The Door to Door Footslave
Part 1 - The Off-Duty Waitress
Master Peter knocked on the door of the run-down looking apartment. Kneeling at his feet, naked but for his slave shorts and collar and chain, was one of the company's footslaves.
Peter had been commissioned with drumming up as much business as possible in this poorer part of town as the company was desperate to expand its client base. They already had plenty of customers on the richer side of town, but the company directors were gambling that the poorer inhabitants, many of whom could not afford their own slaves, would embrace the services their company offered even more willingly - providing, of course, the price was right.
To that end Peter was being sent around the homes in the area offering the good, honest, hard-working citizens a free 'one hour sample' of the services his company had on offer, in the expectation that a proportion of them would pay for similar services in future.
The door was opened by an attractive, if slightly overweight, black woman in her mid thirties. Peter noticed how she had her hair tied back in a bun, and was wearing a loose fitting black teeshirt and black leggings.
From his humble position, kneeling in the dirt, the footslave noticed that she had on a pair of blue and white flip flops and that her broad, black feet were quite leathery-callused. Her toe-nails had at some time been painted bright red, but the paint was now showing signs of chipping off.
As the slave took in these (for him) important details, Master Peter began his well-rehearsed spiel:
"Good Afternoon, Madam. My name is Pete and I represent the 'Footslaves4u' company. I would like to offer you now a one hour free trial of our services, using this dirty slave who is at this moment kneeling at your beautiful feet. Do you have your own domestic slave?"
In this area it was virtually a rhetorical question. Peter knew the answer would be 'no', but it was important to engage the customer in conversation at an early stage.
"Oh my God! No, I do not have my own slave", answered the woman in a thick west african accent, clearly somewhat startled at the unexpected sight of a tall, handsome master with a pathetic, semi naked male slave kneeling in the dirt at her doorstep.
She was, however, instantly impressed by master Peter. He was just her 'type' - white, a businessman, about her own age, strong manly physique - clearly an 'alpha male'. The sheer contrast between the well-dressed salesman and the wretched near-naked male slave kneeling at his feet, excited her. She liked this vision of power and domination on the one hand, and powerlessness and humiliation on the other.
"In that case, Madam, may we come in so that I can demonstrate our services to you for free?"
"Yes, please", smiled the black woman.
Peter smiled too - this was looking promising. Another customer soon to be signed up?
He pulled the pathetic kneeling slave after him as he entered into the short hallway and then the living room. It was not particularly tidy, and Aminata (for that was the black woman's name) somewhat embarrassedly, started picking up magazines and papers off the floor in an effort to improve the appearance of her humble dwelling.
"Please, Madam, don't bother yourself about tidying up", laughed master Peter. "That's one of the services our slave can offer you, if you wish!"
The woman relaxed and smiled:
"Please, call me 'Aminata'.
Pete smiled too. This was going very well. He liked this woman, found her attractive, and sensed that she fancied him too. Was she maried, he wondered? Although he had already noticed that there were no signs of any other inhabitants in the flat.
Aminata beckoned to Pete to sit down on the sofa which, as it happens, was the only seating facility in the room, meaning that she had no option but to sit beside him. The slave dutifully knelt without being told in front of the customer's feet as master Peter continued his sales patter, producing a sample glossy brochure from his briefcase.
"As you can see, Aminata, we can offer you a number of services - all free for today. Our dirty footslave can do anything for you from just kissing and worshipping your feet and footwear, to washing your dirty feet, to a full pedicure. Anything you wish him to do, in fact, and our prices are very reasonable - although, today you won't have to pay anything at all!"
Aminata smiled at Peter, and then glanced down at the kneeling male slave at her feet. She hadn't really taken much notice of the slave until now - so impressed was she by 'Pete'. However, she now observed that the slave was an older man - possibly in his late forties or early fifties, balding, unattractive and pathetic. Her expression changed to one of disdain as she sensed not only Pete's, but also her own superiority, over the kneeling male creature who was being forced to stare humbly at her black feet.
"Now, continued Pater interrupting her reverie, "How can my slave serve you for free today? Have you any dirty boots or shoes that need cleaning? Any dirty socks you want him to wash in his mouth? Or perhaps you would like a pedicure?. Remember, you can use him for a full hour absolutely free of charge by way of our introductory offer".
Aminata smiled again at Peter. She looked at her feet and considered her options. Her feet were tired and sore that afternoon. She had been waitressing in a restaurant all that morning from breakfast time until lunchtime, and her feet were still hot and sweaty. The thought occurred to her that it would be nice to have this wretched male slave lick clean her tired black feet with his ugly tongue.
"Can you make him lick my feet clean?", she asked Pete somewhat tentatively.
"Of course!", smiled Pete. He found her diffidence about the use of a footslave rather naive and enchanting.
"Dirty slave", he barked at the footslave kneeling at the woman's feet, "Take off Miss Aminata's sandals and lick her bare feet clean with your slave tongue. Make sure you remove all the sweat and toe cheese and leave her superior black feet feeling revived and refreshed!".
Miss Aminata was thrilled at the way the strong master spoke to the weak and feeble slave who was down where he belonged at her feet. She just wasn't used to having a slave to boss about and give orders to. She knew that rich women who could afford their own slaves took it for granted, but, apart from the odd shoe-shine by one of the public footslaves in the town centre, she had never had the opportunity to really humiliate and dominate a dirty slave in the privacy of her own home. However, she could definitely get used to this - total power over a pathetic, helpless male slave.
Inexperienced as she was at dealing with a footslave, she raised her sandaled foot to the kneeling slave's nose to facilitate him in taking off her right flip flop - something an experienced Mistress would never have done. It was a slave's responsibility to remove his Mistress's footwear without her help. Such a task was beneath her, and it was the slave's duty to work out how to remove a lady's footwear - it was his problem, not hers. If he failed or was awkward in his duty he would be deservedly punished. That was the way it should be.
As he removed the flip flop from the black Mistress's foot the slave saw that it was well worn and that the white sole of the shoe had become badly discoloured over time through a mixture of dirt and sweat from her black footflesh. He was glad that he had not (yet) been ordered to lick her flip flops clean.
Mistress Aminata and Master Peter looked down on the humble slave, both literally and figuratively, as he cradled the woman's dirty right foot in his slave hands and lowered his slave tongue to the skin at the side of her foot. They both had expressions of utter contempt and disdain on their faces for the humble slave - and rightly so. For he was a truly pathetic creature, barely worthy to be in their presence, let alone to be allowed the privelege of touching and licking a superior woman's feet.
As the footslave's tongue touched the somewhat leathery skin of Miss Aminata's beautiful black foot he caught a whiff of the unmistakeable aroma of feminine foot sweat, sweat which he knew he must now transfer into his slave mouth and down his slave throat - where it belonged. He concentrated initially on licking the hard skin around the edge of her black sole, admiring as he did so how her foot skin changed to a lighter hue of brown skin on the sole of the foot itself. He noticed the tiniest wrinkles in her foot skin as her foot flexed in reaction to his humble ministrations. He felt bits of dead skin mingled in with the foot sweat on his tongue, and as he moved his tongue inbetween her toes he tasted little balls of sweaty, salty toe cheese - food fit for a slave.
Miss Aminata giggled with pleasure and delight at the slave's humble servitude. She felt a surge of power and cruelty run through her. She truly was the one with all the power at that moment, and she looked lovingly at the man who had given her that power - master Peter. With a man like that in her life she could conquer the world!
The slave continued to lick her foot and suck her ebony toes for some five minutes, and, as he did so, Miss Aminata and Master Peter drew inexorably closer to one another, first tenderly stroking each other's faces and then kissing each other on the lips, pausing only to order the pathetic footslave to lick clean Mistress Aminata's other foot.
As he licked, chewed and swallowed Miss Aminata's dirty foot sweat and toe cheese, the footslave realised that he would soon be banished from the room whilst his Master and new Mistress made out on the sofa.
Sure enough, after some 10 minutes of foot-licking in total, the dirty footslave was ordered out of the room by his Master, a real man, and ordered to clean Mistress Aminata's dirty boots which she had informed him were lying in the kitchen.
As he crawled on his hands and knees into the kitchen, closing the living room door discreetly behind him, he could hear the groans of pleasure coming from Mistress Aminata as Master Peter did what he, the footslave, could never, and would never, do - give sexual pleasure and satisfaction to a woman. The footslave knew his place in the world - which was to clean the dirty boots of a superior woman whilst she made out with a superior man in the neighbouring room.
He soon found the dirty boots lying in a corner on the kitchen floor - and they were, indeed, truly filthy. They were a pair of block-heeled, black leather zip-up ankle boots, both literally caked in mud and grass on the soles and along the lower rim, with splashes of mud and dirt on the upper parts. The Mistress must have been out in the rain, and had allowed the street dirt to dry on her boots after taking them off and throwing them nonchalantly onto the kitchen floor - street dirt, which he knew now belonged in his mouth and stomach.
Still on his knees, as befits a footslave, he picked up one of the dirty black ankle boots and allowed himself a quick sniff of the inside of the boot. There it was again - the unmistakable smell of a black woman's foot sweat, a smell fit for a slave. He allowed himself the small, but pathetic, luxury of inhaling deeply the smell of the inside of the woman's dirty leather ankle boot for a few precious seconds, before beginning the chore he had been set by his master - that of licking clean his superior black African Mistress's boots and divesting them of all the accumulated street muck until they shone like new.
He began with the sole, making sure his tongue reached deep into the treads removing all the street gunk that was soiling his new Mistress's footwear. To swallow such street filth was an honour for the footslave, but only because it had been attached to the boot soles of a superior woman. As he moved his tongue to the upper part of the first boot, he wondered whether she had worn the boots with socks today. If she had, he would be honoured to wash those socks in his dirty slave mouth.
He speculated as to what colour of socks she may have worn - black? white? red?. And would they have been proper, thick boot socks or just thin cotton socks? Such thoughts torment a footslave when he is working, as he is rightly obsessed with the feet and footwear of whichever woman he has been ordered to serve. However, he could see no sign of any dirty socks lying around, and he dare not take a sneaky peak in her laundry basket - he had too much work to do.
He picked up the second boot and tongued it thoroughly also. After some 20 minutes or so of licking the boots clean, and just as they were starting to truly shine nicely with his slave saliva, he heard his master call him back into the living room:
"Slave, get back in here, and bring Mistress Aminata's boots with you for her inspection".
The couple were now seated comfortably again on the sofa. As he crawled back into the living room the footslave sensed that their love making had been a success as they both seemed relaxed and happy.
The slave crawled awkwardly as he carried the pair of black ankle boots in one hand and presented them, head suitably bowed, at Mistress Aminata's feet.
"Well, my darling, are you satisfied with your boots? Are you satisfied with my slave's work in shining them up for you?", enquired master Peter.
Miss Aminata gave her boots a cursory glance and then told master Peter, much to the kneeling slave's relief, that she was satisfied with her newly-cleaned boots. She thanked him -Peter - for having her boots cleaned. She, of course, did not thank the slave for his efforts. He had merely obeyed his superior master's orders. In fact, Aminata no longer gave the slave kneeling dutifully at her black feet a second thought. She only had thoughts for his wonderful master, with whom she was now falling in love.
But all good things must come to an end, and Pete had a job to do. He had another 15 houses to visit in this street this afternoon. Reluctantly, he and his slave had to leave. They would definitely be back at Miss Aminata's flat, and Pete had already made an executive decision - Aminata would never have to pay to use his slave.
As he knocked on the door of the next house, Master Peter wondered what delights may lay inside the next run-down apartment.
Part 2 – The Goth Girl
The door of the next apartment was opened by an attractive, slim blonde woman, in her early 40s, dressed in a nurse’s uniform.
