Footslaves' Tales Volume 3
This is the third 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 3 CONTENTS (scroll down for tales in reverse numerical order)
20. Mercy by name; Merciful by nature
19. Two Different Perspectives
18. Admiring Mistress Usha's Nylon-Stockinged Feet
17. Insole Searching
16. Sniffing Boots & Socks Whilst My Betters Make Love
15. The Human Vacuum Cleaner
14. Long Time, No Foot-See
13. Cruel & Usual Punishments
12. The Indian Girl's Public Sock-Washer
11. Hot & Cold Socks
10. Whipping Boots & Socks
9. The Respect Agenda
8. Sneakers, Socks & Saris
7. A Spitting Image
6. Raspberry Ripple
5. Dictionary Definitions
4. The Foot-Fool
3. The Ugg-ly Footslave
2. The Bad Footslave
1. The Good Footslave
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Tale no. 20 – Mercy by name; Merciful by nature
‘My 26 year old mistress – mistress Mercy – lives up to her name. She is a beautiful, petite, Afro-Caribbean girl with long, black, braided hair, a naturally sunny disposition, and a more or less permanent smile on her pretty, black face. She is soft, gentle and kind to everyone she comes into contact with – even me, her humble, personal footslave.
I do not deserve to be her slave, for I am forever letting my mistress down through my sheer ineptitude and incompetence. That is why I have been summoned to her bedroom – for punishment; because I embarrassed my sweet and kind young mistress yesterday in front of one of her friends.
I therefore crawl into my mistress Mercy’s brightly-coloured bedroom with my head bowed and a sense of slavish shame.
My mistress is seated on the end of her bed with her feet resting side by side on the floor. Her swishy, dark brown, wooden punishment cane is resting on her lap. Mistress Mercy is casually dressed in a pink top, blue denim jeans and black, leather, calf-length biker boots with several thin, leather straps and shiny metal buckles running up the sides.
Not that much of her boots are visible as the hems of my mistress’s boot-cut, blue denim jeans cover most of her boots. Only the round-shaped, black leather toes of the boots are really visible to me as her booted feet rest beside each other on the creamy white carpet of her bedroom floor.
I crawl over to my mistress’s leather boots and stop only when my face is close enough for me to be able to smell them – the musty smell of black, feminine biker-boot.
Unusually my mistress is not smiling – presumably because I am forcing her to punish me, and she doesn’t like having to discipline and chastise her slave. She is such a sweet and kind mistress that I sense she genuinely feels for her slave as she delivers each stinging stroke of the cane to the backs of my bare legs.
But, however reluctantly, mistress Mercy will nevertheless punish me as the laws of the Gynarchy demand. She may be of a sweet and kind disposition, but she is equally a conscientious and law-abiding mistress who believes fully in male slavery – even if she would rather be spared the embarrassment of having to punish her slave herself!
As I stare at the thick, rounded toes of her black, leather biker-boots I recall that my mistress Mercy is wearing blue and white striped ankle-socks, with cartoons of happy, smiling dolphins on them, inside her thick and heavy, sombre black boots. Fun socks for a fun girl – and yet now hidden from view, along with her fun-loving disposition, as she is about to perform the serious task of reprimanding and punishing her slave.
Mistress Mercy really only wears these boots whilst she is punishing me. She certainly doesn’t ride a motorbike! I think she purchased this particular pair of heavy boots because they not only make her feet and legs look bigger, they make her feel bigger and stronger than she actually is – for she is such a slightly-built young, Afro-Caribbean woman. The boots give her a sense of power and authority over her recalcitrant subject. They instil fear and respect in me, for I now associate these boots with pain – primarily the stinging pain of my sweet, Afro-Caribbean mistress’s punishment cane (the one now resting on her lap) on the backs of my legs.
I hear mistress Mercy clear her throat. She is clearly uncomfortable with the situation – even more than I am. I am ashamed that I have put her in this position:
‘Slave, do you know why you are here?’
There is no hint of a Caribbean accent for my mistress has lived in the Gynarchy all her life.
‘Yes mistress Mercy, if it pleases you mistress Mercy…I am here because I disobeyed my mistress, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress Mercy.’
‘And how did you disobey me, slave?’
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress Mercy, this dirty and incompetent slave inadvertently kissed the mistress’s sock yesterday, instead of the toe of her shoe, for which he is truly sorry, if it so pleases you mistress Mercy.’
I am genuinely sorry for what happened, though, if I am honest, it wasn’t entirely ‘inadvertently’ that I had allowed my lips to brush against mistress Mercy’s sock in the busy public bar yesterday afternoon.
She had been wearing a pair of black, denim jeans over a pair of single-strapped, soft, black leather ballet flats, with a pair of cute, black ankle socks which had a bright red, strawberry motif on them. My mistress had ordered me to kiss the toe of her shoe in front of one of her friends, miss Tammy – as she often does as a demonstration of her power over me in front of her girlfriends, many of whom are quite jealous that she can afford to have a personal footslave when they can’t!
There was no doubt, however, that mistress Mercy had specifically ordered me to kiss the toe of her outstretched, black leather ballet flat, and not her enticing and alluring black and red, strawberry-motifed sock. When I saw the red strawberries so close up, however, my slave mouth started salivating and I couldn’t help but lower my slave lips – disrespectfully – to one of the red strawberries, the top of which was crossed over by the black leather of my mistress’s ballet-shoe strap.
I did this not because I wanted to taste succulent strawberry, but because I yearned to feel female sock on my lips. My mistress Mercy’s socks are always so soft on the lips – like her smooth, bare, Afro-Caribbean feet.
I had hoped my mistress wouldn’t mind or notice my impropriety – and she probably wouldn’t have minded had not miss Tammy, a blonde girl of about the same age as my mistress who was wearing silver ballet flats on her bare, white feet, jubilantly drawn attention to my blatant disobedience:
‘Look, Mercy, your dirty slave has just touched your sock even though you specifically ordered him to kiss the toe of your ballet-flat!...Ha!...Ha! You’ll have to at least cane him for that sometime!...Ha!Ha!...Honestly, Mercy, if I had a personal footslave I’d never let him show me such disrespect. I wouldn’t just cane him; I’d whip him! Such disobedience in a dirty, male slave must never go unpunished! The cane and the whip is all they understand!’
I heard my mistress Mercy agreeing with her friend (at least in public) and immediately, and fearfully, lowered my lips to the toe of my mistress’s still outstretched, right shoe – where they should have been in the first place. But I knew already that it was too late – I was sure to be punished by my mistress for showing her up in public in such a scandalous way. I would pay dearly for my supposedly discreet and surreptitious strawberry sock-kiss!
My sweet mistress Mercy, however, is never one to hasten to punishment. I think she needs to psych herself up for it. Whatever the reason, I am only now being punished for my indiscretion, some 24 hours after the event.
My mistress now continues her well-prepared, but not exactly heartfelt, diatribe against me:
‘You embarrassed me in front of my friend Tammy, footslave! I distinctly ordered you to kiss the toe of my ballet-flat, and yet you flagrantly disobeyed me. I know that you like my socks, but you are my slave and must only kiss my socks when I give you permission to kiss them. Do you understand me, slaveboy?’
‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress; please forgive me mistress, if it pleases you mistress.’
I feel more like a naughty schoolboy than a disobedient ‘slaveboy’ – a forty year old schoolboy in my slaveboy shorts, about to be caned on the backs of his bare legs by his 26 year old headmistress! And deservedly caned!
‘Kiss my boots and beg me for mercy, slave!’
I actually enjoy it whenever my mistress Mercy makes me kiss her biker-style ‘punishment’ boots and beg her for mercy – mainly because I love kissing her powerful, heavy, black leather boots almost as much as I relish kissing her soft and feminine socks. I would, of course, also love to be able to apply my footslave-lips right now to the dancing dolphins on her fun, blue and white socks inside her heavy, black boots, but my mistress has cleverly ensured that this time my rebellious lips cannot stray onto her socks – for they are well hidden and protected inside her impenetrable, black boots.
I therefore make do with kissing and licking my mistress’s lower boot leather, as I prepare myself mentally for the pain that is to come. I make sure to kiss all the creases in the leather as a mark of my respect for my mistress’s boots, as I pray to my mistress Mercy for her namesake:
‘Oh pray mistress Mercy, please have sweet, feminine mercy on this dirty, disobedient slave, and forgive him his trespasses, if it so pleases you sweet mistress Mercy, for he is truly sorry for his disobedience and disrespect to towards the superior mistress and her superior footwear, if it so pleases you sweet feminine mistress Mercy! Oh pray mistress Mercy! Oh pray mistress Mercy. Please have mercy, mistress Mercy!’
I may take advantage of my mistress’s sweet and kind nature from time to time, by way of kissing her sock without permission, but I do, nevertheless, still genuinely fear her cane and the power this young, Afro-Caribbean woman with the long, braided hair has over me. My pleas to mistress Mercy for mercy are, therefore, perfectly heartfelt and genuine – for I am fundamentally a cowardly slave who fears pain.
My fear and cringing only serves to embolden my mistress, however, who is now ready to chastise me:
‘I’m going to give you six strokes of the cane, slave. Bend over the punishment block!’
And with that my mistress stands up, punishment cane in hand, and walks over to the other end of her bedroom where the punishment block is permanently situated (some mistresses have dark and dingy punishment rooms in which to punish their slaves, but my mistress Mercy is too sunny and bright a person to feel the need to have a punishment room as such. For her, a plain, wooden punishment block and swishy cane in her bright and airy bedroom is enough to help her keep her slave in check.)
I follow her to heel across the white, bedroom carpet on my hands and knees, and then place myself, stomach down, over the wooden punishment block. The backs of my thin, white slave-shorts automatically ride up the backs of my bare thighs as my mistress positions herself above and behind me, ready to deliver the first stinging blow of the cane to the backs of my now exposed and vulnerable thigh muscles.
I see the wide hems of her blue denim, boot-cut jeans flap around her shapely, booted ankles - temporarily revealing a tantalising glimpse of the lowest, black leather strap and metal buckle along the side of her right boot - as her dainty, right foot twists on the bedroom floor as she raises and then swiftly lowers the cane down onto the backs of my thighs. I imagine her long, black, braided hair is flapping through the air also.
Thwack!
It’s not a heavy stroke. I’m sure my mistress Mercy would be more than capable of delivering a more severe cut of the cane to the back of my legs if she so desired! But she is such a sweet and kind mistress!
Mercy by name, merciful by nature.
The backs of my thighs still sting though, as her right, booted foot once again twists on the ground and I hear the dreaded swish of the cane again.
I think about her blue and white dolphin socks inside her boots. It helps to dull the pain.
Her black and red strawberry socks are, sadly, already a distant memory!’
Tale no. 19 – Two Different Perspectives
Perspective no. 1 – The Slave
‘I am a public footslave in the main town square.
At this precise moment in time I am serving one of my regular customers whom I know only as mistress Margaret. Mistress Margaret is a pretty, brunette woman in her early thirties. That’s just about all I know about her and is probably all I deserve to know.
That – and the fact that she is my female better.
Mistress Margaret is standing above me, hands on hips, with her right leg thrust forward imperiously in front of her, her right foot resting on the wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling and bowed face. She has given me her orders, as usual, in curt and abrupt mistress-speak:
‘Slave, lick the filth off my heels. Make them shine!’
Mistress Margaret is wearing a fetching pair of black leather, block-heeled, round-toed, mary-jane style shoes with a single strap running along the top. She is also wearing thick, black woolly tights beneath her dark grey, knee-length skirt and matching overcoat as it is a cold winter’s morning.
I, of course, am naked apart from my flimsy, white slave-shorts – but it is only right and proper that my superior mistress should be well wrapped up and protected against the cold whilst I am exposed to the elements. For I am just a public footslave – and I am not worthy to enjoy any kind of physical comfort. I must work hard at licking female boots and shoes if I want to keep warm; otherwise I shall, quite rightly, freeze.
I’m guessing that mistress Margaret is on her way into work. I don’t know exactly what she does for a living, but at a guess I would think she is some sort of secretary in a nice, warm cosy office.
Mistress Margaret’s shoes or boots always see to have quite a lot of dirt on them when she first places her feet, one at a time, onto my wooden footblock for cleaning. I’m proud to say that by the time she leaves my footblock, however, her footwear is always gleaming as the mud and dirt will have been diligently transferred into my slave mouth where it belongs.
I am genuinely proud of this fact – for removing mud off ladies’ shoes with my slave tongue and mouth is the only thing I am good at. I like to think that I provide a genuinely useful shoe-polishing service to my female masters and betters – even if they never seem to fully appreciate it.
They certainly never thank me. Mistress Margaret has never once thanked me in all the years I have been tongue-shining her shoes and boots. But then, why should she? Why should any mistress feel obliged to thank a slave for his services? After all, I have no choice but to obey her command to ‘lick the filth off her heels’. I’m like a shoe-cleaning machine – an automaton; and you wouldn’t normally think of thanking a machine, would you?!
When she talks about my cleaning her heels mistress Margaret is, of course, referring to the blocky heels of her black leather, mary-jane style shoes. She is most definitely not referring to the backs of her black, woolly tights.
Not that I wouldn’t relish the opportunity to kiss and lick any dusty marks or pieces of fluff off the backs of her woolly tights. It would be a true honour to do so! But public footslaves such as myself are generally not considered worthy to touch a lady’s inner footwear – her socks or tights – with their dirty, slave mouths. Only personal footslaves, generally speaking, are afforded that honour by their mistresses – and most usually in private since kissing a mistress’s socks or tights is a very intimate, slavish gesture. More intimate than kissing or licking her outer footwear.
And so I must content myself with merely looking at the tiny creases and folds in the black, woollen material of mistress Margaret’s tights on the backs of her shapely heels as I lick the mud off the blocky-shaped heels of her mary-jane shoes. The creases in her tights are caused by the outstretched positioning of her well-turned ankle on the wooden footblock, and the creases come and go intriguingly as she kindly moves her foot around on the block in order to grant my slave tongue easier access to the muddiest parts of her heel. Mistress Margaret always seems to know exactly where the mud is located, and I know she will not leave my footblock until she is totally satisfied that all the mud has disappeared from the back of her shoe down into my throat.
How she towers above me – like a woolly-tighted goddess – as I humbly lick her shoe! Truly she is my superior and better in every way – female; attractive; intelligent; articulate. Everything I am not, for I am just a down in the dirt footslave, fit only to lick clean the outer footwear of superior and arrogant, young women such as mistress Margaret.
Mistress Margaret doesn’t always wear tights and shoes in the wintertime. Sometimes she wears socks and boots – black leather, square-toed, zip up ankle boots (again with quite high, blocky heels) and black, ankle-length socks. Mistress Margaret normally wears a smart pair of black, boot-cut slacks with her ankle-boots, and she is always kind enough to hitch up the lower hem of her slacks not just to ensure my tongue can have unencumbered access to the upper rim of her boot, but also to ensure that I can see the elasticated top of her pretty, black sock as I lick clean the top of her boot.
Again, I am never permitted to touch mistress Margaret’s sock – not even to brush my nose against it, for the sock is too good for me to touch. It is in intimate contact with my mistress’s white footskin inside her warm boot, and I am therefore unworthy, as a mere public footslave, to touch it.
By the time I have finished licking mistress Margaret’s left heel, my mouth is awash with the taste of her shoe leather and shoe-dirt. My dirty mouth is in complete contrast, however, to her now sparkling clean shoes, and as mistress Margaret walks away from my footblock – another satisfied customer though she has not said as much – I take pride in the fact that everyone must be admiring the shine on her pretty shoes, even if they despise the public footslave that created that nice shine!’
Perspective no. 2 – The Mistress
‘My name is mistress Margaret. I am 32 years old and work as a receptionist in an advertising office.
Every morning, on my way into work, I love to have my shoes or boots tongue-shined by the pathetic, public footslave in the town square. I love having a weak and feeble man in my power and grovelling at my feet. Mistresses are even allowed to beat public footslaves if they don’t clean our shoes to our complete satisfaction, and the mere thought that the public footslave is therefore at my complete mercy, and fears me, sends a thrill down my spine.
I feel so strong and powerful as I stand over him with my foot resting on the low wooden footblock beneath his gormless and helpless face. Ha! Ha! It’s bitterly cold in the square this morning! He must be freezing in just those flimsy slave-shorts! I, however, am nice and warm and well wrapped-up. In particular I have my woolly tights on so my legs and feet are nice and warm – which is important, for the comfort and well-being of my legs and feet is much more important than the comfort and well-being of the dirty, public shoelick! I don’t care if he freezes to death – so long as he manages to clean my dirty shoes first!
I always like to make sure my shoes or boots are nice and dirty before I visit the public footslave. I therefore deliberately seek out muddy grass or dirty puddles, and walk in them, to make sure there is plenty of mud and dirt for the slave to lick off. Sometimes I even get a stick and smear the mud onto the backs of my heels.
I like to wear shoes and boots with thick, blocky heels – so there is plenty of leather for the dirty slave to lick. I’m not a cruel mistress, however. I always make sure to position my foot on the wooden footblock in such a way that the slave’s tongue can get good purchase on every nook and cranny of my shoe or boot leather.
Needles to say, the slave must never touch my woolly tights or my socks with his tongue. Whenever I am wearing my black leather ankle boots with my trousers I always hitch up the hem of my trouser-leg to make sure the pathetic slave has sight of my sock, as I know he finds it humiliating to be able to see my sock whilst he is licking clean my boot, but not to be allowed to touch it. The same thing goes for my tights – he is absolutely forbidden to even brush his slave nose against the black wool of my tights.
I like teasing him in this way, as it clearly leaves him feeling frustrated! But that’s not my problem! If he wanted to be allowed to kiss and lick a lady’s socks or tights he should have trained to be a personal footslave and not a public footslave – although I realise it may well be that he simply failed the personal footslave training course. It wouldn’t surprise me. He certainly seems quite dim!
I have to say, however, he does know how to give a lady’s shoe a nice tongue-shine. Today I have deliberately smeared some wet mud all over the backs of my blocky heels on my favourite pair of MJs, but I must admit he has more than adequately brought them back to a nice shine – just as the mistress ordered!
Not that I will verbally thank him, of course! Ha! Ha! The only thanks he will get from me is that I won’t beat him with the public-use stick that is hanging on the wall behind him! That should be thanks enough for a down-in-the-dirt public footslave!
Oh well, I suppose I must head off into work now or I’ll be late. At least I am free to walk about in my nice, sparkling clean shoes all day – not like this pathetic slave-man who must spend the whole of his life kneeling in the dirt in this same spot kissing and licking ladies’ dirty shoes and boots all day and every day. Ha! Ha! That’s one thing I can be certain of – he’ll still be kneeling here on the edge of the town square, shivering in the cold and the damp, when I am on my way into work again tomorrow morning.
And one thing he can be sure of is that he will be tasting my dirty shoe or boot leather again tomorrow morning.
Mmm…I think I might give him a taste of my dirty ankle-boots tomorrow – and a glimpse of my black bootsocks! Give him a cheap thrill! Ha! Ha! I’m such a kind and thoughtful mistress!’
Tale no. 18 – Admiring Mistress Usha’s Nylon-Stockinged Feet
‘My 27 year old Indian mistress, mistress Usha, is wearing dark, finest denier, nylon stockings inside a pair of plain, black leather, low-heeled but very stylishly pointy-toed, court shoes whilst she is at work today. She normally just wears her office shoes on her pretty, bare Indian feet – but today it is particularly cold outside and so my mistress elected to wear stockings to work inside her navy-blue, office trousers.
She is currently seated at her desk typing up some important report on her desktop computer, her shapely, Indian ankles tucked in one behind the other as her pretty, soft, feminine feet rest beneath her on the office floor. I, as her personal footslave, am kneeling beside her feet under the desk and dutifully studying in great depth my mistress’s feet and footwear – as befits an attentive and obedient footslave.
Plain dark nylons and plain, black leather courts – albeit with pointy toes. It might sound a bit boring – but I am, in fact, far from being bored. For there is much to be admired and to get excited about in my mistress Usha’s nylon-stockinged feet.
And not just because it is unusual for my mistress Usha to wear nylons. There is much more that is of specific interest to an observant footslave such as myself. Take for example that little piece of white fluff stuck in one of the fine, mesh stitches on the stretched, dark nylon covering the arch of her right foot – which is literally just a few centimetres away from my footslave face as my mistress Usha currently has her right foot tucked over her left at the ankle bones.
Where did it come from – that small, white piece of fluff? That foreign body on my mistress’s otherwise pristine nyloned-foot? I both envy it and am offended by it.
