Footslaves' Tales Volume 1
This is the first volume in a series of brief, first-hand accounts from footslaves describing various aspects of their humble lives at the feet and footwear of their respective mistresses.
VOLUME 1 CONTENTS (scroll down for tales in reverse numerical order)
20. The Poetry of Punishment
19. African Queen
18. Lines
17. Studying
16. Unemployed
15. That's Entertainment!
14. Interview with a Footslave
13. A Slave's-Eye View
12. Exercise
11. A Quick Guide to 'Slave-Speak'
10. 'Used Footslave For Sale'
9. 'Live at Five'
8. Left Luggage
7. Begging for Mercy
6. Genealogy
5. 360ยบ Feedback
4. Footslave Etiquette
3. The Footslave Undergoing Punishment
2. Lying under Mistress Mariama's Socks
1. The Doormat Footslave
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Tale no. 20 – The Poetry of Punishment
‘Swish…c…crack!
Shock and awe across my back,
Swish…c…crack!
Pain receptors feel attack.
Swish…c…crack!
The dreadful sting of leather whip,
Swish…c…crack!
A straying lash across my hip.
Swish…c…crack!
I see her feet behind me standing,
Swish…c…crack!
Her high-heeled boots my lips demanding.
Swish…c…crack!
All is suffering; all is pain,
Swish…c…crack!
This slave surrenders to her reign.
Swish…c…crack!
Oh pray, sweet mistress, spare my skin,
Swish…c…crack!
You are my better; you must win.
Swish…c…crack!
Eleven strokes; three more to go,
Swish…c…crack!
Sweet, feminine wrath is all I know.
Swish…c…crack!
A cruel cut across my ribbing,
Swish…c…crack!
I must not fail to do her bidding.’
Tale no. 19 – African Queen
‘I am a slave in rural Sudan. My mistress is a 48 year old African lady, and thus 15 years my junior. She is a widow, and lives alone in her hut on the outskirts of the local village.
I am originally from Europe, but was kidnapped by rebels whilst on business in Khartoum some 5 years ago and sold into slavery at the village slave-market.
My African mistress wears only traditional African dresses, but despite their bright colours, she is a dark woman. She is a hard-looking, permanently scowling, and harsh lady who works her slave hard. She never smiles or has words of encouragement for her slave, nor does she grant me any periods of rest. I must work hard from dawn until dusk, scrubbing the floor of her hut, licking clean her shoes and sandals, and washing the African dust from her leathery-calloused, black feet.
I do not sleep in her hut. I am kept chained outside like a dog, ready to greet my mistress, or any of her female guests, by kissing their feet. Also like a dog, I am permitted to eat only my mistress’s leftovers.
My mistress disciplines me with a brown, leather, cowhide slave-whip which she keeps constantly by her side. My mistress may be generally lazy, but she has a strong right arm thanks to her repeated application of the whip on my bare back and shoulders.
There is no joy in my life - just perpetual bondage, pain and misery at the feet of my surly African Queen.
My days as a slave are full of back-breaking work, dull, slavish routine and soul-destroying monotony, but once a week I am blessed by a visit from my mistress’s 23 year old daughter, miss Fawziya, who is a successful lawyer in Khartoum.
Unlike my mistress, miss Fawziya likes to wear western style clothes, being a progressive and modern young woman who has studied in the West and has now made a successful career for herself in a traditionally male-dominated society. Be that as it may, however, miss Fawziya still takes after her mother when it comes to the treatment of slaves. I am just as despised and mistreated by miss Fawziya as I am by her mother, my mistress.
This morning, as expected, I hear miss Fawziya’s car approaching my mistress’s hut along the dirt path that leads out of the nearby village. As the car stops I assume the traditional slave-greeting position on my hands and knees, head humbly bowed, ready to kiss the esteemed young female guest’s feet.
Miss Fawziya alights from her vehicle and strolls over to where I am chained up outside my mistress’s hut. Even though it is a baking hot day under the unforgiving Sudanese sun, miss Fawziya is wearing a smart, navy blue, pinstriped trouser suit over a crisp, white, frilly blouse, and black, ankle boots. Her black boots are now dusty under the hems of her pinstriped trousers thanks to the dusty ground surrounding my mistress’s rural hut.
Miss Fawziya graciously extends her right foot under my kneeling face and I immediately lower my lips to touch the rounded toe of her dusty, black leather boot. I can see the zip on the side of her ankle boot and mentally trace it up her lower leg to the top of her boot beneath her pinstriped trouser leg.
The block-heeled ankle-boot is very feminine, but quite large as miss Fawziya is a very tall and strong young woman. Like her mother, she looks quite hard, but her youth still lends a certain softness to her otherwise hard features.
She withdraws her right foot from under my nose and replaces it with her left. Again I kiss the rounded toe of the successful young, African, female lawyer’s dusty, black leather boot. My breath and saliva leaves a wet mark in the African dust on the toe of her boot.
At this moment my mistress emerges from her hut and embraces her daughter. It is the only time I ever hear my two mistresses actually laughing.
My mistress reaches down and unchains me, ordering me in her heavy, African accent to follow her daughter to heel into the relative coolness of the hut. I am relieved to be out of the glare of the baking hot sun. My semi-naked, white, European body was not made for exposure to the hot, North African sun. My back is permanently sunburnt, which only makes the sting of my mistress’s cowhide whip all the more painful.
But I am not being allowed into the hut for my own comfort and well-being. I am required to wash the feet of my mistress’s guest – her daughter. I must fetch the foot-bowl, kneel before miss Fawziya as she sits on a wooden chair in the centre of the hut, and humbly and silently remove miss Fawziya’s boots and socks in order to soothe her tired and sweaty African feet with some refreshing water. It’s a traditional greeting from a humble house-slave to an honoured guest in African countries – a scene repeated from time immemorial, although the vision of the older, white man washing the younger, black woman’s bare feet is not so common in history.
I repeatedly kiss miss Fawziya’s large, but eminently soft, sweaty black feet whilst I wash them in the foot-bowl. I am almost proud to pay homage to her superior feet – for she is a successful young woman at the start of a glittering career, and I am a self-evident loser working as an African woman’s footslave in my twilight years. Yes, miss Fawziya, being my mistress’s daughter, is manifestly my better, and it is an honour for me to pay literal lip-service to the feet of such a strong and beautiful young African woman.
Her sweaty, plain black bootsocks lie in a crumpled heap beside the foot-bowl, next to her peeled-off, unzipped boots. I long to sniff the black bootsocks, for I know they will smell strongly of miss Fawziya’s hot, African feet. But I am not permitted this tiny, slavish indulgence, for I have much more work to do.
After I have dried my mistress Fawziya’s bare feet with a towel, I must lick the African dust and mud off the soles and uppers of her black leather, successful businesswoman’s ankle-boots before I am permitted to put her socks and boots back onto her precious, African feet.
The owner of the boots, still sitting barefoot above and in front of me, largely ignores me, the bootslave, as she chats happily with her mother, my mistress, in their native dialect – interrupting her conversation with her beloved mother only to occasionally berate my work or instil me to even greater efforts:
‘Slave clean around the back of the heel!…remove that filth from the toe of my boot with your tongue, slave!…suck on the black, metal boot-zip and make it shine, slave!...’ she barks down at me sullenly in her strong, Sudanese accent, her equally sour-faced mother looking on approvingly.
Eventually the boots are tongue-shined to miss Fawziya’s apparent satisfaction as she clicks her fingers by way of indicating to me that I am to stop tasting her leather boots and to put her socks and boots back onto her outstretched feet.
Before she leaves, Miss Fawziya hands my mistress a carrier bag containing several pairs of her dirty, unwashed socks. She could, of course, wash them in her own automatic washing machine back in her plush apartment in Khartoum, but my mistress encourages her daughter to bring her dirty hosiery home to the hut of her birth every week for her mother’s personal footslave to wash by mouth.
And so I know I shall be spending much of the rest of this special day with miss Fawziya’s dirty socks soaking in my slave mouth, following which I shall have to wash them properly by hand and then place them on a rock under the hot, African sun outside my mistress’s hut in order to watch them dry.
Various villagers will pass by and laugh at me – the sunburnt, whip-scarred, elderly, white, male slave staring at the young, female African lawyer’s drying socks under the unrelenting supervision of his whip-wielding, surly and po-faced, middle-aged, African Queen.’
Tale no. 18 - Lines
'If a dirty footslave such as myself is insolent or disobedient he can, of course, expect to be physically punished by his angry mistress – usually by means of the whip or cane across his bare back, buttocks or legs.
And justly so.
But not all mistresses choose to discipline their slaves by means of the whip or the cane all the time. The mistress may be feeling tired, and may not be inclined to make the effort to physically chastise her slave. Or, she may decide that a beating alone is not enough, and must be supplemented with additional correction. Or she may even decide that her slave’s back deserves some respite from the whip as she is a merciful mistress and is concerned for her slave’s well-being.
In all such circumstances the imposition of ‘lines’ is a favourite alternative to, or supplement to, physical chastisement. The slave still suffers pain and ignominy through having to painstakingly write out by hand, in his best handwriting, literally hundreds or even thousands of times, some humiliating and self-deprecating lines of text, which the mistress can then enjoy ripping up in front of him on completion by way of denigrating his nugatory work.
She can even, if she is so inclined, demand that he repeat the whole meaningless exercise, thereby reinforcing in the stupid slave’s brain her absolute power over him, and her ability to command every aspect of every waking moment of his miserable existence.
Such punishment is not, therefore, in actuality, meaningless – for it not only impresses upon the disobedient or lazy slave the message of the individual punishment-line itself, but further reminds the slave of his utter powerlessness at the feet of his superior, female master.
My mistress is very much disposed to giving me lines to write out, and the following is just a small selection of the lines I have had to painstakingly copy over the years, together with the number of times I had to write them on each occasion, as recorded in my personal slave-punishment book:
‘A chastened footslave is a contrite footslave. A contrite footslave is a content footslave.’ (x 7000)
‘I must stare at my superior mistress’s feet and footwear at all times, for it is the law of the land as well as being a polite and seemly thing for a humble footslave to do.’ (x 4000)
‘I must not neglect my mistress’s socks, just as I must not covet my mistress’s bare feet, for her socks are every bit as much my superiors and betters, as they are in intimate contact with the sweet perspiration from my mistress’s most divine, feminine feet.’ (x 3500)
‘I must show proper respect and humility when permitted to kiss the feet and footwear of a superior mistress; lustfulness and unseemly lasciviousness must never be the characteristics of a humble, slavish footkiss.’ (x 5000)
‘Better to address my mistress in suitably humble and warm slave-speak than to kneel here in the freezing cold yard with my dirty, slave mouth full of my mistress’s sweaty, recently-worn socks. I must understand that insolence and arrogance will not be tolerated in a dirty footslave.’ (x 7600)
‘May the smarting in my whipped back be a reminder to me of my mistress’s supreme power over me. God bless my mistress for taking the time to chastise and correct me - her recalcitrant and disobedient footslave.’ (x 6000)
‘I must not raise my head above my mistress’s knee; for the gaze of a footslave must never stray from the superior, feminine feet and footwear of his all-powerful mistress.’ (x 9000)
‘The needs of my mistress’s boots are superior to the needs of her humble bootslave; should they require to be licked clean, then licked clean they must be.’ (x8000)
‘Where there is a mistress, let there be a footslave; where there is a footslave, let there be a whip. For the sharp sting of the feminine whip keeps a male slave on his mistress’s toes.’ (x 5000)
As you can see, some of the lines my mistress has imposed on me are quite witty and amusing, but believe me, it is difficult to see the funny side when your right arm is besieged with slave-writer’s cramp!
I would almost prefer the sharp sting of the feminine whip!’
Tale no. 17 – Studying
‘My mistress Samantha is studying for her exams. She is a final year student at university, reading Medieval European History.
She is currently seated in the university library, filling her pretty head full of important facts and figures that will help her to get the first class honours degree she requires in order to get her dream job as a lecturer in Medieval History at a top university in the USA. She already has a conditional job offer. My 23 year old, brunette, bespectacled mistress is very studious and very clever.
I am kneeling under her desk at her feet in the library. I too am very studious, but because I am not clever or intelligent (I am a 30 year old, ignorant, male slave) I am required to study my mistress’s feet and footwear. It is the law of the land, for I am her personal footslave, and if I fail to continuously study my mistress Samantha’s pretty, feminine feet and footwear the maximum penalty is 5 years’ imprisonment and/or 500 lashes.
As she is seated at her desk my mistress has her left foot tucked in behind her right foot, so from my kneeling position it is her outer right foot that is directly in front of my slave face. It is a hot, summer’s day outside and my mistress has chosen to wear a flimsy, knee-length, summer dress with a pair of light cotton, turquoise ankle socks and strappy, brown leather, open toed and open heeled sandals.
My mistress doesn’t have to wear socks with her sandals on a hot day like this, but she is a kindly mistress and has no doubt done so in order to give me more to study and think about whilst she studies her history books. After all, studying a young woman’s bare feet, whilst it is fascinating enough for a down-in-the-dirt footslave such as myself, nevertheless does not present the same degree of variety and human interest as studying her socked and sandalled feet.
Please permit me to explain:
First of all, there is the exciting contrast between the bright turquoise colour of the cotton sock material and the subtle tones of my mistress’s beautiful, soft, olive skin (my mistress Samantha, despite her very English sounding name, is half-Italian). And I am not just talking about the stark contrast between the skin on her shapely, lower calf-muscles and the elasticated tops of her pretty, feminine, turquoise-coloured socks. For, thanks to the heavy, latticed-style stitching in the light, cotton ankle socks, I can also see precious little glimpses of her olive-coloured, Mediterranean skin underneath her sock – particularly her right sock which is so close to my kneeling face. Indeed, the positioning of her right foot as she sits with her toes alone resting on the ground is causing the thick, latticed stitching in her right, turquoise sock to stretch, affording me an even better view of her pretty, olive footflesh underneath the tiny, stretched holes of the stitching.
I can therefore study my mistress’s precious, olive footskin both above and beneath her turquoise ankle sock, although I must be careful not to allow my slavish gaze to extend above her lower calf muscles. That is the absolute limit of my eyes’ jurisdiction, for a footslave must never be so arrogant as to look a woman above the knee. To be on the safe side, therefore, I try my best to focus in on the individual pores of the olive skin on her pretty instep through the latticed stitching of her turquoise ankle sock.
However, I don’t resent the fact that her ankle sock is for the most part obstructing my view of her bare footflesh underneath, for the pretty sock is in and of itself a fascinating subject for study: the fabric of the thin, cotton material; the criss-crossed, latticed pattern of the stitching of the sock. I only wish I currently had my mistress’s permission to trace my slave nose along the pattern of the stitching as I would love to know how the pretty, feminine sock feels on the sensitive tip of my nose, but I am under specific instructions not to nuzzle my mistress’s socks today – only to study them in complete and absolute silence. My mistress does not want any distractions from her footslave. I must pretend I am not here!
Then, of course, there is the exciting contrast between the much tighter stitching on the elasticated top of her turquoise ankle sock, and the thick and open latticed stitching on the main body of the sock. Similarly, there is the tight, reinforced stitching around the toe area of the sock – which I can fully see thanks to my mistress’s decision to wear her dark brown, strappy, leather, open-toed, Moses-style sandals.
