Footslaves' Tales Volume 2
This is the second 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 2 CONTENTS (scroll down for tales in reverse numerical order)
20. Sock Pillows
19. Modern Art
18. The Galley Slave
17. Loaned out to my Indian Mistress's Sister & Niece
16. The Human Floor-Polishing Machine
15. A Footslave's Shame
14. Vietnamese Honeymooners
13. Stocks & Stares
12. Mistress Sonia's Socks - Before & After
11. The Mobile Footslave
10. A Footslave's Frustrations
9. Life & Death Decisions
8. The Nightclub Footslave
7. Home Alone
6. Blinkered, Gagged & Earplugged
5. Sizing Up
4. The Arab Girl's Dirty-Sock Slave
3. Sweet, Feminine Justice
2. Miss Mannequin
1. Whipped at her Socks
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Tale no. 20 – Sock Pillows
‘My 21 year old mistress, mistress Whitney, is a most kind and generous young woman.
Most mistresses insist that their personal footslaves sleep on bare, wooden floors during the night with no bedding or pillows. A slave, it is generally agreed, does not merit such luxuries as soft, warm bedding. But my mistress Whitney is the exception to the rule; she allows me to use a pile of her dirty, stinky, unwashed socks as a pillow whilst I lie on the bare wooden floor of the boxroom-annex to her ‘mistress-bedroom’.
It means, of course, that I am breathing in the stench of her sweaty socks all night, but at least I have something soft to rest my weary, slave head on. And, I have to confess, I enjoy looking at her socks surrounding my face as I get ready to go to sleep, for my mistress likes to wear brightly coloured, 'wacky' socks – all of which help to remind me that I am the personal foot and sock slave of an attractive, bubbly, fun-loving young woman in her early twenties.
Right now, for example - as I lie on my side on the hard, wooden, boxroom floor, my right cheek resting on my soft, sock pillow - directly in front of my face is a dirty, white ankle sock with a logo of a pink elephant on the side. My mistress Whitney is very fond of animals (as well as slaves), and acquired these pretty, feminine elephant-socks whilst on safari in Kenya last year with her much older boyfriend, 40 year old master Peter. He actually purchased them for her as a souvenir of their trip, and now one of the elephant-socks is regaling my pathetic, slave face and nose!
This particular pink and white sock does smell quite badly, but that’s because I happen to know my mistress was wearing it all day yesterday inside her brown, leather, block-heeled, zip-up ankle boot, whilst she was out at a themepark with master Peter. I know that because I had to crawl humbly on my hands and knees behind her booted and socked feet all day, whilst she enjoyed the various themepark rides arm in arm with her older boyfriend.
And it was a very warm summer’s day! It is, therefore, a freshly stinking summer sock!
I can’t see my mistress Whitney’s other pink-elephant sock. It must be somewhere else in the pile of her dirty, coloured socks. My sock pillow consists of at least 20 pairs of my mistress’s dirty socks! But at least I can rest assured that the other pink-elephant sock, wherever it is in the pile, will be contributing to the overall stench of attractive-young-woman, residual footsweat that envelops me as I drop off to sleep.
Just before I doze off I hear my mistress tiptoeing into my bare boxroom-cell in her slippered feet, and I suddenly feel the soft pair of bright red and yellow sneaker-socks which she was wearing all day today inside her pink, lace-up sneakers, falling onto the side of my upturned, left cheek.
More freshly-stinking, female socks to add to my stinky sock pillow!
As my mistress exits the slave-annex, closing the door behind her, as she herself gets ready to retire to bed with her manly boyfriend, master Peter, she kindly takes the time to wish me, her pathetic, unmanly sockslave, a good night:
‘Ha! Ha! Night night, slave; sleep tight! Hope the sock-bugs don’t bite!’
As I said – a sweet and considerate young mistress if ever there was one!’
Tale no. 19 – Modern Art
‘I am kneeling over my mistress Tiffany’s dirty, crumpled up, smelly, pink, discarded ankle sock and audibly sniffing it. I am doing so in public, for I am an exhibit in an Art Gallery – part of an exhibition entitled "Aspects of Female Domination". My mistress Tiffany is a student of Art at university, and I am her first major, public exhibit.
Although, for reasons of aesthetics and acoustics I am kneeling in an annex of the Art Gallery all to myself, there is a regular stream of visitors passing through the annex, enjoying and appreciating my mistress Tiffany’s clever artistic concept – performance art in which her personal footslave is the living, breathing, sock-sniffing performer!
Two young women now enter the annex armed with their Art Gallery brochures. I continue sniffing my mistress Tiffany’s discarded pink sock.
‘What’s this one called?’ asks the first young, female visitor – a twenty-something black woman who, I can just observe out of the corner of my kneeling eye, is wearing black, denim jeans over black socks and white, lace-up, ballet flats. The contrast between her white ballet flats with their criss-crossed, white laces, and her plain, black socks, looks very cool.
What’s also very cool is that she is noisily chewing gum.
‘Erm…according to the brochure it is being called “A footslave sniffing his mistress Tiffany’s dirty, pink sock”, responds her companion, an Asian girl, also in her twenties, who is wearing dark blue, boot-cut, denim jeans over a pair of spike-heeled, pointy-toed, shiny, black leather, zip up, ankle boots.
‘Ha! Ha! Cool!...It’s like, a bootiful demonstration of the superiority of the female over the male, or somefink, innit Anwara?’ asks the black girl of her Asian counterpart rhetorically, in between slapping on her chewing gum.
I quickly realise that this conversation is as much for my benefit as it is for the benefit of the two girls – but I continue to concentrate on audibly sniffing the sock for, even though my mistress Tiffany is not present in the Art Gallery, she is having me continuously monitored by CCTV (the footage of which, she has informed me, is also being streamed to the whole Female world live on line). My mistress has warned me in no uncertain terms that if I interrupt my sock-sniffing performance even for just a few seconds, she will have me sorely whipped.
I fear the whip, ergo I sniff the sock.
‘Yes indeed!’ agrees the Asian mistress, miss Anwara, in response to her black friend’s observation. ‘What a pathetic old man he is being – he is having to sniff a girl’s dirty, sweaty, pink sock all day long, and in public too, for our entertainment! Ha! Ha!’
Old man? I’m 43!
Miss Anwara, I notice, has a strong Pakistani accent. I speculate that she might be a foreign student?
‘You know what I specially likes about it?’ says the black girl in the black socks and white lace-up ballet flats, whose name I still don’t know but whom I am fast coming to respect as an astute and intelligent young woman who knows her own mind.
‘What’s that, Shantel?’
Ah, so the black mistress’s name is mistress Shantel. A nice name to match her nice shoes and socks! Respec, mistress Shantel!
‘I likes the fact that the footslave is nameless, yeah? – “A footslave…” , like he’s just another, nameless footslave, yeah? Whereas the sock has a name… “mistress Tiffany’s dirty, pink sock.” Yeah? It’s like, it’s as if the sock is more important than he is, or somefink?’
‘Ha! Ha! You are being right, Shantel! The sock is being much more important than the male footslave since it is being a pink, female sock! I am thinking that the slave is not even being worthy to touch the sock with his nose – look how he is sniffing the air around the sock, but is clearly not being permitted to touch the sock with the end of his ugly slave nose!’
Now it is the young, Pakistani woman, miss Anwara, who is impressing me with the astuteness of her artistic observations. I am indeed under strict instructions not to touch or move the sock in any way. It may look like a crumpled up sock, thrown carelessly onto the floor, but in actual fact my mistress Tiffany spent hours positioning it so that the smelliest, crustiest toe-end of the sock is uppermost, and the yellowy-brown sweat stains are clearly visible to everyone – precisely in order to add to my public degradation and humiliation. She told me that she wanted the world to see that the sock was dirty, since none of the visitors to the gallery would be close enough to the stinky sock to be able to smell it themselves.
Nor, of course, would the worldwide audience on the web be able to smell it!
Therefore, as miss Anwara has so rightly observed, I am not permitted to touch the sock with my sniffing nose, or move the sock in any way!
I am, however, under instructions to move my nose through the air up and down the entire length of the discarded pink sock, audibly sniffing the sweaty aroma of the sock as I do so. Movement is important in performance art. It helps to engage the audience, my mistress Tiffany says.
I therefore continue to sniff.
‘Ha! Ha! I wonder if his mistress Tiffany was wearing that sock inside a pair of her sweaty sneakers, innit?’ suggests the black mistress, mistress Shantel, thinking, and slapping on her chewing gum, out loud.
‘Ha! Ha! I am thinking it is being more likely she will have been wearing it inside her boots, Shantel…maybe inside boots like mine!’ and with that mistress Anwara hitches up the dark, blue, slightly frayed, denim jean on her right leg to reveal the elasticated top of a bright, pink, ankle-length bootsock inside her shiny, black, high-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up, ankle boot.
Both young women laugh at the coincidence!
‘Ha! Ha! That’s so cool Anwara! I’ll bet the dork wishes he could have a sniff of your pink sock, innit?’
Yes, mistress Shantel. You are so right - again! To sniff our Pakistani visitor’s bright, pink bootsock whilst she is still wearing it inside her shiny, black ankle boot would indeed be an honour! As indeed, it would be a great honour to sniff your plain, black socks inside your pretty, white, laced-up ballet flats!
‘Ha! Ha! Thank you, Shantel…but I am thinking that he is not being worthy to sniff the top of my sock, and besides, I am not wanting to be interrupting him from sniffing his mistress Tiffany’s smelly, pink sock!’
‘Ha! Ha! Sweet!...Hey, I wonder where “mistress Tiffany’s” other pink sock is? Do you think it may be hidden, or somefink?’
The enquiring mind of mistress Shantel is seemingly never at rest.
‘Mmm…the brochure is not saying anything about that, Shantel. I am wondering if it is meant to be being significant that there is only being the one, dirty sock for him to sniff?’
I have been wondering that too! My mistress Tiffany had worn both her pink socks inside her block-heeled, round-toed, knee-length, zip-up, brown leather boots (as mistress Anwara had so correctly surmised, even if she guessed the style of mistress Tiffany’s boots incorrectly) for three whole days prior to setting up the exhibit. So there was no particular reason why she should have placed only her right sock in the exhibit.
Or was there? Is there some hidden symbolism to the fact that only her right sock is present?
The clever mistress Shantel, after some considered reflection, came up with the answer:
‘Nah…Thinkin’ about it she’s probably just sealed up the other sock in a plastic bag in order to keep it’s flavour, or somefink, innit?’ opines the black girl, in between slapping noisily on her chewing gum – the sound of her slaps echoing around the annex along with the sound of my sniffs.
Mistress Shantel really is a very bright and intelligent young woman! I’ll bet she’s right. That’s just the way my mistress Tiffany’s mind works! The exhibition is due to run for two weeks, and this is still the first week. I’ll bet my mistress Tiffany is planning to exhibit her other, pink sock during the second week. After all, it wouldn’t do to have the performance-art slave sniffing a sock from which all the stink had gradually disappeared! Where would be the humiliation in that?
My respect for the two, young, twenty-somefink, art critics is now complete. They are clearly both my female betters – more intelligent and astute that I can ever hope to be. Truly I am not worthy to even be in the presence of their socks and shoes! I must just concentrate on sniffing my mistress Tiffany’s dirty, stinky pink sock – for that really is all I am good for.
For their part, the two intelligent and enquiring young women are now seemingly bored with me, and they move on to the next exhibit in the adjoining annex. I don’t know much about it, other than its title – “A footslave bent over the caning trestle”.
Judging by the swishy, cane noises and screams of male pain that ensue after just a few minutes, however, I am grateful that I am just the "Footslave sniffing his mistress Tiffany’s dirty, pink sock" exhibit. I prefer the stink of a female sock over the sting of a female cane!'
Tale no. 18 – The Galley Slave
‘I was a galley slave in Ancient Barbaria. I worked on board the barge of the beautiful Princess Nefertiti of Barbaria, although we galley slaves never got to actually see the princess herself. Apparently she couldn’t bear the stench of our sweaty bodies down in the galley, and preferred to stay in her own, luxurious quarters on the upper deck of her opulent barge.
We galley slaves were chained up in rows of three men to an oar, on either side of a central, raised, wooden gangway, on the lower deck of the barge. I never got to know the names of the two other slaves I was chained beside on my oar, as talking amongst the slaves was completely prohibited. We were only permitted to talk to our taskmistresses – and then in humble slave-speak, and only to beg for their sweet, feminine mercy or to praise and bless them for whipping us.
Fortunately for me, however, I was chained at the end of the row right next to the central gangway, so I had a good view of our various taskmistresses’ pretty feet as they strolled nonchalantly up and down the deck, wielding their whips on the bare backs and shoulders of those of us who were, quite literally, not pulling our weight.
I’m ashamed to say that the pretty taskmistresses had occasion to whip me often as I was a fairly weak man, slight in stature and indolent by nature. However the stimulus of the female whip certainly spurred me on to make greater efforts, and the clever taskmistresses soon had the measure of me. ‘Be sure to whip no. 23 often, for he is a lazy, slothful fellow’ a new taskmistress would be informed by her mentor.
Although, from my chained up and seated position at the oar, I never got to see the beautiful faces of my various taskmistresses over the years, I did get to know their names, their voices and, of course, their legs and feet. The taskmistresses wore short, plain brown skirts and flat, brown leather, strappy sandals on their beautiful, feminine feet. They came from all parts of the Empire having once been slaves themselves. They had all been rescued by the Barbarian Female Army and brought to the safety of the Gynarchy where women ruled over men with a rod of iron! There were no female slaves in the Gynarchy. Just male slaves like myself – in many cases the former captors of the taskmistresses, so it is understandable that the latter should have had a deep hatred for the male galley slaves, and enjoyed exercising their newly-found female power and authority over them.
One taskmistress whom we all feared in particular was mistress Olufura, a tall, black girl from Central Africa. Mistress Olufura was quite young – in her mid twenties – when she first took up her position as one of the taskmistresses on the princess’s barge, but she quickly had the measure of us all.
Mistress Olufura was very beautiful – at least, judging by her shapely, long, black legs and strong, curvaceous calf-muscles – but her extreme beauty was only matched by her extreme cruelty. She was an ardent believer in the whip, and liked to mark each and every galley slave’s back and shoulders at least once during her individual tours of duty on the barge.
I, for one, will never forget the first stroke of her lash across my bare, right shoulder. Although I had been a galley slave for many years by that point, and was therefore accustomed to the sting of feminine whips, I truly had never experienced pain such as I felt at the end of mistress Olufura’s brown, leather, single-tailed slave-whip!
It was precisely because she was so tall and strong – a virtual giantess of a young, black woman – that she was able to inflict so much pain with just one cut of her single-tailed, leather whip! More than that, it was her sheer accuracy with the whip that impressed us most. She could overlay a stinging red stripe several times with frightening efficiency, and then produce, seemingly at will, a painful criss-crossed pattern of several such overlaying stripes on our cringing, sweaty, slave backs - stripy red grids which were, humiliatingly, viewed as works of art by her envious fellow taskmistresses, painted on the pale, skin canvasses of our bare, white, galley slave backs. Within months taskmistress Olufura was tasked with mentoring the other taskmistresses in exactly how to whip a prone and vulnerable galley slave!
But what really set mistress Olufura apart, for me at any rate, was the sight and aroma of her beautiful, black feet. They were much larger and broader than those of her white counterparts, and, seated as I was next to the central, wooden gangway where she walked up and down caressing and cracking her beloved, leather whip, I found it truly fascinating to observe all the tiny wrinkles and creases in her bare, brown footflesh inside her matching, brown leather sandals.
I was particularly fascinated by the differences in the hues of her brown footskin. She was a very dark-skinned lady from deepest Africa, and her soles were much lighter in shade than her arches and insteps – almost pink – making it possible to mentally trace a line along the lower part of her foot where the pinky brown of her black soles merged into the deeper brown of her soft, black arches.
And as for her shapely toes – well, the contrast between the pale, pinky skin underneath her toenails and on her cuticles, and the dark, rich brown of her actual toeflesh, was stark! How I admired mistress Olufura’s toes – even if they were, it has to be said, generally stinking and dirty.
I knew they were stinking and dirty because, not only could I clearly see mistress Olufura’s feet and sandals as she marched up and down beside me along the central gangway; seated as I was right next to the areas where she walked I could also smell her feet and sandals. And believe me, the musty, leathery smell of her strappy, brown leather sandals in no way masked the pungent aroma of mistress Olufura’s bare, brown feet!
It was, perhaps, inevitable that mistress Olufura’s feet would be hot and sweaty – given the nature of her work: on her feet all day long; exhorting us to harder work through her own, conscientious exertions with the whip! Of course she was bound to build up a sweet, feminine sweat - but mistress Olufura was not one to relax or slack just because she was hot and sweaty. She worked hard, and demanded that the slaves under her charge worked hard too. We all sweated on that barge when mistress Olufura was on duty– everyone except, presumably, the fragrant Princess Nefertiti, relaxing on her sun-lounger on the upper deck, blissfully unconcerned about the suffering of the slaves on the lower deck beneath her pretty, perfumed feet!
The main reason, however, why I have such fond memories of taskmistress Olufura and her beautiful, sweaty black feet, is that she was one of the taskmistresses who enjoyed having her feet kissed by the galley slaves – and particularly those galley slaves who, like me, were seated directly next to the central gangway – as our faces and tongues were easier to reach!
Most of the taskmistresses would present their feet for kissing at some time or other – particularly just before or after they had whipped you, and you were seeking to verbally grovel towards them either by way of begging them for mercy and not to whip you; or by way of thanking them for having whipped you.
I can remember one incident, in particular, with mistress Olufura. It happened about 6 months after she started her new job as a galley-slave taskmistress. I was feeling a bit under the weather and exhausted one evening as we neared the end of a long journey on the barge. I was, quite frankly, floundering under the sheer weight of the heavy, wooden oar. The ever alert and astute taskmistress Olufura of course quickly picked up on this, and, inevitably, I soon saw her large, brown, strappy-sandalled feet marching angrily towards me – the business end of her matching single-tailed, brown-leather whip dangling beside her strong, muscular brown shins as she uncoiled it ready to strike me on my lazy, work-shy back.
I had already had enough pain for one day as she had had occasion to whip me at least twice already during the course of this particular journey, and I therefore decided to plead for mistress Olufura’s sweet, feminine compassion and mercy in the humblest of humble slave-speak:
‘Oh pray, goddess-taskmistress Olufura, if it pleases you, sweet, feminine goddess-taskmistress Olufura, this lazy, indolent slave humbly begs for your sweet, African-female mercy! Oh pray, goddess-mistress Olufura, this weak and feeble galley slave will try harder. Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray, sweet mistress! Please don’t beat me, mistress. I am in your power. I kiss your feet, mistress!’
I already knew that goddess-taskmistress Olufura liked having her feet kissed as it augmented her sense of power over the cringing, male galley slaves at her feet, and sure enough – rather than whip me (or so I thought) – she extended her long, shapely, glistening with sweat, black leg out under my face, resting her large, brown-sandalled foot directly onto a wooden plank beneath the heavy wooden oar that I was chained to, and just inches below my gormless, pleading, whining face:
‘Kiss my big toe, bone-idle slave!’ she barked down at me in her thick, African accent.
I could smell the strong, vinegary odour of her feminine footsweat mixed in with the musty smell of her sweaty sandal-leather as I lowered my lips to touch the sticky, dirty, big toe on her imperiously outstretched, right foot. There was a clearly discernible slither of sweaty, black toe-jam running along the inside of the upper rim of her big toenail, and, somewhat bizarrely, I also found myself thinking that the filthy, dusty, sole of her brown, leather, sweat-soaked sandal was now soiling the wooden plank where my one, humble meal of stale bread would be placed at the end of the day.
However the sight of the tapered end of her brown, leather whip dangling beside her strong and shapely, black calf muscle soon dispelled any feelings of distaste or revulsion from my galley-slave mind. This was my chance to avoid the terrifying sting of mistress Olufura’s whip by paying homage to, and placating, her big toe!
I duly pressed my lips to her dirty, big-toenail and kissed.
Miss Olufura laughed:
‘Ha! Ha! Weak man!... Slave!...African woman’s foot-kisser!...Olufura despises you!’ she crowed.
And the next thing I knew was a blazing stream of fire racing across my back and shoulder all the way down to my buttocks and groin.
She had whipped me after all!
And then she whipped me again! And again! Overlays!
Naturally I cried out in shock and pain.
‘Work harder, African woman’s slave! Pull on your wooden oar! Sweat for Olufura! Praise her and bless her for inspiring you to work by means of her toe and her whip!’ she exhorted me.
Mistress Olufura’s brown, leathery, big toe and brown, leathery big whip certainly had inspired me to greater physical efforts, as I now found myself rowing with renewed vigour – a lesson to all the other slaves in the power of the female foot and whip!
With each pull of the heavy, wooden oar I kissed mistress Olufura’s - still arrogantly outstretched in front of me - dirty, bare, big toe, and somehow also retained enough breath and reserves of energy to obey her command to praise and bless her for taking the time to discipline and inspire me:
‘Oh pray, mistress Olufura….kiss….if it pleases you, mistress Olufura…kiss…truly this slave is not worthy to taste the sweat of your big toe…kiss… and the sting of your righteous lash. Oh pray, mistress….kiss….the pain! Oh the pain!…kiss’
What a pathetic sight I must have been as I thanked and blessed my African taskmistress by kissing her dirty, sweaty, big toe whilst she towered over me triumphantly, whip in hand, admiring her criss-crossed artwork on my back and shoulders.
I may have been a galley-slave and not a footslave, but the smell and feel of my African taskmistress’s bare, African foot on my lips, whilst my back was throbbing with the pain from her whip, is one of the most precious memories I have.’
Tale no. 17 – Loaned out to my Indian Mistress’s Sister & Niece
‘I am dreading this weekend. My 44 year old Indian mistress, mistress Indu, is off on a trip to visit her mother in the countryside, and has made arrangements to leave me in the ‘care’ of her younger sister – 40 year old miss Rani – at her nearby house.
Miss Rani is a much more cruel and demanding lady than my own sweet and kind mistress Indu. Miss Rani, perhaps because she does not have a household slave of her own, likes to take advantage of me whenever I am loaned out to her by her elder sister, in the sense that she works me hard and whips me hard.
I have the greatest respect for miss Rani. I have to. My poor back depends on it.
I also have to show deep respect for miss Rani’s 20 year old daughter, miss Nisha, for it is very much a case of ‘like mother, like daughter’. Miss Nisha, too, likes to exploit me whenever I am staying at her house, and she uses and abuses me - all very much with her mother’s approval and encouragement.
My theory is that mistress Rani hates men because she is a divorcee, and that she likes to take out that hatred on vulnerable, male slaves such as myself. I like to think that my own mistress Indu is blissfully unaware of just how badly I am treated by her sister and her niece, for if she knew she probably wouldn’t offer me up to them the way she does.
But I may be wrong!
Anyway, it is with a heavy heart that I crawl behind my beautiful mistress Indu’s brown, leather sandals and bright, red silk Sari as we pass through the porch into her sister’s house at about lunchtime. My mistress’s niece is still out at college, but mistress Rani is present and has been expecting us.
Mistress Rani, unlike my mistress Indu who is wearing traditional Indian dress, is attired in a beige, cotton, loose-fitting, knee-length housecoat which she is wearing over a white blouse and short, black skirt. From my humble kneeling position behind my mistress Indu’s sandals I can clearly see that her sister, mistress Rani, is also wearing knee-length, black nylon popsocks with high-heeled, open-toed and open-backed, black mules.
I know that mistress Rani will have chosen her footwear carefully and for my benefit. The mules will afford my footslave-lips access to her nylon-covered toes – and mistress Rani loves the feel of a humble, male footslave’s lips on her stockinged toes. Furthermore, it is too warm today for her to wear knee-length boots or thick, knee-length socks, but mistress Rani always likes to wear hosiery that, as she herself puts it, ‘towers above me’, as she feels it emphasises her power and authority over me – the humble, down-in-the-dirt footslave.
She has therefore doubtless chosen to wear black, knee-length nylons on this hot, Indian day as they will be less warm and sticky on her feet and legs than boots or thick socks, but will still serve to accentuate her superior, womanly calf muscles and will give me ‘something to look at’ as I go about my humble footslave-chores crawling around her house on all fours (as a footslave I am never permitted to walk upright; not even my kind-hearted mistress Indu would ever countenance that!)
