Miss Manequinn
Tale no. 2 – Miss Mannequin
‘My mistress Alisha is a beautiful, black, 23 year old woman with long legs and a shapely figure. My mistress turns heads wherever she goes, such are her fashion-model looks. My own head, however, must always be fixed on her pretty, black feet and ankles, for I am her personal footslave and that is the law.
For her part my mistress Alisha – whilst she likes having a sycophantic and admiring personal footslave crawling on his hands and knees behind her heels everywhere she goes – nevertheless, quite properly, despises me. My mistress is aware of her great beauty and she correctly regards herself as being ‘all that’. She equally correctly is aware of the fact that my cringing servility only serves to augment her goddess-like status, and she is therefore particularly keen on demonstrating her innate superiority over me, her personal lickspittle, at every available opportunity – and especially in public.
Take the other day, for example, when I was accompanying my mistress to heel like a faithful puppy dog as she made her way through the Shoe-department of a large, swanky department store in the centre of town.
My mistress Alisha was, as usual, dressed in smart, sexy clothes purchased for her by her boyfriend, master Winston, who is currently inside serving 5 years for drug-related crime. She was wearing a pretty, white, T shirt cut off at the midriff, a very short, black leather mini-skirt, and white pumps with 3-inch stiletto heels on her bare, black feet. As usual also she was covered in bling – from head to toe. The bling on her ‘toes’ consisted of a solid silver ankle bracelet on her right ankle, and, I have to confess, it was somewhat distracting me as I am humbly crawled along the shop floor behind her white-stiletto-shod heels. It was a distraction because I was not supposed to be admiring my black mistress’s ankle-jewellery – I was supposed to be focussing my attention on the bare skin on the backs of my mistress’s heels. I am, after all, her personal foot slave – not her ankle-bracelet slave!
I mean, it’s not as if the skin on the backs of my mistress’s heels is not interesting to look at. Because my mistress Alisha frequently wears high-heels on bare feet her shoes often rub against the skin on the backs of her heels, leaving them somewhat chapped and rough. Occasionally my mistress even has to cover up her sore, rubbed-raw heels with protective plasters. But on this particular day the skin on the backs of her heels was on full display above the backs of her white, 3-inch stiletto , designer pumps, and the rough, wrinkled blackness of her heel-skin made a nice contrast against the smooth, polished whiteness of the backs of her stiletto shoes.
That’s what I should have been concentrating on (by law) rather than her expensive ankle-jewellery, paid for by master Winston’s ill-gotten gains.
Anyway, I observed out of the corner of my eye that my mistress was approaching a life-sized dummy in the Shoes Department of this posh, department store. Rather like my mistress Alisha, the female dummy was wearing a short mini-skirt and had long, shapely legs, but unlike my mistress Alisha it was white. The dummy had a fetching pair of black, strappy, high-heeled sandals, along with an equally fetching pair of black ankle socks with white hearts along the elasticated tops of the socks, on its pretty, shapely, feminine feet.
I heard my mistress calling over to a nearby shop-assistant:
‘Excuse me miss!’
The young, female shop-assistant who looked to be a similar age to my own mistress came over to her:
‘Yes, Madam, can I help you?’
Even though I was, as befits a personal footslave, still trying my best to focus on my mistress Alisha’s white stilettos and bare black ankles and heels, I could see out of the corner of my eye that the pretty, young shop-assistant – a blonde, pony-tailed, white girl – was wearing her shop-assistant’s outfit of smart, black jacket, white blouse, black slacks, and black, suede leather, low-heeled, court shoes. She too appeared to be wearing her shoes on bare feet inside her slacks.
‘Yes please…’ responds my mistress, towering above me in her long, black legs. ‘Erm…my footslave was just admiring this female shop-dummy’s socks and sandals and was wondering whether she might permit him to pay his respects to them by kissing them?’
I do admire the way my all-powerful mistress can both read my mind and put words into my mouth. Truly she is my lady and mistress – my better!
I hear the pretty, young shop-assistant giggling:
‘I see, Madam! I’ll just ask miss Mannequin if she is disposed to allow your slave to kiss her feet!’, and with that the young shop-assistant appeared to hold a mock, whispered conversation with the inanimate shop dummy.
‘Erm…miss Mannequin informs me that she will allow your slave to pay homage to her feet, but he is only allowed to kiss the white hearts at the top of her black ankle-socks!’
Just my luck – a pernickety and fussy, female mannequin! It’s bad enough having to constantly bow and scrape to pernickety, fussy, real-life women without also having to bow and scrape to their plastic representations!
Still, I am just a male slave and it is not my place to question the wishes and desires of a superior mistress-mannequin. Even a female, plastic dummy is my master and better – because it is female!
‘Ha! Ha! … You heard miss Mannequin, slave. You may kiss her feet – but only the white hearts at the top of her black socks! Do it!’ barks my mistress down at me.
I immediately obey and, to the great and vocal amusement of the blonde, pony-tailed, shop-assistant mistress humbly crawl on my hands and knees over to the plinth on which the mannequin-mistress is standing – with her right foot arrogantly outstretched in front of her left foot (presumably in order to better display the pretty, black, high-heeled sandals and black, feminine ankle socks) – and duly lower my lips to the row of white hearts running along the top of her right sock in order to slavishly kiss them.
