Cold and Lonely
Tale no. 6 – Cold and Lonely
‘Cold!
I am freezing cold – cold and alone in my public footslave-cubicle. For it is winter, and it is late at night. Almost midnight. Not many people out and about in the wind and rain swept town square tonight.
My footslave-cubicle offers some protection against the elements, for it resembles a toilet cubicle. It has 3 sides, a roof, and a door with a lock on the inside– all to provide privacy for the female-customer whilst she is having her shoes or boots licked clean. The walls and roof are not actually there for my protection or comfort, you understand! Nevertheless, I benefit from the design of my workplace.
It is also dark inside the cubicle – for the only light is a spotlight which shines down from the roof at an angle onto the wooden footrest in front of which I am chained and kneeling – the footrest on which the female customer, if there was one, would rest her superior feet as she sits in the ‘seat of power’ in front and above me, her feet resting at my face-level, ready to be licked, kissed or whatever else the mistress desires the public footslave to do to them.
The rest of the cubicle is pitch black, as many mistresses prefer it that way. They prefer their pretty faces and upper torsos to be ‘invisible’ to me as they sit in the high chair of power above me – only their lower legs and feet are visible to me thanks to the single spotlight.
Some mistresses like it that way because it provides them with an even greater degree of anonymity as I lick clean their dirty footwear. Others like it because it focuses all my slavish attention on the task in mouth – that of tongue-shining their pretty, feminine footwear.
But, whatever their reasoning, all of them seem to like it. Such advanced, private footslave-cubicles are becoming all the rage!
If only it was draught proof, for the wind and rain are howling outside and I am naked but for my slave-shorts. All slaves in the Gynarchy are kept semi-naked, whatever the weather. I mean, who ever heard of a slave wearing proper clothes! Ha! Ha!
I suppose I should just be grateful I’m not one of the many public footslaves who have to ply their trade in the open – fully exposed to the elements, for one thing you can be completely sure of is that their owners will make no allowances for them in such weather!
Yes, at least I am sheltered from the rain as I shiver in the draught! I am grateful for such small, feminine mercies.
Suddenly I hear the door to my cubicle creaking open and a young woman steps inside, deftly locking the door behind her. At first I can only hear her, and not see her, as my back is to the door, and she must walk round me in order to take up her seat in the chair in front of me.
I can tell she is young, however, by the style of her leg and footwear – black ski-pant style trousers hugging a young, shapely pair of calves and shin muscles, and low-heeled, lace-up, black leather ankle boots. I would say this young woman is in her mid to late twenties, even though I cannot hope to see her pretty face in the pitch black of the booth.
As she settles herself into the chair, however, both her ankle-booted feet now resting on the wooden footrest directly in front of my humbly bowed and kneeling face, I can clearly see, thanks to the spotlight, the thick, elasticated tops of her black, ankle-length bootsocks on soft, brown skin. The light shines so brightly on her socks and ankle boots I can even see the individual stitches in the tops of her plain black, woollen socks. I am gratified to know that my late-night customer is either black or Asian, and that her pretty, feminine feet must be nice and cosy on this bitterly cold night inside her nice, warm, thick bootsocks.
Thanks to the spotlight I can also see clearly the tiny, tell-tale signs of wear and tear in this evidently well-worn and favourite pair of ankle-boots – little creases in the black leather around the toe areas; one or two scuff marks on the low heels; a slight tear in one of the stitches along the lower rim of her right boot.
Above all, however I can see the results of the inclement weather outside on the pretty, female boots – droplets of dirty rainwater running down the sides; patches of wet mud running along the sides and the soles; a blade of wet, sticky grass stuck in the gap between the low-heel and the sole of her left boot.
I can well understand therefore, why this young woman feels she needs the services of the public footslave – even if it is less clear to me what such a modestly dressed young woman is doing out and about on her own at this time of night, and in such dreadful weather!
She gives me her orders:
‘Slave clean the filth off my boots.’
It is a Pakistani accent. I know that because I have become a good judge of female accents over the years. I have to be, for I get few visual clues as to the ethnic origins of my customers (not all of them are so unguarded about allowing me a furtive glimpse of their soft, bare legs above the tops of their socks!)
