Footslaves' Tales Volume 4
This is the fourth 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 4 CONTENTS (scroll down for tales in reverse numerical order)
20. Methinks the slave doth protest too much!
19. Little Toe
18. Admiration & Contempt
17. Far; Near; Very Near
16. No to Socks
15. A Rude Awakening
14. Something Borrowed; Something Blue
13. At the Bus Stop
12. Promotion
11. The Five Commandments
10. The Indifference of Youth
9. Feminine Perfection
8. A Question of Loyalty
7. 70 X 7
6. Cold & Lonely
5. Female Foot-Company
4. Unrequited Love
3. Service Washes
2. The Socktease
1. Miss Zhi Ling's Foot-Masseur
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Tale no. 20 – Methinks the slave doth protest too much!
‘Let me make one thing perfectly clear – I am NOT a footslave!
I am employed as an office cleaning slave. My job is to scrub floors, with my slave-tongue, and to suck up dirt and dust off the office carpets. The office I am employed by just so happens to be an all-female office, so I am generally the only male in the building. But that does NOT mean that the ladies who work in the office have any right to interrupt my work – the work I am unpaid for – in order to use me as their personal footslave!
Sadly, though they may not have the moral right to do so – that doesn’t stop them as far as the Law is concerned – the Law of the Gynarchy. For in this gynarchial society a male slave is a male slave, and can be made to do whatever a superior woman wants, whenever she wants.
Be that as it may, I do, secretly, find the constant interruptions to my work by the office ladies an irritant! I am a conscientious cleaning-slave, and like to lick floors, but I am forever having to lick female feet, and tongue-shine female office shoes and boots, when I should be sucking carpets!
Take this morning, for example. There I was, minding my own business, sucking clean the carpet in the secretaries’ office. There were three young women in the room – each seated at their respective desks! Mistress Sarah, a pretty, slim blonde secretary in her early twenties; mistress Josephine, a slightly plumper brunette in her late twenties; and mistress Riaz, a traditionally dressed, black-headscarfed, Muslim girl in her mid twenties.
I, of course, respectfully greeted the three superior, young women as I crawled into their office, humbly seeking permission to suck clean their office carpet. Permission was duly granted by the Muslim girl miss Riaz, who was seated closest to the door, and that should have been that!
However, as I sucked away in the far corner of the room I was rudely interrupted by the blonde secretary-mistress, miss Sarah, who called out to me from her desk which was several, female feet away:
‘Sockboy, crawl over here and kiss the side of my sock!’
Now, my name is not ‘Sockboy’! It never has been. My slave-name is ‘Scrubber’ – for that’s what I do for a slave-living. I scrub and clean floors.
But the problem for me as a mere, male slave is that if a mistress desires to christen me ‘Sockboy’, then by law that is, actually, my nickname! Mistress Sarah, being a superior young woman, is perfectly at liberty to call me by whatever name she damn well likes, and I must just grit my teeth and bear it.
So ‘Sockboy’ it is!
I therefore stop what I am doing (which is only what I am supposed to be doing) and humbly and obediently crawl over towards mistress Sarah’s desk. She is seated beside the plump mistress Josephine, and I must first crawl past the black, ankle-booted feet of mistress Josephine (Jo, to her friends) before I reach the black, ballet-flated feet of the blonde secretary, mistress Sarah.
Mistress Sarah is wearing a smart, black trouser suit with her black ballet-flats, so it is perhaps unsurprising that inside her black ballet-flats beneath the hems of her black, boot-cut trousers, she is wearing matching, plain black ankle socks. Except that, on closer inspection, the socks are not plain black! They show a hint of rebelliousness on the young mistress’s part, for all along the lower side of the short, black cotton sock on her right foot – the foot which is now nearest to me - I can just make out the tops of some diamond-shaped colours; red, blue, green, yellow and purple. Miss Sarah’s ankle socks are diamond-patterned, even if most of the coloured pattern is still hidden inside her shoe!