From his lowly kneeling position all the footslave could see was her white stockings under her blue knee-length skirt and her white, flat, lace-up, sensible nurse’s shoes. The slave who could also hear the heavy thud of rock music in the background.
Master Peter gave his usual spiel, introducing himself and his company to the potential new customer, and explaining all about today’s special offer of a free session with their ‘travelling footslave’.
The nurse indicated that she was just getting ready to go out to work, but suggested that her daughter may be able to make use of the footslave’s services. She therefore invited Master Peter to come in. The slave followed humbly on his hands and knees.
As the trio entered the living room master Peter asked the woman if she was sure there was nothing the footslave could do for her before he served her daughter.
The woman laughed:
“Well, I do have to go out to work in about one hour’s time, but I suppose my shoes could do with a quick clean!”.
“No problem, Madam”, replied Master Peter, inviting her to sit down and extend her right foot under the kneeling slave’s face:
“Slave”, he continued, “lick clean the lady’s shoes – and be quick about it!”
The slave obediently lowered his mouth to the top of the nurse’s flat white shoe and set to work with his tongue. The shoe was made of canvas and therefore smelt a little rubbery. Although it already appeared relatively clean, it was nevertheless a working shoe with all the inevitable tell-tale signs of some wear and tear. In particular, the footslave noticed some scuff marks around the toe of the shoe. He therefore concentrated licking first that particular area, before moving his tongue around to the side of her shoe and then towards her shapely ankle.
As he did so he noticed how her thin, white stocking was now slightly creased around her ankle – caused by her extending her foot under his nose –and, presumptuous of him though it was, he couldn’t help wondering, as he licked her flat white shoe, how long she had been wearing those white stockings. Were they fresh on that day? Or had she been wearing the same stockings two days, or more, in a row? Would he be given the privilege of sniffing the nurse’s white stockinged feet, or would he be restricted to smelling and licking her white nurse’s shoes? Such pathetic thoughts torment a footslave whilst he is at work.
After he had extended his tongue to clean the flat heel of her white shoe, the blonde nurse-mistress then withdrew her right foot and replaced it with her left. The humble slave repeated the process with his female-master’s left shoe which he noticed was, for some reason, slightly dustier and dirtier than her right one. Again there were the stocking creases around the ankle. How he longed to pay his respects to her stockings – even just to kiss her stockinged ankle. But his orders were merely to lick clean her canvass shoe – and a slave has no choice but to merely obey his betters’ orders.
The woman was clearly enjoying the slave’s attention to her shoe. Being a nurse by profession she was, of course, a kind-hearted and caring woman, but it was a nice change for her to have a humble slave ‘worshipping’ her in this way. It stirred in her the deep-seated feelings of superiority and dominance that exist in every woman. She told master Peter as much as the slave removed her shoe-dirt into his slave mouth.
“Yes, Madam, all our customers comment on how rewarding it is to dominate and humiliate our footslaves. You can basically do what you like to them with impunity. All that we ask is that you return them to us more or less in the same condition you found them!”
The two free human beings laughed, revelling in their mutual power over the pathetic shoe-licking creature at their feet.
After some 5 minutes or so the nurse appeared satisfied with the slave’s ministrations to her shoes:
“I was just going to make myself a cup of tea before I head off. Can I get you one?”, she asked master Peter.
“Thanks, that would be great”, responded Pete. A shag in one apartment followed by a cup of tea in the next – can’t be bad, he thought to himself.
Of course, the footslave was not offered any refreshment. The thought never crossed the nurse’s mind.
“Tracey!”, she shouted, as she rose from the sofa.
There was no response initially as the heavy thump of the rock music continued upstairs.
Tracey’s mother shouted more loudly:
“Tracey!”
This time the music was turned down and an impatient female voice could be heard shouting back from upstairs:
“What? What is it?!”.
“Come down here a moment”, replied her mother.
‘Tracey’ was clearly feeling inconvenienced by this rude interruption to her music session.
“What do you want, for God’s sake Mom – I’m trying to listen to my music!”.
“Just come down will you please – I’ve got something for you!”, continued her mother.
She then apologised to Peter for her daughter’s petulance, explaining that although she was 20 years old she still behaved like a spoilt brat sometimes.
The sound of heavy-booted feet could then be heard clumping down the stairs of the two-storey apartment as the music now appeared to be turned off altogether.
“What is it?”, shouted a young voice in exasperation as the beautiful Tracey entered the living room, followed by an exclamation:
“Wow, what’s this?!”
Master Peter smiled at the girl as the footslave stared humbly at her feet. Tracey was a ‘goth’ – slim and attractive, her long hair dyed dark black with various nose and facial piercings enhancing the natural beauty she had inherited from her mother. She was wearing a black sleeveless top with the name and logo of her favourite goth band emblazoned in red on the front, a very short black skirt, thick purple and black stripy tights and heavy black, lace-up Doc Marten style ankle boots. Whilst master Peter admired the girl’s striking appearance, the footslave admired her boots and tights – such a wonderful combination of femininity combined with girl-power.
Tracey’s mother answered her daughter’s question:
“Say hello to Peter, darling. He’s from the ‘Footslaves4U’ company”.
The young woman smiled at the handsome master Peter:
“Hi, Pete!”, she chirped.
“And this is one of their footslaves”, continued her mother, “I thought you might like to use him to clean your dirty boots?”
“Wow, can I? That would be cool!”, responded Tracey excitedly.
Her mother laughed:
“I knew you’d be pleased, and those disgusting boots of yours sure need a good cleaning. How many times have I told you not to wear them around the house!”
This was clearly a long -running bone of contention between mother and daughter. Tracey’s mother continued:
“Why don’t you take the slave up to your room whilst I get Pete a cup of tea?”
“Great”, responded her daughter. The younger woman then looked down at the slave:
“You, the slave, follow me on your hands and knees!”, she snapped.
Master Peter smiled to himself – this young woman was a natural, however he felt he should offer her some professional advice:
“And Miss, remember he has to do everything you say. If you’re not happy with anything just give me a shout and I’ll see to him!”.
“Thanks Pete – sure thing!”, replied Tracey, as she turned to climb the stairs.
The footslave followed humbly after her on his hands and knees, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of her heavy, black ankle boots.
As they entered Tracey’s bedroom the slave’s first impression was that it was rather untidy. He could sense that there were lots of posters of rock bands on the walls, but from his lowly vantage point his best view was, of course, of the floor. There were CDs lying about, a pair of old black sneakers, and a pair of dirty white socks lying in one corner of the room.
Tracey sat on the edge of her bed and ordered the slave to kneel in front of her, head bowed at her booted feet.
“You heard your Master, slave, you have to do everything I say”.
She wanted the slave to be in no doubt as to who was in charge – not that the slave had any doubts:
“Yes, Miss”.
“What is your name, slave?”.
The footslave was somewhat taken aback by the young woman’s question. She seemed so naturally dominant, yet was asking such a naïve question!. However he had to answer her in the only way he could, even if his answer did appear rather rude:
“I….I don’t have a name, Miss, I’m just a slave.”
The young mistress laughed, apparently not offended by his answer at all:
“Is that so? Well, my name is Tracey, but you can call me ‘Mistress Tracey’. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mistress Tracey”.
“And how come you are a slave?”, she continued inquisitively.
Again, the slave was staggered by the apparent naivety of the question. He realised that this, apparently one-parent family, probably had never owned a slave, but could this young 20 year old woman really be so ignorant of such matters?
“I…….I was born a slave, Mistress Tracey”, he replied, somewhat hesitantly. Was she just playing with him? Teasing him?
“Well, in that case you should be good at it!”, exclaimed Tracey, reaching down to point with a purple-painted finger nail at the side of her right boot. “Do you see this dried-on muck on the side of my boots? It’s been there since last weekend when I was at a music festival. You’re going to lick it all off, slave, and make sure you do a good job. I want my boots to be gleaming. I want to be able to see my reflection in them, so you’d better start licking long and hard!”
“Yes, Mistress Tracey. It is my privelege to obey you, Mistress Tracey”.
“Get on with it!”, she shouted down at the pathetic footslave – a man who was at least twice her age, but, much to her delight, totally within her power.
The obedient slave lowered his tongue to the side of her dirty black boot and immediately tasted the, for him, familiar, bitter taste of mud mixed with boot-leather.
“Yuck! Filthy pig!”, exclaimed Mistress Tracey as she watched the slave obey her orders. “I’d hate to be a slave, having to lick people’s dirty boots and shoes and that. It’s like, totally gross, or something!”.
Yet again, the slave couldn’t help being amazed at the naivety of the young woman’s comment. There was no way she, a female, would ever be a slave. Only males – some males – were slaves in this enlightened society. Mistress Tracey would never have to lick the mud of someone’s shoes!
Tracey may have found what the slave was doing totally disgusting, but she had no compunction about making sure he did it properly. As he lathed her dirty boots with his slave tongue she continually pointed out the patches of dirt and mud she wanted him to lick off, even slapping him once or twice about the face when she thought he had missed a bit. She also made sure he sucked the dust and dirt off the black laces of her boots.
After some ten minutes of his licking and sucking her heavy black ankle boots she ordered the footslave to take off her boots and ‘polish the soles’ with his tongue.
As the slave unlaced and pulled off each of her boots he was assailed by the unmistakeable aroma of feminine footsweat. Moreover, it was the smell of stale footsweat, suggesting that the young mistress may well have been wearing the same stripy purple and black tights since her rock festival last weekend! She certainly hadn’t washed her feet in a while! But he was an experienced footslave. He didn’t flinch. Female foot odour comes with the territory when you are a humble footslave and, after many years of service at women’s feet a slave almost becomes used to it, unpleasant though it is.
The boots had deep treads on the soles and extracting the muck, grass and stones from them was quite a demanding task. But again, Mistress Tracey kindly assisted the slave by pointing out to him where the dirt and grime was as he licked clean the soles of her boots whilst kneeling at her stripy-stockinged, smelly feet.
He felt he was making good progress with the second boot when her mobile phone rang:
“Hi, honey”, Tracey answered it.
The slave heard a young man’s voice mumbling on the other end of the phone – presumably it was Mistress Tracey’s boyfriend. The slave noticed how she now went all soft and ‘girly’ whilst speaking to her boyfriend on the phone, using a very different tone from that which she used to order him about. But he realised that this was perfectly natural and proper. He was, after all, this young woman’s slave – not her boyfriend. She, quite rightly, despised him and had no reason to speak softly or gently to him – nor did any woman. He continued licking the sole of her left boot.
“Guess what”, he heard her say to her boyfriend, “Right at this moment I’ve got a slave licking the soles of my boots clean! That’s right! It’s so cool. He must be in his forties, or something, and he’s having to do whatever I say. His master is downstairs having a cup of tea with my Mom. He’s some sort of door-to-door footslave or something, but it’s really cool having a man to obey me and do lots of disgusting things for me!”
It occurred to the slave that it wasn’t often anybody referred to him as a ‘man’.
The young woman then appeared to laugh as her boyfriend made a suggestion down the phone:
“Sounds cool!”, she said.
She then addressed the slave, still keeping the phone to her ear so that her boyfriend could hear her:
“Slave, put down the boot. My boyfriend wants you to smell my tights, but you’re to begin by only smelling the purple stripes”.
She giggled as she thrust her right foot under the kneeling slave’s nose.
As she did so the slave had his first real close-up view of the young woman’s tights. The alternate black and purple stripes began with a purple area over the toes. These were definitely well-worn tights – a favourite pair – a fashion statement by the goth-girl. He even noticed the beginnings of a small hole in her tights over her big toe. As he obeyed her boyfriend’s orders by lowering his nose in order to sniff the first purple area covering her toes he was once again assailed by the unpleasant smell of stale, feminine foot-sweat.