You might be thinking that a footslave would prefer to see his mistress in a pair of sexy, high-heeled sandals rather than an everyday, common-or-garden pair of flat, brown sandals, but actually I am flattered that my mistress has chosen to wear her Moses sandals with her socks – flattered because I know she has done so not just because they are an eminently practical and sensible item of summer footwear, but because they accentuate the beauty of her turquoise-socked foot. She must surely have been thinking of me – her footslave – when she chose to wear them today!
The reinforced stitching around my mistress’s toes is fascinating enough – but not as fascinating as the tiny little imperfections I can increasingly observe in the stitching of her socks. A prime example is a tiny loose stitch I have now observed at the very top of her elasticated sock, which is sticking up defiantly against her olive calf-muscle. It is only about a millimetre long, but I enjoy the thought that nobody else in the whole, wide world - not even my mistress herself - will have noticed, or will even care about, that tiny loose stitch in a 23 year old, female, history student’s turquoise ankle sock (nobody else that is apart, perhaps, from you!)
The tiny, loose stitch is, of course, of no real consequence in the real world, but it looms large in the world of the humble footslave. It causes me anxiety and distress. What if it gets worse? What if it leads to a tear in the elasticated top of my mistress’s precious ankle-sock? Will I get the blame? Will I be justifiably punished if the loose stitch is ever discovered by my mistress? After all, even though the loose stitch is not of my making it is only right and proper that a footslave should be held to account for any failings in his mistress’s footwear.
And my private, panic attack worsens as I observe ever more perceived imperfections in my mistress’s turquoise ankle socks. Tiny pieces of white fluff stuck to the stitching of the sock. Where have they come from? Are they pieces of white sock lint from her sock drawer?
And on the underside of the reinforced stitching on the toe area of her right sock there are definite signs of yellowy-brown staining where my mistress’s precious, feminine footsweat has seeped through the sock and reacted with the brown leather of her Moses sandals. It is, thankfully, not heavy staining. It is merely the residual staining caused by repeated previous wearing of the turquoise socks. I know that because my mistress’s feet are not sweating at the moment. Although it is a hot, summer’s afternoon outside we are in an air-conditioned library, and besides my mistress’s feet do not smell at present. All I can smell is the leather of her sandals. If her feet and socks did smell I would soon know about it as my face is so close to them under the library desk!
Nevertheless, the yellowy staining on the underside of my mistress’s turquoise sock causes me, somewhat selfishly, yet further concern for my well-being. Will I be accused of not washing her socks properly if she notices it? Of not pre-soaking her sock thoroughly enough in my slave mouth before putting it into the washing machine? Of not sucking the sweat out of her well-worn socks properly in a manner befitting a diligent sockslave?
Perhaps she will have me whipped!
Such exciting thoughts rush through my brain as I kneel at my mistress’s socked and sandalled feet. But nothing – nothing - can compare to the excitement of what happens when my mistress subconsciously flexes her foot muscles inside her socks! For that inevitably causes the cotton material of my mistress Samantha’s turquoise socks to crease and fold before my very eyes!
I can’t begin to tell you how exciting such moments are for a humble foot and sock slave such as myself, for all kinds of questions are raised in my stupid, ignorant, empty head. How many creases will there be? Will they disappear again or remain thanks to the slightly new positioning of her foot? If so, should I offer to straighten out the creases in the sock for my mistress (not now, of course – my mistress has clearly instructed me that she doesn’t wish to be disturbed whilst she is studying, but later, perhaps, as she is about to head off to the Student’s Union bar for a refreshing drink with her friends?)
Quite apart from all that, a young woman’s creased socks are infinitely more appealing than uncreased, fully-pulled-up socks, if only because creased socks suggest a degree of indifference on the part of the mistress to the tidiness of her footwear. It’s almost as if she is sending the message to her footslave that such matters are, quite literally, beneath her; that she just doesn’t care whether or not her socks are straight; that it is only of concern to the footslave – yet he is powerless to do anything about it, unless given express permission by his mistress to touch her socks and to straighten them for her.
Such pathetic, inconsequential thoughts about the state of my mistress’s light cotton, lattice-patterned, plain turquoise, ankle socks are racing through my inadequate, male-slave brain whilst my mistress fills her own pretty, feminine head with important information about the Kings and Queens of Medieval Europe!
Such is the micro-world of the humble footslave!’
Tale no. 16 – Unemployed
‘Times are hard for we footslaves. There are too many footslaves chasing too few mistresses, and so not all of us are gainfully employed as we would wish and as we have been trained up for – as the personal footslaves of beautiful and powerful young women.
Not that we are left idle, of course! We are slaves – and an idle slave is an affront to society. So we work in the slave mines instead, breaking rocks or digging holes. It is soul-destroying work given that we are fully trained to carry out sole-worshipping work.
But every once in a while a mistress will advertise for a personal footslave. If you are lucky enough to see the advert, and you are breaking rocks in the slave mines, you simply have to apply for the position.
I am one of the lucky ones, for I have seen and replied to one such advertisement, and today I am being interviewed by a prospective mistress who goes by the name of mistress Petra.
According to her advertisement in the ‘Slave Finder Gazette’ she is 35 years old, of Greek origins, but has lived in England for most of her life. She is recently divorced and lives alone with her Filipina maid. The accompanying photograph of mistress Petra shows a slim woman with long, straight, dark hair. She looks younger than 35. She does not have what one would exactly describe as a ‘kindly’ face, but then kindness is hardly a prerequisite in a mistress! A mistress must be strong and dominant. I decided immediately that it would be a privilege to serve such a mistress (well, I am fast approaching 50 and the hard labour in the slave mines is ruining my health!)
It is the morning of my job interview with mistress Petra and I am waiting nervously and humbly on my hands and knees in her living room having been shown in by her Filipina maid – a pretty young woman of about 20. Outrageously, I wonder whether I will be required/permitted to serve the Filipina maid’s brown-sandalled feet also!
Suddenly the living room door crashes opens and mistress Petra storms into the room. I hardly recognise her from her advert. She is now much fatter than in her photograph (although still attractive) and has dyed her hair blonde. It is also curly and permed – not straight. Only her unkind face has not changed, but I merely catch a glimpse of my prospective mistress’s facial features before lowering my gaze to her feet – as befits a prospective footslave meeting his prospective mistress for the first time.
She is wearing a white blouse, black slacks and flat, black leather, slip-on shoes with what appear to be plain, black ankle-socks. As she sits down on a chair directly in front of me I can get a much closer view of her feet and footwear – nicely shaped ankles despite her current ‘portliness’, and her bare, slightly bronzed skin which I can now see above the elasticated tops of her plain, black ankle socks looks soft and smooth. Completely hairless. Her socks and shoes also appear to be in relatively good condition, although the leather in the rounded toes of the flat shoes is clearly creased, indicating that mistress Petra has worn this particular pair of leather flats many times before.
‘Name, slave?’ she snaps down at me.
It’s funny how on hearing just two words I can already tell that mistress Petra speaks with a ‘plummy’ English accent. She is clearly well-to-do (the Filipina maid is another clue in that direction), and must have lived in England for a very long time (at least her advertisement was correct about that).
I reply respectfully to my prospective mistress showing off my knowledge of ‘slave-speak’:
‘Oh pray, mistress Petra, if it pleases you mistress Petra, this dirty slave’s name is slave Thomas, if it so pleases you most beautiful and respected mistress Petra.’
I am conscious of the fact that I am addressing her feet – again, as befits a prospective footslave.
‘Mmm…no, it doesn’t please me much, slave. If you become my personal footslave you shall be renamed ‘Pot-bellied Footpig’, for you look like an ugly, fat pig!’
‘Yes mistress Petra. Thank you mistress Petra. As it pleases you mistress Petra.’
I don’t think I’m all that fat – certainly not as fat as mistress Petra. But there is no doubt that I am ugly compared to her; for I am male and she is a beautiful female – the pinnacle of creation.
All the time I am studying my mistress’s feet as they will, hopefully, be playing an overwhelmingly important part in my miserable, slave existence from now on. Although mistress Petra may justifiably be described as ‘portly’ her ankles and lower calves are still rather shapely. It is really only on her thighs and hips that she is somewhat ‘podgy’. I actually find her figure very appealing, not that her body-shape is any of my damned business!
‘OK, let’s get a few things straight right from the outset, slave. If you become my slave you shall be kept permanently gagged. I can’t bear to listen to a slave whining and whingeing in pathetic slave-speak all day long…’Oh pray mistress…oh, if it pleases you, mistress Petra…’ she imitates my feeble attempts at slave-speak in a mocking tone.
‘Nothing a slave could ever have to say to me is of any interest to me, so you will be completely prohibited from talking…’ she continues.
‘…If you do require to communicate with me you shall do so by kissing my feet. The gag will hold your tongue down but will still allow you to pucker your lips and place respectful kisses onto my shoes and feet. You only need to be able to ‘say’ three things: ‘Yes mistress’; ‘Thank You mistress’; and ‘Mercy mistress’ – so that will mean one footkiss for ‘yes mistress’; two kisses for ‘Thank you mistress’; and three kisses for ‘mercy mistress.’ Do I make myself clear?’
I am about to respond verbally as normal when I realise that, despite the absence of a gag in my mouth, this may be a test. I therefore instead lower my lips to the toe of mistress Petra’s flat, black, leather shoe and kiss it once to indicate ‘yes mistress’
She makes no comment, but continues to lay down the law:
‘Secondly, if I decide to employ you as my personal footslave you shall be required to serve at my feet 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. You will eat, drink and sleep at my feet, and throughout the day you will be kneeling and staring at my feet. In fact, you shall be required to keep your nose permanently attached to the side of my outer, right ankle bone whenever I am stationary – standing still, seated, or lying in bed.
When I say ‘attached to my ankle bone’ that may, of course, mean ‘attached to the sock or stocking that is covering my ankle bone’ at the time. Right now, for example, if you were employed as my personal footslave, your nose would be resting humbly on the side of my black ankle sock. Do I make myself clear again, slave?’
Once again I kiss the toe of my prospective mistress’s right, leather shoe to indicate ‘yes’.
It’s an interesting fact: most mistresses would resent having a footslave’s nose ‘attached’ to their ankle 24/7. Even a mistress likes to have some privacy, usually! But there are a few, a minority, - and mistress Petra is clearly one of them – who just seem to need that constant reassurance of the feel of a slave’s nose on their pretty ankle-bone, even if it is through the material of their sock or stocking. Some mistresses even insist on continuous kissing of their feet throughout the day, but mistress Petra clearly does not wish to go that far!
My wishes in the matter are, of course, singularly unimportant. I must behave as my mistress tells me. I therefore assume that this is another test, and lower my nose to the side of her outer, right, besocked ankle bone.
Her black, cotton ankle sock feels soft on top of her hard ankle bone underneath, and all I can now see and smell is a young woman's black, cotton ankle-sock and black, leather shoe.
Meanwhile the owner of the sock resumes her pontificating:
‘Finally, slave, you should know that I love to whip; that I whip to cut; and I cut to hurt. Do you think you can handle frequent beatings of the whip?’
I temporarily remove my nose from the side of her sock in order to kiss mistress Petra’s right shoe once, even though I’m a complete coward when it comes to physical pain (an unfortunate trait in a slave!)
Mistress Petra appears to sneer at my self-evidently diffident kiss to the rounded toe of her right shoe as my nose once again rests on her besocked outer ankle-bone:
‘Mmm…You’re lying, slave. I don’t like you. You’re fat, bald and ugly and your kisses to my shoe have been weak and feeble. No wonder you are without a mistress!’
I want to reply ‘Yes mistress, as it pleases you, mistress’, but I am now prohibited from talking.
Or am I? For the next thing mistress Petra does is to ring a small bell in order to summon her Filipina maid.
As soon as the young Filipina woman appears mistress Petra gives her an instruction:
‘Maria, arrange for this ugly, pot-bellied footpig to be escorted back to the slave mines, would you please? He’s not what I’m looking for.’
The pretty, Filipina maid curtseys and smiles at her mistress, whilst my heart sinks. So I have failed my job interview. I am still ‘unemployed’, and it’s back to my hard labour breaking rocks in the slave mines! Perhaps I am now so old and ugly that I am simply unemployable as a personal slave? I contemplate kissing mistress Petra’s divine feet and begging for mercy – what was it? Three kisses to beg for mercy?
But I don’t even get the opportunity to do that. For mistress Petra suddenly withdraws her socked foot from my kneeling face and exits the room as quickly as she had entered it, leaving only the taste of her superior, black shoe leather on my slave lips, the memory of her soft, black ankle sock on my slave nose, and the brown sandalled feet of her pretty Filipina maid in my slave sight.’
Tale no. 15 – That’s entertainment!
‘My master uses me to help him entertain young ladies in his apartment. My master is considerably older than I am (I am 46) yet he still manages to ‘pull the birds’, as free men are prone to say. Young women literally seem to flock to him. I’m not sure whether he has to pay them to come back to his flat, or whether they genuinely enjoy his company and find the older man attractive. But whatever their motives, and whatever their station in life, the master has made it abundantly clear to me that all his young women are my betters, and are to be treated as if they were Queens and Princesses from the moment they enter his apartment.
I therefore kneel inside my master’s front door every evening waiting for him to arrive back with his latest conquest.
This evening when the front door opens I see that my master has ‘pulled’ a young, Chinese-looking woman in her early twenties. She is a stunner! How does he do it! Slim, svelte, a bright, intelligent, pretty face with dark hair combed back in a ponytail, and she is wearing a blue, knee-length dress, black, woolly tights and shiny, white, T-bar, Mary-Jane style shoes with high, blocky heels.
She gasps with a mixture of surprise and delight as soon as she sees me, naked but for my leather slave collar and slave shorts, kneeling with my head humbly bowed ready to do my master’s and new mistress’s bidding:
‘Hah! You own a slave?’ she asks my master in a heavy oriental accent.
‘No, my dear! Tonight – you do! This piece of filth is going to serve as your personal footslave tonight!’ replies my master.
The young woman puts her right hand up to her pretty mouth, adjusts her small, white leather, shoulder bag with her left hand, and suppresses a girlish giggle. I notice how her black, woolly tights crease around the top of her shapely ankles as she does so:
‘Ha! Ha! This Fu-Ling slave? Ha! Ha! Fu-Ling like have slave! Always want have slave!’
The master has clearly hit the jackpot tonight – not all his young ladies seem so keen at first on the idea of having their very own footslave.
At first, that is!
‘Ha! Ha! Make him kiss your feet darling! Order him to kiss the toe of your pretty, white shoe!’ suggests my master, helpfully.
Miss Fu-Ling (for I assume that is her name, not that the master seems to care all that much) giggles again before stretching forward her right leg on the carpet and taking her right hand away from her mouth in order to point down with her slender, Chinese finger towards the toe of her right shoe:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave kiss Fu-Ling shoe!’ she snaps, as authoritatively and curtly as she can muster in her high-pitched, sweet young feminine voice.
It’s authoritative enough for me, and I immediately crawl forward and lower my lips to the shiny, rounded, white toe leather of miss Fu-Ling’s Mary-Jane style shoe. The toe of the shoe somehow doesn’t seem quite so pristine and clean this close-up. There are one or two definite signs of scuff marks which have been polished over, and there is a tiny slither of mud or street-dirt along the lower rim of the toe area.
Her foot muscle twitches, in delighted reaction to my humble and subservient footkiss, inside her black, woolly tights, causing the black, woollen material on the arch of her outstretched foot to crease and fold.
Again she raises her right hand to her pretty, Chinese mouth and giggles:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave kiss Fu-Ling dirty shoe! Fu-Ling better than slave! Slave in Fu-Ling power! Ha! Ha!’