My mistress Indu and her sister embrace and exchange pleasantries before my mistress formally hands over the chain, which is attached to an uncomfortable and constantly chafing metal slave collar around my neck, to her beloved sister. The two Indian ladies do get on well together, but, as I said before, I do sometimes think that I see a side to mistress Rani that my mistress Indu never sees.
It’s a side that emerges just a soon as my mistress Indu has left the building:
‘You there, the damned footslave-coolie, be kissing my feet this instant!’ barks mistress Rani, tugging harshly on my footslave-chain in order to tug my footslave-head abruptly down towards her imperiously outstretched, nylon-clad, right foot.
Mistress Rani speaks very good English, albeit with a strong Indian accent, and peppered with expletives. She likes to swear at me, as it augments her sense of power over me – knowing that I can’t answer back.
As I promptly lower my lips to touch the dark, reinforced-nylon-covered toes of mistress Rani’s right foot inside her open-toed, black leather mules, I can observe, for the first time, the minuscule individual stitches in the thin, nylon material of my temporary mistress’s black, knee-length popsocks. From a distance - the distance any normal, free human being would expect to observe mistress Rani’s popsocks - the knee-length nylons appear so dark they could almost pass for a pair of cotton socks. It is really only the darker black of the cuffs at the top of the popsocks that gives them away as nylons – that and the fact that, although they also look very dark on the lower parts of her shins and over her ankle bones, the stretching of the stitching over her upper shins and calf muscles reveals the nylon-thinness of the knee-length stockings, as mistress Rani’s bare, brown skin can start to be seen underneath.
As I turn my footslavish attention to the leather upper of her black, open-toed and open-backed mule, mistress Rani confirms my suspicion that her nylon popsocks have been carefully chosen for my footslave-benefit today:
‘Are you seeing the dark rims at the tops of my nylon knee-socks, you damned footslave-lackey?’
‘Yes, mistress Rani, if it pleases you mistress Rani!’
Whenever mistress Rani asks a question I always answer her straight away.
My polite and prompt reply earns me a stinging face-slap however:
‘Damned insolent foot-faggot! You are not to be looking at the cuffs of my socks. They are a warning to you that you must be lowering your gaze! You are being fit only to look at my feet, not my calves or my knees. If you are seeing the dark rims of my kneesock-cuffs you must be averting your gaze…’
Another slap!
‘…Be kissing the lower part of my popsocks over my ankles and beg me for forgiveness, you dirty, no-good, sock-slut!’
‘Yes, mistress Rani…At once, mistress Rani!’
It was a trap and I fell into it! Mistress Rani is so much cleverer and more intelligent than I am! Suitably rebuked and chastened, I promptly lower my, now stinging, jaw to mistress Rani’s black-nylon-covered outer ankle bone on her still imperiously outstretched right foot, and respectfully kiss the rough, nylon material whilst begging mistress Rani’s forgiveness for my indiscretion of looking up at her beautiful, Indian knees:
‘Oh pray, mistress Rani, if it pleases you sweet and kind mistress Rani, this dirty footslave humbly apologises for his inappropriate behaviour in looking at the dark tops of your knee-length, nylon popsocks, and humbly begs for the mistress’s sweet and kind feminine forgiveness, if it so pleases you all-powerful mistress Rani. This slave submits to your female power, and undertakes never to look his superior Indian mistress in the knee again. This slave has been reminded of his place by your justifiable and righteous feminine wrath, and will look only at the mistress’s divine, Indian feet, if it so pleases you sweet and kind superior Indian mistress, mistress Rani.’
Mistress Rani may employ curt and abrupt language whilst berating me, but I know from previous experience that she likes ‘her slave’ to employ the humblest of verbose and sycophantic slave-speak whilst addressing her. She also likes to hear fear in my voice – not a problem, since I do genuinely fear her. I am a male wimp.
‘Mmmm… I shall forgive you this time, foot-flunkey, for I am indeed a kind and generous mistress. But remember that my whip will never be far from your back, and if you look me in the knee again, so help me God, I’ll paint your bare back bright red!’
‘Yes mistress Rani. Thank you mistress Rani. God bless you mistress Rani.’
Mistress Rani is referring to the single-tailed, brown leather slave-whip she keeps in her living room drawer. She tends to hide it in there whenever her sister, my mistress Indu, is present – though I’ve never quite understood why since I often return to my mistress Indu’s house with clear evidence of fresh whip-marks all over my back. I think my mistress Indu just likes to turn a blind eye to her sister’s cruelties. Mistress Indu is happy for me to be whipped just so long as she doesn’t have to witness the actual beating herself (my mistress Indu never has me whipped herself; she prefers to discipline me by confining me in the wooden stocks in her back yard).
Once mistress Rani is satisfied that I have paid suitably contrite and penitent respects to both her black-nylon covered ankles, she explains to me her plans for my slave-labour for the rest of the day:
‘Inadequate coolie, this afternoon you will be spending washing my daughter Nisha’s dirty socks. Miss Nisha’s dirty socks have been piling up in her laundry basket in anticipation of your arrival this weekend. I want each and every one of her dirty socks mouth-washed, hand-washed, dried and ironed by the time she returns home from college later this afternoon, as she may wish to be changing into a fresh pair of socks before she is going out again this evening. Am I making myself clear, you damned, disrespectful, Indian girl’s sock-coolie?’
‘Yes mistress Rani...As you wish, so shall it be done, most merciful mistress Rani. Truly this slave will be honoured to clean the dirty socks of miss Nisha.’
20 year old Miss Nisha, I happen to know, is studying Law at University. I understand she is specialising in Criminal Law as she wants to become a prosecutor, and put lots of ‘dirty male criminals’ behind bars. Miss Nisha’s personality would not be suited to that of a defence lawyer, as she enjoys locking men up and sending them down.
Mistress Rani, her mother, leads me by means of the heavy, metal chain attached to my neck, on my hands and knees behind her backless mules, down the stairs towards the family utility room where I can immediately see, and smell, miss Nisha’s dirty sock-laundry basket.
Miss Nisha, unlike her mother, tends to wear boots and socks in all weathers – even hot, sunny, Indian days like today. Like many young women of her age she prefers footwear-style over practicality. Therefore her soft, feminine, Indian feet do tend to sweat a lot inside her stylish, black leather, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up ankle boots, soiling her socks and making them quite stinky.
However, that’s hardly a major problem when she can ‘borrow’ her Aunt Indu’s personal footslave at the weekend. Her mother will ensure that her dirty, sweaty, stinky socks are thoroughly washed and cleaned by her aunt’s borrowed footslave.
Thorough washing of a young woman’s socks in this particular Indian household involves a complex and extremely ritualistic process, all closely and eagerly supervised by mistress Rani standing over me with the aforementioned, single-tailed, brown leather slave-whip:
1) I must first pick up the individual, dirty, female sock I am tasked with cleaning, and pay my humble, male-footslave respects to it by audibly sniffing it. Mistress Rani insists that I have to fully appreciate the sweaty aroma of her daughter’s dirty sock if I am to know the areas of the sock that are the sweatiest and dirtiest and which therefore require the deepest sucking and cleaning.
2) I must then examine the dirty sock carefully with my footslave-eyes in order to see where the sweat stains are – again so that I will better appreciate where to suck. Of course, this task is easier on white or light-coloured socks, but miss Nisha, unfortunately for me, prefers on the whole to wear dark coloured socks inside her pretty, black leather, spike-heeled ankle boots, and so the visual inspection is often of limited value. Nevertheless, it doesn’t take a sock-scientist to work out where the sweatiest parts of a young woman’s boot socks are most likely to be – on the undersides of the reinforced toe areas and along her insteps. And the visual inspection does, at least, help to draw my attention to any worn or thinning areas of sock – important, as such areas require more delicate sucking inside my footslave-mouth lest I cause a hole in them. I truly dread to think what the punishment would be if I caused a hole to appear in one of miss Nisha’s favourite, well-worn socks!
3) Having examined the dirty sock both nasally and visually, I then have to pay my humble, footslavish respects to the sock by kissing it, for, as mistress Rani has beaten into me several times before, the sock, being a young woman’s sock, is my better and superior, and is worth more than me. By humbly kissing it whilst it is still sweaty and dirty I am acknowledging that miss Nisha’s footsweat and dirty sock-bacteria are a higher form of life than I am. Sometimes mistress Rani will even require me to address the sock directly, using humble slave-speak of course, in order to verbally express my humility and sense of inadequacy before the sock, and to beg its permission to let me put it in my dirty, unworthy, footslave mouth. Mistress Rani herself will then interpret the sock’s response (for I don’t speak Hindi) which determines whether or not the female sock consents to have me suck away her mistress’s precious footsweat.
4) Only then am I at last permitted to turn the dirty sock inside out and respectfully insert it into my slave-mouth in order to savour its sweaty contents. The sock must be turned inside out so that I may taste and swallow any tiny pieces of dead footskin or toe-jam from miss Nisha’s feet that have become attached to the inside of her sock. I can often feel the little balls of salty, cheesy, young Indian woman toe-jam slipping down my throat – washed down, of course, by young Indian woman residual footsweat.
5) Only when the sock begins to lose its salty, sweaty flavour am I permitted to extract it from my mouth and place it in the bowl of lukewarm water supplied by mistress Rani for the purposes of hand-washing miss Nisha’s dirty socks. The dirty socks clearly require a good hand-washing as my inadequate footslave-mouth can only ever hope to perform a pre-wash – removing the deepest, dirtiest sweat stains. Again, whilst I am hand-washing the sock, I must be careful not to worsen any already thinning or worn areas of the cotton sock material. Mistress Rani does expect me, however, to remove any accumulations of sock lint from her daughter’s socks, as the freshly washed socks will be slightly uncomfortable for her daughter to wear on her soft, brown Indian feet if she can feel little balls of cotton sock lint on her sensitive, Indian soles.
6) Next, the freshly washed sock must be rinsed in another bowl of clean, cold water. The only thing I must be careful of here is that I do not allow too much dye to come out of the sock, for miss Nisha likes her dark socks to look just that – dark! Crisp-looking dark socks go well with her black boots! Fading socks do not!
7) Having rinsed the sock, I then have to wring it out as best I can with my slave hands, prior to hanging it over a low, wooden rail which is used as a sock-drier. I will then have to repeat the entire process for the next dirty sock (making sure to clean the socks in pairs), and, once all the socks have been sniffed, mouth-washed, hand-washed, hand-rinsed, hand-wrung, and hung over the low, wooden sock-drier, mistress Rani requires me to carry by mouth the wooden sock rail out into her courtyard where I must place it on the ground and kneel in front of it in order to humbly watch miss Nisha’s socks drying in the hot, Indian sunshine. Fortunately the heat of the afternoon sun means miss Nisha’s socks will be largely dry after just an hour or so.
8) Finally, I have to iron each and every sock, roll them up into neat little pairs, and then crawl back with each individual pair of rolled up socks secured in my slave teeth in order to deposit them safely in miss Nisha’s bottom, sock drawer in her bedroom.
And that’s it – that’s all there is to it! Humiliating and degrading, menial labour yes – but not exactly physically demanding or exhausting! I really am a very lucky slave to be a women’s footslave. I really wouldn’t like to be breaking rocks or scrubbing pavements under the hot Indian sun! I’d much rather be watching socks dry!
Miss Nisha returns home from college at about 5:00 PM. Mistress Rani immediately requires me to greet her daughter, the daughter whose dirty socks I have been sniffing, washing and drying all afternoon, by kissing her stylish, black, leather, ankle boots.
As I lower my slave lips to miss Nisha’s outstretched, right booted-foot I can see traces of Indian street dust and mud on the pointy toe of the black, spike-heeled, zip-up, ankle-length boot. My footslave lips are, naturally, drawn towards that boot dirt.
‘Ha! Ha! Be pulling up your jean leg and showing him your sock, darling,’ exhorts miss Nisha’s mother. ‘The pathetic footslave-toady so likes to see the socks of the young woman whose boots he is humbly kissing!’
Mistress Rani knows me well – arguably even better than my own mistress, her sister, mistress Indu!
Miss Nisha obligingly hitches up the frayed hem of her blue, denim trouser leg to reveal the elasticated and creased top of a black cotton, ankle length bootsock.
It looks nice.
‘Ha! Ha! Why don’t you be making him unzip the side of your boot and running his nose down the side of your sock, Nisha darling? I’m sure he would be loving to smell your socked instep!’ suggests mistress Rani to her daughter.
‘Sorry, mama – I haven’t got time. Mohal is picking me up in half an hour and taking me out for a meal!’
Mohal is miss Nisha’s 25 year old boyfriend/fiancé. She dotes on him.
Secretly I curse him, not least because his plans for the evening are now preventing me from nosing miss Nisha’s socks. Mistress Rani is right – I would dearly love to run my slave-nose down the side of miss Nisha’s creased, black ankle sock and sniff it whilst she is still wearing it. Although I have been sniffing her discarded, dirty socks all afternoon, you just can’t beat sniffing a beautiful young, Indian woman’s bootsocks whilst she is still wearing them!
I am disappointed, therefore. So, it seems, is mistress Rani who would have enjoyed witnessing her daughter humiliating me by making me sniff her black bootsock whilst she was still wearing it. Unlike me, however, mistress Rani is free to express that disappointment:
‘Aww…that’s a shame! Well, at least let him quickly be nuzzling the top of your sock. It is making him feel so loved and wanted to be allowed to be nuzzling a young woman’s socks!’ proposes mistress Rani.
‘Okay mama…,’ giggles miss Nisha . 'You there, the damned slave...you may nuzzle the top of my sock. But be damned quick about it!’
‘Yes, miss Nisha. Thank you, miss Nisha. God bless you, miss Nisha!’
I quickly bury my nose in the creases and folds at the top of miss Nisha’s black, ankle-length bootsock and whimper and whine like an affectionate puppy dog.
Both the superior Indian ladies laugh at me – the Indian girl’s, black sock nuzzler.
‘Ha! Ha! ..Nisha darling, if you are wishing to change into some fresh socks I have been having Aunt Indu’s footslave wash and iron all your dirty socks for you!’ mistress Rani informs her daughter.
‘Oh, thank you, mama! But I’m afraid I really haven’t got time to change. I’ll just go as I am.’
Two things grate slightly with me. Firstly I notice that I have received no words of thanks from miss Nisha for all my hard work on her dirty socks that afternoon. She thanked her mother, but not me! And secondly, miss Nisha can’t even be bothered to change out of the dirty socks she has on, in spite of all my efforts to have all her dirty pairs of socks cleaned in time for this evening.
But I quickly remember who and what I am – a mere women’s sockslave. I have absolutely no right to feel aggrieved! It is the will of the mistress that is important – what she wants, not what I want. My role is simply to obey.
‘Okay darling. Are you wanting to take the damned footslave-coolie out with you this evening? He could be serving you as your footrest in the restaurant?’
‘Oh, yes please, mama. Thank you! I’m sure Mohal won’t mind!’
I’m sure of it too! Master Mohal quite enjoys seeing me humiliated at his beautiful fiancée’s feet!
And so I spend the rest of the evening lying under miss Nisha’s booted and jeaned feet under the restaurant table, acting as her booted-foot rest whilst she ignores me and enjoys her romantic meal with her beloved Indian fiancé, master Mohal. Infuriatingly I don’t get to see miss Nisha’s socks again since the tops of her black leather ankle boots remain covered by the frayed and dirty hems of her boot-cut, blue denim jeans. But at least the smell of the delicious, hot Indian food is not making me hungry as it is largely cancelled out by the smell of miss Nisha’s leather boots. In any case my stomach is already filled with miss Nisha’s dirty sock lint and toe jam!
I spend the night sleeping on my bare back on the harsh, cold, tiled floor of mistress Rani’s utility room, with the dark, reinforced toe-ends of her black, nylon popsocks resting over my nose and face, and her daughter Nisha’s dirty black ankle socks – the same socks she has been wearing all day to university and then to the restaurant that evening, inside my mouth for an overnight soaking.
Truly these two, modern-minded, Indian ladies know how to treat a humble, male footslave.
And the weekend has only just begun!’
Tale no. 16 – The Human Floor Polishing Machine
‘Miss Malea, the chirpy, 23 year old, petite, dark-haired, Filipina office cleaning lady, is relaxing with her feet up.
More specifically, she is seated in a comfortable, leather saddle attached to my back, with her pretty, Filipina feet dangling in two metal stirrups on either side of my face, whilst I am on my hands and knees crawling along the office corridor licking clean the dirty, white linoleum floor.
Even more specifically, her pretty, shapely, Filipina feet and ankles are clad in cheap, flat, shiny black, plastic loafers and dark, navy-blue ankle socks with two red stripes around the tops. Her socks are creased over her ankle bones, and I can see several tiny, fluffy balls of navy-blue sock lint attached to the stitching of the cotton socks. I can also observe several tiny specks of dirt and dust on the otherwise shiny, black uppers of mistress Malea’s cheap, flat-heeled, plastic loafers.
It is hard for me not to be so specific about mistress Malea’s shoes and socks as – even though I am a human floor-polishing machine rather than a footslave per se – I am nonetheless a human floor-polishing machine that is effectively controlled by the young, Filipina cleaning woman’s shoes and socks.
This is because if she wants me to go left, she kicks me on the left cheek with the navy-blue socked, inner ankle bone on her pretty, left foot. If she wishes me to go right, she kicks me on the right cheek with the navy-blue socked, inner ankle bone on her pretty, right foot. If she desires me to move forward she kicks both my cheeks twice in quick succession with both her navy-blue socked ankle bones simultaneously. And if she requires me to stop, she kicks both my cheeks once with both her navy-blue socked ankle bones simultaneously.
So you see, I am very much controlled by a young Filipina cleaning lady’s shoes and socks, and that is why I feel like a de facto Filipina cleaning woman’s personal footslave.
Not that mistress Malea selfishly keeps me all to herself. She is a generous-spirited and sharing young woman with a heart of gold, and she is therefore forever kicking me once on the sides of my cheeks with her pretty, socked Filipina ankle bones in order to make me stop licking the linoleum floor and pay my humble, slavish respects to any passing office lady (it is an all-female office).
Like right now, for example, as one of the office juniors, 18 year old miss Cherise, is approaching us, humming happily to herself whilst she strolls down the corridor towards the kitchen swinging her empty cup, in order to make herself a nice, refreshing, mid-morning cup of tea:
‘Hi, Malea! How are you today?’ sings the happy office junior.
All the female office workers respect and admire the popular, always happy, always smiling, Filipina cleaning lady miss Malea, for she does a great job of cleaning the office corridors and floors – or rather her Filipina-foot-operated, human floor-polishing machine does!
‘Hi, miss Cherise!’ replies my mistress in her heavy, Filipina accent as she is sat in her position of female power and control above and on top of my kneeling, bare back (miss Malea is a bareback-rider even though she sits in a leather saddle!). ‘Malea well, thank you….You want floorlick kiss shoes?’
“Floorlick” is the name of the human floor-polishing machine mistress Malea operates with her feet. It is my name.
‘Ha! Ha! Yes please, Malea!’ twitters miss Cherise the smiling office junior.
I have never known miss Cherise decline an offer to have her pretty, office shoes kissed. Miss Cherise, a tall, lithe black girl, is, as always, wearing black, low-heeled, court shoes on dark, nylon stockings under a very short, black and grey pinstriped skirt – all part of her smart office-junior’s attire. She supportively positions herself directly in front of me and then extends her long, shapely right leg underneath my humbly bowed head so that her shapely, right foot is positioned on the white, linoleum floor beneath my slave nose and lips, ready for kissing.
The design of my slave-face means that I am always obliged to smell the feminine feet and shoes that I am obliged to kiss as I kiss them, and so I can now detect the musty aroma of black-girl shoe leather as I respectfully lower my lips to kiss the pointy toe of miss Cherise’s black leather, low-heeled, court shoe.
I must kiss the toe of the black, office junior’s shoe-leather with my pursed lips, rather than lick it with my tongue, as my mistress Malea does not like me to spread the dirt which is on my dirty, floor-licking tongue onto the nice, clean leather of the female office-workers’ shoes. Even though the toe of miss Cherise’s shoe is actually not all that clean, and is in fact a bit dusty, I must, therefore, endeavour to remove the offending dust with my pursed, slave lips rather than my dirty, slave tongue.
It is all part of my mistress Malea’s standing (or should that be seated) instructions that I am to clean my besuited, female office-betters’ shoes and boots with suitable humility and respect, for, as mistress Malea is forever reminding me, the act of touching a superior, young woman’s shoe dust and dirt with my dirty, male mouth, whilst that dirt is still attached to her shoe, is a much greater honour than licking a superior, young woman’s shoe and boot dust and dirt after it has come off the soles of her superior feminine footwear and has sullied the linoleum floor.
Again, almost like a full-time footslave, I observe the tiny little creases and folds in the dark, finest-denier, stretched nylon material covering miss Cherise’s outstretched foot and ankle bone. Unlike a proper, full-time footslave, however, I am never permitted to kiss any part of miss Cherise’s nylon-stockinged foot – for that would be deemed entirely inappropriate for a mere floor-polishing machine. Just think of all the germs I’d be spreading on miss Cherise’s pretty, nyloned ankle!
I must restrict myself, therefore, to kissing the pointy-leather toes of her black court shoes – both of them, one after the other, as and when miss Cherise deigns to present them to me under my humbly bowed and kneeling face.
After I have paid my humble respects to the footwear of the superior office junior, my mistress Malea makes her floor-polishing machine move forwards again by kicking me twice in quick succession with her socked, inner ankle bones.
As I resume crawling slowly forward down the office corridor, licking the female shoe and boot stains off the dirty, white, linoleum floor (including the dirty marks caused by the aforementioned miss Cherise’s footwear as I am now, literally, licking the ground on which she has just been walking), I focus my eyes on the tops of mistress Malea’s navy blue and red-striped ankle socks.
Oh how I would dearly love to be mistress Malea’s personal shoe and sock slave! To not have to lick the floor all the time, but instead concentrate my attention on my 23 year old, Filipina mistress’s pretty, petite socks, shoes, feet and ankles! It is , perhaps, inevitable that my position as a human floor-polisher should awaken such entirely natural, but pathetic, footslave-instincts within me, given that my entire working day is spent in such close proximity to mistress Malea’s superior, Filipina shoes and socks.
But I do find my floor-licking duties a frustrating distraction from being able to concentrate solely on my female owner’s feet and footwear, for, instead of being able to continuously focus my eyes on the tops of her shoes and socks as her pretty, Filipina feet dangle in the stirrups on either side of my temples, I am instead having to look for dirty, feminine shoe and boot marks on the floor.
The only compensation is my mistress’s magnanimity in allowing me to pay my humble footslave-like respects to the many female office staff with whom she is on such good terms, and whom we are repeatedly encountering in the office corridor. I am reminded of this as yet another familiar pair of female office-worker feet approach me down the white, linoleum floor.
They are the black, zip-up, round-toed and block-heeled ankle boots, and black, boot-cut trouser legs, of miss Karen – bubbly, blonde, 25 year old personal secretary to the Managing Directress of the company, Madame Delauris.
Miss Karen’s boss, Madame Delauris, is the only woman in the office who regularly declines to have her pretty, executive-businesswoman, high-heeled patent black leather shoes kissed by the Filipina cleaning-lady’s floor-polishing machine. Madame Delauris regards me, the human floor-polishing machine, as so far below her on the social scale that I am unworthy to grace her shoe leather with my dirty, slave lips.
Madame Delauris is, of course, perfectly correct. That’s why she runs a successful business with a multimillion dollar annual turnover and employing hundreds of female staff, whilst I earn my living by employing my tongue in the cleaning of her office floors.
Her personal secretary, miss Karen, however, has no such justifiable airs and graces, and is such a kind and sweet young woman that she even hitches up the hem of her black, boot-cut trouser leg whenever she presents her booted foot to me for kissing, so that I can catch a glimpse of the elasticated tops of her plain, black bootsocks whilst I kiss the toes of her pretty, black leather, block-heeled, zip-up, ankle boots.
At least, I assume that’s why she hitches up her trouser leg, and that it is not just so that my dirty forehead doesn’t sully the nice, clean hem of her black trouser leg (for I have to admit that the whole of my slave face is more or less permanently dirty since my mistress Malea does not believe in washing my dirty, slave face all that often. She can’t see the point in washing it, when it gets covered in dirt so quickly again thanks to the fact I am continuously licking dirty, office floors).