I envy it because it is even closer than I am to my mistress’s nylon stocking. It is on the nylon. It is in the nylon. Oh if only I could be a piece of fluff clinging to the side of my sweet mistress Usha’s nylon-stockinged foot! What an honour, what a privilege that would be! Such intimacy with the fine, nylon material of her glorious stockinged foot!
The fortunate piece of fluff also offends me, however. It offends me not just because I am jealous of it – but because I am duty bound to be offended on my mistress Usha’s behalf. That piece of white fluff does not belong there! It has violated my mistress’s precious, dark stocking and, even though it is too small to be seen from any kind of distance by the naked, human eye, it nevertheless looms large before my submissive footslave eyes. I am becoming obsessed by it – so much so that I have felt compelled to write about it for you all to read!
Perhaps I should sniff, or lick it off my mistress Usha’s nylon stocking – but she has not ordered me to do so. Nor will she, for it is so infinitesimally small she will never notice it, and nor will anyone else. Only I, her personal footslave, am privileged to observe the offending piece of white fluff stuck to the fine stitching of my Indian mistress’s dark, nylon stockinged foot.
As I contemplate this fact my mistress suddenly and subconsciously moves her feet as she stretches and sighs above me – taking a short break from her report writing. As she does so the thin, nylon material of her stockings stretches also around her right ankle, temporarily distracting my fixation with the impertinent piece of fluff stuck lower down on the arch of her nylon-covered foot.
I adore watching the tiny creases and folds coming and going in the dark, nylon stitching of my mistress’s finest denier stocking. Even the movement in the hems of her navy-blue trouser legs doesn’t distract me from the movement in the material of her nylon stocking – for I am her footslave; not her trouser-hem slave! And I must stare at and admire my mistress’s feet and footwear. It’s the Law!
In any case, such a Law is not a burden to me. You, if you are a free person, might prefer to appreciate fine art, or the beauty of a great panoramic vista from a snow-covered mountain top. But I, as a young Indian woman’s personal footslave, am programmed to appreciate the sight of my mistress’s nylon-stockinged feet and plain black, leather court shoes.
Which reminds me not to neglect mentioning her low-cut, court shoes – for the dull, black leather in them too creases and folds enticingly along the low-cut uppers whenever my mistress subconsciously flexes her superior, female foot muscles.
They are one of my beautiful mistress Usha’s favourite pairs of shoes. She wears them to the office practically every working day, so they can accurately be described as ‘well-worn’ and fully moulded to the individual contours of her beautiful, soft, Indian feet, and I know the smell of the inner lining of these pretty, feminine shoes very well. That’s because, as I have already explained, it is rare for my mistress to wear stockings inside her shoes, and her bare feet ordinarily will have direct contact with the inners of her black, leather, court shoes which therefore absorb any delicate traces of sweet, feminine footsweat being emitted by the superior pores in my mistress’s feet.
Today, however, any foot perspiration will be seeping into my mistress’s nylon stockings instead. How exciting! I hope I will be permitted to suck and smell her sweaty, nylon stockings – the toe and feet ends – later this evening, perhaps whilst my mistress is still wearing them and is relaxing on the sofa in front of the telly with her stockinged feet up. If I am very lucky I might then even get to suck off and swallow that little piece of white fluff from the arch of her nylon-stockinged, right foot – if it is has not become dislodged of its own accord by then.
Now that would be an honour – ingesting the very foreign object that so obsesses me because it has been so intimately attached to my mistress Usha’s dark, nylon stocking all day. How I would savour it in my slave mouth, for it would have been where I can only dream to go – inside one of the minute stitches in my Indian mistress’s finest denier, dark nylon stockings!
Perhaps you can understand now why I am far from being bored as I kneel humbly at my mistress Usha’s feet whilst she takes a swig of her coffee and then resumes typing her report on her computer?’
Tale no. 17 – Insole Searching
‘My pretty, blonde, 21 year old mistress – mistress Jade – likes to play games with her slave.
There are no rules to her games – except one: that she, as the superior mistress, must always win. If she were ever to lose, I would, needless to say, be severely punished – much more severely than I am whenever I must pay a forfeit for losing each game.
And that, of course, is precisely how things should be. For we live in a Gynarchy; the mistress must always win, and the slave must always lose and pay the appropriate penalty. It’s the natural order of things, and the fact that the outcome of the game is known in advance in no way detracts from the fun.
One of my mistress Jade’s favourite games is what she calls ‘Insole Searching’ – when she hides one of her freshly-worn insoles from inside one of her boots or shoes somewhere in the house, and I must find it using my developed, footslave sense of smell - within a preordained timescale.
To make my task all the more difficult, my mistress Jade will hide ‘decoys’ around the house – a pair of her sweaty socks here; a pair of recently worn tights there. All of them designed to, literally, put me off the scent of her sweaty, hidden insole and therefore make it even more inevitable that I shall fail in my degrading challenge and have to pay a forfeit.
Of course, what my sweet and innocent mistress Jade probably doesn’t realise is that this game with its decoys gives me unique opportunities to inhale deeply the sweaty odours of her stale, stinky socks and tights along the way – something which any hot-blooded, male footslave such as myself relishes doing, and would indeed pay good money to do.
If, that is, I had any money. I, of course, do not! I am a slave, and therefore all I have to offer my mistress is dirt. Indeed, as my perceptive, young mistress is forever reminding me, I am nothing but a worthless piece of dirt, which is why I am attracted to her dirty shoes and boots, and stinky, sweaty foot-smells – and when I die I shall rot into the dirt, unlike my mistress Jade who will go to heaven. Apparently.
The game begins when my mistress Jade, just arrived home from work, sits on the edge of her bed in her black, pinstriped, office trouser suit and makes me unzip her the round-toed, block-heeled, black leather, office ankle-boot on her outstretched right foot, and then extract the dirty-white, odour-eating insole from the inside of her warm boot with my mouth.
I must then place the dirty, warm insole respectfully on the floor beside her freshly-liberated, besocked, right foot and sniff it, in order to fully ‘get its scent’. My mistress is wearing a pair of plain, navy-blue ankle socks inside her black ankle-boots today, so as I lower my footslave face and nose to the sweat-stained surface of the freshly-worn insole I can also see little pieces of navy-blue sock lint stuck to it from the soles of my mistress’s precious, dark blue office-socks.
I both admire, and am repulsed, by my mistress’s boot-insole. The smell is very tart and vinegary. Like ammonia. It is quite unpleasant, and I am conscious of the fact that it has just been inside my mouth! However, I cannot help but admire the sight of my pretty, blonde mistress Jade’s sweaty toe imprints at the front of the greyish-white insole, and the mere thought that the sweat from her pretty toes has managed to seep through her navy-blue ankle socks and onto the insole sends a cheap thrill down my footslave spine (yes, we footslaves are not totally spineless. We do have a backbone, even if it is kept permanently bent and bowed at the feet of our female superiors!)
My mistress laughs down at me as my gormless face simultaneously betrays my disgust and yearning to lick the sweat out of her warm odour-eater:
‘Ha! Ha! Control yourself, footslave! No licking; just sniffing! You don’t want to suck out all the sweat from my insole just yet, do you now? Otherwise you won’t be able to trace it with your slave nose, will you?’
I humour my mistress – even though I know that she knows there is no way I will be successful in tracing the whereabouts of her hidden, sweaty insole with my nose – as my mistress never loses this or any other game!
‘No mistress. Thank you mistress. God bless you mistress Jade.’
I therefore restrain my natural footslave-urges to kiss and lick the female-sweat-stained insole, and instead dutifully run my nose up and down the entire length of the odour-filled item of inner footwear, breathing in the sweaty aroma from my mistress Jade’s pretty foot from toes to heel. If the truth be told my sweet and kind mistress doesn’t have particularly sweaty feet; this is just the normal sweat that inevitably is caused by a soft, socked foot being enclosed inside a feminine, leather boot all day long. The foot finds it difficult to breathe, and has no option but to perspire. That’s precisely why my mistress Jade wears insoles – to capture the sweat and protect her precious socks and boots from excessive sweat-damage.
That of course, and because she enjoys playing the game of ‘Insole Searching’ with her personal footslave after she comes home from work!
After I have humbly sniffed her insole for some five minutes, all the while admiring not only the yellowy stains on the surface of the insole but also my mistress’s nearby, wiggling, navy-blue-socked toes, my mistress orders me to stop sniffing and to take off her other boot, whilst she puts on a pair of surgical gloves, picks up the right insole from off the floor, and then orders me to remain kneeling by the side of her bed with my eyes closed.
I am now left with her discarded boots – one with the insole removed and one with the insole still inside - whilst my mistress Jade heads off to hide the insole from her right boot somewhere inside the house.
Although my mistress has temporarily left my presence, and I am obediently remaining on my hands and knees with my eyes closed, I can still smell her foot-aroma coming from inside her still warm, block-heeled, black leather ankle boots lying on the floor beneath my kneeling nose.
I shouldn’t really do it – because it gives me an unfair advantage – but I do, nevertheless, take the opportunity to sniff yet more of my mistress Jade’s sweet foot odour by sniffing the dark insides of her boots in the dark, as it were. I really can’t get enough of my mistress Jade’s foot odour. It is the only air I am truly fit to breathe! And I also love the thought that I am sniffing where her navy-blue, office socks have just been, even if I am not permitted to open my eyes and look inside her boots!
After some six or seven minutes I hear those selfsame socks and feet coming back up the stairs and I immediately cease my surreptitious boot sniffing.
‘Ha! Ha! You can open your eyes now slave. You’ve got fifteen minutes to find my dirty insole, slave…starting from…now!’ and with that my excited mistress sets a stopwatch, and off I crawl.
It doesn’t take a genius to work out that the insole must be hidden somewhere downstairs, since I distinctly heard my mistress Jade climbing back up the stairs in her socked feet (a footslave’s sense of hearing is very acute when it comes to footfall, just as his sense of smell is highly developed when it comes to foot-odour, and his footslave-eyesight can detect a glimpse of female sock at 500 metres! I suppose our senses have evolved as we spend all our time on our hands and knees serving our mistresses’ feet!) However, this is a game, and I must play the game. I must play the role of the stupid, ignorant footslave – and therefore I begin my fruitless search for my mistress’s sweaty insole by sniffing around her bedroom.
My mistress laughs at my stupidity, and urges me on:
‘Ha! Ha! Come on…that’s right! Sniff! Find my insole. There’s a good boy!’
She clearly thinks of me as some sort of pet dog, a dog with nothing better to do than sniff out his mistress’s sweaty insole.
Which is, in fact, the case – for I must never have anything better to do than whatever my mistress commands me to do. I am her slave!
Needless to say, the insole is nowhere to be found in the bedroom, but I do happen upon one of her ‘decoys’ – a pair of sweaty, black-woollen tights which she had been wearing the day before. They are lying in a crumpled-up heap in a corner of the room – ready, no doubt, for me to pick up with my teeth at some point and carry them in my slave mouth down to the laundry room where I will then have to mouth-and-hand wash them.
For now, however, all I can do is sniff them – sniff the decoy tights, for it is all part of the game.
My mistress laughs at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Stupid slave. Those are my dirty tights – not my dirty insole! Leave them alone and continue searching! You’ve only got 10 minutes left!’
I must admit, I have to drag myself away from my mistress’s sweaty, black-woollen tights for mistress Jade’s one day old footsweat always seems to smell particularly stale and sweet.
As I exit her bedroom on all fours, followed by my mistress in her navy-blue socked feet, I really do believe that I can trace with my developed sense of footslave-smell where she has previously been walking along the carpet. I can smell the delicate aroma from the soles of her socks. She has definitely been down these stairs in them!
Of course, I’m cheating somewhat again – as there are also some tell-tale signs of little bits of navy-blue sock lint on the stairs. Invisible to the human eye, but visible to the footslave’s eye which is so permanently close to the floor!
At the bottom of the stairs I trace my mistress Jade’s sock odour into the living room, where I can sense a strong smell of her foot odour in a corner behind the sofa. I know, instantly that this is where the sweaty insole has been hidden. No doubt about it! So I could end the game here and now – and collect my ‘winnings’ of a severe beating.
But, although I’m just a stupid footslave, I’m not that stupid! My doomed-to-failure search goes on, as I must continue to humour my mistress.
I can see, out of the corner of my footslave-eye, yet another decoy – a pair of my mistress’s plain, black sneaker-socks, crumpled up and lying behind the base of a lamp stand in the opposite corner of the room.
My mistress giggles with delight as I crawl over towards the dirty, discarded socks and away from the hidden insole, but, as always, I shamelessly have to admit to having an ulterior motive in heading straight for the dirty, black socks. I recognise them as the short, low-cut, black sneaker socks my mistress had been wearing inside her white sneakers at the gym three days ago. I remember admiring them on her feet inside her sneakers at the time, as I had knelt beside her pretty, sneakered feet whilst she ran on the treadmill.
I have always loved it when my mistress Jade wears her short, black sneaker- socks inside her white running-sneakers. The contrast between the white upper rims of her leather sneakers and the black, elasticated, slither of short, cotton ankle sock running along the top insides of her sneakers gets me every time. It’s beautiful – at least, it is a beautiful sight to a humble footslave’s eyes.
I’d been wondering where those socks had got to as I hadn’t been ordered to mouth-wash them yet, and I had been looking forward to sucking my mistress’s gym sweat out of them! At least now I had an excuse to sniff them – to sniff her three day old exercise-sweat! Oh if only I had an excuse to suck and lick them here and now also!
I eagerly bury my nose in the crumpled-up and crusty folds on the reinforced toes of the short, black feminine sneaker socks and ‘wag my tail’ as if I have won the game!
My mistress Jade just laughs at her stupid footslave:
‘Ha! Ha! No, slave! That’s not my insole! Try again! Ha! Ha!’
Reluctantly, I leave the crumpled-up, black sneaker-socks by the lamp and continue my search around the room. Needless to say, I ‘can’t detect’ the aroma of the insole (the one hidden behind the sofa!), and crawl out of the living room to continue my search in the kitchen.
I hear my mistress suppress a giggle of glee (does she really not realise that I am just playing the game? Does she really think I am incapable of finding her hidden, sweaty insole? Who knows! Perhaps her seeming naivety is all part of the game too?!)
The ‘decoy’ in the kitchen is a pair of her old wellies – bright pink, feminine wellies with dirty-white draw strings at the tops. Not much of a decoy, really, as they smell more of sweaty rubber than pure, feminine footsweat. But I bury my nose inside the tops of her boots anyway, partly to show my mistress how dumb and stupid I am, and partly because I adore the sight and smell of the insides of her sweaty, rubber boots.
I make a mental note that these pink, feminine, wellington boots will need a good tongue-cleaning at some point. They are truly filthy – caked in mud! Must be from that time a week ago when I had accompanied my mistress to heel on a walk through the local park. It had been quite a wet day, which would explain the dead leaves and other detritus now stuck to the pink, rubbery soles of the boots.
But sniffing – not licking – is the order of the day, as I am currently playing hunt the insole!
‘Ha! Ha! Only two minutes left, slave - and you’re not even warm!’ declares my mistress, elatedly. Even now she will be deciding on my forfeit for failing to locate her hidden insole.
I wonder what it will be? It’s usually a mixture of pain and foot-kissing. Five strokes of the cane? Six perhaps? Followed by 25 footkisses to her navy-blue socked feet?
Whatever the forfeit, it will be as nothing compared to the pain I would suffer if I were to inadvertently win the game! So I make sure I stay in the kitchen, sniffing forlornly around the cupboards – looking and sounding increasingly desperate and distressed, for that’s how my superior mistress Jade likes it.
She is in control. She is the winner. And her slave (as always) is the loser.
Or am I? After all, once the sting of the cane has subsided, I will almost certainly get to kiss my mistress’s socked feet, and then be allowed to suck the sweat out of the dirty insole I so manifestly failed to find. So life isn’t all bad!
Ha! Ha!’
Tale no. 16 – Sniffing boots and socks whilst my betters make love
‘My 50 year old master and his young, 23 year-old, blonde secretary have come home early from work for another of their regular, afternoon love-making sessions whilst my master’s wife is out.
I, of course, am the soul of discretion as it is not my place to judge or condemn my master’s infidelity, although I do feel guilt at not informing my mistress of her husband’s affairs.
By the same token, however, I am duty-bound not to inform my master of his wife’s many lovers.
No, my place, as a slave, is to be silent and obey, and as a result of my discretion my middle-aged master and his 23 year old floozie have absolutely no compunction about making love in my very presence. After all, I am just a raggedy-assed, down in the dirt footslave – so why should my feeble presence in the bedroom in any way inhibit them?
More specifically I am even given a role to play in their illicit love making, as the master summons me to his bedroom. As I crawl through the bedroom on my hands and knees – ready to serve my betters in any way they deem fit – I notice that the happy couple are seated on the edge of the bed together – both still fully clothed.
‘Slave, you will take off your mistress’s boots and socks, and take them over to the corner of the room where you will sniff them whilst we make love,’ declares the master, whilst his blonde secretary looks down at me from her seated position on the edge of the bed with complete and utter contempt etched onto her pretty, blonde face.
I may be closer to her age than the master is (I am just 29 years old), but I nevertheless must appear as the complete opposite of her virile lover in her pretty, feminine eyes. The master is strong, rich and powerful – an alpha male; whereas I am weak, poor and feeble – a ‘charlie’ male; some would say a right, proper ‘charlie’!
Downtrodden and broken or not, I still find myself baulking internally somewhat at the description of this young floozie as my ‘mistress’. She is not my mistress! She is, somewhat ironically, the master's 'mistress'! My master’s 43 year old wife is my mistress! I still don’t even know this young secretary’s name!
But I bite my lip and submit to the master’s will – for he is my master and I am just the slave:
‘Yes master. At once master.’
I crawl forward, keeping my head respectfully bowed so as not to offend the superior, young blonde woman by looking her in the eye, and begin to pull down the zip on the side of her black, block-heeled and square-toed ankle boot, using only my teeth, of course, as using my slave hands to unzip her pretty boots would likely as not offend her every bit as much as my looking her in the eye.
Even though it is only mid-afternoon I can smell alcohol on the young woman’s breath, and I hear her giggle as her boot comes off in my mouth.
She is wearing smart, black, boot-cut trousers to match her black, leather ankle boots, but her socks inside her boots are white – white, low-cut sneaker socks with a pink trim which leave her shapely, white ankle-bones exposed. I wonder why she has bothered to wear these somewhat flimsy cotton socks at all inside her boots as they can’t afford her much comfort or protection. But then the sweaty odour emanating from her freshly-liberated, socked feet reminds me of the purpose of the short, feminine socks – to absorb her precious foot sweat from her pretty, red-painted toes and soft, pinky-white insteps.
Sweaty pink and white feminine socks peeled off sweaty, pink and white feet – socks which I shall soon be sniffing whilst their pretty, young owner makes love to my middle-aged master.
I peel each sweat-enhanced sock from the young secretary’s stinky feet - again using my teeth. I then place each sock with my teeth into the top of each unzipped boot, and carry them, one at a time in my footslave mouth, over to the corner of the bedroom – just as my master has ordered me to – watched all the while by the superior couple as they begin to kiss and canoodle on top of the double bed.
I suspect my humble, slavish boot and sock removal is a kind of foreplay for them – turning them on as they revel in their mastery and superiority over me, both clearly enjoying my humiliation and degradation at the sweaty boots and socks of the young mistress.
The master and mistress then remove the rest of their clothes and begin the serious business of love making as I bury my slave nose into the top of the young mistress’s still warm right boot. I have skilfully placed her right sock into the top of the boot with the reinforced toe-end, the smelliest part of the young woman’s white sock, uppermost - so that I can dutifully inhale the full aroma of her stale footsweat whilst she is making love to the master just a few feet away.
The noise of the couple’s love making – the creaking of the bed and their moans and screams of pleasure – soon drown out the sound of my warm sock and boot-sniffing, but the harder they make love, the harder I sniff. For this is where I belong – sniffing dirty, female boots and socks in the corner of the room whilst my masters and betters make mad, passionate love. As I am a mere slave, it is the closest I shall ever get to a sexual encounter with a woman, but rightly so – for it is all I am capable of and fit for.
I may be impotent as a man, but at least I have some staying power when it comes to sniffing female socks and boots, for I continue audibly sniffing the tops of the young mistress’s black ankle-boots and white sneaker-socks long after the master and mistress have finished their love making and whilst they are enjoying a post-coital cigarette.
I hear the mistress giggle and laugh at me again – the weak and feeble, pathetic male footslave sniffing her superior, feminine, dirty, sweaty sneaker-socks and ankle boots at her manly boyfriend’s behest:
‘Make him lick my boots, honey,’ I hear her implore the master, poutingly.