The master joins in miss Fu-Ling’s merriment:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, my dear – he is well and truly in your power! Why don’t you sit down over there on the sofa and have him take off your shoes and smell your tights?’
Even the hitherto repressed, but evidently naturally dominant, miss Fu-Ling seems a bit taken aback at the master’s suggestion (but, of course, the sooner he can get the young woman to kick off her shoes and relax the sooner he can seduce her and make love to her).
‘Ha! Ha! Make slave take off Fu-Ling shoes and smell Fu-Ling tights?’ echoes the young Chinese woman incredulously. ‘But Fu-Ling wear same tights and shoes all day! Fu-Ling tights dirty; sweaty!’
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry your pretty, little head about that, my darling! That’s what a footslave is for – to smell his mistress’s dirty, sweaty feet and tights! He’s just a piece of dirt himself, so he likes smelling women’s dirty feet! Ask him! Go on, sweetheart, ask him if he likes smelling young women’s dirty, sweaty tights!’
This is an old trick my master frequently employs: getting me to reassure any shy or diffident young women that I regard it as an honour to smell, kiss or lick their dirty socks or tights – which I do!
The young, 22 year old, Chinese mistress laughs again before composing herself enough to ask me the humiliating and degrading question:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave like smell Fu-Ling dirty tights? Want smell Fu-Ling sweaty toes? Ha! Ha! Slave a dirty-foot sniffer? Ha! Ha!’
My master kicks me in the ribs:
‘Answer the young lady, slave!’
‘Aow!...Yes, mistress, if it pleases you mistress Fu-Ling, this dirty slave does like the smell of beautiful young women’s sweaty tights and would deem it an honour to remove your shoes for you and sniff the toe-ends of your sweaty, black tights whilst you are still wearing them, if it so pleases you all-powerful and most beautiful young mistress Fu-Ling.’
The master and mistress both laugh out loud:
‘Ha! Ha! You see, darling, I told you so! He’s nothing but a tights-sniffing queer!’
‘Ha! Ha! Yes. Fu-Ling understand now – slave a dirty foot-whore; like smell women stinky feet! Fu-Ling help slave; make slave take off Fu-Ling shoes and smell Fu-Ling sweaty, black tights! Ha! Ha!’
And with that the stunning, young Chinese woman moves over to the sofa and sits down with both her shapely legs obligingly extended out in front of her ready for me to unbuckle her white shoes and sniff the sweaty, reinforced toe areas of her black, woolly tights.
I am careful not to gratuitously fondle her black, woolly tights as I undo the straps on her shiny but scuff-marked white shoes and gently manoeuvre them off her pretty, Chinese feet. The shoes come off with a whoosh of warm air, and miss Fu-Ling now appears completely unabashed about her sweaty, stinky toes as she wriggles them inside her thick, woolly tights directly under my slave nose in order to release more of the stink.
I lower my nose until it touches the thick, black, reinforced woollen stitching at the top of her wriggling toes, and audibly sniff.
Mistress Fu-Ling laughs hysterically:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave sniff Fu-Ling sweaty toes like dirty dog! Slave a whore! Slave a wimp! Smell Chinese-woman sweaty feet! Ha! Ha! Fu-Ling laugh at slave!’
And she did continue to laugh at me – the pathetic, middle-aged footslave nuzzling and sniffing her sweaty tights and toes.
Later, the master has me massage mistress Fu-Ling’s feet, firstly whilst she is still wearing her thick, woolly tights, and then subsequently after he has persuaded her to take off her tights on the pretext that I need to lick all the day’s sweat off her bare feet before he can make love to her.
As I kneel at the end of the sofa licking, sucking and massaging mistress Fu-Ling’s precious, bare Chinese feet whilst she lies back and relaxes, the master pops into the kitchen to fetch a bottle of chilled wine.
Whilst he is gone miss Fu-Ling tells me what she thinks of me:
‘Ha! Ha! You a dirty dog! You a slave – not a man; not like slave-master! Fu-Ling love slave-master. Slave-master strong; handsome. Slave - nothing but ugly footlick, fit only to lick Chinese-woman sweaty feet and smell Chinese-woman dirty tights! Ha! Ha! Master strong; you weak! You a loser! You a fool! You a Chinese-woman foot-fool! Ha! Ha!’
Needless to say, she is speaking the truth, for that’s all I am – a fool; a jester; part of the night’s entertainment.
And later on, whilst my master and his latest conquest miss Fu-Ling are making mad, passionate love, I shall be kneeling in the corner of the bedroom with my slave nose buried in miss Fu-Ling’s discarded shoes, her discarded tights tied around my eyes and mouth, savouring the taste, sight, smell and feel of her dirty footwear whilst my master enjoys the taste, sight, smell and feel of her luscious 22 year old body.’
Tale no. 14 – Interview with a footslave
‘I am being interviewed live on television by a mistress-journalist about my life as a young woman’s personal footslave.
The mistress-journalist is an attractive, 25 year old, white girl with shoulder-length, blonde hair. I am kneeling at her feet whilst she interviews me. She is seated on a bar-stool and her feet are resting on a metal bar at the base of the stool. She is wearing smart, black slacks, black ankle socks with a multicoloured flower motif along the sides, and soft, plain black ballet flats.
I feel like I am being interviewed by her shoes and socks as it is they I am staring at and addressing as the mistress-journalist arrogantly fires down her questions at me:
“So, dirty footslave, what is the name of your mistress?”
“Oh pray mistress-journalist, if it pleases you most beautiful and kind mistress-journalist, this dirty slave is the personal footslave of the supremely beautiful and feminine mistress Manisha, if it so pleases you mistress-journalist.”
“Describe your mistress for the benefit of our viewers, slave.”
I notice how the blonde mistress-journalist’s short, black ankle socks crease and fold as she adjusts her feet below my kneeling face on the bar stool.
“Oh pray mistress-journalist, if it pleases you mistress-journalist, my mistress Manisha is a stunningly beautiful 23 year old Asian woman; my mistress is petite and slightly-built, with dark eyes and long, dark hair and a perfect figure with very beautiful and shapely legs and ankles, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress-journalist.”
The mistress-journalist laughs at my sycophantic flattery (as do the cameraman and sound man) as a more accurate description would probably be ‘a short, podgy, Asian girl’:
“Ha! Ha! And would you describe your young mistress as ‘sweet and kind’, dirty, middle-aged slave?”
“Oh yes, mistress-journalist, if it pleases you mistress-journalist. This slave is a most fortunate slave, if it so pleases you most powerful mistress-journalist. My mistress Manisha is indeed sweet and kind to her dirty, worthless slave. This slave is only beaten when the mistress deems him to merit a beating. This slave is never beaten on a womanly whim, if it so pleases you sweet and feminine journalist-mistress.”
Once again the journalist and TV crew laugh at me, as they know my mistress Manisha has a reputation for being inordinately cruel to her slaves.
“Ha! Ha! So you’re saying you actualy like being at the mercy of an all-powerful young mistress who must be some 20 years your junior, dirty slave?”
“Oh pray, mistress-journalist, if it pleases you mistress-journalist, this slave does indeed consider himself fortunate to be serving at the feet and footwear of such a kind and fair mistress as his superior Asian mistress, mistress Manisha, if it so pleases you sweet and powerful mistress-journalist.”
“Ha! Ha! But tell our viewers the truth, slave! Surely it must stick in your craw to have to obey every command of a young woman who is just half your age? To have to bow your head and kiss her feet every time she enters the room? To have to kneel and stare at her boots and shoes whilst she is wearing them? To have to crawl after her heels like an obedient and admiring puppy-dog? I mean, what are you – a man or a mouse?”
“Oh pray, mistress-journalist, if it pleases you mistress-journalist, this slave truly and humbly longs for nothing more than to be in the constant presence of his mistress Manisha’s feet and footwear and deems it an honour to be the servant of her boots, shoes and socks. Oh pray, mistress-journalist, if it pleases you, mistress-journalist, if this slave had to compare himself to an animal it would be to a slimy slug, for he deserves nothing more than to be trodden under foot by his superior mistress Manisha’s boots, if it so pleases you sweet and feminine mistress-journalist.”
Again the mistress-journalist and the rest of the TV film crew laugh at me out loud. The journalist-mistress then mocks me:
“Ha! Ha! Well, I’m so sorry that we had to temporarily drag you away from your mistress’s precious feet and boots, slave. On behalf of the television crew and all our female viewers I do sincerely apologise to you, if it so pleases you most humble and slimy slug-slave!...”
Raucous laughter now echoes around the TV studio:
“…but tell us all, slave,” continues the witty and intelligent, superior feminine mistress-journalist, “since you are so obsessed with your mistress Manisha’s feet and footwear, what is your mistress wearing on her feet today? I mean, presumably even when she is not present you are required to remember and think about her pretty feet and footwear since you are her personal footslave? Or are you too high and mighty to waste your time thinking about a young Asian woman’s shoes and socks?”
“Oh no, mistress-journalist, if it pleases you mistress-journalist, this slave is far from being high and mighty, but is low and weak - if this slave may be so bold to make such an assertion, sweet feminine mistress-journalist. This slave is indeed required to think only about his mistress Manisha’s feet and footwear at all times, and deems it an honour to fill his inferior, male-slave mind with humble thoughts of such items as the superior feminine boots, shoes and socks of his most beautiful and kind mistress Manisha, even when she does not see fit to deign him with her glorious presence, if it so please you justly-suspicious mistress-journalist.”
“Ha! Ha! Well, get a move on then, dirty slave! Convince me and my sceptical, female viewers that you know exactly what your mistress Manisha is wearing on her feet this morning! Describe her footwear in great detail for us!”
“Yes mistress-journalist. At once mistress-journalist. This morning I had the inestimable honour of dressing my mistress’s feet. My mistress Manisha is wearing thick, red, calf-length bootsocks inside her black, block-heeled, round-toed, zip-up, ankle boots, if it so pleases you most powerful and beautiful mistress-journalist.”
“No it doesn’t please me, footslave! Give us a proper, detailed description of your mistress Manisha’s current footwear. I want to hear all the details only a pathetic footslave can observe! All the details that only someone who is so close to another human-being’s feet and footwear that he can smell them can possibly know! Answer my question properly boy, or I’ll have you whipped live on air!”
I shudder at the thought of a public flogging live on air. My suffering would doubtless be recorded by many of the female viewers watching at home, and played and replayed for their own delectation and that of their friends.
I must therefore obey the journalist-mistress and answer her properly in a manner befitting a humble footslave:
‘Oh pray, mistress-journalist, if it pleases you mistress-journalist, mistress Manisha’s thick, red bootsocks contain a fetching pattern of thick, latticed stitching which the slave must concentrate on whenever his mistress’s socks are visible inside her boots – for example, when his mistress is seated and he is kneeling at her feet. In particular, this slave is aware of a loose stitch on the elasticated top of his mistress Manisha’s left bootsock, and yearns to nuzzle that loose stitch in a gesture of contrition and humility, if it so pleases you sweet, feminine mistress-journalist.”
“Tch! Enough about your mistress’s socks already, dirty slave! What about her boots! Give us some detail on her black ankle boots!” shouts the mistress-journalist seemingly exasperated at my inability to answer her questions in the way that she demands.
I am trying my best, but of course a male footslave’s best can never be good enough for a superior woman. That’s because my stupid, male brain is inferior to that of the mistress-journalist’s. She is my intellectual and sexual better.
“Oh pray mistress-journalist, if it pleases you superior, feminine mistress-journalist, the mistress Manisha’s boots are somewhat muddy today, for this slave was required to accompany her to heel as she took an early morning stroll in the park, and this slave has not yet ben granted the privilege of removing the muck and the dirt from the soles of his mistress’s dirty boots with his slave-tongue, if it so pleases you sweet and feminine journalist-mistress.”
Whack!
The blonde journalist-mistress has reached down to slap me hard across the face.
I deserved that.
“I said…give us some detail on your mistress Manisha’s boots, slave! We don’t just want to hear vague descriptions of ‘muddy boots’! Tell us exactly where the mud is! Describe its exact location on your mistress’s boots – after all, you are supposed to have been studying her boots as you crawled along in the park after her booted heels!’
The superior mistress-journalist slaps me again, re-emphasising her entirely justified womanly exasperation.
My cheeks are now stinging and my head is ringing. I start to panic as the mistress-journalist is clearly enjoying slapping me across the face live on air. I wonder if her director is encouraging her to beat me:
“Oh pray mistress-journalist! Oh mercy sweet, feminine mistress-journalist! This slave recalls a thick layer of mud attached to the block-heeled rim of his mistress’s left ankle boot, if it so pleases you mistress-journalist, and he further recollects that a small twig appeared to be lodged in one of the treads on the sole of his mistress’s left boot, as the end of the mud-covered twig was protruding from underneath the dirty sole of his mistress’s heavy ankle boot, if it so pleases you most merciful mistress-journalist!”
“Mmm…better, slave, but you’re still not going into the perverse detail our female viewers want to hear. They want to hear your unique footslavish perspective on your mistress’s footwear…I’ll tell you what! Perhaps your inadequate male-slave brain would find it easier to describe in perverse detail my feet and footwear – since my feet are currently resting directly in front of your gormless, ugly face! Yes…describe my footwear in detail, slave! Tell our viewers what you can see so close up with your footslave-eyes!” commands the mistress-journalist, clearly ‘thinking on her feet’.
From my slave-kneeling position I humbly and obediently focus in on the pretty, blonde, female journalist’s equally pretty soft, feminine footwear, and say what I see:
‘Oh pray mistress-journalist, if it pleases you mistress-journalist, this slave observes that your short, black socks each contain a row of pretty, coloured, feminine flowers along the sides – one red flower; one yellow flower, one pink flower; and one purple flower…”
Whack!
My head is sent reeling to one side by the force of the blow from the young journalist-mistress’s fair, feminine hand:
‘I want much more detail than that, slave. Don’t you think our viewers can see all that with their own eyes? Don’t you think the camera can pick up the flower motif on my black ankle socks? We want to hear things that only a down-in-the-dirt footslave can see! Concentrate harder!”
I attempt to gather my senses again as I resume my position with my slave face hovering just inches above the journalist-mistress’s black socks and ballet-flats.
Concentrate! Focus! Obey the mistress-journalist!
“Oh pray mistress-journalist; please forgive this stupid footslave mistress-journalist…if it pleases the mistress-journalist this slave can observe a tiny piece of white fluff stuck to one of the black stitches in the mistress’s left sock, if it so pleases you supreme and all-powerful journalist-mistress..”
“Good...that’s better! And what else can you observe down there, slave?”
“Oh pray, mistress-journalist, this slave can also observe a small tear in the lower rim of the mistress’s right ballet shoe, meaning that he can see the mistress’s black sock through the tiny hole in the side of her shoe, if it so pleases you superior mistress-journalist.”
The mistress-journalist laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! You’re quite right slave! And what do your surmise from the tiny hole in the side of my ballet flat, slave-boy?”
I know I must be careful how I answer such a question. It may be a trap! The mistress may be offended if I describe her footwear live on air as being in any way ‘manky’ or ‘well worn’! On the other hand, I cannot lie, for I am a slave.
“Oh pray mistress-journalist, if it pleases you mistress-journalist, this slave surmises that the mistress is very fond of wearing her black ballet flats, that they bring comfort and succour to the mistress’s tired feet, and that the mistress is most magnanimous in allowing her dirty footslave an extra glimpse of her precious, black sock through the hole in her favoured and well-worn shoe, if it so pleases you mistress-journalist.”