This causes me something of a dilemma, however – for I have been ordered by the arrogant young mistress to ‘kiss the side of her sock’. I presume she means her right sock, which is now closest to my kneeling face – but does she mean the pure black, upper part of her short sock – the part just below her shapely white ankle bone? Or is she specifically referring to the multi-coloured diamond-shape patterns running along the lower side of her pretty sock?
It’s at times like this that I wish I was a footslave – for mistress Sarah is not giving me any clues as to her preferences; she is merely continuing to tap the keyboard of her computer as she sits above me at her desk.
A professional footslave would know what to do! But I am most definitely not a professional footslave. I’m just a scrubber! I don’t really know how to pay proper, footslavish homage to a young, blonde woman’s socks!
Help!
I have to do something – for even if I choose wrongly, and lower my lips to the wrong part of miss Sarah’s right sock, such that she takes offence at me, my punishment will be even greater if I completely fail to obey her and make no effort to kiss her sock at all!
The slave who hesitates is whipped!
I opt for the plain black top of her sock, on the assumption that, if I was meant to kiss the diamond pattern, she would have slipped off her ballet-flat shoe completely in order to afford my lips proper access to the whole pattern running along the lower side of her sock.
I am sweating with fear and trepidation as I kiss my female superior’s black ankle sock.
‘Tch! What was that, Sockboy?’ comments mistress Sarah, ominously. ‘I thought I ordered you to kiss the side of my sock – not the top?!’
Ahh! So I was wrong! I was meant to kiss the diamond pattern. How stupid of me!
‘Ha! Ha! Do you want me to fetch the whip, Sarah?...’ enquires mistress Josephine, helpfully.
I glance over at mistress Josephine’s feet and see that she too is wearing black socks inside her black, zip-up, pointy toed and spike-heeled ankle boots – although only the elasticated tops of her black socks are visible. I find myself wondering whether her black socks are also patterned in some way inside her ankle boots?
BUT I SHOULDN’T BE HAVING TO PREOCCUPY MYSELF WITH SUCH THINGS! I am NOT a footslave – and even less am I a sockslave! If these girls want a specialist sockslave they should employ one! I’m just the cleaner!
‘…Nah, it’s alright Jo, thanks! I’ll just punish him by making him smell my socks. I haven’t changed them since yesterday, and was out clubbing in them all night. Ha! Ha!’ replies mistress Sarah to her co-worker.
Her other co-worker, the demurely headscarfed and long-black-dressed Muslim girl, miss Riaz, who is sitting directly opposite her two secretarial colleagues, laughs out loud and joins in the conversation:
‘Ha! Ha! Please be making him to be smelling my socks too, Sarah! I love to be feeling a manservant’s nose on my socks! Ha! Ha!’
‘No problem, Riaz – but first I’m going to make him smell each of the different coloured diamond shapes on the sides of my socks, and then make him tell us the difference in the various smells. Ha! Ha!’ replies mistress Sarah to her Muslim colleague.
‘Oh, can I be coming round and watching, Sarah?!’ exclaims miss Riaz excitedly.
'Sure, come round!’ replies her friend.
And soon I am acutely aware of all three young women staring dominantly down at me as I kneel above mistress Sarah’s socked feet – the coloured diamonds on the outer sides of each of her black ankle-socks now clearly visible as her ballet-flats lie temporarily discarded beside her on the floor.
‘You heard me, Sockboy. I’m going to punish you by making you smell each coloured diamond on the sides of my socks, since you disobeyed me by failing to worship and kiss them. Start with the red diamond on the side of my right sock, and then smell each diamond in turn on both my socks. Sniff each diamond 20 times – out loud so that my friends can hear you – and then memorize what it smells like. Make sure you don’t forget each individual smell, for I’m going to get you to describe the different smells to me and my two friends at the end of your sock-sniffing chore! Ha! Ha!’
From the corner of my eye I can see that miss Riaz is wearing dark, navy blue ankle socks inside black, slip-on shoes underneath her ankle length, black dress. I am now truly surrounded by office-girls’ socks, boots and shoes – and I am feeling well out of my depth. Give me a carpet to suck on, or linoleum to lick, any day! I can tell you all about the different tastes and smells of the floors my female superiors and betters have been walking on – no problem!