I find myself wondering whether this young Pakistani woman may be wearing a traditional headscarf. I have no way of knowing, of course, but she seems quite demurely dressed as far as her lower clothing is concerned, and, despite her nonchalance concerning her lower, bare leg, I sense that this may be a young woman of strong morals from a traditional background. In my humble experience it is not uncommon for such modest and traditional young Pakistani women to wear a mixture of traditional and western clothing – such as headscarves and jeans; salwar kameez outfits with sneakers etc.!
I suppose a flimsy, silken salwar kameez outfit would not provide her with much warmth or protection from the elements on a cold and windy night such as this. She could well be wearing her jeans and thick bootsocks for purely practical reasons on a night like this!
Then again, would a young Pakistani woman with traditional values from a traditional family be out and about on her own this late at night? Probably not!
My musings and speculations are soon interrupted by further clarification from the young Pakistani woman as to her requirements. She points to the outer side of her right boot with a slender, brown, index finger:
‘Make sure you clean here…lick away all that filth; and clean up my laces also. I want you to suck all the mud out of them.’
‘Yes mistress…at once mistress. This slave obeys the superior mistress.’
I decide that this is one customer I must be sure to keep on the right side of. She clearly knows her own mind, traditional values or not. She also sounds authoritative and accustomed to being obeyed by slaves. No inhibitions about giving such demeaning orders to a male slave who must be nearly twice her age. Perhaps she has her own slaves at home.
And so I decide that I must ingratiate myself towards the all-powerful young mistress. The public-use whip is, after all, hanging beside her right arm on the wall of the cubicle, ready and waiting for her to pick it up and warm my cold shoulders for me should I fail to please her!
I therefore immediately begin licking away the offending streak of street-filth on the outer side of her right boot, just as she had ordered me to. As I do so, I sense her leaning forward to watch me at my humble work.
I seek to ingratiate myself towards her, in between licking:
‘I trust the mistress is not too cold, tonight, young mistress? The weather sounds really bad out there tonight.’
‘Shut up slave! No talking! Just lick my boots and suck my laces!’
‘Yes mistress…pray forgive me, sweet mistress!’
I then shut up. This young woman is clearly not what I call a ‘chatterer’ – a mistress who likes to hear a slave verbally grovel at her feet whilst he physically grovels over her boots. Indeed, from her haughty and dismissive tone she sounds as though she regards herself as being too and mighty to engage in polite conversation with a lowly, dirty, public footslave such as myself.
And she is, of course, quite right about that.
I therefore concentrate on licking, and swallowing her boot mud, and then sucking and swallowing the dirt and mud from her dirty bootlaces.
All the time I am salivating – not with the taste of her dirty footwear in my mouth, but with the sight of her pretty, black bootsocks. Oh how I would love to nuzzle at them – just to demonstrate my pathetic, cringing servility to this superior young, Pakistani woman – be she head scarfed or not! Besides, burying my nose in the folds at the tops of her woollen socks might help to warm my slave nose up a bit. It is starting to go numb with the cold!
The young woman’s mobile phone rings just as I am starting to lick at that blade of dead grass underneath the dirty heel of her left ankle boot. She sits back in her seat again, and answers it in Urdu.
It is quite an animated conversation, but I have no way of knowing, of course what it is about. Perhaps it is her concerned boyfriend, – wondering where she is? Perhaps it is a female friend with whom she has just had an argument? Perhaps it is her father, or elder brother, ordering her to return home immediately?
Whatever and whoever it is, it is none of my business. My business is to lick the dirt and filth of this superior, young woman’s black leather, low-heeled, lace-up ankle-boots.
She finishes her phone conversation and appears to take out a compact mirror in order to apply some lipstick. All the while I continue to tongue-shine her boots and suck on her dirty laces – for the golden rule of public footslavery is that it is the female customer who decides when the job is finished, not the slave. I must lick and suck until I am told to stop.
It truth be told I don’t even want to stop – because I am quite enjoying the company of this superior, young Pakistani woman with the black, lace-up ankle boots and thick, black bootsocks. I love the company of warm, female boots and socks!
Sadly, however, the young Pakistani mistress has better things to do than to sit all night having her boots licked by a dirty, middle-aged footslave. She suddenly gathers up her things, climbs down from the high seat, and exits my footslave-cubicle without a word of goodbye or thanks.
But I am not expecting any such niceties from such an innately superior and haughty young Pakistani woman. She is quite right to treat me like dirt – like the dirt beneath her boots; for that very dirt is now inside my mouth and stomach, where it belongs, and the erstwhile owner of the bootdirt has disappeared into the night to wherever she belongs.’