I brace myself for another possible blow across my humble face from her superior, feminine hand, but the mistress-journalist appears pleased with my answer:
‘Ha! Ha! You surmise correctly slave – on all counts!”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
But I breathe too soon:
“But pray tell me, slave, in all your concentrating on my feet and footwear in such great detail, aren’t you forgetting something? Aren’t you neglecting to obey your mistress Manisha’s orders to concentrate in your mind on her feet and footwear at all times – even when she’s not present? I mean, when you’re concentrating on my black sock through the hole in the side of my black ballet-flat you can hardly be thinking about the loose stitch at the top of your mistress Manisha’s red, left bootsock, can you boy?”
My heart sinks! It was a trap after all – and I have fallen into it! I have been exposed as a disobedient personal footslave to my mistress Manisha – live on national television!
I am going to be so punished for this.
The mistress-journalist chuckles to herself triumphantly as she steps down from the bar stool in order to make way for the whipping post which the stage crew are now bringing onto the set.
I am going to be whipped – and rightly so! For I have neglected to concentrate on my mistress Manisha’s footwear, even though she is currently back stage enjoying a coffee and stuffing her face with croissants in the hospitality room - completely oblivious to her personal footslave’s disobedience and to his impending public pain and suffering.
At least the television viewers will be able to enjoy my whipping!’
Tale no. 13 – A slave’s-eye view
‘So, you are a free man or woman.
If you saw my mistress Selvakumari (may sweet, feminine power remain with her always) seated at a restaurant table and enjoying a romantic meal with her boyfriend, you would probably describe her physical appearance as follows:
“A pretty girl; appears to be of Sri Lankan origins; a happy, smiling, kindly face, with long dark hair, big brown eyes and beautiful, white teeth. Good figure; looks about 20 – 25 years old; wearing a white T shirt, blue denim jeans and red and white sneakers.”
Whereas from my perspective, as a humble footslave kneeling at her feet under the restaurant table, the physical description of my mistress would be as follows:
“My mistress Selvakumari (may sweet, feminine power remain with her always) is wearing her favourite pair of frayed, blue denim jeans and scruffy, old, red and white sneakers. She has had this particular pair of sneakers for several years, and wears them virtually every day. They are therefore quite scuffed and flaky around the toe areas, and there is ingrained dirt all along the lower rim of the sneakers, giving them a greyish hue.
At the back of her left sneaker, which is currently resting on the ground, I can see a tiny, white stitch poking up from inside the heel of the sneaker over the frayed hem of her blue, denim jean-leg. I do hope that tiny stitch does not signify serious damage to the inner lining of my mistress’s beloved sneaker.
Her right sneakered-foot is hovering in the air directly in front of my kneeling face. Because I am a trusted footslave I am, unusually, allowed to stare at my mistress’s higher sneaker, as opposed to her lower, left sneaker which is resting on the ground, as she sits at the restaurant table opposite her boyfriend with her right leg crossed over her left.
Because her right sneakered-foot is dangling in the air, the frayed hem of her right jean-leg has ridden up and I can clearly see my Sri Lankan mistress’s plain, white, cotton sneaker sock. Although the feminine, white sock is very short – the elasticated top just peeking out above the side of her red and white sneaker – I can observe the stitching of the cotton sock creasing and folding as my mistress subconsciously flexes and twists her foot in the air whilst she engages in loving small talk with her boyfriend.
I am fascinated by the movement in my mistress’s white sock as each and every crease and fold reminds me that this is all I am fit for – to kneel at my superior mistress’s sneakered foot and study her sock whilst she is wearing it. For her very sock is better than me. I must worship my mistress’s sock – for it provides comfort to my mistress by absorbing her precious, Sri Lankan female footsweat.
I would dearly love to pay homage to the top of my mistress’s short, white sock whilst she is wearing it by respectfully and slavishly kissing it. But neither my mistress, nor her sock, has given me permission to touch it. And so I merely endeavour to study the pattern in the stitching of my mistress’s sock more closely – to count each and every individual stitch along the elasticated rim of the short, white sock. But the repeated creasing and folding of the sock material makes this frustratingly difficult, if not impossible.
However, on a more positive note, because it is so tantalisingly short the white, feminine sneaker-sock affords me a clear view of my Sri Lankan mistress’s beautiful, dusky-brown, foot and ankle skin. I can see too a tiny, red pimple on the side of her outer ankle bone. I want to pay homage to it and kiss it better for my mistress Selvakumari (may sweet, feminine power remain with her always). However, much as with her superior, white sock, I dare not touch the tiny foot-pimple until and unless I am ordered to do so by my mistress (or her boyfriend for that matter – for she has instructed me to regard him as my superior master).
And so I must content myself by merely looking at the little red pimple, and at the minute little wrinkles in my mistress’s soft, smooth, brown footskin which surrounds it. Indeed I try to focus in on the individual pores in my mistress’s bare footflesh, but the constant flexing of her foot muscles and the creasing of her short, white sock distracts me.
Above the rubbery smell of my mistress’s tatty, red and white sneaker I can smell the delicious food and wine as it is served to my master and mistress seated above me, but, although I hunger and thirst, I hunger and thirst only after my beautiful mistress Selvakumari’s (may sweet, feminine power remain with her always) toe-jam and footsweat. I will, therefore, be truly blessed later this evening as my mistress is sure to have me lick clean her soft, sweaty, bare feet before she makes love to my master.
During their love making I shall be further honoured by being permitted to bury my slave nose deep inside my mistress’s freshly worn but now discarded sneakers and socks, so that I can add the warm smell of her freshly worn footwear to the taste of her precious feet.”
You see, you were right, free man or woman. My mistress Selvakumari (may sweet, feminine power remain with her always) is indeed a kindly young woman, and I am truly privileged to be her humble, personal footslave!’
Tale no. 12 – Exercise
‘I am on my hands and knees in the laundry room tongue-polishing a pair of my mistress’s scuff-marked, white, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up ankle boots. After I have finished licking clean my mistress’s boots there is a pile of her dirty socks and tights for me to mouth-wash.
My mistress is a very strict, young West-African woman called miss Odubijo. She is just 25 years old – therefore twenty years’ my junior – and she is, or rather was, an illegal immigrant. However she qualified to stay here under the ‘amnesty for women-illegals’ announced by the Supreme Mistress Julia Caesar last year, and since then my mistress has also been joined by her common-law husband from Africa, 30 year old master Atumbe.
I was given to miss Odubijo as a good-will gesture by the State at the time of the Amnesty as the Supreme Mistress Julia Caesar had also decreed that every female former illegal-immigrant should be given a personal footslave to help her assimilate fully into society. The thinking was that the new slave-owner, in addition to having a slave to attend to her own foot-needs, could also pimp her personal slave as a women’s public footslave-whore on the streets if they so wished, thereby having a steady source of income. My mistress Odubijo took the State up on its suggestion and now lives quite well off my immoral earnings as a dirty, public foot-whore. My mistress Odubijo doesn’t work herself. Nor does her husband Atumbe, my master.
The State also supplied my mistress Odubijo with a free whip and, unfortunately for me, with free lessons in the use of that whip – training which I am ashamed to say she has since had occasion to put into effect many times due to my slavish stupidity and incompetence.
My mistress is not the most physically attractive of young, African women. Nor is she very bright. In fact, an arrogant, free man might (somewhat unkindly) describe her as fat, plain-looking, thick and lazy. But, of course, I am in no position to make such derogatory statements about my mistress, for I am her personal footslave and she is my better. To me, therefore, she is my African Queen, and I am not worthy to kiss her bare, African feet – only her sweaty, worn socks and her scuff-marked boots.
Right now my mistress and master are relaxing on a couch in their living room, no doubt enjoying a sensual cuddle, which they often do in the afternoons whilst lazily watching daytime TV. In addition to my boot and sock cleaning duties in the laundry room, I am expected to wait on my mistress and master hand and foot throughout the day, prior to being ‘pimped’ out on the streets in the evenings.
I therefore must make absolutely sure that I manage to get all my mistress’s dirty hosiery properly mouth-washed and hung up to dry before the master and mistress come down to put the leather leash around my slave neck and lead me out onto the streets as a working foot-whore.
The trouble is that I am repeatedly interrupted in my humble laundry work by the mistress summoning me to attend to some perceived need or other whilst she relaxes in her boyfriend’s arms in the living room.
Like now – for example! I have just finished licking clean my mistress’s white ankle boots, and started to suck the sweat out of one of her dirty, navy-blue bootsocks, when I hear my mistress’s piercing West African voice shouting impatiently for me to attend to her:
‘Footslave! Footslave! Come here!’
I crawl on my hands and knees (I am never allowed to walk or run) up the bare, wooden staircase and into the carpeted living room where my mistress is relaxing on the sofa in master Atumbe’s lap. He is fondling her hair and they are kissing. Her right leg is hanging indolently down from the edge of the sofa. She is wearing cheap, white (or more accurately grey-with-wear) sneakers with two red stripes on the sides, and matching, snowy white, calf-length tube socks with two red hoops near the thick, ribbed elasticated tops. Her thick, white socks seem to make her brown, West African calf muscles seem even fatter than they actually are, although the calf muscle on her right foot now looks particularly fat partly because it is resting against the side of the sofa.
I am, as usual, initially ignored by the happy, kissing, African couple as I kneel, head suitably bowed, beside my mistress’s dangling right foot. Because I still have lots of work to do in the laundry room, I feel obliged to remind the superior mistress that she has summoned me, trying desperately not to sound in any way abrupt or impatient as that would be a completely inappropriate tone for a mere slave to take vis-ร -vis his masters and betters:
‘Oh pray, mistress Odubijo, you summoned me, mistress Odubijo?’
My mistress and master temporarily stop embracing, and my mistress glares down at me and clicks her teeth in a gesture of annoyance at my interruption (an interruption which she, of course, has effectively caused by summoning me in the first place!):
‘Tch! Straighten my sock, dirty slave!’
It is only now that I notice that the top of my African mistress’s thick, calf-length, red and white tube sock is ever so slightly twisted. So this is why I have been summoned all the way up from the laundry room – to straighten a tiny crease in the top of my mistress’s sock! How humiliating! How degrading! I mean, it’s not like she couldn’t have just reached down and straightened her sock herself!
But, of course, that’s the whole point – she has the power to make me stop whatever I am doing in the laundry room and crawl all the way up here just to straighten the top of her red and white tube sock because she can’t be bothered to straighten it herself. And precisely because she has that power, she is fully entitled to exercise it.
It is, after all, the only exercise she gets!
And so I must bite my tongue and humbly, and cheerfully, obey:
‘Yes mistress Odubijo. At once, mistress Odubijo. As it pleases you mistress Odubijo.’
The happy, young African couple embrace and start kissing again whilst I reach forward and gently straighten out the tiny crease in the top of my mistress’s right, calf-length, red and white tube sock as her leg dangles lethargically by the side of the sofa - taking great care not to let my dirty, slave fingers touch my mistress’s soft, bare, brown, African flesh as such insolence would be sure to earn me a severe whipping with the State-supplied whip!
With the red and white tube sock duly straightened I am anxious to get back to my boot-cleaning and sock-sucking in the laundry room:
‘Oh pray mistress Odubijo, if it pleases you mistress Odubijo, will that be all mistress Odubijo?’
Once again my mistress interrupts her kissing of her husband in order to click her teeth in irritation and snap down at me:
‘Tch! Get out, dirty slave!’
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. Thank you mistress!’
I hear the master chuckling to himself as my mistress peremptorily dismisses me back to the laundry room. What a loser, he is thinking. What a downtrodden fool – a foot-fool to my beloved wife. Ha! Ha! Get back to work, loser! Suck on my wife’s dirty, sweaty socks whilst I get back to kissing her lovely, luscious lips!’
Tale no. 11 – A quick guide to ‘slave-speak’
‘My mistress Kirsty has ordered me to compile a quick guide to ‘slave-speak’ (sometimes referred to as ‘humble slave-speak’) for the benefit of readers of this blog.
The first thing to say about slave-speak is that not all slaves are required to speak it all the time. It tends, for example, to be reserved for the lowliest and most despised of slaves – footslaves such as me – and even then it very much depends on the whim of one’s mistress as to how often, if ever, the slave is required to speak it - which, of course, is in large part the whole point: the mistress decides whether her footslave should be permanently ‘dumb’, or be allowed to speak, and if the latter she is the one who decides how that footslave should be allowed to verbally communicate with his superiors and betters.
The second thing to point out is that slave-speak is not just about oral communication – it is just as much about body language. A footslave is expected to not only sound, but also look humble and downtrodden. Slave-speak is, therefore, a language which is spoken on one’s knees – whilst addressing the feet and/or footwear of one’s female betters. Indeed some mistresses go so far as to demand that their footslaves address their feet or footwear directly as a means of further emphasizing to a slave that he is not worthy to address the mistress herself, and that he is the inferior of her very footwear. It is not uncommon, therefore, to hear a footslave humbly apologising to his mistress’s boot for not licking it clean to the boot’s satisfaction, or apologising to her dirty sock for involuntarily turning up his nose at its sweaty, vinegary smell.
Slave-speak must also be spoken with a humble and contrite expression on one’s face. A footslave must never smile or exhibit any kind of contentment or satisfaction when he is using slave-speak. Mistresses hate that. They want their footslaves to look suitably downcast and oppressed, as it augments the mistresses’ own sense of power over their slaves. On the other hand a footslave must not appear sullen or angry, for a slave has no right to such self-centred attitudes. He is a mere slave – and must accept his lot with humility and resignation, just as a mistress graciously accepts her role with pride and enthusiasm.
Most importantly of all, as we have already alluded to in the preceding paragraph, a footslave must never look his mistress in the eye; only in the foot – as he is expected to obsess about her feet and footwear, and to care about nothing else in the world. There is nothing in this world more likely to earn an uppity footslave a severe flogging than failing to concentrate on his mistress’s feet and footwear and arrogantly looking her in the eye as if he considered himself to be her equal. He is not! He is her inferior, and she is better than him. That’s precisely why he has to use slave-speak when addressing her – assuming the mistress so wishes it!
And so to some specific examples of slave-speak which I hope will illustrate some of the basic features of the humble language of the oppressed footslave.
The first principle is that the footslave must never refer to himself in the first person or using the personal pronoun (as I am doing in this article – I have specific exemption from my mistress Kirsty to do so for the purposes of writing this article!) So, words like ‘I’ and ‘me’ are strictly prohibited in slave-speak – and for obvious reasons: a footslave is not a free human being with human rights and a sense of his own self-worth. He is a thing; an it; a mere appendage to his mistress’s feet and footwear, and so he is obliged to refer to himself in the third person e.g. ‘this slave’ or, even better, ‘this dirty slave’.
Similarly, some mistresses insist that a slave refer to himself as ‘it’ or ‘its’ rather than ‘him’ or ‘his’ – again emphasising the fact that the footslave is viewed as a mere object; a thing, rather than a free human being. On the other hand other mistresses (particularly in the north of the Slave State Barbaria), actually prefer the slave to use the masculine pronouns as a way of emphasizing their inferior, male status. Again, the desire and the whim of the mistress is all that matters. As the mistress wishes, so shall it be!