But how on earth am I supposed to detect the subtle differences in the smells of blonde miss Sarah’s sweaty, diamond-patterned ankle socks! Surely the stink will be the same all the way along the sock?!
I too am sweating profusely as I start audibly sniffing the red diamond on the side of miss Sarah’s right sock twenty times – much to the twenty-something, three young women’s audible amusement.
They may be amused; but my female supervisor won’t be when she sees that, yet again, I have failed to suck clean the office secretaries’ carpet properly!’
Tale no. 19 – ‘Little Toe’
‘The year was 1790 and I was in a spot of bother in the Smoky mountains.
I had been captured by the Cherokee Indians as I was attempting to sell guns to their rival tribe, the Shawnee. As the Cherokee braves led me, bound and tethered to a rope that was trailed behind one of their horses, into their camp, I could see from the look on the fully headdressed Cherokee Indian Chief’s face that he was not best pleased at me!
He barked an order at his braves, and the next thing I knew I was unceremoniously stripped of my shirt and tied upside down to a totem pole in the middle of their village, my upside-down face resting just a few inches above the dusty ground.
I thought they were going to kill me, but my Cherokee masters were nothing if not merciful. Instead the Chief barked another order in the Cherokee language, and within seconds a row of about 50 eager, young, female squaws were lining up beside the totem pole, giggling and laughing at the paleface man – the evil gun-runner who had been caught attempting to supply guns to their enemies, but who was now stripped to the waist and secured helplessly to the totem pole at their mercy and at their moccasined feet.
Then, one by one, the giggling squaws wiped their dusty, moccasined feet on my upturned chin – a clear symbol of their collective, female power over me and my submission to their Indian-female superiority.
I was, effectively, a Red-Indian girls’ footwipe.
I could smell the musty, moccasin material of their soft, beige-coloured shoes as they wiped their dirty soles on my face. Soon my chin smelt of nothing but sweet female moccasin-sole. How the Cherokee braves all whooped and laughed at me – the white man subject to the power and authority of their women; my upturned, gormless face covered in the their squaws’ shoe-dirt.
I noticed, however, towards the end of this initial humiliation-ceremony, that one of the squaws, a particularly beautiful, native American Indian girl of about 20, with long, dark hair and deep brown eyes, appeared to be taking particular pleasure in wiping the soles of her dusty moccasins on my upturned chin. Unlike all the others she even manoeuvred the round, leather toes of her dusty moccasins inside my gaping and gormless mouth, thereby giving me the taste of her leather moccasins as well as their musty smell.
She was dressed like the rest of the squaws in a plain, brown, calf-length dress with beige-coloured moccasins – but she appeared to be a very special squaw within the village, for the other women were clearly happy to stand back and encourage her in her extra foot-humiliation of the despicable, paleface gun-runner!
I learned of the exact nature of my fate just as soon as this last squaw had removed the toe of her left moccasin from my now gaping and sorely stretched mouth, and I was suddenly released from the totem pole causing me to collapse onto the dusty ground.
As I lay face down in the dirt, my face covered in Indian-squaw shoe-dirt and my mouth filled with Indian-squaw moccasin-dust, one of the braves – who spoke some English – delighted in crouching down beside me and telling me how my life of servitude to this Indian tribe would be from now on:
‘Ha! Ha! Paleface now slave of Indian squaw – squaw of Chief Running Bull. Ha! Ha! You now slave of Adsila. You call her “mistress Adsila”. You bow down to her; you kiss her feet; you obey her – or you feel power of her whip! Ha! Ha!’
At this point I noticed that the smiling young squaw whose moccasined foot had been deep inside my mouth was running a single-tailed, black leather cowhide-whip through her delicate, native-american fingers, clearly eyeing up my bare back!