“He’s doing it”, mistress Tracey informed her boyfriend, excited both by her boyfriend’s wonderful, humiliating idea and by the sight of the humble footslave obeying her degrading orders.
The slave ran his nose over the purple material of the stocking, inhaling deeply through his nose. Although he was indeed well used to the smell of women’s feet, it was still an unpleasant and debasing experience to be ordered to sniff someone’s sweaty feet.
He then moved up to the next purple stripe, missing out, as he had been ordered, the first black stripe. This second purple stripe was naturally, given the shape of the foot, a bit longer than the one covering her toes and he noticed how the stitching of the material was more stretched over this part of her foot. Again, he brushed his pathetic slave nose across the thick purple material and inhaled the young woman’s foot odour.
As he repeated the process with the next purple stripe Mistress Tracey ordered him to stop when he got to the top of her ankle. He therefore repeated the process until he got to a purple stripe that was just below her shapely ankle-bone.
“Now, you have to smell the black stripes”, she giggled, passing on the instructions her boyfriend was giving her down the phone.
One by one the slave sniffed the black stripes on his mistress’s stocking until he reached a black stripe that actually covered her ankle bone.
“Now, slave, my boyfriend wants to know which smell the stinkiest? The purple stripes or the black stripes?”
It was clear to the slave that this was purely an exercise in his humiliation. The young woman’s boyfriend clearly wanted to demonstrate his mastery over the slave at his girlfriend’s feet - even from a distance.
The slave wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question. There was really no discernible difference in the foot odour coming from the various stripes on her stockinged feet. If he had been asked whether the area around the toes, which happened to be purple, was smellier than the area around her ankle, which happened to be black, the answer would, of course, have been yes. The toes were always the sweatiest part of the feet. But he couldn’t, hand on heart, say that all the purple stripes were any smellier than all the black stripes. It was a meaningless question designed purely to demean him, and the slave decided that the best thing to do was to answer it using some ultra-humble slave-speak:
“If it pleases you, Mistress Tracey, this dirty, worthless slave can detect no difference in the odour coming from the purple and black stripes of your beautiful stocking”.
Mistress Tracey laughed out loud at the slave’s grovelling response:
“Did you hear that, Luke? He says that, if it pleases me, he can’t detect any difference in the smells!”
The slave could hear the young master laughing down the phone.
“My boyfriend wants to know, in that case, how you would rate the stinkiness of my feet on a scale of 1 to 10 – with 10 being the stinkiest?. What’s your answer, slave?”
The slave realised he had to be careful again. If he gave too high a rating, a 9 for example (which was probably what her feet merited) the young woman might be offended. But equally, she would want to know that he had found the experience of smelling her tights degrading and humiliating. He therefore answered his mistress as follows:
“If it pleases you, mistress Tracey, this foot-sniffing slave would give its mistress’s divine feet a rating of 7 out of 10”.
Tracey and her boyfriend seemed pleased at the rating. They both laughed again at his subservience.
“Carry on sniffing my other foot”, ordered the young mistress as she positioned her left, purple and black striped, stockinged foot up to the slave’s nose, and then largely ignored him as she indulged in some gossip and small-talk with her boyfriend over the phone.
As soon as she had finished her telephone conversation Mistress Tracey screwed up her face as if she was in some discomfort:
"Slave, my foot is itchy. You're going to scratch it for me - with your nose and face", she told him in a matter-of-fact way.
With that she extended the base of her right, stripy-stockinged foot up to the slave's face and began to rub her sweaty foot all over it. She moaned contentedly as the slave's face brought some relief to her itch through the stinky stocking. How wonderful it was to have a human scratching post for one's itchy foot!
For his part the slave could only think of how his whole face must now be reeking of mistress Tracey's foot-smell.
At this point master Peter knocked on her bedroom door, which was half-open, and entered her room.
“Everything OK, Miss?”, he enquired.
“Yeah, great. Thank’s Pete”, responded Tracey. “I’ve just been making your slave scratch my itch with his face, and before that I made him clean my boots and then smell my feet. But he seems to think my feet are quite stinky. He gave them a rating of 7 out of 10 on the stinkometer!”
“Oh, really”, laughed master Peter. “Well, perhaps we should make him do something about that. Why don’t we make him wash your feet?”
“Cool!”, replied Tracey
“We have a special way of making our slaves wash ladies’ feet. I’ll go and get a bowl of water from the bathroom whilst you take off your tights. Where is the bathroom?”
“”It’s the second on the left, Pete. You’ll find a basin in there too”.
With that mistress Tracey stood up and removed her purple and black thick stripy tights in front of the kneeling slave. He didn’t even attempt to get a glimpse of her knickers under her short black dress. Such sights were completely off-limits to footslaves.
She then sat on the edge of her bed again in front of the slave as master Peter returned with a bowl of warm water and placed it, together with a towel, beside the young woman’s bare feet.
The slave now had a close up view of mistress Tracey’s bare feet. The most striking thing about them was that her toenails were painted deep purple (matching her fingernails) although the paint was looking chipped and worn on some of the toes. He also noticed some track marks on her foot-skin from the stitching on her tights.
“Slave, you know how to wash this young mistress’s feet in the special way. Do it now!”, ordered master Peter.
Tracey thrilled at Peter’s authoritative tone.
The slave then began to wash mistress Tracey’s feet, as ordered, in the company’s ‘special’ way. To Tracey’s evident delight he didn’t, initially, place her feet in the bowl of water. Instead, he dipped his slave tongue into the water, washed her boot-dirt off it, then placed his wet, warm tongue between the big toe and the second toe of her right foot, moistening the sides of her toes and lathing them as he licked away the sweat and the toe-jam that had accumulated over the past few days on the young woman’s unwashed feet.
Mistress Tracey, clapped her hands:
“This is so cool! He’s having to clean my sweaty toes with his dirty, slave tongue!. This is just totally awesome!”, she exclaimed.
The slave repeated the process again and again, licking between each and every toe first on her right foot and then on her left foot. Mistress Tracey felt as though she were in heaven.
After some ten minutes master Peter ordered the slave to place the young woman’s feet into the basin of water and clean them properly. He explained to Miss Tracey that this was more to clean her feet of the slave’s saliva as his tongue would have already removed her foot sweat and toe-jam.
When he had finished doing this the slave was ordered to dry Mistress Tracey’s feet with the towel.
After he had done so Tracey made to pick up the bowl of now dirty water and take it to the bathroom. But master Peter stopped her in her tracks:
“No need to do that, Miss. The slave will dispose of the water for you. Slave, lap up Miss Tracey’s dirty foot water like the dog that you are!”
And with that, the slave started lapping up the now lukewarm, foul-tasting water that contained the remaining dirt and dead skin from mistress Tracey’s soft, feminine feet.
As she watched him lapping up and swallowing her dirty foot-water, Tracey was confirmed in her opinion that being a slave was totally gross.
Being a mistress, however, was tremendous fun!
Part 3 – Oriental Hospitality
The front door of the neighbouring apartment was opened by a young man of oriental appearance. As soon as the door was opened both master Peter and the kneeling footslave could hear a television blaring inside and lots of excited voices speaking in some sort of oriental language.
Master Peter explained about the offer of the free use of the footslave for one hour and was invited in by the young man.
Peter quickly established that there were five men and three women in the living room all crowded around the television set watching a soccer match. Peter loved soccer, and the outcome of his negotiations with the family members (somewhat tortuous negotiations, it has to be said, given the language barrier) was that Peter would join the men watching the soccer match whilst the three women would make use of the footslave in the 'basement'.
As Peter was handed a cold beer and invited to take a seat in a comfortable armchair in front of the television, the company footslave was being led away on his hands and knees by the three oriental women down some dingy stairs and into a dark and somewhat forbidding basement room.
As soon as he entered the basement one of the women switched on a bright light. The first thing that struck the footslave was the dusty, bare wooden floorboards. The second thing that struck him was the wooden trestle situated in the centre of the room, and the rattan cane hanging from a hook on its side. It looked like a professional dominatrix’s punishment room.
What the pathetic and perplexed footslave did not realise was that the trestle and cane had been brought by the family from their own country when they had fled for political reasons some three years previously. The head of the household, Mr Anuar, had been the chief official flogger for the previous regime, responsible for caning criminals and dissidents. Following a military coup, however, he had been forced to flee the country with his family. But they had managed to bring his punishment paraphernalia with them.
The three women who were now in the process of securing the door-to-door footslave over the punishment trestle were Anuar's wife, Mme Suria, and his two twin daughters, Faara and Darshen. The twins had been 21 years old when the family had fled the far-east, and they missed greatly their life of luxury in their home country. In particular, they missed taking part in the punishment of the criminals along with their father. On their 18th birthday, on the suggestion of their mother, he had invited them for the first time to the prison to witness a criminal being flogged. The girls had been keen not just to witness but also to participate in the disciplining of the criminal and their father had eventually relented allowing them to escort the criminal to the punishment trestle and to secure him to the trestle ready for his flogging.
Although the girls were slight of build, and the criminal had been a stockily-built brute of a man, he had been so weakened by fear of the impending flogging the two girls had had no problems in ensuring his compliance as they escorted him to the punishment trestle. He had wept as the soft hands of the two girls had then tied him to the trestle leaving his naked butt fully exposed and ready to receive their father’s cane. They had then stood one on either side of him and witnessed his suffering at close hand. They enjoyed it. And it was to be the first of many such floggings that they were to enjoy witnessing over the next few years– right up until the change of regime that led to their father falling out of favour with the government. They had even, on one or two rare occasions, been permitted by their father to lay a few strokes of the cane themselves on the backsides of criminals who had been sentenced to flogging.
Now aged 24, the twins were living with their parents and four brothers in a cramped apartment, in a strange country, and in the rundown part of town. They weren't exactly resentful at the loss of their previous wealth and status, but they did so miss the perks of being the daughters of a top government official. In particular they missed taking part in the floggings. Now was their chance to relive old pleasures.
As the three women secured him over the wooden trestle and pulled down his slave shorts to fully expose his bare buttocks, the frightened footslave had a better chance to see exactly who he was dealing with.
The elder of three women appeared to be in her mid-40s. Like nearly all oriental women she was quite petite, had dark hair, and was very pretty. From his prone and vulnerable position, bent over the wooden trestle with his face now just inches from the dirty wooden floor and his butt sticking high up into the air, he could see only that she was wearing brown, leather, knee-length, zip-up boots and black nylon stockings under a black, knee-length skirt.
The two younger women, who appeared to be identical twins, were, like their mother, dark haired and petite. The one on his left was wearing white shorts, white sneakers and short, pink sneaker-socks. The one on his right was wearing blue shorts, blue sneakers and white ankle socks with a blue trim at the top. The difference in footwear was the only way he was going to be able to distinguish between the two girls.
All three women were talking animatedly and excitedly in their own language as the two younger women tied his hands and legs to the punishment trestle. The older woman, whom he had guessed was their mother, was standing in front of him observing their work.
The girl with the pink sneaker-socks then knelt down and explained to the footslave what was going to happen. She appeared to be the only one who could speak good English, albeit with a cute asian accent:
"My name –Faara. This my sister, Darshen, and mother, Suria. You a slave – you call us ‘mistress’. Now we beat you while you kiss our mother’s feet. Lick boots”.
The footslave’s heart sank. He realized that he had no cause for complaint. He was a company-owned footslave and this family were potential customers, and if they wanted to beat him, even though he had done nothing wrong, they were, of course, perfectly within their rights to do so. The customer is always right. But right now he wished he wasn’t a slave – he wished he could be sitting upstairs enjoying a beer and watching the soccer match on TV along with the free men, rather than being tied over a punishment trestle about to be caned by three beautiful, but evidently cruel, oriental women.
