Long Time, No Foot-See
Tale no. 14 – Long Time, No Foot-See
‘I was licking and kissing female feet and shoes the other day, as per usual, at my public footslave stand in the Arrivals Hall of the main international airport, when a very slim and attractive young woman in her early to mid forties presented her freshly-tanned right foot – clad in a white, slip-on, canvas deck shoe – onto the wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling face for kissing.
Nothing unusual in that – until the owner of the foot suddenly asked me if I recognised the taste and feel of her foot on my lips.
Worryingly, I had to confess to the superior female that I didn’t. I was worried because the implication of the young woman’s question was that I should recognise her foot.
I needn’t have worried, however, for the young woman – far from being offended – just laughed at me, and then enlightened me as to who she was. She explained that she was my former mistress – mistress Nicola – who had purchased me at auction some 25 years ago, and who had been my personal mistress for some two years.
The memories, suddenly, came flashing back – and I now genuinely did recognise my erstwhile mistress’s foot – its pretty shape and soft texture. Lest there should be any lingering doubts in my mind, however, mistress Nicola kindly slipped off her white, canvas deck-shoe temporarily to reveal not only the once familiar warm, sweaty odour of her pretty foot, but also a tiny black mole on her instep – a tiny mole which I must have respectfully kissed hundreds of times during my two years of personal servitude to mistress Nicola all those years ago.
Mistress Nicola laughed at my evident slavish excitement at seeing her tiny foot-mole and smelling her precious foot-sweat once again, and quickly slipped her soft, canvas deck-shoe back on lest I cause a scene in public. She clearly had no more confidence in my professionalism as a footslave now than she did back then, more than 20 years ago, when she had ‘sacked’ me as her personal footslave – and had sold me into public servitude – after I had completed just two years of personal foot-servitude towards her.
I remember she had informed me at the time that I was just too old and ugly to be her personal footslave (I am some twenty years’ her senior), and that she had needed a much younger and better-looking personal footslave who could ‘keep up with her’. I remembered now that she had been talking specifically about my inability to keep to heel when she had been running and jogging – for mistress Nicola had been a keen sportswoman back then, with a fondness for wearing white ankle socks and white running-sneakers.
Oh how I had admired her shapely, strong feet and ankles in those white running-sneakers and white sports socks back in the day, but my mistress Nicola had been quite right – I never could seem to keep up with her as I desperately attempted to crawl humbly on all fours behind her heels whenever she was running a marathon, or even when she was just out for a leisurely early morning jog!
As she stood over me now at the airport footblock in her nice, white canvas deck-shoes and dark blue leggings covering her still shapely, tanned upper calf muscles, I though about how she must have worn and then discarded many pairs of white ankle socks and white running sneakers over the intervening years – just as she had cast me aside all those years ago. In fact, knowing mistress Nicola, she probably found it harder to throw out her beloved, old pairs of sneakers and worn-out socks than she did to dispose of me – her useless, decrepit old personal-footslave.
Mistress Nicola was laughing at me and mocking me as I kissed the canvas tops of her white deck-shoes all the more fervently now that I knew they were the pretty deck-shoes of my erstwhile owner. I knew that she was mocking me because it was effectively down to her that I had been stuck here at the airport for some 23 years licking the dirty shoes, sandals and boots of anonymous, female strangers as a public footslave.
Being a public footslave is, of course, considered a much lower and demeaning position than being a personal footslave to a woman. Most public footslaves are, like me, failures – having been discarded by their mistresses for being incompetent or too ugly for the job. That’s why our female customers are generally not interested in us – they know that we lack the ability and commitment to be a woman’s personal footslave, and are only good for licking dirt off their outer footwear.
To be a public footslave in the Gynarchy is to be a shameful failure.
Mistress Nicola cruelly rubbed in my sense of inadequacy as she now towered above me, her hands arrogantly placed on either side of her still shapely hips, her right canvas-shoed foot still resting on the worn-down wooden footblock beneath my face, as she told me all about the exciting things that had happened to her in her life since she had ditched me.