And this brings me on to the second basic principle of slave-speak: the more verbose the language - the more cringing, obsequious, self-deprecating and fawning it is - the better. Therefore a good, obedient footslave, wishing to flatter his mistress through the use of slave-speak, would not only describe himself as ‘this dirty, lazy, no-good, insolent and incompetent footslave’, but would additionally address his mistress as ‘most beautiful, all-powerful, gracious and feminine mistress Kirsty’, as opposed to just ‘mistress Kirsty’.
Similarly, if he is about to be whipped, a slave using slave-speak will not just beg for mercy, but for ‘sweet, feminine mercy,’ thereby acknowledging the absolute power of the female over the male.
And this brings me to yet another basic feature of slave-speak: the repeated use of the phrase ‘it it pleases you mistress’ or variants thereof. Since a slave’s only purpose in existence is to please his mistress, virtually everything he says can and should be either preceded or followed by the phrase ‘if it (so) pleases you mistress’ , or, even better ‘if it (so) pleases you most beautiful, all-powerful, gracious and feminine mistress’.
Similarly, just about every utterance the footslave makes should be preceded by the phrase ‘oh pray’ (which really translates as ‘please’ in the normal everyday language of the free man or woman). So, ‘please, mistress’ becomes ‘oh pray, mistress’ – or even better ‘oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress’ – as if to emphasise by the use of the word ‘pray’ the goddess-like status of the superior mistress.
You see how the fawning builds up? We could now translate a whole sentence from ‘normal’ English into humble slave-speak as follows:
‘Please have mercy on me mistress Kirsty’ would translate into slave-speak as something like:
‘Oh pray, mistress Kirsty, if it pleases you, most beautiful, all-powerful, gracious and feminine mistress Kirsty, this dirty, lazy, no-good, insolent and incompetent footslave humbly begs its superior, female mistress for sweet, feminine mercy, if it so pleases you most erudite and intelligent goddess-mistress Kirsty.’
Of course, the use of slave-speak won’t make it any more likely that the about-to-be-whipped, male footslave will actually receive any ‘sweet, feminine, mercy’ – but the purpose of slave-speak isn’t to manipulate the mistress into granting mercy or taking pity on a dirty footslave – it is, on the contrary, purely designed to add to the mistress’s pleasure as she hears the cringing, terrified slave obsequiously throwing himself at her tender mercy. Indeed, some mistresses like to humiliate their slaves even further (as is their perfect right) by requiring them to actually beg to be whipped – using slave-speak of course!
Another notable aspect of polite slave-speak is the concept of so-called ‘positive negativity’. A mistress, for example, might ask a slave whether he is enjoying the smell of her recently worn, sweaty bootsocks. This is a delicate situation for the humble footslave who will be aware that whilst the mistress is likely to be offended if the slave replies that he likes the smell (for she is presumably hoping that he finds the smell humiliating and unpleasant), she is equally likely to be offended if her slave casts aspersions on her foot and sock hygiene. The polite footslave in such circumstances will therefore answer his mistress as follows using humble slave-speak:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you most sweet and kind feminine mistress, this dirty slave does indeed like the aroma of its mistress’s superior, sweaty bootsocks, but not that much.’
Positive negativity – the salvation of many a downtrodden footslave!
And so there you have it – slave-speak in a nutshell!
Just in case you were wondering, there is a school of thought that believes in the existence of ‘mistress-speak’, but this is much less clearly defined. If there is such a ‘language’, it probably refers to the contrast between the curtness of the mistress’s orders and the slave’s obsequious verbosity. So, a mistress employing ‘mistress-speak’ will say:
‘Boots, slave!’
…by which she means ‘fetch my boots and put them on me this instant, slave!’
To which the slave will reply in slave-speak:
‘Yes mistress, at once mistress, this dirty slave obeys its mistress, if it so pleases you most gracious and feminine sweet mistress.’
…by which he means ‘yes mistress’.
Anyway, I have to go now, or as I should say in humble slave-speak to any superior female readers of this article:
‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you most gracious and all-powerful, sweet, feminine mistress, this dirty slave begs permission from the all-powerful mistress to withdraw from her divine presence, if it is so pleasing to you most beautiful and gracious, sweet, feminine goddess-mistress.’
Tale no. 10 – ‘Used footslave for sale’
‘After some five years my 36 year-old, superior goddess-mistress Olga has finally had enough of my services and has put me up for sale. Understandably, she says she is sick and tired of the sight of my gormless, ugly, slave face nuzzling the frilly tops of her pretty, feminine, white, ankle socks and licking the street-filth from the thick treads in the soles of her shiny, black leather, zip-up, block-heeled, ankle boots.
She also says I am a coward and a weakling, as I writhe, moan and wail too much with the pain whenever she is whipping me in the punishment stocks.
In spite of all that she has written me a good reference!
Here it is:
“One dirty, downtrodden, used footslave for sale. Answers to the name of ‘Footpig’. Three previous female owners.
Physical attributes:
White male; 46 years old; fat, ugly, balding and whip-marked, but otherwise fit and healthy. Fully accustomed to living life humbly on its hands and knees. Comes with fitted slave blinkers and slave collar.
Small sexual organ - impotent and celibate (permanent, irremovable male chastity belt fitted).
Psychological attributes:
Contrite, obedient and submissive. Broken in spirit, and fears the whip and the punishment stocks. Has no mind or will of its own. Would make excellent personal footslave for inexperienced mistress, or novelty footslave for an office or institution.
Skills:
Fully trained by means of the whip in the following:
Mouth-washing of ladies’ dirty, bare feet
Mouth-washing of ladies’ dirty hosiery (socks; tights; stockings; legwarmers etc.)
Tongue-shining of ladies' dirty shoes, boots, sandals etc.
Ladies’ Pedicure
Respectful kissing of ladies’ feet and footwear
Bare foot massage with hands and/or face
Socked/stockinged foot massage with hands and/or face
Sweaty foot sniffing
Sweaty sock/shoe/boot/sandal etc. sniffing
Crawling to heel
Acting as a footrest/footstool/bootscraper/doormat/foot warmer etc.
Other features:
The slave worships all superior women and is appropriately respectful of its male betters. It is fluent in humble slave-speak.
The slave is also low-maintenance. It does not require free-persons’ food – only substandard slave gruel supplemented by toe-jam, sock lint and boot/shoe dirt.
Price:
150 Euros (or nearest offer)
Viewing:
The slave may be viewed/tested by appointment. Please contact mistress Olga on Barbaria 562 7689 432”
So far four potential new owners have been to view me:
A middle-class Indian couple looking for a personal footslave for their stunningly beautiful, but spoilt, 18 year old daughter as she is about to head off to university;
The slave-buyer for a women’s prison;
Three pretty, West African, air hostesses in their early twenties who share a flat together;
And a representative from a public swimming pool looking for a male slave-mat for the female bathers to dry their feet on.
None of them, to my knowledge, have yet put in an offer for me. But I am confident that my beautiful mistress Olga will succeed in finding a buyer for me eventually – if she lowers my price tag by about 50%.’
Tale no. 9 – ‘Live at Five’
'My mistress Karen is being interviewed live on TV by a female reporter from a Japanese magazine programme called ‘Live at Five’. The programme, apparently, looks at various aspects of life and culture in the West, and today’s programme is specifically examining the phenomenon of male slavery in the modern European Slave State of Barbaria.
The interview is taking place in the programme’s very own TV studio in Tokyo, with both my mistress and the female reporter seated opposite each other on high stools, their feet resting on metal bars at the base of the respective stools.
The very respectable looking, bespectacled, dark-haired female Japanese reporter in her early thirties is wearing a smart, cream-coloured jacket and knee-length skirt, with matching cream-coloured, nylon tights and a pair of pretty, light brown, shiny, pointy-toed pumps on her rather petite Japanese feet.
My 25 year old mistress, mistress Karen, is wearing an equally smart, black trouser suit with black ankle socks and black, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up ankle boots. As the interview begins I am kneeling on the floor - naked apart from my leather slave collar and my plain, white slave shorts - staring dutifully, as befits a humble, personal slave, at my mistress’s black-ankle-booted feet as she holds a leather leash connected to the collar around my neck. I am gagged, as it has been explained to me that the television audience has no interest in hearing anything a mere male slave may have to say.
Furthermore, I have been warned that I must continuously stare at my mistress’s boots with a suitably humble and slavish demeanour, as one of the cameras will be focused on me all the time and I will not know when the director in the gallery will be transmitting a shot of me staring adoringly at my mistress’s boots, or when the other TV studio cameras will be transmitting pictures of my pretty mistress and the equally pretty Japanese TV interviewer talking. I have been warned by the female producer of the programme that if the camera picks up any male ‘arrogance’ on my part I shall be soundly whipped after the broadcast is over.
So all I can do is kneel and listen humbly and respectfully as my mistress answers questions on my behalf about my life as her personal slave, for the benefit of the curious, and mainly female, Japanese audience watching on their televisions in the comfort of their living rooms.
Due to her seated position on the high stool, the hems of my mistress’s black slacks have ridden up to reveal the elasticated tops of her black, ankle-length bootsocks and a flash of her pretty, white skin. Normally I would be tempted to look at the tops of my mistress’s socks and her soft, bare, feminine calf-skin as I kneel at her booted feet, but I am so nervous about being on live TV that I remember my instructions and instead lower my gaze respectfully to the zip on the side of my mistress’s pointy, black leather ankle boot. I don’t want to be whipped.
I can tell that my mistress Karen is somewhat nervous as well, as the leather in the sides of her ankle boots creases and folds in reaction to her subconscious flexing of her foot muscles inside her booted and socked feet as they rest on the lower, metal bar of the high stool. However, the gallery in the TV studio will like that as any movement makes for more interesting television.
I wonder if my mistress’s nervousness is causing her to sweat, and, if so, whether that will mean her socks are more sweaty than usual when I take them off her feet and humbly sniff them at the end of the day – as every personal footslave is expected to do with his mistress’s socks.
I listen intently to the conversation of the two superior ladies seated above me as the live TV interview begins:
‘So, mistress Karen, welcome to Japan and welcome to ‘Live at Five’ on Japanese TV!’
The female interviewer’s English seems very good. I know that my mistress doesn’t speak Japanese, so presumably the interview is being simultaneously subtitled for the benefit of the audience.
‘Thank you, Miyu,’ responds my mistress Karen politely, but nervously. Again she flexes the muscles in her right foot causing the leather in her ankle boot to crease and fold momentarily in front of my kneeling face. Did the camera pick that up? I have no way of knowing, and it’s none of my business! I am a mere appendage to my mistress’s feet!
‘So tell us please, Karen, what is the name of your slave?’
My blonde mistress Karen laughs, seemingly put at ease by the first easy (if somewhat naรฏve) question by the TV interviewer:
‘Ha! Ha! We don’t usually give our slaves names in Barbaria, Miyu! Some mistresses, it’s true, follow the old tradition of naming their personal footslaves after themselves, so I suppose my slave could be given the name ‘Karensslave’ if I wanted him to have a name. Other mistresses like to give their slaves a nickname, such as ‘Footpig’ or ‘Sockboy’ ; but I prefer just to call my slave ‘slave’ or ‘footslave’ – for that’s all he is: a dirty slave at my feet. He doesn’t need a name! He’s just a thing, and if he displeases me I’ll just go and get another one from the slave market.’
Now it is the pretty, dark-haired interviewer’s turn to laugh:
‘Ha! Ha! ‘Footslave’! We like name ‘footslave’ – it indicate that man is slave of superior woman feet! Ha! Ha!... But how you discipline slave? Keep footslave down at your feet? You use whip, yes?’
‘Yes, I use this single-tailed slave whip...’ responds my mistress, evidently now showing her dreaded whip to the camera.
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, we see red marks on slave’s back!...’ enthuses the female interviewer, as, no doubt, one of the TV studio cameras zooms in on the whip-scars on my bare back. ‘…Slave need many whip?’
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, I’m afraid he does. You’ve got to remember, Miyu, he’s just a dirty dog – stupid and unintelligent. He needs the constant sting of the whip to teach him how to behave in a lady’s presence and to bring him to heel!’
‘Ha! Ha! Very good, Karen…perhaps you show us how whip slave later?’
‘Sure, no problem!’
I wonder if the camera which is focused on me notices my ears pricking up at the mention of a demonstration whipping. It’s the first time I’ve heard any mention of that!
‘Ha! Ha! Great…but first you please show us how make slave-man kiss superior mistress boot? Make slave-man worship woman boot?’
‘Sure, Miyu… I just have to give a sharp tug on his leash like this… and he automatically knows to start kissing the side of my boot!’
The sharp, painful tug by my mistress Karen on the leash is indeed her usual signal for me to start paying my humble, slavish respects to her boots. The gag in my mouth, more of a leather bit, is cleverly shaped so that, whilst it prevents me from talking, it doesn’t prevent me from puckering my lips and placing respectful kisses to the sides or the pointy toes of my mistress’s black, leather spike-heeled ankle boots.
I have just heard my mistress specifically mention the side of her boots so I know how to take a hint and immediately start kissing the dusty zip area on the outer side of her right ankle boot. I know she particularly likes me to kiss the zip area as she can feel my lips better through the thin canvass that runs along the length of the boot-zip.
I kiss carefully, respectfully and repeatedly, for the camera must surely be focused on me now!
I hear the Japanese reporter laugh with undisguised glee and clap her pretty hands live on air:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave-man a dirty dog! Kiss side of superior young woman boot! Ha! Ha! Slave a nothing! Slave a wimp!’
My mistress Karen, clearly equally delighted by her host’s momentary lack of professionalism caused by her evident pleasure at seeing me humiliated live on air, now appears to, in effect, take over the interview:
‘Ha! Ha! Would you like to have him kiss your shoes, Miyu?’she kindly suggests.
The outwardly staid-looking and bespectacled Japanese interviewer sounds almost as though she is in the throws of an orgasm:
‘Owww…Ahhh…Yes! Yes! Miyu want slave kiss Miyu shoes! Make dirty slave pay homage to Miyu shoes. Kiss them! Worship them! Ha! Ha! Slave pay respects to superior, Japanese woman-reporter on Japanese TV!’
‘Ha! Ha! Here…take his leash, Miyu…’ my mistress says, and I feel my head being pulled over towards the pretty, light brown pumps and cream-coloured stockings of my newly-appointed mistress Miyu.
I can now see tiny creases in her finest denier nylon tights around the areas of her ankles as her pretty, Japanese feet rest on the lower bar of the high stool, awaiting my respectful kisses through my leather slave-bit.
‘…Just give the leash a sharp tug!’ explains my mistress.
The petite and delicate-looking young Japanese woman nearly rips my head off, and I quickly pucker my slave lips and place a respectful kiss to the pointy toe of her right, brown leather pump.
The recipient of the humble shoe-kiss squeals for joy:
‘Ha! Ha! Look! Slave-man kiss toe of Miyu dirty shoe. Ha! Ha! Slave a dirty pig! Kiss superior Japanese woman dirty foot like dirty dog!’
Almost breathless with excitement she stretches her left foot forward and gives another sharp tug on the leather leash. She doesn’t need to speak English, and I don’t need to speak Japanese, to know that I, the dirty pig cum dirty dog, must now kiss the pointy, brown leather toe of her superior, feminine, left shoe.
‘Would you like him to kiss your ankle, Miyu?’ suggests my mistress Karen, now seated above and behind me on the other stool.
‘Ha! Ha! Slave kiss Miyu stockinged-o ankle? Ha! Ha! Oh yes, Miyu like make slave kiss ankle – feel slave mouth on stocking-o!’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, that’s no problem… just order him to do it! Just tell him the exact area of your foot you want him to kiss, and, my God, he’ll do it!’ exclaims my mistress, clearly becoming excited herself by the reporter’s growing excitement, and delighted at how well the live TV interview is going!
