The Two Heels

Tale no. 15 – The Two Heels

‘Danger!

My mistress Charlene is drunk in charge of a whip!

It is dangling threateningly from the black, leather belt around her waist. My mistress has just returned to her flat, where I am permanently confined, from a friend’s party. She is with a man – a stranger whom I have not seen before – and she is all over him! My mistress is self-evidently the worse for drink; slurring her words; giggling; uninhibited; lustful.

This is not like her. I have never seen her this tipsy before. She is not used to alcohol. I can smell it on her breath, even from my humble position kneeling next to her feet.

Even the way she is dressed is out of character for her, for my mistress Charlene is wearing a revealing party outfit consisting of a low-cut, white blouse (with what appears to be a fresh, red wine stain on it!); a short, black leather miniskirt; dark, nylon stockings – the reinforced tops of which are clearly visible beneath her ultra-short skirt; and strappy, sparkly, silver-coloured, open-toed, open backed sandals with three inch, silvery stiletto heels.

The sandals are brand new. She has never worn them before. In fact – my mistress Charlene never wears heels. She is normally a ‘converse’ girl – converse sneakers and socks with jeans. She is not normally a ‘party’ animal; she is a demure and studious librarian by profession! But, just for once, it seems, she wants to let her hair down and have a bit of fun. She is dressed to impress; she wants to ‘get laid’; she had gone out this evening with the specific aim of ‘pulling a man’ – a free man, that is.

And it seems to have worked! She has indeed pulled!

Like her, he is Afro-Caribbean in origin. I don’t pay much attention to him as I kneel at my tipsy mistress’s high-heeled, sandalled and nylon-stocking covered feet. For I am only concerned about my mistress – my pretty, black 23 year old mistress with her long, braided, black hair. I hope she is alright, for, although I am just her footslave – I nevertheless feel responsible for my young mistress’s welfare generally.

She is, after all, my mistress. She owns me. And she is clearly drunk and somewhat out of control. How could I not be concerned about her well-being in the presence of this strange man?

Besides, we slaves all know that there is nothing more dangerous than a mistress who is drunk – drunk with alcohol, and with power. Power over me. Who knows what she might do to me in this condition and with her slave-whip dangling eagerly from her shapely, black-miniskirted hip?

Yet I am essentially powerless to do anything about the situation – for I am literally just a down-in-the-dirt footslave, kneeling at his mistress’s wobbly, stiletto-heeled feet!

I hear her complaining to her new ‘boyfriend’ about the state of her post-party feet:

‘Hic!....Freddy, honey...these shoes are killing me!...Hic!...Hic!....’

My mistress Charlene almost falls over on her teetering heels and the master, whom I now know to be called ‘Freddy’ (‘master Frederick’ to me, presumably) gallantly catches her and breaks her fall.

She lovingly, but drunkenly, smooches with her strong and manly knight in shining armour, whilst I focus my attention discreetly on the creases and folds in my mistress Charlene’s dark nylon stockings around her twisted ankles.

I am well outside my comfort zone. I much prefer my sober, daytime, modestly dressed librarian-mistress Charlene - wearing her glasses, and with her scruffy red and white converse sneakers and matching white ankle socks beneath the hems of her blue, denim jeans - to this unfamiliar, vampish, nylon-stockinged and stiletto-heeled version. But I do know also that my place is still at her feet – however she is dressed and however she is behaving, for she is my female master and better.

The kissing, black couple, who both seem to tower above me, eventually stop snogging and come up for air:

‘Ha! Ha! If your pretty feet are hurting you why don’t you have your slave take off your shoes, sweetheart?’ suggests the master seductively.

He sounds a bit less drunk – much more in control, with his eminently sensible suggestion, although I don’t like the suggestive tone in which he said it. I know what he’s up to – he surely won’t stop at trying to persuade my chaste and modest mistress Charlene to take off just her shoes.

He wants her naked – I just know it!

My mistress giggles:

‘Ha! Ha! …Hic!...I know what, Freddy. I’ll have my slave break off the heels!...I’ll have my little bitty slaveboy turn them into a nice pair of silvery flats!...Ha! Ha!...That way I’ll be able to walk in the damn things!... Ha! Ha!’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing!

Firstly because my sweet mistress seemingly doesn’t yet realise that her new beau simply wants her to take off all her clothes as soon as possible!

Secondly because I have never heard her swear before.

Thirdly, because I am not her ‘little bitty slaveboy’, and never have been. I am 40 years old – 17 years her senior; and I am much bigger than her in physical stature (my mistress Charlene, though she may appear to tower above me like a veritable giantess whilst I am humbly kneeling at her feet, is really quite petite in stature).

And fourthly, and most worryingly, what my drunken mistress is proposing to make me do is actually to make me commit a serious crime – that of damaging a superior female’s shoes!