My mistress is now laughing out loud along with the shop-assistant:
‘Ha! Ha! …Make sure you show proper respect and awe for miss Mannequin’s socks, footboy! Kiss each and every white, heart-shaped motif 10 times, including the ones around the backs of miss Mannequin’s socks!’ orders my mistress Alisha.
The shop assistant adds her personal instructions:
‘Ha! Ha! And miss Mannequin wishes to stress that you are not to let your dirty, slave lips touch her nice, soft, bare, white skin above the tops of her socks, slaveboy! Ha! Ha!’
My pathetic act of slavish homage to a female shop-mannequin is attracting a small audience of mocking women now, as I begin kissing 10 times the third of what appear to be about 8 small, white heart-shapes in total around the top of miss Mannequin’s right, black-ankle-socked and strappy-black-sandalled foot.
How nice it must be for a group of superior women to witness an inferior, male slave paying such pathetic homage to a plastic representation of the fairer and better sex!
Once I have finished kissing all the white hearts at the top of miss Mannequin’s black ankle sock on her outstretched, right foot, including the ones on the back of her sock, I am ordered by my mistress Alisha to repeat the humiliating process on miss Mannequin’s left foot, which is somewhat harder to get at. I feel the side of miss Mannequin’s freshly-kissed, right sock rubbing against my cheek as I stretch my neck forward in order to give my lips purchase on the first, white heart at the top of her left sock.
When the humiliating mannequin sock-kissing process is over, my mistress Alisha enquires of the pony-tailed shop assistant whether or not miss Mannequin is satisfied with my sock-kissing.
Again, I see out of the corner of my eye how the hem of the pretty, young shop-assistant’s black trouser leg rises up slightly on her right leg to reveal more of her shapely, bare, white ankle bone above her black, suede-leather, court shoe as she lifts herself up on tip-toe in order to hear what miss Mannequin is supposedly saying.
‘Erm…miss Mannequin says she is satisfied with the footslave’s homage to her socks, Madam, but she wishes to know whether her socks smell?’
My mistress, and all the other watching women, laugh:
‘Well, slave, answer miss Mannequin. Inform her as to whether or not her socks smell!’ urges my mistress Alisha.
I must be ultra-careful now, for miss Mannequin might be offended if I point out that her socks could not possibly smell as her artificial, plastic feet could not possibly sweat! Generally speaking, a mistress likes to think that her feet smell a bit, as it is all the more humiliating for a humble, male footslave to have to kiss and smell sweaty socks as opposed to clean and fresh socks.
On the other hand, as a slave, I am duty bound to tell the truth, and cannot lie:
‘Oh pray, miss Mannequin, if it pleases you sweet, feminine mistress Mannequin, this slave regrets that he was unable to detect any aroma of sweet, feminine foot odour on your most beautiful black ankle-socks, if it so pleases you most superior and all-powerful miss Mannequin.’
Raucous laughter from the watching women, including my mistress Alisha:
‘Ha! Ha! Perhaps you’re just not trying hard enough, foot flunkey!’ screams my mistress. ‘Sniff miss Mannequin’s socks properly – place your ugly, slave nose on the black toe of her sock and audibly sniff. Come on – we all want to hear you sniff miss Mannequin’s sock properly, don’t we girls?’
‘That’s right!... Yeah!...Ho! ho!... Sniff miss Mannequin’s socks, boy!’ echo a series of mocking, real-life, female voices.
And so I now have no choice but to lower my slave-nose to the reinforced toe area of miss Mannequin’s short, feminine, black ankle sock and to audibly sniff in order to double-check for any slightest trace of the aroma of stale, feminine footsweat. My only hope is that the socks may, at some point in the past, have been worn by a real woman, perhaps even by the blonde, pony-tailed, shop assistant before being placed on the shop dummy unwashed.
But, needless to say, that was a bit of a long shot. The socks are clearly brand new and fresh out of the packet on the plastic dummy’s feet.
‘Well, footboy? Don’t keep us all in suspense! Do miss Mannequin’s socks smell or not?’ queries my mistress Alisha.
Nervously, I have to repeat my earlier position:
‘Oh pray, mistress Alisha, if it pleases you mistress Alisha, this slave regrets that he still cannot detect any odour from the beautiful miss Mannequin’s beautiful socks, if it so pleases you mistress Alisha!’
The group of women, who had quietened down in order to listen to my vigorous sock-sniffing, now burst into spontaneous, mocking, female laughter once again:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t apologise to me, dirty, no-good footslave! Apologise to miss Mannequin for your failure and inadequacy!’
I obey my mistress Alisha and apologise to the shop dummy as if she were a real woman. I have no choice:
‘Oh pray, miss Mannequin, if it pleases you miss Mannequin, please forgive this dirty, useless, male slave for the inadequacies of his slave nose in not being able to detect any sweet, feminine aroma from your pretty, black ankle socks , if it so pleases you most sweet and powerful mistress Mannequin.’
Again , my words are greeted with raucous laughter from the surrounding crowd of trendy, young women.
Even miss Mannequin herself, had I been permitted to look her in the face, had a smug smile on her lips.
My mistress Alisha never did buy the black, strappy, high-heeled sandals or the pretty, black ankle socks with the white, heart logos along the tops. I heard her telling the shop-assistant mistress that she thought they looked too tarty.’
