel her cold, brown hands on the side of his white cheek. He laughs – and sympathises with her.

I wonder if miss Jeeval’s brown-skinned tootsies are as cold inside her pink sneakers – despite the thick, warming rainbow-towelling socks she is wearing inside her sneakers – and wish that she would let me feel her bare toes on the side of my humble, maleslave cheek.

But I know she won’t! Miss Jeeval is quite a modest, Indian girl, and wouldn’t dream of indulging her office-footslave in such an intimate matter. Besides, she’s not ‘sweet’ on me – I’m just a down-under-the-desk footslave, with no prospects or future to make me attractive to an ambitious, young woman like miss Jeeval, unlike master John sir, the office Alpha-freemale!

Having respectfully kissed the pink sneaker-toes and grey-white laces, 10 times in total, I begin to untie them. Miss Jeeval subconsciously assists me to slip the thick, heavy sneakers off her stripy-rainbow-socked feet by graciously lifting her wet, sneakered heels up off the office floor.

I set the snow-dampened, Indian-girl, pink sneakers to one side – next to her waiting, black leather office ankleboots – and next turn my slavish attentions towards her thick, brightly-coloured towelling socks. I briefly admire the stripy rainbow-patterns in the socks, before lowering my lips to them and respectfully kissing them, for I shall be touching them next as I must divest my mistress Jeeval’s feet of them. These are strictly outdoor-socks, to be worn along with her sneakers on the way into work. They will not be worn inside her black, office ankleboots.

The socks don’t smell in the least bit sweaty as I lower my lips to the stitching covering the slightly damp, reinforced toe areas; they do smell a little musty and mouldy, perhaps, from the snow having seeped through the pink leather of the sneakers and onto the outer surfaces of her rainbow socks – but in no way could the smell be described as perspiratory.

It’s not that miss Jeeval can’t have sweaty feet. In the summertime – when she often chooses to wear her black, office courts on her bare, Indian feet – her feet do frequently smell incredibly moist and sweaty; particularly towards the end of the long, working day.

But right now – inside her relatively fresh, rainbow towelling socks, this early in the morning and on such a bitterly cold day – miss Jeeval’s divine, Indian feet are far from being sweaty. Like her hands inside her gloves, they will be cold inside her socks. The socks – even such a pair of thick, towelling socks – like her woolly gloves will have been unable to completely protect her pretty, Indian-girl extremities from the exceptionally bitter cold. But I take some comfort in the thought that – partly thanks to the freshly-made cup of coffee she is now sipping courtesy of her ever attentive colleague master-sir John – my young, Indian office-mistress will be stating to warm up.

Despite their mustiness, I kiss the stripy, multicoloured girlsocks 10 times with genuine admiration and respect for the sterling efforts they have made to keep mistress Jeeval’s Indian toes warm inside her sneakers – and out of sheer jealousy at their unrivalled intimacy with her bare, Indian footflesh.

Except that – when I respectfully pull the scrunched-up, anklelength towelling socks off miss Jeeval’s feet and place them inside the tops of her recently divested sneakers – I am in for the shock of my life; inside her stripy, thick rainbow-coloured socks she is wearing another pair of thin, plain, white cotton socks! Today must be so cold, that miss Jeeval has elected to wear two pairs of socks simultaneously over her chubby, Indian anklebones!

This is a first! Normally, when I take off her sneaker socks – be they these rainbow-coloured pair or any other pair – she then requires me to put her black leather ankleboots onto her bare, Indian feet! But today her feet are so cold she is evidently wearing an extra layer of socks!

I am in a bit of a quandary now! What am I to do? Leave the plain white socks on her feet, or take them off too? This is unprecedented, and I need some guidance from my much more intelligent desk-mistress.

Fortunately for me she senses my stupid-male-slave confusion, and kindly interrupts her lovey-dovey small-talk with master-sir John above me in order to clarify her wishes in her cute, dark-haired Indian-girl accent:

‘Slave, be leaving the white socks on my feet and be placing my boots over the top of them. Be smoothing the socks on my feet first before you are placing on the boots!’

‘Yes, mistress Jeeval. As it pleases you, goddess-mistress Jeeval.’

I am relieved – for the decision has been made for me and my instructions could not be any clearer. I am to leave the pure, white anklesocks on my Indian office-mistress’s feet, and zip her black leather, office ankleboots up over them. But first, I must smooth the thin, white cotton anklesocks around her shapely, brown insteps and ankles; therefore I must touch the second pair of socks; therefore I must respectfully kiss them 10 times.

All my ignorant slave-questions have been answered, and miss Jeeval can resume her besotted conversation with her office beau, master-sir John, above me. I can sense the latter smirking masterfully at me as he watches me attend to his beautiful, Indian girlfriend’s socks and boots; he is thinking: what a loser! what an Indian girl’s, pussy-whipped footslave!

And he is right to think like that, for that is exactly what I am!

The thin, white socks are truly stunning – fresh, pure, white cotton; much smoother and creamier than the thick, fuzzy, multicoloured, towelling socks, and just long enough to cover miss Jeeval’s somewhat podgy, Indian anklebones. Or, at least, they will be when I have evened them out over her pretty, brown ankles – for they have become slightly dislodged and creased on her feet following my inept removal of her stripy-patterned, outer socks.

So these white socks are actually the socks which have enjoyed truly intimate access to my mistress’s bare, cold footflesh on this snowy winter’s morning! Respect! And they look so pure and white – not a mark on them! I suppose that’s because the stripy, rainbow-coloured socks have prevented her inner sneaker-linings from staining them!

Respect to the rainbow-socks (again!).

I kiss the pure, white anklesocks on the reinforced-cotton toe areas ten times. Again, no smell of human sweat; just fresh cotton. My only regret is that the stitching of the socks is so dense and narrow I cannot see my mistress Jeeval’s painted toes underneath.

Miss Jeeval always paints her toenails – usually to match her fingernails; and today, I couldn’t help noticing as she earlier took off her gloves to hold her cold hands up to master-sir John’s face, her podgy fingernails are painted blue. So I’m guessing her toenails are painted glossy blue also.

Oh, what wouldn’t I give to kiss miss Jeeval’s bare, blue toenails! But, as I indicated before, even when she wears her office boots or courts on bare feet, I am never permitted lip-contact with her bare footflesh – not even with her bare cuticles!

For all I know master-sir John might be granted such intimate foot-access – after work; after dark. For she likes him!

Still, at least I can feel the ridges of her pedicured toenails underneath the cotton stitching of the fresh-smelling, white socks.

That’s enough sock-worship for now. I straighten the white socks with my trembling slave-fingers (trembling because I fear the sting of the female whip if I fail to please either the desk-mistress or her consort) smoothing out all the white-cotton creases and folds – and then pick up the nearby, black leather, block-heeled and chisel-toed ankleboots in order to zip them up onto my Indian mistress Jeeval’s white-socked feet.

First I must kiss the ankleboots, of course, before I am permitted to touch them – kiss them 10 times, out of respect, as I have done with every other item of my mistress’s winter footwear.

It is with a certain degree of sadness that I finally zip up my mistress’s smart, office ankleboots – for they are not only now hiding her beautiful, white socks, they are also covering the elasticated hems of her grey, woolly leggings, and hence her bare, brown ankleskin. Miss Jeeval has such smooth, Indian skin! Oh how I yearn to kiss it!

But, I have to admit it – the ankleboots look ultra-stylish on my office-mistress’s feet and ankles as I kneel humbly by their side and stare at them. And the pleasing thought that hidden inside those wonderful boots she is wearing such a delightful pair of white, feminine socks thrills me to the core, for I hope to catch a whiff of them at the end of the day when I must change my mistress Jeeval back into her sneakers and outer, rainbow socks! Surely by then the white socks will be smelling of her, having been inside her warm, office boots all day.

Even a pathetic, deskbound office-footslave has to have something to look forward to at the end of the day – and kissing and touching an Indian-girl’s, plain white, sweaty bootsocks will do for me!

Only her luscious and fulsome, naked body will do for master-sir John, of course – but then, he is a real man, who needs more than a girl’s sweaty, white socks and black leather ankleboots to get off on!

Chronicle no. 3 – A Mistress’s Complaint Letter

The public-slave owning organisation received the following letter of complaint:

‘Dear Sir or Madam,

My name is mistress Tina, and I am a regular visitor to your public footslave no. 371A in the central town square.

Earlier today I visited the dirty slave for a regular bootshining, but was far from satisfied with the service I received! The slave appeared distracted and aloof, and his tongue was clearly missing several areas of mud and street-dirt on the lower edges of my black, leather ankleboots – boots which, I might add, he is very familiar with since his tongue has been required to attend to them on many previous occasions!

When I challenged the fool as to the reasons for his substandard service, he actually had the temerity to admit that his mind was still preoccupied with the feet and footwear of a previous customer – some Indian girl, I gather, with whose dirty shoes and socks he had been particularly enamoured!

Correct me if I am wrong, but I was under the impression that a public footslave is required to give 100% of his attention to the feet and footwear of the customer-mistress who is seated in front of him at the time?

I feel insulted and slighted by your slave, and demand that he be severely punished for his wilful neglect of my office ankleboots. I await your reply.

Yours mistressly,

Mistress Tina’

The Customer-Service Department of the public-slave owning organisation replied, promptly, as follows:

‘Dear mistress Tina,

We are very sorry to hear about the substandard service you received from one of our public footslaves – no. 371A. This behaviour you describe is not the standard of slavish behaviour we require of our slaves, and we, as an organisation, have let you down.

We wholeheartedly apologise for that, and can assure you that the slave concerned will now be sorely punished for your delectation.

We would propose that he receive 100 lashes of the female whip, well laid on and in slow time, whilst secured at your feet. One of our female disciplinary-managers will be happy to carry out the whipping on your behalf, and will record the event for your future entertainment and satisfaction onto a complimentary DVD.

The punishment may be conducted at a time and place of your convenience – either in the comfort of your own home surrounded by your immediate friends and family; or at your place of work in front of your work colleagues; or in the town square where the slave is based; or, indeed, at our own offices.

Immediately prior to the flogging, the disrespectful and incompetent slave shall be required to kiss your feet 1000 times and to beg for your forgiveness and mercy (we would recommend that you show him neither). Similarly, immediately following the whipping, the whipped slave shall be required to kiss your feet a further 1000 times, and to praise and bless you for reporting him and having him punished.

He shall then be required to show the due respect and attention to your footwear which was so sadly lacking on the occasion of your visit to our public shoelick-stand, and we would therefore politely request that you wear the selfsame boots which you were wearing when the original incident occurred.

Finally, the slave shall be put on public display by being required to follow you to heel on his hands and knees for one whole hour at your chosen punishment location, with a placard around his neck declaring his crime for all in the vicinity to verbally mock, despise and berate him.

Alternatively, you may prefer to whip the footslave yourself, and to humiliate him in a manner of your own choosing, in which case our disciplinary manageress will merely oversee the proceedings and again record them for your satisfaction onto a complimentary DVD.

Please ring our senior customer-services’ manageress – mistress Heather – on Barbaria 549 76543 at your convenience to make all the necessary arrangements.

Assuring you of our best intentions at all times, and our desire to see this dirty, ignorant footslave suitably humbled and chastened.

Yours in mistresshood,

Mistress Annette

Customer Service Manageress’

Mistress Tina decided to opt for the slave to be disciplined at her feet by one of the organisation’s professional, disciplinary-manageresses in the manner they had proposed.

Public footslave no. 371A was thus duly punished at her black leather anklebooted feet some 3 days later in front of her office colleagues at her place of work.

Everyone present was jubilant that the tremendous sting of the expertly-applied female whip had fairly taught the neglectful slave the error of his ways, and that he would never again insult the block-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboots of their beloved friend and blonde-haired, office-colleague, miss Tina!

Just to add to the stupid footslave’s torment and shame during his whipping, mistress Tina deliberately hitched up the hems of her smart, navy-blue, bootcut slacks whilst she was seated in front of his kneeling frame, just so that he could see the elasticated tops of her plain, black cotton bootsocks inside her boots throughout his unmanly pain and distress.

She often watches the complimentary DVD with her friends, and always with a smug, self-satisfied grin on her pretty face.

For she had, in point of fact, made the whole thing up. The public footslave had never neglected her boots, or made any such insulting comments towards her concerning a previous customer’s footwear. He was, in reality, always a very diligent and conscientious footslave towards her, as he was to all his customers.

But a mistress is always right, even when she lies about being wronged! So her complaint, automatically, gets filed under ‘substantiated’, without the need for any formal, or even informal, investigation.

Even the perfectly innocent, male slave has to accept that, and suffer the painful consequences of his innocence!

Chronicle no. 2 – Let Them Eat Cake!

My sweet-natured, sweet-toothed, generous and giving, podgy blonde mistress, mistress Libby, is today celebrating her 29^th birthday. She is at work in her office, but is taking some time off away from her desk in order to dish out some celebratory cakes to her female work colleagues, in recognition of the happy event.

As her personal footslave I, of course, am obliged to follow her on my hands and knees as she makes her way around the office with her goodies – but there will be no tasty cakes for me. I am deemed unworthy to join in my blonde mistress’s birthday celebrations; and besides she requires me to kiss the office feet of each and every female work colleague to whom she offers a cake, and I can hardly do that properly with my slave-mouth full of sponge and cream!

I therefore crawl hungrily behind my mistress Libby’s heels and try to stay focussed on the backs of her shoes and socks until such time as I am required to focus on the feet and footwear of the latest recipient of her birthday generosity.

My own mistress is, as per usual, wearing her kitten-heeled, round-toed, single-strapped, black leather, office shoes and black, office anklesocks beneath her navy blue, officewear slacks, and so there is much for me to admire as she does her cake-run.

In particular I am afforded the occasional, exciting glimpse of the very top of a bright pink, diamond-shaped logo on her left sock which is only just visible above the black leather shoeline along her instep. I happen to know (for I smoothed the socks onto my mistress’s feet this morning) that the black sock on her right foot contains an identical logo, but that sock appears to have slipped further down inside my mistress’s, kitten-heeled shoe as its pointy-shaped, pink top is not visible to the naked eye.

I do so love these pink, diamond-shaped logos on my footmistress Libby’s otherwise plain black anklesocks, however, as they bring some much needed, female colour into my otherwise drab, male footslave life. I stare at the tops of the pink logos whenever I can, and even kiss them when I have my mistress’s implicit permission to kiss her socks – for example when she is standing stationary, or seated at her desk.

My mistress is often to be found seated at her desk – though she never seems to have too much work to do; she just surfs the internet and updates her Social Networking page. But that’s her privilege – she is a free, young woman living in the Gynarchy, who is therefore guaranteed to keep her job however much she slacks at it. A woman cannot be sacked from her job – it’s against the female law.

And rightly so.

But I digress, and I must return to my humble task in mouth – that of kissing my mistress’s work-colleagues’ feet as she dishes out her birthday cakes; for unlike my plump, blonde mistress I can be sacked if I fail to perform at my footslave job – sacked and despatched to the salt-mines!

My mistress’s shoes and socks stop first by the desk of one of the administrative assistants – miss Nilima, a truly beautiful, young Indian woman in her early twenties; slim and petite, with long dark, hair and, more importantly from my perspective, wearing a beautiful pair of shiny, black leather, zip-up, pointy toed and high-heeled, office ankleboots beneath the hems of her slender, bootcut, office trouser legs.

Miss Nilima thanks my mistress Libby for the kind offer of a sticky bun, and graciously accepts; she also congratulates my mistress on her birthday, and the two girls joke and chat light-heartedly about the aging process. I think my mistress is acutely aware that her thirties are rapidly approaching! She need not worry – she is still young; I can barely remember my late twenties – it was all so long ago!

There is certainly no need for 23 year old miss Nilima to be worried about her age, though, bizarrely, I hear her jokingly complain to my mistress Libby that she wishes she was 18 again!

Miss Nilima does not engage in any conversation with me, of course. I am just her blonde work-colleague’s personal footslave, and miss Nilima barely even notices me. In fact, my only interaction with the slim and petite, Indian admin assistant is when my mistress Libby orders me to kiss her boots by way of a parting gesture to her esteemed, junior work colleague.

Miss Nilima, now noticing me for the first time today, kindly facilitates me in my humble task by swivelling round in her office chair to face me, and hitching up the hems of her black, bootcut trouser legs, thereby giving me easier access to her ankleboot leather. Sadly, the trouser hems still cover the very tops of the Indian girl’s stylish, black patent leather boots and so I am unable to ascertain whether she is wearing any socks inside her boots. But I’m guessing that beneath those sexy boot-zippers are a pair of plain, black office anklesocks – and that very thought inspires me to kiss the office-junior miss Nilima’s boots with all the more humility and respect.

For she is clearly my better – being a beautiful, young, Asian woman in her prime, and wearing such a sexy pair of boots (and socks?)!

Frustratingly, I am only allowed one short respectful kiss to each pointy, Indian-female boot-toe, but I savour them both. Miss Nilima promptly thanks my mistress Libby – both for the cake, and for her slave’s bootkisses. She doesn’t thank me, of course. No self-respecting, superior, young woman, of any ethnic origin, would ever demean herself to address me – except to admonish, berate or mock me; and in the case of my own mistress Libby to order and boss me about, of course.

And that’s exactly how it should be – for I am just an inferior, middle-aged, male slave in the company of my young, female betters. I am not fit to converse with my betters; my tongue is for shoe and boot kissing, not for idle chit chat!

We leave the Indian girl’s delicious, shiny black ankleboots behind as she tucks into her delicious, sticky bun, and move on to the neighbouring desk where miss Iqra – a Pakistani girl – is seated. Like her Indian neighbour and colleague, miss Iqra is slim and petite, but unlike her South-Asian sister she has dyed her hair auburn, and she is wearing a thick and rounded pair of black, sheepskin Ugg boots on her pretty, Pakistani-girl feet.

The Ugg boots make miss Iqra’s petite and skinny, Pakistani ankles look much bulkier than they actually are beneath her black, office trouser hems. I think that’s the whole point – I think she is somewhat embarrassed by her skinny anklebones, and the thick, misshapen Ugg boots make her feel, and look, stronger.

I certainly am made to feel weak and small as I am ordered to kiss the thick, rounded toe areas of the auburn-haired, bespectacled, Pakistani office-girl’s black, sheepskin boots. I admire the dust on her boots as I do so and make sure that my dirty and unworthy footslave-lips make direct contact with the fragile and delicately-built, Pakistani girl’s sheepskin-boot dust.

Indeed, if I had the female authority to do so from my mistress Libby, I would very much like to spend more time divesting miss Iqra’s black, sheepskin boots of their offending street and office dust, for I am ashamed that such a beautiful, young Pakistani woman’s ugg-style boots should be so soiled by our Gynarchy’s common dirt – and all my natural, footslave instincts are to lick off that dust!

But it is not to be – just one, respectful kiss to each dusty, oversized boot toe is all I am allowed as miss Iqra takes delivery of her celebratory, sticky bun.

Absolutely no chance of seeing miss Iqra’s socks inside her heavy, calf-length, black sheepskin boots, but I have caught glimpses of her wearing cream-coloured, thick cotton bootsocks inside other, less cumbersome, pairs of office boots in the past – so I like to imagine that she is wearing those now inside her heavy, black Ugg boots as I pay my respects to her sheepskin boot-dust.

She may be the black-sheepskin-booted one of the office family, but her clumpy footwear nonetheless elicits my deepest footslavish respect – simply because miss Iqra is just so beautiful to behold – even from below; even from one’s hands and knees!

Next in line for a sticky bun and respectful footkisses is miss Zara – one of my mistress Libby’s fellow-ranking colleagues. Like miss Libby, miss Zara must be in her late twenties – perhaps slightly younger; mid twenties?

Miss Zara is wearing her familiar double-strapped, blocky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, mary-jane style shoes, along with her ubiquitous, dark-coloured nylons. I have never seen her wearing anything else on her office feet – in fact, I am confident I would recognise miss Zara’s shoes and nylons anywhere, even if I were a public footslave out on the streets of the Gynarchy dealing with hundreds of pairs of female feet throughout the day!

That’s the thing about being a humble footslave – you get to recognise your female superiors from their individual tastes and styles in footwear; and, of course, from the individual tastes of their footwear!

Miss Zara’s shoes always taste musty, for they are a well-worn and favourite pair of young-womanly shoes. I almost feel like I know each and every crevice and crease in her well-worn, mary-jane shoeleather – for she is one of my own mistress Libby’s closest work-colleagues and friends, and I am frequently required to greet miss Zara’s feet by humbly kissing them.

Indeed, miss Zara clearly feels she knows my mistress Libby well enough to actually decline her kind offer of a sticky bun, for she is on a diet. My own mistress Libby could probably do with going on a diet herself, if truth be told! But I certainly won’t be the one to tell her that! I might be a slave, but I don’t relish the sting of my mistress’s female whip!

I kiss miss Zara’s proffered, dark-nyloned feet one after the other, on the slightly scuffmarked toes of her double-strapped, mary-jane shoes. I admire the detail in her musty, black leather shoe straps as they cross her dark nylon-stockinged feet – in particular the way the straps are somewhat curled up at the buckle-ends; again a sure sign of repeated wear.

Most of all, though, I am enamoured by the sight of a tiny ladder developing on the dark nylon of her right foot – just above the upper strapline of her chunky, mary-jane shoe. Oh how I long to kiss that ladder in miss Zara’s stocking – as a sign of my humility, and my respect for her worn nylons!

But, frustratingly, other young women’s hosiery (other than my mistress Libby’s) – be it nylons or socks – is strictly off-limits for a personal footslave like me. I can look but not touch. Only my own mistress Libby’s socks are socially acceptable for me to kiss, and even then only when I have her specific and gracious young womanly permission to do so.

And speaking of my mistress Libby’s socks, I see, as we head on towards the feet and footwear of the next recipient of a birthday bun, that the little pink diamond logo on my mistress’s left sock has now also disappeared completely down inside my mistress’s left shoe. It is a humble reminder to me that my mistress’s left sock must be joining her right in slipping further down inside her kitten-heeled shoe – caused, no doubt, by the increasing sweatiness of my blonde mistress’s foot as she goes about the business of the day.

Never mind – I shall, at least, get to see both those pink-diamond, sock logos again at the end of this special day, when I humbly attend to my mistress’s dirty, discarded, office socks and bravely put them inside my mouth in order to wash them And, I have to say, I would much rather my mistress Libby’s socks were sweaty and flavoursome, than dull and bland, as I savour them inside my footslave-mouth. There is nothing worse than sucking on an insipid and flavourless sock! So, as far as I’m concerned, her socks can slip-slide away all they like inside her warm and moist, black leather, kitten-heeled, office shoes!

I wonder whether the jet-black-haired, Goth-mistress Holly’s black and grey stripy socks are sweaty inside her somewhat battered and scruffy, black, low-top, lace-up, office sneakers? Always a bit of a rebel, miss Holly is not embarrassed to wear sneakers to work, and her socks are actually quite restrained today. She has been known to wear brightly-coloured, cartoon-character socks to work – great fun to admire and study whilst I am kissing her plain, black office sneakers, but hardly suitable socks for wearing to work!

The grey and black, stripy socks she has on today are therefore sober by comparison, and she must really be making an effort to comply with the female office’s unofficial ‘dark-hosiery’ dress code.

I’m glad that mistress Holly chooses to wear her grubby, black, lace-up sneakers to work, however, for they always taste and smell nice and rubbery; and today, of course, whilst I am kissing her sneakers I can admire, close-up, the contrasts between the shades of grey and black in the stripy pattern of her scrunched-up, cotton anklesocks. No need to imagine what her socks are like inside her outer footwear, as I had to do earlier with mistresses Nilima and Iqra. Miss Holly is a liberal, western girl – and not at all shy about showing off her socks to the world!

And so it goes on - a succession of office-girl shoes, boots, nylons and socks are nonchalantly paraded in front of my face and presented to my lips as their owners’ lips are regaled by the delicious flavours of various sticky buns and cakes. The smell of the buns is making me hungry – hungry for yet more young-womanly shoes and boots, for that is the only sustenance I shall be receiving on my mistress’s 29^th birthday.

Let my superiors and betters eat cake, for I shall taste female shoeleather!

Chronicle no. 1 – Piggy In The Middle

There is possibly nothing worse than being a footslave-piggy-in-the-middle!

I have the unfortunate distinction of being one such piggy. It happens like this:

Two of my regular customers – mistresses Rebecca and Gemma – are at loggerheads with one another. They used to be good friends, but now aren’t talking to one another.

I have absolutely no idea what the dispute between them is about, and can only assume it has something to do with their rival affections for some handsome hunk of a free man? But, whatever the cause of the rift – I am right, slap bang in the middle of it!

Black, 23 year-old mistress Rebecca is the first to use me to vent her young-womanly wrath. She sits down above me on my suburban, public-shoelick stall with a sullen expression on her pretty, African-Caribbean features, and curtly barks her angry, black-female orders down at me as I kneel before her black-leather-anklebooted feet:

‘Shine them up, slave, and make sure you doesn’t miss any of that filfy muck along the sides, yeah?’

‘Yes mistress Rebecca. At once mistress Rebecca.’

So far, so normal; but then things take a sinister twist, just as my tongue is anxiously twisting itself around the muddy, block-shaped heel at the back of her chunky, right ankleboot:

‘Has you been serving that skinny cow Gemma yet today, slave?’

By ‘that, skinny cow Gemma’ I know she means her office work-colleague and onetime bosom buddy, miss Gemma – the fiery-tempered, freckle-faced redhead.

So, in between covering my slave-tongue with a coating of mistress Rebecca’s dirty, fresh street-bootmud, I give her my slave’s honest reply:

‘No mistress Rebecca…lick…slurp…if it pleases you mistress Rebecca… lick…slurp…’

‘Ha! Well, if you does, I wants you to spit on she shoes – you hear me slave-bwoy?’

I hear her – but I can’t believe my ears! Slave-bwoy! I’m not a boy! I must be at least 20 years miss Rebecca’s senior!

Mind you, having said that, I’ll never be a man; not a real man – since I am forbidden to have sex.

As for ‘spitting’ on miss Gemma’s shoes, well, needless to say, any such insulting behaviour on the part of a public footslave towards his regular customer-mistress’s footwear would be sure to earn him instant and severe punishment – so it is completely out of the question! But I decide to humour miss Rebecca, even though she is clearly not in the mood for black humour; or, indeed, precisely because she is not in a good humour:

‘Yes mistress Rebecca…lick…slurp…As you command, mistress Rebecca …lick…slurp…’

‘Good bwoy, slave! I’ll tell you what – because you has agreed to spit on Gemma-cow’s manky old shoes, an’ that, I’ll give you a little treat, yeah? Would you likes a sneaky peek at my socks, slave-bwoy? Would you? Would you?’

I am acutely aware that mistress Rebecca is half-mocking me now, as she knows I am pathetically obsessed with beautiful, young black women’s socks – especially when they are wearing them inside a pair of hot, black leather, zip-up ankleboots! It’s something to do with my face being constantly so close to beautiful, young women’s feet and footwear – I just can’t help my pathetic, hidden-girlsock obsession.

So, a furtive sneaky-peek at mistress Rebecca’s African-Caribbean socks inside her chunky, black leather ankleboots would truly be a wonderful sight for any down-in-the-dirt slave to behold – especially since she rarely reveals even her elasticated sock-tops to a public footslave. Her smart, navy-blue, bootcut, officewear trouser-hems almost always seem to cover the upper rims of her chunky, ankle-high boots and to thus, frustratingly, hide her precious bootsocks from view, so I often find myself wondering what style and colour of sock I am blindly worshipping as I dutifully tongueshine the outsides of black mistress Rebecca’s beautiful, chunky-heeled, fully zipped-up, officewear boots.

But now she is actually offering to show me her hidden bootsocks on the promise of my spitting on her erstwhile best friend’s ‘manky old shoes’; this is too good an opportunity to miss even though, footslave cad and coward that I am, I have absolutely no intention of fulfilling my half of the bargain!

‘Oh pray mistress Rebecca…lick…slurp…Oh yes please, mistress Rebecca!… lick…slurp…Oh pray mistress!...lick…slurp…Your socks, mistress!... lick… slurp…’

She laughs at me – albeit a humourless laugh – and then reaches down with the pink-painted fingernails of her podgy, right hand to partially unzip the side of her right, now shimmering with my footslave saliva, chunky-heeled ankleboot to reveal…a plain, black cotton, full-ankle-length bootsock with a thin, pink, frilly-elasticated trim at the very top!

My jaw drops open with desire and delight! Miss Rebecca’s socks are even more beautiful than I could ever have imagined – the power of no-nonsense black, mixed with the femininity of frivolous, frilly pink!

I stop licking her blocky and scuffmarked, leather bootheel in order to express to the fullest my undying admiration for her superb choice of sweet, feminine bootsock:

‘Oh pray, mistress Rebecca! Oh pray! Oh mistress – such a pretty sock! Oh pray mistress! God bless you for showing it to me, mistress!’

She laughs her humourless, black laugh again:

‘Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what, slave – if you spits on that cow Gemma’s shoes for me I’ll even let you kiss the sides of my socks next time; right over my pretty, black anklebones! Ha! Ha! You’d like that, wouldn’t you slave-bwoy? Ha! Ha!’

The mere thought of my lips making contact with the sides of mistress Rebecca’s soft, black socks over her somewhat fleshy, black ankles, with her pink frilly sock-top simultaneously ticking my humbly-bowed forehead, thrills me to my truly pathetic footslave-core!

I am, quite literally, left speechless:

‘…!...!...!’

Mistress Rebecca, perhaps seeing that I am getting over-excited at the prospect of kissing her socks, swiftly leans down to zip-up the side of her boot once more, prior to climbing down triumphantly from the public shoelick-stand – her left boot still unattended to by human tongue!

‘Remember slave – a shoe-spit for a sock-kiss! Let me know how you gets on! Ha! Ha!...’

‘Yes mistress! Thank you mistress! God bless you mistress Rebecca!’

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Sure enough, about 3 hours and a dozen or so customers later, whose familiar, black leather, low-heeled, pointy-toed, court shoes do I see approaching me, but none other than mistress Gemma’s?

I suppose, if I had to take sides, I’d side with the slightly podgy, anklebooted mistress Rebecca, purely because of her excellent, personal footwear preferences. I do prefer lickshining female boots to shoes – simply because there is more dirty leather to lick! And besides, the stunningly attractive, slim and svelte redhead mistress Gemma never wears socks – only flesh-toned nylons – with her pointy, black leather, low-heeled, court shoes.

Not that I mind the sight and smell of finest-denier, flesh-toned nylon on a beautiful and arrogant, young redheaded office-woman’s slightly bony, white feet and ankles – it’s just that mistress Rebecca’s fleshy-ankle-stretched, pink and black, frilly bootsocks on black skin were a revelation for me; so businesslike, and yet so playful with those stretched and creased, frilly pink trims! Mistress Gemma’s relatively strait-laced and staid, tan nylons seem quite boring by comparison!

‘Shine them up, pig!’ barks the skinny, redheaded, freckle-faced ‘cow’ down at me as she positions her flat-heeled, pointy-toed, black leather shoes onto the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face.