It’s a serious crime here in the Gynarchy, at any rate. The Gynarchy’s prisons are full of male footslaves who have inadvertently damaged their mistresses’ footwear whilst servicing it, such as laddering their tights; or snagging their socks; or discolouring their shoes with the wrong shade of shoe-polish.

Lord only knows what the Female Courts would do to a slave who deliberately broke off his mistress’s stiletto-heels – even if it was under the express orders of his drunken mistress!

I start to have a footslave panic-attack. I am sweating!

Master Frederick, however, apparently keen to keep my mistress Charlene sweet, just laughs and encourages her in her silly idea:

‘Ha! Ha! Whatever you like, honey! Order your dumbass-footslave to break off the heels if it’ll make your pretty feet more comfortable! Ha! Ha!’

Several things occur to me about master Frederick:

1. He may well laugh – for he is not the prone and vulnerable male-footslave who is about to be ordered to break the Female Law;

2. He called my mistress ‘honey’! Does he even know, or care, what her real name is? What a cad! What a heel!

3. He called me a ‘dumbass-footslave’! Well, he’s right about that, at least!

I bite my lip and say nothing as my superiors discuss my impending orders above me. My mistress then slurs her completely illogical and unlawful command down at me. It’s illogical because breaking off the heels at the back of her stiletto-heeled sandals won’t help her to walk any the easier – the curve of the sole will see to that; and it’s unlawful because, as I have explained, a mistress’s footwear is protected in law. It is sacrosanct – and anyone damaging it, especially a male footslave like me, can expect no mercy from the forces of Female Law and Order!

Be that as it may, my alcohol-induced command from my tipsy, black mistress, however slurred it may be in its delivery, is nevertheless crystal clear in its content:

‘Hic!...Ha! Ha! SLAVE – BREAK OFF MY HEELS!’

She is shouting. My mistress never shouts. She normally lets her whip do the shouting if I am slow to comply!

She holds on to master Frederick for greater support as she coquettishly, but unsteadily, raises the spiked heel on the end of her unsteady, right leg up behind her and looks down over her shoulder at me – waiting for my instant obedience to her insane command.

Now I am doubly worried – not only am I required to break the law and damage my mistress’s pretty, silver-coloured, stiletto party-shoe; I am being required to break off her stiletto heel whilst she is still wearing it! I might even damage or hurt my black mistress’s foot in the process!

Supposing I break her dainty ankle!

My God, it doesn’t bear thinking about!

For the first time in my slave-life I feel I must protest. It is surely my slave duty to protest – to warn my sweet and innocent mistress of the danger she is putting me, and herself, in?

I summon up the courage to actually answer back my mistress!

I kiss her dark-nylon covered heels whilst I do so, hoping the feel of my submissive and respectful lips on her stockings will assuage her inevitable anger at my reluctance to obey:

‘Oh pray, mistress Charlene; God bless you, mistress Charlene! Oh pray mistress, this dirty slave craves your indulgence, and implores the superior mistress not to make him damage your pretty shoes, if you would be so kind most merciful and all-powerful mistress…’

As slave-rebellions go I thought it was reasonably civilised and polite, but my mistress Charlene was not about to be shown up by a disobedient footslave in front of her new boyfriend.

She put her wobbly stiletto-heeled foot back down on the floor of her studio bedsit-room, turned around, stooped down, and gave me a stinging slap with the open palm of her pretty, black, right hand across my right cheek.

My head was sent spinning, but I could still hear her angry words.

I expect everyone in the entire block could hear my mistress’s angry words as she was shouting again at the top of her voice:

‘DIRTY SLAVE!... DIRTY, MALE FOOT-WHORE!... HOW DARE YOU QUESTION MY ORDERS!’

Whack!

Another slap from a black hand across the side of my cheek.

But this time it was the larger, and much harder, hand of master Frederick :

‘You heard your mistress, footslave-whore! Do as she says – or I’ll take the whip to your bare back!’

I don’t want to be whipped. I never want to be whipped, for the whip is dreadfully painful. It is also readily available, dangling as it is from my mistress’s shapely hip-bone.

I decide, therefore, that I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of my masters and betters, and apologise profusely for my arrogance and insolence:

‘Oh pray, master! Oh pray, mistress…please forgive this dirty, disobedient slave. This slave obeys his master and mistress instantly! Oh pray, master…Oh pray, mistress…Please don’t beat me!’

My mistress Charlene, still giggling, has now raised up her stiletto-heeled foot behind her again, and embraces her manly, dominant boyfriend by way of thanking him for his support – both physical and moral – whilst I, against all my best female-footwear-respecting instincts, grab hold of my mistress’s wobbly, right foot by the dark, nylon-stockinged ankle, and seek to break off the 3 inch stiletto heel.

To my surprise it snaps off quite easily! As does the one on her left foot! The shoes might look classy, but they are evidently quite cheap!

Thankfully, my mistress’s precious ankle bones are unharmed. I should be grateful for such small mercies, for I have an ominous sense that they are the only mercies I shall be receiving!