‘Ahhh…Owww…Miyu feel strong... Miyu like have slave-man in power; at Miyu mercy! Ha! Ha! ….’ moans the young female reporter, licking her lips.
She then snaps her orders down at me in a harsh, Japanese accent:
‘Slave, kiss side of Miyu left ankle! Touch side of superior Japanese woman anklebone with dirty, slave lips! Slave obey!...’ and with that she nearly rips my head off again with a violent tug of the leash which is attached to the slave collar around my scrawny, slave neck.
As my puckered lips touch the slightly creased, fine nylon, cream-coloured stocking on the side of her outer, left anklebone mistress Miyu bursts out in hysterics of derisory laughter:
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Slave tickle Miyu ankle! Miyu feel dirty slave breath on stocking-o!’
My mistress Karen also laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Well, we’ll have to whip him for that, Miyu! A slave can’t be permitted to cause his mistress any discomfort by tickling her! He must be punished!’
‘Ha! Ha! Oh yes, Karen! Now we punish slave! We punish slave for tickle Miyu stockinged-o ankle! Use whip!’
And so the two ladies drag me over on my hands and knees by means of the leather slave-leash around my neck to a makeshift whipping post on the other side of the studio. I am about to be whipped ‘live at five’ on Japanese television!
Who says there is never anything good to watch on the box?!’
Tale no. 8 - Left Luggage
‘I am considered the lowest of the low – a permanently kneeling and leather-hooded public footslave.
My pitch is located in the lobby of the ladies’ restrooms in a busy railway station. My female customers, quite rightly, despise me as they stand above me, kindly positioning their foot on the wooden footblock under my kneeling face for me to lick the street dirt and filth off their dirty, female shoe or boot either after or before they have powdered their pretty, feminine noses.
Because I am a hooded nonentity, my customers rarely deign to speak to me, other than to perhaps specify a particular area of their boot or shoe which they want tongue-polished. On such occasions the verbal command will be curt and concise, usually accompanied by the lady bending down to point to the relevant area of her footwear with her slender, feminine, painted fingernail:
“Kiss here, slave…lick there, slave…clean off this dirty stain, slave…”
I am not permitted to respond verbally to a superior mistress. Rather, I must simply and instantly obey her command, or she will summon one of the nearby, burly male taskmasters and have me severely whipped.
Imagine my terror yesterday, therefore, when I was confronted with a truly difficult situation.
It had all begun routinely enough. The mistress concerned was a beautiful, young, dark-haired woman in her early twenties – clearly pregnant (not that that has any bearing on my story). She placed a plastic carrier bag full of recently purchased clothes down onto the ground immediately to the left of my footblock and, with her hands positioned arrogantly on her hips as she towered above me, dominantly placed her outstretched, right, calf-length, dark brown, leather boot onto the wooden footblock directly under my slave nose and ordered me to “shine it up”.
As I duly licked the upper rim of the young, pregnant woman’s scrunched up, brown leather, calf-length boot I was able to admire the diamond pattern in the stitching of her matching, thick, woolly, dark brown tights, as she was wearing a short, above-the-knee, black skirt.
Her boot dirt tasted nice and my tongue did a good job in shining up her dark brown leather boot whilst she was still wearing it – just as she had ordered me to do.
She then, still with her hands resting on her shapely, womanly hips, removed her right foot from the block and replaced it with her left, this time not needing to repeat her verbal command since it was obvious, even to an imbecilic slave such as myself, what I was to do. Again I surreptitiously admired the pattern in her thick, brown, woolly tights as I tasted her dirty boot leather. My only regret was that I could not offer to take off the young pregnant woman’s boots and to humbly smell the sweaty areas of her brown, woolly tights inside her brown, leather boots. I sensed she would have enjoyed observing me do that.
Still, at least I was having the honour of tasting where she had been walking as she kindly manoeuvred each booted foot on the wooden footblock in a manner that enabled me to lick clean the dirty soles as well as the dirty uppers.
It was as she was leaving my pitch, - without, of course, any words of acknowledgement or thanks for my humble service towards her superior, brown leather boots - that I faced my dilemma. I am forbidden to speak to a mistress, yet from the corner of my eye I could see that she had inadvertently left her carrier bag full of brand new clothes next to my wooden footblock!
What should I do? Call after her? Or remain silent, as per my permanent instructions?
I decided that it was my duty to alert the young mistress:
“Pray excuse me mistress!” I shouted after her. “This slave fears that you may have inadvertently left your carrier bag behind, if it pleases you, superior mistress.’
She turned back and picked up the bag:
“Thank you, slave” she responded.
My heart leapt – 15 long years I had been a public footslave – all my adult life - and this was the first time a superior, female customer had ever thanked me for anything! I felt a warm glow of pride inside.
I felt even warmer inside when I heard the delightful and charming young mistress summon over one of the male taskmasters. ‘Perhaps she is going to have me rewarded?’ I thought to myself. ‘A request that I receive an extra ration of slave gruel this evening? Or perhaps she might even recommend that I be allowed to rest for an extra hour during the night!’
I eavesdropped expectantly on what the gracious young mistress had to say to my taskmaster:
“This impudent slave spoke to me without permission. See to it that he is suitably punished!”
‘Yes, Ma’am. At once Ma’am. He shall receive 25 cuts of the whip across his bare back and shoulders this instant, Ma’am,’ responded the grinning taskmaster obsequiously, already eagerly unfurling his short, brown leather, single-tailed whip!
And with that the superior young woman was gone. She was in too much of a hurry to even stay and witness my punishment.
As the tip of the whip embraced my bare ribs delivering the first of its 25 stinging cuts, I reflected on the justice of my punishment. It was, of course, entirely correct of the superior, young, pregnant woman in the dark, brown woolly tights to have me chastened for such impudence - for my dirty, slave tongue is not worthy to address her; it is fit only to lick the dirt off her scrunched up, feminine, calf-length, brown leather boots.
As the second, agonizing stroke bit into my exposed flank, I also speculated on what my punishment would have justly been had I not alerted the superior, young mistress to her left luggage!’
Tale no. 7 – Begging for mercy
‘If there is one thing my slightly built, bespectacled, blonde ponytailed, 25 year old law-student mistress, mistress Sarah, likes to see more than me writhing in pain under the sting of her cane, it is seeing me grovel for mercy at her feet.
Both pathetic, slavish behaviours on my part help to augment her sense of feminine power, but I truly believe that it is my pitiful grovelling at, and kissing of, her feet prior to a sentence of caning being carried out that gives her the most pleasure – presumably because it presents her with the opportunity of raising my hopes that she might, for once, show me sweet, feminine mercy and commute my punishment; and then dashing them by pronouncing that my feverish kisses to her superior feet have not been good enough and that the sentence of caning (usually a minimum of 12 strokes) will stand.
I cannot recall my begging for mercy and kissing of my mistress’s beautiful, feminine feet ever actually leading to her showing me mercy. But I continue to grovel and beg, precisely because it increases her pleasure so much.
My mistress likes to direct every aspect of my begging for mercy. It is her custom, therefore, to pronounce sentence of a caning on me whilst I am already kneeling, naked but for my thin, white, cotton slave shorts, at her glorious feet as she sits on her ‘throne’ of power (usually the living-room armchair in her shared, student flat) flexing the dreaded, dark brown, whippy, rattan punishment cane between her slender, white, feminine fingers above my humbly bowed and contrite head.
Appropriately enough (bearing in mind that my mistress is a student of the Law) the whole scene will be somewhat reminiscent of proceedings in a Court of Law. My perceived failing or crime will be read out by my mistress; the proposed sentence announced; and only then am I permitted to enter my plea – my plea for mercy (I am not allowed to enter a plea of ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’ since I am self-evidently guilty. I am self-evidently guilty because my mistress has already determined my guilt, and a mistress is always right).
My mistress, being a 25 year old university student, like most young women of her age has a predilection for dressing casually and is usually to be found wearing black, denim jeans, soft, black ballet flats, and black, patterned, ankle socks. She has many pairs of different coloured jeans, shoes and socks – but black jeans, ballet flats and socks are her favourite combination.
Her black ankle socks are always very ‘girly’, despite being black, as they invariably contain some brightly-coloured patterns or logos such as flower-motifs or girly cartoon-characters – all designed to remind the slave that he is kissing the feet of a young woman.
Normally I will begin my pleading for mercy by ‘praying’ to my mistress for ‘sweet feminine mercy’, and I might specifically implore her not to apply her terrifying cane to the backs of my bare legs – her favourite target. Then I will place a series of feverish and desperate, but nonetheless respectful, kisses to the soft, leather toe areas on the tops of my mistress’s plain, black ballet flats, inhaling the strong musty smell of the soft, creased leather as I do so, whilst observing the brightly-coloured, feminine logo on the side of her black ankle sock – perhaps a row of brightly-coloured flowers.
My mistress will smirk for a few moments at my desperate and nugatory pleading-kisses to her soft, black ballet flats as she towers over me in her seat of power, before eventually ordering me to kiss the side of her sock. And not just any part of the side of her sock – she will point with the tip of her dark brown, rattan cane to the specific area of the sock she wants kissed – perhaps one of the coloured flowers in the flower-motif; or the plain black area immediately above the flower-motif; or she may direct me to kiss the elasticated top of her short black, ankle sock – stressing that my weak upper lip is not permitted to stray onto her bare skin.
And this, of course, is the whole point – my mistress directs every aspect of my humble begging for mercy, thereby augmenting her own sense of total power over the cringing and sobbing male slave at her feet. I might want to kiss her shapely, bare ankle above the top of her short, black, flower-patterned sock – in the forlorn hope that the feel of my pitiful, bare lips directly on her soft, feminine footskin will elicit her compassion somewhat more than the feel of my lips on the side of her foot through her socks.
But it is not my place to decide on such matters. This whole exercise in self-deprecation and humility is not, in point of fact, designed to elicit my mistress’s gracious mercy, but rather to increase her pleasure at my distress caused by my impending corporal punishment.
Which is why, I believe, she enjoys the ‘begging for mercy’ scene all the more if it is performed in front of her friends and fellow Law students - each and every one of them my superior and better, be they male or female - for they are free human beings and I am but a young, bespectacled, blonde female Law student’s, pathetic, middle-aged, about-to-be-chastised, foot, shoe, and sock-kissing, footslave… desperately begging for her sweet and feminine mercy, and quite rightly receiving none.’
Tale No. 6 - Genealogy
‘I was born in England but have lived all my adult life in India as the personal slave of a 58 year old Indian lady by the name of Madam Farhida. I was given to her on her wedding day some 40 years ago as a wedding present from her husband’s family, to whom I owed money.
My mistress and her husband, my master, had 3 children, the youngest of whom is 36 year old Madam Rukshana, who was herself tragically widowed at a young age and now lives back in her parents’ house along with her own, as yet unmarried, 18 year old daughter, Miss Manisha.
As neither Madam Rukshana nor Miss Manisha have a personal slave, I now have three Indian goddesses whom I must serve in the house. But it is my original mistress, Madam Farhida, whom I most fear, as she sets the tone for how everyone treats me in the household.
Madam Farhida, you see, doesn’t suffer fools gladly and, as I am a fool, I suffer often at her hands. Or, more accurately, at her ‘bull’s pizzle’ – a short, thick leather whip that she uses to beat me with throughout the day.
Madam Farhida ensures that just as she is always dressed in a traditional, brightly coloured, Indian Sari so I am dressed as a traditional personal slave – in nothing but a white loin cloth and with a leather slave collar around my neck. Madam Farhida also ensures that I adopt the traditional posture of a personal slave – that I live my life on my hands and knees at my various mistresses’ feet, my head humbly bowed, and my eyes focused only on my beautiful Indian mistresses’ feet and footwear.
If I deviate from this, or if I fail to please my mistress, her daughter, or her granddaughter in any other way, she beats me hard across my cringing slave back with her bull’s pizzle, and relishes in my pathetic cries of anguish.
In the case of Madam Farhida herself, the footwear I invariably must stare at and worship whilst she is wearing it is her ubiquitous open-toed sandals. As I explained before Madam Farhida prefers traditional Indian wear, and to have her painted toenails and pretty, bare feet on more or less permanent display underneath the hem of her brightly coloured, ankle-length saris.
My mistress Farhida still has very pretty feet for a woman of her age – still smooth and shapely. Indeed she always was a stunning looking Asian goddess, and is still thought of as a beauty by many of the free men in her locality.
After 40 years of kneeling beside her feet I am, of course, intensely familiar with every aspect of them – every little distinguishing mark, like the tiny mole on the side of her left foot; the slightly crooked little toe on her right foot; the delicate lines and wrinkles on the arches of her feet; the very distinctive and personal aroma of my mistress Farhida’s feet; and, indeed, the sweaty aroma of her brown, leather, open-toed and open-heeled sandals - especially at the end of a long, hot summer’s day when she has been walking around the dusty streets of Calcutta with myself in tow at her bare heels.
How the free men and women of Calcutta love to see me - the middle-aged, semi-naked, sunburnt Englishman - crawling behind Madam Farhida’s Indian feet and sandals, my demeanour anxious and fearful as the thick tip of her bull’s pizzle hangs threateningly from her waist just inches over my kneeling-slave’s head as I breathe in the Indian street dust thrown up by her pretty, Indian heels.
Madam Farhida does not speak fluent English, but she rarely needs to verbalise her orders to me. A sharp click of her fingers is all that is required to instruct me to attend to her dusty, sandalled feet – be it by paying my respects to them by humbly kissing her painted toenails; by removing her sandals from her feet and massaging the bare, sweaty arches of her soft Indian footskin; or by humbly washing her feet in a basin of lukewarm water – water I shall be required to drink on conclusion of my humble foot-washing task.
For my part I still do not speak Bengali – but it is of little consequence since I am forbidden to speak (except to cry out for sweet, feminine mercy whilst I am undergoing the punishment of the dreaded bull’s pizzle).
Madam Farhida’s daughter, Madam Rukshana, and granddaughter, Miss Manisha, actually lived in England for many years whilst I was serving the matriarch of the family in India, and are much more ‘westernised’ in their appearance. Madam Rukshana, for instance, likes to wear smart, western clothes – businesslike trouser suits for example, along with high heeled pumps. She has a particular liking for the colour beige which she feels sets off her skin tone.
Madam Rukshana basically uses me as her own, personal shoeshine boy. She has many pairs of designer high-heeled shoes, all of which she insists on me tongue-polishing every day – regardless of whether or not they actually need a shine. Similarly I must attend to her dirty, nylon stockings which she often wears under her smart slacks in spite of the hot Indian climate. I attend to them by pre-soaking the sweaty, reinforced toe ends in my slave mouth and then washing the whole pair of nylon stockings or tights by hand. I then have to hang them up and humbly watch them dry.
Sometimes, if I am very fortunate, Madam Rukshana orders me to massage the soles of her sweaty, nylon-stockinged, Indian feet with my slave nose and face. This gives me the opportunity to not only feel my mistress’s foot sweat coming off the reinforced soles of her nylon stockings and onto my face, but also to taste and smell her divine, feminine footsweat at close quarters.
Madam Rukshana is probably the gentlest of my three Indian mistresses. She rarely raises her hand to me herself, preferring to report any shortcomings on my part to her beloved mother, who then beats me on her daughter’s behalf with her bull’s pizzle as appropriate.