So that’s what I am – a pig between two cows; or a slave between two sows, one black and one white! Piggy in the middle!

‘Yes mistress Gemma; at once mistress Gemma!’

There is, of course, absolutely no way I am ever going to disrespect the shoes of a female better by spitting on them, however ordinary and unremarkable they may appear! Can you even begin to imagine what the fall-out would be? Come on, you’ve lived for long enough in the Gynarchy by now to know what the Female Courts would do to me for such an outrageous act of maleslave impertinence and rebellion towards a superior, and beautiful, customer-mistress!

I therefore lick, and don’t spit, on my bony, tan-nylon-stockinged, female master’s somewhat tired-looking and scuffmarked, black leather shoe; I lick and I swallow.

‘Has that fat sow miss Rebecca stopped by you yet today, slave?’ enquires the inquisitive redhead seated imperiously above me.

Oh no! Here we go again!

‘Erm…yes, mistress Gemma…lick…lick…if it pleases you mistress Gemma …lick…lick…’

My humble licks are met with angry kicks – sharp, pointy-toed leather kicks to my prone and vulnerable, public face:

‘NO IT DOES NOT PLEASE ME, DIRTY, INSOLENT SLAVE! I HOPE YOU’VE CLEANED YOUR MOUTH OUT, FOR I SURE AS HELL DON’T WANT ANY OF THAT FAT SOW’S STINKING BOOTDIRT GETTING ONTO MY NICE, CLEAN SHOES!’

Clean? Clean?! I wouldn’t exactly describe mistress Gemma’s shoes as clean – although admittedly miss Rebecca’s description of them as ‘manky’ was a tad over the top!

But they certainly aren’t clean – though they soon will be if my tongue has anything to say about it!

I reassure mistress Gemma that any traces of her love-rival’s bootdirt are long gone from my mouth and are deep down inside my footslave-gullet:

‘Oh pray mistress Gemma…please forgive me mistress Gemma. Mistress Rebecca’s filthy bootdirt no longer sullies the inside of my ugly slave-mouth, mistress Gemma, but has long since passed down out of harm’s way into my ugly, male stomach, if you would be so kind and understanding most sweet and kind mistress Gemma? Mercy mistress! Mercy!’

My pathetic pleas for mercy seem to placate her young-womanly, hygiene concerns, and her restless, court-shoed feet settle back onto their metal stirrups:

‘Ha! In that case you may carry on licking my shoes, slave – but make damn sure your dirty lips don’t touch my nylon stockings, you filthy, no-good footwhore!’

‘Yes mistress Gemma. Thank you mistress Gemma! God bless you mistress Gemma!’

A filthy, no-good footwhore indeed! Miss Rebecca would never talk to me like that! I almost wish right now that I had the courage to spit on miss Gemma’s immensely insulting and uninspiring, pointy-toed, black leather, court shoes – and her ubiquitous, white-flesh-coloured nylons!

But I don’t.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Later that afternoon, on her way home from work, miss Rebecca calls in to see me again.

‘Well, slave? How did it go? Did you do as I aksed? Did you spit on Gemma-cow’s manky old shoes for me?’

The thought that ‘fat sow’ mistress Rebecca’s black and pink, frilly bootsocks must now be well saturated with black-girl footsweat inside her chunky-heeled, workaday boots compels me to lie to her:

‘Yes mistress Rebecca. If it pleases you, mistress Rebecca!’

‘Ha! Ha! Cool! And how did she react slave? Ha! Ha! Was she, like, very upset wiv you, an’ all that?’

‘Erm…yes, mistress Rebecca! She…er…she even threatened to report me to the Female Authorities and have me sorely whipped, miss! The stupid cow!’

I can’t believe I just said that! I’ve just called a superior and much-valued, regular customer-mistress a cow – if not to her face, then to her former girlfriend’s boots! But – for a kiss of a sweaty, pink and black, frilly bootsock on the side of a stockily-built, black girl’s fleshy, black anklebone – I would say just about anything!

‘Oh yeah, slave? Is that what I really said?’

My heart sinks! The familiar voice of customer-mistress Gemma!

She enters the public footbooth where her black rival is already smilingly ensconced above me.

I wait for the sparks to fly between the two young enemy-women!

But they don’t, of course – because unbeknown to me they have kissed and made up; long ago!

I had fallen into their clever, female trap!

And now the sparks really are about to fly, as I am sorely, and rightly, whipped by customer-mistress Rebecca for disobeying her orders and for lying to her; and by customer-mistress Gemma, for calling her a stupid cow!

Have you ever heard a piggy in the middle squeal?

Chip On My Shoulder

2017-09-02T16:22:00.000-07:00

I am feeling somewhat surly and miserable:

partly because of the weather – it is cold and damp;
partly because I am tired and want to go to sleep – it is nearly 01.30 A.M. and it’s been a long day;
and partly because the sassy, young, black woman who is currently gracing my humble, ‘stand-up’, public shoelick-stand isn’t wearing any socks inside her brown-leather pixie boots.

It is such a waste, for she has nice ankles – quite thick and podgy, like the rest of her! And I can’t help feeling, as I look down inside the tops of her scuffmarked, well-worn, brown leather, ankle-length booties, that a nice pair of plain, black, sneaker-style socks (to match her black, cotton, calf-length leggings) would just set her fat, brown anklebones off a treat, as I wearily endeavour to tongueshine her late night, post-clubbing footwear on this wet and miserable, God-forsaken night!

Not that her decision to go sockless inside her pixie boots is any of my damn business, really! I’m just a late night, public footslave and bootlick – and it’s not for me to decide what my female betters should or shouldn’t wear on their feet!

The chubby, young, black woman is alone – and appears to be in a bit of a bad mood herself, perhaps because she has evidently failed to ‘pull’ this evening? Perhaps also that’s why she is tucking into some nourishing, but highly calorific, comfort food – a large bag of warming chips (‘fries’ to those of you from the former British colonies known as the United States).

I can hear the bag rustling above me, along with her inelegant, unladylike slaps as she tucks into her hearty, post-midnight snack above me. God those chips smell good! They’re making me hungry – even though my stomach is full of young women’s boot and shoe mud which I have been consuming more or less constantly since 06.00 A.M yesterday morning.

That’s the thing about being a public footslave located just off the main, town square – long hours and an unvaried diet of arrogant, young-woman footwear-dirt. But, by law, I’m not allowed to have proper, human food – like chips or French fries – of course, since I’m just a slave. Cold, unappetizing slave-mush is all the Female Authorities ever feed me – one bowl a day, at 05.30 A.M; just before my public shoelick-stand officially opens at 06.00 A.M.

It officially closes at 01.00 A.M – for even a slave has to have some sleep and rest, else he will not be in a fit state to serve his female betters later that same day. So, come to think of it, as I dutifully tongue-shine this tired, young black woman’s neglected and rejected brown leather pixie-boots I suppose I should, technically, be claiming overtime!

Not that we public footslaves get paid overtime.

Not that we get paid – period! Even though we must still serve our female betters’ footwear after our officially-allotted opening hours should a drunken or insomniac customer-mistress deign to stop by and desire her shoes or boots to be cleaned – rather like the selfish and insensitive, chip-eating, fat black mistress whose sockless, brown leather pixie-boot now adorns my wooden footblock.

Never off duty; always ready to serve! That’s the public footslave’s unofficial mantra – not through choice, but through necessity; the necessity of obeying and pleasing a mistress, whatever ungodly hour she may choose to avail herself of your humble, footlicking services!

And even if her footwear lacks socks-appeal – because it is not complimented by a nice pair of short, black bootsocks!

Anyway, the greedy and selfish, rotund, black mistress appears to pick up on my sulkiness and fatigue-induced depression as I half-heartedly apply my tongue to her street-dirtied ankleboots:

‘Why are you being so surly, footslave?’ she suddenly asks me in a thick, West-African accent, in between voraciously licking salt and vinegar off her greasy, chip-stained fingers.

I apologise at once to the customer-mistress for my sullen behaviour and attitude-problem – for I had not realised it was so obvious, and I fear she might be gearing up to whip me with the public-use punishment whip which hangs ever-threateningly from a hook on the wall behind and above me. It’s never nice trying to get to sleep with a throbbing and stinging back – and I’ve managed to avoid any strokes of the public-use whip for two, whole days now, so my bare, kneeling back is nice and free of pain; cold and wet – but free of pain!

‘Oh pray customer-mistress, please forgive me customer-mistress! This slave apologises most profusely to the black mistress for his bad attitude on her boots, if you would be so kind and forgiving sweet mistress! Please don’t hurt me mistress! Please don’t beat me! Oh pray, black mistress! Oh pray!’

I kiss and lick the rounded toe-area of her unflattering, extended, left pixie-boot all the more vigorously, in an effort to demonstrate that – though I may be tired and weary, and although it is well past my bedtime – I am still honoured and privileged to lick clean this black girl’s dirty, brown leather, collared pixie-boots.

But she’s having none of it. She angrily withdraws her left boot from my penitent face:

‘Hah! Perhaps you think you are too good to shine an African woman’s boots, ugly pigface-slave? Perhaps you think my boots are not good enough for you?’

She’s hit the nail on the head of course – although it’s not so much her boots, as her lack of socks, that is disappointing me. As I indicated earlier, if she were wearing a nice pair of short, black anklesocks inside her brown pixie boots I would be most enamoured by the African girl’s feet and footwear, since the socks would set her fat ankles off a treat!

But, of course, I cannot say as much to a superior, African mistress! I must vehemently deny that I am disparaging of her boots, even though lying to a customer-mistress is a criminal offence here in the Gynarchy!

What’s a little white lie to a big, black mistress in such fraught circumstances?

‘Oh pray black mistress, if it pleases you most beautiful and respected, black customer-mistress, truly this slave is honoured to attend to the mistress’s most elegant and refined pixie-boots, if you would be so kind and forgiving to a lowly, helpless footslave who is at your mercy, black mistress! Truly you are my better mistress, and it is an honour to serve you mistress! This slave admires and respects the black mistress! Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! Please don’t beat me mistress!’

I really do fear for my back now! I am truly at this black girl’s mercy, and in her black power.

‘Well, ugly pigslave, you seem to have a chip on your shoulder – so that is what I shall now give you! Ha! Ha!’

And with that she stoops down to place a tomato-ketchup covered chip onto my right shoulderblade:

‘Ha! Ha! Enjoy your treat, pig! Enjoy the chip on your shoulder! Ha! Ha!’

The mistress is quite clever – as well as a little drunk – for the thick and gooey tomato ketchup will help to keep the chip stuck to my bare shoulderblade for everyone to see and mock; the dirty, public footslave with a chip on his shoulder! How quaint!

And the black mistress knows that the heavy, wooden slave-collar around my permanently bowed neck will not permit me to reach the cold chip with my mouth. It will have to stay there until it either falls off – or is removed by my supervisor-mistress in the morning when she comes to feed me my bowl of slave-mush, at which point I shall no doubt be punished for being in possession of illicit foodstuffs; illicit for a slave that is!

I praise and bless the African, brown-leather-pixie-booted mistress for her wit and ingenuity. What better way to punish and humiliate a surly and disrespectful footslave?

‘Oh pray, black mistress! Oh thank you, fat black mistress. God bless you mistress! This slave is truly grateful to the mistress for her kind and humiliating gift, and for demonstrating to the world his unseemly attitude-problem, most refined and superior, black mistress.’

She just laughs at me and walks off, busily licking chip fat and ketchup off her pretty, black lips.

…………………………………………………………………………….

I can’t sleep now with the worry – the worry of what is going to happen when my supervisor-mistress sees the, literal, chip on my shoulder in just a few hours’ time! She’s bound to require an explanation – and that’s bound to lead to an early morning whipping!

Damn!

If only I could get the chip to fall off onto the ground! Then I could eat it – destroy the evidence, so to speak – even though it will be stone cold and deeply unappetizing by now! And besides, I don’t really like tomato ketchup – and this chip on my shoulder is covered in it!

Fortunately for me, after an hour or so, it starts to rain quite heavily, and the chip is washed off my back and onto the soaking-wet ground next to my wooden footblock. Unfortunately, though, it is just out of reach of my mouth. Damn this heavy, wooden cangue around my neck! Why do the female authorities insist that we public boot and shoelicks have to wear them? It only makes our job of licking women’s dirty boots and shoes all the more difficult!

Perhaps that is the reason?

But the twists and turns of a public footslave’s fate mean that good-fortune is once again smiling on me, as my next, out of hours, late-night customer-mistress is one of my regulars – miss Nadezhda.

Miss Nadezhda is a street-walker, working the numerous back-streets and alleyways around the town square – and she often interrupts my sleep when business is slack in order to have her ubiquitous, high-heeled, black leather shoes tarted up.

The reason why I say that good fortune is shining on me as she approaches my public footlick-stand in the middle of the night is that I know that she’s a tart with a heart! She will help me out with my chip dilemma – help me destroy the evidence – for she herself operates somewhat outside the Female Law, and she will understand that my supervisor-mistress in the morning is bound to ask me where the chip came from, and at the very least punish me for untidiness and littering the ground around my public shoelick-stand!

But first things first – I must dutifully attend to mistress Nadezhda’s prostitute-shoes!

‘Good morning, miss Nadezhda. God bless you for using me once again to shine your beautiful shoes, prostitute-mistress Nadezhda!’

You see how my attitude has improved already – and all because I need to ingratiate myself to my prostitute-saviour; my one great hope for redemption!

‘Hi, footboy! How’s it goin’?’ responds mistress Nadezhda – elegantly placing her right, high-heeled foot onto my wooden footblock, ready for my silver-tongued attentions.

Miss Nadezhda is quite a tall and skinny girl; swarthy-skinned (I believe she may be of Romanian-gypsy origins); and with rich, black curly hair. She is wearing a nice, warm, beige-coloured coat which reaches down to her waist, and a short, black leather miniskirt with black, fishnet stockings on her long, skinny, pockmarked, prostitute legs.

Her ridiculously high-heeled, black patent leather shoes (the heels must be at least 5 inches), as ever, show off her shapely, if somewhat bony and veiny, anklebones very nicely. I suspect that’s why she wears black fishnets – to try and hide her deep blue foot-veins.

God only knows what chemicals are coursing through those veins! I’m fairly certain that miss Nadezhda regularly does drugs, which is presumably why she works the streets – to get the money to feed her habit!

Whatever – I won’t hear a bad word said against her! It is always an honour and a privilege to be forced to serve mistress Nadezhda and her lovely, Romanian footwear in the middle of the night; and especially tonight, when she can help save me from my predicament!

One can always rely on mistress Nadezhda when the chips are down!

‘I’m very well, thank you mistress,’ I lie, in response to her kindly, mistressly greeting – though, actually, I am feeling a lot better now that she is gracing me with her street-prostitute presence. ‘Just a lick and a shine, is it mistress?’ I enquire of her right foot as it wobbles in its high-heel on the damp, wooden footblock directly below my wood-confined neck and face.

She casually lights up a cigarette above me:

‘Yeah – get on with it, slave!’

‘Yes mistress Nadezhda. At once mistress Nadezhda.’

Mistress Nadezhda’s right, shiny-black shoe is not too dirty – despite the rain; but there are one or two unsightly mud stains around the soles. My tongue makes straight for them.

As I lick clean the line of stitching at the bottom of her shoe where the beige-coloured sole meets the black-leather of the upper, I admire a thick line of creasing in her slightly twisted, black fishnet stocking around the front of her prominent, Romanian-girl anklebone. That’s one area of netting I would dearly love my slave-nose to get caught up in!

Mistress Nadezhda says nothing as she leans forward, resting her arms on her black leather, miniskirted thighs and uncaringly blowing her cigarette smoke down onto my face as I humbly attend to her matching, black leather footwear. Occasionally she twists her ankle further to one side in order to afford my tongue greater access to the dirtiest side of her shoe. This action, of course, serves only to augment the creasing in her fishnet stocking, which I find most enrapturing, even at this ungodly hour of the morning!

After a few minutes she withdraws her right, Romanian foot from my lips and languorously replaces it with her left. She yawns. We’re all tired tonight. I mean, it is nearly 02.30 in the morning – and miss Nadezhda should, by rights, be tucked up in bed; with a client. Or at the very least she should be making love with a real man behind the adjacent bins!

Again, lady-mistress Luck shines her good fortune down upon me on this cold and wet morning. Miss Nadezhda has suddenly noticed the nearby, discarded chip lying forlornly on the wet ground:

‘What’s that doing there, slave?’ she enquires, kicking the, now decidedly soggy, chip with the pointed toe of her right stiletto-foot.

This is my big chance to destroy the lingering evidence of my earlier surliness:

‘Oh pray mistress Nadezhda, if it pleases you skinny prostitute-mistress Nadezhda, one of my previous customer-mistresses kindly left it for me, but I fear that I cannot reach it with my mouth!’

I know what you’re thinking – lying to a mistress again! Or, at least, not telling her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth! But what else can I do? I have to implant the idea in mistress Nadezhda’s pretty, prostitute head that this cold chip was left for my consumption – for it is the only way I can think of to destroy the evidence! Eat it!

And besides – I am quite hungry now! I could eat a horse (or, at least, a fat black girl’s discarded, cold and greasy chip!)

‘Eww – I’ve got tomato ketchup all over my shoe!’ exclaims mistress Nadezhda suddenly, referring to the ketchup which now adorns the pointy toe of her right shoe which she has just used to ‘inspect’ the chip!

I know what’s coming next – as do you!

The Romanian prostitute’s right, high-heeled shoe is once again placed on my wooden footblock for cleaning:

‘Lick it off, footboy!’

‘Yes mistress Nadezhda. At once mistress Nadezhda!’

As you already know, I don’t much like tomato ketchup. But tomato ketchup from a beautiful, Romanian prostitute’s shoe – well, that’s a different matter!

I lap it up. Such a sweet-tasting shoe!

Now that I’ve done this small favour for mistress Nadezhda, I’m hoping that she’ll return the favour for me:

‘Oh pray mistress Nadezhda, if it pleases you most beautiful, skinny prostitute-mistress Nadezhda, would the mistress please be so kind as to push the chip with her foot over towards the slave’s footblock so that his ugly mouth may gain access to it, mistress? Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave craves the humble item of discarded food, since he is truly hungry mistress!’

Miss Nadezhda tuts in annoyance:

‘Tch! But what about my shoe, slave? I don’t want it getting all dirty with ketchup again, do I? Moron!’

My heart sinks! I hadn’t thought of that! Why on earth would mistress Nadezhda want to sully her pure shoe again with my dirty chip? I really am being incredibly selfish!

I apologise at once to the mistress for my stupidity:

‘Oh pray mistress. Please forgive me mistress Nadezhda! Please don’t beat me, mistress!’

She finishes her cigarette, and stubs it out on the ground next to my footblock, with the sole of her right shoe, and then turns on her skinny, high-heeled ankle to walk off in a prostitute huff!

This is a disaster! Not only is she the second mistress this morning to leave my shoelick-stand feeling insulted by the public-footslave; I now have two items of female-discarded litter lying on the ground next to my public footblock – a greasy chip; and a squashed cigarette butt! I am going to be so punished by my supervisor-mistress later this morning – for making the place look so untidy!

…………………………………………………………………….

Sure enough, my supervisor-mistress, 20 year-old, Indian student-girl miss Vasumati, who works as a part-time ‘minder’ to the public-footslaves in order to supplement her overseas student grant, is not best pleased with me when she comes to feed me my slave-gruel at 05.30 A.M on the dot. She’s such a punctual and fastidious young woman herself (apart from her ubiquitous, tatty and well-worn, student-girl, white, lace-up sneakers which always look decidedly scruffy beneath the hems of her baggy, blue denim jeans) she deplores such untidiness in a slave:

‘DIRTY, MALE SLAVE!’ she screams at me in her cute, Indian accent, even though she knows I don’t smoke and don’t like tomato ketchup; or, at least, she must know the cigarette butt and cold, greasy, discarded chip cannot possibly be mine! ‘WHAT ARE YOU BEING DOING MAKING ALL THIS DAMNED, DIRTY MESS?’

She leans down to slap me hard across the face with her soft, Indian hand. As she does so, I catch a glimpse of her short, black cotton, student-girl sneaker-socks below her frayed and flared jean hems.

Oh if only the African mistress had been wearing such a sweet pair of socks inside her brown leather pixie boots – perhaps then I wouldn’t have been in such a foul mood last night, and none of this would have happened!

Miss Vasumati deftly picks up the cigarette butt by standing on it until it squashes into the treads of her right sneaker-sole. She then holds it up to my face:

‘EAT IT, SLAVE!’ she barks. ‘EAT THE FILTHY DIRT FROM MY SHOE!’

I obey, of course. I have no choice – and besides miss Vasumati has angrily thrown my bowl of slave-mush away, having clearly decided that discarded, Romanian-prostitute cigarette butt, and African-girl cold chip, are all I am worthy to eat for breakfast this morning!

For as soon as I have extracted and swallowed the dirty cigarette butt from the sole of her Indian sneaker, she repeats the demeaning act with the street-soiled chip.

At last the African girl’s unwanted gift eventually reaches my mouth, via angry Indian-girl dirty sneakersole, and slides down my throat into my stomach – along with all the other dirt and detritus from superior and haughty, young women’s shoes.

I do always try my best to please my female betters, but it’s almost like all the young women, whose feet I come into daily contact, have some sort of chip on their shoulder! They always find fault with me, and treat me like dirt; as you have just witnessed.

But, I have no cause for complaint – for dirt is what I am; the dirt beneath their feet.

The End

Shocking!

2017-08-20T10:10:00.000-07:00

He was about to get the shock of his life – another one! For slave Simon was subject to many such short, sharp shocks throughout the course of his miserable existence.

She caught him on the left shoulder blade with it this time, causing him to twitch and gasp involuntarily with the sudden pain. ‘She’ was his supervisor-mistress, mistress Alenka; ‘it’ was the electric slave-prod, designed to remind a male slave who is the female boss, and the one with all the power; the electrifying power!

Pakistan

How the somewhat podgy, middle-aged, Pakistani customer-mistress, who had initiated the punishment, laughed to see such pain etched on the miserable slave’s face, as did everyone else around the busy and bustling, airport departure lounge where he worked as a complementary, public footslave!

Even his pointy-nosed, prod carrying, hardworking, Polish supervisor-mistress – 25 year old miss Alenka – was laughing heartily at him, despite witnessing such painful grimaces on his part literally dozens of times a day. Such gasps of shock never failed to amuse her – as did her verbal counselling to the slave afterwards, outlining where he had gone wrong, thus meriting the sharp pain of the electric slave-prod in the first place:

‘Oh dear, you the poor slave! Ha! Ha! Well and, you were warned not to touch Pakistani lady’s nice, black sock with the side of the ugly, slave face, weren’t you, the dirty foot-faggot?’ (‘The Dirty Foot-Faggot’ was her none-too-flattering nickname for her regular footslave-charge).

The pain had subsided enough now for him to regather his senses and respond to his snooty, aquiline-nosed, Polish supervisor-mistress:

‘Yes mistress Alenka; if it pleases you mistress Alenka; please forgive me mistress Alenka. Mercy mistress! Oh pray mistress! The shock, mistress! The pain!’

He stared humbly and contritely at his tall and slim, redheaded supervisor-mistress’s stylish, and suitably pointy-toed, high-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboots beneath the hems of her slightly flared, bootcut, black cotton trouser legs. That was because he was never allowed to look his supervisory-mistress, or any superior female for that matter, in the eye (or the nose) – being but a humble, down-at-heel footslave.

He therefore knew every nook and cranny of mistress Alenka’s black leather ankleboots, since he spent so much of his working life with them, and even recognised from the creasing and folding in her bootleather when a corrective shock was imminent. So a shock never caught him completely by surprise!

And they were, invariably, corrective shocks – rather than gratuitous. His supervisor-mistress was nothing if not fair (or ginger), and only ever shocked him to ram home the message that he had been, at best, incompetent; or, at worst, disobedient.

In this most recent example it had been his incompetence or carelessness which had led to his mistress having no choice but to shock him. The forty-something, traditionally dressed, pink headscarfed, Pakistani customer-mistress who had been seated in the departure lounge awaiting her flight back to Islamabad with her family, had issued specific instructions that the complementary, public footslave was to lickshine the sides of her black leather, open-backed clogs beneath the hems of her pink silken, salwar-kameez trouserlegs, without his face or forehead brushing against the sides, or the exposed backs, of her plain, black cotton anklesocks.

It was her perfect right to do so – some women, particularly Muslim women of a certain age, are outraged by the feel of a dirty footslave’s ugly, male, facial features on their hosiery, and this particular, portly and somewhat prudish, forty-something Pakistani mistress was clearly one of them!

Portly and prudish she may have been, but the traditionally dressed Pakistani lady had actually only had slave Simon’s best interests at heart, since she had informed his young, Polish supervisor-mistress right from the start that she specifically didn’t want the slave touching her black socks because she was embarrassed to say they were ‘dirty, and full of germs’; obviously a very considerate and foot-fastidious, Pakistani mistress, concerned about her unwashed, two day old socks, and the adverse effects they may have on the unfortunate, public foot-servant!

Slave Simon, meanwhile, had been wondering whether his Polish supervisor-mistress Alenka’s black socks, hidden deep inside her black leather, pointy-steel toecapped, spike-heeled ankleboots, were equally saturated in her East-European foot-germs? He assumed they were black socks, to match her black boots; and that, like most younger women, she would not have any such middle-aged compunctions about imposing her dirty sock germs on his nose and face, given half the chance. The kind and considerate Pakistani mistress was most assuredly the exception to the rule!

Kind and considerate she may have been, but having taken the trouble to issue him with her toxic-sock warning, via his supervisor-mistress, the middle-aged Pakistani lady was clearly not amused when slave Simon’s forehead inadvertently did just what she had ordered it not to do, and brushed against the ropey-looking material of her well-worn and bobbled, unwashed, black cotton anklesock on her equally worn-looking and somewhat wrinkly, brown-skinned, Pakistani foot. But at least the bemused lady-passenger found the electric shock delivered to the ‘disobedient’ slave’s bare, left shoulder blade highly amusing – as did her accompanying family members!

Having literally shocked him, verbally admonished him, and verbally apologised to the Pakistani customer-mistress on behalf of her dirty and incompetent footslave, the snooty-nosed mistress Alenka decided it was time to move on. For he was not a static slave – subject to static electricity; he was kept very much on the move by his supervisor-mistress – round and round the airport departure lounge seeking out new female feet, and new female shoes and boots to kiss and lickshine.

There was no need for supervisor-mistress Alenka to offer a refund to the insulted Pakistani customer-mistress, as the footslave’s service was offered free of charge (i.e. free of any financial charge; the transaction had clearly involved a small electrical charge!). However mistress Alenka did offer the dissatisfied customer a claims form for compensation – compensation for the emotional stress of having her exposed sock touched inside her clog when she didn’t want it to be!

The Pakistani customer-mistress smiled, readjusted her silken, dupatta-style, diaphanous-pink headscarf over her jet-black, but greying at the temples, hair, and promised to fill out the form. Mistress Alenka thanked her. Well, it would be no skin off her nose – only off slave Simon’s back, if the Pakistani-mistress did indeed press ahead with her complaint. For he would receive one stinging cut of the female whip for every Fem in compensation the jubilant, Pakistani mistress received out in Islamabad!

Latin America

And so the Polish mistress and her complementary slave – she walking tall and proud, he crawling low and shame-facedly on his hands and knees behind her spiked, leather bootheels – approached their next potential customers, a boisterous group of young, Argentinean women awaiting their flight back to sunny Buenos Aries.

Slave Simon loved the way the whole female world seemed to come to him here at the airport, even though he himself never flew off anywhere! He was well and truly grounded, with his head close to the ground – staring at feet. Only the lady passengers were high-fliers; and that was how it jolly well should be!

He therefore focussed in on the noisy, South American threesome’s feet and footwear, since it was these he would next be required to attend to. One of the young, Latina women – the loudest – whose hair had been dyed blonde but whose dark roots were still clearly visible, was wearing slutty, white shorts and equally slutty, white, calf-length tube socks with three red hoops at the tops on her white-sneakered feet. The sneakers, too, looked nice and slutty; lace-up low tops, but with the laces sloppily undone; not too clean, but not too grubby either. The shape of the socks indicated rather skinny anklebones and calve muscles, however.

The second member of the Latina, female trio – a brunette who was wearing a bright yellow mini-skirt on her brown, South American legs – had on her exotic, Latina feet a delightful pair of flowery-patterned, high-top canvas sneakers with white laces (fully done up) and black anklesocks – the elasticated tops of which were just visible inside the calve-hugging, upper rims of her flowery, Latina sneakers.

The third South American mistress, another brunette, but with distinctively frizzy and curly, shoulder-length hair, was clad in a loose-fitting, pale grey trouser-suit with cream-coloured, slingback, peep-toe, high-heeled, leather, strappy sandals on her pretty, Hispanic feet. Her pretty toenails were painted dark purple, and looked good enough to suck on!

But slave Simon knew he must control himself – for he was not here to feast on Latina-girl juicy toes; he was here to serve Latina-mistress feet, under the auspices of Polish-girl supervision, in whatever way his boisterous, Latina customer-mistresses required him to.

The three girls did not appear to speak English, but, fortunately his clever supervisor-mistress spoke Spanish, albeit slightly broken Spanish with a Polish accent:

“Buenas tardes, señoras! ¿Te gusta mi esclavo al servicio de suspies de forma gratuita?”

Slave Simon couldn’t understand a word of Spanish – being a stupid, ignorant male slave – but he knew his supervisor-mistress must be offering his foot and shoe-licking services to the three young women for free.

“¡Ja! ¡Ja! ¡Dios mío! ¡Ja! ¡Ja! ¿Acaso la suciedad lamer las zapatillas de deporte?” asked the girl with the bleached-blonde hair.

“Sí, sinduda, señora! Porfavor extienda su zapatilla derecha ytendré mi lengua se limpia con la lengua para usted.”

The next thing slave Simon knew the bleached-blonde girl’s right, Latina leg was stretched out on the floor beneath his face and his mistress Alenka was directing his head, by means of the slave-prod sticking into the back of his neck – but mercifully with the electrical current switched off – down onto the rubbery toe-area of the blonde girl’s nominally white, sloppily-unlaced, low-top sneaker.

He guessed he had to lick it, and spruce it up with his tongue, without falling into the trap again of brushing his forehead against the thick cotton material of the Argentinean girl’s red and white, stripy tube sock. He had already had one shock due to unauthorized sock today – he didn’t want another one!

Not that he wasn’t tempted – the sock was deliciously creamy-white and creased on the blonde girl’s lower leg, around her skinny ankle-area, and the long kneesock seemed to tower above him as his mouth attended to Latina-girl, scruffy white sneaker. Curiously, she was keeping her boarding-card tucked inside the upper folds of her red and white kneesock! As good a place as any, he supposed!