I pulled myself up on to my hands and knees as the young woman stepped forward and suddenly extended her right, moccasined foot in the dust directly beneath my now kneeling paleface. I noticed how the toe of her beige moccasin was still wet from having been inside my mouth.
The beautiful squaw then suddenly kicked off her right moccasin, placed her soft, dainty, bare foot in the dust on the ground in front of me, and said something in Cherokee which immediately reduced the surrounding braves and squaws to whoops of mocking and derisory laughter towards me. They were all pointing at me and gleefully shouting what sounded like “Usdi Kawnasawdu”; ‘Usdi Kawnasawdu!”
The English-speaking brave delighted in translating my new mistress’s words for me:
‘Ha! Ha! Your mistress say you kiss her little toe. Ha! Ha! She say she call you “Little Toe”. That your new name; that your slave name! Ha! Ha! She say she call you “Little Toe” because you now the slave of her little toe! Ha! Ha! Indian squaw better than you! Indian squaw little toe better than you! You the slave of Indian squaw little toe! Ha! Ha!’
I could now understand why I was the object of such public derision. My new ‘slave-name’ clearly indicated my ultra-lowly status in this Cherokee Indian village. I was now, effectively, the slave of the Chief’s squaw’s little toe – the humblest, smallest part of her beautiful body. Indeed, I was even to be named after it – ‘Little Toe’ – a constant reminder of my lowly status in this Cherokee tribe. The lowest of the low!
As I contemplated my humiliation there was a sudden whooshing sound of leather descending rapidly through air, followed by a sharp cracking sound and a wave of acute, stinging pain across my exposed and vulnerable left shoulder.
The crowd of surrounding braves and squaws whooped with approval and laughter, and I quickly realised that I had been whipped! Whipped by the chief squaw! Whipped by my new mistress – mistress Adsila.
And rightly whipped – for had I not been ordered to kiss the little toe of her outstretched right foot? And had I yet done so?
No!
The stinging, throbbing pain in my bare back instilled me to instant obedience, and I immediately remembered my new place in the world, humbly lowering my now slave-lips to my Red-Indian mistress’s little toe. I gently kissed it – my upper lip feeling the smoothness of her delicate toenail whilst my lower lip simultaneously felt the softness of her little-toe skin.
This act of very public and very humble obeisance brought an even greater roar of approval from the surrounding crowd of braves and squaws than the sudden application of the single-tailed whip to my bare back had done.
Little Toe was kissing little toe!
As I did so, the beautiful owner of the little toe explained further, for both my benefit and, no doubt, the benefit of her watching audience, exactly how my life would be from now on. All of her Cherokee words were kindly translated for me by the English speaking brave:
‘Ha! Ha! Your mistress say you slave not only of her, but of all squaws in our tribe. Little Toe kiss all women little toes in village! Ha! Ha! Also you work – you work for women! You do all women work! You wash women clothes! Clean women teepees. You wash women dirty feet; you lick clean women dirty shoes! Ha! Ha! Mistress Adsila say you not a ‘brave’; you a ‘weak’ Ha! Ha! You a paleface weak! You a women slave! You not a man! Ha! Ha!’
I merely continued kissing my beautiful, young mistress’s bare little toe – for the brave was clearly speaking the undeniable truth. I was self-evidently a pale-faced ‘weak’ – debasing myself at the feet of a superior, Red-Indian squaw, my back already bearing the mark of her stinging, leather whip!
And so I began my new life of slavery to the Cherokee Indian squaw, mistress Adsila, and her fellow squaws. Every day I kissed Red-Indian female feet and licked Red-Indian female moccasins. And I had to work hard – damned hard – day in and day out: washing all the squaws’ clothes; cleaning their teepees. I was nothing more than a domestic drudge and footslave for Indian squaws, and, being under the yoke of mistress Adsila’s black leather whip, I was soon no longer a white man, but a red and white man – red and white striped!
After some 15 long years of servitude I did, on one brief occasion, entertain foolish hopes of escape and release from my life under the female moccasin. One day the US cavalry unexpectedly rode into the village, accompanied by the cavalry-master’s wife – a tall and slender young white woman in her early thirties.