What the lady lying in the master’s bed wishes, the lady lying in the master’s bed gets, and the master duly shouts over his blonde floozie’s orders to me:
‘Slave, lick clean your mistress’s dirty boots. We want to see them shine!’
‘Yes master. At once master.’
I have no choice but to obey, for if my master decides that I am to be his bit-on-the-side’s sock sniffer and boot licker, then that is exactly what I shall be – a blonde, drunken secretary’s personal footwear slave, courting her stylish, modern boots and socks whilst the master courts her beautiful , soft and curvaceous body.’
Tale no. 15 – The Human Vacuum Cleaner
‘I am the private footslave and general dogsbody of a rich Arab woman, Madam Abrar (40), and her daughter, miss Furat (20). Madam also employs an Indian maid, miss Sanvani (25), to supervise my work.
It is the only work miss Sanvani has to do – and she does it very well. She is, even if I have to admit it myself – a most excellent and diligent taskmistress and supervisor, who works me very hard on behalf of her two Arab mistresses.
This morning miss Sanvani is making me vacuum-clean miss Furat’s bedroom floor with my mouth. It is a task which I have to perform just once a week, but I always dread it. I am always left with a sore throat, caused by having to suck up and swallow all the dust and germs from the lavish, snowy-white carpet of miss Furat’s opulent bedroom floor.
In particular, I am required to look out for any little pieces of black sock-lint from the soles of miss Furat’s pretty, black ankle socks. Miss Furat likes to walk around her bedroom in her socked feet, but she dislikes seeing her nice, white bedroom carpet being soiled by little pieces of black sock lint from her black ankle socks.
Of course, I have to dispose of and remove (by swallowing) any lint from the soles of her white socks, or indeed from her many pairs of other-coloured socks, as well – but it is the black sock-lint in particular that tends to stand out on the snowy-white carpet of miss Furat’s bedroom floor, and therefore it is the black sock-lint that offends her the most.
Although I can’t see them, I am also, of course, simultaneously inhaling and ingesting the germs from miss Furat’s bare feet – for she doesn’t always walk around in her socked feet. Miss Furat does sometimes like to feel the fluffy, white carpet on the soles of her pretty, bare feet.
Moreover, sometimes she is still wearing her shoes, boots or sandals when she enters her bedroom, and so, mixed in with her bare-foot bacteria and her sock-lint, is the dirt and dust from the city streets – transferred onto her bedroom carpet on the soles of her feminine, outer footwear.
All of it must come off her bedroom carpet and go into my slave mouth and down my slave throat, for that is where my young mistress Furat’s sock-lint, foot-bacteria, and shoe-dirt belongs – in my footslave stomach.
At least, that is what miss Furat, her mother, Madam Abrar, and her maid, miss Sanvani – my overseer – all believe. And who am I - a mere humble, male footslave - to disagree with three such superior women?
As she towers over me, her short, stocky overseer’s whip known as a ‘bull’s-pizzle’ in hand, my Indian overseer miss Sanvani gives me my crystal-clear orders, albeit in her broken English and with her thick, Indian accent:
‘You, slave, will now be sucking miss Furat’s bedroom floor, isn’t it? Be making sure you are sucking up all the dirt and sock-lint from miss Furat’s carpet, or Sanvani will be beating you hard! Slave move! Begin! Work!’
And with that miss Sanvani moves to stand directly behind me as I kneel on the snowy, white carpet of miss Furat’s bedroom floor, ready to bring down the pizzle on my bare back as I dutifully lower my permanently-bowed head to the floor, purse my lips, and begin sucking on a patch of the carpet.
Out of the corner of my eye I can just see miss Sanvani’s feet and shoes. She is wearing a pair of tight-fitting, black denim jeans – the hems of which barely cover her soft, brown Indian ankles – and black, slip-on shoes on dark-blue sneaker socks with two white stripes along the elasticated tops. The sneaker socks are so short they too leave her shapely, Indian ankle bones exposed, and the elasticated tops of her socks disappear completely down the backs of her shoes at the heels. I can therefore admire the feminine shapeliness of the tendons at the backs of her heels as I suck carpet.
As I eagerly search out miss Furat’s black sock-lint in the bedroom floor, I find myself wishing I could detect also some navy-blue sock lint from the soles of miss Sanvani’s pretty blue and white sneaker-socks – but I know in my heart of hearts that there won’t be any. Miss Sanvani, the Indian maid, would not dream of being so disrespectful to her Arab employers as to wander around their house in her socked feet!
Nevertheless, I am conscious of the fact that there must surely be some dust and dirt from the soles of miss Sanvani’s black, slip-on shoes on miss Furat’s bedroom carpet – and that thought comforts me.
Miss Sanvani’s short, blue and white ankle-socks crease and fold inside her black slip-on shoes as she walks threateningly behind me around the room whilst I suck up the dirt and sock lint from miss Furat’s bedroom carpet. I suppose you could say I am always ‘sucking up’ to miss Furat, for in my humble experience if the spoilt and petulant, twenty year old miss Furat is happy with my work, then her mother, Madam Abrar will be happy; which in turn means miss Sanvani will be happy; which in turn means miss Sanvani won’t feel the need to beat me; which in turn means I shall be happy.
Not being beaten makes me happy. So, to cut a long story short, everyone is happy so long as I remember to suck up to my female betters and superiors.
And, let’s be honest, my work – though it is demeaning and laborious – is not exactly difficult: sucking the foot and shoe germs, and pieces of young Arab-woman sock lint, out of her bedroom carpet. Any old fool could do it!
And I am, without doubt, an old fool.
My mistress Sanvani suddenly orders me to stop when miss Furat unexpectedly enters her bedroom. She is, apparently, getting ready to go out to college and is looking for her white sneakers.
Miss Furat is already fully dressed (apart from her sneakers) in her traditional black headscarf; modest white blouse; matching white, denim jeans; and beloved black ankle socks. As she walks across to her bed, therefore, she is spreading yet more black sock-lint onto her bedroom floor – thereby causing more work for me to do.
And rightly so – for that is my job: to pick up and clean up after miss Furat.
Miss Furat sits on the edge of her bed with her somewhat tatty and well-worn, lace-up, greyish-white sneakers lying beside her socked feet on the floor. She can’t be bothered to put her sneakers on herself, and so asks her maid, miss Sanvani, to order me to put her sneakers on her feet for her.
Miss Sanvani is only too pleased to give the human vacuum-cleaner this extra, demeaning task:
‘Slave, you must be obeying your mistress Furat. Be crawling over to her feet this instant and be putting her sneakers onto her feet. Do not be touching your mistress’s socks with your dirty, slave hands while you are putting her sneakers onto her feet, or you will be being whipped! Obey now! Move!’
Miss Sanvani is still holding her beloved bull’s-pizzle in her pretty, Indian hands and so without any further ado I crawl over to my young, black-headscarfed, Arab mistress’s obligingly outstretched black-socked feet and begin the tricky process of putting her dirty, scuff-marked, white sneakers onto her socked feet without touching her precious socks with my dirty and worthless, slave hands.
I am, of course, permitted – indeed required – to kiss miss Furat’s socked feet with my slave lips prior to putting her tatty, old sneakers onto her pretty, Arab feet. That goes without saying! I must always demonstrate my respect for my superior, Arab mistress’s feet before attending to them!
However, not being allowed to touch her socks with my hands means I have to manoeuvre the as yet unlaced, greyish-white sneaker onto her obligingly outstretched right foot with my slave nose and face – a comical procedure to watch if you are the powerful, female owner of the sneakers; or, indeed, if you are the sneaker-owner’s maidservant; but not so comical if you are the unfortunate male footslave trying desperately not to touch the sneaker-owner’s socked feet whilst placing her sneakers onto her superior, young-womanly, Arab feet.
But, having said all that, I am now well-practised in the art of putting miss Furat’s sneakers onto her feet in this ultra-respectful and slavish manner, and it is therefore with a sense of relief at another job well-done that I can tie the dirty-grey laces of miss Furat’s well-worn sneakers after I have successfully placed them onto her feet without using my hands.
When miss Furat stands up the hems of her white, denim jeans reach right down to the upper rims of her off-white sneakers, leaving only a slither of black, feminine ankle sock still visible along her insteps – black, feminine sock to match her black, feminine headscarf.
I find myself aching – yearning - to be allowed to follow miss Furat to college on my hands and knees, crawling humbly to heel behind her sneakered and socked feet; perhaps catching the occasional, furtive glimpse of the backs of her superior, black ankle-socks as she walks along with her books tucked under her arm. I love that combination of girly, white sneakers and girly, black socks. The contrast is so nice!
But I am not considered worthy to accompany miss Furat to her college. I am her houseboy, and must remain behind in her bedroom sucking up her sock lint – including any fresh sock lint that may have just come off the soles of those same, black ankle socks which I have just been admiring inside her dirty, grey-white sneakers.
‘Be resuming your work, slave!’ barks miss Sanvani down at me after miss Furat has left the room – kicking me in the top of my kneeling thigh with the rounded toe of her black, leather slip-on shoe, and thereby reminding me that if I wish to admire a young woman’s socks whilst I suck on the bedroom carpet floor, it will have to be the short, navy-blue and white-striped socks of my Indian taskmistress.
It’s either that, or feel the bruising sting of the Indian overseer’s bull’s-pizzle on my bare back!
I therefore suck up young-arab-woman, black sock-lint, and admire young-indian-woman, blue and white sock, as I humbly obey my female superiors and betters. Truly I am not worthy to suck the ground on which they walk!’
Tale no. 14 – Long Time, No Foot-See
‘I was licking and kissing female feet and shoes the other day, as per usual, at my public footslave stand in the Arrivals Hall of the main international airport, when a very slim and attractive young woman in her early to mid forties presented her freshly-tanned right foot – clad in a white, slip-on, canvas deck shoe – onto the wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling face for kissing.
Nothing unusual in that – until the owner of the foot suddenly asked me if I recognised the taste and feel of her foot on my lips.
Worryingly, I had to confess to the superior female that I didn’t. I was worried because the implication of the young woman’s question was that I should recognise her foot.
I needn’t have worried, however, for the young woman – far from being offended – just laughed at me, and then enlightened me as to who she was. She explained that she was my former mistress – mistress Nicola – who had purchased me at auction some 25 years ago, and who had been my personal mistress for some two years.
The memories, suddenly, came flashing back – and I now genuinely did recognise my erstwhile mistress’s foot – its pretty shape and soft texture. Lest there should be any lingering doubts in my mind, however, mistress Nicola kindly slipped off her white, canvas deck-shoe temporarily to reveal not only the once familiar warm, sweaty odour of her pretty foot, but also a tiny black mole on her instep – a tiny mole which I must have respectfully kissed hundreds of times during my two years of personal servitude to mistress Nicola all those years ago.
Mistress Nicola laughed at my evident slavish excitement at seeing her tiny foot-mole and smelling her precious foot-sweat once again, and quickly slipped her soft, canvas deck-shoe back on lest I cause a scene in public. She clearly had no more confidence in my professionalism as a footslave now than she did back then, more than 20 years ago, when she had ‘sacked’ me as her personal footslave – and had sold me into public servitude – after I had completed just two years of personal foot-servitude towards her.
I remember she had informed me at the time that I was just too old and ugly to be her personal footslave (I am some twenty years’ her senior), and that she had needed a much younger and better-looking personal footslave who could ‘keep up with her’. I remembered now that she had been talking specifically about my inability to keep to heel when she had been running and jogging – for mistress Nicola had been a keen sportswoman back then, with a fondness for wearing white ankle socks and white running-sneakers.
Oh how I had admired her shapely, strong feet and ankles in those white running-sneakers and white sports socks back in the day, but my mistress Nicola had been quite right – I never could seem to keep up with her as I desperately attempted to crawl humbly on all fours behind her heels whenever she was running a marathon, or even when she was just out for a leisurely early morning jog!
As she stood over me now at the airport footblock in her nice, white canvas deck-shoes and dark blue leggings covering her still shapely, tanned upper calf muscles, I though about how she must have worn and then discarded many pairs of white ankle socks and white running sneakers over the intervening years – just as she had cast me aside all those years ago. In fact, knowing mistress Nicola, she probably found it harder to throw out her beloved, old pairs of sneakers and worn-out socks than she did to dispose of me – her useless, decrepit old personal-footslave.
Mistress Nicola was laughing at me and mocking me as I kissed the canvas tops of her white deck-shoes all the more fervently now that I knew they were the pretty deck-shoes of my erstwhile owner. I knew that she was mocking me because it was effectively down to her that I had been stuck here at the airport for some 23 years licking the dirty shoes, sandals and boots of anonymous, female strangers as a public footslave.
Being a public footslave is, of course, considered a much lower and demeaning position than being a personal footslave to a woman. Most public footslaves are, like me, failures – having been discarded by their mistresses for being incompetent or too ugly for the job. That’s why our female customers are generally not interested in us – they know that we lack the ability and commitment to be a woman’s personal footslave, and are only good for licking dirt off their outer footwear.
To be a public footslave in the Gynarchy is to be a shameful failure.
Mistress Nicola cruelly rubbed in my sense of inadequacy as she now towered above me, her hands arrogantly placed on either side of her still shapely hips, her right canvas-shoed foot still resting on the worn-down wooden footblock beneath my face, as she told me all about the exciting things that had happened to her in her life since she had ditched me.
She explained that she had gone on to have a successful career as a long-distance runner, and had won several gold medals for the Gynarchy; that shortly after dumping me as her personal footslave she had met and married a very wealthy, Arab businessman, with whom she had had three beautiful daughters – the youngest of whom was now 18. She explained that they all lived in Dubai, but that they came back to Europe about three or four times a year as they owned property here, and in the United States, as well. She explained that she didn’t need to travel with a personal footslave as she (and each of her daughters) now had personal footslaves in each of their properties around the world – all of them, she emphasised, fit and proper personal servants, fully trained in how to serve a woman’s feet and footwear, unlike me.
Having told me all about her successful and happy life, mistress Nicola then politely enquired as to what I had been up to in the intervening years.
It was, of course, a sarcastic question – for mistress Nicola must have known full well that since she had sold me into public servitude some 23 years ago I had not been anywhere or done anything remotely interesting, having been chained up all that time to this very same footblock in the busy international airport Terminal, kissing and licking the feet and footwear of my female betters – tasting all the exotic places they had been on their footwear, but never actually going anywhere myself.
I could tell that this thought tickled my former mistress Nicola, knowing not only that - in contrast to her exciting, interesting and successful life as a beautiful free woman of the world, my life had been one long monotonous, miserable existence dominated by the dirty feet and footwear of strange women whom I never got to know - but also that she, mistress Nicola, was directly responsible for condemning me to such a humbling existence by having cast me off so derisively all those years ago.
She clearly wanted to gloat over me and my predicament further, and accordingly she ordered me to kiss both her white, canvas deck-shoes 100 times each. She then shouted over to three young women who were standing nearby waiting for their baggage, and summoned them over to my footblock.
I quickly realised that these were the three, beautiful daughters that mistress Nicola had earlier alluded to.
She introduced me to them as ‘her former personal footslave – the useless old man who used to serve her feet before they were born’, at which all three young women laughed heartily. Mistress Nicola then invited each of her three daughters to present their feet for kissing on my wooden footblock one at a time.
As each daughter placed her right foot onto the block beneath my humbly bowed face, mistress Nicola introduced the young woman to me.
The first was her 22 year old daughter, Aminah. Mistress Aminah was wearing strappy, brown leather, open-toed and open-heeled, flat sandals on her bare, brown, mixed-race feet beneath a bright, flowery-patterned, multi-coloured, thigh length summer dress. Her legs, like my erstwhile mistress Nicola’s, were long and shapely, and I was sure I could detect a faint whiff of a very familiar, sweet delicate foot-odour that reminded me of her mother’s feet as I placed several humble and respectful kisses to the brown leather strap which crossed over the tops of her red-painted toenails.
I couldn’t see any generically-inherited, distinguishing moles on her pretty, brown feet, however.
My mistress Nicola next introduced me to, and ordered me to pay my footslavish respects to, her second daughter whom she informed me was 20 year old miss Hibah. Miss Hibah was wearing a pair of bright red, plastic crocs on her soft, brown feet, something which surprised me somewhat as all three young women were clearly from a wealthy background and could, presumably, afford expensive, designer shoes if they so wished.
Then again, even a pair of cheap, plastic crocs is worth more than me when worn on the feet of such a beautiful and superior young woman as my mistress Nicola’s mixed-race daughter, miss Hibah, and so I made a point of kissing and blessing both of miss Hibah’s red, plastic shoes with suitable footslavish adoration and humility.
Finally, I was presented to mistress Nicola’s youngest daughter, 18 year old miss Nashwa, whose pretty feet were graced by a pair of somewhat scuffed and scruffy, greyish-white, lace-up sneakers. Miss Nashwa’s feet were almost identical in size and shape to those of her mother – just younger and softer looking. Of the feet of all the girls, kissing miss Nashwa’s feet most reminded me of my days kissing her mother’s feet all those years ago – although miss Nashwa, disappointingly, wasn’t wearing white ankle socks with her white sneakers as her mother used to do, and so I did not have the opportunity of nuzzling the sides of her socks as I used to enjoy doing with my mistress Nicola’s ankle socks.
All three young women laughed and giggled at me, the sad old man, as I paid homage to their superior feet and footwear at the behest of their still glamorous and attractive mother who had not only made a great success of her life, and by extension of theirs, but had also ‘ruined’ my life by condemning me to a miserable and monotonous existence as a faceless public footslave at the airport.
I was, without question, an object lesson in the power of the female over the male – having to kiss and bless the feet and footwear of my female nemesis and her daughters, before they left me for good to continue enjoying their happy and successful lives, whilst I continued to rot at the feet and footwear of superior, but anonymous, women from all over the world.’
Tale no. 13 – Cruel & Usual Punishments
‘The following are just a few of the many crimes and punishments with which we male footslaves can be charged, summarily convicted and sentenced as laid down in the statute books of the Gynarchy of Barbaria, starting with the least serious first:
1. Crime: Causing irritation or annoyance to a superior woman:
Punishment: A public flogging of 20 lashes
This is something of a ‘catch-all’ offence which entitles a mistress to have a slave punished on a mere, female whim. It is the most common criminal conviction in the Gynarchy, and official statistics show that most male slaves have at least one such conviction by the age of 23 (i.e. two years after they first enter a life of servitude). I myself, to my eternal shame, have several such convictions, though my most serious conviction is for ‘insolence’ (see no. 4 below)
Public floggings are administered by fully-trained, uniformed women police constables, wearing their ceremonial punishment outfits consisting of plain white blouses, short black miniskirts, dark nylons, and knee-length, block heeled, zip-up leather boots – boots designed to give the whipper’s pretty feet and legs good purchase on the ground as she expertly brings down the stinging tail of the cruel lash onto the culprit’s prone and vulnerable back.
The whip employed is a single-tailed, brown leather slave-whip, and it is applied to the footslave’s bare back and shoulders whilst he kneels in the dust and dirt in the centre of the town square at the feet of the offended-against woman, or at the feet of her female representative should the woman prefer to nominate a representative. This could be her friend or relative, or can even be a civilian, female probation officer employed by the State.
Furthermore (as is the case in any conviction of a male slave) at the discretion of the Female Judge passing down sentence, the criminal, in addition to receiving the aforementioned flogging of 10 lashes, may be required to pay homage to the feet and footwear of the slighted woman (or her female representative) by publicly kissing her dirty shoes or boots whilst she is wearing them anything up to 100 times immediately following the whipping. It is customary for the whipped slave to praise and bless his accuser or her representative at such times, and to thank her for having him punished for his misdemeanour.
In addition, it is worth noting that whipped slaves are denied all treatment for their stinging and exposed stripes, and must carry them with shame on their backs for all to see until such time as they fade and heal naturally.
2. Crime: Failure to maintain a humble and contrite demeanour at the feet of a woman
Punishment: A public flogging of 20 lashes followed by 6 hours’ confinement in the public kneeling stocks
This crime covers a multitude of sins, including raising the head above a woman’s knee; allowing one's eyes to stray from a woman’s feet or footwear; smiling, or otherwise conveying contentment, on one's slave features.
Lady Judges have been known to impose the additional penalty of requiring the convicted slave to wear a demeaning, rubber mask which contains a contrite and miserable expression on its artificial features, thereby ensuring that the slave has the appearance of a suitably humble and downtrodden footslave whatever his actual demeanour may be underneath.
It is, however, rare for slaves to maintain an unsuitable demeanour once subjected to the punishment of the lash and the public kneeling stocks. Such is the redeeming power of the whip and the wood!