The Latina sneaker itself tasted rough – a bit like the girl herself; she didn’t look like a particularly refined or sophisticated young woman; none of the girls did. And her reaction to having her sneaker licked was most unladylike; she laughed out loud until she audibly belched, and just couldn’t keep her Latina, sneakered foot still throughout the process, so vehemently was she laughing at the humble slave at her feet!

The unfortunate result was that slave Simon’s tongue could not gain good purchase on the young woman’s scuffmarked sneaker-toe, and this time his tongue (as opposed to his forehead) inadvertently slipped onto forbidden girlsock.

This was, potentially, an even greater sock-disaster than the one before, for the germs from his dirty, slave mouth were now sullying the pure Latina girl’s sock!

Unlike the previous, Pakistani customer-mistress, however, the Argentinean customer-mistress didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, the unauthorized intrusion of his wet and moist, slave body-part onto the outer surface of her superior, cotton sock, as she and her friends just continually giggled and laughed at him. And all the movement in the blonde girl’s hysterical feet was giving him a truly wonderful display of blonde-girl, unintentional tube-sock creasing and folding – right in front of his mesmerized, footslave eyes!

It was inevitable. After all, if the bleached-blonde, Latina girl couldn’t keep her sneakered foot still, her sock could hardly be expected to remain still either!

Still, his ever-pernickety, pointy-nosed, Polish supervisor-mistress, mistress Alenka, who found the whole business much less amusing, repeatedly ensured that slave Simon’s mouth reestablished contact with the dirty, blonde Latina-girl sneaker surface as there was dirt to be extracted, and customer-mistress sneaker to be shined.

Exciting!

The girl with the flowery-patterned, canvas high-tops appeared less ‘ticklish’ as her feet remained firmly on the ground whilst the slave’s mouth attended to them. Conversely, however, the downside of that was that her black sock-tops inside the sneakers remained stationary also – with not a fold or a twist in sight.

Boring!

The final insult was when he was denied a suck of the final, much classier-looking, grey trouser-suited and strappy peep-toe-sandaled, Latina girl’s purple-painted toenails. She had merely required her smart sandal-leather to be buffed up with his tongue, and had specifically given orders that the dirty slave’s tongue was not to touch her bare footflesh in between the cream-coloured leather straps crisscrossing her pretty, brown-skinned, Latina-girl foot (as translated by his polyglot, Polish supervisor-mistress, mistress Alenka!)

So he tasted Latina, creamy sandal – but not Latina, purple toenail-polish.

Frustrating!

Shockingly, his ever alert supervisor-mistress Alenka had earlier noticed the unauthorized straying of slave Simon’s tongue onto Latina-girl red and white sock (even if the wearer of the sock had failed to notice it), and so another painful jolt of electricity was punishingly applied to his left shoulder blade shortly after the three, young Latina women had left the Departure Lounge for boarding.

Once again his only warning of the impending pain and shock were the tell-tale signs of creasing in her Polish-girl bootleather as she positioned herself behind him with the cruel, electric probe.

Slave Simon was in awe of his Polish supervisor-mistress’s powers of observation; nothing got passed her, and so she punished him judiciously and appropriately. She was just so good at her job – a born taskmistress, and polished perfectionist!

Shock and awe!

Arabia

Having punished him, and admonished him, mistress Alenka next escorted slave Simon over towards the Information Desk where she knew one of his regulars, the partially westernized (when it came to her dress-sense) Arab girl miss Zaynah – who worked as a passenger-assistant on the Information desk – would be patiently awaiting the complementary services of his bootshining-tongue.

Slave Simon always got excited at the prospect of tongueshining the black headscarfed, but otherwise blue uniformed, miss Zaynah’s boots. She was beautiful; her boots were beautiful; and he was in love with her – or, at least, with her boots.

She always wore shiny, smooth, black leather, flat-heeled, round-toed, calf-length, pull-on, boots beneath her navy-blue, passenger-assistant’s uniform trousers – and because she was permanently seated on a swivel chair behind her information kiosk, her booted, Arab-girl feet resting on a circular, metal rim near the base of her chair, slave Simon got to admire her shiny, black boots in all their creased-leather glory as her trouser hems would ride up almost to the very tops of her boots.

Such shiny boots; and so smooth – almost like shiny, black rubber, riding boots. He could even see his gormless slave-reflection in them! What particularly enamoured him to miss Zaynah, however, was the way she would occasionally tease him by, seemingly subconsciously, reaching down to adjust the hems of her navy-blue trousers over the tops of her boots, whilst he was licking them, and in so doing giving him the briefest glimpse of her calf-length, cream-coloured bootsocks inside the tops of her shiny calf-boots.

Today, as he licked Arab-girl smooth, black boot and glimpsed Arab-girl creamy bootsock, however, she had some devastating news for him, delivered to his supervisor-mistress rather than to slave Simon directly, of course, since goddess-mistress Zaynah considered him much too far beneath her on the social scale to ever actually speak to the slave directly herself.

It seemed that she was, righteously, being promoted, and would soon be leaving her regular job in the departure lounge, information booth!

Slave Simon then had the indignity of having to listen to his supervisor-mistress Alenka convey his disappointment at the news to the Arab, information-assistant mistress Zaynah in mock-sympathetic tones, which clearly displayed her polished insincerity:

‘Oh…the slave will be upset that you are leaving, Zaynah. The dirty foot-faggot lives for your boots! Look at how he is lapping them up, the fool! Ha! Ha!’

Mistress Zaynah laughs also:

‘Ha! Ha! Too bad! Why I am giving a damn what the slave is feeling? Ha! Ha! Why I am caring that he is missing my boots? Ha! Ha! He is just a piece of filth! Ha! Ha! I spit on him, the faggot of feet! I crush him beneath the beautiful, young Arab woman feet!’

She did not actually spit on him, however, or crush him beneath her booted feet, despite her colourful, Arabic-flavoured language. It just wasn’t the right time or the place for such histrionics, in the middle of an airport departure lounge – more’s the pity!

But the unsympathetic, black-headscarfed, Arab girl did afford him one tantalizing, last glimpse of her cream-coloured bootsock inside her right boot – teasingly even reaching down to ostentatiously pull her sock up inside her boot, in order to straighten it. The sound of her sock rubbing against her soft, Arabian skin against the background noise of the airport departure lounge sent slave Simon wild, for it was truly an exquisite privilege to be a party to such an intimate, girlsock sound!

He would have dearly loved to straighten miss Zaynah’s creamy bootsock for her – by way of a parting gesture to his beautiful, booted and besocked airport-worker customer-mistress who was leaving him behind and moving onwards and upwards in the world!

And taking her precious boots and socks with her!

Mistress Alenka decided her slave was shocked enough at the sad news, without the need for her to apply electricity to his bare back or shoulders this time.

West Africa

The next customer-mistress, however – one of the airport cleaners – specifically wanted him shocked! So much so that she was happy to do it herself! It was, unbeknown to slave Simon, to be the electrifying highlight of her otherwise rather dull and monotonous, airport-cleaning day!

Mistress Boniface was a Nigerian mistress, who still spoke with a thick, Nigerian accent – despite having lived and worked in the Gynarchy for several years. Appropriately enough she did have a very bonny, West-African-girl face.

Like most of the Gynarchy’s airport workers she was dressed in her ubiquitous, navy-blue airport uniform, but consisting in her case of highly practical, navy blue jogging pants and a shiny, sky-blue tabard. On her somewhat podgy and broad, Nigerian-girl feet she was wearing a delightful pair of cheap, shiny black plastic, block-heeled, slip-on shoes, and short, black sneaker socks.

She was good friends with miss Zaynah – the black-headscarfed Arab girl on the information desk – despite coming from a very different culture, and had waddled over to have a chat just as slave Simon had arrived to lickshine the Arab girl’s beloved boots (miss Boniface ‘waddled’ everywhere – she was rather on the plump side!)

She deferred, of course, to her Arab friend, allowing the latter to have her boots licked clean and shiny first, and to sock-tease the pathetic, public footslave with her creamy, calf-length bootsocks! But no sooner had the Arab girl taken her leave of the footslave, and turned her attention to an enquiry from one of the airport’s more anxious, female passengers, than the Nigerian girl stretched forwards her cleaning-girl, plastic-shoed, right foot underneath the kneeling slave’s nose in order for him to lickshine her dirty, working shoe also.

Slave Simon dutifully did so, fully cognizant of the fact that the Nigerian mistress’s short, black, sneaker-sock top was just inches away from his face, for, short and discreet though it may be, it loomed large in his footslave-consciousness, being the short, black sock of a short and stocky, black African goddess – a cleaning goddess who herself now needed her dirty shoes to be cleaned.

And this was where he came unstuck – for African goddess-mistress Boniface had inadvertently walked through some sticky, female chewing gum, and required the slave to remove it from the sole of her cheap plastic, cleaning-girl shoe with his mouth and teeth.

But, try as he might, he could not get it to come off! He was an old and wizened slave, in his fifties, and his teeth just weren’t as strong and efficient as they used to be!

The young, West African woman – who was only in her early twenties – did not understand, however, and took his inability to remove the dirty gum from her greasy, plastic shoesole as impertinence. She ‘demanded’ the electric slave-prod from his supervisor-mistress, miss Alenka (another of her fellow airport-worker friends), and made ready to shock slave Simon on his bare ribs – always a particularly tender and sensitive area for the electric prod.

Simple slave Simon braced himself and looked contritely at the slighted, African mistress’s shoes and socks as the clever, Nigerian cleaning-girl seemed to first comfort him by gently rubbing an area of his ribs on his left flank with her soft, brown, West-African fingers. But, thick as he was – with an inferior, maleslave brain – he only slowly realized that she wasn’t, in fact, doing it to comfort him ahead of his shocking pain; she was doing it simply in order to stimulate the nerve endings in his skin, thereby making the forthcoming pain of the electric slave-prod all the more acute.

Cute, but cruel!

Sure enough it came; the ominous prod of cold steel; followed by the sharp buzzing sound; and then the sudden pain…followed by the gasp!

Hardly anyone even turned their heads – a slave being shocked in an airport departure lounge was nothing particularly shocking in the Gynarchy! Just as cleaning goddess-mistress Boniface’s common-or-garden, chewing-gum-stained, shiny black plastic shoes and plain, black sneaker-socks were nothing particularly startling!

But slave Simon was still shocked, nevertheless!

And he went on being shocked; in fact, he was in a more or less permanent state of shock and awe, as he continued to lick both female-passenger, and female airport-worker, shoes and boots, whilst admiring accompanying female socks, in and around the airport departure lounge; all under the nosey supervision of his shockingly efficient, redheaded, Polish mistress, miss Alenka – his current supervisor, who was repeatedly getting on his nerves.

There certainly was a spark between them!

The End

The Government Inspectress

2017-07-03T06:30:00.000-07:00

The government inspectress is in town!

More specifically – she is in our office. I only know this because the boss of the office – miss Marian – has summoned me to her desk to inform me that my work as the office footslave will now be under intense scrutiny during the next few days.

That’s because the inspectress is primarily here to ensure that the females of the office are treating me suitably badly and cruelly, since my work as a male, office footslave is the first part of my life sentence of punishment handed down by the Female Courts – three years’ servitude at the feet and footwear of the office women, followed by life imprisonment with hard labour in the slave-mines.

I am only 6 months into my office-footslave servitude, so I still have two and a half years of servicing female feet and footwear to look forward to before I am condemned to the underground mines – providing, that is, I pass the inspection; for, as redheaded, office boss-mistress Marian kindly points out to me as I kneel by her black leather anklebooted feet, the government inspectress has the power to curtail my public foot-servitude and have me despatched forthwith to the mines should she determine that I am not being humiliated enough in my role as a ladies’ office footslave!

It’s also within office-manageress mistress Marian’s interests that I pass muster, however, since she won’t want the hassle of having to arrange for another office footslave so soon after agreeing with the Courts to take me on. And besides, her female pride is at stake – along with the reputation of her office for playing its part in the Female Justice system and assisting with the punishment and non-rehabilitation of maleslave-offenders such as me!

Miss Marian points all of this out to me as I kneel in front of her anklebooted feet, admiring a tiny slither of plain, black cotton bootsock covering her upper, right anklebone thanks to the top of her ankleboot-zipper being partially undone beneath the hem of her ubiquitous, black cotton, bootcut, office slacks.

I make a mental note of that zip-aberration, for, despite my benefitting from it – in that I get to see a snippet of miss Marian’s black anklesock – it is precisely the sort of detail any government inspectress might pick up on and mark me down for; the government footslave-inspectresses have a reputation throughout the Gynarchy for being somewhat pernickety, to say the least!

We are both quite nervous, therefore – boss-mistress Marian and myself – as she introduces me to the government inspectress later that same morning in an office specifically set aside for the inspectress to use.

As I kiss the inspectress’s feet in humble and respectful greeting I am pleased about several things:

The zipper on mistress Marian’s right, black leather ankleboot is now not only covered by the hem of her bootcut trouser-leg, thanks to her standing position, but is fully pulled-up, thanks to her permitting me to rectify matters with my teeth before we headed off to meet the dreaded inspectress;
The inspectress herself is a very beautiful, if stern-looking, young woman of Pakistani origins. She is petite and slightly-built, and is wearing a beige-coloured, salwar-kameez style trouser-suit complete with dupatta-style headscarf;
More importantly, on her slender, Pakistani feet she is wearing strappy, high-heeled, brown leather sandals with open toes. Her feet are bare and pedicured, with her dainty, Asian toenails painted red – though I notice straightaway that, somewhat incongruously for a supposed perfectionist footslave-inspectress, the bright red, nail varnish on the cuticle of the big toenail on her right foot is slightly chipped! Maybe it’s a test of some sort? Maybe she wants to see if I can spot such tiny flaws in a young, Pakistani woman’s pedicure? Fortunately, I too am a perfectionist – as you have already witnessed with my female boss’s boot-zipper!

The owner of that zipper leaves me to the tender mercies of the government inspectress and shuts the door on her way out. The slim, Pakistani inspectress-mistress, whom I would guess to be in her mid to late twenties, then settles herself down onto an office swivel chair in front of me, and nonchalantly adjusts her silken, beige-coloured, dupatta-headscarf over her dark, black hair as she proceeds to dominate me.

She stretches forth her dainty, sandaled, right foot on the office floor beneath my kneeling face again – the one with the chip-varnished toenail:

‘Be kissing my foot again, dirty slave, and be continually kissing it while I am issuing you with your instructions.’

She is quite softly-spoken, though trying her best to sound threatening – and I do so love her cute, Pakistani-girl accent! She is clearly a recent immigrant to the Gynarchy, and it is right and proper that she should hold sway over an indigenous, male slave like myself – for the Gynarchy is for free women from all over the world; a place of female refuge where they can put men in their natural and rightful place – at their dainty, foreign feet!

‘Yes, goddess-mistress inspectress. At once, most respected goddess-mistress inspectress.’

That is how my boss-mistress Marian has ordered me to address the all-powerful, young government inspectress – under pain of the whip.

Speaking of which I note that, along with her clipboard and pen, the government footslave-inspectress has a slim, single-tailed whip attached to her government belt – presumably for marking my bare back should I fail to live up to the mark!

But I haven’t got time to worry about that now – my footslave senses are being much too assailed by the power of the young Pakistani woman’s beautiful, dainty feet. I am particularly gratified to note, as I respectfully place my lips, as before, on one of the brown leather sandal-straps which criss-cross her delicate toe area (as opposed to her toenails or toeskin themselves – which would probably be regarded as much too intimate on only a first or second meeting with a lady’s feet) that her Pakistani feet, though pedicured, are unperfumed, meaning that my nose can detect the faint aroma of natural-smelling girlfeet – just the faintest hint of living, breathing girlfoot-perspiration, but nothing to write home about!

This is such an honour – to be made to kiss the brown-sandaled feet of a modest, young, beige-headscarfed, Pakistani woman who holds such unfettered, female power in her government-inspectress’s clipboard; she can literally make or break me with her handwritten notes – and make me break rocks at the stroke of a pen should she feel so inclined.

I therefore concentrate hard on what she saying in her cute, Pakistani accent as I repeatedly kiss her Pakistani-girl, brown leather sandal-straps and admire her browny-blue foot veins whilst she explains how her inspection of my work will proceed:

‘My name is being miss Sameena, dirty slave, and I will be being inspecting your performance as a footslave over the next few days, isn’t it? I will be observing you as you are being attending to the feet and footwear of your office-mistresses and will be awarding you marks out of ten, isn’t it? At the end of the inspection if I am deciding to pass you, you may be staying here for the remainder of your three year sentence as an office-footslave before you are being condemned to the hard-labour mines. But if you are not satisfying me with your performance I shall be sending you straight to the mines where you will be suffering most cruelly under the female whip! Are you being fully understanding of my power and authority over you now, dirty footslave?’

She readjusts her dupatta headscarf as she awaits my humble response:

‘Yes, goddess-mistress government-inspectress. This slave hears and obeys the government-inspectress mistress, and is indeed most respectful of her female power and authority over him, invested in her by the Female State, if it is so pleasing to you most revered and admired government inspectress-mistress. Please have mercy on me, mistress Sameena!’

I am, of course, genuinely most respectful of her and her power. As she herself has so eloquently pointed out, my male fate is in her sweet, feminine hands, and on her female clipboard. I must not fail – for my own sake, as well as that of my mistress-boss’s reputation!

Miss Sameena replaces her right, Pakistani-sandaled foot with her left beneath my kneeling face as she continues with her arrogant introduction:

‘In a few moments we will be going to the Office Reception Desk where I shall be observing you on your fixed-point duties at the receptionist-mistress’s feet, isn’t it slave?’

As I kiss the sandal straps on her seemingly flawless, left, pedicured foot, I can tell already that miss Sameena is on the ball and fully au-fait with my daily, office-footslave duties. She clearly knows about my mixture of ‘fixed point’ and ‘mobile’ duties. Fixed point is when I must kneel behind an office-mistress’s desk just admiring, or sometimes kissing, the backs of her booted or court-shoed heels; mobile is when I must ‘do the rounds’ – crawl around the office from desk to desk, offering my footwear-tongueshining services to the office ladies, though that isn’t usually until the afternoons.

This morning I am designated an hour-long fixed point kneeling behind the booted feet of the beautiful, Indian-girl office receptionist, miss Nadhiya.

As myself and my Pakistani inspectress-mistress approach miss Nadhiya from behind I can see that, beneath her desk in the front Reception area, she is wearing her ubiquitous, black leather, calf-length, chunky-heeled, buckle-covered, biker-style office boots below the hems of her bell-bottom, black polyester, officewear trousers.

Even when she is seated – to my enormous chagrin – I never get to see a flash of miss Nadhiya’s bootsocks inside her boots; her boots are just too high, and the lower hems of her trouser legs are, frustratingly, always covering the upper rims of her calf-length, biker boots!

I imagine that, like most office girls, she is wearing plain black anklesocks inside her boots – but who knows? They might even contain a dash of bright, girly pink on the heel or toe areas! Or she might even be a bit of a rebel, and like to wear multi-coloured, cartoon socks inside her rebellious, Indian-girl, biker boots!

The point is I shall never know – not unless I am ever lucky enough to be kneeling on a fixed point behind her office-receptionist boots when she subconsciously reaches down to straighten the tops of her socks inside her boots – and that’s never happened yet!

But perhaps it’s a good thing that – today of all days – I am not to be distracted by a beautiful, long-dark-haired, slightly chubby, Indian girl’s bootsocks as I kneel behind the backs of her biker boots and stare admiringly at the creases and folds in the plain, black leather, all under the watchful eye and critical clipboard of the Pakistani-mistress government inspectress.

The latter introduces herself to her fellow desi-female, and exhorts her to carry on as normal as if she wasn’t there. She reassures her India counterpart that she is there to judge me – not the Receptionist!

Besides, miss Nadhiya doesn’t have to do anything – just sit there and look pretty as she always does, occasionally signing for a package delivered by a lovestruck courier (all the freemale couriers fall in love with the stunningly beautiful, fully-westernized, and big-bosomed miss Nadhiya at first sight; that’s why she’s such a good receptionist, and such a boon to the public face of the office!)

Miss Nadhiya, as per usual, is sitting with her feet resting on a wooden shelf at the base of her Reception desk, and with her round-shaped, biker-booted toes turned fetchingly inwards towards each other – a most sexy and feminine pose, though it is entirely subliminal on her part; she’s just a girly girl, despite her fondness for wearing such heavy boots!

I, meanwhile, stare intently at the backs of her twisted-inwards boots, quietly and unobtrusively observing the creases and folds in her wrinkled, black bootleather – and paying particular attention to any movement in the leather, as I am required to do under the conditions of my office-footslave servitude.

It’s relatively easy work, being on a ‘fixed point’ – though humiliating – but I do hope that my inspectress-mistress standing behind me with her clipboard can read my slave-mind and appreciate the full extent of my humility and girlboot-obsessiveness as I kneel behind miss Nadhiya’s chunky, black bootheels. I ensure that my every thought is directed towards those boots, and make a concerted effort, for once, not to speculate about miss Nadhiya’s socks inside her boots – for I am sure that this highly efficient, young government-inspectress would be quick to pick up on a slave’s sock-wandering mind!

Fortunately there is much to admire about the backs of miss Nadhiya’s boots – not just the texture and consistency of the leather, but the tell-tale signs of street wear and tear on the base of the chunky-heels, where the black leather is starting to go all scuffmarked and grey, and looks somewhat uneven. I’m confident that the seemingly astute and efficient, government inspectress has noticed that I have noticed that, and, hopefully, I will pick up some positive marks for my girlboot-observational skills, as opposed to some negative whip-marks.

Certainly the Pakistani-girl inspectress’s whip appears to be staying put on her slender, leather waist-belt!

Just as I also stay put – for a whole, respectful hour – kneeling with my humble face directly behind receptionist-mistress Nadhiya’s calf-length boots, so close that I can smell them. It’s a fairly uneventful hour – the only excitement being when mistress Nadhiya inadvertently dropped her pen and had to reach down from the counter to pick it up. Needless to say, there was a considerable amount of movement in her boots at that point in time, but I managed to remain fully focussed on them.

Thankfully, there was still no sight of any distracting, Indian-girl bootsock (normally I would have said ‘disappointingly’, but I really could do without the visual distraction of beautiful, Indian-girl bootsock on a day like this when my footslave-behaviour is under such close, female-inspectorial scrutiny!)

The hour-long, fixed point behind the reception desk seems to go without a hitch – particularly without a hitching-up of the chubby, Indian receptionist-girl’s bell-bottom, trouser-hems – and so I am satisfied that I have passed this particular test.

My Pakistani inspectress and I move on to my next fixed point – at the entrance to the office cafeteria where I face the much more demanding role of serving as a doorstopper-slave i.e. I must kneel with my head humbly bowed by the entrance to the female cafeteria and respectfully kiss the feet of any office-woman who voluntarily presents her feet to me for kissing as she enters or exits the café.

Not all of them do, of course – some are in just too much of a hurry; and even those that do tend to stop for just one, quick kiss to the toe of each office ladyboot or ladyshoe. None of them talk to me – or issue any kind of foot-kissing orders to me – for it is obvious what I am required to do; I must simply kiss their outstretched feet!

The Pakistani inspectress-mistress stands back a bit so as not to distract the office mistresses as they go about their daily business in the cafeteria, but she is busy making notes all the time on her clipboard of power.

Fortunately, it’s quite busy in the cafeteria this morning (being a Monday the office ladies have lots of weekend gossip to catch up on) and I am presented with several pairs of female office-worker boots and shoes to kiss. I pride myself on being a good foot-kisser – never missing a toe area on a lady’s boot or shoe, however quickly she presents and then withdraws her booted, shoed, or even sandaled feet to my kneeling, footslave lips for kissing.

Of course, there is, inevitably, a distraction of young-womanly socks, for not all the office mistresses by any means wear sock-hiding trousers and boots like goddess-mistress Nadhiya on Reception; there are a plethora of black, office ballet-flats and black socks – some of the feminine socks having fetching little, multicoloured logos and patterns on them, and every conceivable kind of patterned stitching. I am also confronted by a goodly array of ultra-short sneaker-socks – though not necessarily worn with sneakers; their tantalizing elasticated tops appear above the rims of many different types of low-cut, shoes more suitable for the office – including smart, brown leather, lace-up, oxford brogues; shiny black plastic loafers; and low-heeled, black leather courts.

I am also required to show oral respect to one pair of scruffy, white keds-sneakers and grey-white sneaker-socks, but they belong to some visiting work-experience student from the local university who is also wearing a pair of scruffy, blue denim jeans! She’ll never get a full-time job in an office dressed like that!

But then, she’s not the one being inspected, and whose future career is on the line; I am the one in that frightening position! And so I kiss scruffy, white canvas sneaker every bit as diligently and respectfully as I kiss smart, brown leather, oxford brogue!

Even the ladies wearing ankleboots seem to have an element of bootsock on display inside the upper rims of their boots today, especially if they are wearing skirts or dresses with their boots, instead of slacks! Perhaps they are deliberately sock-teasing me, in an effort to make me fail my inspection! I’m sure none of them give a damn about my possibly being sent straight to the slave-mines; there are plenty more office footslaves where I came from – the Female Courts!

One young, blonde sock-tease, in particular, is wearing a pair of bright yellow anklesocks inside her pointy-toed, high-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboots! It is sheer torture trying to ignore such lemon-fresh socktop, and to focus on her bootleather.

But I do my best not to be distracted by those tempting flashes of bright yellow girlsock, and to concentrate on kissing her arrogantly pointy boot-toes, as befits a humble doorstopper slave – especially one who is being closely observed by a Female-Government inspectress!

My lips taste of female boot and shoe leather by the end of my two-hour fixed point duty on the office cafeteria doorway, but I think the Pakistani inspectress-mistress is suitably impressed by my performance as a humble, doorway footkisser. She certainly presents her own sandaled feet for me to kiss again as she enters the cafeteria in order to partake of some refreshments herself, and then instructs me to kneel behind her sling-backed heels as she sits at a table drinking her tea and eating her sandwich.

That’s got to be a good sign, hasn’t it?

I stare dutifully at the hard skin on the backs of her Pakistani heels even though she has set aside her clipboard for the time being. You can never be too careful – she may still be watching my every move; this may be another test of my loyalty and focus on a young woman’s feet. And so I play it safe, and study her every, light brown foot-pore.

The real test, however, comes in the afternoon when, as part of my rounds, I am required to lickshine the laced-up, office ankleboots of a particularly demanding, grossly overweight, Goth-girl mistress – the bullying, 18 year old, junior office-mistress Tracey – who never fails to find fault with my middle-aged, bootlicking performance, and who I know will be only too happy to express her inevitable dissatisfaction to the government inspectress!

The problem I have is that goddess-mistress Tracey insists on wearing the most exciting and intriguing, calf-length, Goth-girl, socks with her rather plain and ordinary, low-heeled, round-toed black leather, ankleboots, and since she never wears trousers – always short skirts, designed to show off her fatty, bare legs – I get to see a large portion of her socks’ uppers as my tongue is running along the upper rims of her unnaturally stretched, ankleboot leather!

Her Goth-themed socks are predominantly black, but with multicoloured, cartoon depictions of various ghosts, ghoulies, vampires and monsters on them. Halloween socks, really! This does of course, make them highly distracting to any self-respecting office footslave, whatever the time of year; a humble, male slave who is programmed to admire female socks by virtue of his footslave-DNA, but obliged, by law, to concentrate on licking female boots!

Small wonder, then, that my lips and tongue do not always perform to the high standards expected of me by fat, bullying, Goth-girl mistress Tracey!

But, of course, none of these excuses will be taken into account by the slim and thin-lipped, Pakistani government inspectress, miss Sameena, and, as miss Tracey once again finds fault with my bootlicking efforts, and angrily requires me to lickshine the top of her chubby, left boot a second time, I can sense the cartoon-zombie at the top of her Goth-themed anklesock laughing at me as the government inspectress-mistress grimly marks me down on her ubiquitous, judgemental clipboard!

…………………………………………………………………………

For three days she followed me around the office – noting my every success and failure; particularly my failures, since a good report would be no report. The whole point of an inspection, surely, is to find room for improvement – or to fail me outright?

The moment of truth comes when an angry, redfaced, redheaded office boss-mistress Marian calls me back into her office three days later to reveal the government inspectress’s findings to me.

She reads out the Pakistani inspectress’s report verbatim:

‘The slave is most definitely being underemployed in the office, and is not being required to be working hard enough.

He is generally an indolent and lazy fellow, who is being content to do the minimum of work. Whilst he is being perfectly capable of kissing ladies’ feet with humility and efficiency, I am finding that he is being too easily distracted, particularly by his mistresses’ socks, to be doing a good enough job in tongueshining their boots and shoes to the high standards expected of a footslave. This was being particularly evident when he was being required to lickshine the boot-tops of one charming and kind, young mistress who was wearing novelty socks…(She got that bit right! That’ll be a reference to Goth-mistress Tracey’s cartoon socks!)….

I am therefore recommending that the dirty, dissolute slave be supervised at all time by a permanent taskmistress who can be ensuring by means of the whip that the slave is fulfilling his tasks to the best of his ability, isn’t it?

Nevertheless, I am recommending that he should be allowed to continue with his sentence of office footslavery for the full term of his three year sentence prior to enslavement in the mines, subject to a further review and inspection in 6 months’ time.

Signed: Inspectress-mistress Sameena. Government Inspectress no. 432’

All the while miss Marian is reading out the Pakistani inspectress’s report, her anklebooted foot is jiggling with anger and irritation directly in front of my kneeling face, causing the twisted, elasticated top of her plain, black bootsock to crease and fold in front of my easily-sock-distracted eyes.

I know why she is angry. I may have ‘passed’ my inspection – which is an enormous relief – but the Pakistani inspectress’s recommendations, which by law must be carried out, will mean the extra expense for my boss-mistress of having to employ a full-time taskmistress!

That’s not good – for we all know that boss-mistress Marian likes to save the pennies. I mean, just look at her cheap boots and socks!

Ah yes – the socks! It was the female socks which, yet again, have proved to be my downfall!

Mistress Marian was so annoyed with me that she took out her punishment cane from her office drawer and gave me sixteen sharp cuts across the backs of my bare thighs – ironically affording my kneeling face quick glimpses of her black cotton sock-tops with every stinging cane-cut as her bootcut, office trouser-hems rose and fell in line with each stroke of her well-practised arm!

Yes – I’ve got to hand it to the government inspectress, miss Sameena; she got me down to a tee, and, quite rightly, has condemned me to harder work, and more pain and suffering. Yet she has also been perfectly fair and balanced in her conclusions – allowing me to remain, for the time being at least, in my office-footslave capacity, and postponing my imprisonment in the dreaded slave-mines.

It’s pretty much the best outcome I could have hoped for and I very much look forward to kissing her dainty, pedicured Pakistani feet and sandals again in six months’ time, and showing her my extra whip-stripes – courtesy of my new taskmistress.

The End

Addendum:

Bully for me!

Regrettably, boss-mistress Marian appointed the stroppy, Goth-girl, junior office-mistress Tracey as my new, full-fat, full-time taskmistress – in order to save money; a role the former office assistant truly relished, resulting in the premature curtailment of my office-footslavery due to excessive, female-whip injury, and my consequent, ignominious despatch to the slave-mines after a further period of a mere 4 months.