Initially I laboured under the illusion (for I was busy labouring over my mistress Adsila’s moccasins at the time, cleaning them with my tongue) that the cavalry had come to rescue me! Ha! Ha! I thought they were my salvation – for surely they would take pity on their fellow white man and release me from my cruel bondage to these Red-Indian women?
But my hopes were soon dashed – for the cavalry delegation were clearly on a mission of peace. As Chief Running Bull and the cavalry officers smoked the pipe of peace, my mistress Adsila, who by now had picked up some words of English thanks to increased contact and trade between her tribe and the local white population, introduced me to the cavalry master’s wife as ‘slave Little Toe’.
My mistress then ordered me to stop licking her moccasins and to humbly kiss the white woman’s feet instead.
To my shock and dismay, the cavalry-master’s wife did not object. Rather she merely sneered down at me, and at my striped, kneeling back, with righteous disdain, before happily hitching up the hem of her navy-blue, bustle-style dress to reveal the frilly hem of her white petticoat underneath and the dusty, rounded toe of a black leather, lace-up ankle boot – a short, feminine ankle-boot which I was now, clearly, required to pay my humble respects to, by kissing it on the little toe!’
Tale no. 18 – Admiration & Contempt
‘I am employed as a doormat-footslave in the lobby entrance to a ladies-only gym and fitness club. I therefore spend my entire life lying on my back in a hollow in the floor with only my pasty-white face exposed, for it is my upturned face which the ladies use to wipe the soles of their superior feet on.
The only consolations with being located at the entrance to a ladies’ fitness club are:
1. There are no male feet to wipe clean;
2. The women I serve are generally already young, fit and attractive, though one or two could do with losing a few pounds (hence their membership of a ladies’ fitness club, presumably!);
3. Most of the female customers are already wearing sneakers or trainers of some description as they walk into the club – so there are no dangerously spiky high-heels to be wiped clean on my face.
That’s not to say, however, that the footwear my face must clean is all light, feminine and delicate. Some of the young women like to wear clumping-great buffalo-style sneakers with great big, thick, wedged soles! Such heavy, enormous sneakers make their dainty female feet look at least twice the size they actually are, at least from my humble perspective lying beneath them on my back in the ground.
And the other problem I have with such heavy sneakers is the sheer size of the treads – deep, long grooves which collect what seems like acres of mud and street dirt; dirt which my slave nose is obliged to extract from those grooves as the young women contemptuously wipe the soles of their sneakers up and down my doormat-face.
Luckily, I have quite a pointy nose, so unless the dirt is very dry and hardened (in which case I have to first soften it with my tongue), I can usually get most of it out – which is very important, for I take a great, if pathetically slavish, pride in my work. No superior young woman should have to walk around with dirt and mud stuck in the treads of her sneakers – not while my face is available to wipe it off!
I do very much admire my mistresses as they tower above me. It would be difficult for me to do otherwise as I lie, prone and vulnerable, quite literally under their sneakered feet. But I am acutely aware that the majority of my female customers despise me in equal measure, as they for their part literally look down upon me and wipe the dirty soles of their shoes on my worthless footslave-face.
Take the young mistress whom I have just been serving, and whose buffalo-sneaker mud is still sticking stubbornly to my upturned cheeks.
I don’t know her name, even though she is one of my regular customers and has been a member of the ladies’ gym for several years now. I only know her to see and to serve.
I can tell you she is black – of Afro-Caribbean extraction I believe; she is also quite tall, fit and athletic looking (although all my female customers seem like giantesses as they stand over me - even the petite, Asian ones!). She has a pretty, Afro-Caribbean face, framed by long, curly black hair – but I noticed too how her face was screwed up with utter disgust and contempt for me as she began to lower the sole of her heavy, right, grey-coloured, lace-up, buffalo-style sneaker down onto my prone and vulnerable, ugly male face.