She explained that she had gone on to have a successful career as a long-distance runner, and had won several gold medals for the Gynarchy; that shortly after dumping me as her personal footslave she had met and married a very wealthy, Arab businessman, with whom she had had three beautiful daughters – the youngest of whom was now 18. She explained that they all lived in Dubai, but that they came back to Europe about three or four times a year as they owned property here, and in the United States, as well. She explained that she didn’t need to travel with a personal footslave as she (and each of her daughters) now had personal footslaves in each of their properties around the world – all of them, she emphasised, fit and proper personal servants, fully trained in how to serve a woman’s feet and footwear, unlike me.
Having told me all about her successful and happy life, mistress Nicola then politely enquired as to what I had been up to in the intervening years.
It was, of course, a sarcastic question – for mistress Nicola must have known full well that since she had sold me into public servitude some 23 years ago I had not been anywhere or done anything remotely interesting, having been chained up all that time to this very same footblock in the busy international airport Terminal, kissing and licking the feet and footwear of my female betters – tasting all the exotic places they had been on their footwear, but never actually going anywhere myself.
I could tell that this thought tickled my former mistress Nicola, knowing not only that - in contrast to her exciting, interesting and successful life as a beautiful free woman of the world, my life had been one long monotonous, miserable existence dominated by the dirty feet and footwear of strange women whom I never got to know - but also that she, mistress Nicola, was directly responsible for condemning me to such a humbling existence by having cast me off so derisively all those years ago.
She clearly wanted to gloat over me and my predicament further, and accordingly she ordered me to kiss both her white, canvas deck-shoes 100 times each. She then shouted over to three young women who were standing nearby waiting for their baggage, and summoned them over to my footblock.
I quickly realised that these were the three, beautiful daughters that mistress Nicola had earlier alluded to.
She introduced me to them as ‘her former personal footslave – the useless old man who used to serve her feet before they were born’, at which all three young women laughed heartily. Mistress Nicola then invited each of her three daughters to present their feet for kissing on my wooden footblock one at a time.
As each daughter placed her right foot onto the block beneath my humbly bowed face, mistress Nicola introduced the young woman to me.
The first was her 22 year old daughter, Aminah. Mistress Aminah was wearing strappy, brown leather, open-toed and open-heeled, flat sandals on her bare, brown, mixed-race feet beneath a bright, flowery-patterned, multi-coloured, thigh length summer dress. Her legs, like my erstwhile mistress Nicola’s, were long and shapely, and I was sure I could detect a faint whiff of a very familiar, sweet delicate foot-odour that reminded me of her mother’s feet as I placed several humble and respectful kisses to the brown leather strap which crossed over the tops of her red-painted toenails.
I couldn’t see any generically-inherited, distinguishing moles on her pretty, brown feet, however.
My mistress Nicola next introduced me to, and ordered me to pay my footslavish respects to, her second daughter whom she informed me was 20 year old miss Hibah. Miss Hibah was wearing a pair of bright red, plastic crocs on her soft, brown feet, something which surprised me somewhat as all three young women were clearly from a wealthy background and could, presumably, afford expensive, designer shoes if they so wished.
Then again, even a pair of cheap, plastic crocs is worth more than me when worn on the feet of such a beautiful and superior young woman as my mistress Nicola’s mixed-race daughter, miss Hibah, and so I made a point of kissing and blessing both of miss Hibah’s red, plastic shoes with suitable footslavish adoration and humility.
Finally, I was presented to mistress Nicola’s youngest daughter, 18 year old miss Nashwa, whose pretty feet were graced by a pair of somewhat scuffed and scruffy, greyish-white, lace-up sneakers. Miss Nashwa’s feet were almost identical in size and shape to those of her mother – just younger and softer looking. Of the feet of all the girls, kissing miss Nashwa’s feet most reminded me of my days kissing her mother’s feet all those years ago – although miss Nashwa, disappointingly, wasn’t wearing white ankle socks with her white sneakers as her mother used to do, and so I did not have the opportunity of nuzzling the sides of her socks as I used to enjoy doing with my mistress Nicola’s ankle socks.
All three young women laughed and giggled at me, the sad old man, as I paid homage to their superior feet and footwear at the behest of their still glamorous and attractive mother who had not only made a great success of her life, and by extension of theirs, but had also ‘ruined’ my life by condemning me to a miserable and monotonous existence as a faceless public footslave at the airport.
I was, without question, an object lesson in the power of the female over the male – having to kiss and bless the feet and footwear of my female nemesis and her daughters, before they left me for good to continue enjoying their happy and successful lives, whilst I continued to rot at the feet and footwear of superior, but anonymous, women from all over the world.’