The public kneeling stocks are also located in the central square of the capital of Barbaria. There are several dozen such sets of wooden stocks, all of them, appropriately, requiring the recalcitrant slave to kneel on the ground in the dirt and stare at the feet and footwear of the superior, female witnesses to his punishment and shame, including his accuser or her representative, through his open, ‘wooden window’.
The exact nature of the offence, and the sentence imposed, is displayed on a board above the relevant set of stocks, together with an open invitation to all superior women present to harangue and harass the penitent footslave whilst he kneels helplessly – semi-naked, prone, vulnerable, and freshly whipped – in the heavy, wooden contraption.
3. Crime: Disrespect towards the feet or footwear of a woman
Punishment: A public flogging of 50 lashes followed by 12 hours’ confinement in the public kneeling stocks
Another catch-all crime, though regarded by the Female Courts as more serious than the aforementioned offences – hence the more severe penalty.
Examples of ‘disrespect’ towards a woman’s feet or footwear could be:
- Kissing the wrong part of her footwear (e.g. the leather upper of her boot or shoe instead of the scuffed toe);
- Inadvertently brushing the nose against the mistress’s sock or bare ankle whilst kissing her shoe or sandal;
- Failure to properly appreciate the beauty in a woman’s choice of footwear (an offence somewhat difficult to define in practice, but always deemed to have occurred by the superior woman concerned – as, indeed, are all these offences);
- Failure to properly savour and relish a superior mistress’s toe-jam or sock lint on one's tongue.
4. Crime: Insolence at the feet of a woman
Punishment: A public flogging of 60 lashes followed by 24 hours’ confinement in the public kneeling stocks
Although this is regarded as a lesser offence than ‘insubordination’ (see below), it is nevertheless viewed seriously by the Female Courts.
Insolence may be verbal – a failure on the part of the slave to employ humble slave-speak when addressing the mistress, for example - but could equally be conveyed through the slave’s body-language e.g. hesitation or baulking at an order to tongue-clean a woman’s dirty shoe, or sniff her dirty sock.
Speaking to a mistress without first being spoken to is also regarded as insolence, and may lead to an additional penance of the slave’s tongue being gagged indefinitely with a metal tongue-restrainer.
In my own case, my insolence involved kissing my mistress’s bare feet an uneven number of times, thereby implying that I favoured one of her feet over the other. It was actually just an inability to keep count on my part that lead to my committing this offence, but I’m glad to say that the good Lady Judge showed me no mercy and, quite rightly, imposed the full sentence laid down by the Female Law upon me.
I have never lost count of my humble footkisses to my mistress’s feet since!
5. Crime: Insubordination at the feet of a woman
Punishment: A public flogging of 75 lashes followed by 48 hours’ confinement in the public kneeling stocks
This is regarded as a serious offence against femininity, and tends to be used whenever a footslave, public or private, fails to perform a foot-related task to the superior female’s complete satisfaction.
It would be invoked, for example, when a public footslave fails to remove with his tongue all the traces of street muck and dirt from a smart businesswoman’s ankle-length, office boots within a reasonable timescale (typically 5 minutes), despite clear orders to do so. The Female Courts take a dim view of footslave-incompetence, and slavish ineptitude is never an acceptable defence.
Indeed, for all the offences listed here no defence may be put forward in mitigation. The mere fact that a superior female has made a complaint and requested that the inferior, male slave be prosecuted is enough to ensure summary conviction of the miscreant and swift judicial punishment.
On the rare occasions that the slave committing the offence cannot be located or identified, another male slave may be punished in his stead.
6. Crime: Male arrogance
Punishment: A public flogging of 90 lashes followed by 72 hours’ confinement in the public kneeling stocks
Another serious offence, and one which rightly merits severe, public punishment, since it breaks one of the fundamental rules of Gynarchial Society – that of respect and submission on the part of the male (even the free male) to the superior female.
A slave convicted of such an offence can expect to be properly humbled by the female spectators who throng around him whilst he kneels, whipped, in the public stocks. Such a slave will be spat at and required to pay homage to the dirty boots and shoes of his surrounding tormentresses, and will be left in no doubt at the end of his prolonged 72 hour period in the stocks as to what his correct attitude to female power and authority should be.
Reoffending rates for this crime are, as a result, extremely low.
7. Crime: Threatening behaviour towards a woman, such as to cause her fear or distress
Punishment: A public flogging of 100 lashes followed by a minimum of 5 days and nights’ confinement in the public kneeling stocks, and then incarceration for life in the foothole dungeons.
This crime used to carry the death penalty, until capital punishment was abolished, even for male slaves, thanks to the magnanimous and merciful femininity of the female lawmakers of the Gynarchy.
However, many slaves convicted of this offence find themselves wishing for death as the blowflies feast greedily on their multitudinous, untreated stripes whilst they languish in the public stocks in the town square for at least five whole days and nights, hungry and thirsty, their neck and arm muscles pulsating and aching in unison with the torn nerve-endings in their bare backs.
The slave is, in fact, unlikely to be released from the stocks until such time as he has made humble and penitent apology to the mistress concerned in full public view, by way of kissing her feet and footwear several thousand times, praising and blessing her, and petitioning her for sweet, feminine mercy.
As soon as the mistress deigns to consent to his release from the public stocks, the slave will be lead on his hands and knees down into the nearby foothole dungeons where he will be incarcerated for the rest of his natural life, cut off from the polite society of women.
The definition of ‘threatening behaviour’ is anything that the mistress, even a particularly timid or sensitive young mistress, perceives to have been threatening, and could conceivably range from anything from a defiant look, to a disrespectful tone of voice, to actual physical threats to the woman’s person. Thankfully, such inexcusable behaviours are rare amongst the well-trained, and well-whipped, male slaves of Barbaria.
All the above, public punishments in the central, town square are shown on live TV - 24 hours a day - on the extremely popular ‘Punishment Channel’. Female viewers of the ‘Punishment Channel’ can select which slave they wish to watch being punished by pressing the red button on their remote controls.
DVDs of the punishments can also be purchased (some of them really cheaply on the black market), allowing the avid female viewer to watch the punishment from a specific camera angle, since different cameras focus in on the dusty boots of the whipper; the pained face of the slave being whipped; the stripes on the slave’s whipped back; his strained face whilst he is kneeling in the stocks; or the dusty, dirty shoes or boots of his erstwhile accuser standing triumphantly over him in the stocks as he kisses her feet. It is a well known fact that many female viewers enjoy watching the punished footslave’s penitent kisses to his female accuser’s feet in close up and in slow motion.
Likewise, different microphones pick up the sound of the whipper’s knee-length, black leather boots twisting and turning on the dusty ground as she brings down the brown leather whip; or the terrifying swish and crack of the merciless whip itself; or the screams of the slave as he fully appreciates the stinging power of the sweet, feminine whip as it eagerly embraces his ribs; or his pathetic moans of more subdued agony whilst he is kneeling in the dirt - his neck and arm muscles racked with cramps in the heavy and unforgiving, wooden stocks.
Of course, many female fans of public punishment prefer to actively participate in the convicted slave’s punishment and humiliation by attending the town square in person, and sitting on top of the punishment stocks with their pretty boots, legs and socks wrapped round the kneeling and confined slave’s head etc. Some such ‘punishment groupies’ have even become television stars in their own right, and often have their own video-blogs depicting their personal roles in adding to the convicted slaves’ public humiliation and anguish.
There are many other crimes with which male slaves can be charged and convicted in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, including those crimes committed by their mistresses but for which they must stand trial in their mistresses’ stead. Sweet, feminine justice on the male slave in such cases is equally swift, harsh and public.
In the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria, Female Justice is always seen to be done!’
Tale no. 12 – The Indian Girl’s Public Sock-Washer
‘I was eagerly tongue-shining an Indian girl’s soft, black leather ballet flats late the other evening at my busy, public footslave-stand in the centre of town. I was, as usual, down on my knees, in the dirt, whilst she stood imperiously over me placing one, pretty, Indian foot at a time onto the wooden footblock beneath my ugly, footslave face. I would guess the superior, young mistress was no more than about 22 or 23 years old, and it has to be said she was a bit wobbly and giggly on her feet – suggesting she was ever so slightly tipsy!
Meanwhile, the young Indian woman’s boyfriend (an older white man who looked to be about 10 years my senior – i.e. in his mid forties) was standing beside her, avidly watching my every move. He was enjoying verbally mocking me as I humbly licked the street dirt and dust off his pretty, young, Indian girlfriend’s soft shoes below the hems of her smart, black, flared trouser legs. I could tell from his slurred speech that he too was somewhat drunk.
The free man called me his ‘Indian-girl’s dirty-shoe licker’ and ‘foot-whore’, and ordered me to audibly sniff his girlfriend’s soft, black, leather shoes whilst I cleaned them with my tongue. He also spat on me from time to time, much to his young girlfriend’s approval, and reminded me that he and his girlfriend were both my betters as they were both free human beings, whereas I was just a down-in-the-dirt public footslave.
The master, even though he was quite drunk, was also very astute and observant, as he noticed that I was overtly admiring his girlfriend’s socks as I sniffed and licked her black ballet-flats. Her socks were low-cut, black sneaker socks with a pink trim along the top, and what I particularly admired about them were the clear signs of wear and tear. I couldn’t see any holes in the socks as such (although obviously the soles and toe areas of the socks were hidden inside her shoes), but there were one or two small, thinning patches along the sides of each sock, just above the low-cut instep of her ballet-flat, where I could actually see the beautiful, young Indian mistress’s brown footflesh beneath the worn-down, black cotton material of the sock.
The master picked up on this and asked me, in a disparaging tone, if I liked his girlfriend’s socks. I replied that I did, and humbly thanked the master for asking me. The master then laughed, spat on me again, and said that if I did a good job of ‘shining’ his beautiful, young, Indian girlfriend’s ballet-flats he might return to my footslave-stall the following morning with her dirty, black socks and let me smell them.
He kindly explained that his girlfriend had been wearing the same socks, inside the same soft, ballet flats, all day; that he and his stunning, young girlfriend had just been for a slap-up meal in a restaurant; and that they were now heading off to a nightclub. The master said that he suspected that his girlfriend’s pink and black socks would be very sweaty by the end of the evening as she suffered badly from foot odour, and as she would be dancing for several hours with him in the nightclub. He asked me if I would like the honour of smelling his girlfriend’s stinky socks the following morning?
All the while, his girlfriend, the owner and wearer of the socks, wasn’t saying much. She was just giggling and laughing down at me as her older boyfriend made a mockery of me at her feet.
I humbly and politely replied to the white, middle-aged master that it would indeed be an honour and a privilege for me to be allowed to smell his Indian girlfriend’s pink and black socks the following morning if he would be so kind, and I blessed him for coming up with the suggestion.
The merry couple then both laughed out loud at me, and walked off unsteadily, arm in arm.
I forgot all about the encounter until about 10:00 am the following morning, when the same man approached my stall with a sealed, transparent plastic bag containing the familiar, short, pink and black sneaker socks of his Indian girlfriend. The socks appeared all scrunched up and wrinkly inside the bag.
Sadly, the man’s girlfriend did not appear to be with him, but the master crouched down beside me and began opening the bag.
He sneered at me and mocked me as he did so, and even though he was no longer slurring his speech I could still smell the alcohol on his breath. He reminded me of his kind promise the night before to bring his girl’s dirty socks for me to sniff in the morning, as he took both the socks out of the transparent bag, and began rubbing them all over my gormless, prone and vulnerable, footslave face.
I noticed that the master was wearing a pair of thin, white disposable, surgical-style gloves – as if he could not bear to touch his girlfriend’s sweaty, ‘contaminated’ socks with his own, bare hands!
The socks may have been too sweaty and stinky for the master’s hands, but they were clearly fit for my face as he rubbed them hard all over my cheeks, forehead and nose. He explained that he had to rub them hard on me as he had decided that I should have the honour of cleaning his girlfriend’s socks with my footslave face and mouth – and that before he turned them inside out and stuffed them inside my mouth for me to suck out his girlfriend’s toe-jam and footsweat, he wanted to rub off any excess sweat from the exterior of the socks onto my face!
After just a few minutes my entire face stank of the middle-aged man’s Indian-girlfriend’s socks. Even I could detect that my face now stank of delicate, feminine socksweat. The master kindly confirmed verbally, however, that my face now truly reeked of Indian girl’s stinky, pink and black ‘dancing sock’, and he further advised me that my face was covered in little pieces of her black, cotton sock lint.
A crowd of onlookers had gathered by now to witness my stinky-sock humiliation, and some female Japanese tourists were even filming my public humiliation on their cameraphones, and egging the master on. One of the Japanese girls, whom I noticed out of the corner of my eye was wearing dirty, white keds on thick, black kneesocks beneath a short, black miniskirt, even asked the middle-aged, white man (in her broken English) to hold one of his girlfriend’s short, pink and black socks perfectly still over my nose, and to smile into the camera, so that she could take a nice still-shot of him humiliating me with his Indian girlfriend’s stinky, black sneaker sock.
After he had helpfully and willingly complied with this young, Japanese woman’s polite request, the master, true to his word, turned the dirty, sweaty socks inside out in his gloved hands and unceremoniously stuffed them both into my agape footslave-mouth, so that I could now taste his girlfriend’s stinky socksweat on my tongue as well as smell it on my face.
How everyone present laughed at me – an absentee Indian girl’s dirty-sock sniffer and sock-sucker! I’m ashamed to say that I was actually relishing the salty taste of the Indian mistress’s sweaty socks so much that the master even had to warn me not to eat them and swallow them! He reminded me that I was just to wash them in my slave mouth, as his girlfriend wanted them back! He informed me they were one of her favourite pairs.
He also counselled me that I had better not suck on the socks too hard, or snag them in my teeth, if I knew what was good for me, as he reminded me that they were already quite worn-down in one or two places. The master indicated that if I inadvertently caused any holes to appear in his girlfriend’s favourite pair of worn-down socks whilst I was mouth-washing them, he would personally whip me until, as he put it, he had enough skin from my back to mend the holes in his girlfriend’s socks!
How the Japanese girls loved the Indian master’s witty remark! They all congratulated him on taking good care of his girlfriend’s socks, and for getting them washed for her in public. They said they were sure she would be very grateful to him, and one of the young female Japanese tourists, the one with the white keds and black kneesocks, even said that she wished her boyfriend was as thoughtful!
And so, a fun time was had by all –myself included, who was the butt of the joke. My only regret was that the owner of the socks was not there herself to witness me sniffing and mouth-washing her dirty socks in public, but I overheard the master telling one of the Japanese girl’s that his girlfriend wasn’t feeling too well that morning.
Hungover, I’m guessing!
Still hungover though she may have been, and absent though she may have been, the young, Indian mistress was still my female better, and her middle-aged, white boyfriend with the smell of stale alcohol on his breath was truly most generous in affording me the great honour of having his Indian girlfriend’s stale sock-sweat all over my face whilst I washed her dirty socks inside my mouth.
As he himself put it, to the great amusement of the crowd of mocking onlookers, I was nothing but an Indian-girl’s public sock-washer!’
Tale no. 11 – Hot & Cold Socks
‘Free people, particularly free men, often ask me incredulously – "How come you male footslaves adore your mistresses’ sweaty, still-warm, freshly-worn socks so much? Why is that the dirtier and smellier the female sock, the more you seem to worship it?"
I can only answer in the following way: it’s like the difference between hot and cold food. All food can be appetizing, be it served hot or cold, but as a general rule hot food not only smells, but tastes better! It is more inviting; more warming; more satisfying when you are truly hungry. And furthermore, you know that it has just been lovingly prepared for you. Effort has gone into it, and it is now ready and waiting to be enjoyed, because it is still warm.
In the same way, a pair of your mistress’s warm socks, fresh off her sweaty feet, is much more appealing to a footslave than socks that she discarded hours before. Rather like warm food - warm, recently-worn socks have, in effect, just been ‘prepared’ by the mistress for the slave, as they are fresh off the mistress’s pretty, feminine feet having been ‘heated’ inside her hot, leather shoes or boots all day long.
Furthermore, because they are still warm and sweaty they smell stronger – just like warm food. The trained-nose of the experienced footslave can smell the very essence of his mistress’s very personal sweet, feminine foot odour upon them – that smell he finds both repulsive and appealing at one and the same time. The familiar smell of his mistress’s sweaty, warm socks awakens in the footslave a strong hunger to serve. He salivates like one of Pavlov’s dogs on detecting the mere scent of his mistress’s dirty, warm socks. He instantly readies to abase himself in front of her, by eagerly sniffing the mistress’s potpourri of dirty, warm socks as she places them on his plate, and before she gives him the order to suck them clean.
And the good footslave will not just taste his mistress’s dirty, warm socks– he will truly savour them; he will relish all they have to offer, for the mistress’s warm, freshly-worn socks will inevitably be bursting with strong flavours – all of them, doubtless, an acquired taste, but nevertheless fitting to the humble footslave palate, conditioned as it is by many years of female sock sucking and licking.
The obedient and submissive footslave will therefore revel in the salty tang of his mistress’s foot-perspiration, and in the spicy condiment of her cheesy, dark toe-jam, mixed in with minuscule flakes of wafer-thin, dead footskin – invisible to the naked eye but perceptible to the trained taste buds on his humble, footslave tongue. There might even, if the sock-hungry footslave is in luck, be a tiny piece of dead, garnished, feminine toenail milling around inside the stinky, warm-sock casserole!
It may be a humbling and degrading meal, but it is nevertheless food for the soul from the sole, and the grateful footslave will not only be indebted to his mistress for kindly preparing such a stinky-sock meal for him inside the oven of her hot, leather boots all day long, but will also bless his mistress for allowing him to ‘eat’ it whilst it is still warm.
I personally, am a truly fortunate slave in this regard. My own mistress is an exceptionally indulgent mistress. Only as a punishment would she ever make me savour her socks cold!’
Tale no. 10 – Whipping Boots & Socks
‘If a punishment whipping is as much about ritual and building up tension as it is about the actual infliction of pain, my mistress Angel certainly knows how to prolong the agony.
She always announces my forthcoming punishment (including the number of strokes) at least 48 hours before it is actually due to take place. For 48 long hours, therefore, I know what to expect.
The hours may drag, but they are never long enough, for I truly fear the power of my mistress’s whip.
Precisely 15 minutes before the punishment is due to take place the formal ritual begins. I must change my mistress Angel into what she calls her ‘whipping boots and socks’. These are a pair of black-leather, block-heeled, round-toed, lace-up ankle boots, and thick, red, calf-length bootsocks, which she only wears whilst delivering me a whipping.
The boots and socks, you see, are meant to be symbolic: the black, leather boots match her black, leather whip; the red socks are supposed to represent the colour that my bare, white back will soon become. But they are much more than being purely symbolic. They are practical too, for the block-heeled, whipping boots help to give my mistress Angel’s pretty feet and legs good purchase on the ground whilst she raises the whip above her head and brings it down sharply upon my naked, kneeling back and shoulders; whilst at the same time her bright red, whipping socks help to absorb the sweat from her soft, feminine feet generated by her physical exertion in wielding the whip.
It is customary, therefore, for me to have to kiss and bless the whipping boots and socks as I put them onto my mistress’s feet prior to my whipping, and to thank them for assisting her in correcting me. As I kneel before my seated mistress’s outstretched feet, kissing each individual item of feminine footwear and placing it respectfully, onto my sweet mistress’s relevant foot, I have to say something like the following:
‘Oh pray, mistress Angel’s right sock…’ kiss…kiss …'if it pleases you, mistress Angel’s right sock…’ kiss…kiss… ‘this dirty, about-to-be-whipped, footslave…’ kiss…kiss…'humbly praises you, the sock…’…kiss…kiss… ‘for protecting the soft, bare, feet of the superior mistress…’ kiss…kiss…'inside her black leather, ankle boots whilst she is whipping him…’ kiss…kiss… ‘by absorbing her precious, feminine footsweat…’ kiss…kiss…'if it so pleases you, mistress Angel’s right sock…’…kiss…kiss…'God bless you, mistress Angel’s right sock!...’
The red, calf-length sock is then gently, and respectfully, pulled up the mistress’s shapely, white shin and calf muscles and left scrunched up and creased at the top, as that is how my mistress Angel likes it.
I then repeat the humiliating and degrading process with her left sock, humbly addressing the bright, feminine, red sock as my superior and better as I prepare myself to be whipped in its presence.