‘Cold!
I am freezing cold – cold and alone in my public footslave-cubicle. For it is winter, and it is late at night. Almost midnight. Not many people out and about in the wind and rain swept town square tonight.
My footslave-cubicle offers some protection against the elements, for it resembles a toilet cubicle. It has 3 sides, a roof, and a door with a lock on the inside– all to provide privacy for the female-customer whilst she is having her shoes or boots licked clean. The walls and roof are not actually there for my protection or comfort, you understand! Nevertheless, I benefit from the design of my workplace.
It is also dark inside the cubicle – for the only light is a spotlight which shines down from the roof at an angle onto the wooden footrest in front of which I am chained and kneeling – the footrest on which the female customer, if there was one, would rest her superior feet as she sits in the ‘seat of power’ in front and above me, her feet resting at my face-level, ready to be licked, kissed or whatever else the mistress desires the public footslave to do to them.
The rest of the cubicle is pitch black, as many mistresses prefer it that way. They prefer their pretty faces and upper torsos to be ‘invisible’ to me as they sit in the high chair of power above me – only their lower legs and feet are visible to me thanks to the single spotlight.
Some mistresses like it that way because it provides them with an even greater degree of anonymity as I lick clean their dirty footwear. Others like it because it focuses all my slavish attention on the task in mouth – that of tongue-shining their pretty, feminine footwear.
But, whatever their reasoning, all of them seem to like it. Such advanced, private footslave-cubicles are becoming all the rage!
If only it was draught proof, for the wind and rain are howling outside and I am naked but for my slave-shorts. All slaves in the Gynarchy are kept semi-naked, whatever the weather. I mean, who ever heard of a slave wearing proper clothes! Ha! Ha!
I suppose I should just be grateful I’m not one of the many public footslaves who have to ply their trade in the open – fully exposed to the elements, for one thing you can be completely sure of is that their owners will make no allowances for them in such weather!
Yes, at least I am sheltered from the rain as I shiver in the draught! I am grateful for such small, feminine mercies.
Suddenly I hear the door to my cubicle creaking open and a young woman steps inside, deftly locking the door behind her. At first I can only hear her, and not see her, as my back is to the door, and she must walk round me in order to take up her seat in the chair in front of me.
I can tell she is young, however, by the style of her leg and footwear – black ski-pant style trousers hugging a young, shapely pair of calves and shin muscles, and low-heeled, lace-up, black leather ankle boots. I would say this young woman is in her mid to late twenties, even though I cannot hope to see her pretty face in the pitch black of the booth.
As she settles herself into the chair, however, both her ankle-booted feet now resting on the wooden footrest directly in front of my humbly bowed and kneeling face, I can clearly see, thanks to the spotlight, the thick, elasticated tops of her black, ankle-length bootsocks on soft, brown skin. The light shines so brightly on her socks and ankle boots I can even see the individual stitches in the tops of her plain black, woollen socks. I am gratified to know that my late-night customer is either black or Asian, and that her pretty, feminine feet must be nice and cosy on this bitterly cold night inside her nice, warm, thick bootsocks.
Thanks to the spotlight I can also see clearly the tiny, tell-tale signs of wear and tear in this evidently well-worn and favourite pair of ankle-boots – little creases in the black leather around the toe areas; one or two scuff marks on the low heels; a slight tear in one of the stitches along the lower rim of her right boot.
Above all, however I can see the results of the inclement weather outside on the pretty, female boots – droplets of dirty rainwater running down the sides; patches of wet mud running along the sides and the soles; a blade of wet, sticky grass stuck in the gap between the low-heel and the sole of her left boot.
I can well understand therefore, why this young woman feels she needs the services of the public footslave – even if it is less clear to me what such a modestly dressed young woman is doing out and about on her own at this time of night, and in such dreadful weather!
She gives me her orders:
‘Slave clean the filth off my boots.’
It is a Pakistani accent. I know that because I have become a good judge of female accents over the years. I have to be, for I get few visual clues as to the ethnic origins of my customers (not all of them are so unguarded about allowing me a furtive glimpse of their soft, bare legs above the tops of their socks!)
I find myself wondering whether this young Pakistani woman may be wearing a traditional headscarf. I have no way of knowing, of course, but she seems quite demurely dressed as far as her lower clothing is concerned, and, despite her nonchalance concerning her lower, bare leg, I sense that this may be a young woman of strong morals from a traditional background. In my humble experience it is not uncommon for such modest and traditional young Pakistani women to wear a mixture of traditional and western clothing – such as headscarves and jeans; salwar kameez outfits with sneakers etc.!