So I never did get to see the Pakistani inspectress-mistress’s slim, brown feet and sandals ever again, thanks to my painful demise at the end of a bullying, Goth-girl’s whip!

Footslave Chronicles Volume 2

2017-06-28T08:22:00.000-07:00

The second volume in a collection of essays chronicling the experiences of humble footslaves, both public and private.

VOLUME 2 CONTENTS (scroll down for chronicles in reverse numerical order)

10. The Slave-Driver

9. Infeariority Complex

8. Sound, Masterly Advice

7. False Assumptions

6. The Gooseberry

5. 191 Stinging Whiplashes

4. Flustered

3. Subliminal Sock Messages

2. The Joys of Winter!

1. From a Slavish Kneelpoint

………………………………………………………………………………….

Chronicle no. 10 – The Slave-Driver

To look at her – you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her pretty, Bangladeshi mouth! Slim; petite; fragile; dark-haired and wide eyed – with a beautiful, if somewhat sardonic, smile.

Yes – 23 year old miss Priya looks nothing like a professional slave-driver in her cheap, blue-plastic, slave-supervisor, uniform smock; her ill-fitting, black-denim jeans; and her scuffmarked, second-hand, black leather slip-on shoes and ropey, dark blue, cotton anklesocks – and when my mistress Saffron first appointed her as my ‘overseer’, I thought the sweet and innocent-looking, but scruffy, Bangladeshi girl was going to be a complete pushover!

How wrong I was!

I had failed to appreciate that miss Priya had grown up on a farm in rural Bangladesh. She was used to working with animals – and that was very much how she saw me; as an ‘animal’; a beast of burden – to be driven and bullied by the sting of the female whip!

Technically, I was employed merely as my mistress Saffron’s personal footslave – but she had got to the point where she could no longer bear to have me under her increasingly busy feet all day long; especially not now that she had been promoted at work into a busy managerial role. And so, like many busy and successful, middle-aged mistresses in the Gynarchy she left me at home under the supervision of a ‘slave-driver’ – the aforementioned, Bangladeshi-immigrant mistress, miss Priya – whose job it was to keep me occupied and busy about my mistress’s house, since a slave must spend every waking moment toiling and working at something!

Or, as miss Priya had explained to me herself on my very first morning with her, as she so eloquently disabused me of my first impressions of her in her cute, but firm, Bangladeshi, peasant-girl accent:

‘Ha! Ha! I Priya. I your master! You call me master Priya! I better than you; I make you work. All time I make you work hard! Ha! Ha! You a slave – you work, or get whip! Ha! Ha! Madam give me strong whip – make you very pain, innit? Ha! Ha! You obey me, or feel whip, innit? Ha! Ha!... You kiss me on foot now, dirty slave; you beg me not hurt you with whip!’

And with that the pint-sized, 23 year old slip of a Bangladeshi overseer-mistress, appointed by my own mistress Saffron to the position of household slave-driver, had gleefully extended forth her shapely, right foot on the linoleum of the kitchen floor directly beneath my humbly-kneeling face, and had simultaneously pushed my neck downwards with the dusty sole of her left shoe towards the rounded toe-end of her right, scuffmarked, slip-on, black leather shoe in order for me to respectfully kiss it.

Unfortunately, I had hesitated for just the briefest of seconds – a tad repulsed by the ropey and bobbled appearance of the Bangladeshi girl’s nearby, navy-blue anklesock which was looking somewhat crumpled and bedraggled below her shapely, right anklebone – and that moment’s hesitation had been enough for miss Priya to bolster her delegated, young-womanly authority over me by means of the vicious, single-tailed, black leather, female whip:

Swish…Crack!

Suddenly my bare back was on fire – burning with an almighty, red sting that spread ferociously from my front ribs around my entire, semi-naked torso. I knew then – in an instant – that this former-peasant girl knew just how to earn a maleslave’s respect and, more importantly, how to wield a whip and drive a dumb animal like me!

I let out an involuntary male-scream, as miss Priya simultaneously let out an involuntary laugh of young womanly glee and power:

‘Ha! Ha! Pain, innit? Ha! Ha! Now you obey master Priya, innit? You kiss toe of dirty shoe, or I whip again! You obey! You a slave! I your master! Ha! Ha!’

‘Aaagh!...Y…Yes…m…mistress P…Priya!’

Swish…Crack!

More pain! Deeper pain! Worse even than before, if that’s possible …

‘You call me MASTER Priya! You learn obey Bangladeshi female master, or I whip you many pain, innit?’

‘Aaagh!...Oh, yes master! Pray forgive me, master Priya! Oh the pain, master!’

I now lowered my lips without any further delay to the scuffmarked shoe-toe of the sweet and innocent looking Bangladeshi peasant-girl mistress who was fast proving her worth as an expert slave-driver. I didn’t mind, now, that her well-worn, black leather shoe was dirty and unkempt, or that her ropey-looking, bedraggled, navy blue anklesock was just inches from my face. All that mattered to me now was doing whatever it took to stop the pain; to stop her from whipping me again!

She had me! I was hers – and she knew it! She exulted and gloried in her newfound, absolute feminine power over me, a power engendered by the ferocious, burning sting of the female whip:

‘Ha! Ha! You weak! You a weak man – you kiss Bangladeshi girl on dirty foot; not on girl nice, clean lips like real man! Ha! Ha! I laugh at you. You frightened of me; you frightened of Priya whip! Ha! Ha! I strong! I your female master; you my work-slave!’

‘Yes, master Priya…kiss…kiss…God bless you, master Priya…kiss…kiss.’

Her crumpled, navy-blue sock seemed to twitch with delight at my obsequiousness and subservience to her exquisite, Bangladeshi-female power; I watched its bobbled, cotton material cease and fold in front of my very eyes beneath her soft, brown, Bangladeshi anklebone-skin as my lips tasted her outer, cheap-leathery, shoe dirt.

But I would even have kissed this former peasant-girl’s ropey, blue sock – if it meant avoiding another stinging cut from her single-tailed, black leather, slave-driver’s whip!

Suddenly her scuffmarked, right shoe was withdrawn from underneath my kneeling face, only to be replaced by her equally scruffy and scuffmarked, left shoe – the one which had, until now, been resting on the nape of my neck. I cupped my hands around her proffered foot this time – as if honouring it as a prized object deserving of my unquestioning worship and devotion (which, of course, it was – being the scruffy, left shoe and sock of a superior, young Bangladeshi woman equipped with a whip!)

I noticed that her left sock had slidden even deeper down inside her shoe than her right sock, but there was still enough of it on show for me to make out the individual stitches in its elasticated top along her shapely, brown-skinned instep.

At least her bare ankleskin looked clean and fresh!

My ribs and flank still throbbing courtesy of my new slave-driver’s whip, I avidly kissed the toe of her outstretched, musty-smelling, left shoe:

‘Ha! Ha! That right, slave – you show respect for female master, innit? Ha! Ha!...Now I make you work! All the time you work! You never rest! You stop work – you get whip! Ha! Ha! You not like whip – you work hard! Work – only way to stop pain! Ha! Ha!...’

‘Yes, master Priya. I obey you, master Priya! Please don’t whip me again, master Priya – I will be a good slave and will work hard for you, master Priya! Oh pray master Priya! Oh pray!... kiss… kiss… kiss… kiss… Oh the pain!… kiss… kiss…’

Unbidden, I was now even daring to put my slave-mouth where my mind was, and started kissing the twisted, elasticated top of her ropey, navy-blue anklesock – in an effort to express my contrition and humility before her, and perhaps in the hope of tickling her young-womanly fancy, and eliciting some sweet, feminine compassion in this female-whip wielding slave-driver!

‘Ha! Ha! You stop kiss Priya shoe and sock now! Now you work!...First you lick clean all of madam dirty shoes and boots! Than you wash madam dirty socks and tights in mouth! Then you lick clean madam dirty floors; then you lick clean madam dirty driveway! Ha! Ha! All time I watch – I watch with whip! Ha! Ha! I put my feet up – relax! But you not relax! You work – or I beat hard with whip! Ha! Ha! I a winner – you a loser! I get pay for watch over slave with whip! You not get pay – you just work! Ha! Ha! You a dog! You a dirty work-dog! You clean madam shoes and madam flat, while I watch! I like queen! I like princess! I not lift finger – except to whip, innit? Ha! Ha!’

Swish…Crack!

Pain!

‘Aaagh!...M…mercy…m…master Priya…Oh pray, m…master!’

‘You start work now, dirty slave! You crawl over to where madam dirty shoes and start lick! Dog obey! Dirty dog move!...’

‘Swish…Crack!

Unbelievable pain! Yet undeniable.

Driven by pain, I duly crawl over to the pile of dirty, discarded, mistressly shoes and boots belonging to my businesswoman-mistress Saffron in the corner of the kitchen, and start to vigorously lick them clean.

Behind me, mistress Priya pulls up a wooden chair and sits down on it, resting her dirty, scuffmarked, black leather, slip-on shoes and Bangladeshi socked-feet on my throbbing back, digging her flat, leather heels into my fresh whip-stripes!

It’s pure agony – but my moans are purely of pain, and not of complaint. For I know the sweet and feminine Bangladeshi immigrant-mistress is only doing her job. She is making me work, and getting the best out of me with her whip, as she is required to do in accordance with her contract of employment with my mistress Saffron. I should have shown more respect for her Bangladeshi-female power and authority right from the start!

Shame on me!

One thing’s for sure – as I feel her partially-socked anklebone digging painfully into one of my stinging whip-weals whilst I get on with my humble tongue-work on my mistress Saffron’s discarded, black leather court shoes, I sure as the fires of hell respect the slave-driving, Bangladeshi peasant-girl now!

Chronicle no. 9 – Infeariority Complex

Whenever my beautiful, olive-skinned, 25 year old, Jewish customer-mistress, miss Hadar, enters my public footslave-stall for a bootlicking, I am always afraid – very afraid!

Not because she is especially big and strong; she is, in actual fact, quite slim and petite in stature.

Nor because she is a particularly important customer-mistress; she is a perfectly normal member of female society (though, of course, all my customer-mistresses are important to me!)

Not even because she is a particularly cruel young woman – though she is not a customer-mistress to be messed with.

No, my fear and trembling stems from my innate, footslavish inferiority complex vis-à-vis young women, and from my overwhelming desire to always please my mistresses.

Mistress Hadar, for her part, clearly revels in my fear of girls, and exults in my quaking over her boots.

Speaking of which, she wears very nice boots – black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots – which she almost invariably wears on her pretty, Israeli-girl feet beneath the hems of her ubiquitous, navy-blue, bootcut slacks whenever she pops into my footslave booth every evening on her way home from work for a quick ‘lick and a shine’.

Even though I know full well exactly what she wants as she settles herself down onto the raised chair with a smug and supercilious grin on her pretty, Jewish-girl face, resting her street-soiled and scuffmarked, booted feet onto the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face, my fear of offending her always prompts me to humbly greet her with apposite fear and trembling in my weak-male voice:

‘Oh pray, mistress Hadar; truly this slave is blessed by your presence once again, mistress Hadar. Oh pray beautiful mistress, oh pray! Please don’t have me beaten, mistress! Please tell this dirty slave how he may serve you well, and avoid the sting of the lash, most beautiful and respected mistress Hadar.’

I am referring to the public-use lash which every customer-mistress is entitled to either employ herself on my bare back and shoulders, or request a passing supervisor to employ on my back.

I am right to be fearful in this regard, for mistress Hadar has, justifiably, had me whipped many times in the past – the most painfully memorable occasion being only a few weeks ago when I had allegedly failed to remove a slither of dirt round the back of one of her Israeli-girl bootheels, and she came to notice it some two hours later after she got home. She promptly rang the authorities and demanded that I be given 25 hard lashes of the female whip, as she was sure that slither of mud had been present on the back of her bootheel before she availed herself of my supposed bootcleaning services.

And who am I to argue? I’m just a slave, and the customer-mistress is always right!

Customer-mistress Hadar sniggers gleefully at my fear as she towers over me in the raised shoelick-chair of power, and curtly barks down her orders at me, thereby instilling even more pathetic, slavish fearfulness in me:

‘Stop whining, slave, and lickshine the sides of my boots – and make damn sure you clean out the zippers also!’

‘Yes mistress Hadar! At once mistress Hadar! God bless you mistress Hadar!’

I am relieved to receive my usual, wholly anticipated, orders – basically to tongue-polish her black leather, office ankleboots, albeit with the additional, very specific stipulation this evening that I am to diligently divest the black, felt zipper-tracks of street dust and detritus as well.

I really don’t mind being close to mistress Hadar’s boot-zippers, for I am acutely aware that behind those flimsy zipper-tracks lie her glorious, plain black, woollen, anklelength bootsocks – the socks of a middle-eastern goddess whom I truly respect, fear and admire.

I know that because I can just see the twisted and creased, elasticated top of her thick, black, winter-woolly bootsock on her booted foot as I obediently lower my lips and mouth to the outer side of customer-mistress Hadar’s right, chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboot.

I have had a particular, pathetic fondness for customer-mistress Hadar’s woollen bootsocks ever since the day she let me unzip the side of one of her boots (I believe it was the left one) and kiss her on the black sock – right over her woolly-socked anklebone. I think she must have been feeling in a particularly good mood that day, for she knows full well that I hanker after her socks and normally takes great pleasure in denying me their thick and fluffy bootsock-softness on my unworthy, footslave lips.

Clearly she had wanted to cut me some bootcut-slack on that particular, happy day!

But it was all so long ago – over a year or so now – and since then the merest glimpse of the elasticated tops of her thick, black, woolly, anklelength socks is the most reward I have received whilst tongue-shining the sides of her boots.

I don’t think she’s in any such mood to have the sides of her socks kissed today. The boot-zippers will be remaining firmly up – more’s the pity. And I’m too frightened to ask, of course!

Still, at least I have stunningly-beautiful, dark-haired and olive-complexioned, Jewish-girl’s boot to lickshine, and it is truly an honour to remove the elements of offending street-dust and grime from the sides of her superior, female boots and the tracks of her modesty-preserving, boot zippers.

As my eyes get closer to the top of her right boot I find it easier to focus in on the extreme top of her twisted, black bootsock – but I must be ultra-careful, for customer-mistress Hadar’s ever-alert eyes are focussed in on me, and my tongue’s obedient performance on the side of her dirty ankleboot.

As the saying goes – ‘A lady’s whip is never far from a maleslave’s back!’, and so I admire the sight of mistress Hadar’s twisted, woolly sock-top, but don’t obsess about it – until, that is, she utters her next, young-womanly order:

‘Shine up the actual metal zipper, bootslave. Put it in your mouth and suck it clean!’

Customer-mistress Hadar can be truly unpredictable! She’s never ordered me to do this before – to suckshine her bootzipper! That’s one of the reasons why I fear – and admire – her so much:

‘Yes mistress Hadar! At once mistress Hadar! As you wish mistress Hadar! Please don’t beat me beautiful and kind mistress Hadar!’

The taste of thin metal replaces the taste of thick leather as I insert her jangling metal bootzip into my mouth. But it’s not that which is assailing my senses the most now: the humble and degrading action of having to suck clean my beautiful and dominant, Jewish customer-mistress’s ankleboot-zip, whilst she is still victoriously wearing the boot, has necessitated my ugly, mesmerized face moving even closer to the top of her twisted, thick-woollen bootsock!

I can now see, and smell, the individual stitches in the exposed, elasticated top of her precious, black bootsock – a sock I once kissed (or one very like it)!

I know customer-mistress Hadar is teasing me now, for she must, surely, be aware of the impression that the top of her black anklesock is making on my humble footslave-psyche, especially as it contrasts so vividly with the soft, smooth duskiness of her beautiful, Jewish-girl legskin?

My suspicions are confirmed by her next utterance, made in unmistakeably threatening tones:

‘Stop admiring my woolly bootsock, pathetic slave, and get on with your work – polish my bootzip!’

It seems there really is no pulling the wool over customer-mistress Hadar’s eyes, or her woolly sock over my eyes! I apologise immediately to the Jewish bootmistress for my blatant sock-indiscretion, and promptly lower my gaze to the sole of her boot whilst I continue to suck on her flimsy, metal bootzip – the only, small thing that separates my parched-with-fear lips from her magnificent, Jewish-girl sock.

You see – I’m at it again! I just can’t help myself! A beautiful, young, Jewish woman’s black bootsock ought to be kissed, for she is infinitely better than me – a humble, gentile footslave!

But my fear compels me to hold my tongue and to zip it; that, and the humiliating knowledge that I am just not worthy to kiss such superior girlsock without her explicit, female permission.

It’s my infeariority complex kicking in, yet again; I am in fear of girls! But my complex, slavish phobia undoubtedly spares me from an angry, girlish kick to the face; or even worse, from the biting sting of the dreaded female whip!

Chronicle no. 8 – Sound, Masterly Advice

My new master has just purchased me as a gift for his lovely, young wife – miss Mei-Hua from Hong Kong – and he is helpfully explaining to me my new duties as his wife’s personal footslave , in no uncertain terms!

It has been left to the master-sir because the mistress is apparently a bit diffident and shy, plus her English is also somewhat limited.

The master-sir is a native Englishman, and has no such problems expressing himself:

‘Slave, you will address my pretty, Chinese wife as ‘mistress Mei-Hua’ at all times, is that clear?’

‘Yes, master-sir.’

‘You will remain on your hands and knees at all times in your mistress’s presence, with your head humbly bowed, and you will only ever look her in the foot.’

‘Yes, master-sir. As you wish, master-sir.’

‘Your demeanour shall be continuously humble and respectful towards her, as she is your female master.’

‘Yes, master-sir. Of course master-sir.’

‘Let me explain to you in some detail how you will serve my wife as her footslave during a typical day, pathetic footslave…’

‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you, master-sir.’

‘When she awakes in the morning you will be kneeling by the side of our master-bed ready to greet her bare feet by kissing them just as soon as she places them onto the bedroom floor. You will then kiss my wife’s unwashed, overnight, bare feet 10 times each as a daily demonstration of your respect for her Chinese footskin. You will seek out any areas of dry or dead skin on her pretty, oriental feet, and will concentrate on kissing those areas first.

You will then fetch her furry, white, mule-type slippers and gently and respectfully place them onto her delicate feet. You will kiss the furry toes of her slippers 10 times each both before and after you place them on her bare feet as a demonstration of your undying admiration and respect for my wife’s bedtime footwear.

You will then accompany my wife to heel into our ensuite bathroom where you will remove her slippers and kneel humbly in the corner, facing the wall, with your nose buried deep inside the linings of her furry, white slippers whilst she performs her morning ablutions. You will breathe in the aroma of her warm slipper-linings, like a good footslave.’

‘Yes, master-sir. I am a good footslave, master-sir.’

‘After my pretty, young Chinese wife has showered, and dressed herself for work, you shall attend to her feet again. My wife works in an office and likes to wear her smart, grey-pinstriped trouser-suit to work, along with her chunky-heeled, black, slip-on shoes and sheer, black, nylon anklesocks. She looks the business!...’

The master sighs wistfully at this point.

‘…You, of course, will be responsible for dressing only her feet. You will fetch her chunky, office, slip-on shoes from her shoe cupboard, and her short, black, nylon socks from her sock drawer, and will then gently and smoothly place each item of superior, feminine footwear onto her feet whilst she sits on the edge of the bed above you.

You will again kiss each individual item of her footwear 10 times, both before and after you place it onto her foot, as a symbol of your humility and respect for all, young womankind. Do I make myself clear, Chinese-girl’s foot-toady?’

‘Yes, master-sir, as it pleases you master-sir.’

‘You will then kneel beside my wife’s fully-shod feet underneath the breakfast table whilst she breakfasts with me. You will concentrate on her feet whilst she is eating – staring at them and admiring them; noting any early signs of creasing or wrinkling in her sheer, black nylon anklesocks, for my wife may require you to straighten out any wrinkles or creases in her socks at any time of the day or night…’

‘Yes master-sir. This slave hears and obeys you, master-sir.’

‘…If there are no wrinkles in her nylon socks you may focus instead on her chunky, black leather shoes – again looking for any signs of wrinkling in the feminine shoeleather which may attract dust or dirt, for it will be your job to tongueshine my wife’s office shoes throughout the day as and when she requires you to do so.’

‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you master-sir.’

‘When she has finished breakfasting you will accompany her to the train station – again crawling behind her to heel. You are not to be distracted by anything that is going on around you as you follow my wife to heel in public – the traffic; the feet of other pedestrians; cats or dogs etc. You must focus in only on the backs of my pretty wife’s chunky-heeled, office shoes, and be grateful for the occasional glimpse of the backs of her sheer, black nylon anklesocks beneath the hems of her smart, pinstriped trousers as she walks along.

You will then kneel on the dirty floor of the train next to my wife’s feet, presenting your upturned cheek as a footrest for the sole of one of her shoes should she so desire it. Either way, you shall stare at the sides of my wife’s nylon-socked feet in order to admire them and count any wrinkles or creases in the thin, dark-nylon stitching – just as you did before underneath the breakfast table. Similarly, if her nylon socks are in order, you shall focus on the sides of her black leather shoes again, noting any accumulations of dirt or dust from the street and/or train carriage floor.

However, you must never touch, or tongue-shine, my wife’s shoes without her express permission, is that clear dirty footslave?’

‘Yes master-sir. I hear and obey you, master-sir.’

‘Good! You will then spend the rest of the working day kneeling underneath my wife’s office desk, admiring, and focussing in on, her shoes and socks as she goes about her important, daily business above you. Again, all the time, you must be looking for any tiny flaws in either her socks or shoes – for you must be ready to correct those flaws at a moment’s notice.

If her shoes and socks look perfect – and only if they are completely perfect – you may contemplate instead your condition of bondage to my wife’s feet in general; about how fortunate you are to be the lowly, personal footslave of such a beautiful, young, happily-married, Chinese woman; to be allowed to spend practically all your humble time kneeling at her feet; to know all of her little foot-secrets – such as how her feet tend to smell; the areas of hard-skin on her feet; the location of her little foot-moles; the amount of toe-jam that has accumulated beneath each of her toenails that particular morning; the current condition of the corn-plaster on her left foot; the overall state of her nylon socks; and, of course, the condition of her chunky, black leather, slip-on shoes – both inside and out.

All of these things are a privilege and an honour for you to know, wretched slave, and you shall mentally contemplate your sheer good fortune at my wife’s beautiful, Chinese feet. Do you understand that, or shall I be forced to whip you?’

‘Oh no, master-sir! I fully understand my good fortune, master-sir! Please don’t whip me master!’

‘Be very clear on one thing above all else, slave. You are a slave, and you are, therefore, subject to the whip! My wife may be a very sweet-natured and kind-hearted, young Asian woman, but she will always do what I tell her; and if I tell her to report any footslave-shortcomings on your part to me – she most assuredly will!

Believe me, slave, you will be sorely whipped for those reported shortcomings!’

‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you, master-sir. God bless you, master-sir.’

‘Now – back to my wife’s feet! At the end of the working day you will again accompany her home, to heel, on the commuter train. Clearly my beautiful, Chinese wife’s feet will be getting hot, sticky and tired inside her shoes and socks by this late stage of the day, so you must mentally prepare yourself to serve and pamper them just as soon as she gets home.

As soon as she puts her feet up on the sofa you must humbly offer to remove her chunky, leather shoes and to sniff and massage her tired and sweaty, nylon-covered feet. This is where you can start to do something about any creases or wrinkles that have developed during the day in my wife’s sheer, black, nylon anklesocks – for you can now, without receiving any specific bidding to do so, nose them and smooth them out with your ugly, maleslave face, inhaling their pungent, nylon aroma as you do so. You have my full, masculine authority to do so at such times. Is that clear, footslave?’

‘Oh yes, master-sir. Oh thank you kindly, most generous master-sir!’

‘You will proceed to demonstrate your total respect for my wife’s sweaty, nyloned feet through your facial demeanour – never turn your nose up at my wife’s sweaty feet, slave, however stinky they may be! Instead you must turn your nose down on them – immerse your face in her feminine footstink; for she is your female master and better, and don’t you ever forget it!’

‘Yes, master-sir. Of course not, master-sir!’

Having straightened out the wrinkles in my wife’s dark, nylon socks with your footslave-nose, you must then rub her nylon-socked feet with your bare hands – rub away all the tension and fatigue in her pretty, Chinese feet. Your hands will get sweaty, of course, as my wife’s nylon-footsweat is transferred onto your fingers, but you must regard that too as an honour and a blessing – to have a superior, young, Chinese woman’s stinky, warm footsweat on your unworthy, footslave hands!’

‘Yes indeed, master-sir. I hear you and obey you, master-sir! It will be an honour for me, most respected master-sir.’

‘Then – if my wife wishes you to, and only if she wishes you to – you must remove her sweaty, dark-nylon anklesocks from her dainty, Chinese feet by gently pulling them off by the damp, reinforced toe-ends, in order to suck the day-old sweat off her bare, oriental toes and insteps. You must also extract, with your footslave-mouth, any extra toejam that may have accumulated beneath her fragile toenails during the course of the day inside her nylons – and swallow it. You’ll probably be quite hungry by now, anyway – and in need of some Chinese-girl, stinky-toejam nourishment, slave! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes master-sir. Thank you for laughing at me and mocking me, master-sir!’

‘Ha! Ha! My pleasure, Chinese girl’s personal footslave!...Now, once you have tongue-bathed my wife’s dirty feet, she may require you to give her a full pedicure – to paint her toenails and lick away her hard skin etc.

If you are ordered to paint her toenails you will do so with the mouthbrush provided, and you will wish to note that any smearing of the toenail-paint onto my wife’s cuticles will result in a severe and unrestricted whipping! Similarly, you will ensure that you do not tickle my wife’s bare heels as you lap away at her dry and chapped heels, again under severe pain of the whip!’

‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you for the warning, master-sir! God bless you, master-sir!’

‘After you have pampered and pedicured my wife’s tired feet, and revived them, you will await her softly-spoken instructions as to how to dress her feet for the forthcoming evening.

If she is going out to the gym you will be required to fetch her white sneaker-socks and pink and white, lace-up sneakers, and obligingly put them on her feet.

If she is going out with me to a restaurant or the cinema she will probably order you to fetch her a pair of her black, cotton anklesocks and her brown leather, zip-up, chunky-heeled ankleboots.

If we are going out clubbing you must fetch my wife’s silvery, strappy, high-heeled pumps and tan-coloured nylon stockings.

Either way, whatever her choice of foot and leg wear, you shall be responsible for dressing her again – though in the case of her nylon stockings you must raise them up her lower legs only as far as her knees. My wife’s body above her knees is totally out of bounds to you! I, and I alone, shall take care of her upper bodily needs, as well as all her spiritual and emotional needs. You’re just her lowly, down-in-the-dirt footslave, do I make myself clear, slave?’

‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you master-sir.’

‘Again, you shall accompany my wife to heel throughout the entire evening whatever she is doing, focusing in on, and admiring, whatever type of footwear she happens to be wearing – again, humbly looking for signs of any creasing or soiling as you may be required to rectify all such flaws and deficiencies at any time my Chinese wife sees fit!

If she is working out at the gym in her white sports socks and pink and white sneakers, beneath the hems of her pink and white tracksuit bottoms, you will kneel and admire the creases and folds in her pure, white anklesocks. You will also make sure her laces don’t become undone, lest she trip and fall on the treadmill. Be warned, slave, if my precious, Chinese wife does ever injure herself as a result of some flaw in her footwear, your own body shall be injured in a similar way by me, only ten times worse!’

‘Yes, master-sir. I understand master-sir! And justly so, if I may say so, master-sir!’

‘Be quiet, slave! I’m talking!...Whilst you are admiring my wife’s sneakered and socked feet on the treadmill at the gym, you must continuously contemplate how her pretty, work-out feet must me getting hot and steamy again inside her sneakers, and look forward to smelling them later in the evening when she finally permits you to remove her sneakers and smell her sweaty, white gym socks.

If, on the other hand, my Chinese wife is out with me enjoying a slap-up meal whilst wearing her brown leather, chunky-heeled, zipped-up ankleboots and black, cotton anklesocks you must unobtrusively kneel below the restaurant dining-table and admire the sides of her brown boots below the hems of her dark-blue denim jeans – particularly the black, felt zippers as they match her black, cotton socks. You are permitted to raise your eyes as high as the elasticated tops of my wife’s black, cotton anklesocks – so that you may better admire them – but you are not to focus in on her smooth, bare, Chinese ankleskin above the socks, if such skin is inadvertently on display beneath the hems of her blue jeans.

If my wife is out dancing and clubbing with me in her silvery-sparkly, high-heeled, party pumps and tan-coloured, nylon stockings beneath her short, sexy party-dress, you will kneel next to her dancing feet on the dance-floor and admire all the creases and folds in her finest-denier nylons around her shapely, oriental anklebones as she dances the night away. Again – do not be distracted by the pretty feet and footwear of other young women around you, under pain of the punishment whip!’

‘No master-sir. Absolutely not, master-sir! This slave is a loyal footslave to his mistress, master-sir!’

‘Mmm…we shall see, slave!...Finally, before my wife retires to bed, you must divest her of her evening footwear, whatever it may be, kissing each individual footwear item the customary 10 respectful times.

You will then crawl to the lower laundryroom where you will mouthwash all my wife’s dirty socks and stockings, which she has worn during the day, prior to humbly and worshipfully handwashing them in the sink. You will treat them like gold-dust, for they contain the very essence of your Chinese mistress’s foot-DNA!’

‘Yes, master-sir! Of course, master-sir!’

‘Similarly, you will tongue-polish any shoes or boots which my wife has been wearing during the course of the day. You will lick-shine her dirty, worn shoes and boots both on the insides and on the outsides!

You will then sleep in my wife’s shoe-cupboard surrounded by the leathery smell of her many pairs of shoes, sneakers and boots. If my Chinese wife is feeling very generous, and is pleased with you, she may also let you select several pairs of her rolled-up socks from her sock-drawer to use as comforting pillows whilst you sleep.

If, however, you have displeased her during the day she’ll probably make you sleep with your head and nose buried in her stinky, unwashed socks as a fitting punishment for a footslave – and you will then have to rise an hour earlier in the morning in order to mouthwash the stale sock-pillows first thing in the morning, before presenting yourself on your hands and knees by the side of her bed as per usual – ready to serve her as her personal footwear-slave all over again throughout another long and arduous day of bondage to a young, oriental woman’s feet!’

…………………………………………………………………….

So there you have it – sound, masterly advice for a Chinese girl’s, beta-male, personal footslave, delivered in a matter-of-fact manner by her doting, Alpha-male, freeman husband!

Miss Mei-Hua did indeed turn out to be a truly beautiful and sweet-natured, soft-spoken and unassuming, young, Hong-Kong Chinese woman. Although she wears glasses – she doesn’t strike me as being particularly bright. But, as the master-sir has so eloquently pointed out to me, none of that matters – for I shall have him to answer to if I fail to please the mistress in any way.