‘I was licking and kissing female feet and shoes the other day, as per usual, at my public footslave stand in the Arrivals Hall of the main international airport, when a very slim and attractive young woman in her early to mid forties presented her freshly-tanned right foot – clad in a white, slip-on, canvas deck shoe – onto the wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling face for kissing.
Nothing unusual in that – until the owner of the foot suddenly asked me if I recognised the taste and feel of her foot on my lips.
Worryingly, I had to confess to the superior female that I didn’t. I was worried because the implication of the young woman’s question was that I should recognise her foot.
I needn’t have worried, however, for the young woman – far from being offended – just laughed at me, and then enlightened me as to who she was. She explained that she was my former mistress – mistress Nicola – who had purchased me at auction some 25 years ago, and who had been my personal mistress for some two years.
The memories, suddenly, came flashing back – and I now genuinely did recognise my erstwhile mistress’s foot – its pretty shape and soft texture. Lest there should be any lingering doubts in my mind, however, mistress Nicola kindly slipped off her white, canvas deck-shoe temporarily to reveal not only the once familiar warm, sweaty odour of her pretty foot, but also a tiny black mole on her instep – a tiny mole which I must have respectfully kissed hundreds of times during my two years of personal servitude to mistress Nicola all those years ago.
Mistress Nicola laughed at my evident slavish excitement at seeing her tiny foot-mole and smelling her precious foot-sweat once again, and quickly slipped her soft, canvas deck-shoe back on lest I cause a scene in public. She clearly had no more confidence in my professionalism as a footslave now than she did back then, more than 20 years ago, when she had ‘sacked’ me as her personal footslave – and had sold me into public servitude – after I had completed just two years of personal foot-servitude towards her.
I remember she had informed me at the time that I was just too old and ugly to be her personal footslave (I am some twenty years’ her senior), and that she had needed a much younger and better-looking personal footslave who could ‘keep up with her’. I remembered now that she had been talking specifically about my inability to keep to heel when she had been running and jogging – for mistress Nicola had been a keen sportswoman back then, with a fondness for wearing white ankle socks and white running-sneakers.
Oh how I had admired her shapely, strong feet and ankles in those white running-sneakers and white sports socks back in the day, but my mistress Nicola had been quite right – I never could seem to keep up with her as I desperately attempted to crawl humbly on all fours behind her heels whenever she was running a marathon, or even when she was just out for a leisurely early morning jog!
As she stood over me now at the airport footblock in her nice, white canvas deck-shoes and dark blue leggings covering her still shapely, tanned upper calf muscles, I though about how she must have worn and then discarded many pairs of white ankle socks and white running sneakers over the intervening years – just as she had cast me aside all those years ago. In fact, knowing mistress Nicola, she probably found it harder to throw out her beloved, old pairs of sneakers and worn-out socks than she did to dispose of me – her useless, decrepit old personal-footslave.
Mistress Nicola was laughing at me and mocking me as I kissed the canvas tops of her white deck-shoes all the more fervently now that I knew they were the pretty deck-shoes of my erstwhile owner. I knew that she was mocking me because it was effectively down to her that I had been stuck here at the airport for some 23 years licking the dirty shoes, sandals and boots of anonymous, female strangers as a public footslave.
Being a public footslave is, of course, considered a much lower and demeaning position than being a personal footslave to a woman. Most public footslaves are, like me, failures – having been discarded by their mistresses for being incompetent or too ugly for the job. That’s why our female customers are generally not interested in us – they know that we lack the ability and commitment to be a woman’s personal footslave, and are only good for licking dirt off their outer footwear.
To be a public footslave in the Gynarchy is to be a shameful failure.
Mistress Nicola cruelly rubbed in my sense of inadequacy as she now towered above me, her hands arrogantly placed on either side of her still shapely hips, her right canvas-shoed foot still resting on the worn-down wooden footblock beneath my face, as she told me all about the exciting things that had happened to her in her life since she had ditched me.
She explained that she had gone on to have a successful career as a long-distance runner, and had won several gold medals for the Gynarchy; that shortly after dumping me as her personal footslave she had met and married a very wealthy, Arab businessman, with whom she had had three beautiful daughters – the youngest of whom was now 18. She explained that they all lived in Dubai, but that they came back to Europe about three or four times a year as they owned property here, and in the United States, as well. She explained that she didn’t need to travel with a personal footslave as she (and each of her daughters) now had personal footslaves in each of their properties around the world – all of them, she emphasised, fit and proper personal servants, fully trained in how to serve a woman’s feet and footwear, unlike me.