I suppose a flimsy, silken salwar kameez outfit would not provide her with much warmth or protection from the elements on a cold and windy night such as this. She could well be wearing her jeans and thick bootsocks for purely practical reasons on a night like this!
Then again, would a young Pakistani woman with traditional values from a traditional family be out and about on her own this late at night? Probably not!
My musings and speculations are soon interrupted by further clarification from the young Pakistani woman as to her requirements. She points to the outer side of her right boot with a slender, brown, index finger:
‘Make sure you clean here…lick away all that filth; and clean up my laces also. I want you to suck all the mud out of them.’
‘Yes mistress…at once mistress. This slave obeys the superior mistress.’
I decide that this is one customer I must be sure to keep on the right side of. She clearly knows her own mind, traditional values or not. She also sounds authoritative and accustomed to being obeyed by slaves. No inhibitions about giving such demeaning orders to a male slave who must be nearly twice her age. Perhaps she has her own slaves at home.
And so I decide that I must ingratiate myself towards the all-powerful young mistress. The public-use whip is, after all, hanging beside her right arm on the wall of the cubicle, ready and waiting for her to pick it up and warm my cold shoulders for me should I fail to please her!
I therefore immediately begin licking away the offending streak of street-filth on the outer side of her right boot, just as she had ordered me to. As I do so, I sense her leaning forward to watch me at my humble work.
I seek to ingratiate myself towards her, in between licking:
‘I trust the mistress is not too cold, tonight, young mistress? The weather sounds really bad out there tonight.’
‘Shut up slave! No talking! Just lick my boots and suck my laces!’
‘Yes mistress…pray forgive me, sweet mistress!’
I then shut up. This young woman is clearly not what I call a ‘chatterer’ – a mistress who likes to hear a slave verbally grovel at her feet whilst he physically grovels over her boots. Indeed, from her haughty and dismissive tone she sounds as though she regards herself as being too and mighty to engage in polite conversation with a lowly, dirty, public footslave such as myself.
And she is, of course, quite right about that.
I therefore concentrate on licking, and swallowing her boot mud, and then sucking and swallowing the dirt and mud from her dirty bootlaces.
All the time I am salivating – not with the taste of her dirty footwear in my mouth, but with the sight of her pretty, black bootsocks. Oh how I would love to nuzzle at them – just to demonstrate my pathetic, cringing servility to this superior young, Pakistani woman – be she head scarfed or not! Besides, burying my nose in the folds at the tops of her woollen socks might help to warm my slave nose up a bit. It is starting to go numb with the cold!
The young woman’s mobile phone rings just as I am starting to lick at that blade of dead grass underneath the dirty heel of her left ankle boot. She sits back in her seat again, and answers it in Urdu.
It is quite an animated conversation, but I have no way of knowing, of course what it is about. Perhaps it is her concerned boyfriend, – wondering where she is? Perhaps it is a female friend with whom she has just had an argument? Perhaps it is her father, or elder brother, ordering her to return home immediately?
Whatever and whoever it is, it is none of my business. My business is to lick the dirt and filth of this superior, young woman’s black leather, low-heeled, lace-up ankle-boots.
She finishes her phone conversation and appears to take out a compact mirror in order to apply some lipstick. All the while I continue to tongue-shine her boots and suck on her dirty laces – for the golden rule of public footslavery is that it is the female customer who decides when the job is finished, not the slave. I must lick and suck until I am told to stop.
It truth be told I don’t even want to stop – because I am quite enjoying the company of this superior, young Pakistani woman with the black, lace-up ankle boots and thick, black bootsocks. I love the company of warm, female boots and socks!
Sadly, however, the young Pakistani mistress has better things to do than to sit all night having her boots licked by a dirty, middle-aged footslave. She suddenly gathers up her things, climbs down from the high seat, and exits my footslave-cubicle without a word of goodbye or thanks.
But I am not expecting any such niceties from such an innately superior and haughty young Pakistani woman. She is quite right to treat me like dirt – like the dirt beneath her boots; for that very dirt is now inside my mouth and stomach, where it belongs, and the erstwhile owner of the bootdirt has disappeared into the night to wherever she belongs.’