Truly I shall endeavour to do my best at my mistress Mei-Hua’s oriental feet, and be pleasing to both her and the master. For I do very much fear and loathe the sting of the whip, and I’ve always been one to listen carefully to sound, masterly advice!

Chronicle no. 7 – False Assumptions

God I hate the rain!

Not only do I not appreciate getting soaked (for my humble, ‘stand-up’ public shoelick-stand on the edge of the sink estate offers me – the common, public shoelick – no protection against the elements, though there is, thankfully, a rusting, corrugated-iron awning to cover my pretty, female customers’ heads as they stand proudly having their shoes or boots tongue-cleaned), but the wet conditions just make my job of tongueshining ladies’ boots and shoes so much more difficult!

I mean, the ladies will have been walking through dirty, rain puddles and all sorts of sink-estate streetmud before availing themselves of my humble services – and what really frustrates me is that, as soon as they leave my shoelick-stand, their boots and shoes will be wet and muddy again in no time!

Why do they bother?! (Silly question, of course! They ‘bother’, because they like causing me nugatory work, and they know it’s extra-humiliating for me to have to tongueshine their dirty shoes or boots during the rainy season!)

Take the young lady who is jauntily approaching my shoelick-stand as we speak. She must be all of 20 years old – slim and svelte, but with a distinct ‘bump’ around her tummy area; unnaturally jet-black, permed, shoulder-length hair; long, black eyelashes; Goth-style make-up peering out from beneath a dark grey hoodie (with the hood fully pulled up, of course, but this time not just because it’s fashionable, but to presumably protect her dyed-black hair from the rain); and skin-tight, pale blue, denim jeans tucked into the tops of her beige-brown, shapeless, calf-length, Ugg boots.

I say beige-brown, but in places – especially around the thick, rounded toe areas of the boots – they are actually dark-brown, thanks to the muddy rainwater that is seeping into them. Surely this beautiful, chavette-goth mistress isn’t expecting me to successfully mouthclean her rain-dampened, sheepskin Ugg boots on a miserable day like this?

Do you know, I think she actually might be?!

It’s hard to tell what she wants, since she is listening to loud goth-music on her MP3 player, and doesn’t choose to interrupt her musical entertainment in order to bark down her orders at me. She merely stands underneath the corrugated awning that protects her, but not me, from the rain which is still bucketing down, casually stretches forth her shapely, skinny-jeans-covered, right leg, and rather unceremoniously plonks her oversized and misshapen, calf-length Ugg boot down onto the rain-sodden, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling and bald head, splashing me in the face as she does so.

I now realise, on reflection, that it’s almost certainly not a genuine Ugg boot; it is almost certainly a cheap imitation of the genuine article. I’d love to get a closer look at the label on the back, for I very much doubt that a young, sink-estate goth-woman like this, probably unemployed and certainly pregnant, could afford to purchase a genuine pair of smart, sheepskin Ugg boots from a reputable dealer! They could be nicked, of course – but my money’s on them simply being fakes.

Fakes or not, I immediately move my head forwards over her suspect-counterfeit, Ugg-booted foot to protect it from the rain, for it can’t be nice for a young woman to have her fake-sheepskin boot getting rained on when the rest of her is now shielded from the rain by the corrugated awning.

I’m glad my head can be of humble service in this way – but as for my tongue, how on earth is it going to help spruce up a pair of musty and wet, imitation Ugg boots on a wretched, winter’s day like this?

As I have already indicated, I have to assume that a thorough boot-cleaning is what the young lady wants me to put my mouth to, since plonking one’s boot down onto the footblock is normally a signal for me to start licking!

But where to start on a soaking wet pair of faux-sheepskin Ugg boots like this? And how can I possibly clean them, without getting them even wetter and damper – damp with my dirty, male footslave-saliva? That surely wouldn’t please the young woman, unless she wants her precious ‘Uggs’ to look dark brown and manky all over?!

I don’t know her, or recognise her, though she does look like one of the local girls from the sink estate. Jordan; or Tammi; or Whitney; or Ashleigh I imagine is what she’s called – mistress Jordan, Tammi, Whitney or Ashleigh to me, of course.

Given that I don’t actually know her name, I guess just plain ‘mistress-madam’ will have to do if she starts up a conversation with me – unlikely given she is so high and mighty above me on the Gynarchy’s social scale, and given that she is currently fixated on listening to her urban-goth, dance music.

I’ll bet if she was kindly disposed to speak to me from on female high she’d refer to me, liberatedly, as ‘mate’, rather than ‘slave’, even though I must be nearly twice her age, and way too old to be her ‘mate’ in any sense of the term:

‘Shine my boots up would ya, mate?’ or ‘Lick all the filff off my kicks ‘an that mate, yeah?’

That’s how most of my customer-mistresses from the sink estate speak down to me – in a kind of inner-city, chavvy mistress-speak. It’s almost as if they’re embarrassed at having to order a man to clean their dirty footwear in public, like it’s not their idea of what a real man should have to do! They certainly couldn’t imagine their own beloved boyfriends or husbands doing such a menial task for them, not even in private! Nor would they expect them to, for they like their men to be men, innit?

Hence they try to regard me as their ‘mate’, and/or still acknowledge my masculinity in some small way, as they feel more comfortable with that – even though they must surely realise that I am masculine in name only. I have effectively been emasculated by my permanent, public embondagement at chavvy women’s feet!

But, be all that as it may, for now I face a true test of my supposed ‘manhood’: I have to decide how I’m going to tackle this disarmingly taciturn, young mistress’s proffered, counterfeit, Ugg boot! It’s my problem – not hers. She, presumably, wants her damp and dirty, beige-coloured, fake-sheepskin boots dried and cleaned, and I expect she doesn’t much care how I go about doing it – so long as I remain suitably humble and respectful of her and her footwear at all times. I might be her ‘mate’, but she’s still the boss!

I decide to try buffing dry the thick, rounded toe-end of the wet and musty, brown boot with my lips. Despite the inclement weather, and the rain still pouring down onto the top of my head, my slave-lips are actually quite parched and dry since I’ve had nothing to drink since 06.00 this morning when my slave minder – miss Chantelle – woke me up and fed me my usual breakfast of tasteless slave-mush, washed down with rusty and dirty water from the nearby, green-mouldy, communal hosepipe-tap.

A meal fit for a public slave!

So I’m hoping that my current thirst will be mistress ‘Ugg boots’s’ gain, as my dry lips will hopefully absorb some of the dirty rain moisture from the ‘sheepskin’ surface of her boot. Perhaps, if I simultaneously blow on her damp and darkened boot-toe, my slave-breath too will help to dry away some of the moisture – leaving the way clear for me to then suck off any remaining traces of ingrained mud and dirt from the pregnant, young woman’s boot?

It’s gotta be worth a try!

I must say, the only saving grace as I start my ( let’s face it, hopeless) task is that I can now see that the bright, young woman is wearing a most fetching pair of thick, white woollen, anklelength bootsocks deep inside her beige-coloured, replica Ugg boots. I can just see the scrunched-up, elasticated tops of her thick, white socks deep down inside the rim of her calf-length boot. At least her feet will be being kept dry inside such thick and warming, woolly socks. They look genuine enough – pure wool I would say.

That’s nice – for her!

Oh, this is totally useless! I’m getting absolutely nowhere with my futile attempts at lip-drying the damp toe-area of the young, Goth-cum-Chav-woman’s extended, right Ugg boot. It’s as dark brown as ever! What the hell am I going to do?

I start to sweat – yes sweat! On a day like this! But I am sweating with fear, not warmth – fear at what this all-powerful young woman might do to me when she sees that I have singularly failed to make any lasting impression on her beloved ‘Uggs’!

Suddenly, though, I am saved by the bell – the bell of the approaching tram across the road. For the chavette-mistress just turns and leaves without a word, clearly keen to catch her tram – more keen than she is to have her phoney Ugg boots cleaned!

And the sight of the backs of her Ugg-booted heels does indeed confirm my suspicions that they are nothing but cheap imitations. The labels on the back read ‘Botushi’.

Maybe she’s not a chav, after all – and wouldn’t speak down to me in chavette-mistress-speak, but rather with a delightful and dominant, East European accent! And maybe her jet-black hair beneath that grey hoodie is not dyed; it’s her natural, East-European colouring! She’s actually mistress Lyudmyla; Ivanka; Teresa; or possibly Vasilka!

It just goes to show how wrong you can be in your footslavish prejudices and assumptions. But I just can’t help doing it! I’m now assuming, for example, that the young, Bulgarian goth-mistress is rushing for her tram because she is in a hurry to get to the Female Benefits’ Office before it closes.

With regard to her ‘Ugg’ boots, however, I had been right; she had obviously been faking it! Phew! That’s a relief! They’re well and truly gone – gone with the tram. All that is left of the young, dark-haired, East-European woman now are the residual, muddy boot-marks from the thick treads on the soles of her calf-length, imitation, Ugg boots on the dirty, wooden footblock beneath my genuinely submissive face.

After my initial sense of relief, I start to feel shame-faced – ashamed at my abject failure to clean my superior, young, foreign customer’s non-sheepskin boots; that I have let such a delightful and charming, young, East-European woman walk away from me with still rain-dampened and soiled footwear, however cheap and nasty it may have been!

I therefore lower my mouth onto the recently departed customer-mistress’s muddy, ‘Ugg-boot’, tread marks and lap them all up.

That’s the least I can do for her – and, unlike her, I’m not faking it!

Chronicle no. 6 – The Gooseberry

I have to admit that sometimes I feel I am cramping my beloved mistress Alexandra’s style as I kneel dutifully by her side when we are out and about in public.

I feel I am a bit of a ‘gooseberry’ at her feet, like, for example, when she is chatting up free men. My mistress is a vivacious and bubbly, young black woman of 23 – slim, tall and beautiful, with long, black hair; a curvaceous figure; long, shapely black legs; and a cute tattoo of a dolphin just above her right ankle.

For those last two reasons – her shapely legs and her ankle tattoo – she likes to wear short, leg-revealing miniskirts and ultra-short, white ‘sneaker-socks’ with her black ballet-flats when she is out wooing an alpha male. She knows that the Alpha-type males she is seeking to attract love to see her long, shapely, black legs and dolphin-shaped, ankle tattoo – but they equally don’t want to see her in high-heels, lest she end up looking taller and stronger than them!

She is stronger than them of course – being a superior, young woman – but she doesn’t want her alpha-male boyfriends to think that!

I’m just a beta male, of course – being a slave – so she doesn’t give a damn about what I think, though I do, in point of fact, also very much appreciate the sight of her long, shimmering-black legs and her sexy ankle tattoo; albeit from the lowly perspective of a down-in-the-dirt footslave i.e. from down below, looking adoringly upwards!

But I digress – the point I’m trying to make is that whenever my beautiful and attractive, Afro-Caribbean mistress is wooing an alpha male my humble role is to try to blend into the background at her feet; to unobtrusively honour and worship her soft, black ballet flats and short, white, below-the-ankle socks by quietly sniffing them and nuzzling them as I kneel in the dirt beside her feet.

But, inevitably, sooner or later, the alpha male is bound to bring me up in the conversation – to ask about my role in my mistress’s life – not because the alpha male sees me as a threat to his manhood! Ha! Ha! Not at all – he knows I’m just an impotent footslave!

No – he is just curious to know how ‘this bit of alright’ treats her personal footslave, so that he can gain further useful insights into her character, and perhaps lure her into bed that bit more quickly, by displaying his machismo vis-à-vis the unfortunate manslave kneeling at his new, black girlfriend’s feet; by offering to discipline him, for example.

I can’t begin to tell you the number times I’ve been horse-whipped by an alpha male just to impress my beautiful mistress! But, fortunately for me, they don’t all resort to whipping in order to impress the opposite sex, and my humiliation in front of other men can often be much more subtle.

Take what happened yesterday evening, for example:

My mistress Alexandra was sitting alone on a barstool in a busy city-centre pub – dolled up to the nines as per usual in her short, black leather miniskirt and short white socks and black ballet-flats – giving the eye to a nearby alpha male who also appeared to be drinking alone.

It wasn’t long before he made his move, ambling over towards my mistress and taking up a seat on the barstool next to her. He offered to buy her a drink, and they started chatting away above me.

I, meanwhile, was dutifully and respectfully kneeling on the dusty floor of the pub with my face right next to my black mistress’s ballet-shoes and socks – diligently sniffing the undersides of her rounded, white-socked heels since both were exposed due to the coquettishly-dangling position of her black-ballet-flated feet on the circular metal footrest at the base of the bar stool.

Whenever I am sniffing her socks in public my mistress Alexandra likes to ‘rub my nose in it’; i.e. she requires me to actually rub my nose along the soft, cotton material of her sock. She thinks it looks better – more respectful, as if I am demonstrating to all and sundry that I am not afraid to bury my nose in a young black woman’s stinky, short, white anklesock.

I like doing this anyway, as I enjoy the feel of her soft sock on my nose, and there’s no doubt that it enables me to breathe in the sweaty aroma of her sock all the more profoundly and deeply.

It’s not that my mistress Alexandra has particularly smelly feet – but there will always be an inevitable, faint aroma of human footsweat on her sock, especially when my nose has access to an area of sock normally encased inside her ballet flat – such as it has now on her socked heels.

And so I happily revel in my black mistress’s delicate, white sock smell, whilst she chats happily to the man of her dreams above me.

The happy couple appear to be getting on well. My mistress really fancies him – I can tell by the coquettish positioning of her feet on the circular footrest, with the toes turned in towards each other, as well as by the subconscious movements in her black foot muscles which cause her short white sock to crease and fold most seductively in front of my very eyes!

I don’t allow myself to be distracted by her foot-movements, though. I am a fully-trained girlsock-sniffer of many years’ experience, and so I manage to keep my nose dutifully fixated on the backs and sides of her short, white anklesocks – particularly her left sock which is the one currently closest to my face.

How my mistress Alexandra’s long, black legs seem to tower above me as I concentrate on the relatively small area of snowy-white sock below her shapely, black anklebone-skin!

Inevitably, however, the lovey-dovey conversation above me turns to the subject of my place in the world at my mistress’s feet:

‘So, who’s this dork sniffing your feet, Alexandra darling?’ asks the free man.

‘Who him? Ha! Ha! That’s just Sockface, honey. He’s just my personal footslave and socksniffer, innit? I, like, takes him with me everywhere I go, an’ that? Ha! Ha! He’s, like, a kind of status symbol for me, or somefink? You know what I’m sayin’?’

The alpha man does know what his new ‘bird’ is saying. He laughs at me – the black girl’s ‘status symbol’, sniffing his black mistress’s white socks in public and never daring to look at her above the ankle (or so he thinks!)

I am annoyed with myself, however, for distracting the alpha male’s attention, albeit just momentarily, away from my beautiful mistress Alexandra. I know she will be annoyed with me also – for, be I a status symbol or not - she’s currently on the pull, and she needs the alpha male to focus all his attention on her!

Fortunately, the man soon turns his attention towards my mistress’s pretty, dolphin-shaped, ankle tattoo, and so the focus is back on her body again – albeit one of the lowliest parts. But I can relax again, for I know my mistress Alexandra will soon be able to attract the Alpha male’s gaze back up her long, shapely legs and towards her groin – where she wants him to focus his free male attention. For she now has one thing – and one thing only – on her pretty mind: sex!

…………………………………………………………………………

The man drives her back to his place in his sports car. Once again I am temporarily a distraction for him, as he is bemused at the way I am obliged, by law, to kneel on the floor beside my mistress’s feet in the passenger seat, staring at, and continuing to sniff, her short, white socks (or, at least, the elasticated tops of her short, white socks since the heels and insteps are now, once again, encased in the soft, black leather of her pretty ballet-flats).

The lusty couple begin to undress just as soon as they enter the master’s opulent apartment. I, of course, am responsible for divesting my mistress of her shoes and socks – for which procedure she must sit down on the edge of his bed.

This is the point where I really start to feel like a footslave-gooseberry, for the master and mistress are about to get very intimate with one another, yet they are too overwhelmed by their lust and passion for one another to even think about banishing me from the master bedroom!

I suppose that’s a good sign, really – a sign that I’m being overly paranoiac. If I really was getting in the way the master and/or mistress would be sure to order me out of their presence, wouldn’t they?

They have, in effect, forgotten all about me!

I should be grateful that they clearly don’t think of me as another living being – as a human gooseberry in the room – but, rather, regard me as a mere thing; an object, fit only to sniff my mistress’s now discarded, dirty, white socks.

And so that’s exactly what I do. Whilst my new master, and my long-established mistress, make love on the master bed, I crawl, unbidded, over to the corner of the bedroom with my mistress’s freshly-removed, musty-smelling, black leather ballet-flats and vinegary-smelling, white cotton socks and proceed to sniff them whilst respectfully facing the wall.

I can hear the grunts and groans of my betters’ lovemaking going on behind me. It sounds like they are both really enjoying themselves! But then, I am too – for I am conditioned to like smelling girls’ shoes and socks, being a beta slave-male, just as the master, being a free alpha-male, is conditioned to like making love to women.

We are both, in our own ways, where we belong – he with my mistress’s warm and sweaty, voluptuous body; I with her warm and sweaty, hastily discarded shoes and socks!

Only when they finish making love do I start to feel like a bit of a gooseberry again, as the sound of my socksniffs can once again be heard echoing in the post-coital silence of the master bedroom.

But I mustn’t stop sniffing; it is my job to sniff my mistress’s sweaty, discarded shoes and socks – until such time as she has me put them back on her feet again as she gets ready to leave her new boyfriend’s flat. Hopefully, that won’t be until the morning, for I sense she really does like this one. He seems very rich and powerful, judging by the opulence of the surroundings in his flat.

I continue to have my back turned on my masters and betters, of course, as I kneel humbly with my mistress’s ballet-flats and socks in the corner of the master bedroom – but only out of respect for their superior personages. I am doing my best not to intrude on my superiors’ intimacy, and just to be the humble socksniffer that I am.

For I know that is precisely what my mistress Alexandra expects of me. She expects nothing less than my face in her stinky, discarded shoes and socks, as she sits up in bed enjoying a post-coital cigarette and some fresh fruit with her manly new boyfriend.

Gooseberry anyone?

Chronicle no. 5 – 191 Stinging Whiplashes

My master-sir likes to whip me, and closely supervise my work, on his pretty, young wife’s feet.

Thus, for example, when I am ordered to give my master’s blonde-ponytailed, chavvy wife, mistress Suzanna, a full pedicure he will stand over me, whip me, and give me directions as follows:

‘Kneel before my wife’s feet, dirty slave…whip…whip…unzip her knee-high, brown leather boots… whip…whip…faster, slave, faster!...whip…whip…Do as you’re told, dog!...whip…whip…Now pull her boots off her feet… whip… whip… Place them over there…whip…whip…

Now kiss her socks…whip…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave, kiss my wife’s dirty, sweaty, stinky, black bootsocks! Ha! Ha!...whip…whip…Ha! Ha! Kiss and smell her sock-stink!...whip…whip…Ha! Ha! That’s right slave, sniff her ripe socks! Ha! Ha! That’s all you’re good for!...whip…whip…Be careful slave! Stop tickling my wife’s feet with your sock-sniffing nose!...whip…whip…whip…whip…

That’s better! Now remove her socks from her feet…whip…whip…Peel her sweaty, black socks off her pure, white feet!...whip…whip...Faster, slave, faster!...whip…whip…Now put the dirty socks down beside the boots…whip… whip…

Now kiss my wife’s warm, bare feet, slave…whip…whip… That’s it, kiss her pretty toes…whip…whip…kiss her heels…whip…whip…kiss her ankles… whip…Ha! Ha! Now kiss her insteps…whip… kiss her arches… whip… whip… whip…Ha! Ha! That’s right, dimwit-slave, worship my clever wife’s dirty, and sweaty, bare feet!... whip… whip…whip…whip… Worship them! Honour them! Obey them, you dirty footdog!…whip…whip…

Ha! Ha! Now suck on her toes, footslave!... whip…whip…Suck each of her toes in turn, slave... whip…whip…Ha! Ha! Start with the big toe on her right foot…

whip…whip... Come on, get your slave-tongue deep underneath her big toenail!...whip…whip…whip…whip…Ha! Ha! That’s it, slave, extract my wife’s dirty, stinky toe-jam with your tongue…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! This is all you’re good for, slave! Ha! Ha!...Eating another man’s wife’s black toejam!... whip… whip… Ha! Ha! Harder slave! Harder!...whip …whip…Suck!...Now move onto her other toes; suck each one in turn!... whip … whip…Ha! Ha! You’re nothing but my pretty, blonde wife’s dirty, human toe-sucker! Ha! Ha!...whip…whip…whip…

Now lick the rest of her sweaty, goddess feet, slave!...whip…whip…Lick the dry and chapped skin at the back of her heels!...whip…whip…Soften it with your slave tongue…whip…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! Remove all the bits of dead skin from my wife’s feet, slave…whip…whip…whip…whip…Ha! Ha! That’s it, soothe my wife’s tired and dirty feet with your footwipe-tongue!...whip…whip…Now run it along her soft insteps…whip…whip…Lick off all the black sock lint from her feet, slave… whip…whip… Ha! Ha!... And now swallow it, slave…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! Swallow my wife’s dirty, black sock lint from her sweaty, stinky, white feet! Ha! Ha!... whip…whip…whip

Now place her feet in the footbowl, dog …whip…whip…Cradle her feet in the bowl…whip…whip…Gently does it, footslave!...whip…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! Now wash her feet with your bare hands, slave…whip…whip…Remove all the remaining sweat and dirt from my wife’s precious feet, slave…whip...whip…Ha! Ha! That’s it – you young-woman’s footwasher! Ha! Ha!... whip…whip… This is what you’re made for! Ha! Ha!...whip…whip…What a loser!...whip…What a schmuck!...whip…A foot-schmuck! Ha! Ha! …whip…whip…whip…

Now gently take her feet out of the bowl and dry them!...whip…whip…Dry them with that fluffy, white towel…whip…whip… Come on, slave! Stop dithering!... whip…whip… whip…whip…whip…What, do you think you’re too high and mighty to attend to a beautiful young woman’s feet, moron?...whip…whip…I’ll soon teach you obedience to your masters and betters, footpig!… whip… whip… whip… whip… whip... whip… whip… Ha! Ha! That’s better slave!... Let me see you quiver and quake at my wife’s superior feet!...whip…whip…whip…

Now gently dry my wife’s feet in the towel! ...whip…whip…Now pick up the mouth brush and paint her toenails…whip…whip…That’s it, put the brush in between your footslave-teeth and paint my wife’s freshly-washed toenails bright red, the way I like them, slave…whip…whip… Go on, paint them for me, dog!... whip… whip… Beautify my wife’s toenails for me!... whip… whip… Ha! Ha! Beautify the feet of a woman for another man to take pleasure in them! Ha! Ha!... whip … whip…whip…

Now blow-dry the painted toenails, slave…whip…whip…Make sure the paint is fully dried, you dog!...whip…whip… Or you’ll have me to answer to!...whip… whip… That’s right, slave, breathe out! Breathe hard! Dry my wife’s painted toenails with your dirty, footslave breath!...whip…whip…whip…whip…

Now pick up her dirty, black anklesocks and put them back on her feet... whip… whip…That’s right, slave, roll up the sweaty, black anklesocks in your fingers and pull them onto my wife’s freshly pedicured, white feet! Ha! Ha!...whip…whip… Ha! Ha! What a cluck! What a lamebrain! What a foot-dork!...whip…whip… whip… Now kiss her socks again, slave…whip…whip… Kiss them respectfully, all over…whip…whip…whip…

Ha! Ha! Now pick up my beautiful, blonde wife’s knee-high boots and put them back on her feet!...whip…whip…Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave, zip them up her lower legs!...whip…whip…Ha! Ha! Now kiss my wife’s brown leather boots, once on each toe, and praise and bless her for having you pedicure her feet, slave… whip… whip… whip… whip… whip…whip…whip…Ha! Ha! …Look darling, what a total loser he is! Ha! Ha! See how he cowers under my whip! Ha! Ha! ...whip… whip…

Now pick up the footbowl and drink my wife’s dirty, tepid footwater, slave!... whip …whip… Ha! Ha! That’s right, swallow all her dirty footsweat and toejam and pieces of dead footskin! Ha! Ha!...whip...whip...It’s thirsty work, being my wife’s personal footslave, isn’t it slave? Ha! Ha!...whip…whip...whip…whip…’

…………………………………………………………………………….

All the while the master-sir is whipping me, and giving me directions, his pretty, young, peroxide-blonde wife is egging him on:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling…Ha! Ha! Make the dog take off my boots…Ha! Ha! Now make him kiss and smell my dirty socks…Ha! Ha! His nose is ticklish on my socks, sweetheart!...Whip him! Tell him to stop tickling me with his nose!...Ha! Ha!

Now make him take off my socks and lick my bare feet! Ha! Ha!...Oohh, that feels good!...Oohh, make him lick them some more, darling! Make him suck on my toes! Ha! Ha!...You’re the master; he’s the slave…Whip him! Make him obey us! Ha! Ha!

Oohh lush!…Ha! Ha! More whip! More whip! Whip him while he’s having to suck on my bare toes! Ha! Ha!

Now make him wash my dirty feet, honey!... Whip him until he washes them totally clean! Ha! Ha! Look at the dirt in the water, darling! Ha! Ha! My feet must have been well filfy, innit?... Oh promise you’ll make him drink it all up at the end, honey! Ha! Ha!... Make the slaveman drink my dirty footwater! Ha! Ha!

Now make him paint my toenails, sweetheart! Make the slave paint your wife’s toenails and beautify her feet for you! Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling... keep on whipping him! He deserves it! He’s our slave! Ha! Ha! We can do what we likes with ‘im, innit though? Ha! Ha!

Now make him put my boots and socks back on my feet, lover-man! Ha! Ha! Make him drink my dirty footwater, like I asked! Ha! Ha!…Whip him, honey! Whip him until he’s drunk every last drop of my dirty footwater! Ha! Ha! …He’s a loser, and you’re a winner, though, innit darling? You’re the one holding the whip hand, though! Ha! Ha!...God, you are so strong and masterful, honey! Oh, I really love you, sweetheart! You’re the man!...’

…………………………………………………………………………..

My master-sir will get his heavenly reward from the mistress later in the evening when they return home from their night out clubbing. She will make mad, passionate love to him – whilst I kneel in the corner of the master bedroom, sniffing her newly discarded, sweaty black bootsocks, and still nursing my wounds from the 191 stinging whiplashes.

Chronicle no. 4 – Flustered

She’s a young, twenty-something, Asian woman who appears to be having a shouting match with someone over her mobile phone – right in the middle of the town square!

I hear her screaming down the phone at the top of her voice in what sounds like Chinese – a great language for shouting in!

Immediately following her public row, however, to my horror she marches angrily over towards my humble, stand-up, public shoelick-stall.

Still holding her red-hot phone in her right hand, she arrogantly plonks her right, brown-moccasined foot down onto the wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling face. She then hitches up the wide, bell-bottom hem of her pale-blue jean-hem in order to afford me full and uninterrupted access to the elasticated top of her pale pink, calf-length, cotton sock:

‘You make damn sure my sock straight, dirty slave!’ she barks down at me.

I’m guessing the highly-flustered, young, Chinese woman has just been having a row with her husband or boyfriend over the phone. It was almost certainly a man, anyway – let’s face it, only a man could prove such a source of irritation for a woman that she feels compelled to raise her voice in public!

And I, it seems, am to be her fall-guy – the nearest, vulnerable male on whom she can take out her superior-womanly frustrations! Frustrations not just related to her manfriend – but to her socks; they must be slipping down uncomfortably inside her soft, dark brown, moccasin shoes, for she clearly feels she needs her socks pulling up at this particular, volatile moment in time!

I must say, I do like her flat, moccasin shoe. It not only smells nice and musty this close to my face; it also has several little multicoloured tassels over the rounded toe area, and it is somewhat soft and misshapen at the back of her heel – through repeated wear. It does very much look like an Indian squaw’s shoe – an Indian squaw’s, brown moccasin-shoe on a Chinese girl’s pink-socked foot!

How exotic is that?!

I can see exactly the problem the young, Chinese woman is referring to – her pale pink, thinly-stitched, calf-length, cotton sock is indeed wrinkled and crumpled over her shapely, oriental anklebone; it must be uncomfortable for the mistress, and the misshapen and crooked back of her moccasin-shoe can’t be helping matters much either!

So, rather than stop to pull up her own socks, she has stopped so that I may do it for her. No shoe-shining required! No buffing up her dark brown moccasins with my slave-tongue, or sucking street dirt and grime out of her multicoloured, leathery shoe-tassels; just oriental-girl sock-straightening.

And quite right too! I am here to serve sock if needs be!

I humbly acknowledge the harassed, young, Chinese mistress’s curtly-delivered command:

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’

I then gently finger the top of the young woman’s soft, pink sock – with her explicit permission, of course – whilst she slowly simmers down and catches her sweet, feminine breath.

It’s amazing, though, how quickly this oriental girl can switch from relative, womanly calm to mistressly anger and condemnation:

‘WHY YOU TOUCH MY BARE SKIN, DIRTY SLAVE! I NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TOUCH SKIN! ONLY SOCK! YOU A FOOL? YOU A MORON? YOU NOT UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?’

And with that she angrily spits on me.

The mistress is referring to my inadvertent brushing of my dirty slave-fingernails against her soft, pure, oriental legskin whilst straightening the top of her pink, calf-length sock. She has every right to be angry with me, even though it was purely an accident on my part (honestly!), and even though her sharp, raised voice must be doing nothing to calm her own nerves!

I instantly apologise to the mistress, and invite her to spit on me again:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you Chinese mistress, please forgive this slave his incompetence and impertinence! Oh pray mistress – please don’t report me to the Female Police mistress, for I shall surely be sorely whipped! Oh pray, Chinese mistress, please spit on me again, Chinese mistress! Humiliate me, degrade me, punish me with your righteous spit – only please don’t have me whipped, pretty Chinese mistress! Oh pray! Oh pray!’

I attempt to kiss her sock in footslavish contrition, but she angrily pushes my lips away with her shapely, pink-socked, oriental anklebone, whilst denying me any more of her precious, female spit:

‘YOU NOT TOUCH SU-LEE SOCK WITH DIRTY MOUTH, SLAVE. YOU GET BACK TO WORK! YOU STRAIGHTEN SU-LEE SOCK WITH HANDS – AND NOT TOUCH SUPERIOR WOMAN SKIN!’

She then switches back, in the blink of an oriental eye, into calm mode, placing her phone into the inside pocket of her warm, knee-length, beige-coloured, winter coat.

Flustered though I am by my stupid mistake, I make sure I am much more careful this time, merely pinching the top of the young, Chinese woman’s superior, pink-cotton sock on the outside, thereby ensuring that my fingers go nowhere near her precious, bare, oriental legskin.

She may be outwardly calm and serene again, but the sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, young, Asian customer-mistress is all the time watching me like a hawk. She doesn’t trust me now – and is on stand-by to summon the assistance of a female police-officer, should the need arise.