No, I am convinced in my own mind, such as it is, that mistress Karen wants me to see what colour of socks she is wearing inside her boots because she knows that, like a proper footslave, I am aching to know what type of inner footwear she has on her feet as I pay my humble respects to her outer footwear.
I’m sure it’s for that very same reason that my mistress Malea always wears black, calf-length leggings with her black shoes and navy-blue socks – so that I can see and feel her soft, feminine socks with my eyes and face as she operates me with her pretty, Filipina feet.
It is such an honour and, pathetically, I am actually proud to be called “Floorlick” – the Filipina-girl’s human floor polishing machine and would-be ladies’ footslave!’
Tale no. 15 – A Footslave’s Shame
'Shame!
I feel ashamed, sweet mistress.
Shame that I looked at another woman’s feet;
Shame that I lusted after her footwear.
Shame that I yearned to lick on her boots;
Shame that I longed to sniff on her socks.
Shame that I pined to suck on her toes;
Shame that I craved to massage her ankles.
Shame that I blessed her beauty and power;
Shame that I feared the sting of her whip.
Shame that I yielded to serve as her footrest;
Shame that I kissed her sweet, feminine instep.
And now, sweet mistress, your patience is gone;
Now, I hear, you are selling me on.
Shame!'
Tale no. 14 – Vietnamese Honeymooners
‘I am a self-service, footslave-for-rent in the capital city. Our fair capital has cages dotted about the central, touristy areas in which public footslaves such as myself are confined, until and unless a passer-by chooses to release us by placing a £1 coin in a slot at the top of the cage. This will then open the cage door, releasing us to serve the superior, free person for anything up to 24 hours, at which point we must be returned to a cage – not necessarily the same cage, but any of the cages strategically situated close to all the main tourist attractions.
Some days, especially during the off-season, I may not be liberated from my cage at all. But during the peak of the tourist season, in the summer months, I can pretty much guarantee that my services will be required by someone every day – our capital is always teeming with foreign tourists during the summer!
Right now, for example, as I kneel in my cage – head humbly and suitably bowed, ready to serve – I can see amongst the myriads of passing pedestrians’ feet a young oriental couple in their early twenties heading straight towards me, arm in arm.
Through the bars of my cage I can see that the young, dark-haired, oriental woman is wearing a plain, yellow T shirt, white shorts, and rather cheap looking and tatty plain, white sneakers. She also has a camera around her neck, and, like her boyfriend, is wearing dark sunglasses. She looks really cool.
Being a humble footslave, however, I naturally focus on her pretty, feminine feet and footwear. I can just make out the narrow, elasticated tops of what appear to be a pair of very short, below the ankle, yellow, cotton sneaker socks inside her tatty, greyish-white, well-worn sneakers. The young, oriental woman’s ankles themselves, like the rest of her body, are quite thin, but shapely. I do hope this young woman and her male partner are planning to rent me for the day, for serving such a delightful pair of female-tourist, oriental sneakers and socks would be an honour and a privilege.
It is the young man who puts the money in the slot and releases me from the cage. He explains to me in broken English, and with a strong Asian accent, what the plan is for the day:
‘I master Chinh. This my wife - miss Thanh. We from Vietnam. We on honeymoon. You serve my wife today – serve wife’s feet. You call master Chinh wife “mistress Thanh”. You obey mistress Thanh; you crawl after mistress Thanh feet all day. You stare at mistress Thanh socks and shoes. You kiss mistress Thanh shoes, or feel whip!’
‘Yes master Chinh; yes mistress Thanh. As it pleases you master and mistress.’
I respond in simple, straightforward English to our foreign guests. No point in using convoluted and sycophantic slave-speak with foreign tourists who speak only limited English. That could be construed as somewhat rude and patronising!
The young, Vietnamese woman, somewhat coyly, extends her right, sneakered foot directly under my kneeling nose:
‘You kiss toe of mistress Thanh dirty shoe, slave. You obey mistress Thanh, or master whip!’
She may act coyly, but she certainly speaks mistressly. I respond slavishly:
‘Yes mistress Thanh; at once mistress Thanh!’
The whip the couple are referring to is the complimentary slave-whip which is released by the coin at the same time it opens the cage door. £1 for the use of a slave and a whip for the day! I am good value for money!
I waste no further time in lowering my humble, slave lips to the dirty, scuffed toe of mistress Thanh’s nominally white, lace-up sneaker:
‘You not touch sock, slave! You kiss only mistress Thanh shoe!’ snaps my new Vietnamese mistress for the day.
I like the way she speaks to me. I like a young woman who knows her mind!
Her husband reinforces his new wife’s stipulations:
‘Ha! Ha! You obey master Chinh wife, slave! You not touch mistress Thanh yellow sock with lips or hands. You only look at mistress Thanh yellow sock; stare at top of sock. You dirty. You not fit touch superior Vietnamese woman yellow sock! Ha! Ha!’
They are both right of course. I am not fit to touch the inner footwear of a superior, young, Vietnamese woman - for it contains her precious and very personal feminine foot perspiration, excreted from the pores in her superior, Vietnamese foot. As a dirty slave, I am fit only to touch her outer footwear – the footwear containing the dirt from my capital city’s streets, for it is only right that I should be held accountable for my capital city’s dirt soiling mistress Thanh’s nice, clean, Vietnamese sneakers, and should seek to remove it by licking it and swallowing it.
Mistress Thanh kindly condescends to allow me to kiss both her sneakered feet before the happy couple head, hand in hand, towards an open-topped, double-decker tourist bus, with me in tow on my hands and knees behind mistress Thanh’s dirty-white, sneakered heels. Her yellow socks are so short they disappear completely inside the heels of her sneakers. It is only along the upper rim on the sides of her sneakers that I can see the narrow band of the elasticated stitching of the tops of her yellow socks.
This is an important detail because my Vietnamese masters have ordered me to stare at miss Thanh’s yellow socks as I follow her feet on my hands and knees throughout the day, so I must not lose sight of my Vietnamese mistress’s pretty, yellow socks inside her sneakers – otherwise, I have already been informed, I shall be whipped!
Once on the bus I serve as a humble footrest for mistress Thanh. I lie on my bare stomach on the dirty floor of the upper deck of the bus, in the floor-space specifically set aside for footslaves directly under her seat, with my right cheek resting flat on the ground as the dusty sole of her right sneakered foot rests on my upturned left cheek. Directly in front of my footrest-face is miss Thanh’s left sneakered foot – complete with elasticated, yellow, sneaker-sock top. Miss Thanh’s husband, master Chinh, is seated beside her.
The couple are listening to a sightseeing commentary in their own language through headphones as the bus tours around the major tourist attractions of the capital. I, of course, can neither hear the commentary, nor see any of the sights, confined as I am below miss Thanh’s sneakered, Vietnamese feet on the dirty floor of the bus. Her Vietnamese sneakers and socks are the only sights I shall be seeing today, but I imagine myself listening to a commentary about my new mistress’s feet and footwear:
‘Directly in front of you is the sneakered foot of 21 year old miss Thanh – your new Vietnamese mistress. Miss Thanh, has owned this particular pair of sneakers for 3 years. They are her favourite pair. Miss Thanh always wears her sneakers with socks as her feet tend to sweat a lot inside her sneakers, and if you look carefully you can just see the elasticated top of a pair of short, yellow sneaker socks inside her sneakers.
Note the tiny grooves in the stitching of the elasticated rim of the sock. There are 250 grooves in total on the elasticated rim of each of miss Thanh’s socks, and each sock contains 6,500 stitches in total in a latticed pattern. The stitches are smaller and denser on the reinforced areas covering her toes and the lower parts of her heels.
Miss Thanh has been wearing these same yellow socks since her arrival from Vietnam yesterday, and they are now quite sweaty as her sneakers are made of cheap, faux leather which does not allow her feet to breathe. The socks, however, help to keep her soft, feminine feet dry and comfortable inside her sneakers by absorbing her superior, female footsweat.
Later, you may have the opportunity to see the lower parts of her socks, including the reinforced toes and heels, and even to smell them, but you will not be permitted to touch them or kiss them, for miss Thanh does not regard you as worthy to taste her superior foot perspiration on her pretty, yellow socks.’
It is the only commentary, and the only sightseeing that I am interested in – mistress Thanh’s dirty, white sneakers and sweaty, yellow sneaker-socks. For I am a pathetic, male footslave, obsessed with beautiful young, oriental women’s feet and footwear.
Miss Thanh and her husband largely ignore me during their sightseeing tour on the bus, for I am just an object – a footrest - under miss Thanh’s feet, protecting the sole of her right sneaker from the dirt on the floor of the tourist bus. I am a mere dirt-guard for her Vietnamese sneaker-sole.
Every so often I observe how the elasticated top of miss Thanh’s yellow sneaker sock on her left foot creases and folds in front of my eyes as she leans forward to look more closely at or take a picture of some passing place of interest. The thick, white treads on the sole of her right sneaker dig into my cheek whenever she leans forward, causing me some considerable discomfort. But miss Thanh is not in the least bit concerned about that. She has much more important things to concentrate on than the well-being of her human footrest – such as the history and culture of our great capital city.
After the hour-long bus tour my Vietnamese master and mistress have a snack lunch in an outdoor café. This time I must kneel at miss Thanh’s sneakered and socked feet under the restaurant table as she tucks in to her sandwich and washes it down with a cool, refreshing fruit drink. I can smell the food and I am hungry, because we public-use, caged footslaves don’t get fed that often – once a day by passing wardens if we are lucky. We tend to rely on titbits and scraps of food from our superior masters’ and mistresses’ leftovers, but this particular Vietnamese couple appear disinclined to feed me any scraps from their plates.
I focus in, therefore, on mistress Thanh’s feet and footwear under the restaurant table as she sits under the shade of a large table-sized parasol. Perhaps there may be some dirt on her sneakers that I can fill my empty, slave stomach with – food for the soul from the sole, as it were.
Her pretty, sneakered and socked feet are crossed over at the ankles whilst she eats her proper food, allowing me to observe both her right and left sneakers and socks at the same time. There is definitely some caked-on mud on the heel of her left sneaker that would nicely fill a hole in my footslave stomach, but is miss Thanh likely to mind if I nibble at her sneaker-mud without her express permission? I get the impression that as far as this Vietnamese honeymooning couple are concerned a dirty, hired footslave such as myself can look but not touch – unless I am expressly ordered to do so.
I therefore prevaricate and ruminate, and decide not to risk it. Hungry though I am for miss Thanh’s superior, feminine shoe-dirt, I do fear the sting of the dreaded slave-whip, and will do all I can to avoid the embrace of its lash on my bare, slave back. So I restrict myself to looking at miss Thanh’s sneaker mud, and drooling over it – like a salivating, hungry puppy-dog.
As I do so I am concerned to note that the yellow sock running along the inner side of miss Thanh’s left sneaker is considerably lower down inside her sneaker than the corresponding yellow sock on her right foot. In fact, I am convinced that the yellow sneaker sock on her left foot is gradually slipping down inside her hot sneaker as the day progresses. This is a worrying development if it is true, for I have been expressly ordered by miss Thanh’s husband, master Chinh, to stare at his wife’s socks throughout the day. I may be beaten if this particular sock is no longer visible to my naked eye due to its slipping down inside her shoe (probably as a result of the increasing moisture and sweat from her foot inside her sneaker. It is a very warm, sunny day!)
But there is nothing I can do about it – for my Vietnamese master and mistress have made one thing perfectly clear to me in their broken English –‘ You dirty; you not fit touch superior Vietnamese woman yellow sock!’
The couple now appear to be canoodling and embracing above me as I kneel at miss Thanh’s feet under the outdoor café table, for I can hear them whispering what sound like sweet nothings to each other in Vietnamese. In fact, throughout the day they say little to me in English. Why should they converse with me? I am but a humble footslave – a £1 appendage to mistress Thanh’s sneakers and socks; additional dirt under her feet.
And superior, free people generally don’t converse with dirt!
In the afternoon my Vietnamese master and mistress tour on foot around several museums and art galleries. Once again, the only works of beauty and art which I get to study are the glorious, dirty white sneakers and short, yellow sneaker socks of mistress Thanh (the elasticated top of her left sneaker sock is still, thankfully, just about visible below the upper rim of the side of her sneaker. I feel privileged to be in the presence of such a beautiful thing).
Outside again, in one of the central squares, the couple ask another tourist to take a picture of them standing arm in arm in front of an ornamental fountain. Miss Thanh also wants a picture of herself standing with my head scissored between her soft, bare Vietnamese calves as I kneel behind her staring down at the tops of her ankles.
This affords me yet another, close-up view of the elasticated tops of her short, yellow sneaker socks, although this time from a slightly different angle – with my head sandwiched between her legs. I admire the way the tops of her socks move in reaction to the flexing in her foot muscles as she positions herself for her souvenir-photograph with me - the rented footslave. Her soft, Vietnamese calf muscles feel silky smooth on my cheeks as she digs her hard anklebones into my temples whilst I stare down at the tops of her socks. I also note the faded scarring from a tiny, red sore on her outer, right ankle bone – the aftermath of an insect bite perhaps?
An insect may be deemed worthy to kiss mistress Thanh’s bare ankle, but I certainly am not!
Back in their hotel room miss Thanh wishes to change into some fresh evening wear for dinner in the posh hotel restaurant. She is quite specific in what I, her hired footslave, can and cannot do in helping her to take off her casual, daytime footwear:
‘You untie mistress Thanh shoelaces, slave. You take mistress Thanh shoes off feet, but not touch mistress Thanh yellow socks. You smell socks, but not touch. You a dirty pig. You not fit touch young woman socks!’
‘Yes mistress Thanh. I obey you, mistress Thanh.’
I am a dirty pig, and I do ache to touch miss Thanh’s yellow sneaker-socks – to feel their fresh warmth and moistness on my pig-slave trotters - but a slave’s wishes are of no consequence. If the young woman doesn’t want her socks touched, then touched they will not be!
At least I am permitted to sniff and smell her precious socks - even if my nose too is forbidden from touching or nuzzling them – and mistress Thanh does me the great honour of wiggling her yellow-socked toes under my nose to release more of the stink just as soon as I have pulled her warm, tired sneakers off her equally warm, tired feet.
The smell of sweet, young Vietnamese-woman footsweat envelops my slave nostrils. It seems her husband catches a whiff of her sweaty, yellow socks also:
‘Ha! Ha! Thanh socks stink! Feet stink! Ha! Ha! Slave have to smell young Vietnamese woman dirty, stinky sock! Ha! Ha!’
Not very gallant words for a newly-wed husband to utter about his beautiful new wife’s feet in their honeymoon suite, but then his words, being spoken in English, are clearly more for my benefit – to emphasise his power and authority over me, and his righteous contempt for me, as he forces me, a middle-aged man nearly twice his age, to smell his young wife’s stinky-socked feet.
Miss Thanh removes her socks herself from her feet, directly in front of my face, and throws them teasingly onto the floor beneath my kneeling face:
‘You look at mistress Thanh stinky socks while mistress Thanh have shower and wash dirty feet. You sniff mistress Thanh dirty yellow socks but not touch socks with nose. You a slave! You obey, or feel whip!’
Again, as if to reinforce his wife’s wishes, master Chinh gleefully swishes the single-tailed, brown leather slave-whip through the air as an audible reminder of the power of the whip.
I need no such encouragement, however, to smell a beautiful young Vietnamese woman’s discarded and sweaty yellow sneaker socks, and I am overjoyed to observe some brownish staining on the undersides of the reinforced toe areas of her yellow socks – visible, tangible evidence of the sweat from her feet having reacted with the inner lining of her sneakers to stain the cotton material of her cheap, plain yellow, sneaker socks.
When miss Thanh returns from her shower she has already changed into a light, shimmering, white, knee-length evening dress, and she is carrying in her hands a pair of strappy, shiny black, high-heeled, open-toed slingback sandals.
She sits down on the edge of her bed directly in front of me, picks up her dirty yellow socks and throws them onto the bed behind her. For a moment I think she is about to permit me to put her strappy, black slingbacks onto her pretty, soft, bare Vietnamese feet. But it is not to be. Miss Thanh is just teasing me again. She is a foot-tease. She puts her high-heeled sandals on her feet herself, buckling up the straps directly under my nose.
You can look, but not touch – that has definitely been the theme for the day. And it remains the theme for the rest of the evening as master Chinh and mistress Thanh prepare to leave me alone in their honeymoon suite whilst they go down to dinner.
Miss Thanh stuffs her dirty, yellow sneaker socks into the tops of her still warm sightseeing-sneakers and gives me her orders:
‘Mistress and master go to dinner now. You stare at mistress Thanh shoes and socks. You smell shoes and socks – but not touch. Ha! Ha! You smell Thanh dirty, stinky shoes and socks while Thanh eat nice food and drink nice wine! Ha! Ha! You a slave; you a loser. Master Chinh and mistress Thanh better than you! Ha! Ha!’
And with that the mocking Vietnamese couple are gone, leaving me with only mistress Thanh’s residual sock and sneaker smell for company.
As I stare at and sniff the scrunched up and crusty-with-sweat, yellow sneaker-socks inside the beat-up, tatty, greyish-white, daytime sneakers of my young, Vietnamese mistress, mistress Thanh, I wonder if I dare disobey her orders, and touch them with my nose.
After all, who would ever know?’
Tale no. 13 – Stocks & Stares
‘I am being punished in the stocks in the local shopping mall. It is a regular part of my sentence handed down by the Supreme Female Court of the Gynarchy of Barbaria – imprisonment for 10 years with 40 separate periods of 36 hours’ confinement in the public stocks.
My crime? Insolence towards a superior female – I omitted to address her as ‘mistress’ even though she was a free woman over the age of 25.
So my punishment is entirely just.
I am some 5 ½ hours into this particular 36 hour ‘stretch’ in the stocks, though I only wish that I could stretch my neck, shoulders and back as they are already aching from their unnatural confinement as I kneel on the ground with my head humbly bowed through a hole in the heavy, wooden crossbeam, my arms similarly secured through two smaller holes on either side.
The aching confinement is, of course, only the first element of my punishment. The second is that in my enforced kneeling position I am obliged to stare at the feet and footwear of my various female guards, and of the numerous young, civilian women who make their way over to the stocks in order to mock me.
Stocks and stares.
My female guards work in 2 hour shifts. It is only right and proper that their duties guarding the prisoner in the stocks should be relatively brief as, although they are comfortably seated beside me, they must find it relatively boring and they, after all, are not the ones being punished. Nevertheless, speaking entirely selfishly, each two hour stint gives me plenty of time to really study and get to know my female guards’ individual footwear in between my being taunted by the feet and footwear of the female civilians.
I can study my various guards’ footwear closely because they are seated on a comfortable, upright chair to my right hand side, and most of them deliberately position their chair so that as they sit with their right leg crossed over their left, their right, booted foot is swinging in the air next to my humbly bowed and gormless prisoner-face.
The female guards’ feet are always booted – ankle length, black leather, low heeled, zip-up ankle boots – and they are always wearing navy-blue trousers, for that is all part of their uniform. But the more you are forced to kneel and stare at an individual guard’s boots, the more idiosyncrasies you begin to notice. Their boots may be ‘uniform’, but they are never ‘identical’.
Take the boots of the young, female guard who is currently seated on duty beside me. She has been on duty now for some 90 minutes, and so I have had plenty of time to study her right, booted foot as it hovers in the air beneath my pained face.
I know this guard well from my time in prison – officer-mistress Nayla. She is a very pretty, slightly built, 22 year old girl of Pakistani origins with long, flowing, dark hair. Her Pakistani feet and ankles are quite small and shapely, and consequently her prison-officer boots are quite feminine and petite also, although she probably wouldn’t wear them to a glamorous film premiere!
I happen to know that officer-mistress Nayla has been in the Prison Service for some 3 years now since I have been incarcerated for more than 6 years and can remember her first day as a newly-recruited officer on my wing. I therefore know for a fact that she is still wearing the first pair of regulation, prison officer uniform boots that she was issued with on that very first day, for I recognise them.
Needless to say her boots are now, after some 3 years of constant use, showing some considerable signs of wear and tear. But I find those little imperfections quite enchanting. I can observe, for example, a little tear in the black stitching of the boot on the lower heel area at the back. As I kneel in the stocks I find myself wondering how long it will be before either that loose stitching has to be repaired, or officer-mistress Nayla has to be issued with a brand new pair of boots.
Pathetically, I also find myself hoping that if and when officer-mistress Nayla is issued with a new pair of boots I may be able to retrieve and keep hold of her old pair – for I would dearly love to go to sleep every night in my solitary-confinement prison cell with her well-worn boots tied to my face. It would truly be an honour to feel the creased leather of her stretched and worn boots on my slave face as I spent the long, lonely nights breathing in her stale, inner boot odour – the odour of sweat-saturated, female prison-officer, inner boot lining, cultivated and matured over several years of vigorous wear on her pretty, Pakistani foot.
As I contemplate such delusory dreams in an effort to forget the very real ache in my back, neck and shoulders, I also notice the tiny mud stains on the soles and lower instep of officer-mistress Nayla’s black, leather, zip-up ankle boot. It’s just your usual street-mud, probably, but my frustration at not being allowed to lick off officer-mistress Nayla’s boot-mud is one of the worst elements of my current punishment, so conditioned have I become over the long years of my incarceration to humbly serving the boots of my many female prison guards.
Although officer-mistress Nayla can be somewhat cold and stand-offish towards her male prisoners (I get the strong impression that she, quite rightly, despises us) she is not a particularly cruel guard, as female guards go. Nevertheless, she must surely be aware that, in addition to my physical aches and pains as I kneel confined at her feet in the stocks, I am aching also to lick clean her muddy boot, thanks to my overpowering drive to lick female footwear whenever slavishly possible. It’s a drive that has been beaten into me in prison, not least by officer-mistress Nayla herself.
In Barbaria – prison works!
Officer-mistress Nayla must therefore be aware that, by flexing her mud-stained, right ankle boot in the air under my nose – so close that I can smell the muddy, well-worn leather of the feminine boot– she is teasing and tormenting me, and thereby adding to my suffering in the stocks.
And, of course, it’s not just her boot she teases me with. I can see the elasticated top of her plain, black bootsock as well!
There does not appear to be any uniform policy when it comes to the female guards’ socks. They supply and wear their own socks, so not all the female guards wear plain, black ankle socks to match their black leather ankle boots. Over the years I have been in prison I have seen many different colours and styles of female prison-officer socks. Even today, my previous guard – a young white officer by the name of officer-mistress Elena – was wearing multi-coloured, cartoon-character socks inside her regulation prison-officer ankle boots; hardly what you might regard as appropriate foot-attire for a uniformed, female prison-officer!
But then nobody else – apart from the humble, male footslave-prisoners – gets to see the female guards’ socks, or even cares about the colour of the female guards’ socks. Their socks are tucked away inside their boots and underneath their regulation, navy-blue trousers – it is only we pathetic male prisoners who obsess about our female superiors’ inner footwear.
And I have truly obsessed about officer-mistress Nayla’s socks for many months now. Ever the consummate professional, she nearly always wears similar, plain, black, ankle length bootsocks inside her boots (although I have seen her wear a pair of dark, navy blue ankle socks with a fetching red stripe at the top on a couple of occasions).
I do always admire officer-mistress Nayla’s dark socks, and find myself selfishly wishing that her current shift guarding me in the stocks would last longer than 2 hours – as 2 hours is just not long enough for me to properly admire the elasticated tops of her ankle length bootsocks inside her boots. I am grateful, of course, for her crossed leg position that enables the hem of her navy-blue trouser leg to ride up and afford me this furtive glimpse of the elasticated top of her precious, black bootsock, but I am constantly being distracted by the feet and footwear of other women as they come over to mock and ridicule me in the stocks (the feet and footwear of my civilian, female mockers must always be given my priority attention; I am only permitted to stare at officer-mistress Nayla’s boot and sock when there are no ‘customers’. That’s the law.)
Every time officer-mistress Nayla subconsciously (or is that consciously?) flexes her pretty, Pakistani foot and ankle muscles inside her black, leather, zip-up ankle boot, it causes the top of her black, cotton bootsock to crease and fold, which in turn causes me to salivate. How I ache to sniff and kiss the top of that bootsock – to bury my nose in the folds of the black, cotton fabric; to submissively nose and nuzzle the top of her sock as a mark of my slavish respect for officer-mistress Nayla and of her power over me.