In any case, though I hate to say I told you so, I was right – my mistress Charlene did not find it any easier to walk about her studio-apartment in the erstwhile silvery-sparkly stilettos now transformed into stumpy-heeled flats.

In fact, to her enormous amusement she fell over when she tried to walk in them – straight onto the bed. Straight where master Frederick wanted her!

He quickly joined her on the bed, fumbling with his hands underneath her black, leather miniskirt. He even undid my mistress’s stocking-suspenders and pulled her finest-denier nylons down as far as her knees, before ordering me to pull them down the remainder of her legs:

‘Slave, pull your mistress’s stockings off her legs and remove her shoes! Then take them over to the corner of the room and sniff them!’

‘Yes, master.’

I was in no mood to resist any more orders from my superiors. I helped my new master undress my mistress.

She merely continued to kiss master Frederick and to giggle as he lay on top of her on the bed.

A few minutes later all I could hear was the sound of mad passionate love making, and the sound of my mistress screaming ‘YES!...YES!...YES!’ behind me as I knelt in the corner of the room and obediently buried my slave-nose in the sweaty, reinforced toe area of one of her freshly-discarded, dark nylon stockings.

I looked nervously at her broken, sparkly-silver shoes, which were lying beneath my slap-reddened face on the floor, as I did so.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Late the next morning my mistress Charlene woke up alone in bed. Master Frederick had evidently had to go, although I must admit I too had not heard him creeping out of the flat as I slept on the floor in the corner of the room with my head resting on my mistress’s discarded nylon party-stockings.

My mistress, eventually, swung her bare, black legs out from under the duvet and placed her soft, bare, black feet with her pedicured toenails on the fluffy cream-coloured mat by the side of the bed ready for me to put on her furry, pink slippers.

I sensed that my mistress was feeling somewhat ‘delicate’, for she was sharp and snappy with me, albeit no longer shouting:

‘Kiss my bare toes before you put my slippers on my feet, slave-pig.’

‘Yes, mistress. I obey you, mistress.’

She didn’t reply, and just lit up a cigarette, as I lowered my lips to her unwashed, overnight bare feet.

She was looking around the room by the time I was about to gently slide her second slipper onto her left foot, and she must obviously have spotted her broken stilettos lying in the corner of the room where I had left them:

‘Slave-pig – what happened to my shoes?’

I gather from this question that she must not remember her orders to me of the night before. For a brief second, and only for a brief second, I am tempted to lie to my mistress – to tell her that the heels must have just broken off whilst she was out dancing at her friend’s party.

But a slave must never lie to his mistress, except, perhaps to flatter her ego. Apart from anything else it is a criminal offence for a slave to lie to a mistress.

I had broken the shoes, and now I had to fess up to it and take the consequences. The most I can do is try to explain to my mistress all the circumstances.

I therefore humbly seek to remind my mistress of the events of the evening before:

‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, the mistress ordered her slave to break off the heels, mistress, as the shoes were hurting the mistress’s beautiful feet and the mistress was finding it difficult to walk in them, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress Charlene’

There is a pause.

A pregnant pause?

‘You broke off my heels, pig?’

She sounds incredulous. As well she might!

This is ominous. My mistress is clearly displeased.

I should just shut up now, and take whatever is coming to me, but instead I foolishly try to put the blame on my mistress again – Ha! Ha! What an idiot I am! Trying to suggest that my mistress, who can do no wrong, was to blame for the state of her broken, high-heeled shoes!

But I persisted in my foolish strategy of self-centred self-defence anyway:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave was ordered by the sweet and kind mistress to do so, if it pleases you mistress, and only did so out of concern for the mistress’s well-being, if you would be so kind most merciful and all-powerful mistress.’

Even as I was saying my weaselly words I recognised myself what a despicable heel I was.

I am doomed!

‘Liar!...’ exclaims my mistress – though not too loudly, given the delicate state of her head!

Nor, apparently, does she have the energy to reach down and slap me across my impudent face again.

‘…I’m reporting you to the Female Police!’ is all she says.

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach as my mistress’s bare, left foot sinks into the depths of her furry, red slipper.

And she kept true to her word – albeit several hours later. She called out the Female Police and reported me for the crimes of wantonly destroying her nice, new, silver-sparkly stiletto shoes, and then seeking to cover up my crime by lying to her about it, even to the extent of falsely accusing her of ordering me to break off the heels!

The Female Police officers had heard enough and I was promptly arrested and taken straight to the Female Courts where the broken shoes were presented in evidence against me.

I was, of course, found guilty by the good lady-judge, and I am now confined in a foothole-dungeon awaiting sentencing.

I don’t expect to see my sweet mistress Charlene ever again, for my female defence lawyer, who offered no defence on my behalf, has gleefully informed me that the minimum sentence I can expect is 20 years imprisonment in the foothole-dungeons, which at my age effectively amounts to a life-sentence.

I wonder if master Frederick will ever bother to see my beloved mistress again?’