By way of contrast, Madam Farhida’s favourite grandchild, 18 year old Miss Manisha, is much more of a ‘chip off the old block’, as there is nothing she likes more than to physically chastise me herself using her beloved grandmother’s whip! Indeed, her grandmother will often observe and supervise the beatings administered on me by Miss Manisha.
Like her mother, Madam Rukshana, Miss Manisha prefers to wear western clothes, but unlike her mother she prefers, it seems, to look perpetually ‘scruffy’, in jeans and a T shirt usually with sneakers on either bare feet or with short, low cut, thin cotton sneaker-socks. Wearing sneakers all day under the hot Calcuttan sun does tend to make Miss Manisha’s feet hot and sweaty, regardless of whether she is wearing socks inside her sneakers or not – but the arrogant and spoilt young mistress is , I am pleased to say, completely unabashed about imposing her Indian foot and sock stink on me.
Indeed, Miss Manisha appears to delight in pointing out to me when the sweat on her heels causes the backs of her low-cut, white cotton ankle socks to slip down inside the backs of her sneakers until they are out of sight. On such occasions she will take pleasure in informing me that:
a) she will be whipping me with her grandmother’s ‘bull’s pizzle’ whip as soon as we arrive home, as a punishment for allowing the backs of her soft, feminine white socks to slip uncomfortably off the backs of her equally soft and feminine heels and down into the backs of her sneakers (not that she would have given me permission to straighten or even to touch her socks whilst she was walking about in the streets in the first place);
b) that after she has whipped me she will make me take off her sneakers, and her socks, and soothe her bare, heels with my slave tongue, making sure that I lick away any small pieces of dead skin on her bare heels caused by the rubbing of the backs of her sneakers on her unprotected-by-sock heels;
c) that following this, she will make me sniff and then suck all the residual sweat out of her, now dirty, white sneaker-socks;
d) that she will ensure all three of these things occur in front of a group of her best Indian friends, both male and female, whom she will be inviting round specifically to witness my punishment;
e) that her friends will be filming my punishment and humiliation on their mobile phones and then posting their videos on their favourite social networking sites so that their entire extended circle of Indian friends can enjoy my suffering and my sock-sucking humiliation.
Yes, Miss Manisha is a cruel and inventive young mistress, and she very much reminds me of my Madam Farhida in her younger days.
How privileged I am to serve three generations of Indian ladies as a family footslave! I can only hope that I am around long enough to serve Miss Manisha’s daughter when she turns 18, if indeed Miss Manisha marries and is blessed with a daughter of her own.
I sincerely hope that she does, and that her daughter not only inherits her mother’s jeans, but also her genes!’
Tale no. 5 - 360ยบ Feedback
‘My mistress, 23 year old blonde goddess-mistress Michelle, is a thoroughly modern mistress. She demands 360ยบ feedback from her footslave in the form of a written annual report, so that she may become an ever better and more efficient slave-mistress.
She compiles the ‘Objectives’, and I must fill in the ‘Performance’ sections. Of course, I must do so using the most humble of slave-speak for, although my opinions count as nothing, I am nevertheless obliged to comply with my superior mistress’s demand for good and honest, slavish feedback.
This, for example, is a copy of my mistress’s report for the current year:
“Mistress’s Objective No. 1:
To manage the footslave in such a way that he feels constantly degraded and downtrodden under the feet of his all-powerful mistress, and has no option but to deprecate himself before his superior mistress with humility and resignation.
Slave’s humble assessment of mistress’s performance against the objective:
Oh pray, mistress Michelle, you are truly a most conscientious mistress when it comes to ensuring that your dirty, personal footslave knows and remembers his place. This weak and feeble male slave truly fears his superior, feminine mistress, and is honoured to even be in the presence of her discarded footwear, smelling the residue of her warm feet inside her recently worn boots or shoes and tasting where she has been by licking the soles of said, superior feminine boots and shoes. Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress Michelle, this slave feels unworthy to be in his mistress’s superior, feminine presence, which is a tribute to the mistress’s entirely appropriate air of innate superiority over the inferior male slave, if it so pleases you, sweet, feminine mistress Michelle.
Mistress’s Objective No. 2:
To discipline the slave both through verbal admonishment and the use of corporal punishment, including the judicious laying on of the cane and the whip.
Slave’s humble assessment of mistress’s performance against the objective:
If it pleases you mistress, this slave is of the opinion that his mistress is a truly just mistress, and is grateful to the mistress with all his heart and soul for her unstinting efforts to chastise and correct the stupid slave when he fails to live up to the mistress’s high standards.
If the slave may say so, superior mistress Michelle, this slave is particularly impressed with the mistress’s dexterity in applying the single-tailed whip to his impudent or incompetent slave back. He remembers in particular the recent incident when the mistress had just cause to hand down a sentence of 25 lusty strokes of the leather whip across this inept slave’s lower, right ribs, causing him to throw himself at the mistress’s feet and beg her for sweet, feminine mercy after just 5 of the excoriating lashes had been delivered – mercy which the all-powerful and gracious mistress duly acceded to grant by commuting the final 5 strokes of the terrifying sentence to 20 respectful kisses by the whipped slave to the dirty toes of her black, knee-length, leather boots.
Oh pray mistress Michelle, if it pleases you, mistress Michelle, this slave pleads for the continued corporeal disciplining of his inferior male body by the superior mistress, but tinged, if it so pleases you mistress, with elements of fair and feminine mercy - as the slave truly fears the pain of the whip and the cane which results from the strong and powerful young mistress’s dexterity and skill in the application of both terrifying instruments of chastisement to his weak and feeble, male body.
Mistress’s Objective No. 3:
To shame and intimidate the slave in front of others, by requiring him to serve and respect the feet and footwear of all those female betters with whom he comes into contact in a manner befitting a fully trained and compliant footslave, and to demonstrate humility and self-deprecation in front of all superior, free males.
Slave’s humble assessment of mistress’s performance against the objective:
Oh pray, mistress Michelle, this slave truly respects his male and female superiors and betters, and in particular deems it an honour to serve the feet and footwear of his mistress Michelle’s female friends and acquaintances in a manner reflecting his fear of his own mistress and the chastisement he will justly face should he embarrass or shame the mistress in any way by displaying clumsiness, ineptitude or disrespect towards his female betters. This slave is particularly grateful to the mistress for allowing him to welcome his mistress’s female guests into her home by first kissing their outer footwear, and then removing both their outer and inner footwear in order to wash their sweaty and dirty bare feet, in full view of their superior, free male companions, if it so pleases you mistress Michelle.
Mistress’s Objective No. 4:
To instil in the slave a sense of awe for the beauty, intelligence and feminine superiority of the mistress, and of other women.
Slave’s humble assessment of mistress’s performance against the objective:
Truly the mistress is a superior being to this dirty, pathetic, clumsy, ugly and inept male slave, if it so pleases you goddess-mistress Michelle. The slave can only look up to his mistress with a sense of inferior masculine awe and wonderment at the beauty and wisdom of his mistress, and indeed of all the superior women at whose feet he is deemed fit to grovel. Truly the slave is worth less than the dirt on the soles of the mistress’s brown, leather, knee-length riding boots, whose uppers he is not fit lick clean.
Mistress’s Objective No. 5:
To ensure the footslave’s perpetual hard labour and misery in attending to the feet and footwear of the mistress, by providing him with regular opportunities to:
Pay slavish homage to the mistress’s dirty feet and footwear;
Wash the mistress’s dirty feet;
Lick clean the mistress’s sweaty feet;
Mouth-Wash the mistress’s dirty socks, stockings and tights;
Tongue-polish the mistress’s dirty shoes, boots and sandals.
Slave’s humble assessment of mistress’s performance against the objective:
Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave is eternally grateful to his most beautiful and glamorous mistress for keeping him gainfully employed at her feet and footwear, and the feet and footwear of other mistresses.
The slave is honoured to pay homage to the dirt on the mistress’s bare feet and footwear, and wallows in the degrading misery of his footslavish-role, for it is a role that involves swallowing the dirt and sweat that has graced the superior feet and footwear of an all-powerful and supremely elegant mistress. Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave is particularly grateful to the mistress for permitting him to pay homage to the dirty, frayed hems of her jeans and the tops of her ankle socks as she is wearing them inside her sneakers – for such exquisite, feminine footwear is fitting for a humble footslave to worship with all his slavish being. This humble slave yearns for nothing more than to service the feet and footwear of his superior, attractive mistress in a manner that is pleasing to the mistress, if it so pleases you most merciful and feminine mistress Michelle.
Slave’s humble overall assessment of the Mistress’s Performance:
Oh pray, mistress Michelle, if it pleases you sweet, feminine mistress Michelle, this humble slave remains in your debt for all the time and energy you devote to his enslavement, humiliation and correction. Truly this slave is not worthy to be your slave, and can only crave your continued indulgence as he seeks to improve his humble servitude towards you and towards all his female masters and betters, if it so pleases you most gracious and beautiful mistress Michelle.
Signed: Slave Angus
Mistress’s Comments:
I am not happy with this report. This impudent slave clearly requires more discipline and lessons in humility. I shall see to it that his attitude is duly corrected by means of the whip and the cane.
Signed: Mistress Michelle”
So there you have it – my annual 360ยบ feedback report on my mistress who is some 15 years my junior.
I could, of course, just tell the truth – that my 23 year old, arrogant, young mistress is an overweight, plain-looking, opinionated and self-delusional, lazy cow!
But can you just imagine the agonizing consequences that such honest and truthful 360ยบ feedback would have for me?
The first rule of the humble footslave is always to flatter your mistress, to fawn and cringe at her feet, for the dreaded whip that caresses the vulnerable skin on your back is, quite literally, in her hands!’
Tale no. 4 - Footslave Etiquette
‘One of the most frustrating things about being a superior young woman’s personal footslave is that you are required, for the most part, to be seen and not heard. A good footslave should be ultimately ignorable, and should definitely not get in the way – whatever his mistress is doing at the time, be she walking down the street, browsing in a shop, seated at her desk in the office, eating out in a cafรฉ or at a posh restaurant, or relaxing at home on the sofa.
In all the above circumstances the personal footslave’s role is merely to respectfully kneel at, and focus on, his superior mistress’s feet. He must not touch or kiss her feet in any way - until or unless he is ordered to do so – he must just quietly and humbly study his mistress’s feet and/or footwear.
Some footslaves are unlucky in that their mistresses choose to wear boots most of the time, thereby giving their slaves only the outside of their feminine boot leather to stare at as the mistress goes about her daily business, but I am lucky insofar as my mistress has a fondness for wearing jeans with sneakers, or soft ballet flats, and ankle socks (usually white socks) - so there is much for me to focus my footslavish attention on throughout the day.
Take, for example, when she is walking arm in arm with her boyfriend, my master, down the street. As I crawl behind her sneakered heels on my hands and knees I get occasional, exciting glimpses of the backs of my mistress’s snowy-white ankle socks underneath the frayed hems of her blue, denim jeans.
Even better, when she is seated, for example in a cafรฉ or restaurant, I get to study her socks close up and in great detail, as I kneel at her feet under the table, whilst she is wearing them! I focus on the various little creases and folds in her pretty, feminine, white cotton ankle socks as my mistress subconsciously flexes her foot muscles, and think things like ‘the area of the sock that is creased will be less sweaty at the end of the day than the rest of her sock as the material in the crease is not in direct contact with my mistress’s precious footskin’.
Or I might focus my humble gaze on her bare, white footskin through one of the larger lattice-holes in the patterned stitching on the side of her feminine, white ankle sock. Or I might study a logo or a cartoon on the side of her sock, should there be one.
Of course, if the mistress is sitting with one leg, let’s say her right leg, crossed over the other, I am duty bound to focus my attention on her lower, left foot whilst it rests on the floor. This is frustrating, as the sock on my mistress’s right foot, whilst it dangles in the air, would clearly be more visible and exciting to watch as she flexes her foot muscles inside her sock, than the sock on her relatively static, and more covered up by the hem of her left trouser leg, left foot as it rests on the floor. But I have to remind myself that I am nothing but a down-in-the-dirt footslave, and so it is only right and proper that I should focus my attention on my mistress’s lower, sneakered and socked left foot as it rests on the dirty floor.
My favourite pose is when I am kneeling behind my mistress’s sneakered feet and she raises her right foot in the air behind her as she passionately kisses her boyfriend on the lips. Everything is right with the world at such times – the mistress is aroused by the warm embrace of her manly boyfriend; the latter, who is also my master and superior because he is a free male, gets to taste my mistress’s soft and luscious lips; whilst I get to see the folds and creases in the backs of her soft, feminine, white socks thanks to her coquettish lifting of her foot behind her.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking – shouldn’t the dirty footslave be concentrating on the mistress’s lower foot at such times, on her left foot which remains planted in the dirt on the ground? Of course, he should be, but just as my mistress has lost herself in lust for the master in such intimate moments, even so her slave can be lost in lust for her socks.
And in any case, do you really think the master and mistress are aware at such moments that I am studying the creases in the back of my mistress’s pretty, white ankle sock as her foot hovers behind her in the air? Of course not! Hopefully I am far from their thoughts, for I am just a pathetic, anonymous footslave (my master and mistress don’t even have a name for me; they merely address me as ‘slave’ or ‘you, the slave’).
And so should it be.
If my mistress’s socks are for any reason not visible, for example when she is standing up straight and her trouser or jean hems are covering the tops of her sneakers, I will concentrate my attention instead on the outside of her sneakers – on the pattern of any stitching in the leather, or perhaps on any dirt, dust, or mud stains on the side of my mistress’s beautiful sneakers (she has several pairs).
But I have to admit that I do find staring at the dirt on her sneakers somewhat frustrating as, not only can I not lick it off until she deigns to give me the order to do so, I am also constantly wondering about her socks inside the sneakers – are they creased and folded as she stands still? Are they slipping down her heels inside her sneakers? Are they protecting my mistress’s feet properly – absorbing her precious foot perspiration and protecting her feet from the moistness on the inside of her sneakers?
That’s why I much prefer it when my mistress wears ballet flats with her socks, for then her socks are continuously on view to me – if only the parts of her socks that cover the crown of her foot. Even when she is standing up the hems of her jeans don’t quite cover the whole of the top of her foot – so my mistress’s glorious socks, be they white, black, blue, red or multicoloured, are always at least partially visible inside her soft, feminine ballet flats.
How I perpetually ache to kiss my superior mistress's socks, for I know I am not worthy to kiss her bare footflesh! I am fit only to taste the bacteria, the sweat, and the dead skin cells that accumulate during the day on her socks. That is why my gracious mistress always permits me to take off her socks and turn them inside out, before placing one of them in my mouth and the other one across my nose as I lie on my back on the floor beside her bed, whilst she sleeps or makes love to her boyfriend, my master.
The master and mistress certainly aren’t conscious of my presence whilst they make love, for they both know that I am concentrating on sucking and sniffing the day’s sweat out of my mistress’s superior, dirty socks.
Yes, I am nothing but a young woman’s dirty sneaker and sock slave, but, even if I say so myself, I think I make a good personal footslave, for I do know all about the rules of footslave etiquette!’
Tale no. 3 – The Footslave Undergoing Punishment
‘You find me confined on my hands and knees in the wooden punishment stocks in the freezing cold back yard of my mistress’s dwelling. I am naked apart from my white slave shorts, and my bare back is covered in cuts and weals.
My slave nose is buried deep inside one of my mistress’s sweaty, warm, red and white sneakers which she has tied around my head with the dirty, grey laces.