My suffering only intensifies as my imagination starts to run riot, and I visualise myself as her full-time, personal sock-nuzzler – nuzzling her beautiful, feminine black socks 24 hours a day; sleeping with her dirty socks inside my slave mouth as her well-worn, ankle boot covers my slave nose; tasting and smelling her living, breathing footwear! Oh pray, officer-mistress Nayla, please hide your boots and socks from my view – for I am not worthy!
But, of course, officer-mistress Nayla is not just a sock-tease. Above the creased and folded elasticated top of her sock I can see a tiny slither of young Pakistani woman bare shin – the soft, brown skin of her soft, bare leg above the top of her sock underneath the raised hem of her boot-cut trouser leg. It’s a reminder to me of her superior femininity, for the skin looks so soft, smooth and hairless – not that I shall ever be permitted to touch her bare, female skin, not even her sweaty, bare feet, for prisoners are never permitted to pay homage to their female guards’ bare footflesh.
We are considered too low beneath them to ever be allowed to have contact with their bare flesh. Officer-mistress Nayla is, like all the other female guards, quite literally, untouchable, but that only seems to add to her goddess-like qualities through my humble, footslave eyes. I am so inferior to her that I am simply not fit to kiss her bare foot or leg, and therefore must worship her feet- the humblest part of her beautiful body - only through her boots and socks. The most I can ever hope for is to be permitted to kiss her boots and socks whilst she is still wearing them!
But if truth be told even kissing, sniffing and licking her discarded, dirty boots and socks is actually too good for me. As far as officer Nayla is concerned I am just another faceless prisoner with no prospects, undergoing a period of just punishment in the stocks, and she is therefore perfectly content in the knowledge that I can look at her pretty boot and sock, but not touch it.
She flexes her foot muscles again underneath my face as if to reinforce that point.
Irritatingly, at that very moment, two civilian female customers approach the stocks. I must drag myself away from officer-mistress Nayla’s pretty, right ankle boot and ankle sock and turn my attention to the feet and footwear of my two, new civilian tormentresses.
They both appear to be of a similar age to officer-mistress Nayla – early to mid twenties. Students perhaps – judging by the way they are dressed. I can’t see what they are wearing on the upper half of their bodies, but one of them, a white girl, is wearing calf-length, blue denim jeans with chunky, white, velcro-fastened sneakers and short, white sneaker socks with a fetching thin, pink stripe along the elasticated tops. Only a few millimetres of the elasticated tops of her pink and white ankle socks are visible above the rims of her sneakers – so short are the socks – so for all I know there could be some pink elsewhere on the sock. She also has a tattoo of a thorny, red rose on her outer, white-skinned, left ankle bone. Most enchanting!
He companion in torment (my torment) is a black girl who is wearing a pair of very short, bright red hotpants and matching red ballet flats on her lithe and shapely bare, black legs. The distinguishing feature of her red ballet flats is a pretty little red strap running across the crown of the foot, thereby separating the rounded toe area from the rest of the shoe, and providing a clearly defined area of bare, black footskin for a footslave-prisoner such as myself to kiss – should the young lady so desire it.
That’s the main compensation of being interrupted from my reverie about officer-mistress Nayla’s boots and socks: it is only when I am confined in the public stocks that I get to see such a wide variety of colourful feminine footwear. Don’t get me wrong, the female prison-officers’ black, low-heeled ankle boots are nice, and I admire them all very much. But, individualistic idiosyncrasies or not, they do all basically look much the same – hardly surprising given that they are ‘uniform’ if not ‘identical’ !
Furthermore, I am permitted to kiss and smell the feet and footwear – and even the bare feet – of my civilian mistresses whilst I am confined in the stocks, if they so desire it. It is only the officer-guards’ bare feet that are totally prohibited to me.
So aching in the punishment stocks does have some compensations!
The young, white woman is clearly up for a bit of footwear worship as she confidently marches straight up to the stocks and imperiously stretches her shapely, right, sneakered foot out on the ground directly beneath my confined and bowed prisoner-face for me to kiss. I am forced to kneel so low in the punishment stocks that my slave lips are literally just a few inches off the ground, and so, although any movement at all of my neck sends shock waves of pain through the sinews and ligaments in my cramped shoulders, I am nevertheless able to lower my lips to the white, leathery toe of the superior young, free woman’s sneaker toe and respectfully kiss it.
Not surprisingly it smells of sneakery-leather, and tastes somewhat bitter. It is surprisingly clean, however, for a twenty-something female student’s white sneaker. Even the velcro fastenings on the top look clean!
She and her black girlfriend giggle as my inferior male lips touch the superior female shoe leather. Clearly an exciting and unusual experience for these two young women – a sure sign that they are not yet slave-owners themselves, which is yet another indication that they may be students. Female students tend to live on public footslaves. They rely on them to keep their feet and footwear in good condition because, fundamentally, these clever young women have much more important things to think about than the state of their daytime, casual footwear.
As the young blonde woman replaces her right foot with her left foot under my nose I get a closer view of her red rose-tattoo on her outer, left ankle above the elasticated top of her short, white sneaker sock with the thin, pink stripe. A rose between two thorns appears to be the theme. I wonder what statement she is trying to make with this intriguing tattoo, but I don’t bother my slave brain too much about it for I am a stupid, male slave and this young woman’s thought processes are inevitably superior to my mine.
‘Sit on top of him, Bianca, and I’ll take a picture!’ proposes her black friend.
It’s hardly an original idea. Almost all my ‘customers’ like to have their pictures taken as they lord it over the prisoner-slave in the stocks. My image must be all over the internet on photo-sharing websites and young women’s personal blogs and social networking pages!
Indeed, it’s one of the main functions of my female guards – to help those young women who want to be pictured sitting on top of me on the wooden crossbeam of the stocks, but who don’t have a friend with them who can take the picture for them. The guards are not really there to protect me from harm or to prevent my escape. Escape is impossible, and harm at the fair hands and feet of my civilian, female tormentresses is perfectly acceptable. I am, after all, being subjected to public punishment. No, the female prison-guards are primarily there to assist the female public in humiliating me.
On this occasion, however, officer-mistress Nayla can remain relaxed in her chair and just enjoy watching her fellow females teasing and humiliating me.
Miss Bianca (as I now know her to be called) takes up her black friend’s suggestion and sits down on top of the wooden crossbeam through which my bowed head is protruding, wrapping her ankles around one another so that the elasticated tops of her soft, pink and white sneaker socks are brushing against my chin as her friend takes a picture on her mobile phone.
I notice that the tops of miss Bianca’s pink and white sneaker socks are now slightly creased due to the crossed-over positioning of her feet below my face, and wonder whether the camera-phone image will be sharp enough to pick that up. I know that people can manipulate images on their computer screens – magnify them etc. – so I would like to think that such important details will not go unnoticed!
Of course, the photographer now has to become the subject, and pretty soon the white-sneakered and pink and white socked feet of miss Bianca are replaced under my nose by the bright, red, soft leather, single-strapped ballet flats of the young, black mistress – whose name I still don’t know.
In fact, I know nothing at all about this young woman, other than that she is attractive, slim, and clearly my superior and better – as she is the one sitting gleefully on top of me on the wooden crossbeam of the stocks whilst I kneel confined beneath her, staring at the tops of her pretty, red shoes and her shapely, brown-skinned ankles.
She is also, of course, unlike me, free to come and go as she pleases – yet another feature of being a superior, free young woman – and sadly, all too soon, she ups and leaves me, happy, it seems just to have a permanent reminder of our brief encounter in the form of a photograph which she will doubtless be uploading to her website later that evening for all her student-friends to see.
I never even got to kiss her bare, black footskin below that tiny little dividing strap on her bright red, ballet flat, which so enticingly highlighted the tops of her bare toes!
Still, let’s look on the bright side - or rather on the right hand side again – for officer-mistress Nayla’s black, zip up, uniform ankle boot and pretty, black bootsock are still in my restricted field of vision. I estimate she must still have another 15 minutes to go of her 2 hour shift guarding me, so I can only hope that there are no more interruptions as I resume my humble, slavish staring at the superior young Pakistani female prison officer’s black boot and black ankle sock.
I, of course, have another 30 or so hours of stocks and stares to endure.
I wonder what colour of socks my next female guard will be wearing?’
Tale no. 12 – Mistress Sonia’s Socks – Before and After
‘I am employed as a public shoeshine-slave and bootblack in the Town Square.
Mistress Sonia is one of my regular customers. She is a very pretty young woman in her early twenties, but she is not exactly what you might call the ‘friendliest’ of my female customers. She is always curt and abrupt – businesslike – in her dealings with me as I tongue-shine her black, leather ankle boots every morning as she heads towards her office in the town centre, and I always get a strong sense of how much she despises and detests me from the cold tone in her authoritative, feminine voice.
Just occasionally, however, she surprises me – and yesterday morning was one such occasion.
I was, as usual, licking clean mistress Sonia’s round-toed, block-heeled, zip-up, black leather ankle boots beneath the hems of her dark, navy-blue trouser legs as she sat high up on the shoeshine stand in front of my kneeling face . Mistress Sonia never seems to wear anything other than her navy blue trouser suit and black ankle boots to work, so I am very familiar with the taste of her boots. But she then suddenly gave me a totally unexpected command:
‘Slave, take off my boots and smell my socks. I’m going to let you smell my socks at the start of the day as I now head into work, and then again at the end of the day as I’m heading home – so that you can compare and contrast the smells of a young woman’s bootsocks before and after a hard day’s work!’
I was both excited and flabbergasted! This instruction was totally unexpected and had come straight out of the blue! First of all, mistress Sonia never came to see me on her way home from work. Furthermore, she had never before ordered me to take off her boots, and had never revealed her socks to me. Indeed, I never had any idea of what type of socks, if any, she was wearing inside her block-heeled, zip-up, black leather, ankle boots as the hems of her navy-blue trouser legs always, infuriatingly, covered the upper rims of her boots. I had often, of course, fantasised and speculated about the colour and texture of mistress Sonia’s bootsocks inside her boots, but now I was about to not only see them – but sniff them – and twice in one day!
My heart was racing as I verbally blessed sweet and kind mistress Sonia for her magnanimous gesture towards a humble public footslave – for public footslaves don’t often have the honour of comparing and contrasting the smells of their mistresses’ socks at the start and end of the day. Such privileges are normally reserved for young women’s private, personal footslaves:
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Sonia, God bless you, goddess-mistress Sonia. This dirty slave will be truly honoured to smell your superior, feminine bootsocks, if it so pleases you most sweet and kind goddess-mistress Sonia.’
I wanted to do my utmost to ingratiate myself to mistress Sonia – lest she suddenly change her mind!
I therefore wasted no further time in respectfully unzipping her boots to reveal – joy of joys – a pair of white, cotton, ankle-length bootsocks with two, thin, pretty red stripes on the white, elasticated tops! The socks looked quite well-worn – not exactly old and manky, but certainly not being worn on mistress Sonia’s feet for the first time either.
I thought about how many times in the past she must have secretly been wearing these selfsame socks inside her ankle boots as I tongue-polished her outer footwear. And now I could not only see them – I was about to touch them with my nose and sniff them!
‘Nose my socks from top to bottom, slave. Start with the right sock. Place your nose at the top of my sock just below the lower red stripe, and run your nose slowly down one of the grooves in the stitching on the front of my sock, breathing in deeply through your nose as you do so. Make sure your nose doesn’t touch the lower red stripe itself – your nose must only touch the white stitching of my sock below the stripe. And don’t let your nose linger on the reinforced toe area of my sock – just because it’s the smelliest part! As soon as your nose reaches the end of the groove in the stitching above the reinforced toe area you must turn your attentions to my left sock, starting at the top again just below the lower red stripe.’
These were the most detailed instructions mistress Sonia had ever given to me. She was normally, like most mistresses, a young woman of few words. It was clear that she had planned all this, and was going to enjoy my sock-sniffing humiliation every bit as much as I was.
So, bizarrely, the normally loquacious and sycophantic slave-speak employed by the footslave in response to the normally curt and abrupt mistress-speak employed by the mistress was reversed, and I responded to mistress Sonia’s detailed instructions with a short, but polite acknowledgement:
‘Yes mistress Sonia. As it pleases you, goddess-mistress Sonia.’
It was one of those footslave-situations where actions speak louder than words.
Mistress Sonia rarely smiled, but as I obediently positioned the tip of my slave nose just below the lower red stripe at the top of her right, ankle-length sock, and then began to audibly sniff my way down one of the front grooves in the soft, cotton stitching of the white bootsock, I could sense a smug smile of dominant satisfaction appear on her superior, female features as she, quite literally, looked down on me – her middle-aged, sock-sniffing slaveboy.
The socks – both of them – didn’t smell too bad. Just a gentle hint of sweet, feminine foot odour from a young woman’s living, breathing foot – about what one would expect at the start of the day. But that, of course, was the whole point of the exercise: to compare and contrast mistress Sonia’s socked-foot smells at the beginning and the end of the working day.
I couldn’t wait for mistress Sonia’s evening commute home. I have to admit to my shame that for the first time ever I was unable to concentrate 100% on the feet and footwear of the other women whose shoes and boots I was required to lick clean during the course of the day. My mind was just full of thoughts about mistress Sonia’s red and white socks inside her black, block-heeled ankle boots. As the day progressed I wondered how warm and sweaty they were becoming inside her precious boots. It was quite a warm day, but then mistress Sonia’s office may well be air-conditioned – helping to keep her body temperature, including her foot temperature, down?
Much would depend, of course, on how much walking about she does during the course of the day. As she is (normally), however, a young woman of few words, I actually have no idea what she does for a living! I am just assuming that she works in an office because of her regular working hours and her ubiquitous navy-blue, office-style, trouser suit. But perhaps she is actually a shop-assistant of some kind? Perhaps the navy blue trouser suit is part of a shop assistant’s uniform? A bank worker perhaps? But then again she never seems to work on Saturdays!
Such thoughts are distracting me from my own work – tongue-shining ladies’ shoes – and some of my female customers can detect that I am not concentrating properly on their pretty feet and footwear. I therefore have a goodly number of thin, red stripes across my naked back and shoulders by the time mistress Sonia keeps her early-evening appointment with me on her way home from work.
She laughs at the stripes on my back – the first time I have ever heard the normally dour mistress Sonia laugh with pleasure:
‘Ha! Ha! I see you’ve collected some red stripes on your back to match the red stripes on my socks, bootslave?’
What a clever and observant young mistress she is! She has probably guessed the reason for my whip marks, for she is clearly aware of the power that her bootsocks have over me – the power to completely take over my pathetic, footslave mind!
‘Yes goddess-mistress Sonia, if it pleases you goddess-mistress Sonia. Thank you, goddess-mistress Sonia.’
I am thanking her for laughing at my sore back.
True to her mistressly-word, mistress Sonia then takes up her position on the raised ‘throne’ in front of me (the ‘seat of power’ as my lady customers sometimes like to call it), rests her black, ankle-booted feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my face, and gives me my much anticipated evening-time order:
‘Slave, you will now take off my boots and nose my socks from top to bottom again. Do it exactly like I showed you his morning, and make sure you breathe in deeply through your ugly nose as I want to know how different my pretty, white socks smell after 8 hours!’
‘Yes mistress Sonia. At once mistress Sonia. God bless you mistress Sonia!’
As I unzip her first boot I can already detect a difference in her socked-foot aroma even before I have fully removed the boot from her foot. Vinegar! I can smell vinegar!
And when I start to run my nose down the length of the white ankle sock it feels warm and a little moist – much warmer and moister than the same sock had felt under my nose in the morning.
The same went for her left sock, and another striking difference between mistress Sonia’s morning and evening socks was the increased number of tiny creases and folds in the stitching of the sock – creases and folds which I could not only see with my eyes but feel on the tip of my nose as I ran my nose down what I truly believe were the very same, two grooves in the stitching on the front of her respective socks, right down as far as the now damp reinforced toe areas.
Needless to say the smell of vinegar was strongest here - pungent; sharp; unpleasant; yet enthralling all at one and the same time. A sock smell fit for a footslave’s nose!
‘Well, slave, describe to me the difference in the smells of my socks compared to this morning!’
Mistress Sonia’s words remind me that I am not sniffing her sweaty bootsocks for my own selfish pleasure – but in order to provide a public service for her. The superior young woman wishes to know how different her socks smell after a busy day protecting her precious, soft feminine feet inside her officewear ankleboots.
I must give her an honest – but slavishly flattering – answer:
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Sonia, if it pleases you goddess-mistress Sonia, this slave detects a much stronger, vinegary aroma from your most beautiful bootsocks this evening than he did this morning, if it so pleases you most beautiful and all-powerful goddess-mistress Sonia. It is truly an aroma fit for a footslave, most sweet and kind mistress Sonia, and this humble, dirty slave blesses you for the honour of sniffing your sweaty socks, and thanks you for imposing your precious sock-stink on his unworthy slave nostrils, if it so pleases you most generous and kind goddess-mistress Sonia.’
She laughs at me. Only the second time I have ever heard her laugh. She then rubs the soles of her sweaty socked feet all over my face, prior to ordering me to put her boots back on her feet, and leaving me with the stink of her sweaty bootsocks all over my pathetic, gormless footslave-face.
This morning it was business as usual again with mistress Sonia as I tongue-shined her boots on her way into work. She made no reference to the events of yesterday, and made no offer of a repeat performance.
Frustratingly, as always, the hems of her navy-blue trouser legs wee covering the tops of her boots, so I had no way of catching a glimpse of her inner footwear.
I knew, however, that she knew what I was thinking: is mistress Sonia wearing that same pair of dirty, white ankle-length bootsocks with the two, thin red stripes at the tops?’
Tale no. 11 – The Mobile Footslave
‘My black mistress, 23 year old miss Melanie, employs me as a mobile footslave at a busy international airport. My hard-working and intelligent mistress is a final year student at university and uses me to earn some extra cash for herself to help pay her tuition fees.
She works me in the departure lounge, offering my services for a small fee to any female passengers who fancy a shoeshine whilst they are sitting and awaiting their aircraft’s departure. My mistress also offers my services – for free - to the various female workers at the airport; the check-in girls, stewardesses, shop-assistants, cleaners and other ground staff, as she likes to keep in with the airport authorities. Cleaning ladies’ shoes in the constantly busy departure lounge is a lucrative pitch!
My ‘mobility’ comes from the fact that I am strapped, face downwards and semi-naked, onto a wheeled, wooden contraption resembling a porter’s trolley – except that I am the only ‘baggage’ contained on the trolley. Because I am lying face down on my belly on the base of the wooden trolley which is close to the ground, my stupid slave face and mouth are at the ideal height for servicing a young woman’s feet and footwear. My mistress can easily wheel me about the Terminal, stopping only to tilt the handle end of the trolley upwards so that my slave lips can make contact with the outstretched foot or feet of the lady seated in front of me.
My mistress is never short of eager customers – especially the smartly dressed businesswomen in the executive lounge and particularly when flights are delayed. What better way for a superior businesswoman to pass the time than to work away on her laptop whilst a dirty, male, mobile-footslave-machine laps the bottoms of her dirty shoes or boots to a nice, sparkly shine using nothing other than his slave saliva?
A humble lapbottom-shoe-slave for a superior laptopped-businesswoman, if you will.
Take, for instance, the young, dark-haired, oriental businesswoman whose smart, wedge-heeled, square-toed, zip-up, black leather ankle boots I am lapping at this very moment. She clearly regards me with utter contempt as, having tongue-shined her dusty boot soles, I attempt, under the close supervision of my own mistress, to lick the street-dust out of the felt zip-track running up the side of her businesswoman ankle-boot. The sharp-tempered young oriental woman, clearly irritated by her flight delay, suddenly interrupts whatever she is doing on her computer to bark down some fresh orders directly at me:
‘You the slave; you the dirty footlick. You lick clean top of Ying-Siu boot; lick off dirt. You not touch Ying-Siu sock with dirty face or Ying-Siu have you beat with whip!’
As she then imperiously hitches up the hem of her dark grey, pinstriped, flared, boot-cut trouser leg in order to afford my slave face and tongue greater access to the top of her pretty, feminine ankle-boot, I can now see the elasticated top of a thick, black, feminine bootsock – the female sock my face must not touch if I am to avoid the sting of the female whip!
The hem of the oriental-businesswoman’s pinstriped trouser leg flaps against the side of my face as she pulls it up – as if by way of a feminine, faceslap-warning designed to reinforce the seriousness of its female owner’s verbal threat.
For just a split second I have time to admire the contrast between the black, elasticated stitching of the top of the business class passenger-mistress’s sock and her beautiful, smooth oriental skin, before turning my attention to the task in mouth and licking the dirt off the top part of her boot – right up as far as the boot-rim – taking great care not to let my nose or forehead stray onto the material of her sock.
Of course, such a classy young woman’s boots are actually not all that dirty. The dirt she is referring to is the almost invisible layer of dust that, almost inevitably, collects on a young businesswoman’s boots as she rushes from office, to train station, to business meeting, to restaurant, to airport – it is the accumulated street dust of a busy, working day.
I truly admire this young, successful businesswoman-mistress. Not only are her boots relatively clean, she also knows just how to command a humble, public footslave like myself. No need for my mistress to guide or assist her. My mistress can therefore concentrate on tilting up my wooden trolley to enable me to better lick clean the oriental, wedge-heeled ankle boots. She then collects the fee and a generous tip from the business class customer – all of which monetary reward goes, of course, to my mistress, although she does spend some of her money (a small amount) on maintaining her mobile shoe-cleaning machine (feeding it and watering it occasionally).
Yes, as the stroppy-towards-me, but nice-towards-my-mistress, stuck-up, oriental businesswoman thanks my mistress for the bootblack service, I can’t help thinking what a clever, self-assured, attractive and classy young businesswoman she is!
If only the same could be said for some of my female customers in the ‘ordinary’ departure lounge – for we get all strata of female society here at the airport.
Take my next female customer, for example – a young, white, British holidaymaker in her early twenties, dressed in a ridiculously short white blouse exposing her bare, pierced midriff; a bright red, ultra-short miniskirt revealing a generous amount of bare, feminine thigh; and a matching pair of rather tatty-looking, red sneakers. She is apparently travelling with a group of similarly aged (and similarly scantily-attired) female friends. Possibly off to a wedding or a hen-do?
Whatever the case, the red-sneakered, red-miniskirted mistress is already quite merry, with a strong smell of alcohol on her breath even though she is chewing mint-flavoured gum as she swigs beer from a small bottle.
As my mistress wheels me towards the young woman’s seated feet, I can tell by the tattoo on her right ankle consisting of a red heart with a snake in the middle – a tattoo partially obscured by the elasticated top of her somewhat dirty-looking, short, plain white, ankle sock - that this particular young goddess is at the other end of the social scale from the rich, single-minded, oriental businesswoman when it comes to polite manners and experience in dealing with a public footslave.
‘Ha! Ha! What a dork! Look girls – a mobile shoeshine machine! Ha! Ha! It says 50p a shine! What do you think? Should I have him shine my dirty sneakers?’
‘Shine her dirty sneakers?!’ Sorry to sound like a bit of a footslave-snob, but exactly how is one supposed to ‘shine’ sneakers – especially such a tatty old pair of evidently well-worn sneakers, and especially when one only has ones tongue and saliva at ones disposal?!
Of course, having said all that, if the young lady wants a sneaker-shine then I will, somehow, have to bring them up to a nice, red shine– or I will surely feel the consequences on my prone and vulnerable back in the form of some nice, red stripes courtesy of my mistress’s short, brown leather, single-tailed, slave-whip.
But, fortunately for me, one of the superior young woman’s girlfriends, who I happen to notice is wearing a pair of soft, flat, gold-coloured ballet flats on bare feet with a matching pair of shimmering, golden hot pants, has a better suggestion for her red-sneakered travelling companion:
‘I think you should have him lick clean your socks, Lucy! They look like they’re truly minging! Ha! Ha!’
All the group of friends (I estimate there are about 5 of them in total) laugh out loud – including the, seemingly totally unoffended, owner of the admittedly dirty and manky looking white, sneaker socks:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s because they are minging, Mandy! I haven’t changed my socks in two days. I just couldn’t be assed!’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, for God’s sake get the slave to lick them clean before we have to get on the plane! I’m not sitting beside you with those minging socks if you decide to take your shoes off at 33, 000 feet!’ responds miss Mandy, the golden-slippered girl.