Having told me all about her successful and happy life, mistress Nicola then politely enquired as to what I had been up to in the intervening years.
It was, of course, a sarcastic question – for mistress Nicola must have known full well that since she had sold me into public servitude some 23 years ago I had not been anywhere or done anything remotely interesting, having been chained up all that time to this very same footblock in the busy international airport Terminal, kissing and licking the feet and footwear of my female betters – tasting all the exotic places they had been on their footwear, but never actually going anywhere myself.
I could tell that this thought tickled my former mistress Nicola, knowing not only that - in contrast to her exciting, interesting and successful life as a beautiful free woman of the world, my life had been one long monotonous, miserable existence dominated by the dirty feet and footwear of strange women whom I never got to know - but also that she, mistress Nicola, was directly responsible for condemning me to such a humbling existence by having cast me off so derisively all those years ago.
She clearly wanted to gloat over me and my predicament further, and accordingly she ordered me to kiss both her white, canvas deck-shoes 100 times each. She then shouted over to three young women who were standing nearby waiting for their baggage, and summoned them over to my footblock.
I quickly realised that these were the three, beautiful daughters that mistress Nicola had earlier alluded to.
She introduced me to them as ‘her former personal footslave – the useless old man who used to serve her feet before they were born’, at which all three young women laughed heartily. Mistress Nicola then invited each of her three daughters to present their feet for kissing on my wooden footblock one at a time.
As each daughter placed her right foot onto the block beneath my humbly bowed face, mistress Nicola introduced the young woman to me.
The first was her 22 year old daughter, Aminah. Mistress Aminah was wearing strappy, brown leather, open-toed and open-heeled, flat sandals on her bare, brown, mixed-race feet beneath a bright, flowery-patterned, multi-coloured, thigh length summer dress. Her legs, like my erstwhile mistress Nicola’s, were long and shapely, and I was sure I could detect a faint whiff of a very familiar, sweet delicate foot-odour that reminded me of her mother’s feet as I placed several humble and respectful kisses to the brown leather strap which crossed over the tops of her red-painted toenails.
I couldn’t see any generically-inherited, distinguishing moles on her pretty, brown feet, however.
My mistress Nicola next introduced me to, and ordered me to pay my footslavish respects to, her second daughter whom she informed me was 20 year old miss Hibah. Miss Hibah was wearing a pair of bright red, plastic crocs on her soft, brown feet, something which surprised me somewhat as all three young women were clearly from a wealthy background and could, presumably, afford expensive, designer shoes if they so wished.
Then again, even a pair of cheap, plastic crocs is worth more than me when worn on the feet of such a beautiful and superior young woman as my mistress Nicola’s mixed-race daughter, miss Hibah, and so I made a point of kissing and blessing both of miss Hibah’s red, plastic shoes with suitable footslavish adoration and humility.
Finally, I was presented to mistress Nicola’s youngest daughter, 18 year old miss Nashwa, whose pretty feet were graced by a pair of somewhat scuffed and scruffy, greyish-white, lace-up sneakers. Miss Nashwa’s feet were almost identical in size and shape to those of her mother – just younger and softer looking. Of the feet of all the girls, kissing miss Nashwa’s feet most reminded me of my days kissing her mother’s feet all those years ago – although miss Nashwa, disappointingly, wasn’t wearing white ankle socks with her white sneakers as her mother used to do, and so I did not have the opportunity of nuzzling the sides of her socks as I used to enjoy doing with my mistress Nicola’s ankle socks.
All three young women laughed and giggled at me, the sad old man, as I paid homage to their superior feet and footwear at the behest of their still glamorous and attractive mother who had not only made a great success of her life, and by extension of theirs, but had also ‘ruined’ my life by condemning me to a miserable and monotonous existence as a faceless public footslave at the airport.
I was, without question, an object lesson in the power of the female over the male – having to kiss and bless the feet and footwear of my female nemesis and her daughters, before they left me for good to continue enjoying their happy and successful lives, whilst I continued to rot at the feet and footwear of superior, but anonymous, women from all over the world.’