She does seem satisfied, however, with my second attempt on her right sock, for she swiftly changes feet on my wooden footblock – again hitching up the hem of her pale-blue, bell bottom jeans-leg until the top of the twisted and crumpled, matching pink sock on her left leg and foot is fully visible:

‘Now the other one, slave!’ she barks down at me, though not as loudly as before. Everything seems to be calming down now.

This time I make no foolish mistakes – for I am nothing if not a fast learner when it comes to pleasing a customer-mistress, even the most demanding ones.

I think I’ve done a good job this time – but I think too soon:

‘Why you not kiss Su-Lee shoes before touch Su-Lee socks, dirty slave? You a complete ignoramus? You not know basic rules for dirty footslave?’

She may be speaking placidly now, and not shouting. But my footslave-heart, nevertheless, sinks! In all the noise and confusion, what with her screaming row over the phone, her resultant angry disposition, and my desire not to screw up over her screwed-up socks again, I have completely forgotten the public footslave’s most basic rule of etiquette – always to respectfully kiss a lady’s shoe, boot or sandal-toes prior to attending to her footwear needs!

It’s basic footslave-manners – and, to my knowledge, there is no exception for tatty moccasins!

Flustered, I festoon the tasselled toe-areas of the young, oriental woman’s flat, dark brown, moccasin shoes with humble and respectful kisses – one foot after the other – as the hard-pressed Chinese girl kindly presents each moccasined foot in turn onto the wooden footblock for me to belatedly kiss:

‘Oh pray young mistress…kiss…kiss…Please forgive this stupid, forgetful slave, mistress…kiss…kiss…He is just a stupid, dumb animal, mistress… kiss…kiss… Oh pray, Chinese mistress…kiss…kiss…Oh pray!... kiss…kiss… Please don’t report me for my insolence, sweet and kind Chinese mistress!...kiss…kiss…’

But I know in my heart of hearts it’s too late. I can just tell by the victorious smirk on the young oriental woman’s thin and cruel lips that she is going to report me – I would if I were her!

Sure enough, she summons over a nearby, uniformed female police officer – and I see the dreaded, knee-high, black leather jackboots and dark nylons of the leather-punishment-strap-equipped WPC marching towards us!

I brace myself for some physical pain.

‘Yes, madam, what appears to be the problem?’ enquires the blonde-ponytailed WPC politely of the similarly-aged, dark-haired, oriental customer-mistress – whose freshly-kissed, brown-moccasined feet are now glistening with my footslave-saliva in the bright, winter sunlight.

‘This ignoramus-slave not please me properly, officer! First he forget kiss me on shoe; then he touch me on bare leg while straighten sock! I want him punish! I want him whip!’

The blonde-ponytailed police-officer mistress looks suitably shocked, and exhorts the oriental complainant to stand well back as she unfastens her brown leather punishment strap from her belt:

‘OK, madam. Leave this to me! I’ll soon teach this wretch some footslave-manners!’

The young, Asian woman withdraws to a safe distance nearby, and watches with a smug, feminine smile on her sweet, oriental features as the blonde-ponytailed, female police-officer swings the stinging punishment-strap down onto my bare back at least a half a dozen times on her oriental behalf.

The volatile, Chinese mistress’s mood has changed yet again – for she is heartily laughing at me now! And all because she happened to be in a bad mood and her pink, calf-length socks weren’t straight!

Chronicle no. 3 – Subliminal Sock Messages

One can tell a lot about a girl from her socks, whilst you are tongue-shining her dirty shoes on the streets at one’s public shoelick-stand.

Here are just three examples of what I mean:

The High-Flying Socks

Take, for example, the young woman whose right foot is currently outstretched onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face. It belongs to one of my regulars – the blonde-haired, airhead, air-stewardess mistress, miss Stephanie, who, as per usual, is availing herself of my humble services on one of her days off.

When she is in uniform she presents me with a smartly-nyloned, shapely, hard-working, air-hostess anklebone to admire as I tongueshine her bright, red, airline-uniform courts. The shiny red of her courts contrasts so sweetly with the tan of her uniform-nylons – nylons which will have expanded along with her swollen ankles at 30,000 feet, but which have now contracted again to enhance her back-down-to-earth anklebones with a shimmering, nylon glow.

But there are no anklebone-enhancing, tan-coloured nylons on her off-duty legs today. Instead, on the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling and humbly bowed face, I see a rather ropey-looking, black, calf-length, slouch sock with a pink heart on its side, inside an equally scruffy, black and white, high-top, converse sneaker beneath a bare, outstretched, off-duty, miniskirted leg!

The pink and black slouch sock is creased and folded around the high-flying, female calf-muscle. It is a truly well-worn sock, showing several signs of wear and tear – bobbling along the sides; greying around the back. It shouldn’t surprise me if the sock even had holes in it deep down inside miss Stephanie’s high-top, canvas sneaker.

And what messages is the blonde airhead miss Stephanie seeking to convey to me through her choice of duty-free sock?

Her pink and black slouch-sock is clearly saying:

‘I am off duty today, slave; I can relax and unwind! I can be flighty and flirty, even though the foot I adorn shall today be kept firmly on the ground! My large, pink-hearted sock-logo on the scrunched-up side of my sock will attract the men – real men; not slave men like you! I have no love or affection for the likes of you! Ha! Ha! I’m not that desperate that I would seek to attract the amorous attentions of a lowly, public footslave! Ha! Ha! I have ambitions – ambitions to marry an airline pilot; or a premier-league footballer; or a film star. I meet them all the time - in my job; in the nightclubs; in the pubs! But, for now, during the daytime, I am content to just slouch around – looking slack and easy and well-used like my mistress.

For she is no virgin air-stewardess – unlike you, the celibate, virgin footslave! Ha! Ha! You shall never win a woman’s heart – not even her scruffy sock-heart! Ha! Ha! You’re just a sneaker-licking, down-in-the-dirt foot-loser! Ha! Ha! You may kiss me in the pink, loser-slave! Kiss my pink sock-heart. But you will never win it; my sock-heart will never be yours. I shall give my heart to another man – my knight in shining armour; when I find him. So continue to kiss the shoes and socks of another man’s blonde-woman! Kiss them and weep, loser in love! Ha! Ha! You’re well and truly grounded!’

No-Nonsense, Mind Your Own Business, Heartless Black Socks

Then there is regular customer-mistress Fiona - a somewhat humourless, raven-haired, serious-minded and bespectacled, young woman who reveals her contempt for me by hitching up the hem of her dark-grey, pinstriped, businesswoman trousersuit-leg to reveal the very top of her short, plain black sneaker-sock inside her matching, plain black, low-heeled, court shoe as she stretches out her shapely foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my face – the court shoe which I must routinely tongue-clean for her, divesting it of the working day’s dirt and grime.

Unlike its immediate predecessor, this black sock is totally heartless. It nevertheless also belongs to a high-flyer! This particular, short, black sock is very much conveying a subliminal message to me from the cold and stand-offish, successful-businesswoman mistress whose outstretched, right foot it currently adorns.

The plain, black, businesswoman sock is saying:

‘I am a cold and no-nonsense type of female sock, whom you may admire – but not touch – whilst you go about your humble business of lickshining my owner’s plain, black, court shoe. I am a sock-tease – for I reveal my businesswoman-wearer’s soft, bare, pasty-white, feminine anklebone-skin above my stretched, elasticated top, but I hide the rest of her precious, superior footskin from your humble view. I may be plain – like my owner; I may be simple – like my owner; I may be heartless – like my owner; but I am nevertheless your superior, like my owner, for like her I am successful in what I do – my role is purely to absorb her smart-businesswoman footsweat, thereby protecting the precious inner lining of her shoe.

Kneel before me, therefore, in awe and wonderment, footslave; harbour your jealous thoughts of my sock-intimacy with your snooty, customer-mistress’s bare foot, since I am seeped in her warm and moist, foot-perspiration-DNA inside her unforgiving and inflexible, young-businesswoman court-shoe – perspiration which you can only smell, but not touch, even though your lips long to brush against me! Ha! Ha! But you may not! You may look – but you may not touch! This sock has no heart, and is not for kissing. Get on with your work, slave! Mind your own business – and tongueshine my shoe, whilst the woman who wears me ignores you by reading her newspaper above you! Ha! Ha! I am better than you. I despise you – like my owner despises you! Show me some respect!’

Danger Socks

Red means danger – in any footslave’s language! But it can also signify joy, happiness and prosperity – for the wearer.

Regular, Chinese customer-mistress, miss Chu-Hua, who owns a restaurant, likes to wear bright red socks, with her matching red ballet-flats – thick, red, ribbed socks, beneath the frayed hems of her blue-denim jeans.

Unlike miss Stephanie, who is still flying around the world searching for the love of her life, miss Chu-Hua has found him – master-sir Fu-Han - who invariably accompanies his pretty bride-to-be to my public shoelick-stand.

The dominant, happy Chinese couple revel in my public shoeshining misery and poverty as I must dutifully tongue-shine miss Chu-Hua’s bright red, ballet flats to her fiancé’s complete satisfaction, whilst he mocks and cajoles me for my helplessness and worthlessness at his pretty girlfriend’s feet.

But what is her matching, thick red anklesock saying to me? How is it ribbing me as I tongueshine its soft, red, leathery shoe-covering?

The bright, red sock is saying to me, in good English but with a strong, Chinese accent:

‘Ha! Ha! I better than you, slave, for I a success. I found my place in life – on successful, Chinese mistress foot! You kiss me; you honour me! You run slave nose down my ribbed stitching! Ha! Ha! You a dirty slave; you show respect for beautiful Chinese-woman, red sock! Ha! Ha! You smell me; you inhale beautiful, young Chinese-woman footsmell.

But you be careful – for I a big danger to you! Ha! Ha! I short, like my Chinese owner – and if your dirty nose stray onto superior, young Chinese woman bare skin, master-sir Fu-Han whip you hard with nearby stick! Ha! Ha! Look – Chinese master already pick up stick, ready to redden your back. Ha! Ha! But red marks on your slave back not sign of your success and prosperity! Ha! Ha! Red marks make you public shame and failure! Ha! Ha! Everyone laugh at you and your sore back! Ha! Ha!

So, you proceed with caution, dirty footslave. For me – red mean success and happiness; for you – red mean pain and danger! You nose me and caress me with dirty slave-lips, but you not let ugly, slave-mouth stray where it not belong – on superior, Chinese woman, bare flesh. That reserved for real man who now tower over you with whip – Chinese master-sir Fu-Han! Ha! Ha!’

So there you have it – three subliminal messages from three different kinds of sublime, feminine socks.

And I haven’t even started to tell you about the messages I sometimes see actually printed on my female-customers’ socks! But you can read all about them here!

Chronicle no. 2 – The Joys of Winter!

As a public footslave in the town square, I love the changing of the seasons!

I am particularly fond of the change from Autumn to Winter since that is when my lady-customers’ winter footwear starts to appear in front of my permanently kneeling face – the heavy shoes; the thick socks; the warm boots – and I am especially partial to having a pair of warm, woolly, female socks and stylish, warm winter shoes or boots shoved into my kneeling face!

There is also, of course, more humble work for me to do – since the streets along which my customer-mistresses walk become dirtier in winter.

Yes, I love the first winter-footwear signs!

Nylon vs Wool

Take the first customer-mistress to utilise my sit-down, public shoelick-stall this morning in the cold and breezy town-square – regular customer-mistress, miss Kirsty.

All throughout the summer and autumn blonde officer-worker miss Kirsty has been visiting my shoelick-stall on her way into work in her brightly-coloured, summer dresses and ubiquitous black leather, single-strapped, kitten-heeled, round-toed, mary-jane shoes worn with ultra-short, sneaker-style, tan nylon, summer socks (‘footies’, I believe they are called).

Some days the elasticated tops of her short, flesh-toned, sheer-nylon ‘footies’ or socklets have barely been noticeable inside her shoes – and, indeed, I have only been able to observe them when she has twisted her pretty foot to one side in order to afford my slave-tongue better access to the soiled instep of her black, mary-jane shoe, thereby causing the leather at the top of her shoe to fold open exposing a tiny slither of almost invisible, tan-coloured, nylon footie-sock deep down inside!

Her sheer tan, summery nylon-socks are clearly designed to be functional rather than aesthetic – to discreetly absorb her precious, summertime footsweat inside her warm shoes during the hot summer months, rather than beautify further her already attractive, if somewhat podgy (for she is rather a fat girl), suntanned feet. Her thin, nylon socks are so short that blonde mistress Kirsty often appears to be barefoot inside her shoes during the hot, summer months – and perhaps that’s the way she likes it!

But, being a pathetic and wretched, sock-obsessed footslave, I like to actually see a flash of wrinkled, nylon socklet inside a smartly-dressed, overweight, blonde office-girl’s black, mary-jane shoe of a summer – for I can then imagine myself sniffing and sucking on her stinky, nylon socks whilst I am dutifully tongueshining the outsides of her shoes. It adds to my sense of public-footslave humiliation to know that she feels the need to wear such secret, nylon foot-coverings just because her fat feet perspire so much during the summer – sweaty, nyloned feet she is nonetheless happy to impose up close and personal on my ugly, footslave face as she demands that I lickclean her dirty, office shoes!

It all indicates that she cares nothing for my nasal comfort and well-being; and I must confess, I like that sort of selfish arrogance in a fat, blonde mistress!

But today, for the first time this winter – whilst she is still wearing that same pair of favourite, black leather, single-strapped, mary-jane shoes – mistress Kirsty has switched to her black, office slacks and her thick, matching black, winter-wool, full-length anklesocks.

Unlike their summer predecessors, these winterwear socks are clearly designed to beautify the appearance of the blonde mistress’s feet and footwear beneath her trouser hems – as well as keeping her feet warm. Despite the trousers, the thick, black woolly socks are quite exposed on her feet by the strappy design of her shoes, and I’m even convinced that the various creases and folds in mistress Kirsty’s warm, winter socks are deliberate, designer folds – intended to add flare and style to her fleshy, white feet and anklebones.

They certainly impress me – along with the distinctive, flowery-patterned stitching in the socks – for they give me something to admire and study whilst my tongue pays attention to her boring old, year-round, mary-jane shoes! I can count the individual creases in her thick, black socks; I can trace the pattern in the flowery stitching with my eyes down the sides of her socks; I can even – if she is kindly disposed to linger long enough on my sit-down, public shoelick stand – respectfully run my nose down the individual sock-stitches in a single line of flowery stitching covering the side of her fat, fleshy anklebone!

She likes that!

Of course – also unlike their hidden, summer-nylon counterparts – these thick, winter-wool socks are not designed so much to absorb mistress Kirsty’s moist and sticky footsweat, as to keep her feet cosy and warm. But I like that thought too! For it reminds me that the comfort and well-being of my fat, blonde customer-mistress’s feet must be paramount at all times, and that, like her socks – be they her sheer tan-nylon, summer socks or her thick, black-woollen, winter socks – I exist, primarily, to take care of her feet, albeit in my case by attending to the well-being of her outer shoewear, whilst the socks protect her inner feet.

The socks are therefore more important than me.

I would, of course, dearly love to attend to mistress Kirsty’s inner footwear as well – to sniff her sweaty nylons in summer and nuzzle her warming, black woollen socks in winter – but, sadly, mistress Kirsty is not one of those customer-mistresses who goes so far as to unbuckle her shoes and have her socks sniffed in public. Nosing the exposed side of her anklesocks is the best I can hope for, since goddess-mistress Kirsty is primarily a shoelick girl – which is fair enough, given that is my humble job title: a public shoelick – not socksniff!

Regal Bootsocks

Other customer-mistresses, however, I’m pleased to say, are not so averse to my sniffing their stinky socks!

My next customer-mistress, for example – 22 year old miss Majeeda, a beautiful, petite and slim Pakistani girl – is one such sock-indulgent footmistress. I know her, and her sock-stink, well, for she has been another of my regulars for over two years now – and she is most definitely not shy about having her intimate, inner footwear attended to!

And I am even familiar with the much less miasmic aroma of her precious, bare feet for, unlike blonde-haired mistress Kirsty before her, black-haired miss Majeeda only ever wears socks during the wintertime; throughout the summer she has been completely barefoot inside her open-toed, strappy, flat, brown leather sandals!

I’m most definitely not complaining about that, even though I admire a sock on a pretty, Pakistani girl at any time of the year – for her soft, brown, Pakistani-girl, bare feet are truly beautiful to behold; dainty, with skinny anklebones; smooth, with just the minutest of skin-wrinkles along her soft, bare insteps; and always pedicured – her toenails painted rich red and her summer feet sweetly perfumed beneath the elasticated hems of her diaphanous-pink, salwar kameez trouser hems (miss Majeeda likes to dress in traditional, female-Pakistani garb including dupatta-style headscarf and matching, silken salwar-kameez trousersuit).

She looks so feminine, and so beautiful – so delicate – as she sits regally on the raised chair above me, studiously adjusting her pink headscarf whilst having her strappy, brown leather sandals ‘tongueshined’ in the height of summer. It’s all I can do to avoid my tongue from inadvertently straying onto her precious, brown, Pakistani-girl, bare footflesh in between the narrow sandal-straps, in a wholly selfish attempt to seek out the succulent delights of any Pakistani-girl toejam; very moreish, I’m sure! But, fortunately for my backskin, I am a well-trained sandal-licker, and manage somehow to resist the toejam temptation, not that there’s a lot of it about on her, essentially clean, feet!

On this late-autumn/early-winter morning, however, the divinely slender, Pakistani-girl feet have finally disappeared inside a fetching pair of black leather, square-toed, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboots – and the hems of her ultra-feminine, pink diaphanous, silken salwar-kameez trousers are now neatly tucked into the tops of said boots for the winter.

I am a bit disappointed at first – disappointed that I have no way of knowing for sure whether my pink-silken-headscarfed, Pakistani customer-mistress is actually wearing any socks inside her chunky, black winter-boots. The thought that she may still be barefoot inside her boots fills me with dread, as it would inevitably mean those delicate and soft, feminine feet being chafed and damaged during the winter months! They need the protection of socks inside such a heavy pair of Pakistani-girl ankleboots!

But I needn’t have worried! It’s almost as if sweet and kind mistress Majeeda can read my pathetic, footslave mind!

After I have dutifully tongueshined the outsides of her black leather ankleboots, she pulls the hems of her silken salwar-kameez trousers up out of her boot tops to reveal the teasing, elasticated tops of a delightful pair of bright, purple cotton bootsocks. The sock tops are all crooked and creased, and need straightening, and the order I am fervently hoping for is swift in being forthcoming:

‘Slave! Be unzipping my boots and taking them off, and then be straightening my socks with your nose! They are being all incredibly wonky, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, mistress Majeeda. Indeed, goddess-mistress Majeeda! Truly this slave will be honoured to nose-straighten your purple bootsocks, most beautiful and respected goddess-mistress!’

‘And do not be touching my clean skin, dirty slave! Otherwise you will be feeling the sting of my whip, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, mistress Majeeda! This slave understands, mistress Majeeda. As it pleases you, mistress Majeeda. Please don’t beat me, Pakistani goddess-mistress Majeeda!’

I am so glad to be of humble sock-service to such a charming and exotic, young woman and her slender anklebones and calf-muscles! Indeed, I think the main reason why her regal, purple socks are crooked on her ankles is that her feet and legs are just so slender the socks find it difficult to gain purchase on her sweet, Pakistani-girl ankles!

Be that as it may, I am honoured and privileged to deboot a superior, young, headscarfed Pakistani-Muslim girl, and apply my crooked nose to her crooked bootsocks in order to straighten them for her. I would not dream of fingering her socks without her express permission, and my obedient nose is in no danger of brushing against her precious, bare skin since I am a respectful and obedient footslave. I will, of course, permit myself the luxury of smelling her boot-warmed socks whilst I nose-plane them, but the tip of my sensitive nose will no more stray onto her bare, brown ankleflesh than my dry and parched lips would ever violate her bare, brown toeflesh during the long, hot, summer months of Pakistani-girl sandal-licking!

I respect and fear the Pakistani female-whip!

Her purple bootsocks duly straightened by me, and her black leather ankleboots rezipped back onto her now smooth-socked feet, the kind and indulgent, Pakistani princess-mistress Majeeda readjusts her pink, salwar-kameez trouser hems inside the upper rims of her boots, and then jubilantly climbs down from the raised chair of my public sock-straightening stand in order to walk off without so much as a by-your-leave.

Such sweet, feminine arrogance! Such sweet, feminine elegance! Such sweet, feminine class!

Turkish Delights

During the spring, summer and autumn my next customer-mistress, miss Gülen – a sultry, dark-haired, dark-eyed Turkish girl – has a penchant for wearing sneakers and socks. Black, lace-up sneakers and plain, white socks to be precise!

She doesn’t much care if her sneakers make her feet sweat in the height of summer, for, like mistress Kirsty’s short, tan-coloured, nylon socks before them, mistress Gülen’s short, white sneaker socks will dutifully absorb her Turkish-girl footsweat – ready for her personal footslave at home to attend to when she shoves her sweat dampened sneaker-socks inside his mouth at the end of her long, hot, summer’s day walking the floor of the sportswear shop she works in.

He’s a lucky slaveman – whoever he is! I wish I could be mistress Gülen’s personal footslave!

But being her public footslave is a nice consolation prize – especially in the wintertime! For during the winter months mistress Gülen switches from low-cut sneakers and socks, to her knee-high, brown leather, flat-heeled, lace-up boots and navy-blue, knee-high bootsocks – all worn over her warm, black, winter leggings (for she still likes to wear short skirts in winter; short summer skirts, but with warm, winter leggings!)

How her long, knee-high boots seem to tower over me as she now sits imperiously above me in her Ottoman-like seat of power having her outer footwear dutifully tongueshined by the lowly winter-bootslave!

And when my tongue reaches the upper rim of each knee-high, Turkish girlboot – well! – I get to see, all close-up and personal, the elasticated top of her thick, woollen, navy-blue kneesock!

I’m assuming they are socks – rather than legwarmers – though mistress Gülen would never be kind enough to enlighten me, even if I begged her to. She hates men – especially at the moment, since her free boyfriend recently dumped her!

I, of course, if I were enslaved to mistress Gülen on a personal basis, would never ‘dump’ her! I would never run away from the Turkish delights of either her black, summer sneakers and white, summer sneaker-socks, or her brown leather, winter boots and navy-blue, winter kneesocks. Not that I would have any choice in the matter – for, unlike her free ex-boyfriend, I’m sure she would keep me on a tight leash! Literally so!

It is therefore with a mixture of sympathy, shame and fear that I must lickshine miss Gülen’s brown leather, winter boots, and admire her navy-blue, winter socktops – sympathy for her despair and loneliness; shame at the way the free representative of my inferior, male sex has treated her; fear that she will take out her righteous, young-womanly anger and frustration on me.

It is a fear which compels me to lickshine her brown leather, knee-high, winter boots all the more diligently and respectfully, for, again unlike her ex-boyfriend, I am at this young, Turkish woman’s mercy and in her power. She could kick my face in with her brown leather, knee-high jackboots at any time – should she feel so inclined. And I rather suspect that she does!

Yes, these are potentially dark days ahead both for her and for me – the dark, lonely days of winter. But at least I have my various customer-mistresses’ winter shoes, boots and socks to keep me company, and to brighten up my otherwise dull and dreary existence! If only I could spread my winter joy to the forsaken miss Gülen!

I yearn to comfort her by affectionately nuzzling the tops of her navy-blue woollen kneesocks; but I dare not. The sullen expression on her beautiful, Turkish-girl face indicates that this young lady, unlike her Pakistani counterpart, is not for sock-nuzzling!

Chronicle no. 1 – From a Slavish Kneelpoint

The humble, male footslave must view his fellow human-beings around him from a totally different perspective to that of an arrogant, free man.

Take, for example, 45 year old mistress Valerie - who works as a secretary in the large, anonymous office-building in which I am employed as a communal footslave. If I were one of the, somewhat arrogant, free men in the office I would probably regard her as being ‘a bit plain’; of average looks with her short, dark, but greying, hair and somewhat sagging chest (she is, after all, no spring chicken!); and definitely of below average intelligence, despite her horn-rimmed glasses – the sort of woman whom one could easily pass by in the street without really giving her a second, or even a first, lustful glance!

Furthermore, spinster secretary-mistress Valerie has a reputation amongst her free work-colleagues, both male and female, for being rather lazy and inept – since she never seems to get any work done and could only, they say, represent the Gynarchy outstandingly well in an international competition designed to find the most unproductive and uninteresting person on the planet!

In addition, she has some major personality flaws – being almost entirely egocentric, and forever focussed on what is best for her. I’m sure that’s why she has never married, although she is reputedly not virginal. She is all take, and no give; and certainly not viewed as a ‘team-player’ at work.

All in all, a not very flattering picture of a plain-looking, self-obsessed and rather unintelligent, middle-aged woman, I think you’ll agree?

But because I am a slave I must take a totally different viewpoint of goddess-mistress Valerie whenever she graciously deigns to enter my humble, maleslave presence. I must view her from the standpoint, or more accurately from the kneelpoint, of a truly slavish inferior.

In practice this means:

· I must think of her as a genuine goddess, and bear in mind at all times that, for all her faults, both physical and moral, she is nevertheless my infinite superior and better;

· I must therefore remain on my hands and knees in her divine, female presence at all times, and ensure that I respectfully lower my gaze and only ever look her in the plain and ordinary foot (though, to be fair, the heavy, wooden cangue kept permanently around my neck facilitates me in that!);

· I must publicly demonstrate my humility and respect towards her superior, female presence by politely kissing her feet as and when she arrogantly presents them to me for public homage and kissing, even if there are legions of other, younger, more beautiful female-secretary feet in the vicinity;

· This entails cupping each of mistress Valerie’s divine feet in turn with my two maleslave-hands, thereby demonstrating to her, and to anyone else watching, that I regard her 45 year old feet as objects of holy veneration;

· When kissing the rounded toe of each of her plain, navy-blue leather, low-heeled, office, court shoes I must seek out the dirtiest part of each street-worn, scuffmarked, shoe toe with my unworthy, maleslave lips;

· Also, my bald head must repeatedly bob up and down over each shoe as I continue to kiss it until mistress Valerie herself decides to withdraw her outstretched foot from beneath my face;

· I must leave a gap of three full seconds in between each footkiss as a demonstration that my kisses to her feet are genuinely considered, respectful and thoughtful;

· As I am kissing her musty-smelling, court shoe I must be actively admiring it, noting any creases in the navy-blue shoeleather; any unsightly scuffmarks; any loose areas of stitching along the base of the shoe – as these are all pertinent reminders to me that I am kissing the flawed and well-worn footwear of a living, breathing, human-being who, like her shoes, may be tired and far from perfect, but who is nevertheless better than me;

· Similarly, if her dark-toned, officewear nylons are at all visible beneath the hems of her ubiquitous, navy-blue, office, trouser-suit legs, I must study them whilst I am repeatedly kissing her shoes. I must admire any creases and wrinkles in the dark nylon; the fine patterns in the stitching; any bobbling or laddering in the thin material of the sweet, feminine lady-nylon; and any alien fluff, hairs or other detritus stuck to the surface of the visible nylon covering her somewhat veiny and bony, middle-aged feet;

· Furthermore, I must fervently imagine what the rest of her nylons may look like, both above her bony ankles and up the rest of her varicose-vein-covered legs underneath her navy-blue trousers, and below her bony ankles inside the depths of her warm shoes – the sheer, dark nylon’s crookedness; its warmth; its sweatiness; its odour. In short, I must feel truly honoured to be so close to mistress Valerie’s clammy, but largely hidden, dark-coloured nylons;

· I must view her as highly desirable, but unattainable, and be truly overawed by the way in which the spinsterish, bespectacled mistress Valerie seems to tower above me as I humbly and respectfully kiss her feet – even though she is actually quite slight of build. She must be regarded by me as a truly awesome giantess-cum-goddess – a still young(ish) woman with absolute power over me, in whose authority and at whose mercy I must languish and cringe in the dirt, even though I am 20 years her senior;

· I must express my humility and powerlessness at her court-shoed feet by praising and lauding her in the appropriate language of humble, male slavespeak;

· This will entail all of the following:

o Greeting her verbally with genuine, if pathetic, slavish joy and respect, and praising and blessing her for entering my unworthy presence;

o Assuring her of my maleslavish fear of her;

o Attesting to her great and undeniable (?) female beauty;

o Acknowledging her superior, female intellect;

o Praising her overall femininity, selflessness and kindness, and begging her not to whip me (whilst at the same time indicating, reluctantly, my readiness to submit to the sting of her female whip, should she see fit to whip me);

o Confirming to her that is an inestimable honour for the likes of me to kneel in her divine presence and to kiss the rounded, scuffmarked toes of her plain, office shoes;

o Declaring my undying and absolute admiration for her navy-blue, low-heeled, court shoes and dark nylons;

o Recognizing my wretchedness at her superior, female feet, and that I am dirty;

o Offering to serve her feet and footwear in any way she so desires, however degrading or humiliating it may be for me;

o Stressing that I exist only to please her, and her fellow female work-colleagues; but primarily her – since she is the one who is currently gracing me with her divine, feminine presence;

o Reminding her, as if she needs reminding, that she is my better, and inviting her, in male fear and trembling, to punish me as she sees fit, or even should she simply desire to relieve any menopausal stress or tension in her superior life by taking out her middle-aged, womanly frustrations on me, since I am a helpless, male object at her feet;

o Expressing regret when she eventually leaves my presence and imploring her to grace me once again with her superior, feminine presence in the near future.

None of the above is mere sycophantic flattery – it is all the truth, from a slavish kneelpoint.

It’s all about having the right attitude towards one’s mistresses– the attitude of a lowly slave in the presence of one of his betters. The more mistress Valerie’s free colleagues may despise and denigrate her behind her back, the more I must be worshipful and respectful in front of her feet.

Even her scruffy, court shoes and stinky, dark nylons are better than me, and I must show that I am honoured to be in their female-secretary presence. I must concentrate on them; think about them; think only about them, and about how I may better serve them. For spinster-mistress Valerie’s shoes and nylons dominate my slave’s eye view of the world, and give meaning to my otherwise worthless existence on my hands and knees – at least when she is nearby.

A spinster she may be, but I am the only virgin around here, and the one who has been well and truly left on the shelf! No woman, not even a 45 year old, sexually frustrated spinster, wants a 65 year old, male slave as a partner; only as a shoeshiner!

God bless superior, plain and ordinary, goddess-secretary-mistress Valerie, and God bless her everyday, navy-blue, court shoes and dark nylons! I will happily shine her shoes, unworthy though I am!

Dishonour Among Thieves

2017-05-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

Even though it was Xmas Eve, slave Clumpy, the middle-aged, public street-licker, was still hard at work – busy minding his own business, licking clean the frosty streets of the Glorious Gynarchy so that they would not sully the superior shoe and bootsoles of his female betters as they rushed along the pavements frantically doing their last minute Xmas shopping.