Mme Suria then said something to Miss Faara, which the latter duly translated into English for the benefit of the footslave:
“Mistress Suria say slave kiss boots after stroke of cane. Thank her for pain. Beg for more pain!”
Mme Suria was now duly positioning herself in front of the slave - hands on hips with her right booted foot stretched out on the wooden floor directly under the slave’s nose. As she did so the footslave noticed how her knee-length leather boot creased around the ankle. He noticed also how the brown boot, which had at first sight appeared immaculate, was in fact a little scuffed around the toes, with traces of street dirt along the rim of the sole. Her boot seemed to tower above him as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw mistress Faara take the metre long, dark brown whippy cane off its hook on the side of the trestle and move behind him. Meanwhile Faara appeared to be telling her sister, miss Darshen, to stand well back as she readied herself to deliver the first stroke of the cane.
As miss Faara tapped the end of the cane against the footslave’s bare buttocks, measuring her distance and deciding exactly where to place the first stinging stroke, the footslave, although he could see miss Faara’s white socks and pink sneakers behind him and miss Darshen’s blue sneakers and white ankle socks to his right, decided to concentrate on Mme Suria’s boot in front of him. It was Mme Suria who was clearly going to be calling the shots, and it was her boot he was going to have to kiss following the first dreaded stroke.
As he stared at the asian lady’s creased boot he found himself wondering whether her feet were sweaty inside her heavy boots and in her dark nylon stockings. His musings, however, were rudely interrupted by a swishing sound and a sudden blaze of unbelievable pain that started in his buttocks and seemed to spread instantaneously to ever organ in his body apart from his hair.
Involuntarily, he screamed out in agony. The first stroke!
His initial thought was how could such a slightly built girl deliver such a dreadfully stinging blow? The answer, of course, was that she had been expertly taught by her father how to whip criminals. And the footslave, although not a criminal, was now experiencing what the criminals had undoubtedly deserved – a real, judicial caning.
As he caught his breath the footslave became aware that the three women were laughing and joking about his reaction to Faara’s expertly delivered stroke. Indeed, Mme Suria was demonstrating that she could, in actual fact, speak some English, as she was laughing at the slave:
“Ha Ha! Pain! Slave feel pain!”
Presumably she was speaking in English to let the slave know how much she was enjoying his discomfort. However, her English was not, apparently, good enough to remind the slave to kiss her boot as she then said something to her daughter Faara before the latter barked at the slave:
“Footslave kiss mistress Suria’s boot. Thank her for pain. Beg for another pain!”
The humble footslave needed no further reminder. Sobbing with the pain, he lowered his lips to the toe of Mme Suria’s brown, leather boot and respectfully kissed it:
“Thank you, Mistress Suria, for the pain. Please can I have some more?”
Miss Faara translated the slave’s groveling utterances for her mother. The latter’s reaction was to laugh, and replace her right boot with her left boot under the slave’s nose.
The footslave guessed he was to kiss her left boot also. As he placed his lips on Mms Suria’s scuffed, leather toecap, Miss Faara gave him further orders:
“Slave lick dirt off mistress Suria’s boot. Use tongue – clean filth into mouth.”
The slave duly licked with as much strength as he could muster. He knew he was almost certainly going to receive another stroke of the cane – after all, he had ‘begged’ for one – but he was also conscious of the fact that whilst he was groveling at Mme Suria’s boots the women were content to watch and relish in his degrading and slavish servitude, giving him more time to prepare himself for the next stinging cut. He therefore tasted Mme Suria’s boot leather for all he was worth, causing great satisfaction to both her and her two daughters:
“Slave good boot-licker. Slave like dirt”, laughed mistress Faara as she watched the footslave’s tongue lathing the dirt off her mother’s boot.
At this point, Miss Darshen, the girl with the blue sneakers and white ankle socks, who had hitherto been quite quiet, suddenly became animated and appeared to be arguing with her twin sister. Unbeknown to the footslave, the argument was over who would deliver the next stroke of the cane.
The argument was settled by Mme Suria – it was Darshen’s turn. Faara, somewhat reluctantly, swapped places with her sister and handed her the cane.
“Slave stop licking”, said Faara. ”Miss Darshen now cane slave. Slave prepare for pain!”
Miss Darshen was clearly a bit of a drama queen. She ostentatiously swished the whippy cane through the air several times as she limbered up to deliver the second terrible stroke across the footslave’s buttocks. Although Mme Suria’s booted left foot was still stretched out in front of him, the practice strokes of Miss Darshen caused the footslave to momentarily concentrate his attention on her feet. He saw how the white ankle sock on her right foot creased each time she swung the cane through the air as she twisted her foot in order to get a firmer footing on the wooden floor. He noticed too that her blue sneaker was picking up dust from the dirty wooden floor of the basement. If only he could do her the service of licking off that dust – perhaps she would go easier on him?
Miss Faara appeared to be guiding her sister as to where exactly to place the second stroke, as the slave felt her soft fingers pointing to an area on his buttocks some two inches or so below the red weal she herself had raised. Miss Darshen then appeared to advise her sister to stand well back as the slave saw her white ankle sock crease again before…
Swish – Crack!
The cane bit again into his already sore buttocks – this time on the exact spot miss Faara had recommended.
The slave heard miss Darshen squeal with delight behind him as he himself squealed - in agony.
Again the three women laughed at his agonized reaction.
“Ha Ha. Slave cry out like pig! Slave at mercy of Darshen and Faara. Slave kiss mistress Suria’s boot. Beg for mercy! Beg pain to stop!”
This time the footslave could wholeheartedly repeat the words he was being instructed to say. At that moment in time he wanted nothing more than for the acute, burning pain to stop. He again kissed and licked the toe of Mme Suria’s outstretched leather boot:
Oh please, Mistress Suria, please mistress Faara, please mistress Darshen , please have mercy on this poor footslave. Please don’t beat him anymore. Havemercy please, sweet, feminine mistresses!”
As he groveled and kissed her mother’s boot miss Faara continued to laugh at him:
“Ha Ha!. Slave at mercy of women. Women better than slave. Slave only fit to lick women boots”.
Mme Suria then chipped in something in her own language which Faara, again, dutifully translated:
“Mistress Suria say slave smell her feet. Slave take off boot. Pull down zip with teeth. Slave obey now!”
The footslave was determined to obey his three tormentresses in any way they pleased. He reckoned it was the only way he was going to avoid more pain. They were only supposed to use him for up to an hour – after that it would be time for him and master Peter to move on to the next house, so the longer he spent kissing and smelling their feet, the less time they would have to beat him. That, at any rate, was his somewhat desperate calculation.
He therefore obediently raised his head as best he could to the top of Mme Suria’s outstretched knee-length boot, grabbed the zip on the side of her boot with his slave teeth, and pulled the zip slowly down her leg, revealing her shapely stockinged calves and ankles. When the zip had reached the bottom of her ankle Mme Suria kindly helped the slave by shaking off the boot, pushing it with her stockinged foot to one side, and then returning her stockinged toes up to his slave nose, ready for him to sniff:
“Slave sniff! Smell toes”, ordered Miss Faara from behind him as her mother pressed her foot into his face.
The footslave had been right to speculate earlier that Mme Suria’s feet must have been quite sweaty in her nylons. Once again his nostrils were assailed by the unmistakable bitter-sweet aroma of female foot-sweat. The reinforced area of the dark nylon stocking which covered Mme Suria’s toes was particularly damp and pungent. Yet the slave felt comforted by the familiarity of the smell. As a full-time footslave, he was used to the smell of foot-sweat – unlike the pain in his buttocks. Although, as a slave, he was not unaccustomed to pain, it had been many years since his last serious flogging, and the two, throbbing cane marks on his ass were a shocking reminder to him of just how painful a flogging could be.
He therefore sniffed the stockinged toes long, hard and loud, to the great amusement of the three ladies:
“Ha Ha! Slave nothing but a stinky toe-sniffer”, commented Miss Faara on behalf of her mother and sister. “Slave fit only to lick women boots and sniff women smelly stockings! Slave like smell?”
The pathetic footslave answered mistress Faara with the utmost respect and humility:
“Yes, thank you, mistress Faara. This slave likes to smell women’s sweaty stockings”.
At that point Miss Darshen pushed her sneakered foot in front of the slave’s face beside her mother’s stockinged foot. She said something to her sister which Faara duly translated:
“Slave kiss miss Darshen’s foot. Lick sneaker. Kiss sock. Beg miss Darshen not to beat more”.
At this point the footslave noticed that the terrifying, whippy cane was still dangling from miss Darshen’s hand.
He hurriedly switched his attention to Miss Darshen’s footwear. Fortunately her mother didn’t seem to mind.
The slave kissed the top of miss Darshen’s blue sneaker, his lips brushing her white laces:
“Oh pray, Mistress Darshen, please don’t beat this pitiful slave any more. Oh the pain!”, he whined.
As he then licked some dust off the side of miss Darshen’s blue sneaker and kissed her white-socked ankle, Miss Faara translated his pathetic pleadings for her sister’s benefit.
The willful and impulsive miss Darshen, somewhat remarkably, appeared satisfied at the footslave’s begging. Mme Suria, however, was not so easily won over. In her opinion there were two matters still outstanding: one, she had yet to deliver a stroke of the cane to the slave herself and two, the slave had yet to pay his respects to the feet of her other daughter Faara.
She decided that she would ‘kill two birds with one stone’, and would cane the footslave whilst he kissed Faara’s feet. She explained this to Faara as she zipped her boot back on and took the cane from Darshen. The latter moved to one side again whilst miss Faara positioned herself in front of the footslave.
Under his nose now, and through eyes moistened by tears of pain, the footslave saw that the nylon-stockinged foot and the blue-sneakered foot had been replaced by the outstretched right foot of Miss Faara in its white sneaker and short, pink sock. Only the elasticated top of the pink sock was visible, and it was creased at the heel - caused by the angle of her outstretched foot. Miss Faara, although she wasn’t being paid as an interpreter, kindly explained to the footslave what was about to happen:
“Now Madam Suria cane slave while slave kiss Faara’s foot. Slave obey! Kiss!”
The slave lowered his lips to the top of the young woman’s dusty white sneaker and braced himself for what he hoped would be the last stinging cut of the rattan cane. In the corner of his eye he saw Mme Suria’s booted foot twist behind him as she raised the cane above her head and then brought it crashing down onto his buttocks:
Swish…Crack!
Agony! She had caught him just on the crease between his upper legs and his buttocks – a particularly sensitive area. The slave screamed into mistress Faara’s sneaker, much to her delight.
All three women laughed with joy, intoxicated by the power they had over this pathetic and helpless male slave. In fact, it occurred to Faara that, unlike the criminals who had been sentenced by the courts to a specific number of lashes, this hapless slave was completely at the mercy of their feminine whims. There was, in theory, no limit to the number of strokes they could inflict upon him.
Except that the soccer match on TV was now over, and the men of the family, together with the footslave’s master, master Peter, were now making their way down the stairs to the basement to see what the women were up to.
How the men all laughed when they saw the slave bent over the wooden trestle and howling into Miss Faara’s sneakered foot. Mr Anuar, the girl’s father, seemed particularly impressed at their handiwork on the slave’s buttocks. He had indeed taught them well – how to reduce a criminal or a slave into a gibbering wreck after only three well-delivered strokes. Anuar too missed the punishment canings.
For a moment the footslave feared that Mr Anuar was going to cane him. Imagine how painful that would be – a caning from a professional flogger! But, fortunately for the footslave, it wasn’t to be. Master Peter had several houses still to see on this street and time was pressing.
The footslave was untied from the trestle by Faara and Darshen and handed back safely to master Peter.
The master and the slave had certainly had two very different experiences of eastern hospitality in this particular household!