‘Ha! Ha! Fair enough! ….Erm…excuse me miss, does your shoeshine-machine do socks?’ miss Lucy, as I now know her to be called, politely asks my mistress, prior to taking another quick swig out of her beer bottle whilst continuing to chew on her gum.
‘Yes certainly, ma’am – my mobile-footslave will be honoured to clean your dirty socks for you if you wish,’ responds my educated and sophisticated black student-mistress Melanie ever so politely to her ‘white-trash’ customer.
‘Cool!’ responds the red-sneakered miss Lucy, bending down from her seated position to start undoing her dirty, once white but now grey, shoelaces.
I tut to myself internally in footslavish disbelief! Has this ignorant young woman no idea how to use a footslave?!
My mistress puts her right:
‘Oh please, ma’am – don’t trouble yourself! The shoeshine-machine will untie your laces and remove your sneakers from your feet with his mouth!’
‘Ha! Ha! You mean the ‘sock-washing’ machine!’ chips in another young, brown-skinned, mixed race woman in the group who is wearing a pair of bright pink go-go boots with bright yellow kneesocks and pink, knee-length leggings.
Sophisticated or what?
The superior, young, hen-party women all now laugh heartily at me as I, the mobile sock-washing machine, duly complete the untying of miss Lucy’s dirty, white shoelaces with my slave teeth and mouth as directed by my black student-mistress Melanie, and then use my slave nose and chin to gently prise the scruffy, red sneakers off the young, white mistress’s pretty, socked feet. I have to use my facial features to remove her dirty footwear because my hands and arms are strapped firmly to my sides as I lie face down on the wooden trolley contraption. I am, actually, a completely immobile mobile footslave.
When I describe mistress Lucy’s socked feet as ‘pretty’, I mean her feet – not her socks, for the socks are even less white inside her shoes than the grey-white, elasticated uppers. They are more yellow than white, with several discernible brown stains from the inner linings of her sneakers. But they are, undeniably, covering a pretty, shapely pair of sweet, feminine feet and tattooed ankles. It’s such a pity that the socks, effectively, match their owner – white trash.
White trash or not – this young woman and her dirty, white sneaker-socks are undeniably my betters, and her superior, dirty, white-socked foot will soon be shoved inside my inferior, mobile-footslave mouth for a deep clean.
I hate having to mouth-wash young women’s white socks – especially whilst they are still wearing them. It’s such a thankless task, and no matter how hard one licks or how vigorously one sucks, the socks never seem to look any cleaner or whiter – despite the taste of copious amounts of stale, female sock sweat trickling down ones footslave-throat.
Still, my sock-sucking efforts are clearly greatly amusing the quintet of young female travelling companions, all of whom offer me their kind words of drunken encouragement:
‘Ha! Ha!...that’s right, sockboy…suck on miss Lucy’s dirty socks!’
‘Ha! Ha! Yes! … Smell each stinky, white sock before you lick it, sock-sucker!’
‘Ha! Ha! Gross!... What a loser! What a dweeb – sucking a girl’s sweaty socks in public! Ha! Ha!’
‘Eeoow!...Those socks really do pong, Lucy! …Make sure the sockslave gets out all the sweat, pleeeease…I beg of you! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha!...You heard my friends, sockwash-machine! Suck all the sweat and filth off my nice, white socks! I want to be able to see my reflexion in them by the time you’ve finished!’ barks mistress Lucy down at me, before letting out a soft, drunken, feminine belch.
She wants to see her reflexion in her dirty, white socks?! I can’t help feeling that my previous customer, the young, sophisticated, oriental businesswoman miss Ying-Siu, would never have made such a fatuous comment! How can anyone hope to see their reflexion in a pair of cotton ankle-socks?
(Ironically, of course, I would have happily tongue-shined miss Ying-Siu’s black leather, wedge-heeled ankle boots all evening until her reflexion shone in them, had she ordered me to!)
Nevertheless, getting back to miss Lucy’s demands – as my mistress Melanie is forever beating into me: the female customer is always right! So I can but pray that miss Lucy will indeed be able to see her reflexion in her freshly slave-sucked socks when I have finished my humble mouth ministrations to her trashy foot-underwear.
She can’t – and I am duly whipped by my mistress as a punishment for my failure to comply with the drunken miss Lucy’s impossible demands; yet more amusement and entertainment for the numerous, weary, female passengers who are witnessing my punishment and humiliation in the airport departure lounge.
At the end of it all, however, miss Lucy still pays my mistress her 50p for my sock-sucking efforts.
And so it goes on – a constant parade of feminine boots, shoes, socks, stockings, tights, sandals and bare feet pass before my eyes as my mouth extracts dirt and sweat from the feet and footwear of women heading off to various exotic destinations and climes, whilst my mistress Melanie’s pockets fill with loose change.
Amongst the stockinged legs and feet are the smart, navy-blue, high-heeled pumps and dark, nylon stockings of a navy-blue-uniformed, Afro-Caribbean, airline stewardess. I gather from her conversation with my mistress (for the black-mistress air-stewardess regards herself as much too much of a ‘high-flier’ to address a humble shoeshine-machine directly) that she has just returned to the airport after a long-haul flight, and that her ankles are feeling somewhat tired and swollen. She has therefore deliberately sought out the mobile footslave in the departure lounge and, as she sits down on one of the airport benches, her aircrew wheelie-bag resting by her side, she asks my mistress if I could soothe her hot and tired, nylon-stockinged ankles by kissing and licking them?
My mistress confirms that not only can I do it – I will do it; and respectfully; and joyously; and for free!
Of course I will, most beautiful and elegant, ebony-skinned mistress air-stewardess! It will be an honour to kiss the feet of one who flies so high and travels so far, since I can never leave the airport departure lounge. There is too much work for me to do down here - kissing and shining ladies feet and shoes at the airport on behalf of your black sister, my mistress Melanie - for me to be flying off on holiday! Oh pray, mistress air-stewardess, let me taste the exotic destinations you have been to in your nylon-stockinged ankles! It is the closest I shall ever get to foreign travel!
It has to be said, I do love the feel of smooth, fine denier nylon-stocking on slave lips! I also like the way the black air-stewardess mistress’s skin tone underneath the material of her stocking seems to darken the nylon even further.
I may be imagining it, but my soothing and respectful kisses and licks to her nylon-covered ankle bones do seem to be reducing the swelling in her pretty, feminine ankles – not that I can expect any words of thanks or gratitude from the haughty and superior air-stewardess. She does not talk to things – especially not to foot and ankle kissing things!
Finally, at the end of a long day’s mobile servitude at the feet of women, my mistress Melanie has me pay my humble respects, in the now almost deserted airport departure lounge, to the dirty, white canvas keds and cheap, pink and red patterned ankle socks of one of the nightshift cleaners – a young, West-African woman in her mid to late twenties who is called miss Olasumba.
Miss Olasumba is one of my regulars, thanks to my mistress Melanie’s generosity towards her black sisters who work in the airport. She never expects the West African, airport cleaning-girl to pay for my humble services to her superior West-African feet and footwear. As well as helping her to keep in with the airport authorities, my mistress Melanie just thinks that kissing and licking the dirty, white, canvas sneakers and cheap, pink and red patterned socks of the West African cleaning girl is a suitably humbling reminder to me, at the end of each long day of toil in the airport departure lounge, of my bondage and enslavement to the feet and footwear of all women – be they rich or poor; black or white; sophisticated or drunk; uniformed or in casual clothing.
For the pink and red patterned ankle socks and dirty, white canvas keds of the African cleaning girl deserve every bit as much respect from my dirty slave mouth as the dark nylon stockings and navy-blue, high-heeled pumps of the Afro-Caribbean air-stewardess; as the sweaty, white sneaker socks and tatty red sneakers of the drunken, white, tattooed-ankled, hen-party girl; and as the thick black bootsocks and wedge-heeled, square toed ankle-boots of the oriental businesswoman.
I am nothing but a shoe-shining; boot-licking, sock-washing, stocking-kissing mobile footslave-machine to them all!
However, my favourites are still the smart oriental businesswoman’s black, leather ankle boots!’
Tale no. 10 – A Footslave’s Frustrations
‘Being a young woman’s personal footslave means a life full of frustrations. Here are just a few of them:
Boots
Much as we footslaves admire a pretty, feminine, boot-covered foot or leg, the wearing of boots by the mistress often prevents us from seeing our mistress’s inner footwear. We have the frustration of knowing what she is wearing inside her boots – socks or tights for example – because we will almost certainly have been required to dress our mistress’s feet in the morning. But if the mistress is wearing knee-length boots, or even just calf or ankle length boots with slacks, we have no way of knowing whether the socks or stockings which we so lovingly rolled onto her precious, bare feet are still smooth and clean or are now hot, sweaty and creased.
Of course we can speculate; we can speculate that her feet may well be getting increasingly hot and sweaty inside the warm confines of her leather boots as the day progresses– especially if the mistress is wearing boots with socks or nylons in hot weather. But the point is that a good footslave always wants to know the current condition of his mistress’s inner footwear. How do the mistress’s socks or stockings smell inside her boots? How do they smell right now – whilst she is still wearing them? Are they still fragrant, or increasingly pungent?
Even if the mistress’s socks are showing above the tops of her ankle boots, the mental torture is, in some ways, even worse. For the scrunched up, elasticated tops of the mistress’s bootsocks, be they continuously visible because she is wearing a skirt or dress, or only intermittently visible as she is wearing her boots with trousers or slacks (for example when she is seated with one leg crossed over the other), are a teasing reminder that the mistress is not barefooted inside her boots and that she is wearing intimate, inner footwear that will require our slavish attention at the end of the day (most personal footslaves can expect to have to suck clean their mistress’s dirty socks or nylons at the end of each day or, at least, to have to sleep with the mistress’s dirty hosiery resting on their upturned face).
It is only natural, therefore, that a footslave should be obsessed by his mistress’s inner footwear and somewhat resentful of the boots which hide it, either partially or completely, form his slavish gaze.
Clean shoes and boots
There is perhaps only one thing more frustrating for a devoted footslave than a pair of boots hiding his mistress’s socks from view – and that is a clean pair of boots hiding his mistress’s socks from view. The same goes for shoes.
At least if the mistress’s outer footwear is dirty, or even just well-worn, the slave has something to occupy his pathetic mind whilst his mistress goes about her much more important daily business. Whilst she is closing important financial deals in the City, or negotiating important contracts with major suppliers, her personal footslave will be studying each and every tiny slither of mud on the mistress’s boot or shoe; each and every trace of street-dust; each and every crease and fold in the well-worn leather as she subconsciously flexes her foot-muscles inside her boot.
And why? Because again, at the end of the day, the mistress will likely bestow the inestimable honour on her personal footslave of tongue-cleaning her dirty, creased shoe or boot leather. She will also expect him to lick away from her shoe or boot soles the ingrained residue of where she has been walking – be it the dusty city streets, the dirty rain water from the puddles in the pavements, or the grass and mud from the local park.
The diligent footslave – always anxious to experience new tastes on his footslave palate – will therefore be hoping and praying that his mistress walks through many different types and textures of dirt in her sweet, feminine boots or shoes during the course of the day. No footslave worth his salt wants to lick pristine-clean boots or shoes at the end of the day. Shoe leather just tastes of shoe leather – a bitter and ordinarily unpleasant taste, not to be recommended for a free person; but to a humble footslave it is like bread and butter, albeit exceedingly bitter bread and butter that is an acquired taste. The point is, for the average footslave, the taste of female shoe or boot leather alone is not exciting enough! It needs to be seasoned with all kinds of dirt. Dirt is wild and unpredictable! Who knows what the source of street dirt is?
That’s why if a footslave, humbly crawling along the pavement on his hands and knees behind his mistress’s ankle-booted feet whilst she is preoccupied with a telephone call on her mobile, suddenly sees a shallow, muddy puddle in front of her, he will not do anything to warn his mistress of the impending potential damage to her footwear. He will, somewhat selfishly, be actually praying that his mistress walks right through the muddy water, for as far as a dirty footslave is concerned dirt and mud is good!
Sadly though – and this is the frustration – many mistresses don’t like dirt. They see dirt as something alien and foreign to their feminine purity. Dirt is masculine! And so the mistress’s natural instincts will often be to avoid walking in dirt or through sticky, muddy puddles. She will also want to keep her boots and shoes sparkling and clean for the benefit of her husband or boyfriend – free men, real men, are not excited by dirty, female footwear. They want their women to look good – like catwalk models with shiny hair, shiny clothes, and shiny shoes or boots.
And so the personal footslave is often left frustrated and alone with a pair of his mistress’s relatively clean shoes or boots at the end of the day whilst she makes love in the neighbouring room with her manly boyfriend.
At least you have the compensation of knowing that both the master and mistress still look on you, the footslave, as a piece of dirt. You will also have the compensation of being able to smell the still warm and sweaty insides of your mistress’s boots or shoes, and her discarded stockings or socks, whilst she makes love to a real man.
Socks with sandals
You might be forgiven for thinking that there is just no pleasing some footslaves! On the one hand we are frustrated if our beautiful mistress is wearing a pair of closed-in shoes or boots which hide her pretty socks or nylons from our view; on the other hand I am now going to complain about mistresses wearing socks with sandals!
You might think, in view of what I’ve been saying above, that the average footslave would very much appreciate being able to see the condition of his mistress’s socks throughout the day through her strappy, open-toed sandals. After all, he can now continuously see what condition they are in as she is wearing them. As he kneels at her feet he can observe every crease and fold in the cotton material of the sock as she subconsciously flexes her foot muscles either whilst she is standing or seated. He can follow the pattern in the stitching of her socks, or, if applicable, study the logo and the way the various different colours of her sock interact with each other. He can even concentrate on any worn or thinning patches in the material of the sock, and, hopefully, count all the little balls of sock lint stuck to the stitching of the sock fabric.
All of these observations will be important to the footslave because, again, at the end of the day he will be expected to clean and ‘repair’ any deficiencies in his mistress’s socks – remove the tiny balls of sock lint with his tongue; lick and suck away any traces of street dirt and dust; consume any residual sweat that may have seeped from the precious sweat pores in his mistress’s footflesh into the fabric of his mistress’s socks.
Besides, the footslave has no choice but to study his mistress’s footwear throughout the day whatever she is wearing on her feet – it’s the law.
But the frustration caused by socks worn with sandals? Simple! The mistress’s bare foot seems so near to him, yet so far! If truth be told the average footslave would much rather be studying the mistress’s bare foot inside her strappy and open-toed sandals, rather than her socked foot. He is after all, when all is said and done, employed as a foot slave; not a sock slave; or even a shoe or boot slave. He is, ultimately, the servant of the mistress’s foot, and anything which hides that precious, soft, shapely feminine foot from his gaze is bound to be a source of frustration and angst for the conscientious footslave.
It is the mistress’s bare, living foot, after all, which is the source of the odours he so relishes when he is eventually permitted to sniff the insides of her hot shoes or boots, or to smell and taste her recently worn and as yet unwashed stockings or socks. It is the mistress’s bare foot which produces his tasty, vitamin supplements of sweet, feminine toe jam and dead toenail clippings. And if the slave is excited by the sight of his mistress’s socks or stockings creasing and folding on her foot – what is it that causes those intriguing creases and folds? It is the mistress’s living, moving, breathing foot! How he longs to see the wrinkles in her footskin every bit as much as he admires the creases in the cotton material of her socks; how he yearns to see the patches of hard skin on the backs of her heels every bit as much as he admires the signs of wear and tear in the fabric of her socks!
And so the slave spending the day staring at his mistress’s socked feet inside her sandals will be constantly reminded of his mistress’s pretty, feminine, bare foot underneath the sock – and will again be longing for the end of the day when he will at last, hopefully, receive the mistress’s gracious command to peel off her socks from her hot and tired feet and, if he is lucky, lick off the sock lint and sweaty toe jam from her soft, bare foot.
No say
Perhaps the biggest frustration of all for a humble footslave, however – and it is ably demonstrated by my short rundown of frustrations listed above – is the simple fact that the slave has absolutely no say in what his mistress chooses to wear on her feet, and/or the state of her feet and footwear.
He is, after all, just a slave! He has no free will of his own, and lives purely to obey the wishes and demands of others. So if his mistress chooses to wear fresh, clean socks on freshly washed and neatly pedicured and perfumed feet, inside brand new, shiny, pristine-clean boots – the footslave has no choice but to damn well like it!
Perhaps the constant sight of his gormless and frustrated reflexion in the shiny, black leather of his mistress’s boots will remind him of how pathetic he is; of how he is actually unfit to be in the presence of his mistress’s superior feet and footwear; and that the only real dirt beneath the mistress’s pristine feet and footwear – is him!’
Tale no. 9 – Life and death decisions
‘Slave, how much do you love my socks?’
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave loves your socks more than life itself.’
Mistress laughs (she is ever so slightly tipsy following her night out clubbing with her best friends):
‘So, what is it that you love the most about my socks?’
I am completely serious and sober as I look at the bright yellow and red patterned ankle-socks currently adorning my mistress’s feet inside her strappy, golden-coloured, high-heeled, open-toed sandals:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave loves and admires your socks because they are in intimate contact with your most beautiful and precious bare feet mistress.’
Again mistress drunkenly laughs:
‘So, would you say you are jealous of my socks, slave, as they get to touch my bare feet and absorb the sweat from my skin? Are you envious of my socks? Do you, in fact, wish that you could be one of my red and yellow socks on my feet right now?’
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you sweet and powerful feminine mistress, this dirty slave is not worthy to be jealous of your socks, as your socks are his superiors, for they are female, better looking and of much greater worth than this dirty, no-good, male footslave, if it is so pleasing to you superior female master.’
My mistress lazily stretches forward her right foot until it is directly under my kneeling nose, almost losing her balance and spilling her drink as she does so.
She giggles.
The outstretched positioning of her pretty foot causes her red and yellow patterned ankle sock to crease and fold in front of my eyes all along her shapely, feminine instep.
‘Ha! Ha! Then kiss your superior, dirty, male footslave; kiss the superior, female sock. Worship her and adore her. Bless her for allowing you to pay your slavish respects to her. Address her as “mistress the sock 1”. Go on, do it! Do it now, slave! I order you to!’
I obey my drunken mistress. I kiss the creased yellow and red sock all along my mistress’s instep, and I verbally worship ‘mistress the sock 1’ as I do so:
‘Oh pray, mistress the sock 1, if it pleases you mistress the sock 1, this dirty male slave is truly honoured and privileged to be permitted to respectfully place his unworthy slave lips onto your soft fabric, if it so pleases you mistress the sock 1. God bless you, mistress the sock 1, for allowing this dirty slave to pay his slavish homage to you.’
The socked and sandalled foot is withdrawn from under my mouth and replaced by my mistress’s left foot – similarly outstretched; similarly now sock-creased all along the instep:
‘And don’t neglect mistress the sock 2, dirty slave. Pay homage to her also!’ commands my mistress, teetering somewhat in her high-heeled, open-toed, strappy, golden sandals.
‘Yes mistress, at once mistress…Oh pray, mistress the sock 2, if it pleases you mistress the sock 2, this slave is truly in awe of your sweet, feminine beauty as you grace his mistress’s feet along with your sweet, feminine colleague, mistress the sock 1.’
The sock feels deliciously soft under my lips and, like the other socked foot, contains just a hint of the sweet and delicate odour of young woman footsweat – sadly not enough to dissipate the strong smell of alcohol coming from my mistress’s breath, for I would rather be drunk with the smell of her sweaty socks than the smell of alcopops.
‘Erm…just one more thing, footslave. Supposing my little house was on fire and my dirty socks were still inside my laundry basket in my bedroom. Would you seek to go back into the house in order to rescue my dirty socks, or would you leave them to perish along with all my other possessions? Which do you value more - my socks or your life? Ha! Ha!’
I think for a few seconds before answering:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave exists only to serve his superior mistress and her socks. This slave can be replaced. His mistress’s precious socks and sock sweat cannot. Therefore if the mistress’s house were on fire this slave would indeed seek to rescue his mistress’s dirty socks from the fire, or would willingly perish in the process, if it so pleases you sweet, feminine mistress.’
My mistress now drunkenly addresses her socks directly:
'Hmmm…you hear that girls? The dirty footslave says he would risk his own miserable existence to save you from a fire! Ha! Ha! What a hero! What a man!...Ha! Ha!...Oh, but I’m afraid my socks say you shouldn’t have hesitated in giving us your answer, slave. And they want you whipped! He who hesitates is whipped! Ha! Ha! Fetch me the whip, slave!’
I crawl up to my mistress’s bedroom to fetch her whip.
Fortunately by the time I come back, my mistress is sound asleep.
Tale no. 8 – The Nightclub Footslave
‘I am employed as a ladies’ footslave in a private booth in a nightclub. Young women pay good money (or their boyfriends do on their behalf) in order to spend anything from 15 minutes up to 3 hours sitting in my booth whilst they impose their feet upon me in various ways.
The booth resembles a large toilet cubicle with a lock on the door to ensure complete customer privacy, but instead of a toilet there is a high chair with two metal footrests at the base on which the superior, young mistress sits with me chained and kneeling at her feet.
It is, of course, entirely up to the young mistress concerned which foot service, or services, I perform for her during her allocated time in the booth. Predictably, many just want their pretty, feminine, spike-heeled shoes or boots tongue-shined whilst they are wearing them. Others, however, may require me to take off their outer footwear and massage their socked, stockinged or even bare feet. Still others like me to suck the dirty toe-jam from their sweet, feminine bare toes or even perform a full pedicure on them.
But every now and then, I’m pleased to say, there comes along a mistress with a mind of her own who wants, or rather demands, that I do something slightly different for her.
Take last night, for example. At about 10:00 PM the booth to my door opened and in walked a slightly plump, but nevertheless very attractive, blonde girl of about 20 who introduced herself to me as 'mistress Ingrid'. I also quickly realised, by virtue of her accent, that she was from Germany.
Mistress Ingrid was wearing a slightly unusual outfit for a young woman who was out drinking and clubbing in the evening – not very revealing you might say: a brown T shirt; brown slacks; soft, black ballet flats with bows on the front; and dirty grey-white ankle socks. More like daytime casual wear that reminded me of my days as a public footslave in the Town Square. I soon found out, however, the reason for mistress Ingrid’s somewhat unusual ‘night-clubbing’ attire.
Having sat confidently down on the high chair with her ballet-flats and white ankle socks resting directly in front of my kneeling face, mistress Ingrid proceeded to explain to me that she had always had particularly smelly feet; that her friends were always complaining about the smell whenever she took off her shoes; that she had, however, deliberately not washed her feet for several days or changed her socks; and that she had been dancing in the club since 07:00 PM this evening – some 3 hours – therefore meaning that her socks and feet must be even sweatier than usual!
She went on to explain, completely unabashedly, that all of this was totally deliberate as her boyfriend, Wolfgang, had thought it would be fun if she were to inflict her smelly, stinky feet on some helpless, male footslave – and he had therefore paid in full 3 days ago for her to spend 3 hours in my private footslave-booth, just so that she could force me to sniff and inhale her, sweaty, filthy white socks.
Under the night club rules Master Wolfgang wasn’t permitted into the footslave-booth himself, but mistress Ingrid explained that I shouldn't worry about that as she would be filming my humiliation and degradation at her smelly feet on her mobile phone for Wolfgang and the rest of her friends to enjoy later.
She then pointed her phone down at me with a smug and supercilious grin on her face before ordering me to begin my humiliation by sniffing her shoes. She advised me that the musty, leather smell of her soft, black leather, ballet flats would seem like the scent of lavender and primroses compared to the putrid, vinegary stench that would soon envelop my slave nose just as soon as she ordered me to take off her ballet shoes and sniff her nasty, raw socks!
I therefore made the most of my initial shoe-sniffing time - the calm before the storm, so to speak - and somewhat ominously detected the unmistakable, quite pungent aroma of female footsweat even through the leather of the black ballet flats.
But it was, as mistress Ingrid had quite rightly predicated, as nothing compared to the overwhelming stench of sweaty, white sock that assaulted my nostrils just as soon as I removed her right ballet flat from her socked foot.