The screwed up expression on her face didn’t stop her from looking pretty – it merely enhanced her beauty, for I too would look upon myself with contempt were I in her position. I freely acknowledge that I am nothing but a weak and feeble, down-in-the-dirt ladies’ footwipe; who wouldn’t have justifiable contempt for me?
The treads in her heavy, buffalo-style sneaker were just like those I have described above – containing long, deep grooves full of mud and dead grass and foliage. At least the mud was still fresh and wet – she must have been out for a walk in the local park or the woods this morning or something.
And why not? She is, after all, a free young woman – free to walk wheresoever she likes. Unlike me – the permanently-confined-in-a-hollow, doormat-footslave! Still, at least I get to taste where my female betters have been walking, even if I can’t go there myself! The dirt on the sole of this particular young, black woman’s shoes may not require softening-up with my slave tongue, but my tongue would still play a part in extracting it from the deep treads. My poor pointy nose can’t be expected to get everything out!
The superior young woman said nothing at first as she superciliously plonked her oversized sneaker down onto my forehead, and then dragged it down my upturned face, temporarily blocking my view of her pretty, screwed-up, contemptuous face.
I felt some of the wet, sticky mud and grass coming off onto my cheekbones, and deliberately manoeuvred my pointy nose into a particularly muddy tread. It fitted perfectly – almost like the sneaker tread had been designed for my footslave nose.
Or maybe my nose was designed to fit young women’s sneaker-treads?!
When she lifted her foot off my ugly, pasty-white, male face again, she still had that same contemptuous look on her pretty, black female face, and she now clicked her teeth in an audible expression of disgust and expressed her feelings towards me most eloquently:
‘Tch! You is disgusting, man! You is covered in the dirt from the bottom of my shoe, innit? Tch! You ain't nuffin’ but a dirty, disgustin’ footwipe, innit slave?’
I had to admire the astuteness of the pretty, young black woman’s observations. I truly am nothing but a ladies’ footwipe – as she has so rightly observed. There is no pulling the wool over her eyes as she pulls her shoe-mud over mine!
I am allowed to respond verbally to my mistresses and betters – on the strict understanding that I only speak to my female superiors when spoken to, and that I utilise the most self-deprecating of slave-speak:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this dirty slave is indeed honoured to be the superior mistress’s most humble footwipe, if it is so pleasing to you most beautiful and kind black mistress!’
This is not just flattery. The young black woman looking down on me with such contempt is truly beautiful; and she is kind – for she has done nothing to physically hurt me, like stomping on my face for example (which she is perfectly at liberty to do should the female urge take her).
Moreover, I am truly honoured to be her dirty footwipe!
The expression of disgust on her face only seems to deepen as she clicks her pretty Afro-Caribbean teeth again:
‘Tch! Shut up, slave, and wipe my other shoe, innit?’, and with that she lifts up the sole of her equally dirty left sneaker and brings the clumping great, grey-coloured, wedged sole down onto my face.
In case you were wondering, the mistress was wearing shorts, so whilst I could see her long, shapely, black legs towering above me, I couldn’t see anything I shouldn’t have, such as the more intimate parts of her anatomy. My female customers rarely, if ever, wear skirts and dresses to the gym – I presume precisely so that they can avoid giving the footslave-doormat any kind of ‘up-skirt’ cheap thrill.
I should inform you also that I could just catch a glimpse of the beautiful, black mistress’s dark grey ankle-socks inside her heavy, matching grey sneakers as she unceremoniously brought each of her feet down onto my face. They appeared to be cotton ankle socks, with some sort of red and white cartoon character on the sides. It may even have been Santa Claus – though I can’t be sure.
How cool is that! I believe the mistress is wearing Christmas-themed socks even though it’s now the middle of February! I think that just shows even further the contempt in which she holds me – her ‘dirty footwipe’. She doesn’t care if her novelty socks are out of season – just so long as they keep her pretty, black feet nice and warm inside her heavy, grey sneakers.
Once again globules of mud and slithers of grass, and even this time a small twig, came off the sole of her left sneaker and onto my face – where such detritus truly belongs. For it is the detritus from a superior young woman’s shoe.