The End
Master Peter knocked on the door of the run-down looking apartment. Kneeling at his feet, naked but for his slave shorts and collar and chain, was one of the company's footslaves.
Peter had been commissioned with drumming up as much business as possible in this poorer part of town as the company was desperate to expand its client base. They already had plenty of customers on the richer side of town, but the company directors were gambling that the poorer inhabitants, many of whom could not afford their own slaves, would embrace the services their company offered even more willingly - providing, of course, the price was right.
To that end Peter was being sent around the homes in the area offering the good, honest, hard-working citizens a free 'one hour sample' of the services his company had on offer, in the expectation that a proportion of them would pay for similar services in future.
The door was opened by an attractive, if slightly overweight, black woman in her mid thirties. Peter noticed how she had her hair tied back in a bun, and was wearing a loose fitting black teeshirt and black leggings.
From his humble position, kneeling in the dirt, the footslave noticed that she had on a pair of blue and white flip flops and that her broad, black feet were quite leathery-callused. Her toe-nails had at some time been painted bright red, but the paint was now showing signs of chipping off.
As the slave took in these (for him) important details, Master Peter began his well-rehearsed spiel:
"Good Afternoon, Madam. My name is Pete and I represent the 'Footslaves4u' company. I would like to offer you now a one hour free trial of our services, using this dirty slave who is at this moment kneeling at your beautiful feet. Do you have your own domestic slave?"
In this area it was virtually a rhetorical question. Peter knew the answer would be 'no', but it was important to engage the customer in conversation at an early stage.
"Oh my God! No, I do not have my own slave", answered the woman in a thick west african accent, clearly somewhat startled at the unexpected sight of a tall, handsome master with a pathetic, semi naked male slave kneeling in the dirt at her doorstep.
She was, however, instantly impressed by master Peter. He was just her 'type' - white, a businessman, about her own age, strong manly physique - clearly an 'alpha male'. The sheer contrast between the well-dressed salesman and the wretched near-naked male slave kneeling at his feet, excited her. She liked this vision of power and domination on the one hand, and powerlessness and humiliation on the other.
"In that case, Madam, may we come in so that I can demonstrate our services to you for free?"
"Yes, please", smiled the black woman.
Peter smiled too - this was looking promising. Another customer soon to be signed up?
He pulled the pathetic kneeling slave after him as he entered into the short hallway and then the living room. It was not particularly tidy, and Aminata (for that was the black woman's name) somewhat embarrassedly, started picking up magazines and papers off the floor in an effort to improve the appearance of her humble dwelling.
"Please, Madam, don't bother yourself about tidying up", laughed master Peter. "That's one of the services our slave can offer you, if you wish!"
The woman relaxed and smiled:
"Please, call me 'Aminata'.
Pete smiled too. This was going very well. He liked this woman, found her attractive, and sensed that she fancied him too. Was she maried, he wondered? Although he had already noticed that there were no signs of any other inhabitants in the flat.
Aminata beckoned to Pete to sit down on the sofa which, as it happens, was the only seating facility in the room, meaning that she had no option but to sit beside him. The slave dutifully knelt without being told in front of the customer's feet as master Peter continued his sales patter, producing a sample glossy brochure from his briefcase.
"As you can see, Aminata, we can offer you a number of services - all free for today. Our dirty footslave can do anything for you from just kissing and worshipping your feet and footwear, to washing your dirty feet, to a full pedicure. Anything you wish him to do, in fact, and our prices are very reasonable - although, today you won't have to pay anything at all!"
Aminata smiled at Peter, and then glanced down at the kneeling male slave at her feet. She hadn't really taken much notice of the slave until now - so impressed was she by 'Pete'. However, she now observed that the slave was an older man - possibly in his late forties or early fifties, balding, unattractive and pathetic. Her expression changed to one of disdain as she sensed not only Pete's, but also her own superiority, over the kneeling male creature who was being forced to stare humbly at her black feet.
"Now, continued Pater interrupting her reverie, "How can my slave serve you for free today? Have you any dirty boots or shoes that need cleaning? Any dirty socks you want him to wash in his mouth? Or perhaps you would like a pedicure?. Remember, you can use him for a full hour absolutely free of charge by way of our introductory offer".
Aminata smiled again at Peter. She looked at her feet and considered her options. Her feet were tired and sore that afternoon. She had been waitressing in a restaurant all that morning from breakfast time until lunchtime, and her feet were still hot and sweaty. The thought occurred to her that it would be nice to have this wretched male slave lick clean her tired black feet with his ugly tongue.
"Can you make him lick my feet clean?", she asked Pete somewhat tentatively.
"Of course!", smiled Pete. He found her diffidence about the use of a footslave rather naive and enchanting.
"Dirty slave", he barked at the footslave kneeling at the woman's feet, "Take off Miss Aminata's sandals and lick her bare feet clean with your slave tongue. Make sure you remove all the sweat and toe cheese and leave her superior black feet feeling revived and refreshed!".
Miss Aminata was thrilled at the way the strong master spoke to the weak and feeble slave who was down where he belonged at her feet. She just wasn't used to having a slave to boss about and give orders to. She knew that rich women who could afford their own slaves took it for granted, but, apart from the odd shoe-shine by one of the public footslaves in the town centre, she had never had the opportunity to really humiliate and dominate a dirty slave in the privacy of her own home. However, she could definitely get used to this - total power over a pathetic, helpless male slave.
Inexperienced as she was at dealing with a footslave, she raised her sandaled foot to the kneeling slave's nose to facilitate him in taking off her right flip flop - something an experienced Mistress would never have done. It was a slave's responsibility to remove his Mistress's footwear without her help. Such a task was beneath her, and it was the slave's duty to work out how to remove a lady's footwear - it was his problem, not hers. If he failed or was awkward in his duty he would be deservedly punished. That was the way it should be.
As he removed the flip flop from the black Mistress's foot the slave saw that it was well worn and that the white sole of the shoe had become badly discoloured over time through a mixture of dirt and sweat from her black footflesh. He was glad that he had not (yet) been ordered to lick her flip flops clean.
Mistress Aminata and Master Peter looked down on the humble slave, both literally and figuratively, as he cradled the woman's dirty right foot in his slave hands and lowered his slave tongue to the skin at the side of her foot. They both had expressions of utter contempt and disdain on their faces for the humble slave - and rightly so. For he was a truly pathetic creature, barely worthy to be in their presence, let alone to be allowed the privelege of touching and licking a superior woman's feet.
As the footslave's tongue touched the somewhat leathery skin of Miss Aminata's beautiful black foot he caught a whiff of the unmistakeable aroma of feminine foot sweat, sweat which he knew he must now transfer into his slave mouth and down his slave throat - where it belonged. He concentrated initially on licking the hard skin around the edge of her black sole, admiring as he did so how her foot skin changed to a lighter hue of brown skin on the sole of the foot itself. He noticed the tiniest wrinkles in her foot skin as her foot flexed in reaction to his humble ministrations. He felt bits of dead skin mingled in with the foot sweat on his tongue, and as he moved his tongue inbetween her toes he tasted little balls of sweaty, salty toe cheese - food fit for a slave.
Miss Aminata giggled with pleasure and delight at the slave's humble servitude. She felt a surge of power and cruelty run through her. She truly was the one with all the power at that moment, and she looked lovingly at the man who had given her that power - master Peter. With a man like that in her life she could conquer the world!
The slave continued to lick her foot and suck her ebony toes for some five minutes, and, as he did so, Miss Aminata and Master Peter drew inexorably closer to one another, first tenderly stroking each other's faces and then kissing each other on the lips, pausing only to order the pathetic footslave to lick clean Mistress Aminata's other foot.
As he licked, chewed and swallowed Miss Aminata's dirty foot sweat and toe cheese, the footslave realised that he would soon be banished from the room whilst his Master and new Mistress made out on the sofa.
Sure enough, after some 10 minutes of foot-licking in total, the dirty footslave was ordered out of the room by his Master, a real man, and ordered to clean Mistress Aminata's dirty boots which she had informed him were lying in the kitchen.
As he crawled on his hands and knees into the kitchen, closing the living room door discreetly behind him, he could hear the groans of pleasure coming from Mistress Aminata as Master Peter did what he, the footslave, could never, and would never, do - give sexual pleasure and satisfaction to a woman. The footslave knew his place in the world - which was to clean the dirty boots of a superior woman whilst she made out with a superior man in the neighbouring room.
He soon found the dirty boots lying in a corner on the kitchen floor - and they were, indeed, truly filthy. They were a pair of block-heeled, black leather zip-up ankle boots, both literally caked in mud and grass on the soles and along the lower rim, with splashes of mud and dirt on the upper parts. The Mistress must have been out in the rain, and had allowed the street dirt to dry on her boots after taking them off and throwing them nonchalantly onto the kitchen floor - street dirt, which he knew now belonged in his mouth and stomach.
Still on his knees, as befits a footslave, he picked up one of the dirty black ankle boots and allowed himself a quick sniff of the inside of the boot. There it was again - the unmistakable smell of a black woman's foot sweat, a smell fit for a slave. He allowed himself the small, but pathetic, luxury of inhaling deeply the smell of the inside of the woman's dirty leather ankle boot for a few precious seconds, before beginning the chore he had been set by his master - that of licking clean his superior black African Mistress's boots and divesting them of all the accumulated street muck until they shone like new.
He began with the sole, making sure his tongue reached deep into the treads removing all the street gunk that was soiling his new Mistress's footwear. To swallow such street filth was an honour for the footslave, but only because it had been attached to the boot soles of a superior woman. As he moved his tongue to the upper part of the first boot, he wondered whether she had worn the boots with socks today. If she had, he would be honoured to wash those socks in his dirty slave mouth.
He speculated as to what colour of socks she may have worn - black? white? red?. And would they have been proper, thick boot socks or just thin cotton socks? Such thoughts torment a footslave when he is working, as he is rightly obsessed with the feet and footwear of whichever woman he has been ordered to serve. However, he could see no sign of any dirty socks lying around, and he dare not take a sneaky peak in her laundry basket - he had too much work to do.
He picked up the second boot and tongued it thoroughly also. After some 20 minutes or so of licking the boots clean, and just as they were starting to truly shine nicely with his slave saliva, he heard his master call him back into the living room:
"Slave, get back in here, and bring Mistress Aminata's boots with you for her inspection".
The couple were now seated comfortably again on the sofa. As he crawled back into the living room the footslave sensed that their love making had been a success as they both seemed relaxed and happy.
The slave crawled awkwardly as he carried the pair of black ankle boots in one hand and presented them, head suitably bowed, at Mistress Aminata's feet.
"Well, my darling, are you satisfied with your boots? Are you satisfied with my slave's work in shining them up for you?", enquired master Peter.
Miss Aminata gave her boots a cursory glance and then told master Peter, much to the kneeling slave's relief, that she was satisfied with her newly-cleaned boots. She thanked him -Peter - for having her boots cleaned. She, of course, did not thank the slave for his efforts. He had merely obeyed his superior master's orders. In fact, Aminata no longer gave the slave kneeling dutifully at her black feet a second thought. She only had thoughts for his wonderful master, with whom she was now falling in love.
But all good things must come to an end, and Pete had a job to do. He had another 15 houses to visit in this street this afternoon. Reluctantly, he and his slave had to leave. They would definitely be back at Miss Aminata's flat, and Pete had already made an executive decision - Aminata would never have to pay to use his slave.
As he knocked on the door of the next house, Master Peter wondered what delights may lay inside the next run-down apartment.
Part 2 – The Goth Girl
The door of the next apartment was opened by an attractive, slim blonde woman, in her early 40s, dressed in a nurse’s uniform.