Needless to say, I have had to become accustomed to the unpleasant, bacterial smell of sweaty feet over the many years that I have been in servitude as a footslave, but to my dismay – and to mistress Ingrid’s evident delight – I allowed my professional and respectful footslave-demeanour to slip as the stink from her sweaty, white socks was released from the confines of her shoe and up into my slave nostrils.
She was delighted because she managed to catch my involuntary grimace on camera – a professional footslave baulking at the stench of a sweet, young German woman’s foot and sock odour. Priceless! She indicated that she would now simply have to upload it onto You-Tube for the whole world to see!
Of course, the more I baulked, the more mistress Ingrid insisted that I bury my slave nose deep into the folds of her socked toes and inhale. She even wiggled her toes in order to release more of the stench. My God, the stink was truly humiliating and degrading for me! No human being, slave or otherwise, should have to smell such sweaty socked feet so close up! Mistress Ingrid just laughed, however, as she then proceeded to wipe the sweat off the bottom of her dirty, yellow-and-brown stained, white, cotton ankle sock onto my 'ugly, slave face'. She said that she wanted my next female customer to be as disgusted by the smell of my face as I clearly was by the smell of her socks and feet.
I noticed that, for all her girlish bravado, even mistress Ingrid herself had to partially cover her nose with a cotton handkerchief as she ordered me to remove her second shoe – and she was quite a tall girl and therefore her pretty, German nose was nowhere as near to her socked feet as mine was. With the second ballet shoe off there was, not surprisingly, twice the stink!
Twice the Stink! Twice the degradation! I honestly started to feel a bit light-headed at one point, so starved was my puny, slave brain of clean air. With mistress Ingrid’s pretty, socked feet just inches in front of my face I was truly engulfed in the stench of her sweaty socked feet.
But as you have probably guessed there was still much worse to come. After all, this pretty, young, German woman had three hours to spend in my foot-booth! And so, during the course of the next 3 hours I not only had to peel off her sweaty, white ankle socks from her sweaty, white feet with my slave mouth, not only had to then turn them inside out with my slave fingers and place them in my mouth so that I could ‘taste properly’ the sweat I had been inhaling, but then had to lick the stale sweat from between mistress Ingrid’s somewhat podgy, unwashed, unpedicured and unvarnished toenails.
Truly this young woman had prepared a foot-feast fit for a footslave!
Eventually, after she had gone, I was able to breathe more easily again. However, in spite of the fact that I had diligently and selflessly put her dirty socks and shoes back on her pretty, German feet for her, she had kindly left me with the lingering aroma of her precious foot and sock perspiration which hung around in my booth for several more hours – in all probability most of it stuck to my face, just as she had wished. One or two of my subsequent female customers did in fact make the comment that my face stank of stale, female footsweat and they requested nose-plugs from the Management.
I, of course, was not afforded any such luxuries as my slave nose and face are only fit to be the receptacles for a young German woman’s excessively pungent foot perspiration.
Yes, I won’t be forgetting mistress Ingrid in a hurry – the plump German girl who wanted her smelly, white socks and stinky, bare feet sniffed, sucked and licked on You-Tube!
See if you can find the clip, and if you do, just be grateful that you don’t yet have smellevision!’
Tale no. 7 – Home Alone
‘My mistress has just gone away with her boyfriend, my master, on a two week holiday. They are off to stay with relatives in the Caribbean, and to do some sightseeing around the island of their ancestors. Both my master and mistress were born in England and have never been to the land of their forefathers before.
My beautiful, kind-hearted, black mistress has not forgotten about me – her personal footslave – however. She has very kindly arranged for me to do some ‘sightseeing’ of my own whilst she is away, as she has confined me on my hands and knees in the wooden ‘kneeling’ stocks in the basement of the home she shares with her boyfriend, and has placed a well-worn pair of her favourite, shiny white, flat leather shoes on the floor of the basement just a few inches directly below my bowed and confined head.
My beautiful, black mistress has ordered me to study her white, leather flats from my ‘wooden window’ whilst she is gone, as she will be asking me questions about them on her return. She has warned me that I must examine in detail every stain on the beige-coloured, inner lining of her shoes; every crease and fold in the shiny, white leather of the uppers; every ingrained dirt mark on the outer leather; every loose stitch in the white, patterned stitching around the soles. And she has advised me to think about how such signs of wear and tear have been caused by the precious pair of flat-heeled, shiny white shoes being worn on her divine feet – feet which I am not worthy to kiss, but which I am nevertheless permitted to kiss on occasion thanks to her womanly magnanimity and generosity towards her dirty male slave.
She has also exhorted me to inhale the sweaty aroma from the inside of her well-worn, white leather shoes and has reminded me that their strong, pungent aroma of superior womanly footsweat is caused by the fact that she normally wears these particular shoes on her bare, black feet without socks or stockings – thereby ensuring that the perspiration from her soft, feminine feet is absorbed directly into the beige-coloured inner lining of the shoes. The tatty, old shoes are, therefore, truly precious because they contain my mistress’s stale footsweat, and my mistress has made it quite clear to me that, whilst she is away sunning herself on holiday with her beloved and manly boyfriend, I must concentrate my pathetic, male-slave mind on how her sweat has previously been absorbed into her warm shoes lying on the floor beneath my ugly slave nose.
My mistress is not only warm-shoed, however. She is also an exceptionally warm-hearted young woman, and has ensured that whilst she is away I shall not only get to see, smell and think about her precious foot perspiration – but shall also have the opportunity to taste it, for my mistress (at the master’s suggestion) has kindly gagged me with a pair of her dirty, white sports socks.
I know this particular pair of feminine, ankle-length socks very well as my mistress often wears them with her purple and white sneakers when she goes out jogging, and the socks have a delightful, matching purple stripe at the top. It is first and foremost the plain, white, reinforced toe ends of the dirty, white, sports socks, however, that have been shoved into my slave mouth, as my mistress and master want to ensure that the sweatiest parts of her socks are resting on my tongue so that my taste buds can detect the full, salty flavour of stale, young-woman foot perspiration.
I am under strict instructions not to suck at the socks, as my mistress wishes the taste of the socks to linger in my slave mouth throughout the whole two weeks of her holiday. Indeed, the master has specifically warned me that he will be checking the toe ends of his beautiful girlfriend’s dirty, white socks on their return in order to ensure that the yellowy-brown sweat stains are still there, and he has informed me that he will beat me if his girlfriend’s socks show any signs of having been cleaned inside my mouth.
I can taste, therefore, but I must not suck or swallow.
My master and mistress both laughed at me as they left me ‘home alone’ confined in the wooden stocks in their dark and dingy basement. My mistress’s parting words to me were that it would be pleasing to both her and her boyfriend to think that whilst I am forced to kneel in a cramped position in the wooden stocks - staring at and smelling the insides of her tatty, old shoes as I taste the stale sweat on her dirty, white sports socks – they shall both be stretched out and lying in each others arms on a tropical beach in the Caribbean, enjoying the warm sunshine and the cool, coastal breeze as they sip on their pina coladas. She also said that she hoped her dirty socks made me thirsty while she was away as that thought would make the taste of her cool, refreshing beach-drink all the sweeter.
She told me not to worry as her sister and brother-in-law would be looking in on me every few days, just to make sure the dirty socks were still in my mouth, and to enquire after my aching neck and shoulder muscles. Her sister had assured her that she would also moisten my lips with water, but would take great care not to dilute the taste of the sweaty sports socks in my mouth by actually letting me drink the water.
My mistress explained that I could drink her dirty foot water and eat her sweaty toe-jam upon her return from the Caribbean in two weeks time when I am released from the stocks in order to wash her well-travelled feet– providing, of course, that I first pass the test she will be giving me on the state of her scruffy, white leather shoes, and that her boyfriend is satisfied that her dirty, white, sports socks are still suitably sweat-stained when he pulls them out of my mouth in order to inspect them.
So we all have something to look forward to over the next two weeks. My master and mistress shall be enjoying a well-earned break in the Caribbean surrounded by the warmth, sunshine, hospitality and rich cultural heritage of the land of their forefathers; I shall be experiencing ever-increasing thirst and hunger, and aches and cramps in my neck and shoulder muscles, as I kneel confined in the wooden stocks in their dimly lit and windowless basement - studying, smelling and tasting my mistress’s precious, dirty, discarded footwear; and my mistress’s sister and brother-in-law will be periodically calling round in order to mock and humiliate me whilst ensuring that I receive no respite in the wooden stocks.
Truly I am not worthy to serve such inventive and superior masters and betters.’
Tale no. 6 – Blinkered, gagged & ear-plugged.
‘Personally I am glad that I am not employed as a public footslave like my colleague in tale no. 5 below, but am instead employed as the personal footslave of a beautiful, young mistress – miss Brigitte – even if she imposes one of the strictest regimes known to the world of footslavery upon me.
My mistress Brigitte is a 26 year old, tall and slim, blonde-ponytailed, graduate of the ‘Young Ladies’ College of Central Barbaria’ (YLCCB) and she works as an office manager in a finance company in the City. I am male (of course – there are no female slaves in the Gynarchy of Barbaria!) and 12 years her senior, but being a superior young woman, she is considered better looking, more intelligent and much more important than I am. She is, quite simply, my better and I am just an ugly, male-slave appendage to her beautiful, young-womanly feet.
Her strict regime over me consists of my being kept naked (apart from my white slave shorts and wooden slave-collar) and permanently blinkered, gagged and ear-plugged. However, as my kindly mistress has oftentimes explained to me, each of these 3 sensory-depriving devices is ultimately for my own good - for a personal footslave is required by law to concentrate solely on his mistress’s feet and footwear at all times and these cruel devices are designed to help me do just that. They help me to avoid any unnecessary distractions and therefore to serve my superior, young mistress all the more diligently as her personal footslave, which is my sole reason for existence. My mistress Brigitte is, therefore, only thinking of my best interests when she imposes these devices upon me in order to restrict my world to that of her feet and footwear, and I bless her for them.
Specifically, the black, leather blinkers on either side of my temples help me to focus my footslave-eyes at all times on her pretty, feminine feet and footwear and not to be distracted by, for example, the feet of other women (unless my mistress herself instructs me to pay homage to their feet).
The gag also is a necessary evil as, although it restricts the movement of my slave tongue making it much harder for me to lick clean my mistress’s feet and/or footwear, it does also prevent me from boring my mistress silly with unnecessary, sycophantic slave-speak.
My mistress Brigitte is a great believer that slaves should be seen and not heard. As she frequently points out, I can still express my humble submission and devotion to her by kissing her feet, as the gag consists merely of a metal tongue-flattener. Moreover, I can still open and close my ugly, slave mouth, and I can still, therefore, express pain and suffering by making groaning and moaning noises. My mistress does very much like to hear me suffering whenever she is physically chastising me. It is just intelligible conversation that I am prevented from uttering by the gag over my tongue – but, as my mistress opines, there is nothing I could have to say that would possibly be of any interest to her anyway, as I am just a lowly footslave; therefore the gag is an entirely appropriate device for my stupid, slave mouth.
The earplugs prevent me from being distracted from my personal-footslave duties by extraneous noise. They are connected to a highly-directional wireless device around my mistress’s pretty neck so that I can hear everything she says – but that is all. My mistress does me the honour of making it clear to me when she is specifically addressing me by prefacing her remarks with ‘Dirty slave….’, so I always know when I must pay close attention to her words. Otherwise I am under strict instructions to ignore my mistress’s speech as I am not, as my mistress puts it, intelligent enough or fit to in any way comprehend the conversations she has with other free persons (all of whom are my superiors and betters) or to even begin to understand her superior, female thought-processes.
My mistress can turn off the listening device in my slave-ears if she wishes to have a private conversation with someone, but most of the time she can’t be bothered and just leaves it on. Personally, I think it does me good to hear my mistress’s voice – and nothing but my mistress’s voice - all the time, not that my opinion in the matter is of any importance.
I do think that my day to day existence as the personal footslave of mistress Brigitte is much more interesting than that of a public footslave. Sure he gets to serve the feet and footwear of dozens of different women throughout the day, but he doesn’t get to know any of their feet or shoes really intimately in the same way that I get to know and serve my mistress Brigitte’s feet and footwear.
Let me take you through what is a typical day in my life as a personal footslave so that you can judge for yourself who has the better deal – a public footslave chained up to a wooden footblock in the Town Square, or the blinkered, gagged and ear-plugged personal footslave of a beautiful young business executive such as mistress Brigitte.
My mistress is married to a 40 year old free man called master Thomas, so, unlike some personal footslaves, I am not permitted to sleep at the foot of my mistress’s bed. Instead I must spend the night sleeping in my mistress’s en suite shoe-cupboard, surrounded by the sight, smell and taste of all her leather boots, shoes and sandals. As I said at the beginning, I am required by law to always focus and concentrate on my mistress’s feet and/or footwear, so sleeping surrounded by her footwear is perfectly legal. Just to be doubly sure, however, my mistress always attaches a pair of her freshly worn shoes or boots over my unfettered nose and blinkered eyes so that whilst I am sleeping I am breathing in her stale foot odour and can only see the sweat-stained inside of her shoe when I open my eyes.
It is a thoughtful touch by my mistress for, I would feel lost without the odour of her feet in my nostrils and the sight of her sweat-stained inner shoe-lining at night.
I am only permitted 5 hours sleep each night and am woken each morning at 05:00 AM by a sharp, electric shock (well, there wouldn’t be much point in my having a more conventional alarm clock as I wouldn’t be able to hear it thanks to my slave-earplugs).
I then have to tongue-shine all my mistress’s boots, shoes and sandals for the next two hours before she herself awakes along with her husband. As I mentioned earlier the metal gag which is permanently affixed to my mouth, and keeps my tongue flat, not only prevents me from talking but also makes it much more difficult to lick footwear. However, I can still use the tip of my tongue to shine up her boots and shoes, and there is equally nothing to stop me using my slave-lips for this purpose (my slave lips make frequent contact with my mistress Brigitte’s feet and footwear throughout the day as kissing her feet is my main way of expressing my slavish adoration for her).
As soon as my mistress has stirred she will summon me to her bedside in order for me to put her white, furry slippers on her as yet unwashed, bare feet (after I have first respectfully kissed her slippers and bare feet, of course) and then to accompany her to the bathroom where I must lick clean the overnight debris and dead skin from her pretty, bare feet before she showers.
After she has showered I must pedicure my mistress’s bare feet - smooth them with a pumice stone; clip and varnish her toenails etc. - if she so desires it (you see, when does a public footslave ever get to perform such intimate duties for his female customers? He is restricted to servicing their outer footwear. Poor chap!)
My mistress will then decide on her chosen footwear for the day and order me to bring it to her accordingly. My mistress Brigitte is accustomed to delivering her orders to me in curt, so-called, ‘mistress-speak’ i.e. always concise and to the point and lacking in any warmth or good humour (why, after all, would any mistress wish to be warm or good-humoured with her slave?), so her orders through my earpiece would be something like:
‘Dirty slave – bring my suede courts and nylon popsocks’; or ‘Dirty slave – bring my black ankle-boots and black bootsocks’.
Today, as it so happens, it is her black, low-heeled, suede leather courts and dark, nylon popsocks that she has chosen to wear to the office under her smart, grey, pinstriped slacks and business suit. This is the footwear my mistress normally wears to work except in the winter time when she tends to opt for the warmer boots and thick, black socks.
I am, of course, required to help dress my mistress’s feet every morning and so, as she sits on the edge of her bed – already clothed in her smart business suit consisting of grey, pinstriped jacket, plain white blouse and grey pinstriped boot-cut slacks (even though she won’t be wearing them with boots today) - I must kneel humbly at her feet and roll the dark, fine denier, nylon popsocks onto her pretty, white feet, over her shapely, feminine ankle bones, and up her equally shapely and smooth, white shin and calf muscles as far as her knees. My mistress nearly always chooses to wear knee-length, dark nylon popsocks rather than full length tights or stockings under her pinstriped slacks. Nobody else can tell that they are just popsocks and I know she finds them more comfortable to wear than tights under her trousers.
Incidentally, if she had chosen to wear a pair of nylon tights or stockings I would only be permitted to roll them up as far as her pretty knees, at which point my mistress would take over. A footslave is forbidden by law to touch his mistress above the knee, or even to look her above the knee.
I then respectfully kiss the reinforced, black stitching of the nylon material covering the toe areas of my mistress’s popsocked feet prior to kissing the soft toes of her low-cut, low-heeled, businesslike , black, suede-leather court shoes and then slipping them onto her freshly-nyloned feet. As soon as my mistress stands up to make any final, adjustments to her businesswoman’s attire I must again kiss the black, suede-leather toes of her shoes. She doesn’t need to give me a verbal order to do this. I must do it automatically and repeatedly every morning – respectfully kiss the chosen footwear of my mistress as soon as I have put it on her feet by way of expressing my admiration for her superior, womanly feet and footwear.
I then kneel at my mistress’s feet under the kitchen table whilst she breakfasts, concentrating as I do so on the sides of her feet. The standing (or should that be ‘kneeling’) instruction is that I must look at my mistress’s bare footflesh or her inner footwear (if she is wearing any) whenever it is visible, and only concentrate on her outer footwear if and when her bare feet, nylons or socks are not visible – for example when she is wearing calf or knee length boots. As I kneel humbly at her feet under the kitchen table I am therefore concentrating this morning, through my leather blinkers, on the numerous, tiny stitches in the fine, denier material of my mistress’s dark, nylon popsocks along her instep under the flared hem of her boot-cut, pinstriped trouser leg.
Another standing instruction is that I must always concentrate on my mistress’s lower foot – the one resting on the ground (should one be dangling in the air) or, if both my mistress’s feet are resting on the ground, on her right foot as I will normally be required to kneel slightly to her right hand side. A lady’s personal footslave does have to tread a fine line between being constantly beside or under his mistress’s feet, and ‘getting in the way’; as my mistress always says, a good personal footslave should be seen but not heard, as it were. Fortunately my mistress Brigitte is very good at kicking me in my slave ribs as a warning if I am getting in her way.
After my mistress has kissed her beloved house-husband, master Thomas, goodbye, she grabs her executive briefcase and heads towards the train station for her commute into town. She attaches me to her person by means of a chain which runs from the heavy, wooden slave-collar around my neck (bearing my slave-name ‘Brigittesslave’) up to a loop in the leather belt around her waist. The chain has more than enough slack in it to allow me to follow on my hands and knees close behind my mistress’s heels as she walks along the pavement to the station without pulling on her or disturbing her.
Again I must concentrate on my mistress’s feet as she walks along. Specifically I must concentrate on the backs of her heels – and the leather blinkers help me to do this. I cannot hear her footsteps because of my slave-earplugs, but this too makes it easier for me to concentrate on the exciting glimpses of nylon popsock under the hems of her boot-cut, pinstriped trousers as she walks purposefully along – her pretty, blonde-ponytailed head held high as befits a superior and intelligent, smartly-dressed, young woman on her way into work with her semi-naked, blinkered, gagged and ear-plugged, pathetic personal-footslave in tow.
On the train itself I must lay, face downwards, on the dirty floor under my superior young mistress’s feet in the special space provided on all public transport for ladies’ personal footslaves, and once again I must concentrate on my mistress Brigitte’s nyloned instep – this time on her left foot, as she likes to rest the sole of her right, suede leather, court shoe on my upturned left cheek leaving her left foot resting on the dirty floor of the train directly in front of my face. Although it is always a bit dark down there under her seat, I can still observe how the nylon material on my mistress’s left instep creases and folds in reaction to her subconscious foot movements as she reads her paper or looks out the train window.
Once we are in my mistress’s office, I must kneel throughout the day beside her feet, under her office desk, and stare at them. This is when my mistress is most likely to turn off the wireless voice transmitter to my earplugs as she knows that her conversations with her business colleagues throughout the day are no concern of mine as they are, quite literally, ‘over my head’. She will therefore kindly turn the device off so that I have absolutely no audible distractions from performing my duty of humbly staring at and admiring her nyloned instep – usually the instep on her left foot again as my mistress tends to sit at her desk with her right leg crossed over her left – thereby meaning that her right foot is dangling in the air directly above my kneeling head as I focus my slavish attention on her left foot which is resting on the office floor.
Of course, a bit like my public-footslave colleague, I do occasionally get to pay homage to the outer footwear of other women. My mistress may well, for example, switch on my earplug receivers in order to instruct me to respectfully kiss the feet of one of her female colleagues – perhaps a visiting executive from another finance company. So I do get to kiss and focus temporarily on other types of female footwear throughout a typical day at the office – though it is mainly on the smart, shiny shoes or boots of other smartly-dressed businesswomen, rather than the wide variety of scruffy ballet flats, scuffed pumps, and muddy sneakers of the more general female public that the public footslave has to contend with on a regular basis. I do envy him that, for kissing and licking dirty, feminine footwear is so much more humiliating than kissing relatively clean, feminine footwear. Having said that I do get to pay my humble respects to the office cleaning-girl’s feet every day, and she invariably wears a pair of tatty, old, white trainers and cheap, white ankle socks under frayed, blue denim jeans.
Not that I never get to serve my mistress Brigitte’s own sneakered feet. Almost every evening, after work, my mistress likes to go for a swim before dinner (lovingly and expertly prepared for her by master Thomas) in a females-only, public swimming pool situated nearby to where she lives. She therefore changes out of her businesslike, pinstriped trouser-suit as soon as she returns home and into her casual, ’sports’ outfit of light grey track suit with a pink stripe running down the side of her tracksuit bottoms as far as the zipped hems around her ankles, below which she tends to wear matching, grey and pink trainers with plain, low-cut, light grey sneaker-socks.
Needless to say I will have helped her to put on her sneakers and socks, although I have to take them off her feet again just as soon as we arrive at the changing room in the swimming baths.
Whilst my mistress Brigitte is having her relaxing and refreshing swim I remain chained up in the changing room under the supervision of a taskmistress (invariably a sneakered and socked female student who works as a changing-room slave-supervisor in a part-time capacity) with my footslave nose buried deep inside my own mistress’s discarded grey socks and grey and pink sneakers.
I do find that the fact I am kept permanently blinkered, gagged and, to all intents and purposes, ‘deaf’ helps to augment my remaining, unfettered sense of smell and as a result I always enjoy the pungent fragrance of the insides of my mistress’s sweaty, well-worn trainers (she often goes for runs in them at the weekends which is the most difficult thing I ever have to do – keeping up with my much younger and fitter mistress on my hands and knees as she jogs through the local park. My incentive for keeping up with her at such times, apart from the chain connecting me to her waist, is the exciting view of the backs of her various-coloured sneaker socks underneath the zipped hems of her pink and grey tracksuit bottoms as she jogs along. My mistress is in the habit of leaving the zips at the sides of her socked ankles undone so that I can get a particularly good view of her socks – especially when she is resting or standing still).
Later in the evening, after she has dined and whilst she is relaxing on the couch of her living room in the arms of her ever-adoring husband, my master Thomas, I must massage my mistress’s still-socked feet. My mistress rarely likes me touching her bare feet with my bare hands as she finds it somewhat ticklish, but she does find sock-massages relaxing. Needless to say the earplugs will normally be switched off again at such intimate times as my master and mistress will frequently be enjoying a kiss and a cuddle on the sofa whilst I kneel at my mistress’s pretty, grey-socked feet and massage them for her. It’s at times like this that I really am grateful for the blinkers, gag, and earplugs supplied by my clever mistress for they really do help me to concentrate on the task in hand – that of concentrating on the creases in my mistress’s grey sneaker-socked feet as I rub them and soothe them for her whilst her husband takes care of her emotional, and perhaps other more intimate physical, needs.
Finally, at the end of the evening when my master and mistress are ready to retire to bed, I must take her socks off her feet and mouth-wash them in the utility room, along with her nylon popsocks, before hand-washing her dirty hosiery and hanging it up to dry. Once my mistress is safely in bed with her husband I retire to her shoe cupboard, normally with the shoes she has been wearing at work throughout the day tied to my slave face – as I said before, one over my slave nose and one over my slave eyes in between my slave blinkers, so that I may spend the rest of the evening and night both looking at the sweat-stained inner lining of her black, suede-leather, court shoe and smelling the inside of her sweaty office shoe. Even whilst I am sleeping I shall be breathing in my mistress Brigitte’s stale, foot odour.
So you see, compared to my public-footslave colleague, I think that as a young woman’s personal footslave I have the best of both worlds – the intimacy of being able to concentrate on one superior, young woman’s feet and footwear throughout the day, combined with a varied and interesting life - not being stuck in one place all day long like my public-footslave colleague, waiting desperately for female strangers’ feet and footwear to come to me, but rather following my own mistress’s pretty feet and shoes wherever they go.