This time, as she lifted her shoe off my face she sneered and laughed down at me. I think she was particularly disdainful of my attempts to lick off and swallow her sneaker-mud from the sides of my face:
‘Ha! Ha! What a lamebrain! What a dork! You ain't no real man – not like my Darrell. He ain’t never gonna have to lick the dirt off my sneakers, innit? He’s my man! You is just the dirt under my feet. Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a dud! Ha! Ha! That’s right, loser – lick up my footdirt! Ha! Ha!’
It was nice to see the young woman smiling down at me – even if it was a smile borne of contempt! She looked even prettier when she was smiling.
I could not have responded verbally this time to her righteous disgust even if I had wanted to, for my mouth was full of her sneaker-mud. But it has to be chewed and swallowed, for I cannot leave her shoe-mud lying on my face. What would my next female customer think? Would she want the dirty soles of her sneakers sullied by the earlier dirt from the shoes of her predecessor?
I think not!
I think not – therefore I am a slave: concerned only for the well-being of my superior mistresses’ feet and footwear. And I truly do admire each and every one of my female customers, including the nameless black mistress who is now walking away from the footslave-doormat, with clean soles.
And, indeed, I admire her boyfriend, master Darrell – whom I have never met – but whom, as she so rightly pointed out, is, unlike me, a real man who will never have to taste her shoe-mud, or any other woman’s shoe mud for that matter!
For that is my job – the job of a humble , male footslave-doormat, fit only to wipe mud and dirt from the soles of ladies’ shoes with his upturned, gormless face.’
Tale no. 17 – Far; Near; Very Near
‘I see her initially from afar – a young, slim, white woman with long, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail.
It is my job to spot attractive young women, for I am employed by the State as a mobile, public footslave. It is my job to crawl around the train station on my hands and knees, and to respectfully approach any young woman whom I believe may require the services of a footslave, humbly beseeching her to permit me to lick-shine her dirty shoes or boots.
So I am only doing my job!
This particular young woman is dressed all in black – black, fake-fur, waist-length coat; black slacks; and black ballet flats with short, black ankle socks. She is seated on a bar stool at a raised table, her feet resting on a circular metal bar near the base of the stool, enjoying an early morning coffee and reading a newspaper before she catches her train into work.
She is an office-girl; a commuter-mistress – the type who, in my humble experience, usually likes to have her office shoes shined before she arrives at work of a morning.
Although I am still some distance away from her, I can see thanks to the raised hems of her black, boot-cut slacks - caused by her seated position on the bar stool - a tantalising glimpse of her soft, white legs above the tops of her shot, black socks. I adore this combination – white, feminine, ankle skin and short, black cotton sock. I do hope this young woman is in the mood to have her shoes licked today, for it will give me the opportunity to study her pretty, black socks and shoes in much more detail.
My shoe-licking services are completely free of charge, and so it is rare for a young woman to turn me down.
I crawl hastily over to the base of the bar stool and kneel humbly and contritely beside the young, blonde woman’s feet. She seems to tower above me on her high stool, though she is actually a slightly-built and rather petite girl.
She ignores me at first, absorbed as she is in drinking her warm coffee and reading her newspaper. I therefore have a few precious seconds to study her delightful office-girl footwear in more detail, since I am now much closer to her superior feet.
She is sitting with her feet demurely tucked around each other as they both rest on the lower rim of the metal bar-stool. Her socks are very low-cut, modern, sneaker-style socks. They barely cover her shapely, lower ankle bones. Now that I am much closer to her socks I can see that they are made of cotton, and that the stitching is quite thick and ribbed in style. There are also a number of small creases in both socks, caused by the tucked-around positioning of her feet and ankles. Very fetching. Very feminine.
They appear to be completely plain, black socks – no evidence of different coloured heel or toe areas, and no obvious signs of any designer logos. There are, however, one or two tell-tale signs that the socks have been worn on this young woman’s feet many times before – little balls of black sock lint attached to some of the ribbed stitches; even the first signs of some thinning in the black sock material along the instep of her dainty right foot.