From his lowly kneeling position all the footslave could see was her white stockings under her blue knee-length skirt and her white, flat, lace-up, sensible nurse’s shoes. The slave who could also hear the heavy thud of rock music in the background.
Master Peter gave his usual spiel, introducing himself and his company to the potential new customer, and explaining all about today’s special offer of a free session with their ‘travelling footslave’.
The nurse indicated that she was just getting ready to go out to work, but suggested that her daughter may be able to make use of the footslave’s services. She therefore invited Master Peter to come in. The slave followed humbly on his hands and knees.
As the trio entered the living room master Peter asked the woman if she was sure there was nothing the footslave could do for her before he served her daughter.
The woman laughed:
“Well, I do have to go out to work in about one hour’s time, but I suppose my shoes could do with a quick clean!”.
“No problem, Madam”, replied Master Peter, inviting her to sit down and extend her right foot under the kneeling slave’s face:
“Slave”, he continued, “lick clean the lady’s shoes – and be quick about it!”
The slave obediently lowered his mouth to the top of the nurse’s flat white shoe and set to work with his tongue. The shoe was made of canvas and therefore smelt a little rubbery. Although it already appeared relatively clean, it was nevertheless a working shoe with all the inevitable tell-tale signs of some wear and tear. In particular, the footslave noticed some scuff marks around the toe of the shoe. He therefore concentrated licking first that particular area, before moving his tongue around to the side of her shoe and then towards her shapely ankle.
As he did so he noticed how her thin, white stocking was now slightly creased around her ankle – caused by her extending her foot under his nose –and, presumptuous of him though it was, he couldn’t help wondering, as he licked her flat white shoe, how long she had been wearing those white stockings. Were they fresh on that day? Or had she been wearing the same stockings two days, or more, in a row? Would he be given the privilege of sniffing the nurse’s white stockinged feet, or would he be restricted to smelling and licking her white nurse’s shoes? Such pathetic thoughts torment a footslave whilst he is at work.
After he had extended his tongue to clean the flat heel of her white shoe, the blonde nurse-mistress then withdrew her right foot and replaced it with her left. The humble slave repeated the process with his female-master’s left shoe which he noticed was, for some reason, slightly dustier and dirtier than her right one. Again there were the stocking creases around the ankle. How he longed to pay his respects to her stockings – even just to kiss her stockinged ankle. But his orders were merely to lick clean her canvass shoe – and a slave has no choice but to merely obey his betters’ orders.
The woman was clearly enjoying the slave’s attention to her shoe. Being a nurse by profession she was, of course, a kind-hearted and caring woman, but it was a nice change for her to have a humble slave ‘worshipping’ her in this way. It stirred in her the deep-seated feelings of superiority and dominance that exist in every woman. She told master Peter as much as the slave removed her shoe-dirt into his slave mouth.
“Yes, Madam, all our customers comment on how rewarding it is to dominate and humiliate our footslaves. You can basically do what you like to them with impunity. All that we ask is that you return them to us more or less in the same condition you found them!”
The two free human beings laughed, revelling in their mutual power over the pathetic shoe-licking creature at their feet.
After some 5 minutes or so the nurse appeared satisfied with the slave’s ministrations to her shoes:
“I was just going to make myself a cup of tea before I head off. Can I get you one?”, she asked master Peter.
“Thanks, that would be great”, responded Pete. A shag in one apartment followed by a cup of tea in the next – can’t be bad, he thought to himself.
Of course, the footslave was not offered any refreshment. The thought never crossed the nurse’s mind.
“Tracey!”, she shouted, as she rose from the sofa.
There was no response initially as the heavy thump of the rock music continued upstairs.
Tracey’s mother shouted more loudly:
“Tracey!”
This time the music was turned down and an impatient female voice could be heard shouting back from upstairs:
“What? What is it?!”.
“Come down here a moment”, replied her mother.
‘Tracey’ was clearly feeling inconvenienced by this rude interruption to her music session.
“What do you want, for God’s sake Mom – I’m trying to listen to my music!”.
“Just come down will you please – I’ve got something for you!”, continued her mother.
She then apologised to Peter for her daughter’s petulance, explaining that although she was 20 years old she still behaved like a spoilt brat sometimes.
The sound of heavy-booted feet could then be heard clumping down the stairs of the two-storey apartment as the music now appeared to be turned off altogether.
“What is it?”, shouted a young voice in exasperation as the beautiful Tracey entered the living room, followed by an exclamation:
“Wow, what’s this?!”
Master Peter smiled at the girl as the footslave stared humbly at her feet. Tracey was a ‘goth’ – slim and attractive, her long hair dyed dark black with various nose and facial piercings enhancing the natural beauty she had inherited from her mother. She was wearing a black sleeveless top with the name and logo of her favourite goth band emblazoned in red on the front, a very short black skirt, thick purple and black stripy tights and heavy black, lace-up Doc Marten style ankle boots. Whilst master Peter admired the girl’s striking appearance, the footslave admired her boots and tights – such a wonderful combination of femininity combined with girl-power.
Tracey’s mother answered her daughter’s question:
“Say hello to Peter, darling. He’s from the ‘Footslaves4U’ company”.
The young woman smiled at the handsome master Peter:
“Hi, Pete!”, she chirped.
“And this is one of their footslaves”, continued her mother, “I thought you might like to use him to clean your dirty boots?”
“Wow, can I? That would be cool!”, responded Tracey excitedly.
Her mother laughed:
“I knew you’d be pleased, and those disgusting boots of yours sure need a good cleaning. How many times have I told you not to wear them around the house!”
This was clearly a long -running bone of contention between mother and daughter. Tracey’s mother continued:
“Why don’t you take the slave up to your room whilst I get Pete a cup of tea?”
“Great”, responded her daughter. The younger woman then looked down at the slave:
“You, the slave, follow me on your hands and knees!”, she snapped.
Master Peter smiled to himself – this young woman was a natural, however he felt he should offer her some professional advice:
“And Miss, remember he has to do everything you say. If you’re not happy with anything just give me a shout and I’ll see to him!”.
“Thanks Pete – sure thing!”, replied Tracey, as she turned to climb the stairs.
The footslave followed humbly after her on his hands and knees, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of her heavy, black ankle boots.
As they entered Tracey’s bedroom the slave’s first impression was that it was rather untidy. He could sense that there were lots of posters of rock bands on the walls, but from his lowly vantage point his best view was, of course, of the floor. There were CDs lying about, a pair of old black sneakers, and a pair of dirty white socks lying in one corner of the room.
Tracey sat on the edge of her bed and ordered the slave to kneel in front of her, head bowed at her booted feet.
“You heard your Master, slave, you have to do everything I say”.
She wanted the slave to be in no doubt as to who was in charge – not that the slave had any doubts:
“Yes, Miss”.
“What is your name, slave?”.
The footslave was somewhat taken aback by the young woman’s question. She seemed so naturally dominant, yet was asking such a naïve question!. However he had to answer her in the only way he could, even if his answer did appear rather rude:
“I….I don’t have a name, Miss, I’m just a slave.”
The young mistress laughed, apparently not offended by his answer at all:
“Is that so? Well, my name is Tracey, but you can call me ‘Mistress Tracey’. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mistress Tracey”.
“And how come you are a slave?”, she continued inquisitively.
Again, the slave was staggered by the apparent naivety of the question. He realised that this, apparently one-parent family, probably had never owned a slave, but could this young 20 year old woman really be so ignorant of such matters?
“I…….I was born a slave, Mistress Tracey”, he replied, somewhat hesitantly. Was she just playing with him? Teasing him?
“Well, in that case you should be good at it!”, exclaimed Tracey, reaching down to point with a purple-painted finger nail at the side of her right boot. “Do you see this dried-on muck on the side of my boots? It’s been there since last weekend when I was at a music festival. You’re going to lick it all off, slave, and make sure you do a good job. I want my boots to be gleaming. I want to be able to see my reflection in them, so you’d better start licking long and hard!”
“Yes, Mistress Tracey. It is my privelege to obey you, Mistress Tracey”.
“Get on with it!”, she shouted down at the pathetic footslave – a man who was at least twice her age, but, much to her delight, totally within her power.
The obedient slave lowered his tongue to the side of her dirty black boot and immediately tasted the, for him, familiar, bitter taste of mud mixed with boot-leather.
“Yuck! Filthy pig!”, exclaimed Mistress Tracey as she watched the slave obey her orders. “I’d hate to be a slave, having to lick people’s dirty boots and shoes and that. It’s like, totally gross, or something!”.
Yet again, the slave couldn’t help being amazed at the naivety of the young woman’s comment. There was no way she, a female, would ever be a slave. Only males – some males – were slaves in this enlightened society. Mistress Tracey would never have to lick the mud of someone’s shoes!
Tracey may have found what the slave was doing totally disgusting, but she had no compunction about making sure he did it properly. As he lathed her dirty boots with his slave tongue she continually pointed out the patches of dirt and mud she wanted him to lick off, even slapping him once or twice about the face when she thought he had missed a bit. She also made sure he sucked the dust and dirt off the black laces of her boots.
After some ten minutes of his licking and sucking her heavy black ankle boots she ordered the footslave to take off her boots and ‘polish the soles’ with his tongue.
As the slave unlaced and pulled off each of her boots he was assailed by the unmistakeable aroma of feminine footsweat. Moreover, it was the smell of stale footsweat, suggesting that the young mistress may well have been wearing the same stripy purple and black tights since her rock festival last weekend! She certainly hadn’t washed her feet in a while! But he was an experienced footslave. He didn’t flinch. Female foot odour comes with the territory when you are a humble footslave and, after many years of service at women’s feet a slave almost becomes used to it, unpleasant though it is.
The boots had deep treads on the soles and extracting the muck, grass and stones from them was quite a demanding task. But again, Mistress Tracey kindly assisted the slave by pointing out to him where the dirt and grime was as he licked clean the soles of her boots whilst kneeling at her stripy-stockinged, smelly feet.
He felt he was making good progress with the second boot when her mobile phone rang:
“Hi, honey”, Tracey answered it.
The slave heard a young man’s voice mumbling on the other end of the phone – presumably it was Mistress Tracey’s boyfriend. The slave noticed how she now went all soft and ‘girly’ whilst speaking to her boyfriend on the phone, using a very different tone from that which she used to order him about. But he realised that this was perfectly natural and proper. He was, after all, this young woman’s slave – not her boyfriend. She, quite rightly, despised him and had no reason to speak softly or gently to him – nor did any woman. He continued licking the sole of her left boot.
“Guess what”, he heard her say to her boyfriend, “Right at this moment I’ve got a slave licking the soles of my boots clean! That’s right! It’s so cool. He must be in his forties, or something, and he’s having to do whatever I say. His master is downstairs having a cup of tea with my Mom. He’s some sort of door-to-door footslave or something, but it’s really cool having a man to obey me and do lots of disgusting things for me!”
It occurred to the slave that it wasn’t often anybody referred to him as a ‘man’.
The young woman then appeared to laugh as her boyfriend made a suggestion down the phone:
“Sounds cool!”, she said.
She then addressed the slave, still keeping the phone to her ear so that her boyfriend could hear her:
“Slave, put down the boot. My boyfriend wants you to smell my tights, but you’re to begin by only smelling the purple stripes”.
She giggled as she thrust her right foot under the kneeling slave’s nose.
As she did so the slave had his first real close-up view of the young woman’s tights. The alternate black and purple stripes began with a purple area over the toes. These were definitely well-worn tights – a favourite pair – a fashion statement by the goth-girl. He even noticed the beginnings of a small hole in her tights over her big toe. As he obeyed her boyfriend’s orders by lowering his nose in order to sniff the first purple area covering her toes he was once again assailed by the unpleasant smell of stale, feminine foot-sweat.