He was, however, currently attending-by-tongue to a particularly quiet and exclusive street, which really only contained a couple of rather expensive fashion boutiques, desperately trying to ignore a somewhat incongruous-looking gaggle of scruffy, young women who had gathered on the other side of the posh street and appeared to be watching him; they looked like trouble!

There were about 5 of them – sink-estate girls, whom he had never seen in and around these parts before; dressed mainly in hoodies and jeans with sneakers or Ugg-boots; clearly up to no good. But still his female betters, and therefore deserving of his humble street-licker respect.

He was therefore trying to work out what he would say and do when his tongue eventually arrived at the other side of the street and he was required to lick in and around their girl-gang footwear. Would he, should he, politely ask them to move their feet? Or just lick around them – perhaps kissing the scruffy, scuffmarked toes of their sneakers or uggs as a demonstration of his maleslavish respect for their superior, hoodied, young-womanly femininity?

He didn’t have to wonder what he would do for too long, however, as one of the gang – the apparent leader – suddenly called over to him from across the deserted pavements:

‘Yo fatboy-streetlick! Git yoh ass over here now, yeah?’

She was mixed-race, quite dark in complexion, and was one of the young women who was wearing sneakers – in her case a pair of scruffy, pink and white, high-top sneakers, with bright red socks just peeking out over the tops beneath the hems of her tight-fitting, black cotton, calf-length leggings – black to match her black hoodie-top, the hood of which was sinisterly pulled-up over her pretty, mixed-race head.

Slave Clumpy the street-licker, whose slave-name was not ‘fatboy’, but who nevertheless was quite portly – for a slave – (caused, no doubt, by the amount of calories he consumed every day whilst licking female shoedirt and discarded food-leftovers off the female streets), immediately shuffled over on his fat, male hands and knees towards his female summoner’s feet, for the need to unquestioningly obey the superior female had been well and truly drummed into him over the years.

The mixed-race girl, and her mates, laughed at him as he anxiously crawled over towards the former’s pink and white high-tops, the right one of which was almost immediately extended beneath his breathless face as soon as he reached it, by way of a haughty, unspoken ‘invitation’ to kiss it.

Slave Clumpy humbly applied his lips to the grubby-white, rubbery, rounded toe of the extended girlgang-leader sneaker, pathetically admiring the pink canvas of the upper and its complementary, red sock-top as he did so.

The young women all continued to laugh out loud at him – the fat, semi-naked, middle-aged, street-licker man breathlessly kissing the street-soiled sneaker-toe of an uneducated and unemployed, young woman in her early twenties; let’s be honest – the dirty street-sneaker of an arrogant, girl-gang-member, street skank!

The ‘skank’ exulted in her innate, young-womanly power and authority over the middle-aged slaveman:

‘Ha! Ha! You is, like, a slave, an’ that, an’ has to do whatever I says, innit though?’ she enquired, rhetorically.

‘Yes, pretty mistress… kiss to grubby, white rubber, sneaker-toe…kiss to grubby, white rubber, sneaker-toe… Indeed I am, most beautiful and respected goddess-mistress... kiss to grubby, white rubber, sneaker-toe…kiss to grubby, white rubber, sneaker-toe…’

Well, he could hardly call her a ‘skank’ – not in front of all her friends; not in his humble position!

The other girls again laughed out loud at his obsequious response to their gang leader’s seemingly naïve question. One of them, an equally skanky-looking white girl with greasy, blonde hair and wearing a pair of somewhat misshapen, calf-length, beige-coloured ugg-boots, then spoke out on behalf of her fellow, girlgang sisters:

‘Ha! Ha! Kick his face in, Alisha! He’s being so f***ing disrespectful to ya, innit though? Ha! Ha!’

She was being f***ing sarcastic, of course. But the other girls seemed to agree that the ‘disrespectful’ sneaker-kissing slave should have his street-cleaning face unceremoniously kicked in by those same, girlgang-leader sneakers, and so, never one to disappoint her girlgang members, miss Alisha promptly ensured that her grubby, right, feminine sneaker-toe duly made harsh contact with his prone and vulnerable, male nose, painfully cracking it in the process.

That mixed-race girl, miss ‘Alisha’, sure had strong toenails inside her soft, converse sneakers!

Bloodied and cowed by punishing, girl-sneaker toe, slave Clumpy made sure his nosebleed did not sully the young, mixed-race woman’s superior, pink sneakers or blood-red socks, for that would be truly disrespectful – bleeding all over a superior, young woman’s sneakers, especially at Xmas time!

Having kicked his face in – and thereby demonstrated who was boss – miss Alisha then enlightened the slave further as to why she had summonsed him over to her sneakers. It was, it seemed, not just to humiliate him and beat him up; she had important work for him to do:

‘Ha! Ha! Yo fatboy-footlick, you sees them red boots over there in that shop window?’

Slave fatboy (sorry, Clumpy) glanced over above his now crooked and bloodied nose towards the window display of an exclusive boutique on the other side of the road, and did indeed see a pair of designer, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, red patent leather, zip-up ankleboots:

‘Erm…Y…yes…m…mistress Alisha, madam, if it pleases you, goddess-mistress Alisha madam.’

He thought he might as well refer to her by name from now on, since she was clearly keen to be on first name terms with him!

Goddess-mistress Alisha madam continued:

‘Ha! Ha! Well, you is gonna help me an’ my mates nick ‘em for me, yeah? Ha! Ha! They is gonna be, like, my Christmas present, or somefing? Ha! Ha! We is gonna create a distraction, an’ that, while you is gonna nick them boots an’ then put them on my feet, yeah?’

It wasn’t a polite request; it was an order – as evidenced by the reinforcing words of the greasy-haired, white girl in the misshapen ugg-boots (who appeared to be the deputy gang-leader and troublemaker):

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, fatboy-slave! An’ if you gets caught nickin’ ‘em you is, like, on your own – coz we is all female an’ above the law, an’ that? Ha! Ha! The Female Filf can’t touch us, an’ that? Ha! Ha!’

Slave Clumpy knew that the white girl was speaking the truth; he almost felt compelled to kiss her misshapen ugg-boots out of sheer respect for her intimate knowledge of the Female Law – a female could never be punished for a crime in the Female Courts; if they were caught thieving the designer, female boots, he alone would be held responsible, being male!

But what choice did he have, but to obey? He was being ordered, by a superior, young mixed-race woman, to steal a pair of boots for her! Not obeying her was not an option!

And besides, he quite wanted to obey miss Alisha, for he had been promised that he would be helping her to try on her newly-nicked boots, and that would inevitably involve touching her socks; a rare opportunity for a public street-licker to actually fondle a superior young woman’s intimate, inner footwear!

It was certainly an opportunity not to be sniffed at!

‘Yes mistresses. This slave hears and obeys the all-powerful, pretty mistresses, if it is so pleasing to you, most beautiful and respected mistresses.’

Guffaws of young-female laughter echoed around the deserted street, as the girl-gang then happily made their way over towards the exclusive fashion-boutique, with slave Clumpy in tow.

They pushed their way into the shop, and expertly distracted the female shopkeeper – just as they had said they would – whilst thief Clumpy ‘lifted’ the designer, red boots from the window display, and surreptitiously slinked out of the shop with his girlboot-swag!

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The girl-gang met up with him again in a nearby alleyway, where miss Alisha now sat imperiously on top of a large wheelie-bin, her pink and white, high-top, converse-sneakered feet dangling in the air so that slave Clumpy could kneel in front of her and unlace her sneakers, prior to putting on her new boots.

He did, of course, make a point of touching miss Alisha’s bright, red socks with his bare fingers as he changed her into her new, designer footwear – and perfectly legitimately so! For a slave is expected to straighten his young mistress’s socks prior to putting on her boots!

Furthermore, just as soon as he had unlaced her high-top sneakers, he discovered that her socks were not, in fact, pure red from tip to toe, but were exciting, Christmas-themed socks, with lots of little green, sparkly Christmas trees running down the fronts and sides, though some of the pointy trees had admittedly lost their ‘tinsel’ thanks to repeated wear and tear; evidently the young woman’s socks were a Christmas present from several Christmases ago!

The red and green patterned socks felt nice and warm, and moist, as he smoothed them over miss Alisha’s shapely, mixed-race soles and ankles before zipping up the new boots onto her pretty, Christmassy-socked feet, all under the watchful eyes of her fellow, girl-gang members.

Everyone agreed that the bright red boots were a good fit on her, and matched her red sock-tops perfectly, as she then strolled up and down the alleyway-cum-catwalk with slave Clumpy once again in tow, showing off her new, designer footwear.

Slave Clumpy particularly liked the way her three inch heels click-clacked along the cobblestoned pavement of the alleyway as she marched, somewhat unsteadily, up and down in front of his crawling face; the sharp, spiked heels reminded him of her absolute, young-womanly power and authority over him. And just imagine what it would be like to be kicked in the face by those pointy, red boot-toes!

It certainly bore thinking about!

His footslavish reverie, and the impromptu catwalk show, were suddenly interrupted, however, by the untimely arrival of two, familiar to him, uniformed, Female Police officers. They walked up to miss Alisha and her gang, saluted them, and duly began to question miss Alisha:

‘Excuse me, miss,’ said one of the female officers – a blonde-ponytailed girl of about 20, looking resplendent as always in her navy-blue uniform consisting of smart jacket and trousers, with chunky-heeled, black leather, zip up ankleboots beneath her police-officer, bootcut trouser-hems. ‘Erm…Can you tell us where you acquired those red boots, please?’

The girl in the misshapen, beige-brown ugg-boots, who appeared, in addition to being deputy girlgang-leader, to also fulfil the role of miss Alisha’s attorney when it came to dealing with the ‘Female Filf’, answered on her ‘client’s’ behalf:

‘Yeah…this here slave gave them to her, miss, as a Christmas prezzie an’ that; innit though Alisha?’

The thick, rounded toes of the beige brown ugg-boots were now pointing accusingly towards slave Clumpy as he knelt dutifully behind miss Alisha’s bright red, but shameless, stolen bootheels:

‘Reckon that’s right, Carly,’ responded miss Alisha, less than convincingly.

The Female Police officers weren’t stupid, of course! They knew slave Clumpy well as the local street-licker, since he worked on part of their beat (and, indeed, since some of the dirt and muck he regularly consumed off the pavements was from the soles of their very own, police-uniform boots as they pounded that selfsame beat!). They knew that he was in no position to give unsolicited, Christmas presents to foreign, girl-gang members from the other side of town. He had obviously been forced to nick the boots on their behalf. I mean, look at the state of his bloodied nose! Ha! Ha!

But none of that mattered. If the girls said he had given them to miss Alisha as a present, then they were innocent victims of his male thievery! Even if they had put him up to it, the girl-gang members had not committed any crime, not even conspiracy to shoplift; for, as the erudite girl in the ugg-boots, miss Carly, had earlier pointed out to slave Clumpy, females are above the Law in the Gynarchy and therefore cannot be guilty of any crime.

And rightly so.

The blonde-ponytailed officer-mistress therefore had no choice but to break the bad news to a shocked and stunned, law-abiding miss Alisha:

‘I’m very sorry, miss, but I’m afraid those boots have been nicked from a nearby shop! We’ll have to impound them and take them back!’

‘Aw what? No way, man! You means this f***ing slave was, like, tryin’ to give me stolen goods, an’ that? Tch!’

‘I’m afraid so, miss! But don’t worry – we’ll be ‘impounding’ the thieving slave too! Ha! Ha! It’s life in the underground slave-mines for him from now on! Ha! Ha!’ responds the pretty, blonde-haired, police officer.

Her dark-haired, female-police colleague; the sweet and innocent miss Alisha; the perjurious miss Carly; and the rest of the girl-gang members all laugh out loud with undisguised, feminine glee as slave Clumpy – soon to be life-prisoner Clumpy – is then ignominiously obliged to change miss Alisha, his nemesis, back into her scruffy, converse sneakers – touching girl-gang Christmas-sock for one last time in his miserable, maleslave life.

For there are no girlsocks, Christmassy or otherwise, on display in the underground slave-mines; only strict, knee-high, black leather girlboots; the boots of the whip-happy, prison taskmistresses as they stand over their kneeling prisoners who must mine salt with their bare hands, 365 days a year; including on Xmas day!

The two Female Police officers permitted miss Alisha, and each and every member of her girl-gang – including her greasy, ugg-booted advocate, miss Carly – to have one last, ceremonious kick to the thieving maleslave’s face, before they cuffed him and threw him unceremoniously into their waiting police van.

The girls were then free to go, and everything was right in the Female World. Justice had been done – and had been seen to be done – even if miss Alisha now had to find another Xmas present for herself.

Merry Xmas, miss Alisha!

Merry Xmas, lifer prisoner-slave Clumpy!

Mistress’s Utterances

2017-04-28T08:26:00.000-07:00

Note: The following short ‘story’ is best read using the ‘Listen to this post’ button at the end of the post!

The following are common commands and pronouncements made by my mistress on a daily basis:

‘Kiss my foot, slave!’

‘Lick-shine my boots, slave!’

‘Sniff my nylons, slave!’

‘Bring me my whip, slave! I’m going to give you 100 lashes!’

‘Kiss my feet, and beg for mercy, slave!’

‘Go fetch my boots and socks and put them on my feet, slave!’

‘You down there – the stupid slave – get your nose onto my sweaty socks!’

‘No talking, slave – just licking!’

‘Look only at my boots, slave – or I will give you a taste of the whip!’

‘Are you frightened of me, slave?’

‘You’re just a dirty slave; I am better than you!’

‘Bow down before my husband, slave! He is a real man! You’re just my pathetic foot-flunkey!’

‘You are not even fit to mouth-wash my sweaty socks!’

‘Shine my shoes with your tongue, slave!’

‘Concentrate on my socks or I’ll have you whipped!’

‘I am the master; you are the slave! You must obey me and do everything I say!’

‘Lick the filth off my boots, slave!’

‘Say “Yes, mistress; as it pleases you, mistress!”’

‘Slave, take off my stinky socks and put them in your mouth!’

‘How are you liking it, slave? Do you like the taste of my sweaty, stinky socks in your mouth?’

‘The female whip will soon teach you respect and obedience towards your superior mistress!’

‘Come here this instant, slave, and lick-shine my heels!’

‘Praise and bless me for whipping you, slave!’

‘Bow down and kiss the feet of my friend, slave!’

‘Clean my sweaty feet in front of my husband!’

‘My husband is your master, and you are his slave also. You will address him at all times as “master-sir”. Is that clear, pathetic slave?’

‘I’m going to punish you, slave! You will be confined in the kneeling stocks for 24 hours!’

‘Eat my stinky toe-jam, slave! Suck it all off my bare toes!’

‘Now get out, slave! I want to make love with my husband! Go shine my mud-stained boots in the kitchen!’

Footslave Headcam

2017-03-13T09:47:00.000-07:00

I am often asked what my day-to-day life as a personal footslave is really like; what are the sights, sounds and smells that a down-in-the-dirt footslave must endure in his lowly position at his personal mistress’s feet?

Well, fortunately, since my master and mistress have kindly fitted me with a headcam, I can at least enlighten you as to two of those aspects – the sights and sounds of a footslave’s daily life – as we playback yesterday’s ‘footage’ (no pun intended) from my humble headcam. Unfortunately, they haven’t yet invented ‘smell-o-vision’, so you’ll have to make do with my verbal commentary as to the smells in a modern footslave’s life; but the footage from the camera is all vivid and real!

First of all, though, I’d better describe my pretty mistress to you – as you won’t be seeing anything of her face or upper body – just her feet, below the ankle (one of the reasons my master and mistress have fitted me with a headcam is so that they can check up on my constant humility at my mistress’s feet, by playing back the footage every so often in order to ensure I am truly focussing on my mistress’s feet and footwear, and that I am not allowing my eyes to wander away from her feet; so you can expect to observe nothing but her pretty feet and footwear during this playback!)

My 23 year old mistress, miss Naqikka, is of Greenlandic origins, and a fairly recent arrival in the Gynarchy. She arrived here with her 25 year old boyfriend, master-sir Qanik, also a native Greenlander, and passed him off to the authorities as her common law partner, so that he could live with her as a ‘free man’ in the Gynarchy. She must obviously love him very much to do that for him – she could have disowned him at the Female Border and consigned him to a life of servitude in the great Female State!

I was given to her by the Female Authorities as a welcoming present; it is common practice for a newly-arrived, beautiful, young, foreign woman to be given a complimentary, personal footslave here in the Gynarchy – paid for by the Female State – to put her at her ease and help her settle in to her new life as a superior mistress. And, of course, because her live-in partner, master Qanik, is now deemed to be a ‘free man’, I must show my respect to him also, by submitting to his commands and dictats (though, mercifully, I am not required to be his footslave, or even to kiss his feet, since, although he is better than me, he is still only a second class citizen – being male!)

It was actually the master-sir’s clever idea to fit me up with a headcam, so that he could ensure I wasn’t lusting after his Inuit girlfriend’s upper body parts – which would be easy to do, given her great, entirely natural, Greenlandic beauty. My mistress Naqikka has shoulder-length, dark-black hair; oriental features; and is quite short and stocky, in common with your average Inuit girl, though – again in common with your average Inuit girl – exceptionally pretty with it!

She is also softly spoken, when speaking the beautiful Greenlandic language to her boyfriend (the happy couple always converse with one another in Greenlandic – in order to isolate me even further from their superior, free lives; they only use English to bark down their commands at me, at which point, as you may discern on the playback, my mistress’s dulcet, northerly tones change to young-mistressly anger and impatience, since she holds me in such justifiably low esteem).

My Greenlandic mistress, now being a student at Female University here in the Gynarchy, also likes to dress down; no exotic, Eskimo clothing here – just common-or-garden, everyday jeans and sneakers. But don’t be too disappointed by that – there is much to see and admire in a scruffily-dressed, Inuit student-girl’s plain and ordinary sneakers and socks, just as much as you would find in a pair of thick, furry boots, as you are about to discover!

Now to the headcam footage from yesterday, a typical day …

The first thing you can observe is my mistress’s sleepy, bare, Inuit feet as they peek out from underneath the warm duvet she shares with the master-sir. Yes, I know it’s shocking – they are sleeping together when they aren’t even married! But then, being free human beings living in the Gynarchy, they can live as they damn well please! And it is perfectly natural for free human beings to have regular sexual intercourse with one another – only slaves like me must deny themselves the pleasures of the flesh!

Make the most of this footage of my Inuit mistress’s soft, bare feet, for they will soon be covered in sock for the rest of the day. Here – I’ll freeze-frame it for a moment or two, so that you can study and admire the sheer smoothness of my 23 year old, Greenlandic mistress’s young-womanly feet. Sure, there are one or two rough patches of dead skin on the backs of her heels – can you see them? But that’s just everyday wear and tear caused by her cheap sneakers rubbing against the backs of her heels (my mistress often elects to wear ultra-short, sneaker-style socks inside her low-cut sneakers which, whist they may be the height of fashion, are certainly not high enough to protect the backs of her heels from rubbing against the insides of her sneakers!)

You may have noticed also the tiny traces of black toejam running along the inner rims of her big toenails? That’s because my mistress Naqikka hasn’t actually bathed her feet for several days now. Typical student! I only wish you could smell the toejam, for it is deliciously vinegary – or, even better, taste it as I sometimes have to do when my mistress simply can’t bear the build-up of stinky toejam underneath her unpainted, unpedicured, student-girl toenails any more and finally orders me to scrape it away with my footslave-teeth!

But, for now, it seems the amount of stinky, sticky toejam stuck beneath her toenails is tolerable to her.

We need to move on. The next images you see as I playback the headcam footage from yesterday are the shoes and boots inside my mistress’s shoe cupboard. She has several pairs of typically student-girl sneakers and ankleboots, as you can see; and even one, expensive, designer-pair of brown leather, chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up, kneehigh boots – but she won’t be wearing those to college. Those are reserved for partying and going out with her boyfriend, master Qanik.

Not a furry boot in sight, you will note! Nor even a pair of synthetic moonboots!

No, today, as always, she has dispatched me to fetch her plain, black, low-cut, lace-up sneakers – her favourite ‘college’ pair; scruffy, unkempt, yet comfortable on her feet; perfect for lounging around in (for my mistress Naqikka doesn’t seem to ever work very hard at college; it’s more a chance for her to catch up and socialise with her new, female friends in the Gynarchy – and she is, after all, guaranteed to pass her degree at the end of her course, being female; females never fail their exams!)

Look how the inner lining of the sneakers is worn away in places; that’s caused by my mistress Naqikka’s foot-perspiration inside her sneakers. It’s not that she has overly sweaty feet – it’s just nature at work . And, in any case, my mistress always wears socks inside her sneakers, to help absorb her Greenlandic-girl footsweat, and prolong the life of her sneakers. And such precious sweat it is too, being the sweat from a superior, young, Inuit woman’s holy footpores!

Next you see my headcam making its way over to my mistress’s adjacent sock-drawer. This morning she has ordered me to select her full-length, navy blue and white spotted, ankle socks from amongst her many pairs of socks.

Don’t be too disheartened by her choice of socks today; they might sound relatively boring and uninteresting compared to her stylish, bare-heel revealing, sneaker-style socks – but I can assure you there is much to admire in the backs of a Greenlandic girl’s spotty, blue and white socks; as you shall soon see!

I carry the sneakers and socks back towards where my mistress is now seated on the edge of her double-bed (master Qanik is still dozing beneath the bedclothes – as is his right, delegated to him by my mistress. I believe he has a part-time job as a road-sweeper but I may be wrong. I have to admit, I try not to pay too much attention to master Qanik and his freemale lifestyle, since I am so focussed on my mistress Naqikka and her superior, female, feet and footwear!)

My mistress Naqikka, who is by now fully dressed in her pink and blue T shirt and scruffy, blue denim jeans with the frayed hems, nonchalantly stretches forth her soft bare, Greenlandic feet (and chapped heels) for me to dress them. You can see how I am skilfully rolling up each blue and white spotty anklesock in my hands before pulling it up and over my Greenlandic mistress’s toejam-stained toenails and unwashed footflesh – up to the tops of her shapely, Inuit anklebones.

My mistress likes her socks to be straight and uncreased when they are first put onto her feet of a morning – though she graciously accepts that her socks will experience some inevitable slippage inside her sneakers during the course of the day (some personal footslaves are sorely whipped by their footmistresses for such unfortunate sock-slippage, but my mistress Naqikka is nothing if not sweet and forgiving to her personal footslave – providing I study and admire any creases in her socks as they develop throughout the day; which I do, as the footage from the headcam will clearly show!)

Once she has been socked she must be sneakered – and, again, I think the footage from the headcam shows that I am now quite deft at lacing up another human-being’s sneakers onto their socked feet. It does take some footslave practise, I can tell you, as you are, effectively, having to do everything back to front. But you soon learn – under the pain of the reindeer whip which she brought with her from Greenland!

And so my mistress Naqikka can now stand up, and stand proud above me. As she does so the frayed hems of her bellbottom, student-girl bluejeans temporarily cover her socks, hiding them from view. But fear not – those socks will be visible again at various junctures throughout the day, as the headcam will reveal!

In fact, their next sighting happens beneath the breakfast table whilst my mistress is enjoying her early morning porridge. Again – pity you can’t smell it, though it may also be a blessing since you, and I, are forbidden to eat until nightfall; and even then we shall only receive some tasteless slave-mush. Eating, as a pleasure, is another earthly delight prohibited to slaves, along with sexual intercourse!

But back to the important things in life – back to my mistress Naqikka’s sneakers and socks! Can you see how the raised hems of her frayed jeanlegs are revealing the whole of her upper anklesocks, and even a slither of her bare, smooth, Inuit footflesh just above the elasticated rim of her blue and white spotted sock? I must lower the headcam to the main body of her sock – for I really shouldn’t be looking at my mistress’s bare legflesh; that’s the sort of thing that could earn me a severe whipping from the lazy master-sir, whom you may have noticed has now stirred from his slumbers and is wandering around barefoot and in his dressing gown in the background!

But back to my mistress’s socks which are in the forefront of our slave-minds, as they should be – do you like the way some of the large, blue and white, polkadot-style spots are only partially visible as they disappear down below the upper rims of my Greenlandic mistress’s cheap, black, low-cut sneakers? I do – and I could study such anomalies in her socks for hours; in fact, I have no choice in the matter, since I am her personal footwear slave, required to kneel unobtrusively by my Inuit mistress’s feet throughout the day with my headcam humbly bowed and pointing towards my superior mistress’s sneakers and socks.

I’ve got literally hours of such humble footage – if you’d like to see it; and I can even zoom in on the individual stitches in my mistress’s spotty socks, if you would like me to? I can zoom in so closely that you can hopefully observe every Nuuk and cranny in her Greenlandic, student-girl socks; if I go in close enough, and freeze the frame, you can probably even make out her bare, Inuit footskin hidden beneath the warm, cotton sock-stitches. How cool is that?!

And look – already there are signs of some sock-slippage, particularly on my mistress Naqikka’s left sock! Can you see that tiny sock-crease developing around her shapely ankle, just around that large, navy-blue, sock spot which covers her outer anklebone? That’s one for the footslave memory-banks, for it’s a tiny crease in the blue and white, spotty sock of a superior, Greenlandic girl – whilst she is still wearing it on her pretty foot!

Heaven!

But let’s fast forward now to the point where my mistress is walking along the pavements towards her bus-stop. Oh – but before we do that – I’ll just freeze it here at the point where she is kissing my master-sir goodbye at her front door. Here – let me switch the footage to slow motion, for I want you to observe in languorous detail how my mistress Naqikka’s socks temporarily crease and fold at the backs of her Eskimo-heels as she stands up on tippy toe to kiss the master-sir on the lips. How sock-cute is that?! And how humiliating for we – the slave – to have to observe the results of an Inuit girl’s lofty lust for her man in her humble socks; and in slow motion too?! Ha! Ha!

But, like I said, let’s now fast forward to my mistress as she promenades alone down the street, with me in tow on my hands and knees, of course! A mistress is never truly alone if you count her personal footslave – which most people don’t! Look – I’ll switch it to slow motion again; can you see the occasional flash of blue and white sock beneath her flapping, bellbottom jean hems? I don’t know about you, but I particularly like that semi-concealed white spot on the back of her right heel. I can’t help but be fixated by it as she walks along – you can tell by the camera angle, can’t you?

What gets to me is that nobody else – least of all the pretty wearer of the sweet sock – is in the least bit impressed or concerned by that flash of white, spotted sock on the back of my mistress’s heel as she walks along. Only I am obsessed by it – and now, perhaps, so are you?!

Ha! Ha! Feel weak, slave! Feel lowly! For, like me, you’re nothing but a pathetic, girlsock-obsessed footslave !

Oh – we’re kneeling on the bus now, next to my mistress’s sneakered and socked feet. Look how dirty and dusty the floor of the bus is – those black sneaker-soles must be picking up dust and grime like nobody’s business! Except that, of course, it’s very much my business – since I shall be obliged to lick off any dust and detritus from my Greenlandic mistress’s sneaker-soles at the end of the long day!

But we mustn’t waste this renewed opportunity to study my mistress Naqikka’s exposed anklesocks once more, as she is seated happily reading her freebie newspaper on the bus. I’m glad to see that the crease on her left, blue-spotty anklebone has augmented in size – and, indeed, if I just zoom in, you can see that it has been joined by a second, lower crease (this is the sort of footage my masters and betters like to see – a studied focus on my mistress’s socks throughout the day, as befits her personal footwear slave!)

She’s standing up again now as she prepares to get off the bus. The stop is right next to her college entrance, so she hasn’t got far to walk – which is just as well as it’s starting to rain. Sure, she has a grey hoodie top to protect her from the elements, but, selfishly, I don’t! (And I don’t want the camera getting damaged by rainwater! Can you imagine having to explain that to the angry master-sir?)

You see those bright red, lace-up keds and short, white sneaker-socks walking towards my mistress? Those are the keds and socks of her best college-friend, miss Xiu Ying, from China. She too is a recent arrival in the Gynarchy, and entered the Female College at about the same time as my mistress, though they are studying different subjects (my mistress Naqikka is studying Female Media Studies, whilst miss Xiu Ying is majoring in Female Law). Miss Xiu Ying has also been given a personal footslave by the Female Authorities – Ha! Ha! Look at his gormless face as he diligently studies his own sweet mistress’s sneakers and socks! I suppose he’s quite lucky, really – as am I.

The two refugee-girls embrace; they have, after all, much more in common than just their pretty, epicanthic folds, having emigrated to the Gynarchy at about the same time!

But I, of course, must still focus my humble headcam on the dusty, scuffmarked backs of my mistress Naqikka’s plain, black sneakers, even though her exciting socks are temporarily hidden from view again by her blue denim jean hems, and even though I am sorely tempted to record the equally scruffy, but intriguingly beautiful, red, lace-up keds and short, white anklesocks of miss Xiu Ying. Her feet are so petite and dainty, aren’t they – even compared to my own mistress’s feet? And the Chinese girl is deliciously bare-legged above them, in her cute, red, knee-length, pleated skirt!

But what would the master-sir say if he played back my headcam footage and saw me lusting over his Greenlandic girlfriend’s best friend’s, Chinese sneakers and socks? Not to mention my own mistress’s reaction? Such flagrant disloyalty would be sure to earn me a taste of the aforementioned reindeer whip!

It’s a curious position I’m in – constantly required to focus on my own mistress Naqikka’s pretty feet and footwear, but in a way that doesn’t make the master-sir jealous. I crawl a fine tightrope!

Thankfully, the temptation of the Chinese girl’s red sneakers and white socks moves off as she has her own lessons to go to, and, besides, just as soon as my mistress Naqikka is seated for her first tutorial of the day I get to see her right, spotted sock once again in all its glory - since she is seated on a chair with her right leg casually crossed over her left.

Her right foot swivels and twists subconsciously in the air as she discusses her media studies project with her female professor and fellow, female students – and so, if we watch this bit in slow motion, you can once again observe the multitudinous little creases and wrinkles coming and going in the blue and white, spotty, cotton material of my Inuit student-mistress’s full length anklesock (I am permitted to raise my gaze, and the headcam, to my mistress’s upper, swivelling foot at such glorious moments, since focussing on her stationary-on-the-ground, left sneakered foot would make for rather boring footage for my master and mistress to play back at the end of the day, don’t you think?). Good camerawork is all about action; and drama – and there is plenty of that in a Greenlandic student-girl’s swivelling and flexing, blue and white anklesock!

Of course, the conversation above me between my mistress and her tutorial group is in English – if I just turn up the sound a bit you can maybe hear it – but I would much rather listen to the rustling of my mistress’s right sock as she subliminally flexes her foot-muscles in the air; and so should you! In any case, the English being spoken is the superior English of free persons – not the humble slavespeak in which you and I are fluent. So, much of the conversation is, quite literally, above our footslave-heads. We must concentrate on what we do best – studying girlsock – and let our female betters concentrate on what they know best; media studies.