I really wouldn’t wish to swap places with my public-footslave colleague for all the tea in China.
Not that I am allowed to drink tea anyway – just my mistress Brigitte’s dirty foot-water!’
Tale no. 5 – Sizing up
‘One of the most important prerequisites for a good, public footslave is the ability to size up your customers quickly and accurately. It is important to be able to deduce quickly what it is that your female customer and better really wants you to do for her – if you are to achieve customer satisfaction and avoid the sharp sting of the nearby, public-use whip across your vulnerable bare back and shoulders.
There are always clues, but it is really only through years of experience tongue-shining ladies’ footwear that you get to know your business properly.
Take, for example, the young woman now approaching my footblock. What can I tell about her needs and desires as she walks towards my public shoelick-stand?
Well, although I am on my hands and knees with my head chained to the wooden footblock which is secured to the ground, and I am therefore unable to get a good look at the mistress, I can tell a lot just from the way the young woman is marching towards me.
The key is in that word ‘marching’. This customer is not just wandering aimlessly towards me – she is marching purposefully up to my footblock. She therefore has a definite idea of what she wants. This is no ‘spare of the moment’ thing – she has probably planned to visit me right from the moment she woke up this morning.
And what does this tell me? Well, for one, it tells me that I must listen very carefully to her orders and obey them to the letter – because this young woman knows her own mind. She has a clear idea of what she wants from me and, for the sake of my bare back and shoulders – I must deliver.
That’s the first thing. The second thing I am noticing is that she is not one of my regulars. I never forget a pair of female feet or legs, and I can say with 99% certainty that I have never had the honour of serving this particular young woman before. This fact, of course, means potential danger for me, for it is always easier to satisfy a woman whose foot-cleaning preferences and desires you are already familiar with.
And so, from the very moment the young woman extends her right foot and places it directly beneath my humbly-bowed face on the wooden footblock I am studying her footwear intently, to try to garnish clues about this young woman’s lifestyle and her consequent likely preferences.
These next thoughts which I am about to describe below race through my slave mind in a few split seconds, for I will not have long to wait before the mistress-customer will issue her verbal orders to me.
So what is the first thing I notice about this young woman’s footwear? Well, it is casual, to match the rest of her outfit (I have no real idea what she is wearing on the upper half of her body - the heavy chains prevent me from looking up off the ground - but I can see that she is wearing blue, denim jeans, the light, grey hems of which are turned up on her calf and shin muscles turning them almost into calf-length leggings.)
Secondly, as regards her footwear itself, she is wearing a fairly cheap-looking pair of flat, pink moccasin-style, soft leather shoes. The only distinctive thing about them are a pair of pretty, little pink tassels on the low-cut uppers covering the toe areas.
And then, of course, there are her socks – plain, white cotton, ankle socks – but turned down at the cuffs to make them look from a distance more like low-cut sneaker socks.
So why has this pretty, young woman chosen to turn down her socks at the cuffs? What does that tell me about her? Well, it perhaps indicates that she likes to be trendy – low-cut, ladies’ sneaker socks are all the rage currently. But it equally tells me that, perhaps, this young woman cannot afford to buy many pairs of socks – that her white, ankle-length socks occasionally have to, quite literally, double up as low-cut sneaker socks! The fact that this young woman may be a bit short of cash is further implied by the (I’m sorry to say it) rather cheap look of the socks – no special patterns in the stitching; no distinctive, designer logos. These are cheap and ordinary, two-a-penny, women’s ankle socks, and, it has to be said, that does make them go well with the similarly quite ordinary and cheap-looking pink, leather moccasins.
Put it this way – the moccasins are probably made of faux leather!
It’s not that I’m a snob, you understand (I’m a slave – not a snob!) But all of the above details scream out one thing to me – student! I’ll bet the skin on my slave back that this young woman is an impecunious student. That would certainly tie in with her age – I would guess early twenties – and the time of day she is approaching me – 10:00 am. On her way to college after a nice, long lie-in perhaps?
So, in all probability I’ve got a college girl with her outstretched, pink-moccasined, white-ankle-socked foot resting below my face on my wooden footblock. What does that tell me?
It tells me for one thing that she is likely to have a bit of an attitude. She may well display a certain youthful arrogance towards me. She will probably, quite rightly, see me as just some middle-aged object (I am 42 years old) whose sole purpose in life is to do her bidding (again, she would be correct in this assertion).
It also tells me that she is unlikely, yet, to be able to afford her own personal footslave, and that she is therefore unlikely to be used to ordering slaves about. This is always potentially dangerous for a public footslave – for an inexperienced mistress is much more likely to lash out if she feels her authority is being challenged. Or, looking at it from another point of view, she probably doesn’t have a personal slave she can ‘lash out at’ at home – so any pent up anger and/or frustration is much more likely to be taken out on me!
I have to say also that, judging by her beautiful, smooth and soft, olive skin tone above the tops of her crisp, white ankle socks, she looks to be Mediterranean or possibly Latina – and we slaves know only too well what fiery tempers Latina women can have!
Yes, everything about this young woman tells me to be careful, to be ultra-respectful. Some ultra-flattering, humble slave-speak will probably not go amiss with this young woman.
‘Shine my shoes!’
She barks her order down at me. Only three words – but they tell me a lot.
Firstly the tone and pitch of her voice – young, but trying to sound authoritative. She has subconsciously lowered her voice to try to sound more masterful. This is not the soft, dulcet tone she would use to speak to her boyfriend, for example, or to any free human being for that matter.
I am right, therefore. She is not an experienced, slave-owning mistress. Experienced mistresses don’t feel the need to lower their voices. They expect to be obeyed.
Secondly – another indicator of her hidden diffidence – she has not addressed me as ‘slave’. It would be her perfect right to do so – for that is what I am, a public slave. A young woman accustomed to ordering about her slaves would use the word without even thinking about it. It comes naturally to them.
On the other hand I mustn’t be too complacent, for there are signs that this young woman is equally aware that she has power and authority over me – and that I am duty bound to obey her. ‘Shine my shoes!’. It is definitely an order to an underling – curt and to the point. It is most definitely not a polite request (believe it or not I do get ‘polite requests’ from some female customers – ‘Would you mind sprucing up my boots, please?; ‘Er…Could I ask you to just give them a quick lick and a polish, please?’ etc. I have to say, however, such requests usually come from foreign-tourist women who are not accustomed to living in a slave-owning Gynarchy such as Barbaria!)
But, getting back to miss pink moccasins, the other thing I must be aware of, and this certainly fits in with the purposeful way she has just marched up to my footblock, is that she clearly knows exactly what she wants and has unambiguous expectations of what I can deliver: ‘Shine my shoes,’ is what she ordered – not ‘Lick my shoes,’or even ‘Clean my shoes’. This young woman expects her pink, leather moccasins to shine by the time my slave-tongue has finished with them. I do, therefore, face a challenge, for I have no way of knowing how long she’s got, and the pink leather in the moccasins is looking a bit jaded and dull. These are well-worn moccasins that probably haven’t been polished for some time!
And, of course, being a footslave I don’t have the luxury of using polish to shine my lady-customers’ shoes: I have to make do with just my slave-saliva and slave-tongue.
I have to consider the possibility, therefore, that this young woman is deliberately setting out to make me fail – that she is looking for an excuse to beat me and whip me. What was that I was saying earlier about the pent-up frustrations of a non-slave-owning mistress?
On the other hand you can’t know until you try, and so my slave-tongue will certainly give it its best shot at ‘shining’ the dull, pink, faux leather of the cheap, rather tatty, student-girl moccasins.
My slave-tongue, needless to say, is my most useful tool in more ways than one – for it also enables me to at least attempt to verbally ingratiate myself with my new mistress (for that is what she is at this precise moment in time: my new mistress - from the very second she places her foot onto my footblock, until the moment she walks off, she is my mistress. Whether she owns a personal slave or not, it is I whose services she is currently demanding. I am therefore her obedient servant – completely at her mercy and in her power! That’s one lesson I definitely haven’t forgotten from my days at the footslave training-college!)
But, getting back to my slave-tongue, as you can probably tell I am, by nature, quite verbose, and I do find it relatively easy, therefore, to use humble slave-speak to ingratiate myself with my mistresses. Some poor, public footslaves are forbidden to speak to their customers by their Local Councils. They are there to listen and obey, not to speak – goes the argument. Thankfully, however, my own Local Authority takes a rather different view – that the mistress’s sense of power and authority can only be augmented by a slave’s humble, slave-speak responses.
I sometimes like to think that my own efforts in this regard have had some influence in persuading my Local Authority to stick to that policy!
Anyway, what I’m trying to get at is that, before I start attempting to tongue-shine the superior, young student-mistress’s moccasins it would be a good idea for me to put her at her ease by verbally reassuring her of my complete submission and compliance with her wishes.
I therefore respond to her curt command with slavish waffle:
‘Yes, most beautiful sweet feminine mistress. At once, most beautiful and all-powerful young mistress. This slave obeys his mistress!’
Right – that’s more than enough waffle! Now it really is time to put my tongue where my mouth is – on the faux leather upper of her soft, pink moccasin.
As I suspected – not the merest hint of the taste of any polish on this shoe. It may well be that it has never once been polished since she bought it, even though, judging by the considerable amount of fine creases in the faux leather she has worn these moccasins many times. A favourite pair, I would definitely say!
Which begs the question, as I start to vigorously lick the area around the pink tassel covering her toes, why does she want/need her shoes to be ‘shined’ today particularly? Maybe she’s not on her way to her normal lectures after all? A job interview perhaps? Surely not – not when she is dressed so casually, unless it’s part-time, casual work she's going for!
A new boyfriend, perhaps? Am I tongue-shining her moccasins to impress her new beau? If so, that would truly be an honour and a privilege.
As I lick her shoe I notice a slight twitching in her foot muscle underneath her short, white ‘faux’ low-cut sneaker sock. Another sign that the young lady is unused to the feel of having her shoes licked by a humble, male footslave.
She is nevertheless finding it a pleasurable experience (I hope!)
She suddenly twists her foot to one side allowing me easier access to the side of her shoe running along her pretty, shapely, white-socked instep. Another sign that this young woman is serious about me shining her moccasins properly! I therefore concentrate on the lower side of her shoe which she has so kindly and helpfully presented to me – not that she had to, of course. A more experienced mistress would probably not be so ‘helpful’ to her slave – an experienced mistress would expect me to tongue-shine the sides of her shoes properly without any foot-repositioning assistance from her!
More to the point, an experienced mistress probably wouldn’t be observing my humble work at all! She would be otherwise preoccupied whilst I tongue-shined her shoes – chatting to her office on her mobile phone; or reading her paper; or filing her fingernails!
I am careful with this particular young mistress not to let my nose inadvertently brush against her sock – for I sense that it would freak her out. She clearly wants me to concentrate on her shoes, not her socks; but again this is a judgement-call only an experienced footslave can make. Some mistresses quite enjoy the feel of a public footslave’s nose nuzzling their socks as he licks the street-filth off their shoes.
As I reach the lower back of the young woman’s moccasin I have to suck out a tiny blade of muddy, wet grass which has become lodged in a hole in the stitching of the moccasin. Another sign of moccasin wear and tear. I can sense, however, that the young woman is pleased with my attention to such detail as she is clearly still looking down and inspecting everything I am doing.
Even if I say so myself I think I have actually managed to spruce up the soft, pink, faux leather of the young woman’s moccasin quite nicely. It’s not exactly patent leather and will never reflect the sunlight as such. Thank goodness the mistress hasn’t come out with that old chestnut ‘I want to see my reflection in them!’ But the pink shoe is nevertheless glistening somewhat with my slave-saliva, and it does without doubt look a bit pinker now that I have managed to transfer much of the ingrained dust and dirt onto my slave tongue and down my slave throat – where it belongs!
The young mistress is evidently thinking along the same lines as she suddenly withdraws her right foot from the wooden footblock, and replaces it with her left – again twisting her foot around to afford my tongue better purchase on the side of her moccasin-shoe below her socked instep.
Oh! Oh! Problem! I can now see a tiny slither of dried mud on the side of my mistress’s left sock! What should I do? Normally, I would not hesitate to lick it off the pretty, white sock – for 9 out of 10 mistresses would expect nothing less of an experienced, public footslave.
But this young lady? Well, who knows? I could, of course, interrupt my tongue-shining work to ask her in humble slave-speak whether ‘the sweet, feminine mistress desires her dirty slave to lick away the muddy stain on the side of the mistress’s most beautiful and superior sock?’ – but I’m hesitating as far as this young woman is concerned.
She is clearly a lady of few words herself – serious; quite surly, almost. And I’m not really supposed to speak unless spoken to – under the terms of my footslave’s licence. So the safest thing to do is just to continue concentrating on the side of the shoe, and to wait and see whether the young woman orders me to clean the side of her sock. I can’t believe she won’t have noticed the dirty mark, tiny though it is, on the side of her nice, white sock - so closely is she inspecting my work.
Of course, this does mean that I have to fight against my natural, footslavish instinct to lick away a lady’s sock-dirt – but life as a public footslave is brim full with frustrations. Let me tell you all about them!
What’s that? OK then, maybe not!
Anyway back to my moccasin-licking. I’m starting to quite like the taste of the cheap, musty-smelling, faux leather. It’s definitely an acquired taste and, before you ask – no it doesn’t taste ‘pink’! Nor do black shoes taste ‘black’ any more than red shoes taste ‘red’. It’s a common misconception amongst non-footslaves – women’s shoes, boots and sandals basically all taste the same if they are made of leather. Okay, as I hinted at earlier you can sometimes detect the lingering taste of shoe or boot polish, but generally speaking it’s only the different textures of the various shoes or boots that you notice on your tongue; and I would also acknowledge that the cheaper the leather – the more bitter the taste.
That’s why faux leather like this is quite an acquired taste – it’s extremely bitter!
‘Clean that mud off the side of my sock, slave!’
Hurrah! At Last! The young mistress has spoken – she has noticed the tiny mud stain on the instep of her left sock and I do now have her full authority to deal with it:
‘Yes, mistress. At once mistress. This slave obeys you, sweet and powerful mistress!’
She had called me ‘slave’ as well! It’s a wonderful sign! She is now much more relaxed and confident in her authority over me - the pathetic, obsequious, cringing, middle-aged footlicker at her feet – confident enough to allow my slave lips onto her sensitive, white-socked instep!
Now all I have to do is to make sure I don’t make the tiny, dry mud stain on the white sock even worse by smudging it! The secret is not to actually lick it, but to suck it! To place ones lips directly over it, pucker them up, and then gently and respectfully suck the dirt off the side of the superior, young woman’s white, cotton ankle sock.
I’m gratified to say that just as soon as I lift my lips off the soft, feminine, white sock I can see that the dirt is indeed gone.
The young mistress can evidently see it too, for her left foot is suddenly withdrawn from the footblock and off she strides – her nice, pink moccasins still glistening with my saliva; her white sock now whiter than white!
Well, almost – enough to satisfy her evidently. Not that she has thanked me or congratulated me, of course. Even the most inexperienced and polite mistress wouldn’t dream of actually thanking a public footslave for his humble work on her precious footwear! Indeed, even those foreign-tourist mistresses whom I referred to earlier as being polite when they first come up to my stand, will leave it feeling much less respect for me and my feelings. How could they be polite and respectful towards a pathetic, male slave who has just licked clean their dirty boots or shoes in public?
But that’s all good, because to a public footslave silence is golden – for a mistress’s silence indicates satisfaction. Believe me I would soon hear about it if a female customer wasn’t satisfied with my efforts!
Yes, it’s another job well done, even though I have to say so myself because nobody else will!
I think I sized up that young, pink-moccasined woman fairly well. No rest for the wicked, though. I have to begin the sizing-up process all over again as my next, knee-length booted, female customer approaches!'
Tale no. 4 – The Arab girl’s dirty-sock slave
‘I am employed by a wealthy Arab family as their spoilt, 19 year-old daughter’s dirty-sock slave. Miss Zahra, as she is called, has several personal slaves, as do all the family members, but I am specifically employed as the personal servant of her dirty socks.
The family also employ a Filipina maid for miss Zahra, who is called miss Constance, and she will often have the pleasure of supervising my work cleaning miss Zahra’s dirty socks. Miss Constance finds it such a pleasure because she enjoys watching me perform my humiliating chores of cleaning and caring for her mistress’s dirty socks, whilst she performs more noble ‘lady's-maid’ tasks such as brushing miss Zahra’s hair and dressing and bathing her etc.
Miss Constance even, on occasions, makes me clean her own dirty socks, with miss Zahra’s full knowledge and, indeed, encouragement. For I am considered to be much lower down the servant-hierarchy than the Filipina maid, and miss Zahra has made it clear to her maid that she is to regard me as her personal sockslave too, even though the mistress’s own socks must always take priority.
Miss Constance particularly likes the fact that she is treated very well and with respect by both miss Zahra and her family, whereas I am, quite rightly, despised by everyone in the household because of my lowly position as a young Arab woman’s sockslave. In particular, I am nowhere near as free as miss Constance is to come and go about the house, as I am kept permanently confined in a hollow compartment in my mistress Zahra’s bedroom-floor. I am kept lying on my back so that my upturned face can be exposed through a hole in the floor whenever the hatch over my face is opened.
Most of the time, of course, it is kept closed. It is only opened when my mistress Zahra (or her maid, miss Constance) have some dirty socks that need cleaning. It is generally the only time I see miss Zahra, when her pretty, black-headscarfed and partially veiled face peers down at me with utter contempt etched in her pretty, Arabian eyes as she literally throws her dirty, stinky, still warm socks down onto my gormless, white face and orders me, in Arabic, to clean them up for her.
Although I speak no Arabic, it is clear from the tone of my mistress Zahra’s voice what she requires me to do and that she will brook no disobedience on my part.
Miss Constance, her pretty Filipina maid, then usually takes over and sits herself on a chair beside and above me. She uses a stick to first position miss Zahra’s discarded dirty socks properly over my nose so that I can get a good sniff of them, prior to manipulating them by means of the same sock-stick into my gaping-wide mouth for me to start sucking miss Zahra’s precious footsweat out of them.
Whilst I am sucking on miss Zahra’s dirty socks, miss Constance is continuously mocking me and barking down orders at me in her broken, Filipina English:
‘Ha! Ha! Dirty sockslave suck miss Zahra sock… suck miss Zahra sweat out of sock; make sock clean… remove sock lint from base of sock…swallow miss Zahra piece of dead toenail…Ha! Ha!’
Miss Zahra is a very active young woman and plays lots of different sports including netball and tennis, so it is not uncommon for little pieces of chipped and broken toenail to end up being attached to the insides of her socks. Miss Constance therefore likes to reach down and turn miss Zahra’s socks inside out (using a pair of white, surgical gloves which miss Zahra has supplied her with so that her pretty, Filipina hands don’t have to come into direct contact with the dirty socks) – in order to make sure that my tongue gets full and uninterrupted access to the insides of miss Zahra’s socks, and in particular to any little pieces of broken toenail or sweaty toe-jam that may be attached to the moist toe areas inside the socks.
Precisely because miss Zahra is a keen sportswoman many of her socks are pure, white, sports socks – which helpfully show up all the sweatiest areas by means of clearly visible yellow and brown staining on the white, sock material. My mistress Constance finds this helpful at any rate because she can easily guide the dirtiest, smelliest parts of the white ankle socks into my mouth, and she can keep checking whether or not I have sucked away all the sweaty, yellowy stains.
It is, of course, slightly more difficult for my Filipina supervisor when I am mouth-washing a darker-coloured pair of miss Zahra’s socks – socks which she may have simply been wearing with her black sneakers, her black ankle-boots, or her soft, black ballet-flats. Perhaps for that very reason miss Constance tends to make me suck longer and harder on miss Zahra’s dark-coloured socks just to make doubly sure that I am getting all the sweat out of them (not that she need worry too much as all the socks are washed properly afterwards in the washing machine; I am just the pre-wash!)
My whole life, therefore, revolves around the smell, taste and debris of miss Zahra’s dirty socks. Her socks are my only contact with the outside world, and, although I do not get any exercise myself, I at least get to taste the results of my mistress Zahra’s vigorous exercise – insofar as I get to taste the daily sweat from her feet and socks.
My ambition, though, is to become miss Zahra’s personal footslave, for he gets to follow her everywhere she goes on his hands and knees and to look at her socks on her feet whilst she is wearing them inside her shoes or sandals!
I can’t think of a greater privilege for a male slave than catching a furtive glimpse of his pretty, young Arab mistress’s short, black ankle-socks at the backs of her low-cut ballet flats beneath the hems of her blue, denim jeans and underneath her long, black dress as she walks along the dusty, city pavements; or watching her black-sneakered and white-socked feet building up a sweat after she has changed into her sports outfit and is playing netball or tennis with her female friends; or seeing the elasticated top of her thick, black bootsock exposed above the rim of her black, leather, zip-up, spike-heeled, designer ankle boot as she dangles her foot under the table in a restaurant; or even just seeing her walk around the house in her furry-slippered and/or besocked feet.
But, of course, being her personal footslave he not only gets to look at her socks whilst she is wearing them, but also has to take care of her outer footwear – her boots, sandals and shoes – of which she has many pairs. I understand that he is required to tongue-polish them all, again under the stringent and mocking supervision of her Filipina maid, miss Constance – and he therefore gets to taste wherever and whatever miss Zahra has been walking in: be it the grass in the local park; the concrete grounds of her college; or along one of the sandy beaches!
Ultimately, of course, miss Zahra’s personal footslave also has to wash and care for her pretty, bare feet – giving her pedicures and painting her toenails whilst she is seated on the edge of her bed (under the sneering supervision, of course, of the superior, Filipina lady's-maid, miss Constance), as well as licking her bare feet clean and massaging them whilst she relaxes on the couch in the opulent living room watching television with her Arab friends and family.
What an honour and a privilege to be a beautiful, young Arab woman’s personal footslave! It must be so much more exciting than just being her dirty-sock slave, confined in a hole in her bedroom floor!’
Tale No. 3 – Sweet, feminine justice
‘To be ‘up before the beak’ for the first time in your life when you are in your late forties is a frightening experience for anyone.
To be appearing before an 18 year-old Lady-Magistrate in the Gynarchy of Barbaria when you are a male footslave in your late forties is a truly terrifying experience – especially when you have already been found guilty of the heinous crime of female-sock theft!
Not that I am guilty, technically speaking. I am perfectly innocent in the sense that I did not commit the crime. Nevertheless I am guilty in the eyes of the superior Female Law, as my accuser is a young woman in her mid twenties. In the Gynarchy of Barbaria if a free woman accuses a male slave of a crime he is automatically deemed to be guilty – and rightly so, for women are the superiors of men, and women can do no wrong.
As a self-evidently inferior male slave I have to acknowledge that this is how it should be.
As I am facing sweet, feminine justice, however, in spite of my clear guilt in the eyes of the Law, I am granted a ‘trial’ of sorts – a ‘show trial’ at which the evidence for my non-crime is presented to the good Lady Magistrate, my false-accuser is granted the right to deliver a ‘victim-impact’ statement, and I am then granted the honour of entering a plea before the Female Court.
Not a plea of ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’, you understand (that would be pointless in view of what I have just explained above!) Nor even is my plea to be one for mercy - that is considered unbecoming since no mercy can ever be shown to a convicted, male slave – and the Female Law simply does not allow for mercy.
No – my plea to the Female Court must be for suitable punishment. I must beg the young Lady Magistrate for the utmost severity in my sentence, since I am now considered to be the most despicable of things a male slave can be in the Gynarchy – I am an outlaw-slave; a slave-felon; a slave who has committed a crime against Femininity.
And so, with the kind assistance of my female lawyer, I have prepared such a plea which I must soon deliver to the 18 year old, Lady Magistrate before she passes down sentence upon me.
I am led on my hands and knees into the Court Room by a pretty, blonde-ponytailed, uniformed, female police officer who is wearing regulation, knee-length, black, zip-up, leather boots. A heavy, wooden, convict’s collar known as a ‘cangue’ has been placed around my neck to ensure my utter humility in the Female Court as it prevents me from raising my head above foot-level. I therefore have no choice but to admire the creases in the leather and the tiny slithers of street-mud on the backs of the lady police officer’s black, knee-length boots as she leads me through the Court Room up to the ‘Bench’ where the 18 year old, good Lady Magistrate and her two female advisers, both in their early thirties, are seated.