As I am lacing up my mistress Angel’s ankle boots onto her shapely feet and ankles the two, thin, black laces on each boot remind me of the two stinging lashes of my mistress’s split-tailed, black leather whip. I start sobbing as I pray to my mistress Angel’s cruel, ankle-length, black leather whipping boots, starting, once again, with the item of footwear that will adorn and beautify further her pivotal right foot during my punishment:
‘Oh pray, mistress Angel’s right boot…’ kiss…kiss…'if it pleases you mistress Angel’s right boot…’ kiss…kiss…'this dirty, about-to-be-whipped footslave…’ kiss…kiss… ‘humbly praises you, the boot, for protecting and strengthening the mistress’s foot and ankle muscles…’ kiss…kiss…'and for giving her feet solid purchase on the ground…’ kiss…kiss… ‘whilst she is whipping him…’ kiss...kiss...'if it so pleases you, mistress Angel’s right boot!...’ kiss…kiss…'God bless you mistress Angel’s right boot!...’
Mistress Angel’s left whipping boot is, of course, afforded the same slavish respect.
With just 3 minutes to go before the allotted time for the whipping to begin, my mistress orders me to kiss her boots and beg for the whip.
Not beg for mercy, you will note – but for the whip! My mistress Angel takes the view that the kindest thing a sweet, feminine mistress like herself can do for her personal footslave is to physically chastise him, as she is firmly of the opinion that the only good footslave is a whipped footslave!
I obey my mistress’s humiliating order, of course, because my mistress is quite correct in her opinion – but, being but a weak and feeble, male slave I am invariably sobbing into her boots as I kiss them and beg for no mercy:
‘Oh pray, mistress Angel'… kiss…kiss…sob…sob…'if it pleases you, mistress Angel…’ kiss…kiss…sob…sob…'this dirty, slave begs you not to spare him from the sting of the terrible lash…’ kiss…kiss…sob...sob… 'as he craves the whip, most sweet and kind beautiful mistress…’ kiss…kiss...sob…sob…'Truly this slave requires harsh punishment, mistress Angel'…kiss...kiss...sob…sob …'to make him a better footslave for the mistress…’ kiss…kiss…sob…sob…'Oh pray, mistress Angel! Please beat me, mistress Angel!...’ kiss…kiss…sob…sob.
My mistress Angel quite rightly sneers down at me as I cringe and whine at her feet, even though she herself has ordered me to do so. My pathetic obsequiousness only serves to strengthen her resolve to whip me well:
‘Lick the tops of my boots, slave, and make sure your nose brushes against my socks while you do so!’
Yes, you heard right – my mistress actually wants to feel my ugly, slave nose brushing against her superior, red socks as I desperately lick the tops of her black, leather, lace-up, block-heeled, ankle boots! I think the feel of my nose in the folds of the scrunched-up tops of her bootsocks just serves to heighten even further her sense of womanly superiority and absolute, feminine power over her wretched, male slave. I am licking her boots and nuzzling her socks like some sort of pathetic, whining animal which must live its life on all fours at her feet. It reminds my mistress that she, quite literally, has the whip hand.
After I have licked her boots and nosed her socks for some two minutes I am ordered to stop and to present my bare back to her for the whipping.
We won’t dwell on the details of the actual whipping itself, as it is just too painful for me to describe. Suffice it to say that, during the whipping I try to focus on my mistress’s black, leather, ankle-length, whipping boots and calf-length, red whipping socks behind me – for each swing of her bootlaces, and each new crease in the tops of her socks, heralds another stinging stroke of the whip.
My mistress Angel’s whipping boots and socks actually help me to know when each stroke is coming! God bless them for showing me such kindness and mercy!
It is one of the reasons why I always shower my mistress’s whipping boots with grateful kisses just as soon as the whipping is over. Sadly, I am invariably too weak after the whipping to be able to reach my slave lips up to her socks.’
Tale no. 9 – The Respect Agenda
‘The relationship between a mistress and her personal footslave is all about respect. Not mutual respect, of course – but one-sided respect; the respect of the slave for his mistress.
Take my mistress Fiona, for example. The first thing I respect about her is her femininity. Throughout nature the female is self-evidently superior to the male, but this is particularly the case in the human world. As a male slave I have to recognise that – and so I respect my mistress Fiona’s superior femininity over my inferior masculinity.
It’s not that my mistress is particularly beautiful, intelligent, or sweet and kind. Indeed, an objective observer might describe her as ‘average’ in looks, petite and somewhat dumpy in stature, of limited intellect and predisposed to capriciousness, arrogance and cruelty. But the fact is that my mistress Fiona is nevertheless female, and I am male; ergo she is my female better.
I must, therefore, respect my mistress Fiona’s superior femininity.
I must also respect her youth. At 23 years of age my mistress Fiona is some 20 years’ my junior. But youth is superior to age. Youth means strength and beauty, and sweet, feminine youth in particular demands respect and admiration from the ageing male. Even though she may be of fairly average looks my mistress Fiona will still turn the heads of free men of all ages as she is at the peak of her feminine fitness and beauty, and we males, be we slave or free, are all programmed to respect and admire female youth and beauty. Furthermore, what she lacks in life experience and knowledge, she makes up for in her youthful exuberance and arrogance. My mistress is full of life and I, her ageing slave, am clinging on to life for one purpose only – to serve my mistress and pander to her youthful self-indulgences.
I must, therefore, respect my mistress Fiona’s feminine youth.
Next, I must respect my mistress Fiona’s feminine power and authority over me – not just because I am legally her property, and it is therefore the law that I do so, but because I am by my very male nature inferior to her. As a mere male slave I need to be told what to do by my superior female mistress; how to eek out my miserable slave existence at her feet. My every waking moment must be spent as my mistress wishes me to spend it, for there is no point to my existence other than to obey and serve her.
Without her power and authority over me I am nothing. My existence would be meaningless. For the male, in and of itself, is meaningless. It only makes sense when serving the female – either as her lover (in the case of a free man), or as her downtrodden servant (in the case of a male slave). My mistress Fiona, therefore, must be encouraged to organise my life for me, to ensure that every second of my existence is preoccupied doing her will. I have no will of my own.
I must, therefore, respect my mistress Fiona’s innate female power and authority.
Allied to this, I must respect my mistress Fiona’s whip. The female whip is the tangible manifestation of her power and authority over me. It is her means of enforcing her feminine power and authority upon me, and I must, therefore respect and submit to its sting.
Indeed, I must go further and actively fear my mistress Fiona’s whip – do everything I can to obviate the need for my mistress to inflict the whip upon me. For my mistress Fiona has better things to expend her youthful, female energy upon than whipping her disobedient, disrespectful or downright incompetent footslave. Whenever my mistress feels the need to whip me I have failed – even if she is whipping me on a female whim and purely because it gives her pleasure to see me writhing in pain at her feet. Whatever the circumstances, whatever the mistress’s motives, a whipped slave is a shameful slave - for the stripes on his back signify to the world his mistress’s righteous anger and/or frustration.
And yet, think of slavery and one immediately thinks of the whip, for it is the very symbol of female domination over the male. Without it, the slave would be a mere servant or assistant. It is the whip that, quite literally, marks him out as a slave. It is, paradoxically, a mark of shame, and of status, at one and the same time!
I cannot do anything other, therefore, than respect the power of the feminine whip!
As I am specifically employed in the capacity of her footslave, this means, of course, that I must afford particular respect to my mistress Fiona’s feet and footwear.
A free man may be at liberty to secretly dislike his girlfriend’s feet; their shape; their smell; their texture. But, as mistress Fiona’s personal footslave, I have no choice but to admire the humblest part of her ‘beautiful’, feminine body – her feet – even though an objective observer might again view her feet as being somewhat unlovely. My mistress Fiona has somewhat veiny, white feet and crooked, stubby toes, and she also suffers from excessive foot odour at times. Her heels are cracked and contain patches of rough skin, and she has a bunion on the big toe of her left foot. Nevertheless, I deeply respect her flawed and imperfect feet - for they are the feet of a superior, young woman, and each lumpy, blue vein, each misshapen or crooked toe, each sweat-excreting pore or offending bunion on her soft, feminine footflesh is better than me - for they are all female and I am male.
Furthermore, I must respect my mistress Fiona’s footwear – even if it may not always be to my personal tastes. Like many pathetic men, for example, I am programmed to admire a shapely, well-turned, nylon-stockinged, female ankle in a high-heeled shoe, yet my mistress Fiona rarely wears nylon stockings and heels. She prefers flats and socks, or even low-heeled, plain black ankle-boots which actually hide her feet, socks and ankles from my footslave gaze.
But I nevertheless respect her footwear, for it is the chosen footwear of my superior mistress and graces her superior feminine foot – therefore it is worthy of my slavish respect and admiration. Those unflattering, plain black, zip-up, low-heeled ankle-boots protect her precious, female feet from the elements. Those plain, black bootsocks hidden inside her boots absorb her precious, female footsweat, thereby protecting the inner lining of her protective outer footwear. Her boots and socks are therefore an example to me – they selflessly serve my mistress Fiona’s feet, which is my function also.
I must, therefore, respect and admire my mistress Fiona’s feet and footwear.
But how does all this respect for my superior mistress manifest itself in practical ways during the course of my daily life as a male footslave?
Well, first of all, my mistress loves rules – her rules – and I must live by those rules.
One of her rules is that I, her slave, must live my life on my hands and knees. My mistress Fiona, being the sweet and kind feminine mistress that she is, made it perfectly clear to me from the very moment she enslaved me – that I was never again to walk upright and look women in the eye as a free man, but was instead to exist from then onwards on my hands and knees, crawling around in the dust and dirt, with my eyes firmly focused on her feet and/or footwear, as befits a humble personal footslave. She stressed that my footslave head must be kept permanently bowed – ready to pay its respects to, and to serve, the feet and footwear of my mistress (or of any other woman she desires me to serve) at all times. Mistress Fiona has even kindly fitted a heavy, wooden slave collar around my slave neck to facilitate me in keeping my head bowed and my eyes low!
Specifically, I am strictly forbidden to ever raise my head above my mistress’s knee. Even if I am assisting my mistress Fiona in putting on her black, woolly tights, or her knee-length brown leather boots, I must keep my head humbly bowed, and my eyes must be fixated on the area of her foot below her precious ankle. My hands must work above me as I pull her thick, woolly tights up her lower legs, or zip up her knee-length boots, for I may not look at her superior, dumpy calf muscles or her bony knees.
And I must still do a good job of putting on her tights or boots, despite not being able to observe what I am doing – for my mistress Fiona, quite rightly, brooks no incompetence in her personal footslave, and accepts no excuses. I am her slave, and a slave is not permitted to make mistakes. A slave is always punished for ineptitude or incompetence. So I have just had to learn, spurred on by the stinging whip, how to dress my mistress’s legs above her ankles without taking the liberty of looking at them. Thankfully, the whip is an excellent and efficacious teacher!
Secondly, I put my respect for my mistress Fiona into practice by obsessing myself with her feet and footwear. I ensure that I think of nothing else throughout the day – not my own well-being; not my empty stomach; not the stinging welts on my bare back; not my fatigue and lack of sleep. I must only be concerned about the state of my mistress’s boots and socks, for, being female boots and socks, they are my betters, and their well-being is thus more important than mine.
Is there a dirty mark on her boot that needs licking off? Does my mistress’s discarded, dirty sock require her superior, feminine footsweat to be sniffed and sucked out of it? Do my mistress’s socks need pulling up and straightening on her feet whilst she is wearing them inside her ankle boots? Does she wish me to remove that piece of white fluff stuck to the top of her black sock inside her soft, black ballet flat?
My mistress Fiona kindly helps me to obsess about her feet and footwear by stipulating that I must kiss her feet 70 times, on three specified occasions each day – once in the morning, once in the afternoon and once in the evening. It’s yet another of her rules.
My mistress, of course, chooses the exact time and place that I must pay such ritualistic homage to her feet and footwear, and always at her own convenience. It could, for example, be whilst she is seated on a bus; resting in a restaurant or café; sat at her desk in the office; or just relaxing in her boyfriend’s arms on her comfy sofa watching television in her living room. Whatever her time of choosing, my mistress Fiona will simply announce my foot-worshipping session with a peremptory click of her delicate, feminine fingers – and I immediately start kissing her feet, be they bare or socked, shod, sandalled or booted, 70 times (35 times on each foot).
I must respectfully alternate each footkiss between each foot, and cup each foot as I kiss it as a sign of my complete adoration for the feminine, bare foot, sock, or shoe that I am paying my humble respects to. Moreover, they must be respectful, slavish kisses – not lustful or lascivious – brief pecks to my mistress’s superior feet and/or footwear with both my lips touching their target simultaneously, my slave head bobbing repeatedly up and down in a pathetic, ritualistic rhythm as I first cup, and then kiss, each alternate foot - always remembering, of course that my unworthy, wooden-collared, male head must never rise above my mistress Fiona’s knobbly, but superior, feminine knee.
I shall, of course, in addition to my three formal, daily foot-worshipping sessions, be kissing my mistress Fiona’s feet continually throughout the day. I have kneeling instructions, for example, that I must kiss her feet whenever she enters or leaves a room; whenever she stands up or sits down; whenever she stops at a pelican crossing waiting to cross the road. On such occasions just one kiss to each foot is required – a reminder to us both, and to anyone watching, of her complete and absolute power over her crawling-to-heel, personal footslave.
And then there is the ‘ad hoc’ or ‘on command’ foot-kissing. My all-powerful mistress Fiona can order me to kiss her feet, or those of any woman in my presence, at any time of the day or night. My lips must be ever ready to pay their humble respects to female shoe or boot leather, or to female socks or stockings, or to soft, bare female footflesh. Kissing feet is perhaps the most visual way a footslave demonstrates his respect for his female betters.
Another tangible way I display my respect for my mistress, however, is simply by working hard. A slave is not put on this earth to rest or relax! A slave must always be working – paying attention to his mistress’s feet and footwear – licking away any dirt and sweat; gently massaging her tired, feminine foot muscles, either in the raw or through her socks.
Even when my mistress Fiona wishes to have some privacy, and leaves me alone in my boxroom-cell with her dirty boots, shoes, tights and socks, I must be constantly working – licking her dirty shoes and boots clean; sniffing and then mouth-washing her dirty socks and tights. Even in my sleep I must be working by allowing my mistress’s dirty socks to soak in my slave mouth overnight, and by breathing in her stale footsweat through the crusty toe ends of her dirty, nylon stockings or thick, black woolly tights. I must also endeavour to dream about my mistress’s feet and footwear, and notify her of any failure to do so, so that she may discipline me with the whip and instil such dreams onto my slave brain through the stimulus of pain.
Of course, the 24 hour, recorded CCTV cameras in my cell are another incentive for me never to stop working, every bit as much as the threat of her whip! But, above all, it is my respect for my mistress that compels me to constantly work. Work is the only thing that gives my miserable male-slave existence any meaning. I serve my mistress, therefore I am. By working hard, I demonstrate my respect for my mistress, as it allows her to put down her whip and spend more time resting and relaxing.
That said, I can also demonstrate my respect for my mistress on a day to day basis by passively accepting the dreadful sting of her whip (when it is required) with humility and resignation – as befits a humble, whipped slave. My mistress Fiona does not permit me to scream or cry out with pain during a whipping – nor am I permitted to beg for sweet, feminine mercy. Instead, she requires me to absorb the pain as much as is slavishly possible in silence, and then to thank her for taking the time to discipline and correct me.
Her one concession in this regard, because I am a weak and lily-livered male and she is a magnanimous mistress, is to permit me to moan quietly during the actual infliction of corporal punishment – since, try as I might, I find it almost impossible to absorb the sharp pain of the whip in complete silence, even though my mouth is invariably gagged at such times with one of my mistress's dirty socks. I only wish I could, but I am just too weak and feeble a male to be able to submit to the whip in dignified silence.
My mistress says she is not surprised at this – for I am weak even by a pathetic slave’s standards. As soon as the whipping is over, however, I must cease my moaning, and demonstrate my adoration and respect for my mistress by humbly removing her sock-gag from my mouth, kissing her feet again, and then verbally blessing her for expending her youthful energy on my back and shoulders by taking the time to chastise and discipline me with the female whip.
Which leads me on the final way I demonstrate my respect for my mistress Fiona on a day to day basis – through my use of humble slave-speak.
It is an undoubted privilege for a humble footslave such as myself to be allowed to speak to his mistress. Many mistresses forbid their slaves from speaking at all. They are known as ‘dumb-slaves’ or ‘mute-slaves’, for they must live their lives in complete and contemplative silence as they serve at their superior mistresses’ feet.
My mistress Fiona, however, gracious and kind young woman that she is, allows me to speak – not because she regards me as worthy of the power of speech, or because she thinks I could possibly have anything of value or interest to say to her, but because my use of humble, cringing, obsequious slave-speak only serves to enhance her own sense of feminine superiority over me.
There are, of course, as you would expect, strict rules surrounding the use of humble slave-speak:
- I must only speak when spoken to or given express permission to speak by my mistress or by another woman;
- I must address only the mistress’s feet and footwear;
- I must observe all the grammar, rules, vocabulary and conventions of obsequious slave-speak;
- My tone must be suitably humble in order to match my humble words and phrases;
- My facial expressions must be suitably downcast in line with my humble and submissive utterances (in fact, I am never allowed to smile, or display any signs of satisfaction or pleasure, as my mistress Fiona thinks such a demeanour is unbecoming in an oppressed and wretched slave).
And that, of course, is the whole point of the ‘respect agenda’: to emphasise and perpetuate the natural differences between superior, female mistress and inferior, male slave.
Some well-intentioned but misguided commentators have said that the male slave’s respect for his mistress is akin to romantic love! But if it is, it is unrequited love! For one thing I have come to realise over my long years of servitude, not just to my current mistress Fiona but to other previous mistresses as well, is that the more a slave respects his mistress the more she, quite rightly, despises him.
The slave, naturally, respects his mistress and holds her in awe. The mistress, equally naturally, despises the slave and holds him in contempt. It’s just the way of things. It’s the perverse yin and yang of the world of footslavery.
And that’s why, in my humble, slave mind at least, it works well!’
Tale no. 8 – Sneakers, Socks and Saris
'27 year old miss Kadal, a pretty Sri Lankan lady, is one of my regular customers. She visits my public-footslave stand in the Town Square regularly as clockwork – every morning during weekdays at 08:30 on her way into work, and every Saturday at 10:00 on her way into the shops to spend her hard earned cash.
Whether she is smartly dressed for work, or casually dressed for shopping, she always seems to wear the same pair of round-toed, block-heeled, zip-up, black leather ankle boots with black trousers. I get the impression that she doesn’t spend much of her money on clothes, as her wardrobe appears quite limited – apart, that is, from her socks: miss Kadal seems to have many different pairs of socks, all of which she kindly displays to me by hitching up the hem of her black, trouser leg above the top of her black leather ankle boot whenever she presents me with her booted foot for cleaning on my wooden footblock.
I am never allowed to touch her socks whilst I lick her boots – just look at them and admire them; the elasticated tops of a young, westernised, Sri Lankan woman’s bootsocks. Mistress Kadal is nevertheless very kind to me, for the merest glimpse of her socks inside her ankle boots brightens up my otherwise miserable and pathetic footslave-day.
This is because she has a penchant for brightly coloured, feminine socks – pinks; reds; oranges; blues. This morning, for example – a Saturday morning and therefore one of her shopping days – she approaches my wooden footblock over which I am humbly kneeling, stands haughtily with her hands resting on both her hips, places her right, black leather ankle-booted foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my face, and hitches up her black trouser leg to reveal the elasticated top of a pale blue and pink stripy, cotton bootsock.
I recognise the pale blue and pink sock. She has worn this pair of bootsocks many times before. I yearn to nuzzle the elasticated top of her sock, but I am forbidden to do so. I can look, but not touch.
Instead, I ready myself as usual for miss Kadal’s verbal instruction to tongue-shine her boot. Miss Kadal always orders me to tongue-shine her boot. She is a glorious and beautiful creature of habit. She is my better.
Today, however, I am in for a shock – for mistress Kadal, for the first time ever, does not appear to be alone. Although my footslave eyes are naturally drawn towards the pink and blue elasticated top of miss Kadal’s pretty ankle boot and bootsock (what footslave’s eyes wouldn’t be?) out of the corner of my eye I can also observe a pair of pink and white, lace-up sneakers and short, black sneaker socks on a pair of shapely, brown ankles beneath the hem of a lightweight, bright yellow, silk, ankle-length sari. Miss Kadal kindly explains to me who the sweet, feminine sneakers, socks and sari belong to:
‘This is my cousin Padma from Colombo, slave. She wishes to observe you tongue-shining my boots. Make sure you put on a good show for her! Begin at the top of my boot and work your way down – and don’t touch my sock!’
Miss Kadal has lived in this country for many years and speaks fluent English, with just a hint of a residual Sri Lankan accent. She is particularly fluent in boot and sock vocabulary – and in giving clear and concise orders to footslaves.