Let’s fast forward to lunchtime, and another glimpse of close-up, Greenlandic-girl sock as our mistress Naqikka is enjoying a sandwich in the College cafeteria. As you can see she is surrounded by her female college friends – including the red keds and short, white socks of her Chinese friend miss Xiu Ying – but I think the headcam footage shows that the surrounding girl-keds, ankleboots and ballet-flats were no distraction for me! I am a dutiful and loyal footservant to my mistress Naqikka’s plain, black, low-cut, lace up sneakers and blue and white spotty socks, and remain very much focussed on them.

I particularly like this bit where my mistress reaches down to straighten the tops of her socks with her pretty, if somewhat podgy, Inuit fingers. I would have happily done that for her, of course – had she ordered me to! But it was evidently a subconscious gesture on her part, and, if anything, I’m quite glad she ‘forgot’ to order her personal footslave to straighten her socks – for it made for some wonderfully exciting footage, don’t you think? Just look how excited miss Xiu Ying’s personal footslave is at the impromptu sock-activity! Ha! Ha! I think he’s actually jealous of us! Ha! Ha!

I’ll skip over this next bit, if you don’t mind – for decorum’s sake; it shows my mistress Naqikka relieving herself in the lavatory, or rather it shows her sneakers and socks whilst she is relieving herself. But some things should remain private between a mistress and her footslave, and are not for public consumption!

What I am happy for you to see is my mistress washing her hands at the restroom wash-hand basin. See how the backs of her socked heels, including that partially covered white spot on the back of her right heel, are once again visible as she reaches up on tippy toe in front of the bathroom mirror to apply some more lipstick onto her pretty, Greenlandic lips. You can see too, if you are observant like me, how her earlier sock-straightening efforts have pulled a bit more of that selfsame, white, cotton spot into view on the back of her heel – but its lower fifth is still concealed beneath her black sneaker-rim.

Note too the tiny piece of alien, white sock-fluff stuck to the neighbouring blue spot on the back of her right sock! I wonder where that came from? Wouldn’t it be nice if it turned out to be some cross-contamination from miss Xiu Ying’s white, Chinese sneaker-socks? At least I know where it’s going at the end of the day – if it doesn’t fall off in the meantime; deep inside my footslave-mouth!

I suppose that’s the thing – isn’t it? How ever much you view of this footage of my beloved mistress’s sneakers and socks, you can never touch them; or smell them; or taste them! Only I get to do that – you’re just a westernised Inuit girl’s sneaker and sock voyeur! Ha! Ha!

You must be especially jealous, therefore, when I get to show you the footage of my mistress’s socked feet resting on the edge of the sofa in the evening, whilst I nose her bare socks as she lays back in the comforting arms of her manly, Greenlandic boyfriend. Ha! Ha! Look how the footage becomes all blurred and out of focus as my nose moves in to rub itself against the bottoms of my mistress’s sweaty, socks, her discarded, black, student-girl sneakers lying forlornly on the floor in the background.

This is where you must wish we did have ‘smell-o-vision’, for I can assure you the aroma is both pungent and heavenly, if you like that sort of thing! The pure softness, and stink, of a Greenlandic girl’s well-worn sock – in your face!

Well, in mine at any rate! Ha! Ha!

Would you like to see the footage again?

Kissing The Boots, Shoes and Socks of my Female Betters

2017-02-07T01:32:00.000-08:00

I am employed as an ornamental footkisser in a large, female-dominated office in the centre of town.

I am obliged, under the Female Laws of the Gynarchy, to regard each and every one of my regular, office-mistress customers as being my infinite superior and better and, being a law-abiding slave, that’s exactly what I do!

Let me show you how, by describing some selected examples of my female betters as they utilize my decorative footkissing services on their arrival in the office (I am chained up, on my hands and knees, in the large and spacious, office lobby):

The young, blonde single mum – on the look-out for a real man

20 year old, blonde-haired mistress Candice is the office, front-desk receptionist – hence she must always be the first into work of a morning, to open things up.

She has a pleasing penchant for wearing skimpy and frilly, white blouses; smart, black slacks; matt black leather, chunky-heeled, single-strapped and round toed, mary-jane style, office shoes; and black anklesocks with snazzy, brightly coloured soles (pink; yellow; blue; purple or red).

Whilst she is standing imperiously over me with her dainty hands on her curvy, young-womanly hips, and her right foot outstretched on the ground in front of my kneeling, ornamental face for kissing just as soon as she comes through the main door, I regard her as my infinite superior and better for the following reasons:

She is female, and I am but a male;
At the age of 20 she is some 30 years my junior, and here in the Gynarchy we respect our youngers and betters; or, at least, you do if you are a humble, male slave;
Being a single mum she has presumably had sex at some point, whereas I, being a mere slave, have not – and never will;
She is tall and svelte – but has had a boob-job in order to try and attract a mate (we’re talking an alpha-male mate here, of course; not a sub-male like me; nevertheless, that’s not to say I can’t appreciate the physical attributes of a tall and shapely, young blonde woman with nice breasts peering through the top of her frilly, white blouse, as she towers masterfully over me!);
She is completely self-obsessed – believing, quite rightly in my humble opinion, that she is the ‘bees-knees’;
It is raining outside, and her mary-jane shoes are quite muddy and dirty along the chunky soles and insteps, having been splashed with muddy rainwater. It is not my job to tongueshine the young, office ladies’ shoes, as such, but I am, of course, expected to kiss their respectfully footwear on the dirtiest parts;
I like miss Candice’s attitude towards me – she totally despises me, and can’t even bring herself to talk down to me; not even just to order me to kiss a particularly dirty area of her black leather, mary-jane shoes, or her black and pink anklesocks (today she has black socks with pink soles on her pretty, white feet – I can just see a tiny slither of pink cotton running along her shapely instep inside her warm, chunky, black shoe below the black leather shoeline, and that is only due to the fact that her pink and black sock is fetchingly creased and wonky inside her shoe; only the black upper of the sock is supposed to be visible to the outside world!)
Rather than talk to me, goddess-miss Candice prefers to chew gum and twiddle with her blonde locks whilst I pay oral homage to her chunky footwear. I suppose you could say, therefore, that she is a bit of a ‘dumb blonde’ – certainly in her dealings with me! Oh how I would dearly love for mistress Candice to verbally order me to kiss the lower pink area of her sock in her irritatingly squeaky, young-womanly, dominant voice (I’ve overheard her voice whilst she is conversing with others whom she regards as proper human-brings worth talking to) for I know that must be the warmest and sweatiest part of her otherwise plain black, office anklesock – even this early in the morning! But she won’t. As I’ve already explained, miss Candice regards me as being nothing more than a dumb piece of furniture beneath her feet; a footkissing ornament, fit only to kiss the muddy, rainwater-stained outsides of her strappy, mary-jane shoes, and the mud-splattered black uppers of her anklesocks, without the need for any verbal instruction or a one-way conversation with me on her part – which is fair enough, given that I am indeed nothing more than a decorative, ornamental footkisser in the office lobby where she works!
And so I respect the blackness of blonde mistress Candice’s anklesocks, and leave the inviting, pink soles well alone; I can look at, but not touch them, with my lips. As with the yellow soles; and the blue soles; and the purple soles; and the red soles of her other black, office socks, whenever she wears them in my humble, footkissing presence (I think she must have bought her socks in a multipack – they all look to be exactly the same make and style, apart from the different coloured soles!)
Yes, the black of her sock is good enough for the likes of me, along with the mud-stained, black leather of her chunky, sock-revealing, office, mary-jane shoes. I must leave the rest of her to her alpha-male suitors for, as we all know, true gentlemen prefer blondes!

The fat, lazy, middle-aged Indian woman

Next to avail herself this morning of my ornamental foot-homage is 40-something mistress Sushma. Mistress Sushma is of Indian origins, and still speaks with an Indian accent, even though she has lived in the Gynarchy for some 20 years now (almost as long as I have been chained up in this very spot as an ornamental footkisser!).

I admire and respect mistress Sushma for the following reasons:

She is somewhat overweight – a sign of superiority and social-standing in the Gynarchy, since it often indicates a sedentary and self-indulgent lifestyle (put it this way, you won’t find many fat slaves in the Gynarchy!)
Mistress Sushma, you see, is incredibly lazy – never lifting a finger to help her fellow female work colleagues; only doing the bare minimum amount of work she can get away with; literally not pulling her weight! And rightly so – for she is a superior woman who can do whatever she likes, even if it does annoy her female work-colleagues from time to time and puts extra burdens on them!
She is still very beautiful, though she is fighting not just to control her weight, but also with the signs of aging; she dyes her hair jet-black to hide the grey around her pretty, Indian temples;
Unlike miss Candice before her, mistress Sushma is not averse to barking down crystal clear orders at me in her sweet, Indian accent:

‘Slave, be kissing my dirty boot; be kissing it on the instep this instant; Not there!...On the zipper, you stupid slave! Are you being a complete nincompoop, you dirty, lazy footslave? How dare you be avoiding the dirty zip on the side of my boot! You damned, impertinent imbecile! Tch!’

Mistress Sushma knows I can’t answer her back, for I am just an ornamental footslave; forbidden to speak; but bidden to kiss Indian-female boot;
And, I must not-say, mistress Sushma’s familiar, black heeled, chisel-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots are particularly worthy of my ornamental-footslavish attention – well-worn and scuff-marked, they are literally moulded to the individual shape of mistress Sushma’s Indian feet, the wrinkles and creases in her black ankleboot leather mirroring the leathery wrinkles in her middle-aged, Indian footskin. At least, I’m assuming her brown, Indian feet, being in their mid to late forties, are showing some signs of aging deep inside her ubiquitous, black leathery ankleboots, but I have never actually seen her bare, Indian footflesh. The most I can ever hope for, when it comes to fat and indolent mistress Sushma, is a furtive glimpse of her soft-brown legskin above her dark, navy-blue cotton, bootsock-top – though most mornings, as today, her black, office, bootcut trouser-hems frustratingly hide the very tops of her ankleboots, and by extension the tops of her navy-blue socks, from my ornamental-footslave view;
As well they might be – for I am not worthy to kiss mistress Sushma’s inner socks – only her outer bootdirt, stuck to the zipper area on the side of her muddy and scuffmarked, office boot. Truly she is my indolent better, not even being bothered to have her boots polished, and it is my job, as the hard-working, office ornamental-footkisser, to respectfully kiss those unpolished, Indian-woman ankleboots, merely imagining the condition of her feet and socks inside her boots as I do so.

The Ex-Con

I respect and admire my next customer-mistress, 22 year old brunette, greasy-haired and pockmarked mistress Gabby ( reputedly one of the lowest paid girls in the office as she doesn’t have any formal academic qualifications and is doing some sort of apprenticeship following a prolonged spell in Female Jail) precisely because she is none too fastidious about her personal appearance.

Miss Gabby always looks decidedly scruffy at work – preferring cheap, black, shiny tracksuit-bottoms with a thick, red stripe down the sides to smart, black, officewear, trouser-suit slacks like miss Candice’s or mistress Sushma’s, and manky-looking, plain, black leather ballet-flats with even mankier-looking plain black socks on her tattooed, young-womanly feet.

Specifically, I admire her for the following reasons:

She doesn’t seem to care what other people think about her appearance – not even her female managers;
She gets on quite well with the office receptionist, miss Candice, even though her personality is quite different;
She is, from my humble viewpoint, a very attractive, young woman , despite – or perhaps because of – her unkempt, outward form; I like her rough-diamond exterior!
Her manky, black socks are particularly alluring – for a pathetic, permanently kneeling, ornamental footkisser like myself; ultra-short (too short, indeed, for her ballet flats, as they are so-called ‘sneaker-style’ socks – designed to be hidden away, in secret, inside a lady’s hot and sweaty sneakers where they will absorb her precious footsweat for her personal footslave to savour after her run in the park, and not really designed for wear with office ballet-flats where the ‘secret sock’ material is actually fully visible above the rounded toe areas and beneath the drawstringed-hems of her black and red tracksuit bottoms!); bobbled and pilled – through repeated wear and tear; mud-stained (thanks to the muddy rainwater outside on the streets); and almost certainly the exact same pair of socks she had on yesterday!
In fact…yes…I can just see that little, tell-tale loose stitch at the top of one of her socks which confirms these are indeed the exact same pair of socks miss Gabby had on yesterday – though I do believe that damaged sock may have been on her other foot, her left foot, when I attended to it yesterday morning? No matter, nobody else will have noticed that she isn’t wearing a fresh pair of black socks, for nobody else will have observed that loose stitching (they have better things to focus on) – and miss Gabby certainly won’t give a damn that I have noticed she is wearing the exact same pair of unwashed, short, black, bobbled sneaker-socks as she had on yesterday (for I can guarantee you from the aroma of miss Gabby’s socks that they haven’t been washed and freshened in the interim period – though she must have taken them off at some point if they are now on opposite feet!)
I also admire miss Gabby’s distinctive, and very fetching, aforementioned ankle-tattoo on the outside of her right foot; it consists of a single, red rose, with the name of one of her many boyfriends – master Darren – weaved through it, though I understand she has since split up with him. Nevertheless, it is very romantic, and she has me kiss it, every so often, as a demonstration of my respect both for her and for her former boyfriend, whom I have never met;
Gobby miss Gabby is a prolific ‘orderer’; like fat and lazy mistress Sushma before her she likes nothing more than to arrogantly bark down her orders at me – though in much less ladylike language, and with a goodly amount of foul language, which I can’t bring myself to repeat, being just a rough-diamond girl’s dumb, ornamental, foot-and-ankle-tattoo kisser:

‘Kiss me along the top of my f***ing sock, f***wit slave, yeah? Don’t touch my f***ing shoe yet! Now kiss the heel of my f***ing ballet-flat, yeah? Now kiss the f***ing sole; now kiss the side of my ankle-tattoo, yeah? Kiss it 12 f***ing times, yeah? Now f**k off, slave!’

I like the way the gobby miss Gabby orders me to ‘f***k off’ when I have finished kissing her red rose ankle-tattoo, for she knows full well that it is a physical impossibility for me to move away from this spot, and that she will have to be the one to move! Not that I would ever dream of telling her to f**k off!
No – to kiss a gobby, young, greasy-haired and pockmark-faced former-jailbird girl’s manky old, street-soiled, black-leather ballet flats; her bobbled and pilled, short black cotton sneaker-sock tops; and her chavvy, decorative ankle-tattoo on her unwashed, right foot – all this is truly an honour and a privilege for a dumb-ass, middle-aged, ornamental footkisser like myself, and I must never forget it!

She leaves me with the feel of her ankle-tattoo still on my lips in order to hook up with her receptionist friend at the front-desk, miss Candice, and to catch up on all their mutual, girly-type gossip.

The Female Boss

I don’t much like nylons on a lady’s feet – they stink, and not in a nice way, but in a nasty way. Synthetic nylon tights or stockings seem to react with an office-lady’s natural foot bacteria – not allowing her feet to breathe properly, and trapping her sweet feminine foot-perspiration on their dark-nylon, artificial surfaces, as opposed to properly absorbing it like the cotton material in a female sock – as nature intended.

Even miss Gabby’s two-day-old, black cotton sneaker socks didn’t smell too bad on her greasy, unwashed, ex-jailbird feet – but my next customer-mistress’s two-day-old nylons are quite stinkily overpowering!

But, I suppose that’s just one of the many day-to-day hazards of being an office, ornamental foot-kisser – stinky, nyloned feet!

Flame haired, fiery-tempered, and naturally bossy Irish office-manageress mistress Siobhán likes to wear nylons with her smart, navy-blue, high-heeled court shoes – dark-coloured nylons. She is only in her mid thirties, but is already one of the senior board members. They say she has slept her way to the top (for some of the top executives in this otherwise female-dominated company are alpha males) and owes a lot of her success to her power-dressing (short, grey-pinstriped skirts and revealing blouses), but I personally think she has got where she has today through her raw talent – just as I am where I am today, kneeling on the dirty floor of the office lobby kissing the feet of my female masters and betters, through my complete lack of any skill or talent!

But, highly talented or no, I also have to admire manager-mistress Siobhán for the following, additional reasons:

She is full of herself, and very abrupt and rude – which is good in a mistress (though it does not, perhaps, endear her to those whom she has trampled over to get to the top!);
She is not shy about imposing her stinky, black nylons on my footslave nose and face;
In fact, she will often, deliberately, slip her nylon-stockinged feet out of her stylish, designer, navy-blue, court shoes in order that I may kiss the sweaty, moist, reinforced toe areas of her dirty, unwashed nylons. That inevitably, of course, also entails smelling them on my part – since I can hardly kiss them without inhaling them, even though my formal job is merely to kiss and not to sniff! I mean, I can’t exactly stop breathing whilst I am kissing bossy, nylon toes!
I admire and respect miss Siobhán all the more because I know that, unlike miss Gabby before her, miss Siobhán isn’t wearing her hosiery for two days in a row because she is poorly-paid and can’t afford to buy too many pairs, but purely because she is evil – and she likes to impose her sweaty nylons on the prone and helpless office, ornamental footkisser. It gives her an additional power-kick of a morning; boosts her not inconsiderable ego even further; makes her feel superior and cruel. And she likes all that; she likes being feared and imposing her will upon others – just as I like being her sweaty-nylon-stocking victim against all my natural, sock-leaning instincts!
Miss Siobhán knows I can only dream about the upper regions of her nylon stocking-tops – up there beneath the hem of her short, grey-pinstriped, office-manageress skirt – for her dark-nyloned thighs are well out of bounds to a mere beta-male like me! Only her beloved alpha males get to go there! My sub-male face must remain humbly bowed over the lowest, meanest and stinkiest parts of her nylons – the toe areas. That’s what tickles her fancy (and mine, if truth be told)!
She also, being a loudmouthed, fiery redhead – used to giving orders and to being obeyed – likes to humiliate me in public, by shouting at me; by criticising my work; and by routinely scolding me in her thick, Irish accent:

‘KISS MY NYLONS HARDER, DIRTY SLAVE!... REALLY PUT YOUR UGLY, SLAVE MOUTH INTO IT! GO ON…THAT’S RIGHT!... KISS ALL OVER THE DARK AREA AT THE TOP OF MY TOES, YOU PATHETIC, WOMEN’S FOOTKISSER! HA! HA! …BURY YOUR NOSE IN MY STINKY, NYLON TOE-CLEAVAGE AND INHALE MY PERSONAL FOOTSMELL WHILE YOU’RE KISSING THE LOWEST PARTS OF MY STOCKINGS! HA! HA!... WHAT A SAD LOSER! WHAT A DEAD LOSS!... EEJIT! HA! HA!... COME ON – SNIFF HARDER!... HARDER I SAID!’

Everyone else in the lobby is laughing at me, including a few of the alpha-male executives who are waiting in the lobby for the lift to the top floor. They have to give her her due – for, for all her faults, miss Siobhán sure knows how to boss a helpless, ornamental footslave about!

So there you have it! Four shining examples of superior femininity for me to humbly footkiss – and it’s still only a quarter to eight in the morning! The bulk of the office ladies haven’t even arrived at work yet – these are just the early birds who need to get away earlier than usual, for one reason or another, later this Friday afternoon at the start of their well-earned rest days.

I hope you’ve enjoyed watching me being degraded and humiliated, and have come to share my admiration for my female, office betters!

The (week)end

Actually, that’s not quite the end of my story! I have a fifth outstanding example of superior womanhood whose honour and privilege it is mine to serve:

The Cambodian Cleaning Lady

I, of course, shall be going nowhere over the weekend. Even though the office will officially be closed, there are still the feet of the office cleaners to be kissed on Saturday morning – particularly the cheap, flat, shiny black plastic, slip-on shoes and bright blue towelling socks of 25 year old, Cambodian mistress, goddess-mistress Phhoung, my favourite cleaner, since she kindly mops up all the dirty footmarks left by the other office ladies during the working week on the floor of the lobby beneath my confined and kneeling face!

But more than that, sweet and kind, blue-shiny-pinafored miss Phhoung actually deigns to let me nuzzle her ubiquitous, bright blue towelling socks as I am kissing her cheap, black, slip-on shoes – an honour and a privilege not often bestowed upon me by superior, young women.

And miss Phhoung actually speaks to me! I don’t mean that she just barks down her footkissing and sock-nuzzling orders at me like some of the other office ladies (though she does that as well); I mean, she actually has a civil conversation with me – asking me, in her cute, oriental accent and broken English, things like:

‘How you today, slave? You well? You miss Phhoung shoes and socks all week? Ha! Ha! You want nuzzle socks again? Ha! Ha!... You a weakling. You a dog. I better than you! Ha! Ha!’

And what’s more – despite my being an officially dumb ornamental footkisser – she actually permits me to respond to her Cambodian-female goading in humble slavespeak. And during the weekend miss Phhoung is perfectly at liberty to do with me as she pleases – for none of the office bosses are around.

She’s the boss!

I therefore humbly humour her as she leans on her mop, her cheap, black plastic shoes and bright blue towelling socks standing their ground in front of my kneeling face:

‘Oh pray mistress Phhoung; God bless you mistress Phhoung; Oh yes, mistress Phhoung! Yes indeed! Oh please permit me to nuzzle your soft, blue socks while you are wearing them, mistress Phhoung, if it would be so pleasing to you most kind and beautiful cleaning-mistress Phhoung! I have missed them so much, sweet and caring mistress Phhoung. Oh your socks, mistress! Your socks!’

And so my humble work goes on. Whilst the nine-to-five, Monday to Friday office mistresses relax at home on their much deserved, weekend breaks with their alpha-male husbands or boyfriends, I continue with my never-ending, sub-male work of kissing and admiring superior, female feet and footwear – never off duty; always ready to serve and obey, by kissing and worshipping the dirty boots, shoes and socks of my self-evident, female betters – whatever their station in life.

The (never)end

Lilith

2017-01-12T07:22:00.000-08:00

Lilith

She who would not lie below

Lilith was bored; bored and frustrated. She hadn’t had a man in days, and she had a legendary sex drive – a drive which needed to be satisfied regularly; on an hourly basis if at all possible. Sure she had her nymphomaniac sex toys to keep her company, but sometimes only a real man would do!

Shame there weren’t any around these parts!

Ironic really – given that she lived in the city’s Red Light district!

She went over to her city-centre, apartment window and drew back the net curtain. It was still pouring with rain, and she could hear the penetrating wind singing like a siren down the alleyway outside. She looked down towards the secluded alcove at the far end of the narrow alleyway and smiled. Ha! Ha! He was, of course, still there – the raggedy-assed, public footslave; never off duty; whatever the weather. Ha! Ha! Soaked to the skin, and looking totally miserable with his head bowed forlornly over his wooden footblock as he knelt in an ever increasing pool of rain. Ha! Ha! His footslave-alcove may be reasonably ‘secluded’, but it sure doesn’t offer him much protection from the horrors of the wind and the rain – he looks like a drowned rat! Ha! Ha!

The vision of the beast chained up to his footblock only reaffirmed Lilith in her somewhat cynical views – there are no real men around here! For the slave certainly wasn’t a real man! She had never even used his local footwear-cleaning services, since there is nothing the impotent, drowned slave-rat can do for her sexually!

Or is there...?

A flash of inspiration suddenly entered into Lilith’s ghostly-pale, 22 year old head – just as a flash of lightning lit up the otherwise dank and gloomy, early evening alleyway. By the time the thunder hit she was already pulling on her beige-coloured, knee-length raincoat, and fetching her black umbrella from the umbrella stand in her hallway.

Lock up your menfolk! Goddess-Mistress Lilith is venturing out!

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

When she got to the kneeling footslave he appeared to be asleep, his forehead bowed and resting uneasily on the drenched, wooden footblock where her sharp, stiletto-heeled foot should now, by rights, be positioned.

She promptly moved round behind him and kicked him unceremoniously in the butt, whilst shouting at him with succubine venom:

‘WAKE UP, SLAVE!’

Her voice echoed eerily off the rainsoaked, alleyway walls.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Public footslave no. 666 awoke with a start and a sting in his tail. The first things he saw, standing behind him, were the pointy, red, leathery toes of a young woman’s, stylish high-heeled shoes. Hell! He must have dozed off again, despite, or perhaps because of, the cold and the rain! He felt mortified – for no high-heeled, young woman should ever have to wake up a public footslave with the piqued toe of her pointy, red shoe. He should always be ready and willing to serve at the feet and footwear of superior young women, whatever the time of day or night; and whatever the weather!

Mind you, this particular, young woman must be insane to be out and about in such inclement weather as this! Another rumble of thunder reminded him, if he needed reminding, of his drowned rat status in the city-centre alleyway, as he felt yet another raindrop sliding off his nose and down onto the sodden footblock-cum-wooden-pillow beneath his kneeling face.

Fortunately, the raindrop did not sully the angry, young woman’s stylish, red, high-heeled shoe, as she had not yet moved round to face him and position her pretty foot and ankle onto the now vacated footblock. As she did walk round to face him, however – her red high-heels click-clacking seductively across the soaking wet cobblestones of the alleyway – she inadvertently provided him with some shelter, for her black umbrella was now deflecting the rainwater down his bare back and away from the top of his balding, middle-aged head.

He should truly be thankful for such small mercies!

After a few seconds of quiet contemplation, the raven-haired, and presumably insane, young woman duly stretched out her right leg and carefully positioned her right, high-heeled foot onto the damp, wooden footblock beneath his face:

‘Shine it up, slave!’

‘Yes, mistress! At once, mistress!’

It was not a red shoe, on a white foot, that he was familiar with – though the pretty, young woman must surely be local? Why else would she have ventured down this God-forsaken alleyway to have her shoes shined on such an apocalyptically miserable day as this? He even wondered if she may be a newly-arrived working girl; a fallen woman of some sort? But he concluded that she wasn’t; she just didn’t give off the aura of a harlot! She seemed much too angelic!

She was definitely new to his shoelick-stand, however – he never forgot a pretty ankle; especially not one like this, shod in a finest-denier, flesh-toned, nylon stocking; nylon which would be practically invisible to the naked eye were it not for the finest of wrinkles just below the dark-haired girl’s shapely, young-womanly anklebone, caused by the arrogantly-outstretched positioning of her foot onto the footblock. Nice calf muscles as well, he noted, as the hem of her beige-coloured raincoat had ridden revealingly up to just above her equally shapely, nylon-protected kneecap.

But he is getting ideas above his station! He is a public footslave, and right now his only legitimate business is to tongueshine this attractive young woman’s red leather, high-heeled shoe – as she has ordered him to do – starting with the mud-splashed, pointy toe-end; then proceeding along her equally mud-stained instep; and finally reaching her three inch, metal-tipped, red stiletto heel at the back. He must lick the shoe, the whole of the shoe, and nothing but the shoe. Her flesh-toned stocking, sadly, was out of bounds to him – though he could, of course, look at it whilst he licked red ladyshoe!

He did look at it, and he liked the way the sheer, nylon stocking material creased even more as the young woman helpfully twisted her foot around in order to afford his tongue easier access to both the side and back of her stiletto-heeled shoe.

She didn’t say anything whilst he was lapping up her muddy, red shoeleather, and he had no way of gauging what she was thinking, but silence on the part of a customer-mistress is normally a good indicator of a quiet satisfaction on her part with the humble foot-servitude being provided. So he was feeling reasonably relaxed, if still a little butt-sore from his earlier, rude awakening.

After some 5 minutes, and several more frightening flashes of lightning and raucous rattles of thunder overhead, she demonically switched feet beneath him:

‘And the other one, slave!’

He was pleased that the young woman had switched feet, for her left foot not only contained little nylon creases over the ankle, it also contained several tiny, wet patches where the rain had been splashing up against it, making the nylon slightly darker in places – truly a sight for sore, footslave eyes!

Again, the young woman’s, bright red, high-heeled shoe wobbled somewhat on the wooden footblock as she adjusted the angle of her foot to enable his tongue to reach the less accessible areas of mud and grime stuck to the back.

She seemed to sigh almost pleasurably as his tongue reached the back of her spiked heel, and then, suddenly, like another bolt of lightning from out of the heavily-laden skies, came a most unexpected ‘request’ from the young, raven-haired, devil-woman standing above him:

‘I’m feeling really horny now, slave! Would you mind if I penetrated your mouth with my heel?’

Public footslave no. 666 could hardly believe his ears! Did she just say what he thought she had said? Or was he hallucinating? Fantasising? Driven mad by the inclement weather?

It wasn’t so much the young woman’s desire to violate his mouth with her high-heel which shocked him – that was a not too infrequent experience for a down-in-the-dirt, back-alleyway footslave located within the Red Light district! No – it was the fact that she was actually seeking his consent to penetrate him orally! She was offering him – a slave – an element of free will! Ha! Ha! Such a sweet and naive, young woman! For by law, of course, she can do whatever she damn well likes to his maleslave, oral orifice! This is a Gynarchic paradise, after all!

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Lilith was, in actual fact, well aware that she didn’t require the pathetic slave’s consent to mouth-penetrate him! But she wanted to hear him beg for it, just like the men who liked hearing her beg for them to penetrate her! Ha! Ha! Now the tables would be turned – she was the one on top! She was the male; and he was the female! Ha! Ha! This was going to be fun!

The submissive, male slave didn’t disappoint her:

‘Oh pray, pretty mistress! Oh yes please, pretty mistress! Pray penetrate my mouth with your dirty, spiked heel, if it would be so pleasing to you, pretty, raven-haired mistress?’

Ha! Ha! He was, literally, gagging for it! Good!

She laughed at him evilly from beneath her protective umbrella as yet another lightning bolt lit up the thunderous, grey sky above:

‘Ha! Ha! Open wide then, slave!’

The fool duly opened his ugly, slave mouth as wide as it could go, and she masterfully inserted her long, spiked heel into his mouth, pushing it roughly up against the inside of his cheek so that it looked grotesquely and painfully distended from the outside.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Public footslave no. 666 almost retched as the female heel then moved cruelly from the inside of his cheek down towards the top of his throat. He felt the girl scraping her spiked heel against the delicate membrane at the very top of his throat. It may have been consensual penetration, but it wasn’t exactly gentle; just the way Lilith liked it – hard and dirty!

She laughed out loud at his pathetic gagging on her heel, and then jabbed the metal-tipped spike against his vulnerable teeth and gums, before eventually thrusting it back into his inner cheek lining, as she found it made him look so hilariously funny with his cheek all unnaturally stretched and distended beneath her! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! He looked like some sort of ghoulish, mediaeval gargoyle!

This was brilliant! Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

She glanced round to ensure Satan was behind her, and then began rubbing herself beneath her dirty raincoat. Soon – all too soon – she achieved orgasm, at which point she somewhat selfishly withdrew her foot from the slave’s mouth.

But it was too late – for the first time in years the impotent slave was also spent!

‘Ha! Ha! How was it for you, slave?’ Lilith asked coyly as she readjusted her red skirt beneath her raincoat.

‘Oh pray, mistress! Oh thank you, mistress! God bless you mistress! This slave is truly honoured to have taken your shoe in his mouth, and to have provided you with sensual pleasure, most pretty, raven-haired goddess!’

Yes – his mouth was scraped and raw inside. But as the laughing, young, raven-haired woman turned on her glistening, red high-heels to walk jubilantly away from him, he hoped she would be more than just a one-night stand, and that she would come again; and keep on coming over him!

Just like the rain…