“He’s doing it”, mistress Tracey informed her boyfriend, excited both by her boyfriend’s wonderful, humiliating idea and by the sight of the humble footslave obeying her degrading orders.
The slave ran his nose over the purple material of the stocking, inhaling deeply through his nose. Although he was indeed well used to the smell of women’s feet, it was still an unpleasant and debasing experience to be ordered to sniff someone’s sweaty feet.
He then moved up to the next purple stripe, missing out, as he had been ordered, the first black stripe. This second purple stripe was naturally, given the shape of the foot, a bit longer than the one covering her toes and he noticed how the stitching of the material was more stretched over this part of her foot. Again, he brushed his pathetic slave nose across the thick purple material and inhaled the young woman’s foot odour.
As he repeated the process with the next purple stripe Mistress Tracey ordered him to stop when he got to the top of her ankle. He therefore repeated the process until he got to a purple stripe that was just below her shapely ankle-bone.
“Now, you have to smell the black stripes”, she giggled, passing on the instructions her boyfriend was giving her down the phone.
One by one the slave sniffed the black stripes on his mistress’s stocking until he reached a black stripe that actually covered her ankle bone.
“Now, slave, my boyfriend wants to know which smell the stinkiest? The purple stripes or the black stripes?”
It was clear to the slave that this was purely an exercise in his humiliation. The young woman’s boyfriend clearly wanted to demonstrate his mastery over the slave at his girlfriend’s feet - even from a distance.
The slave wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question. There was really no discernible difference in the foot odour coming from the various stripes on her stockinged feet. If he had been asked whether the area around the toes, which happened to be purple, was smellier than the area around her ankle, which happened to be black, the answer would, of course, have been yes. The toes were always the sweatiest part of the feet. But he couldn’t, hand on heart, say that all the purple stripes were any smellier than all the black stripes. It was a meaningless question designed purely to demean him, and the slave decided that the best thing to do was to answer it using some ultra-humble slave-speak:
“If it pleases you, Mistress Tracey, this dirty, worthless slave can detect no difference in the odour coming from the purple and black stripes of your beautiful stocking”.
Mistress Tracey laughed out loud at the slave’s grovelling response:
“Did you hear that, Luke? He says that, if it pleases me, he can’t detect any difference in the smells!”
The slave could hear the young master laughing down the phone.
“My boyfriend wants to know, in that case, how you would rate the stinkiness of my feet on a scale of 1 to 10 – with 10 being the stinkiest?. What’s your answer, slave?”
The slave realised he had to be careful again. If he gave too high a rating, a 9 for example (which was probably what her feet merited) the young woman might be offended. But equally, she would want to know that he had found the experience of smelling her tights degrading and humiliating. He therefore answered his mistress as follows:
“If it pleases you, mistress Tracey, this foot-sniffing slave would give its mistress’s divine feet a rating of 7 out of 10”.
Tracey and her boyfriend seemed pleased at the rating. They both laughed again at his subservience.
“Carry on sniffing my other foot”, ordered the young mistress as she positioned her left, purple and black striped, stockinged foot up to the slave’s nose, and then largely ignored him as she indulged in some gossip and small-talk with her boyfriend over the phone.
As soon as she had finished her telephone conversation Mistress Tracey screwed up her face as if she was in some discomfort:
"Slave, my foot is itchy. You're going to scratch it for me - with your nose and face", she told him in a matter-of-fact way.
With that she extended the base of her right, stripy-stockinged foot up to the slave's face and began to rub her sweaty foot all over it. She moaned contentedly as the slave's face brought some relief to her itch through the stinky stocking. How wonderful it was to have a human scratching post for one's itchy foot!
For his part the slave could only think of how his whole face must now be reeking of mistress Tracey's foot-smell.
At this point master Peter knocked on her bedroom door, which was half-open, and entered her room.
“Everything OK, Miss?”, he enquired.
“Yeah, great. Thank’s Pete”, responded Tracey. “I’ve just been making your slave scratch my itch with his face, and before that I made him clean my boots and then smell my feet. But he seems to think my feet are quite stinky. He gave them a rating of 7 out of 10 on the stinkometer!”
“Oh, really”, laughed master Peter. “Well, perhaps we should make him do something about that. Why don’t we make him wash your feet?”
“Cool!”, replied Tracey
“We have a special way of making our slaves wash ladies’ feet. I’ll go and get a bowl of water from the bathroom whilst you take off your tights. Where is the bathroom?”
“”It’s the second on the left, Pete. You’ll find a basin in there too”.
With that mistress Tracey stood up and removed her purple and black thick stripy tights in front of the kneeling slave. He didn’t even attempt to get a glimpse of her knickers under her short black dress. Such sights were completely off-limits to footslaves.
She then sat on the edge of her bed again in front of the slave as master Peter returned with a bowl of warm water and placed it, together with a towel, beside the young woman’s bare feet.
The slave now had a close up view of mistress Tracey’s bare feet. The most striking thing about them was that her toenails were painted deep purple (matching her fingernails) although the paint was looking chipped and worn on some of the toes. He also noticed some track marks on her foot-skin from the stitching on her tights.
“Slave, you know how to wash this young mistress’s feet in the special way. Do it now!”, ordered master Peter.
Tracey thrilled at Peter’s authoritative tone.
The slave then began to wash mistress Tracey’s feet, as ordered, in the company’s ‘special’ way. To Tracey’s evident delight he didn’t, initially, place her feet in the bowl of water. Instead, he dipped his slave tongue into the water, washed her boot-dirt off it, then placed his wet, warm tongue between the big toe and the second toe of her right foot, moistening the sides of her toes and lathing them as he licked away the sweat and the toe-jam that had accumulated over the past few days on the young woman’s unwashed feet.
Mistress Tracey, clapped her hands:
“This is so cool! He’s having to clean my sweaty toes with his dirty, slave tongue!. This is just totally awesome!”, she exclaimed.
The slave repeated the process again and again, licking between each and every toe first on her right foot and then on her left foot. Mistress Tracey felt as though she were in heaven.
After some ten minutes master Peter ordered the slave to place the young woman’s feet into the basin of water and clean them properly. He explained to Miss Tracey that this was more to clean her feet of the slave’s saliva as his tongue would have already removed her foot sweat and toe-jam.
When he had finished doing this the slave was ordered to dry Mistress Tracey’s feet with the towel.
After he had done so Tracey made to pick up the bowl of now dirty water and take it to the bathroom. But master Peter stopped her in her tracks:
“No need to do that, Miss. The slave will dispose of the water for you. Slave, lap up Miss Tracey’s dirty foot water like the dog that you are!”
And with that, the slave started lapping up the now lukewarm, foul-tasting water that contained the remaining dirt and dead skin from mistress Tracey’s soft, feminine feet.
As she watched him lapping up and swallowing her dirty foot-water, Tracey was confirmed in her opinion that being a slave was totally gross.
Being a mistress, however, was tremendous fun!
Part 3 – Oriental Hospitality
The front door of the neighbouring apartment was opened by a young man of oriental appearance. As soon as the door was opened both master Peter and the kneeling footslave could hear a television blaring inside and lots of excited voices speaking in some sort of oriental language.
Master Peter explained about the offer of the free use of the footslave for one hour and was invited in by the young man.
Peter quickly established that there were five men and three women in the living room all crowded around the television set watching a soccer match. Peter loved soccer, and the outcome of his negotiations with the family members (somewhat tortuous negotiations, it has to be said, given the language barrier) was that Peter would join the men watching the soccer match whilst the three women would make use of the footslave in the 'basement'.
As Peter was handed a cold beer and invited to take a seat in a comfortable armchair in front of the television, the company footslave was being led away on his hands and knees by the three oriental women down some dingy stairs and into a dark and somewhat forbidding basement room.
As soon as he entered the basement one of the women switched on a bright light. The first thing that struck the footslave was the dusty, bare wooden floorboards. The second thing that struck him was the wooden trestle situated in the centre of the room, and the rattan cane hanging from a hook on its side. It looked like a professional dominatrix’s punishment room.
What the pathetic and perplexed footslave did not realise was that the trestle and cane had been brought by the family from their own country when they had fled for political reasons some three years previously. The head of the household, Mr Anuar, had been the chief official flogger for the previous regime, responsible for caning criminals and dissidents. Following a military coup, however, he had been forced to flee the country with his family. But they had managed to bring his punishment paraphernalia with them.
The three women who were now in the process of securing the door-to-door footslave over the punishment trestle were Anuar's wife, Mme Suria, and his two twin daughters, Faara and Darshen. The twins had been 21 years old when the family had fled the far-east, and they missed greatly their life of luxury in their home country. In particular, they missed taking part in the punishment of the criminals along with their father. On their 18th birthday, on the suggestion of their mother, he had invited them for the first time to the prison to witness a criminal being flogged. The girls had been keen not just to witness but also to participate in the disciplining of the criminal and their father had eventually relented allowing them to escort the criminal to the punishment trestle and to secure him to the trestle ready for his flogging.
Although the girls were slight of build, and the criminal had been a stockily-built brute of a man, he had been so weakened by fear of the impending flogging the two girls had had no problems in ensuring his compliance as they escorted him to the punishment trestle. He had wept as the soft hands of the two girls had then tied him to the trestle leaving his naked butt fully exposed and ready to receive their father’s cane. They had then stood one on either side of him and witnessed his suffering at close hand. They enjoyed it. And it was to be the first of many such floggings that they were to enjoy witnessing over the next few years– right up until the change of regime that led to their father falling out of favour with the government. They had even, on one or two rare occasions, been permitted by their father to lay a few strokes of the cane themselves on the backsides of criminals who had been sentenced to flogging.
Now aged 24, the twins were living with their parents and four brothers in a cramped apartment, in a strange country, and in the rundown part of town. They weren't exactly resentful at the loss of their previous wealth and status, but they did so miss the perks of being the daughters of a top government official. In particular they missed taking part in the floggings. Now was their chance to relive old pleasures.
As the three women secured him over the wooden trestle and pulled down his slave shorts to fully expose his bare buttocks, the frightened footslave had a better chance to see exactly who he was dealing with.
The elder of three women appeared to be in her mid-40s. Like nearly all oriental women she was quite petite, had dark hair, and was very pretty. From his prone and vulnerable position, bent over the wooden trestle with his face now just inches from the dirty wooden floor and his butt sticking high up into the air, he could see only that she was wearing brown, leather, knee-length, zip-up boots and black nylon stockings under a black, knee-length skirt.
The two younger women, who appeared to be identical twins, were, like their mother, dark haired and petite. The one on his left was wearing white shorts, white sneakers and short, pink sneaker-socks. The one on his right was wearing blue shorts, blue sneakers and white ankle socks with a blue trim at the top. The difference in footwear was the only way he was going to be able to distinguish between the two girls.
All three women were talking animatedly and excitedly in their own language as the two younger women tied his hands and legs to the punishment trestle. The older woman, whom he had guessed was their mother, was standing in front of him observing their work.
The girl with the pink sneaker-socks then knelt down and explained to the footslave what was going to happen. She appeared to be the only one who could speak good English, albeit with a cute asian accent:
"My name –Faara. This my sister, Darshen, and mother, Suria. You a slave – you call us ‘mistress’. Now we beat you while you kiss our mother’s feet. Lick boots”.
The footslave’s heart sank. He realized that he had no cause for complaint. He was a company-owned footslave and this family were potential customers, and if they wanted to beat him, even though he had done nothing wrong, they were, of course, perfectly within their rights to do so. The customer is always right. But right now he wished he wasn’t a slave – he wished he could be sitting upstairs enjoying a beer and watching the soccer match on TV along with the free men, rather than being tied over a punishment trestle about to be caned by three beautiful, but evidently cruel, oriental women.