From the moment her cousin, miss Padma, opens her pretty mouth, however, it is clear that she is not quite so familiar with vernacular English – or indeed with the whole concept of male footslavery:
‘Ha! Ha! I am finding it strange that you can be ordering this queer fellow to be shining your dirty boot with his tongue, cousin Kadal! What a queer animal he is! Ha! Ha!’
Miss Kadal laughs too:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, cousin Padma – he is indeed queer! See how his eyes are fixated on my socks. That is why I must always warn him not to touch my socks with his tongue or his nose. I rather fancy he would give anything to be able to sniff at my socks whilst he cleans my boots – but he is not here to enjoy himself! He has work to do – removing the filth from my boots!... You down there, the slave, get a move on! Tongue my boot!’
‘Yes, mistress Kadal…at once, mistress Kadal…I obey you, mistress Kadal!’
I hastily lower my lips to the delicious top of miss Kadal’s familiar, black ankle boot (for a slave must never keep his mistress waiting) and start licking around the stitching of the leather rim, taking great care not to allow my tongue to stray onto the soft, cotton material of her pale blue and pink bootsock.
‘Ha! Ha! He is behaving most obediently and respectfully towards you, cousin Kadal! I am thinking he is even being frightened of you! Ha! Ha! Tell me – that whip over there; are you ever beating him with it?’
Miss Padma is referring to the public-use whip that hangs next to my public-footslave stand – a thin, brown, leather, whippy crop that any disgruntled female customer is welcome to bring down sharply on my bare back and shoulders should I fail to perform my boot or shoe licking duties to her complete satisfaction.
My back bears the scars of many such whippings, for I am a very average footslave.
‘I have occasionally used it on him…’ miss Kadal answers her cousin, ‘…but generally speaking this slave knows all the creases in my boots and how to extract the dust and dirt from them!’
Miss Kadal speaks the truth. I could clean and shine her familiar black leather ankle boots with my eyes closed (not that I would ever dream of doing so since it is such a privilege to be able to see close-up and personal the superior, Sri Lankan female boot leather that one is so assiduously licking and kissing!)
The exotic miss Padma’s curiosity clearly remains undiminished, however, as my slave tongue works its way slowly down her westernised cousin’s block-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankle boot, wiping away all the nasty street grime and dirt:
‘Ha! Ha! I am wondering how the inside of his mouth must be tasting now, cousin Kadal? I am thinking the dirty leather of your boot must be tasting very bitter for him?’
‘Why don’t you ask him, Padma dear?’ suggests miss Kadal. ‘He is obliged to answer you, for you are his master every bit as much as I am!’
‘Ha! Ha! You are being correct, cousin Kadal! I am feeling like his master, for he is being chained up and is cringing on his hands and knees at our feet! Ha! Ha!...You there… the queer footslave…I am being your female master from Sri Lanka, and I am ordering you to be telling me what my cousin’s boot is tasting like! Is it being bitter and foul, or are you liking it?’
It is a perfectly reasonable question from the curious female visitor from Sri Lanka. Even if it wasn’t a reasonable question - even if it was a downright silly question – I would still have to answer it, as she is my female better.
I answer the exotically dressed miss Padma as honestly and respectfully as I can:
‘Oh pray, mistress Padma, if it pleases you mistress Padma, this slave’s mouth is indeed filled with the bitter taste of his divine mistress Kadal’s dirty boot leather, but is such a queer creature that he actually enjoys the bitter-sweet taste of a superior Sri Lankan woman’s dirty ankle boot, if it so pleases you sweet and kind Sri Lankan goddess-mistress Padma.’
Both miss Padma and miss Kadal justifiably laugh at me out loud:
‘Ha! Ha! And what about my cousin Kadal’s socks, queer boot-licker? Is it being true that you are being yearning to smell the aroma of my cousin’s pink and blue socks whilst you are feasting on the bitter taste of her boots, or is my cousin Kadal lying to me about that?’
Miss Padma is not exactly subtle! There is absolutely no way I am going to fall into the trap of contradicting her cousin! Besides, miss Kadal is entirely correct in her assertion that I yearn to sniff her socks. Miss Kadal is always right! She is a superior female.
‘Oh no, mistress Padma, oh pray mistress Padma, if it pleases you mistress Padma – this slave does indeed long to sniff the glorious and sweet aroma of his Sri Lankan mistress’s pink and blue bootsocks, but fully accepts that he is not worthy to do so, for he is nothing but a queer, public bootlicker, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress Padma.’
Speaking of boot-licking, miss Kadal has now switched feet on the wooden footblock and I must now begin to lick clean her left ankle boot, from the stitched, upper rim downwards.
Miss Padma, however, sock-tease that she is, is clearly not disposed to let the subject of sock-sniffing rest:
‘And what about a Sri Lankan mistress’s black socks, slave? Would you be liking to be sniffing my black socks inside my sneakers?’ she inquires, pointing her right, sneakered foot forward on the dusty ground coquettishly.
My heart leaps. Although my tongue and mouth are dutifully focussed on the black ankle boot and pale blue and pink bootsock of her cousin miss Kadal, my weak and feeble mind is forced to wander towards Miss Padma’s footwear – for it is everything I could ever dream of. It is feminine footwear of intriguing contrasts: white, European-style sneakers with short, modern black sneaker socks; black socks on soft, smooth, brown, female Asian skin; and brown skin beneath the silk hem of her fine, bright yellow, ankle-length sari. It is a fascinating and somewhat incongruous combination of casual, western footwear with traditional Asian dress. Surely a sari should be worn with sandals on freshly pedicured bare feet? Not with sneakers and socks!
And yet miss Padma has undoubtedly touched a nerve in me. How I would dearly love to sniff the aroma of her short, black sneaker sock on her pretty, outstretched Sri Lankan foot inside her western-style sneaker, whilst the hem of her bright yellow, silk sari brushes against my forehead! I can only hope my mistress Kadal will forgive the interruption to my tongue on her contemporary European boot leather as I respectfully answer her exotic, Asian cousin mistress Padma:
‘Oh pray, mistress Padma, if it pleases you mistress Padma, truly this dirty slave would be honoured to sniff the mistress’s black sneaker socks, if you would be so sweet and kind as to do him the honour, most beautiful mistress Padma!’
Miss Kadal doesn’t seem to be at all offended by my cringing obsequiousness towards her cousin, as she just bursts out laughing:
‘Ha! Ha! Cousin Padma, you are such a tease towards him! Let him finish cleaning my boots first and then you can use him in whatever way you see fit! Ha! Ha!’
Miss Kadal’s cousin appears to adjust the clothing on the upper part of her beautiful, svelte Sri Lankan body as she happily readies herself for her first ever use of a public footslave:
‘Very well, cousin Kadal! I am thinking I shall be making use of the queer footlick, but only to be cleaning the dirty toes of my white sneakers. Like you, I am thinking that he is not being worthy to be touching or sniffing my socks!’
My heart sinks! These two young female cousins are truly like two peas in a pod! They know exactly how to tease a male footslave with their socks, raising his pathetic hopes only to dash them again, and thereby limit his sensations to those of their dirty and dusty outer footwear!
But such is their perfect right, for they are superior, young women.
As I subsequently lower my lips to the scuff-marked toe of miss Padma’s dirty, white, laced-up sneaker beneath the silken hem of her bright yellow, flowing, ankle-length sari, I can only admire and envy the short, black sneaker sock protecting her soft, brown Sri Lankan foot inside her hot, sweaty sneaker. The female sock’s aroma of young Sri Lankan woman foot must remain a mystery to me – so near and yet so far; so accessible and yet so aloof.
Rather like the exotic mistress Padma herself!’
Tale no. 7 – A Spitting Image
‘For me, one of the worst aspects of being a public footslave is the fact that I must frequently obey direct orders from the male partners of my female customers. For some reason I find it so much more humiliating to have to lick clean a mistress’s dirty shoes or boots at the behest of her boyfriend, rather than being directly ordered to do so by the mistress herself.
I don’t really know why I should find it so much more humiliating. Perhaps it is just the knowledge that the master is so blatantly ‘showing off’ to his female partner – demonstrating his machismo and superiority over the pathetic, male creature who is kneeling at his girlfriend’s feet; perhaps it is the stark reminder that the young woman concerned doesn’t despise all men – just humble, male footslaves like myself; perhaps it simply boils down to the fact that I don’t like being bossed about by other males!
Be all that as it may – I have no choice but to obey. For I am a slave – and a public slave at that. Everyone is my better – be they male or female.
A good example of what I’m talking about happened just yesterday evening. A happy, young, oriental couple, no doubt on their way out for a fun evening drinking and clubbing, approached my stand arm in arm – both seemingly already a little the worse for drink – and the oriental master spoke first:
‘Ha! Ha! You – dirt! You lick dirt off my girlfriend shoe. You swallow my girlfriend shoe dirt – make my girlfriend shoe shine. Ha! Ha! You a slave. You obey!’
And with that he then addressed his girlfriend in Chinese – presumably desiring her to place her foot onto my wooden footblock for me to kiss - for the next thing I knew a petite, shapely oriental foot and ankle, clad in a black leather, pointy-toed, medium-length heeled, court shoe with a silver-studded, decorative buckle across the toe area, and a pretty, plain white ankle sock, neatly turned over at the cuff, was somewhat tentatively positioned onto the wooden block directly under my kneeling, slave nose.
The positioning of the shapely, oriental female foot was accompanied by some girlish, oriental giggling above me.
Close up, I could see the offending dirt my oriental master and male superior was referring to – a thin steak of dried-on mud running along the side of his girlfriend’s black, court shoe. The master was right – such street dirt should not be allowed to sully the shoe of a superior, young oriental mistress, and whilst she could, of course, have just wiped it off with a tissue, it made much more sense for a public footslave like me to remove the dirt with my humble, slave tongue. That way there would be no dirty tissue to dispose of, and the dirt would simply end up in my landfill stomach. Much more environmentally friendly than having to use and dispose of a paper tissue!
As I made to lower my lips to the streak of mud on the side of the young, oriental woman’s shoe, however, she giggled further and muttered something to her masterful boyfriend in Chinese, which he then kindly translated for me:
‘Ha! Ha! My girlfriend say not want dirty slave dirty saliva dirty her shoe! My girlfriend right. You dirty! Your mouth dirty! Your tongue dirty! Girlfriend say you clean off mud with face. You rub dirt off shoe with nose and face. You sniff and smell Chinese-girl shoe dirt while shine shoe with face! Ha! Ha! You obey my girlfriend or I whip you! You obey now, slave!’
This couple may be young – in their early twenties – and I may be an old and experienced footslave, but I am nevertheless impressed by their intelligence and inventiveness. How right the young lady is not to want my dirty, slave saliva to sully her superior, Chinese shoe leather. After all, I have been licking and tongue-shining other ladies’ dirty shoes and boots all morning, and my tongue certainly tastes and feels like it is caked in female shoe-mud. So this haughty and arrogant young Chinese woman is quite right to regard my tongue as soiled and dirty, unworthy to grace the side of her court shoe.
My face and nose it is then! I will rub and sniff the dried-on mud off the side of her superior, Chinese, court shoe with my slave cheeks and nose. I shall serve her by giving her a facial shoeshine!
I hear both the Chinese mistress and Chinese master laughing at me above my head as my nose touches the dirt on the side of her shoe. I can see the side of her plain, white ankle sock crease and fold over the oriental mistress’s inner ankle bone as she kindly repositions her foot in order to give my cheeks and nose better purchase on the inner side of her black, leather shoe – the part where the streak of dirt is.
Her boyfriend – my master – mocks me as I shine his girlfriend’s black leather court shoe with my nose and face:
‘Ha! Ha! You nosing my girlfriend dirty shoe! Ha! Ha! Your face covered in my girl shoe-dirt! You just a dirty slave! We better than you! Ha! Ha! You say that – you say we better than you. You say that now, or I whip you!’
Verbal, as well as physical, humiliation. I truly have to admire this young couple. They really know how to treat a public footslave!
I adulate them both – as ordered by the oriental master:
‘Yes master. If it pleases you master and mistress, you are both my superiors and betters, if you would both be so kind, most beautiful Chinese mistress and most powerful Chinese master.’
As I do so, the side of my face inadvertently brushes against the lower side of my oriental mistress’s crisp, white, ankle sock – just a brief touch; just above the rim of her black leather court shoe.
The young woman is clearly not best pleased. Her foot is suddenly withdrawn from the wooden footblock underneath my offending face, and she screams something in Chinese at her boyfriend.
She had seemed such timid, giggly young thing at first!
The master translates her words of righteous, feminine wrath and indignation so that I may fully understand the enormity of my offence against her superior, white ankle sock. He also whips me across my bare, kneeling shoulders with the nearby public-use whip provided to my customers for precisely this sort of eventuality, whilst he verbally berates me:
‘Dirty slave!’… Whip!...'You touch my girlfriend sock with face!’ …Whip!... ‘You not worthy touch my girlfriend white sock with dirty, slave face!'...Whip!...'We not tell you touch sock!’…Whip!…'We tell you only touch shoe!’...Whip!...'Your face spread dirt from side of my girlfriend shoe on my girlfriend clean sock!'... Whip!...'Now we punish you!’…Whip!... ‘Whip you!’…Whip!...'You learn obey superior Chinese master and mistress!’...Whip!...'Now you feel pain!’…Whip!
The stinging blows of the whip across my prone and vulnerable bare back and shoulders remind me of another reason why I dread having to deal with mistresses who have their boyfriends with them. Men can whip so much harder than women!
I cry out for mercy:
‘Oh pray, master! Oh pray, mistress! Please forgive this dirty, insolent slave! Oh pray…Oh pray, mistress and master! Have mercy mistress and master! Oh pray!’
The blows continue.
Eventually the master’s girlfriend - my mistress (who clearly doesn’t speak a word of English, but nevertheless has lots to say to her boyfriend) - animatedly shouts something else to her beloved, male partner, and he at last stops whipping me.
Perhaps the young woman has interceded on my behalf? Perhaps she has successfully urged her boyfriend to put down the whip by explaining that she is inclined to show me some sweet, feminine mercy for my unforgivable indiscretion of sullying the side of her nice, clean, white ankle sock with my dirty nose and face?
Then again, perhaps not.
The master, now somewhat out of breath with both the physical exertion of whipping me and his continuing rage at my brazen disobedience, nevertheless unselfishly takes the time to translate his pretty girlfriend’s words for my benefit:
‘My girlfriend hate you! She say you a dirty, disobedient slave! She thank me for whipping you; say she turned on – want make love with me! Ha! Ha! She like see you in pain!...My girlfriend kind. She say she help clean you! She want spit on you; spit on your dirty head and face; clean you with her Chinese spit! Ha! Ha! First you beg!...You beg kind, young, Chinese woman clean your dirty head with chinese-woman spit! Ha! Ha! You beg now!... I translate!’
How could I not obey such an order, even if it was delivered by a male voice? What an honour, and how magnanimous this young Chinese woman is being towards me! I have sullied the side of her white, cotton ankle sock with my dirty, slave nose and face – thereby inadvertently spreading the muck from the side of her shoe onto the side of her clean, white sock - and yet she is prepared to not only forgive me, but to clean my dirty, shoe-mud covered face with her superior, feminine spit!
I duly beg for the honour of being spat on:
‘Oh pray, sweet mistress, if it pleases you sweet and beautiful Chinese mistress, truly this slave pleads and yearns for your superior, female spit on his head and face. This slave craves your spit, mistress, for it is the cleansing spit of a superior Chinese woman, if it so pleases you most kind and generous mistress.’
My weaselly words are translated into Chinese by the superior master, who then conveys his girlfriend’s generous response:
‘Ha! Ha! My girlfriend say she grant your request. I stand back now…girlfriend not want her spit hit me – only you! Girlfriend say I a real man; you the dirty slave. You the one need Chinese woman spit on dirty slave face!’
And with that the young master duly took two steps back, whilst his girlfriend made some most unchineselady-like noises as she gathered up a large globule of spit in her pretty, Chinese mouth, prior to crouching down, pulling my bowed head up by the hair, puckering her pretty, Chinese lips and then propelling her Chinese female spit directly onto my gormless and ugly, footslave face.
The master and mistress both laughed at me as her spit trickled down my face, tracing a track through her former shoe-mud that had rubbed onto my cheeks whilst I had been face-cleansing the side of her dirty, court shoe.
As the happy couple turned their backs on me and walked away, my only concern was that the young oriental woman’s spit would be fully absorbed into the skin on my face before my next female customer presented her foot for cleaning, as I wouldn’t want the superior Chinese girl’s feminine spit to drip onto, and thereby sully, the precious footwear of another mistress.
Only a dirty, male footslave’s face is fit for a Chinese girl’s spit!’
Tale no. 6 – Raspberry Ripple
‘Although it’s not really my place to say it, my 27 year old mistress Emma is a bit of a queer fish. She can be eccentric in both her personality and dress-sense; she can be unpredictable; moody; seemingly happy and content with her personal footslave’s performance one minute; angry and upset the next.
She can also be quite cruel. Her beloved, 3-tailed, black leather slave-whip is never far from her side, and never long from my ribs. But I adore and admire my cruel and mercurial mistress Emma – for it is her very unpredictability, as well as her whip, which quite literally keeps me on her toes.
Take today, for example. My mistress is relaxing on a sunlounger under the relative shade of a large tree in her back garden, quietly reading a book on the history of physical punishment. Somewhat eccentrically - even though it is a baking, hot, bright summer’s day – my bespectacled and always studious-looking sweet mistress Emma, her long blonde hair tied up in a bun, is wearing a light, beige cardigan over her white T Shirt, a short, tweed skirt, thin red and white striped cotton ankle socks, and beige-brown, high-heeled, open-toed sandals with a single brown strap across the arches of each pretty foot.
I am on my hands and knees at the far end of the garden, my arched, naked footslave-back fully exposed to the sun’s unforgiving rays as I scrub clean her garden path. Although I am primarily employed as mistress Emma’s footslave, she likes to keep me busy with other chores when she does not require me to kiss or massage her feet, and so I am often given back-breaking chores such as scrubbing clean her floors or garden pathway – usually within her sight, earshot and whipshot, as my mistress Emma very much enjoys seeing me sweat and labour whilst she relaxes.
It’s not that my mistress Emma is lazy; she just feels, quite rightly, that the only exercise she really needs is that of applying her stinging, 3-tailed, black leather whip to my bare, slave back, which she only ever applies to me out of sweet, feminine kindness and a desire to instil me to ever greater efforts in whatever humble, physical task I am carrying out at her capricious behest.
Speaking of capricious, when I left my mistress Emma she seemed happy enough. Her beloved whip was lying by her side on the sunlounger and she herself was languorously stretched out under the cool shade of the leafy tree, her pretty feet crossed over at her shapely, socked and sandalled ankles as she lay on her back avidly turning the pages of her book.
I was happy enough too, sweating and puffing away on my hands and knees as I scrubbed the dirt off her garden path with my bucket of water and hand-held brush. We were both where we belonged on this hot, summer’s day – mistress relaxing whilst slave works.
However I soon heard the dreaded click of my mistress’s fingers. Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, always I am listening out for that click – for it is the only way my mistress Emma ever deigns to summon me.
And woe betide me if I fail to respond instantly! In such circumstances the click of her fingers is soon replaced by the crack of her whip across my bare back!
So, as befits a personal footslave, I crawl immediately over to the foot-end of my mistress’s sun-lounger, to await her desire.
She speaks:
‘Slave fetch me an ice-cream.’
It is curt, matter-of-fact, mistressly-speak. She has no need, of course, to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, for miss Emma is my mistress and I am but her slave, there to do her bidding. She is better than me for she is female and I am male. It is the natural order of things.
Nor does she need to tell me what flavour of ice cream to fetch from the freezer for her. Although I happen to know she has several flavours of ice cream in the freezer in her kitchen, I must guess what flavour she would currently like – for I am her slave and should know my mistress’s mind. If I am right in my choice of ice-cream I shall be spared the whip. If I am wrong, I shall be whipped. And rightly so, for that too is the natural order of things.
‘Yes, mistress Emma. At once, most beautiful and kind mistress Emma. This slave obeys his superior mistress.’
That’s not flattery on my part, you understand. It’s just the humble language of a dirty slave – known as ‘slave-speak’. All slaves have to speak it – or at least they do when they are around mistress Emma.
I immediately crawl over the lawn towards the door of my mistress Emma’s nearby kitchen and fetch my mistress a raspberry ripple flavoured ice-cream from the freezer. I hand it up to her humbly, still on my knees, and brace myself for a possible whipping if I have chosen badly.
But my capricious and unpredictable mistress Emma, whom I fear and respect greatly, appears satisfied, as she unwraps the cornetto-style ice-cream and starts to lick it.