I am being justly punished by my 20 year old mistress for baulking at her command to kiss the mud-splattered, flaky, white toe area of her right sneaker. I really don’t know what came over me – it was only a split second’s hesitation – but it had been enough for my mistress to notice it and to incur her judicious wrath.
She had therefore sentenced me to 15 lashes with the whip followed by a spell kneeling with my head and arms confined in the heavy, wooden footslave-stocks.
My mistress is a kind and gentle young woman, and she doesn’t whip me often, but when she whips she whips to cut and she cuts to hurt. And so my back is now truly stinging with pain.
As I kneel contritely in the stocks all I can smell is the sweaty inside of the red and white, well-worn sneaker whose dirty outside I had hesitated to pay appropriate homage to. It is a fitting punishment for the crime.
But worse is yet to come. For the worst bit is when my mistress invites 4 of her closest female friends round to torment me as I kneel helplessly in the wooden stocks. My mistress provides each of them with a stick with which to poke at my wounds.
From my kneeling position, and with my mistress’s red and white sneaker somewhat obscuring my view, I can just make out the women’s feet and footwear as they circle around me, repeatedly prodding and jabbing my sensitive back with their sticks. I can see a pair of black leather, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up ankle boots under a pair of frayed, blue denim jeans; a pair of pink and white sneakers that remind me of my own mistress’s sneaker attached to my nose (the owner of the sneakers is wearing pale pink leggings with elasticated hems that come down to the tops of her shapely ankle bones, and matching, low-cut sneaker socks with a pink trim); a pair of cowboy boot-style, light brown, calf length boots under some sort of frilly, knee-length skirt, with the elasticated tops of a pair of fetching, bright red bootsocks just showing inside the boots; and a pair of flat brown loafers worn with thick, black socks under a pair of plain, black slacks.
One young woman in particular seems to enjoy prodding my ever so sore and tender ribs on my right hand side. She is the owner of the light brown, leather calf-length cowboy boots with red boot socks. I can just see the tops of the red bootsocks peeking out over the tops of her boots past the dirty, white, rubbery toe of my own mistress’s red and white sneaker.
I am convinced that, if I could only kiss tops of the cruel, young cowgirl’s red bootsocks, or even just nuzzle them affectionately with my slave nose, she would have sweet, feminine mercy on me, for her white skin on her bare legs above the tops of her red socks looks soft and gentle. But, of course, my mistress’s sneaker – the reason for my undoing in the first place – prevents me from either kissing or nuzzling the cowgirl-mistress’s red bootsocks, and I can only, therefore, wail and moan piteously into the depths of my mistress’s sneaker in the hope that this will elicit sympathy from my beautiful young tormentress.
But, of course, my moaning and wailing does no such thing. It merely amuses my mistress’s friends – all of them – and seems to spur them on to even greater efforts on my sores with their poking sticks.
My mistress, meanwhile - looking resplendent in her black, denim jeans tucked into the tops of her black leather, knee-length, block-heeled, zip-up boots - is standing to one side of the wooden stocks and looking on, enjoying my suffering at the hands and sticks of her female friends. How I long to make amends to her – to lick the dirt and mud from the yard off the very soles of her black, knee-length boots; to insert my tongue in the muddy gap between her blocky heel and the arch of her boot sole. To show her how truly sorry I am for my impudence in baulking at the sight of her muddy sneaker-toe.
But my punishment will only end when my mistress decrees. For now, it is the turn of the elements to join in my chastisement, as it starts to rain. My superiors – my mistresses and betters – take shelter inside the house, whilst the cold, the wind and the rain do their bit to exacerbate my suffering as I remain kneeling and confined in the humiliating wooden stocks, alone in the world and in my mistress’s own back yard.’
Tale No. 2 – Lying under Mistress Mariama’s socks
‘I have been mistress Mariama’s personal footslave for 3 years. My mistress is a 25 year-old African woman, who was born and brought up in West Africa but has lived in Europe for some 5 years now. She still has a thick West African accent.
My mistress is very beautiful – tall and slim, with dark brown eyes and long, black hair. More importantly for me as her footslave, her feet, ankles and legs are also beautiful. Her feet are quite wide and large and fit my face perfectly. She told me she had chosen me because my ugly face was just the right size to serve as her foot rest.
Mistress Mariama likes to spend a lot of her time resting her feet on my face – particularly in the evenings, when her feet are at their sweatiest after her long day waitressing in a restaurant, and she is relaxing in front of the television, or talking to her friends on the phone, or reading a book or magazine.
It is her habit to have me lie on my back on the floor under her comfortable chair, with my face sticking out directly under her feet. Sometimes she rests both of her feet on my upturned face simultaneously. But usually she alternates between her right foot and left foot. As I explained, her sweaty feet cover my face perfectly. She likes to insert a ball-gag into my mouth so that she can massage the sole of her foot on it. This means that her heel will be resting on my chin whilst her toes cover my nose and eyes. The ball-gag also forces me to breathe through my nose, thereby ensuring that I have to breathe in her stinky foot odour. My clever mistress has thought of everything.
Sometimes my mistress likes to rest her bare feet on my face. When she does so I have the inestimable privilege of both feeling, and seeing close-up, the tiny lines and wrinkles in her wonderful, soft, feminine, brown foot-flesh. I can also feel her footsweat being transferred directly onto my slave face as she rubs her beautiful bare foot up and down.
However my mistress often likes to rest her socked feet on my face – and I actually prefer that. Why? Let me explain:
My mistress likes to wear sneakers and ankle boots, and she always wears socks with them – either thick, ankle socks inside her black, zip-up boots or short, no-show, thin sneaker socks inside her sweaty white sneakers. These socks help to keep her feet comfortable inside her boots and sneakers, but they can also make her feet sweat a lot. My mistress has lots of pairs of socks of all different colours. They are made from various different materials (nylon, cotton, wool etc) and each pair has its own distinctive pattern in the stitching. I like this variety as it means a different pair of socks is resting on my face almost every night of the week.
What do I like about it so much? Well, first of all there is the sight of the socked foot resting on my face. If it is one of her white socks I can see the yellow sweat stains, usually on the area underneath her toes, where the bacteria in her foot-sweat has accumulated and caused the sock to discolour. I can also see areas of black staining on the sock where the inner lining of her boot or shoe has reacted with the sweat.
If she is wearing dark-coloured socks I may not be able to see such stains so clearly, but if the socks are well-worn I will be able to observe little patches where the stitching is beginning to wear away, giving me a glimpse of her beautiful brown foot-flesh inside the sock. Of course, once the material of the sock has worn away completely, and a hole has appeared in the base of the sock, my mistress will throw it away as it is no longer comfortable for her to wear. But I do love the sight of old socks that are just beginning to wear. The imperfections remind me that I am fit only to act as a footrest for my mistress’s stinky, well-worn socks.
If my mistress is wearing patterned or multi-coloured socks, again I have the privilege of studying the pattern of the different colours as she rests her foot on my face. I can observe close-up how the colours interact. And, of course, there is the actual pattern of the stitching on the underside of her sock – usually very fine, but from my humble vantage point I can nevertheless see every individual stitch. Sometimes I attempt to count the stitches – but it is a near impossible task as my mistress is constantly either rubbing her foot up and down on my ball-gag or flexing her toes within the sock.
Furthermore, whenever she flexes her foot I can see how the sock creases and moves. I can also observe little balls of sock lint as they fall off the underside of her sock onto my dirty, slave face. All of these sights fill my field of vision whenever mistress Mariama is resting her socked foot on my face.
And then there is the feel of her sock on my face. The material invariably feels soft (as do her bare feet). But it can also feel damp - or even crusty, particularly around the toes, when the socks are particularly sweaty. I like this – for it means that my face can also have the honour of drying my mistress’s sweaty socks. As she rubs her foot up and down the sweaty dampness is transferred onto my ugly, slave face - where it belongs.
Above all, of course, there is the smell. Please don’t misunderstand me – I don’t enjoy the smell of my mistress’s stinky, socked feet. Nobody could actually like the smell of human foot-sweat. It is intrinsically unpleasant – a bacterial reaction replicating the aroma of mouldy cheese mixed with sour vinegar. But I do like the humiliation of having to smell and to sniff her stinky foot odour. It puts me in my place – reminds me that I am the lowest of the low – my slave nostrils fit only to act as a receptacle for my mistress’s foot and sock-stink.
How she must despise me to treat me in this way – but it is perfectly proper that she should do so. For I am nothing but her sock-slave, fit only to lie on the floor with my dirty, slave face beneath her socked feet absorbing her superior foot-sweat.
Later, if I am lucky, she will remove the ball-gag from my mouth and order me to take off her socks and wash them in my slave mouth. Then I will have the privilege of tasting her socks – as the saltiness of the footsweat is squeezed out from the damp material onto my slave tongue and then down my slave throat.
Of course, my inadequate mouth can only ever provide a pre-wash. It can never hope to wash the socks properly to the point where they are fit to grace her beautiful feet again – so I will also have to subsequently wash them by hand. Nevertheless I take pride in the fact that, sometimes, after they have been inside my mouth for several hours, the yellow sweat stains around the underside of the toes on her white socks will have disappeared. What a privilege for a humble footslave such as myself to drink my mistress’s footsweat from her dirty, white sneaker socks!
Yes, I do like serving at my African princess’s socked feet. I sometimes wish I could say that I can also hear her socks. Then all of my senses – sight, touch, smell, taste and hearing - could be said to be dominated by my mistress’s socks. Still, four out of five isn’t bad!’
Tale no. 1 – The Doormat Footslave
‘I am employed as a doormat in the lobby entrance to the ladies’ restroom in a busy railway station.I am permanently confined on my back in a hole with only my face protruding from the floor. Ladies can therefore use my tongue and face to clean their feet and footwear either as they enter or leave the restroom.
Needless to say it is a humiliating and degrading existence for me to be literally under the feet of superior women day in and day out – but nobody cares about that, least of all the ladies who use me.
As I lie on my back all I can see is the ceiling of the lobby until a lady decides to place her foot on my upturned face for cleaning. Then I can see the beautiful features of the woman concerned, often with an evil grin on her face or perhaps a look of utter contempt and disdain, before the bottom of her shoe or boot looms into view as it descends onto my outstretched tongue and face.
The type of footwear I have to clean varies, naturally, with the time of the year. In the winter I have to lick clean the dirty soles of female ankle boots, knee length boots or heavy winter shoes. As you can imagine, the winter weather also means that the leather boots and shoes are often wet as well as filthy, with wet mud and dead leaves sometimes stuck into the grooves on the soles. I have to do my best to lick out the mud and swallow it, although the lady will often kindly help to remove the debris from the sole of her boot by wiping it up and down my slave face.
My slave nose can be a useful tool in extracting particularly difficult pieces of street dirt and debris although the lady will have to wipe her boot sole hard on it. I guess I am now used to the bitter taste of ladies’ shoe and boot leather mixed with street dirt and mud. The strong smell of shoe leather is also familiar to me and is part and parcel of my everyday existence.
As I am lying under a lady’s ankle boot I may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the top of her boot sock inside her trouser leg. I say ‘lucky’ purely because it is intriguing for a footslave to know what sort of inner footwear his female customer is wearing – the colour, the thickness and the length of the sock. I guess one just becomes obsessed with ladies’ feet and footwear when the whole purpose of one’s miserable existence is to service their dirty feet.
Occasionally, a female customer will remove her boots and rub her socked foot up and down my face. Although they may pretend to be doing this in order to have the superfluous sock lint removed from the soles of their socks, in reality their only reason for doing it is to humiliate me further by making me smell their sweaty socks.
I have noticed over the years that it tends to be those women who are wearing well-worn socks who like to do this – presumably because they know it is extra humiliating for me to have to lick sock lint off old socks rather than brand new, and therefore relatively clean, socks. Ladies wearing nylons also like to take off their shoes or boots from time to time, just to ‘stink me out’, as they put it.
In the summer months women often switch to wearing open-toed sandals on bare feet. Again, I am mainly concerned with using my face and tongue to clean the bottom of their sandals, but, as in the winter months, some women like to remove their footwear and have me sniff and clean the soft soles of their sweaty bare feet.
When they do this I can see clearly what condition their feet are in, and many women seem to have areas of cracked and hard skin around their heels – presumably where their winter shoes and boots have been rubbing. The lady will often place her dried up heel directly into my mouth for me to soften the skin with my slave tongue, or will force her painted toes into my mouth for me to lick and suck off any stinky toe-jam that may have accumulated there.
Throughout the year there are the ubiquitous sneakers. I do have a problem with sneakers – particularly white sneakers. They show up all the dirt and are nearly impossible to clean no matter how hard I lick on them. Also the grooves in the sneaker-soles seem to accumulate dirt far more readily than the grooves on the soles of other types of feminine footwear. Furthermore, they do tend to make a girl’s feet sweat more, and young women who wear sneakers seem to take great pleasure in slipping them off and giving me a taste and smell of their stinky, sweaty, sneaker socks.
The young women who wear white socks also make sure I get to see close-up the yellow and brown sweat stains on the bottom of their socks as they rub them all over my dirty, slave face leaving it stinking of their foot sweat.
However, on the plus side, at least sneakers aren’t as painful as spiked heels. I hate it when a lady shoves her spiked heel down my throat as it often damages the roof of my mouth –as well as causing me to gag. But the ladies who wear high-heels seem to find this amusing, and they enjoy the look of fear on my face as they drag their spiked heel across my vulnerable face.
The women who use me rarely speak to me. They have no need to. It is clear to everyone what I am there for and so when a lady places her foot on my face I just have to get on with it. Some women, however, like to mock me as I lay there helplessly under their feet. As they rub their dirty boot sole up and down my face they ask me if I am liking it. They want to know if their shoe-dirt tastes good, and whether I would like some toe-jam for dessert.
Occasionally, their boyfriends are with them, although, for obvious reasons, the men can’t go into the actual ladies’ restroom with their partners. However, the boyfriends will often join in the mocking laughter, and, while they are waiting in the lobby for their women to return from the restroom, they will crouch down and ask me how their girlfriends’ shoes or feet tasted. They will make the point to me that they will be licking and kissing other more pleasurable parts of their girlfriends’ anatomy later that evening, but kindly offer to bring me their girlfriends’ dirty socks to sniff the following morning after they have made love. The men point out to me that licking and smelling their girlfriends’ shoes and socks is all I am good for.
The restroom is open from 05:30 am until midnight, and so I only ever get 5 ½ hours’ sleep every night. The station is open 365 days a year, and I therefore never have any days off. My whole life is spent lying on my back, confined in my hole, licking and cleaning ladies’ feet and footwear.
The female toilet attendants, most of whom appear to be recent immigrants from Africa, also make use of my services, wiping clean their dirty feet on my face. In fact, some of them even bring their dirty shoes and boots with them in a carrier bag and hold them over my face, forcing me to lick them clean. It saves them having to polish them at home. Sometimes, just for fun, the female toilet attendants like to gather round and mock me in their cute West African accents whilst one of their colleagues forces me to inhale the inside of her sweaty sneakers, or to suck on her stinky, sweat-stained insole.
The female attendants can be very cruel. They are supposed to wipe my face clean with a damp cloth at the end of each day, but many of them prefer to spit on my face instead, wiping away the dirt with their sweaty, socked feet. But it is right and proper that they should treat me in this way, for as they tower above me I am reminded that they are my superiors and betters, and that I am nothing more than a pathetic, ladies’ foot-lick and doormat.’
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