The lady police officer chains me in a kneeling position at the base of the ‘Bench’ directly in front of the young Lady Magistrate’s feet. The Lady Magistrate is a beautiful, dark-haired young woman of Pakistani origins, who is wearing traditional, modest, Pakistani female attire consisting of a black headscarf, a dark blue, knee-length dress with a pink, lacy hem, and pale blue, light, silk trousers underneath her dress – a traditional outfit known as ‘Salwar Kameez’. Because the heavy, wooden cangue around my neck forces me to stare at the Lady Magistrate’s feet I have no choice but to concentrate throughout the trial on her footwear –which consists of a rather scruffy pair of cheap-looking, light grey trainers and short, navy blue sneaker-socks with a pink trim along the elasticated tops. The navy blue socks are a perfect match for her navy blue dress.
The heavy cangue also prevents me from turning my head to see the feet and footwear of her two female advisers seated on either side of her. I am still vaguely aware, however, out of the corner of my right eye, of the black-leather, knee-length boots of the blonde, lady police officer standing guard over me as I humbly and penitently kneel at the sneakered and socked feet of the black-headscarfed, 18 year old Pakistani Lady Magistrate.
The proceedings begin with the evidence for my non-crime being presented to the Lady Magistrate. The pair of white, lacy feminine socks which I allegedly stole from the sock-laundry in which I work are presented to the good Lady Magistrate in a sealed bag by the lady police officer – and are referred to throughout the rest of the ‘trial’ as exhibit 1.
The owner of the socks, my false-accuser – a young, red-haired woman in her early twenties whom I have never met before - is then invited by the Pakistani Lady Magistrate to make a ‘victim-impact’ statement to the Court. My accuser is directed to stand directly in front of me before the Bench so that between me and the young Lady Magistrate’s scruffy, grey sneakers I now have an extremely close up view of the backs of my pretty, female accuser’s, beige-coloured, calf-length, sheepskin Ugg boots.
My young lady-accuser’s boots, rather like the Lady Magistrate’s scruffy, grey sneakers, look well-worn – with part of the stitching at the base of her heel on the right boot coming loose. I suspect that my young, female accuser may be a bit hard up for cash – judging by the state of her Ugg boots – and that therefore her false accusation against me is motivated by a desire to receive a considerable financial compensation package from the Court for the theft of her socks.
Nothing wrong with that.
I respectfully stare at the backs of my female accuser’s Ugg boots as she reads out her victim statement to the Court (no doubt prepared for her by her female lawyer):
‘Your Honour, I submitted seven pairs of my dirty socks to the Public Slave Laundry for cleaning on the 4th of last month, including the pair of white, lacy ankle socks at exhibit 1.
When my laundry bag was delivered back to my home address the pair of socks now at exhibit 1 were missing.
This caused me great distress as I had been planning to wear those socks with my white stilettos to a party that same evening.
I immediately reported the theft of the socks to the Female Police who investigated the matter. I understand that the missing socks were subsequently found, still unwashed, in the possession of the guilty Slave-Laundry employee who is now kneeling behind my boots.
Your Honour, I would like to request financial compensation for the distress I have suffered due to the temporary theft of my socks, and to beseech you to punish the guilty slave with the utmost vigour which the Female Law will permit.
Thank you, your honour.’
It is an eloquent, measured and well-delivered speech from a justifiably angry mistress. I can only hope that my own ‘plea’ to the Lady Magistrate will be half as eloquent (unlikely, given that I am a mere male slave!)
In case you are wondering the socks were not found in my possession. I have never seen them before in my life. I never forget a pair of female socks and I am absolutely certain that I was never even tasked with hand-washing that particular pair of dirty, white lacy socks in the Slave Laundry where I have been employed as a sock washer for the past 13 years.
However, the female police officer who arrested me and who is now standing guard over me in the Female Court Room has supplied the Female Court with a written statement to the effect that the white, lacy, unwashed socks were found in my possession. Doubtless she is in league with the red-haired girl (her best friend of many years) so that she can pocket some of the compensation that will inevitably be awarded by the Court to my Ugg-booted false accuser.
It’s Police corruption – but not as we know it. For in a Gynarchy women can do no wrong, including women police officers. If the Female Police say I stole the socks – I did. End of story. Even I have to acknowledge the intrinsic justice of that, for I am a mere, inferior, male slave with absolutely no rights under the Female Law.
The young, Pakistani Lady Magistrate next invites my accuser to turn around and face me so that I may kiss her Ugg boots contritely and apologise for my heinous crime.
I duly place my lips on a dark stain on the rounded toe area of the beige, suede-like material of the young redhead’s, right, sheepskin Ugg boot, and respectfully kiss it:
‘Oh pray, young mistress, God bless you for accusing me of the theft of your socks and for pleading with the Female Court for my severe and just punishment. This slave apologises profusely to the superior young mistress for his heinous crime, and for the distress he has caused her, and humbly requests that the young mistress take pleasure in his forthcoming sentencing and punishment.’
(I’m not normally this eloquent. The words have been put into my mouth by my female lawyer who has prepared all my speeches for me.)
I then respectfully kiss the toe of my accuser’s other Ugg boot before the young woman, with no doubt a smug grin on her face and a wink and a nod to her good friend the nearby lady police officer, returns to her comfortable seat at the back of the Court Room.
The Pakistani Lady Magistrate, her scruffy sneakers and navy-blue, pink-trimmed ankle socks now fully in my slave-view again as she has her right foot casually tucked over her left directly in front of my wooden-collared face, then invites the aforementioned lady police officer to confirm my guilt.
The knee-length booted police officer steps forward to stand in front of me and, as I humbly admire once again the thick creases in the black leather and the mud stains at the backs of her uniform-issue boots, confirms to the female Court that the socks contained at exhibit 1 were indeed found in my possession after their theft had been reported by the upright, female citizen.
The Lady Magistrate then orders me to kiss the toes of the lady police officer’s boots and to thank her for giving evidence against me.
Once again my lawyer has helped me in advance to prepare my thank you speech to the lady police officer:
‘Oh pray, good lady police officer, this slave thanks you and blesses you for arresting him and for providing the Female Court with the evidence of his guilt and shame. May God bless you for fulfilling your public duty in such an efficient manner.’
The grinning lady police officer then steps back to my right hand side again. It is now time for my own plea to the Court.
The 18 year old, Pakistani Lady Magistrate unfolds her feet and stretches out her scruffy, grey sneakers in front of my kneeling and wooden-collared face – thereby affording me an even clearer view of the pink-trimmed tops of her short, navy-blue sneaker-socks on her soft, brown, feminine skin beneath the hems of her light, pale blue trousers - and invites me in her cute, Pakistani accent to enter my plea:
‘Slave, you are being found guilty of the crime of sock theft. Before I am passing sentence upon you, how are you pleading?’
I can remember the words of my plea verbatim as my female lawyer who is of Indian origins herself, has, quite literally, slapped them into me (she is not in Court today as she has a pressing prior engagement; her Indian boyfriend – a free man - is taking her to the cinema to see the latest Bollywood blockbuster movie: ‘Indian Warrior Princess’):
‘Oh pray, Lady Magistrate, if it pleases you good Lady Magistrate, this dirty, convicted slave acknowledges his male guilt and throws himself on the severity of the Female Court. This slave pleads for the maximum punishment that the Female Law can allow, and assures the Female Court of his shame and thirst for the just, female punishment of his weak and feeble male body.’
I then, as directed in advance by my absentee female lawyer, press my lips to the outstretched sneakers of the good Lady Magistrate and kiss them whilst I await her just sentence and righteous, female wrath to be delivered upon me.
I notice how the elasticated tops of the young, Pakistani woman’s navy blue socks crease and fold somewhat as she makes herself comfortable in her seat of judgement and adjusts her black headscarf prior to pronouncing her sentence upon me:
‘This is being a most serious and heinous crime against Femininity. I hereby am directing that the victim is receiving £1000 in compensation for the distress she is being put through by this shameful wretch, and am further directing that a fresh, pair of identical lacy, white socks is being supplied to the victim in lieu of exhibit 1.
Public Laundry Slave no. 3678, you are being found guilty of the crime of sock theft from a young woman. I am hearing your plea for severity, and am being happy to be acceding to your most humble request.
I therefore am passing my sentence on you as follows:
*That you are being caned forthwith at the feet of your victim before this very Court with a total of 50 lashes of the punishment cane;
*That you are then being taken from this place to the public square where you are being permanently buried up to your neck in order that you may be serving the rest of your days as a ladies’ public footlick;
*That the dirty, unwashed socks at exhibit 1 are being permanently sewn onto your ears as an irremovable demonstration of your shame and your crime against Femininity.
Guard, please be escorting the convicted criminal to the caning trestle.’
I remember to respectfully and gratefully kiss the toes of the erudite and eloquent, young, Pakistani Lady Magistrate’s scruffy sneakers, before the blonde pony-tailed, black-leather knee-booted, female police guard roughly grabs the chain attached to my heavy, wooden cangue and leads me unceremoniously towards the dreaded, wooden caning trestle in the middle of the Court Room. As she does so, I can also now see my smiling, red-headed accuser making her way to the ‘seat of power’ in front of the caning trestle so that I may be caned at her scruffy, Ugg-booted feet.
It’s a good result for everyone! My ginger-haired false-accuser gets £1000 in compensation, a pair of replacement socks, and has the pleasure of witnessing me being severely caned at her feet; the young, blonde, female police officer, who is her co-conspirator, gets a cut of the financial compensation whilst also getting to deliver the cuts of the cane to my bare backside; and, following my caning, I shall feel the full wrath of the Female Law by being buried up to the neck in the main, town square and serving for the rest of my miserable existence as a public foot and shoe lick for the many, mocking, female passers-by.
It’s precisely as my female lawyer had predicted – except for one thing: the 18 year old, Pakistani Lady Magistrate’s ingenious twist of having the ginger-haired girl’s offending pair of stinky, sweaty, unwashed white, lacy, feminine ankle socks sewn onto my ears, so that I will permanently have the appearance of a long-eared cocker-spaniel as I lick the dirty shoes and boots of my female masters and betters in the public square– a highly visible warning to any male slaves who may be tempted to steal a superior female’s socks of the dire consequences of any such crimes against Femininity.
Yes – the ultimate winner in all this is sweet, feminine justice- for yet again, in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, sweet, feminine justice has been seen to be done.’
P.S. Okay, I admit it. I did steal the socks. I just couldn’t resist them. Sorry!
Tale no. 2 – Miss Mannequin
‘My mistress Alisha is a beautiful, black, 23 year old woman with long legs and a shapely figure. My mistress turns heads wherever she goes, such are her fashion-model looks. My own head, however, must always be fixed on her pretty, black feet and ankles, for I am her personal footslave and that is the law.
For her part my mistress Alisha – whilst she likes having a sycophantic and admiring personal footslave crawling on his hands and knees behind her heels everywhere she goes – nevertheless, quite properly, despises me. My mistress is aware of her great beauty and she correctly regards herself as being ‘all that’. She equally correctly is aware of the fact that my cringing servility only serves to augment her goddess-like status, and she is therefore particularly keen on demonstrating her innate superiority over me, her personal lickspittle, at every available opportunity – and especially in public.
Take the other day, for example, when I was accompanying my mistress to heel like a faithful puppy dog as she made her way through the Shoe-department of a large, swanky department store in the centre of town.
My mistress Alisha was, as usual, dressed in smart, sexy clothes purchased for her by her boyfriend, master Winston, who is currently inside serving 5 years for drug-related crime. She was wearing a pretty, white, T shirt cut off at the midriff, a very short, black leather mini-skirt, and white pumps with 3-inch stiletto heels on her bare, black feet. As usual also she was covered in bling – from head to toe. The bling on her ‘toes’ consisted of a solid silver ankle bracelet on her right ankle, and, I have to confess, it was somewhat distracting me as I humbly crawled along the shop floor behind her white-stiletto-shod heels. It was a distraction because I was not supposed to be admiring my black mistress’s ankle-jewellery – I was supposed to be focussing my attention on the bare skin on the backs of my mistress’s heels. I am, after all, her personal foot slave – not her ankle-bracelet slave!
I mean, it’s not as if the skin on the backs of my mistress’s heels is not interesting to look at. Because my mistress Alisha frequently wears high-heels on bare feet her shoes often rub against the skin on the backs of her heels, leaving them somewhat chapped and rough. Occasionally my mistress even has to cover up her sore, rubbed-raw heels with protective plasters. But on this particular day the skin on the backs of her heels was on full display above the backs of her white, 3-inch stiletto , designer pumps, and the rough, wrinkled blackness of her heel-skin made a nice contrast against the smooth, polished whiteness of the backs of her stiletto shoes.
That’s what I should have been concentrating on (by law) rather than her expensive ankle-jewellery, paid for by master Winston’s ill-gotten gains.
Anyway, I observed out of the corner of my eye that my mistress was approaching a life-sized dummy in the Shoes Department of this posh, department store. Rather like my mistress Alisha, the female dummy was wearing a short mini-skirt and had long, shapely legs, but unlike my mistress Alisha it was white. The dummy had a fetching pair of black, strappy, high-heeled sandals, along with an equally fetching pair of black ankle socks with white hearts along the elasticated tops of the socks, on its pretty, shapely, feminine feet.
I heard my mistress calling over to a nearby shop-assistant:
‘Excuse me miss!’
The young, female shop-assistant who looked to be a similar age to my own mistress came over to her:
‘Yes, Madam, can I help you?’
Even though I was, as befits a personal footslave, still trying my best to focus on my mistress Alisha’s white stilettos and bare black ankles and heels, I could see out of the corner of my eye that the pretty, young shop-assistant – a blonde, pony-tailed, white girl – was wearing her shop-assistant’s outfit of smart, black jacket, white blouse, black slacks, and black, suede leather, low-heeled, court shoes. She too appeared to be wearing her shoes on bare feet inside her slacks.
‘Yes please…’ responds my mistress, towering above me in her long, black legs. ‘Erm…my footslave was just admiring this female shop-dummy’s socks and sandals and was wondering whether she might permit him to pay his respects to them by kissing them?’
I do admire the way my all-powerful mistress can both read my mind and put words into my mouth. Truly she is my lady and mistress – my better!
I hear the pretty, young shop-assistant giggling:
‘I see, Madam! I’ll just ask miss Mannequin if she is disposed to allow your slave to kiss her feet!’, and with that the young shop-assistant appeared to hold a mock, whispered conversation with the inanimate shop dummy.
‘Erm…miss Mannequin informs me that she will allow your slave to pay homage to her feet, but he is only allowed to kiss the white hearts at the top of her black ankle-socks!’
Just my luck – a pernickety and fussy, female mannequin! It’s bad enough having to constantly bow and scrape to pernickety, fussy, real-life women without also having to bow and scrape to their plastic representations!
Still, I am just a male slave and it is not my place to question the wishes and desires of a superior mistress-mannequin. Even a female, plastic dummy is my master and better – because it is female!
‘Ha! Ha! … You heard miss Mannequin, slave. You may kiss her feet – but only the white hearts at the top of her black socks! Do it!’ barks my mistress down at me.
I immediately obey and, to the great and vocal amusement of the blonde, pony-tailed, shop-assistant mistress humbly crawl on my hands and knees over to the plinth on which the mannequin-mistress is standing – with her right foot arrogantly outstretched in front of her left foot (presumably in order to better display the pretty, black, high-heeled sandals and black, feminine ankle socks) – and duly lower my lips to the row of white hearts running along the top of her right sock in order to slavishly kiss them.
My mistress is now laughing out loud along with the shop-assistant:
‘Ha! Ha! …Make sure you show proper respect and awe for miss Mannequin’s socks, footboy! Kiss each and every white, heart-shaped motif 10 times, including the ones around the backs of miss Mannequin’s socks!’ orders my mistress Alisha.
The shop assistant adds her personal instructions:
‘Ha! Ha! And miss Mannequin wishes to stress that you are not to let your dirty, slave lips touch her nice, soft, bare, white skin above the tops of her socks, slaveboy! Ha! Ha!’
My pathetic act of slavish homage to a female shop-mannequin is attracting a small audience of mocking women now, as I begin kissing 10 times the third of what appear to be about 8 small, white heart-shapes in total around the top of miss Mannequin’s right, black-ankle-socked and strappy-black-sandalled foot.
How nice it must be for a group of superior women to witness an inferior, male slave paying such pathetic homage to a plastic representation of the fairer and better sex!
Once I have finished kissing all the white hearts at the top of miss Mannequin’s black ankle sock on her outstretched, right foot, including the ones on the back of her sock, I am ordered by my mistress Alisha to repeat the humiliating process on miss Mannequin’s left foot, which is somewhat harder to get at. I feel the side of miss Mannequin’s freshly-kissed, right sock rubbing against my cheek as I stretch my neck forward in order to give my lips purchase on the first, white heart at the top of her left sock.
When the humiliating mannequin sock-kissing process is over, my mistress Alisha enquires of the pony-tailed shop assistant whether or not miss Mannequin is satisfied with my sock-kissing.
Again, I see out of the corner of my eye how the hem of the pretty, young shop-assistant’s black trouser leg rises up slightly on her right leg to reveal more of her shapely, bare, white ankle bone above her black, suede-leather, court shoe as she lifts herself up on tip-toe in order to hear what miss Mannequin is supposedly saying.
‘Erm…miss Mannequin says she is satisfied with the footslave’s homage to her socks, Madam, but she wishes to know whether her socks smell?’
My mistress, and all the other watching women, laugh:
‘Well, slave, answer miss Mannequin. Inform her as to whether or not her socks smell!’ urges my mistress Alisha.
I must be ultra-careful now, for miss Mannequin might be offended if I point out that her socks could not possibly smell as her artificial, plastic feet could not possibly sweat! Generally speaking, a mistress likes to think that her feet smell a bit, as it is all the more humiliating for a humble, male footslave to have to kiss and smell sweaty socks as opposed to clean and fresh socks.
On the other hand, as a slave, I am duty bound to tell the truth, and cannot lie:
‘Oh pray, miss Mannequin, if it pleases you sweet, feminine mistress Mannequin, this slave regrets that he was unable to detect any aroma of sweet, feminine foot odour on your most beautiful black ankle-socks, if it so pleases you most superior and all-powerful miss Mannequin.’
Raucous laughter from the watching women, including my mistress Alisha:
‘Ha! Ha! Perhaps you’re just not trying hard enough, foot flunkey!’ screams my mistress. ‘Sniff miss Mannequin’s socks properly – place your ugly, slave nose on the black toe of her sock and audibly sniff. Come on – we all want to hear you sniff miss Mannequin’s sock properly, don’t we girls?’
‘That’s right!... Yeah!...Ho! ho!... Sniff miss Mannequin’s socks, boy!’ echo a series of mocking, real-life, female voices.
And so I now have no choice but to lower my slave-nose to the reinforced toe area of miss Mannequin’s short, feminine, black ankle sock and to audibly sniff in order to double-check for any slightest trace of the aroma of stale, feminine footsweat. My only hope is that the socks may, at some point in the past, have been worn by a real woman, perhaps even by the blonde, pony-tailed, shop assistant before being placed on the shop dummy unwashed.
But, needless to say, that was a bit of a long shot. The socks are clearly brand new and fresh out of the packet on the plastic dummy’s feet.
‘Well, footboy? Don’t keep us all in suspense! Do miss Mannequin’s socks smell or not?’ queries my mistress Alisha.
Nervously, I have to repeat my earlier position:
‘Oh pray, mistress Alisha, if it pleases you mistress Alisha, this slave regrets that he still cannot detect any odour from the beautiful miss Mannequin’s beautiful socks, if it so pleases you mistress Alisha!’
The group of women, who had quietened down in order to listen to my vigorous sock-sniffing, now burst into spontaneous, mocking, female laughter once again:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t apologise to me, dirty, no-good footslave! Apologise to miss Mannequin for your failure and inadequacy!’
I obey my mistress Alisha and apologise to the shop dummy as if she were a real woman. I have no choice:
‘Oh pray, miss Mannequin, if it pleases you miss Mannequin, please forgive this dirty, useless, male slave for the inadequacies of his slave nose in not being able to detect any sweet, feminine aroma from your pretty, black ankle socks , if it so pleases you most sweet and powerful mistress Mannequin.’
Again , my words are greeted with raucous laughter from the surrounding crowd of trendy, young women.
Even miss Mannequin herself, had I been permitted to look her in the face, had a smug smile on her lips.
My mistress Alisha never did buy the black, strappy, high-heeled sandals or the pretty, black ankle socks with the white, heart logos along the tops. I heard her telling the shop-assistant mistress that she thought they looked too tarty.’
Tale no. 1 – Whipped at her socks
‘My mistress Sandra has persuaded her boyfriend, master Darren, to whip me at her feet. She wants me punished because the tip of my nose touched her soft, bare skin without permission above the elasticated top of her dark, grey ankle sock whilst I was paying my respects to her socks by kissing them.
Master Darren has therefore gone to fetch the single-tailed, brown leather, punishment whip whilst I remain kneeling in front of my mistress who is seated on a living room chair awaiting the master’s return.
My mistress Sandra, who is 19 years old, is wearing her favourite daytime, casual clothes consisting of a green T shirt, combat-style trousers, beige, ankle-length desert boots, and thick, dark grey, ankle-length, bootsocks – the selfsame socks I have just allowed my nose to stray from and for which offence I am about to be justly whipped.
My mistress is, naturally, looking forward to my punishment and is mocking me:
‘Ha! Ha! You’re about to be whipped, slave! Just think, in a few minutes’ time you’ll be in pain – and all because you touched my bare flesh with your ugly, slave nose! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress Sandra, as it pleases you mistress Sandra. Please have me soundly beaten, mistress Sandra. This slave deserves to be whipped for his wanton insolence and disobedience!’
What else could I say? I mean, I hadn’t actually deliberately touched my mistress’s bare, white flesh with my pointy nose. It was an accident! Just one of those things that can happen when you are ordered to kiss the top of your mistress’s grey, ankle-length bootsock.
But that’s hardly any excuse for an experienced footslave!
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry, slave! You’ll soon discover that my boyfriend Darren has a strong, right arm!’
I haven’t been whipped by 20 year old master Darren before. He is my mistress Sandra’s brand new boyfriend – they’ve only been going out together for about a week.
My mistress, for all her mocking and cruel anticipation of my impending suffering at her feet, is nothing if not merciful towards her personal footslave. She throws me a small crumb of comfort as she sits imperiously above me:
‘You can nuzzle the tops of my socks with your nose while you are being whipped, slave…if you think it will help to take your mind off the pain?’
Such a kindly, young mistress! I really do not deserve her! She knows that my being allowed to nuzzle her socks during my punishment will indeed help to take my mind off the stinging bite of the lash across my bare, kneeling back as I am soundly whipped at her feet by her strong, young boyfriend. For they are the soft, grey ankle socks of a superior young woman!
If I’m honest I am perhaps also hoping that the feel of my pitiful nose on her socked ankles will instil my mistress into bestowing some mercy on her wretched slave. Perhaps she will take pity on me and ask her boyfriend Darren to go easy on me, even if she is unlikely to commute my punishment from the full, and perfectly just, sentence of 20 lashes which she has imposed upon me.
I therefore express my gratitude to my mistress for her kind offer, fawning over her fawn-coloured, ankle length, desert boots:
‘God bless you, mistress Sandra. Thank you, mistress Sandra. This slave would indeed be grateful for permission to nuzzle the tops of your pretty, grey ankle socks whilst he is being whipped, if it so pleases you sweet, feminine mistress Sandra. Oh pray, mistress – anything to ease the pain!’
My mistress seems suitably pleased with herself:
‘No problem, slave…just make sure you don’t touch my bare leg again whilst you’re nuzzling my socks! I’d hate to have to increase your punishment and cause you even more pain!’
‘No mistress. Thank you mistress. God bless you mistress.’
Actually, I sense that there is nothing my mistress Sandra would like more than to have to increase my punishment. Perhaps she is hoping that my reactions to the stinging blows will cause my nose to once again inadvertently touch her bare shin.
I bury my nose in a soft fold at the top of her right, ankle-length bootsock and brace myself whilst master Darren gets ready to whip me….’
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