My mistress says nothing to me and ignores me, so I assume that I am free to resume my back-breaking toil scrubbing her garden path. I make to crawl away from my mistress, but it is a fatal error.
‘Slave, where are you going? I haven’t finished with you yet!’
I know instantly that I am going to be whipped for this mistake. My mistress Emma will regard it as an act of insolence on my part – leaving her presence before she has formally dismissed me. Of course, I would have been just as likely to be whipped for remaining on my hands and knees in her presence and for not making to return to my scrubbing work.
Either way I can now sense that my mistress’s whip was always destined for my back from the moment she clicked her fingers. Perhaps she is finding inspiration and stimulation in her reading material.
For what it’s worth I humbly beg for my mistress’s forgiveness:
‘Oh pray, mistress Emma. Please forgive this stupid, insolent male slave, most sweet and kind mistress Emma. This ignorant male slave throws himself at his mistress’s sweet, feminine mercy. Oh pray, mistress. Oh pray.’
In all the 5 years that I have been mistress Emma’s personal footslave, begging for mercy has never once got me anywhere. Once my mistress has made up her mind to whip – she whips. But, be that as it may, it is inconceivable that a dirty, in the wrong, footslave would not beg his mistress for sweet, feminine mercy – for hearing a slave grovelling for mercy can only add to the mistress’s enjoyment of the situation.
And the mistress’s pleasure is always paramount.
My mistress clearly wishes to toy with me a bit longer before she punishes me. As she said herself, she hadn’t finished with me yet:
‘Slave, tongue-shine my sandals.’
‘Oh pray, mistress. At once mistress Emma’
Better I shut up now, and just do what I’m told with my slave-tongue. My mistress Emma wants her sandals tongue-shined, so tongue-shined they shall be.
Her red and white ankle-socked and beige-brown, leather-sandalled feet are still crossed over at the ankles as she lays in her reclining position on the comfortable sunlounger, still turning the pages of her book as she continues to lick on her ice cream.
Her feet are the only part of her that is not protected by the shade of the tree, and so the sun is reflecting brightly off her pretty, red and white striped, ankle socks. As I lower my stupid slave-head to the side of her high-heeled, single-strapped sandal, I can’t help feeling that her red and white, stripy socked feet themselves resemble a raspberry-ripple ice cream. The thin, cotton socks are somewhat creased around mistress Emma’s shapely ankle bones – thanks to the relaxed, crossed-over positioning of her feet - which only adds to the impression of melting ice-cream.
I would dearly love an ice-cream – a refreshing raspberry ripple ice cream like the one that my mistress is so languorously licking right now – for I do remember the taste of ice cream from the days before my enslavement! I have not tasted ice cream for over ten years now, however. A slave’s taste-buds do not get to taste such sweet delicacies. My mouth is now much more accustomed to the bitter taste of my mistress Emma’s boot, shoe and sandal leather.
And so, whilst my mistress Emma licks ice cream, I lick beige, feminine sandal-leather. Again, it is the natural order of things. Both the mistress’s and the slave’s respective mouths are in the right place.
‘Shine under the straps and around the buckles – but don’t touch the socks,’ instructs my mistress.
My mistress is very kind to be so specific as to her requirements. She is clearly concerned that the undersides of her two, beige-brown sandal straps across the arches of her respective, red and white stripy-socked feet should ‘shine’ every bit as much as the rest of her brown, leather sandals – even if nobody would ever see the undersides of her sandal-straps!
That’s not the point, of course. The point is that what mistress Emma wants mistress Emma gets – and so I immediately slip my slave-tongue underneath the sandal strap on her crossed-over right foot, and taste the rough leather on the underside of the delicate, feminine sandal strap – taking great care not to brush my lips against her bright, red and white stripy sock; no raspberry ripple ice-cream for me! And if you want to extend the ice-cream analogy even further, I am clearly being permitted to lick only the beige-brown wafer cone!
But then, I don’t deserve to taste my mistress Emma’s raspberry ripple flavoured ice-cream socks. For I am a bad and insolent footslave, who has displeased his superior mistress by seeking to resume his back-breaking chores before his mistress had dismissed him from her presence.
As soon as I have tongue-shined the undersides of my mistress’s brown leather sandal-straps, and her metal buckles, to her satisfaction, and as soon as my mistress has finished her no doubt delicious ice-cream, the inevitable happens. She swings her pretty, socked and sandalled feet down onto the ground, places down her book, picks up her 3-tailed, black leather punishment whip, and stands up:
‘Slave, present your back to me.’
I shuffle round on my knees – the only time I am legitimately allowed to turn my back on my mistress - and present my bare, sunburnt back for punishment.
One of the three, stinging leather tails which wrap around my naked torso catches me on the left nipple.
Raspberry nipple anyone?’
Tale no. 5 – Dictionary Definitions
In my humble opinion the following words should be added to all good English language dictionaries with immediate effect:
Bootkiss: 1) The act of kissing a woman’s boot; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Bootlick: 1) The act of licking a woman’s boot; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Bootslave: A male slave (publicly or privately owned) of female boots.
Bootsniff: 1) The act of sniffing a woman’s boot; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Boot-whore: A publicly owned male slave employed on the streets to kiss, lick and sniff women’s dirty boots.
Feelwhip: Another term for a male slave.
Foot-faggott: A derogatory term for a footslave.
Foot-fancy: A queer or unusual footslave.
Foot-flunkey: A derogatory term for a personal footslave.
Foot-fool: A male slave (publicly or privately owned) often made to wear a ridiculous mask as he serves the feet of women.
Footkiss: 1) The act of kissing a woman’s foot; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Footlick: 1) The act of licking a woman’s foot; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Foot-nonce: 1) A male slave employed in a women’s prison to attend to the feet (and/or footwear) of female prisoners and female prison staff; 2) A derogatory term for a footslave.
Foot-servant: A male servant (employed in either a public or private capacity) of female feet.
Footslave: A male slave (publicly or privately owned) of female feet.
Footslavery: The state of being a footslave.
Footslavish: In the manner of a footslave.
Footsniff: 1) The act of sniffing a woman’s foot; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Foot-whore: 1) A publicly owned male footslave employed on the streets to kiss and lick the feet (and/or footwear) of women; 2) A derogatory term for a footslave.
Gynarchy of Barbaria: Fictional European State in which all positions of power and authority are held by women.
Mistress-speak: The curt and abrupt language used by a mistress either to command or rebuke her male slave.
Mistressly: In the manner of a mistress.
Sandalslave: A male slave (publicly or privately owned) of female sandals.
Sandalkiss: 1) The act of kissing a woman’s sandal; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Sandal-lick: 1) The act of licking a woman’s sandal; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Sandalsniff: 1) The act of sniffing a woman’s sandal; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Shoekiss: 1) The act of kissing a woman’s shoe; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Shoelick: 1) The act of licking a woman’s shoe; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Shoeslave: A male slave (publicly or privately owned) of female shoes.
Shoesniff: 1) The act of sniffing a woman’s shoe; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Shoe-whore: 1) A publicly owned male slave employed on the streets to kiss, lick and sniff women’s dirty shoes; 2) A derogatory term for a shoeslave.
Slave-speak: The sycophantic, obsequious language employed by a male slave in an effort to ingratiate himself with a mistress.
Slavepain: The physical pain experienced by a male slave (usually as a result of whipping).
Slavewhip: A feminine whip used to chastise a male slave.
Sock-kiss: 1) The act of kissing a woman’s socks; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Socklick: 1) The act of licking a woman’s socks; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Sock-nonce: 1) A male slave employed in a women’s prison to attend to the dirty socks of female prisoners and female prison staff; 2) A derogatory term for a sockslave.
Sockslave: A male slave (publicly or privately owned) of female socks.
Socksniff: 1) The act of sniffing a woman’s socks; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Sock-whore: 1) A publicly owned male slave employed on the streets to kiss, lick and sniff women’s dirty socks; 2) A derogatory term for a sockslave.
Stockingkiss: 1) The act of kissing a woman’s nylon stocking; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Stockinglick: 1) The act of licking a woman’s nylon stocking; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Stockingslave: A male slave (publicly or privately owned) of female stockings.
Stockingsniff: 1) The act of sniffing a woman’s nylon stocking; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Toekiss: 1) The act of kissing a woman’s toes; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Toelick: 1) The act of licking a woman’s toes; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Toesniff: 1) The act of sniffing a woman’s toes; 2) A male slave performing such an act.
Whipmistress: The female wielder of a whip.
Whip-pain: The dreadful pain caused by a female whip.
Whipsting: The dreadful sting of a female whip.
Tale no. 4 - The Foot-Fool
‘I am employed as a ‘foot-fool’ in the lobby entrance to an exhibition on ‘The History of Male Slavery in the Gynarchy of Barbaria’.
The exhibition is permanent and attracts many tourists on a daily basis – mainly female, and many of them from overseas. Free males are also welcome to attend the exhibition, but, unlike the women, they have to pay a small entrance fee.
The exhibition is only open to adults aged 18 or over.
My specific role is to greet all the female guests (and only the female guests) as they enter the exhibition by humbly and respectfully kissing their feet. I am secured in a kneeling position, with my head humbly bowed, over a wooden footblock on the floor on which the ladies can place their feet for kissing.
My role is to make them feel welcome, happy and relaxed. Therefore, to lighten the mood, I am forced to wear a ‘foot-fool’s’ mask. This consists of a black rubber mask which completely covers my ugly, slave face apart from slits for my eyes, nose, ears and mouth. In addition, the rubber mask has all the above facial features painted onto it in bright orange, but in a deliberately exaggerated and misshapen way in order to make me look totally ridiculous.
Thus the mouth is drawn to make me look permanently startled; the nose resembles the snout of a pig; the eyes are all wonky; and the ears are not only bright orange, but also pointy – like a fox’s ears. In addition the top of the black rubber mask has lots of little green rubbery stubs on it which make it look like I have stubbly, green hair on the top of my rubbery footslave-head.
The rubber mask also has tiny bells on it under the chin so that every time I lower my head to kiss a lady’s foot on the wooden footblock beneath my rubbery face, the bells tinkle – drawing everyone’s attention to my utter humiliation and degradation at the feet of superior women.
Finally, to complete the ridiculous and risible look, the black rubber mask has the following words written on it in bold, white, capital letters – words which sum up for the uninitiated my pathetic life as a humble ladies’ foot-fool:
‘DIRT; SHAME; STINK; SHOES; SWEAT; FOOL; SOCKS; SNIFF; LICK.’
A sign on the wall above my kneeling head further explains to the female visitors what I am there for. It says (in several different languages):
‘Women’s Foot-Fool. Ladies – please present your feet for the fool to kiss!’
As I have mentioned already, the exhibition is popular with foreign tourists, and so I am obliged to kiss the feet and footwear of women of many different ethnic backgrounds. I can normally only tell their ethnicity, however, by their skin-colour on their shapely calves and ankles as, sadly, most of my female customers do not deign to speak to me – largely because I look so ridiculous and dehumanised. I look like, and am, a freak - unworthy to engage in conversation with a superior woman. Furthermore, my female betters tend to present their feet for kissing in a rather dismissive and peremptory manner, as they are naturally keen to proceed into the exhibition proper.
Most commonly, therefore, a lady will present first her right foot on the slightly raised wooden footblock, and then, after I have placed just one respectful footkiss to her shoe leather through my startled, rubbery orange mouth, quickly replace her right foot with her left for me to repeat the humiliating process. If she is accompanied by her male partner he will normally watch and laugh at the sight and sound (remember the tinkling bells!) of me humbly kissing his girlfriend’s feet.
Even though I usually only get to kiss each lady’s feet once – and then only one quick kiss to each foot – I can usually tell a lot about the superior female standing over me just by observing the state of her feet and footwear.
Younger women in their late teens or early twenties, for example, invariably have scruffier footwear than more mature women in their thirties and forties – even if they are wearing similar ‘touristy’ styles of footwear – for example trainers and socks.
Take the young woman who has just presented her right foot for kissing to me this very moment, for example. As my bells tinkle as I lower my startled, rubbery, orange mouth to the toe of her black, lace-up training shoe, I can see through my wonky, rubbery, orange eyes that the black base of the trainer is caked with dried-in dirt and mud, and the black laces are also caked in mud, dust and dirt – giving an overall impression of scruffiness. The scruffiness of the trainers may not be so visible to the human eye, but from the perspective of a down-in-the-dirt foot-fool with his wonky, rubbery, orange eye the dirt and dust are clearly visible.
The dirt on the trainer is a sure-fire clue that this superior, young mistress is in her late teens or early twenties. A more mature woman’s black trainers would be much less likely to be quite so dirty and scruffy, in my humble, foot-fool experience.
There are, of course, other clues to my current customer’s relative youthfulness : the softness of the white skin on her ankle bones and shins; the very shapeliness of her pretty ankles; and her socks – bright, multicoloured, stripy, below-the-ankle trainer-socks; definitely the socks of a bright and bubbly young woman.
Again, the socks are displaying a degree of wear and tear – particularly at the back where the sock on her right foot, at any rate, almost disappears completely down the back of her black trainer. And even along the top of her shapely arch and instep the sock is twisted – like it has been hurriedly put on without much thought. It’s possible it might even be on inside-out!
It is, without question, a young woman’s sock.
The final visual clue to her being in her late teens to early twenties is the fashionable, beaded, ankle bracelet hanging over the top of the twisted trainer-sock. I have noticed that they are all the rage at the moment, particularly amongst young women, for I spend most of my day studying young women’s feet and footwear.
I have no choice in the matter. It’s my job!
As soon as I kiss this particular young woman’s dirty, black-trainered, stripy-socked, ankle-bracleted, right foot, she removes it from the wooden footblock and replaces it with her left foot for me to kiss. No ankle bracelet this time, but still the black trainer and training shoe laces are dirty and dusty, and the short, stripy, multicoloured ankle sock is again twisted beneath the soft, white skin of her shapely ankle bone.
The young woman appears to be with her boyfriend as I can hear him mocking me in an American accent - through my pointy, rubbery, orange ears and over the tinkling of my bells - as he puts his arm around the young lady and the happy couple head off into the male slavery exhibition:
‘Ha! Ha! What a fool!... What a dumbhead!... Having to kiss your dirty sneakers like that…I’m glad I’m not a dirty slave!’
‘Ha! Ha! I’m glad you’re not a slave like him too, honey! I’d never want a real man like you to have to grovel over my dirty sneakers!’ replies the young mistress, also in a North American accent.
As you can see, although the visitors to the exhibition rarely address me directly, they do often talk about me. And sometimes quite excitedly – like, for example, this next group of about a dozen or so noisy and excited young, female, Japanese tourists.
I can tell they are Japanese firstly because I recognise some of the Japanese words they are using ‘Arigato’; ‘Dan Tai’; ‘Kanko’. I can also tell they are Japanese just by looking at their footwear, however, as several of the young women in the group are wearing various styles of trainers with kneesocks - currently, I understand, all the fashion in downtown Tokyo - and others have Japanese writing and logos on the sides of their socks. I wish I could read what they say!
Of course, I can only tell for sure that they are talking about me (although there is a lot of suspicious giggling and pointing going on whilst they chatter and whisper to each other in Japanese) when they choose to ask questions in broken English, with their strong and very cute Japanese accents, to the exhibition tour guides stationed in the lobby entrance to the exhibition.
At least one of the young Japanese ladies, for example - who is wearing a short black skirt with plain white keds (dirty and scruffy of course) and thick, black kneesocks with a white logo in Japanese lettering at the top - appears to be unsure whether my foot-kissing services are for free:
‘Ha! Ha! Srave-o kiss Atsuko feet-o for free? Atsuko not pay?’
‘Yes, miss, that’s correct. Please just place your foot on the wooden block and the foot-fool will kiss your shoe for free!’ confirms one of the helpful exhibition guides – a young, local, female student, miss Claire, who is working part time as an exhibition ‘meeter and greeter’.
I’m not sure how much miss Claire actually enjoys her part-time job; she always seems bored to me, and I’ve heard her tell the other female guides that she doesn’t much care for the exhibition guides’ ‘uniform’ consisting of bright yellow T shirt, yellow tracksuit bottoms, plain white ankle socks, and bright, yellow trainers. She thinks the yellow outfit doesn’t go well with her Afro-Caribbean complexion.
Needless to say I have no choice but to like the female exhibition guides’ uniforms, as I frequently have to kiss their yellow trainers too, especially when they first start working at the exhibition. I am a novelty, but, sadly, the novelty soon wears off, and the more experienced guides, like mistress Claire, largely ignore me after the first few days. I suppose I’m just part of the furniture as far as they are concerned.
No matter how unstimulating she may find her job and her uniform, however, miss Claire is much too professional to be impolite or unhelpful to any of our foreign guests, and so she encourages the young Japanese woman to step forward and place her dirty, grey-white canvas sneakered and black-kneesocked foot onto the wooden footblock under my pig-shaped, rubbery, orange nose.
I can now see little balls of black sock lint stuck to the anklebone area of the young Japanese woman’s black kneesock, a sock which seems to tower above me (even though she is quite petite in stature) as I lower my startled, rubbery, orange mouth to the grey-white rubbery toe of her now arrogantly outstretched keds-style sneaker.
The tinkling of the bells hanging from my foot-fool chin seems to tickle the young Japanese lady-tourist – figuratively if not literally:
‘Ha! Ha! Srave-o kiss Atsuko dirty foot! Ha! Ha! He a fool! He a Japanese woman foot-fool! Ha! Ha!’
Speaking in broken English as she is, the young woman is clearly addressing her remarks to miss Claire again.
Or is she making those disparaging comments purely for my benefit?
Whatever the young Japanese tourist mistress’s intentions, the rest of her tour group appear to have some limited English also as, through my ridiculous, pointy, bright orange, rubbery ears I can hear them gaily repeating the term ‘foot-fool’ in their heavy Japanese accents. They appear to be congratulating miss Atsuko (for I assume that is her name) on her public foot-humiliation of the pathetic women’s foot-fool.
These young Japanese ladies have only been at the exhibition for 5 minutes and already they have learnt a new English word: ‘foot-fool’!
Miss Atsuko quickly replaces her shapely, socked, right leg with her left on the wooden footblock under my rubbery, orange, pig-snout shaped nose. Through the rubber of my snout I can smell both the rubber and canvas material of miss Atsuko’s dirty and scruffy grey-white sneaker, and the faintest hint of sweet, feminine foot sweat emanating from the lower part of the young Japanese woman’s thick, black kneesock. Not really the type of socks to wear on a hot summer’s day like today, even if they are the height of fashion back in Tokyo!
But then, who am I to criticise a superior, young Japanese woman and her footwear dress-sense? After all, I am the one who is dressed as a fool kissing her feet. I am the one forced to observe at humiliatingly close quarters the small hole in the toe of her scruffy, white canvas sneaker, and the creases in her long, black kneesock.
If anyone present is a fool – it’s me. The foot-fool.’
Tale no. 3 – The Ugg-ly Footslave
‘I am an ugly footslave.
But that is not my pretty, 22 year old mistress Jodie’s problem.
Her problem is that she likes to wear her heavy, calf-length, beige-coloured, sheepskin Ugg boots even on a hot summery day like today – mainly because she thinks they look good on her pretty, brown-skinned legs and ankles beneath her black, leather mini-skirt, but also because she doesn’t own many other pairs of shoes and/or sandals.
However, she is concerned that wearing her pretty Ugg boots on hot days without any socks - as she has been doing – may be ruining the insides of her precious (stolen) sheepskin boots, as her equally precious footsweat is seeping directly onto the inner lining of the boots.
She therefore instructs me, her personal footslave, supplied to her free of charge by the Probation Service, to confirm what sort of condition the insides of her boots are in by pulling them off her pretty feet, holding them over my slave-nose, and inspecting and smelling the insides of them.
The ugly truth is that my clever, young mistress’s suspicions are indeed confirmed. The woolly, white inner linings of the sheepskin boots are now yellowy-stained and rank thanks to the sweating of her pretty feet inside them.
My mistress Jodie therefore orders me to fetch the still unwashed pair of black, ankle socks she wore to court last week inside her scruffy, black ballet flats, so that she can protect the inner linings of her Ugg boots from her hot and sweaty feet by wearing the socks inside them.
As I roll the dirty, black socks over her shapely, feminine, red-varnished toenails and up her equally shapely, tattooed ankles, my mistress Jodie orders me to stretch the ankle-length socks up fully so that the elasticated tops will just be showing above the tops of her calf-length, sheepskin boots when she turns them down at the cuffs. My clever mistress has decided to turn over her sheepskin boots at the cuffs because she opines that the now yellowy-greyish white of the sheepskin inner lining of her boots will contrast nicely with the tops of her black socks on her pretty, brown shin and calf muscles.