Mme Suria then said something to Miss Faara, which the latter duly translated into English for the benefit of the footslave:
“Mistress Suria say slave kiss boots after stroke of cane. Thank her for pain. Beg for more pain!”
Mme Suria was now duly positioning herself in front of the slave - hands on hips with her right booted foot stretched out on the wooden floor directly under the slave’s nose. As she did so the footslave noticed how her knee-length leather boot creased around the ankle. He noticed also how the brown boot, which had at first sight appeared immaculate, was in fact a little scuffed around the toes, with traces of street dirt along the rim of the sole. Her boot seemed to tower above him as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw mistress Faara take the metre long, dark brown whippy cane off its hook on the side of the trestle and move behind him. Meanwhile Faara appeared to be telling her sister, miss Darshen, to stand well back as she readied herself to deliver the first stroke of the cane.
As miss Faara tapped the end of the cane against the footslave’s bare buttocks, measuring her distance and deciding exactly where to place the first stinging stroke, the footslave, although he could see miss Faara’s white socks and pink sneakers behind him and miss Darshen’s blue sneakers and white ankle socks to his right, decided to concentrate on Mme Suria’s boot in front of him. It was Mme Suria who was clearly going to be calling the shots, and it was her boot he was going to have to kiss following the first dreaded stroke.
As he stared at the asian lady’s creased boot he found himself wondering whether her feet were sweaty inside her heavy boots and in her dark nylon stockings. His musings, however, were rudely interrupted by a swishing sound and a sudden blaze of unbelievable pain that started in his buttocks and seemed to spread instantaneously to ever organ in his body apart from his hair.
Involuntarily, he screamed out in agony. The first stroke!
His initial thought was how could such a slightly built girl deliver such a dreadfully stinging blow? The answer, of course, was that she had been expertly taught by her father how to whip criminals. And the footslave, although not a criminal, was now experiencing what the criminals had undoubtedly deserved – a real, judicial caning.
As he caught his breath the footslave became aware that the three women were laughing and joking about his reaction to Faara’s expertly delivered stroke. Indeed, Mme Suria was demonstrating that she could, in actual fact, speak some English, as she was laughing at the slave:
“Ha Ha! Pain! Slave feel pain!”
Presumably she was speaking in English to let the slave know how much she was enjoying his discomfort. However, her English was not, apparently, good enough to remind the slave to kiss her boot as she then said something to her daughter Faara before the latter barked at the slave:
“Footslave kiss mistress Suria’s boot. Thank her for pain. Beg for another pain!”
The humble footslave needed no further reminder. Sobbing with the pain, he lowered his lips to the toe of Mme Suria’s brown, leather boot and respectfully kissed it:
“Thank you, Mistress Suria, for the pain. Please can I have some more?”
Miss Faara translated the slave’s groveling utterances for her mother. The latter’s reaction was to laugh, and replace her right boot with her left boot under the slave’s nose.
The footslave guessed he was to kiss her left boot also. As he placed his lips on Mms Suria’s scuffed, leather toecap, Miss Faara gave him further orders:
“Slave lick dirt off mistress Suria’s boot. Use tongue – clean filth into mouth.”
The slave duly licked with as much strength as he could muster. He knew he was almost certainly going to receive another stroke of the cane – after all, he had ‘begged’ for one – but he was also conscious of the fact that whilst he was groveling at Mme Suria’s boots the women were content to watch and relish in his degrading and slavish servitude, giving him more time to prepare himself for the next stinging cut. He therefore tasted Mme Suria’s boot leather for all he was worth, causing great satisfaction to both her and her two daughters:
“Slave good boot-licker. Slave like dirt”, laughed mistress Faara as she watched the footslave’s tongue lathing the dirt off her mother’s boot.
At this point, Miss Darshen, the girl with the blue sneakers and white ankle socks, who had hitherto been quite quiet, suddenly became animated and appeared to be arguing with her twin sister. Unbeknown to the footslave, the argument was over who would deliver the next stroke of the cane.
The argument was settled by Mme Suria – it was Darshen’s turn. Faara, somewhat reluctantly, swapped places with her sister and handed her the cane.
“Slave stop licking”, said Faara. ”Miss Darshen now cane slave. Slave prepare for pain!”
Miss Darshen was clearly a bit of a drama queen. She ostentatiously swished the whippy cane through the air several times as she limbered up to deliver the second terrible stroke across the footslave’s buttocks. Although Mme Suria’s booted left foot was still stretched out in front of him, the practice strokes of Miss Darshen caused the footslave to momentarily concentrate his attention on her feet. He saw how the white ankle sock on her right foot creased each time she swung the cane through the air as she twisted her foot in order to get a firmer footing on the wooden floor. He noticed too that her blue sneaker was picking up dust from the dirty wooden floor of the basement. If only he could do her the service of licking off that dust – perhaps she would go easier on him?
Miss Faara appeared to be guiding her sister as to where exactly to place the second stroke, as the slave felt her soft fingers pointing to an area on his buttocks some two inches or so below the red weal she herself had raised. Miss Darshen then appeared to advise her sister to stand well back as the slave saw her white ankle sock crease again before…
Swish – Crack!
The cane bit again into his already sore buttocks – this time on the exact spot miss Faara had recommended.
The slave heard miss Darshen squeal with delight behind him as he himself squealed - in agony.
Again the three women laughed at his agonized reaction.
“Ha Ha. Slave cry out like pig! Slave at mercy of Darshen and Faara. Slave kiss mistress Suria’s boot. Beg for mercy! Beg pain to stop!”
This time the footslave could wholeheartedly repeat the words he was being instructed to say. At that moment in time he wanted nothing more than for the acute, burning pain to stop. He again kissed and licked the toe of Mme Suria’s outstretched leather boot:
Oh please, Mistress Suria, please mistress Faara, please mistress Darshen , please have mercy on this poor footslave. Please don’t beat him anymore. Havemercy please, sweet, feminine mistresses!”
As he groveled and kissed her mother’s boot miss Faara continued to laugh at him:
“Ha Ha!. Slave at mercy of women. Women better than slave. Slave only fit to lick women boots”.
Mme Suria then chipped in something in her own language which Faara, again, dutifully translated:
“Mistress Suria say slave smell her feet. Slave take off boot. Pull down zip with teeth. Slave obey now!”
The footslave was determined to obey his three tormentresses in any way they pleased. He reckoned it was the only way he was going to avoid more pain. They were only supposed to use him for up to an hour – after that it would be time for him and master Peter to move on to the next house, so the longer he spent kissing and smelling their feet, the less time they would have to beat him. That, at any rate, was his somewhat desperate calculation.
He therefore obediently raised his head as best he could to the top of Mme Suria’s outstretched knee-length boot, grabbed the zip on the side of her boot with his slave teeth, and pulled the zip slowly down her leg, revealing her shapely stockinged calves and ankles. When the zip had reached the bottom of her ankle Mme Suria kindly helped the slave by shaking off the boot, pushing it with her stockinged foot to one side, and then returning her stockinged toes up to his slave nose, ready for him to sniff:
“Slave sniff! Smell toes”, ordered Miss Faara from behind him as her mother pressed her foot into his face.
The footslave had been right to speculate earlier that Mme Suria’s feet must have been quite sweaty in her nylons. Once again his nostrils were assailed by the unmistakable bitter-sweet aroma of female foot-sweat. The reinforced area of the dark nylon stocking which covered Mme Suria’s toes was particularly damp and pungent. Yet the slave felt comforted by the familiarity of the smell. As a full-time footslave, he was used to the smell of foot-sweat – unlike the pain in his buttocks. Although, as a slave, he was not unaccustomed to pain, it had been many years since his last serious flogging, and the two, throbbing cane marks on his ass were a shocking reminder to him of just how painful a flogging could be.
He therefore sniffed the stockinged toes long, hard and loud, to the great amusement of the three ladies:
“Ha Ha! Slave nothing but a stinky toe-sniffer”, commented Miss Faara on behalf of her mother and sister. “Slave fit only to lick women boots and sniff women smelly stockings! Slave like smell?”
The pathetic footslave answered mistress Faara with the utmost respect and humility:
“Yes, thank you, mistress Faara. This slave likes to smell women’s sweaty stockings”.
At that point Miss Darshen pushed her sneakered foot in front of the slave’s face beside her mother’s stockinged foot. She said something to her sister which Faara duly translated:
“Slave kiss miss Darshen’s foot. Lick sneaker. Kiss sock. Beg miss Darshen not to beat more”.
At this point the footslave noticed that the terrifying, whippy cane was still dangling from miss Darshen’s hand.
He hurriedly switched his attention to Miss Darshen’s footwear. Fortunately her mother didn’t seem to mind.
The slave kissed the top of miss Darshen’s blue sneaker, his lips brushing her white laces:
“Oh pray, Mistress Darshen, please don’t beat this pitiful slave any more. Oh the pain!”, he whined.
As he then licked some dust off the side of miss Darshen’s blue sneaker and kissed her white-socked ankle, Miss Faara translated his pathetic pleadings for her sister’s benefit.
The willful and impulsive miss Darshen, somewhat remarkably, appeared satisfied at the footslave’s begging. Mme Suria, however, was not so easily won over. In her opinion there were two matters still outstanding: one, she had yet to deliver a stroke of the cane to the slave herself and two, the slave had yet to pay his respects to the feet of her other daughter Faara.
She decided that she would ‘kill two birds with one stone’, and would cane the footslave whilst he kissed Faara’s feet. She explained this to Faara as she zipped her boot back on and took the cane from Darshen. The latter moved to one side again whilst miss Faara positioned herself in front of the footslave.
Under his nose now, and through eyes moistened by tears of pain, the footslave saw that the nylon-stockinged foot and the blue-sneakered foot had been replaced by the outstretched right foot of Miss Faara in its white sneaker and short, pink sock. Only the elasticated top of the pink sock was visible, and it was creased at the heel - caused by the angle of her outstretched foot. Miss Faara, although she wasn’t being paid as an interpreter, kindly explained to the footslave what was about to happen:
“Now Madam Suria cane slave while slave kiss Faara’s foot. Slave obey! Kiss!”
The slave lowered his lips to the top of the young woman’s dusty white sneaker and braced himself for what he hoped would be the last stinging cut of the rattan cane. In the corner of his eye he saw Mme Suria’s booted foot twist behind him as she raised the cane above her head and then brought it crashing down onto his buttocks:
Swish…Crack!
Agony! She had caught him just on the crease between his upper legs and his buttocks – a particularly sensitive area. The slave screamed into mistress Faara’s sneaker, much to her delight.
All three women laughed with joy, intoxicated by the power they had over this pathetic and helpless male slave. In fact, it occurred to Faara that, unlike the criminals who had been sentenced by the courts to a specific number of lashes, this hapless slave was completely at the mercy of their feminine whims. There was, in theory, no limit to the number of strokes they could inflict upon him.
Except that the soccer match on TV was now over, and the men of the family, together with the footslave’s master, master Peter, were now making their way down the stairs to the basement to see what the women were up to.
How the men all laughed when they saw the slave bent over the wooden trestle and howling into Miss Faara’s sneakered foot. Mr Anuar, the girl’s father, seemed particularly impressed at their handiwork on the slave’s buttocks. He had indeed taught them well – how to reduce a criminal or a slave into a gibbering wreck after only three well-delivered strokes. Anuar too missed the punishment canings.
For a moment the footslave feared that Mr Anuar was going to cane him. Imagine how painful that would be – a caning from a professional flogger! But, fortunately for the footslave, it wasn’t to be. Master Peter had several houses still to see on this street and time was pressing.
The footslave was untied from the trestle by Faara and Darshen and handed back safely to master Peter.
The master and the slave had certainly had two very different experiences of eastern hospitality in this particular household!
The End