My mistress Jodie is, of course, right as always.
I then follow my mistress’s booted and socked feet out of her hostel, as ever on my hands and knees as befits a humble footslave, and crawl behind her down the road towards her boyfriend, master Thomas’s, dingy bedsit-flat.
30 year old master Thomas is stoned as usual, but not so stoned that he doesn’t notice a small crease in the elasticated top of my mistress’s right sock. He slaps me hard across the face as I kneel at my mistress Jodie’s feet, accuses me of disrespecting his girlfriend’s socks, and promptly orders me to straighten her sock for her.
Master Thomas is, of course, perfectly entitled to order me to straighten his girlfriend’s sock – for he is my mistress’s boyfriend, and therefore my superior master. Besides, my mistress Jodie likes it when he bosses me, rather than her, about.
I therefore apologise to both the master and mistress, and immediately straighten the stretched-up top of my mistress’s right, black ankle sock above the white, fluffy top of her turned-down Ugg boot. I then lower my eyes to the floor and, my cheek now ringing and numb with pain, humbly await either my next faceslap or orders from my superior master or mistress. But they both now seem more concerned with shooting up and getting high again.
After an hour or so of injecting whatever drugs they have left, they hit the streets in order that my mistress may earn more money to finance their drug habit. My mistress changes into the dark, nylon stockings and shiny, black high-heeled pumps that she keeps for this purpose in the master’s flat (the bail hostel where she lives would only get suspicious if she kept such items of clothing in her own room), and the happy couple leave me kneeling in a corner of the bedsit-room smelling the rotting insides of my mistress Jodie’s still hot and sweaty Ugg boots – now with the equally sweaty, week-old, unwashed black ankle socks stuffed into the top of them.
When my mistress Jodie returns to the flat after half an hour or so she has a male punter with her, so master Thomas must wait outside. I, however, am permitted to remain in the room - still sniffing the insides of my mistress’s Ugg boots and her dirty, discarded socks – as I am not regarded as another human-being by either my mistress or her punter. I am just a superior, young woman’s boot and sock-sniffing ‘thing’ in the corner of the room, not even worthy of a second glance by my human superiors and betters as they indulge in sexual intercourse.
My mistress and her client do their business, and, after the client has left my mistress, she hands the money over to master Thomas who goes to get some more drugs. In the meantime my mistress lights up a cigarette, kicks off her high-heeled shoes, peels off her dark, nylon stockings and adds them to the pile of her discarded, dirty, feminine footwear for me to sniff and admire.
And I do admire my mistress’s discarded footwear – be it Ugg boots and socks, or high heels and stockings - for she is a very resourceful young woman doing the best she can to survive on a meagre income and with limited resources. That is why I do not complain or feel aggrieved when I go hungry, for my mistress Jodie can hardly be expected to feed me, her dirty slave, when she has her and her boyfriend’s drug habit to feed.
No, I am content just to continue sniffing my superior mistress’s discarded, sweaty, beige Ugg boots, her sweaty black ankle socks, her dark nylon stockings and her shiny, black, high-heeled pumps whilst she waits impatiently for her next fix.
That’s one thing my mistress Jodie will always be able to rely on – my undying loyalty to her superior, young-womanly feet and footwear. Whatever other problems she may face in life – abusive boyfriends; punters; drug-addiction; probation officers; the Courts; sweaty Ugg boots – lack of devotion on the part of her ugly, personal footslave towards her superior feet and footwear will never be one of them.’
Tale no. 2 – The Bad Footslave
‘I am a bad footslave.
That is why I am being punished. That is why I am kneeling in the stocks in the town square for the whole world to see my shame. My mistress Sally’s dirty, white socks are hanging from my nose – the sweaty toe-ends shoved up my nostrils, the cuffs stuffed inside my gaping mouth. Her socks are shoved up my slave nose and stuffed inside my slave mouth because I had earlier neglected to mouth-wash them properly to her complete satisfaction. She had specifically warned me that she would punish me if I failed to remove all the dirty, yellowy stains from the crusty toe-ends of her favourite pair of crisp, white ankle socks, and I singularly failed to do just that.
I therefore am truly a bad footslave and deserve my public punishment and humiliation in the town square.
Just to make sure the gathering public are fully aware of my crime and my shame, however, my mistress has written details of my ineptitude on a placard above the stocks. It says:
‘Slave’s name: slave Edward, property and footslave of mistress Sally.
Misdemeanour: Wanton neglect of his mistress’s dirty socks.
Punishment: Two hours in the public stocks followed by 15 lashes.’
Any mistress has the right to put her slave in the public stocks. The authorities encourage it. As indeed, they encourage the free citizens of Barbaria to torment and taunt a slave in the stocks. And so, for the next two hours, I face a barrage of mockery and criticism from the good townsfolk, all free men or superior women:
‘Dirty, incompetent slave!...Call yourself a footslave, when you can’t even suck clean a pair of your mistress’s dirty, white socks?!...If you were my slave I’d sentence you to 50 lashes, not 15; your mistress is too kind to you, wicked, incompetent moron!...Ha! Ha! Look at the fool in the stocks, honey, with his mistress’s dirty socks stuck up his nose!...What a loser!...What a foot-dork!...Oh, take a picture of him honey! Take a picture of the sockslave-loser cringing with fear in the stocks!...Ha! Ha! How do you like the view from your wooden window-sill, slave? Do you appreciate the view of your mistress’s dirty, white socks hanging from your ugly slave nose?... Ha! Ha! How are your neck and shoulders, slave? Feeling a bit numb, are they? Ha! Ha! Never mind! I’m sure the sting of your mistress’s whip will soon get the circulation going in them again for you!...Ha! Ha! Remember to moan and wail into your mistress’s dirty, white socks whilst you’re being whipped, slave! After all, she’s been kind enough to gag you with them! Ha! Ha!...’
And so it goes on for what seems like an eternity until I see, with blessed relief, the familiar black, block-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankle boots and frayed, boot-cut, blue denim jeans of my mistress Sally approaching the stocks with the equally familiar, tapered end of her brown, leather, single-tailed punishment whip dangling by the side of her leg. At last, the whipping which will signal the end of my public punishment!
It is one of those rare occasions when a slave actually looks forward to being whipped. But then, what else can a bad footslave such as myself expect to look forward to in life? I know I shall continue to be whipped and punished by my justifiably angry mistress Sally, until such time as I learn how to be a good footslave!
I can only hope that the sting of the whip will improve my performance as a superior, young woman’s footslave!
I brace myself and focus my eyes on a slither of mud on the side of my beautiful, young mistress’s right, zip-up, black leather, round-toed ankle boot as the block-heel twists and raises up slightly off the muddy ground whilst she slashes her righteous and indignant, feminine whip through the air…’
Tale no. 1 –The Good Footslave
‘I am a good footslave.
That might sound a bit arrogant on my part, but I am not arrogant really. In fact, I am a very humble slave – for I recognise that I have not always been a good footslave. It is my mistress, 23 year old miss Emily, who has made me such. She has beaten the goodness into me by means of her whip, the terrible sting of which I have come to fear. It is the whip that has made me into a good footslave, and it is therefore the owner and wielder of the whip – my mistress Emily – who deserves all the credit.
The first thing I do, therefore, when my mistress releases me from my footslave-hole beside her bedroom every morning, is politely enquire of my mistress as to whether or not I am to be whipped that day. You will note that I don’t beg and plead not to be whipped – for I am a good footslave, and I recognise that it is entirely up to my mistress Emily whether or not I am whipped.
I now understand, thanks to the tuition given to me by my mistress at the sharp end of her whip, that it is nothing to do with me whether I am whipped or not. I can be whipped at the whim of my mistress – purely for her pleasure should she so wish it. So by enquiring first thing every morning as to whether I am to be whipped or not, I am merely acknowledging that I am completely subject to the power and authority of my mistress’s whip, and I am, in effect, inviting her to whip me should she so desire it.
It is the first indication of the day that I am truly a good and broken footslave, as I am opening myself up to the very thing I fear most – the sting of my mistress’s dreaded whip!
Of course, I am not just whipped by my mistress Emily on a whim. I shall be whipped also if I misbehave or underperform – and rightly so. Whenever and for whatever reason I am whipped it is just, for the whipping of a slave by his mistress is always right and proper.
My first task of the day is to then kiss my mistress Emily’s dirty, bare feet. Her feet are, naturally, ‘dirty’ first thing in the morning in the sense that they contain her overnight dead footskin, toe jam and unwashed foot bacteria – not always visible to the naked eye, but nevertheless present on any young woman’s feet after a night reposing in her soft, comfortable luxurious bed.
Because I am a good footslave, and respect my superior mistress Emily and her bare feet, I do not baulk at the task of kissing her dirty, overnight, bare feet. In fact, I relish the opportunity to transfer the bacteria, dead skin and dirt of her overnight feet onto my slave lips, and then to swallow it. I only wish I could see all the dirt and bacteria I am swallowing but at least I can taste it – the saltiness of her overnight footsweat as it regales my footslave tongue and palate before sliding down my footslave throat. Because I am a good footslave I regard it as an honour to have my mistress’s overnight bare foot debris inside my own, unworthy, slave mouth and body.
I then, as befits a good footslave, must humbly wait on my hands and knees by the side of my mistress’s bed, whilst she showers in her ensuite bathroom. A good footslave never expects to accompany his mistress into the shower, for he is unworthy to observe his sweet mistress in all her naked, womanly beauty. A good footslave realises that he is only worthy to look at his mistress’s naked feet, and so I remain kneeling by the side of my mistress Emily’s bed and humbly meditate on her feet whilst she showers in appropriate privacy (although she will oftentimes be accompanied in the shower by her ‘boyfriend’ should she have been sleeping with a young man the night before).
Once my mistress Emily has showered (and her boyfriend, should there be one, has departed) I humbly await my instructions from my mistress as to her desired footwear for the day.
Being a good, law-abiding footslave – obsessed with my mistress’s feet and footwear as the law demands – I, naturally, have my favourites amongst her multitudinous pairs of boots and shoes, and I am hoping that she will choose to wear one of my favourite pairs on her pretty, soft, feminine feet throughout the day ahead as I shall be spending my entire day staring at and caring for whichever footwear my mistress Emily chooses to put on. Being a good personal footslave, however, I recognise that I must respect and admire whichever footwear my mistress chooses to wear today, as it is the superior footwear of a superior young woman, and therefore is due my uninhibited footslavish admiration and respect, even if I don’t really like it!
Today, however, I am a fortunate footslave, for my mistress is going into her university where she is studying English Literature, and she therefore instructs me to fetch her favourite pair of black and white, high-top, converse-style sneakers, and a pair of light grey bootsocks. I particularly admire my mistress’s high-top, converse-style sneakers because they are old, tatty and scruffy – covered in ingrained street-dirt which will never come out no matter how often and how vigorously my eager footslave tongue seeks to lick them clean.
I like dirty sneakers, however, because I am a good footslave – and a good footslave likes to observe the ingrained dirt in his mistress’s beat-up, scruffy, converse sneakers. That’s because a footslave is dirt himself – and he is therefore attracted to dirt. Dirt on a young woman’s footwear gives the good footslave something familiar to concentrate on – something to stare at throughout the day. It reminds him that he is obliged to obsess about the humblest part of his mistress’s attire – her dirty, scruffy old sneakers; sneakers she can’t even be bothered to replace, in spite of their well-worn and scruffy condition, simply because they are now moulded to her feet and are comfortable for her to wear.
Furthermore, the fact that her shoes are dirty also demonstrates the mistress’s complete disregard for her footslave – she doesn’t care that his ugly slave-face is permanently close to her shoe-dirt – for she doesn’t care about her slave. She totally disrespects him, and the good footslave respects his mistress all the more for her righteous and proper disrespect of him.
Besides, my mistress Emily’s dirty, scruffy, well-worn, high-top, black and white converse sneakers smell. They smell of her residual, stale, ingrained footsweat. Even though her feet are freshly showered and bathed, and her socks are fresh on her feet, I can still smell sweet feminine footsweat, thanks to the tatty, beat-up converse sneakers that will be in front of my slave face all day long as I kneel humbly at my mistress’s feet. Again, being a good footslave, I bless my mistress for allowing me the honour of smelling the stale footsweat on her beat-up, converse sneakers.
Another reason why I like it when my mistress Emily wears her high-top, converse sneakers is that I get to see the elasticated tops of her light grey bootsocks. My beloved mistress Emily always wears her converse sneakers with ankle length bootsocks and a skirt – never jeans or trousers – and so the tops of her socks are always visible to me above the tops of her high-top sneakers on her bare calves.
Yes it is true that most of her sock is hidden inside her high-top sneaker, and, left to my own devices, I would, naturally, prefer to see more of my mistress’s socks throughout the day – especially the plain, light-grey bootsocks which my mistress has chosen to wear inside her sneakers today, for by choosing plain socks my mistress is undoubtedly reminding me that I have absolutely no say in her choice of inner footwear, just as I have no say in her choice of outer footwear.
If it were down to me to choose my mistress’s socks I would probably select a pair of my mistress’s brightly-coloured or patterned socks (of which she has many pairs) – maybe even a pair of brightly-coloured ‘fun’ socks with logos or fun designs on them – to give me something exciting to study and concentrate on during the day. But my mistress has, wisely, chosen to wear plain, grey socks today and she knows that her personal footslave, being a good footslave, must respect that choice and concentrate instead on the stitching at the top of her socks, and on any creases or folds which appear in them.
The good footslave will always find something to admire in his mistress’s socks throughout the day, even if it is only the scrunched-up and creased elasticated tops of a pair of plain, light-grey ankle socks that are visible to him.
These are the pathetic thoughts which are preoccupying my completely subjugated footslave-brain as I smooth my mistress Emily’s precious, grey ankle socks onto her freshly-washed feet, and then, with a degree of frustration and regret, watch the bulk of her grey socks disappear inside her tatty old, high-top, black and white converse sneakers as I lace them onto her pretty, feminine feet.
Being a good footslave, I make sure to keep my head suitably bowed and low over my mistress Emily’s now freshly sneakered and socked feet as I lace up her high-top sneakers. I am forever conscious of the fact that her sneakers and socks are better than me, deserving of my respect and obeisance – just as my mistress Emily herself is.
I therefore kiss the dirty, grey-white, rubbery, scuffed toes of each of my mistress’s converse sneakers when I have finished lacing them onto her grey-socked feet, as an indication to my mistress of the completion of my task, and my readiness to serve her feet and footwear throughout the coming day.
My mistress then breakfasts at the kitchen table with me kneeling beside and staring at her socked and sneakered feet – as befits a good footslave. If I were a bad, selfish footslave I might be thinking about the hunger in my own, empty stomach – for I am only permitted one meal a day of stale bread and water which I receive at bedtime. My mistress Emily prefers to feed me at night because she specifically likes me to go hungry throughout the day. I, of course, respect my mistress’s wishes in this regard, as I am a good footslave, and I instead concentrate my mind on my mistress’s dirty, black and white, high-top converse sneakers and soon-to-be sweaty, light-grey bootsocks inside her canvas sneakers. Being a good footslave I hunger and thirst only after my mistress’s toe jam and footsweat.
As my mistress Emily drives herself into college I lie on my stomach on the floor of the front passenger seat of her car and observe my mistress’s sneakered and socked feet as she pumps the pedals. Being a good footslave I can truly appreciate and admire the power of my mistress’s feet as she propels the car forward through the power of her shapely, feminine foot muscles. Her foot-action also causes the exposed, elasticated tops of her light-grey bootsocks to crease and fold, giving me much to admire as I try to count the numbers of creases that continually appear and then disappear again in the tops of her socks.
During her lectures at college I lie on my stomach on the dirty floor of the lecture room beside my mistress Emily’s sneakered and socked, stationary feet and concentrate on counting the individual stitches in the elasticated tops of her light-grey socks. Of course, this task is made all the harder by the creases and folds that have now appeared on the tops of my mistress’s socks; and I am continually having to start again whenever my mistress Emily subconsciously moves or flexes her feet under her desk. But I am a good footslave, and I recognise that my mistress has a perfect right to move and flex her feet and foot muscles, and I therefore start counting the individual stitches in the tops of her socks again with a happy, cheery heart just as soon as my mistress’s feet come to rest again.
How could I possibly be resentful of my mistress Emily’s moving feet? They are, after all, the feet of a superior, free, young woman – free to move about as they please.
Unlike me.
If and when I manage to count all the stitches in the elasticated tops of my mistress Emily’s socks, I turn my footslavish attention to the dirty stains on the sides of her tatty, high-top, old converse sneakers. Some mistresses like to hear their slaves continuously sniffing the dirt on the sides of their shoes, but my mistress does not. My mistress Emily very much believes that a personal footslave should be seen but not heard, and she therefore prefers me just to look at the dirt stains on her sneakers – to study them; to get to know them; to concentrate on them every bit as much as she is concentrating on her lectures.
And so I study how the mud and dirt stains on the sides of my mistress’s sneakers merge with one another; and I also observe the tiny areas of loose stitching where the sides of the grey-white, rubbery soles are connected to the black, canvas material of the sneaker-uppers. I basically concentrate on all the imperfections in my mistress Emily’s sneakers as they remind me that, whatever human failings and imperfections my mistress Emily may have (for she is not some sort of divine goddess), she is still my female master and better, and I am not worthy to be kneeling at her imperfect sneakered and socked feet.
My mistress Emily is such a sweet and kind young woman she has even written a message on the side of her sneakers for me – her personal footslave – to remind me of my humble status in life. The black, felt-tip ink is fading somewhat now against the background of the dirty, black canvas material on the outer side of her right sneaker, but I can still make it out. It says:
‘Look only at my sneakers and socks, slave, or you will be whipped!’
It is a sweet and timely reminder to me that I must be a good footslave at all times and focus all my slavish attention on my mistress’s sneakers and socks. Nothing else is of any consequence in my humble world.
I kneel and/or crawl behind my superior mistress Emily’s sneakers and socks throughout the day until my mistress eventually returns home in the evening and puts her feet up whilst she relaxes in front of the television on the couch in her front room. If she has brought a young man home with her she will doubtless be snuggling up in his strong, manly arms whilst her feet are resting on the end of the sofa.
Now I can expect the order to unlace her sneakers from her pretty feet and to smell and massage her socked feet. Being a good footslave I, of course, remain on my knees whilst I perform these humble tasks, thereby ensuring that my humble, footslave-face is never far from my mistress Emily’s feet. This, in turn, means that I get to smell first the outside, then the inside of her hot, sweaty, converse sneakers, and then, joy of joys, her sweaty, grey bootsocks which have been protecting her feet and absorbing her precious, female footsweat throughout the day.
The toes of the socks, in particular, stink, for my mistress Emily’s high-top sneakers do not allow her feet to breathe easily throughout the day. The stinky aroma causes me breathing difficulties of my own, but, being a good footslave, I recognise that the stinky area surrounding my mistress’s sweaty-socked feet is the only air I am fit to breathe – and I therefore immerse myself in it.
Beautiful young woman sock-stink envelops me, as I humbly and respectfully place my nose in the moist folds of my mistress Emily’s grey socks directly beneath her wiggling toes, and humbly and respectfully breathe in her foot and sock odour. I also use my nose and fingers to massage her socks – thereby releasing more of the aroma. I can feel the moist, damp sweat coming off the socks and onto my slave fingers and hands. Truly I am honoured to not only see, but also feel and smell my mistress Emily’s inner socks – the parts of her socks that have been so frustratingly hidden from me all day!
My mistress, and her latest boyfriend in whose arms she is reposing (whose name I don’t know, and whose name my mistress Emily herself may not even know yet), both laugh at me and mock me as I nose and finger massage my mistress’s sweaty socked feet. They call me names like ‘sock-flunkey’; ‘sock-whore’; and ‘sock-junkie’. The master, who, like my mistress Emily must be some twenty years my junior, even asks me how I am liking it – having to sniff and massage a girl’s stinky, grey socks at the end of a long day? Then, with equal contempt, the superior young couple ignore me as they cuddle up and snog on the couch - my pathetic, slave fingers continuing to gently massage my mistress Emily’s dirty, socked feet whilst the young master’s fingers gently massage her soft breasts and thighs.
I truly deserve my mistress and new master’s contempt, for, as you can tell from my detailed description of my humble slave-day, I am nothing but a bright young woman’s pathetic and contemptible foot-slave, sneaker-slave and sock-slave.
But, pathetically, I am proud to be so, and I shall do it all again tomorrow, whatever the chosen footwear of my beloved and most respected mistress Emily.
And I shall do so not only because it is the law, but because I am a good and conscientious footslave, completely subjugated to the superior feet and footwear of my beautiful, young mistress.’
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