Because of the low-cut style of the short, ankle socks I can also see a small, red mark on the outer ankle bone of her right foot. It looks like a tiny cut or scab of some sort. There is also a very attractive little brown mole just below the same ankle bone, but her foot and ankle skin appears to be otherwise flawless – pale and white. No tattoos.
Her socks crease a bit more as she subconsciously flexes her sweet, feminine foot muscles inside her socks whilst she turns over the page of her newspaper. I notice how the soft, black leather of her low-cut, right ballet flat creases in unison with the black cotton material of her ribbed sock, affording me a delightful, albeit temporary, view down inside the instep of her right shoe – which I notice has a dark grey, sweat-stained, inner lining.
It is such an honour and a privilege to be able to see inside an attractive, young, blonde woman’s shoe whilst she is still wearing it. In my humble experience only such soft, black ballet flats so readily enable such an event to take place. That’s why I admire ballet flats so much. I only wish I could bury my nose in the hole created by the creasing of her ballet flat, and rest my slave nose in between the sweaty inner lining of her shoe and the soft, warm cotton of her sock. To bury my nose in her shoe and sock whilst she is still wearing them really would be a footslave’s dream come true.
The ballet flats, somewhat unusually, have two thin, buckled straps running across the top of each foot – the shiny, silver metal of each buckle-strap contrasting nicely with the dull black of the soft, leather shoes and the slightly richer black of the young woman’s cotton sneaker socks. I make a mental note to pay particular attention with my tongue to the area in and around the metal buckles, as I know that this is where street dust and dirt often accumulate. I am also very much looking forward to running the tip of my slave tongue along the top of each thin, black strap. It will test my powers of tongue-shining to the utmost, since I shall have to be extra careful not to allow my tongue to touch the superior young woman’s sock as I do so!
Unless – of course – she gives me specific instructions to tongue her socks. She might be one of those mistresses who actually likes the feel of a footslave’s tongue on her socks!
But, for now, I have not even received permission to lick-shine her shoes! The haughty and superior young woman is still ignoring me – reading her paper and drinking her coffee. I am still confident, however, that she will grant me permission to lick her shoes, as they could do with a bit of a tongue-wipe. There are some signs of everyday street dust and dirt along the sides of her shoes in particular – and the left heel is positively muddy at the back: she must have been walking on wet grass at some point in the recent past!
I therefore make my pitch – always a nerve-racking moment for a public footslave, as it inevitably involves disturbing the mistress and intruding on her privacy:
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, please forgive the intrusion, pretty mistress, but this publicly-licensed footslave was wondering whether the mistress requires him to lick-shine her shoes, if it would be so pleasing to you most sweet and kind pretty mistress?’
I, of course, don’t know this young woman from Eve, so, for all I know she may be anything but ‘sweet and kind’. But she undoubtedly is ‘pretty’, and flattery tends to get you most places as a public footslave.
She temporarily places down her newspaper and looks down at me from on high – I presume with a look of contempt and disdain, although I cannot tell for sure as I am humbly staring at her black ballet flats and black, sneaker socks, as I am required to do by law when addressing a mistress.
She unfurls her ankles and appears to inspect the state of her shoes:
‘Very well, slave – you may tongue-shine the sides of my shoes, but don’t touch the tops or the straps!’
I experience excitement, and a degree of disappointment, at one and the same time. I had very much been looking forward to showing off my more advanced shoe-licking skills by running the tip of my slave-tongue deftly along the thin, black leather straps on the tops of her ballet-flats, without touching her socks! But it seems that this young mistress is not interested in seeing my more developed shoe-licking skills. She is only interested in having the dirt along the sides of her shoes removed.
Still at least it is not a total rejection. I shall lick female shoe!
The mistress’s wish is, of course, my command, and I make that perfectly clear to her:
‘Yes, pretty mistress. Of course, pretty mistress. At once, pretty mistress. This slave obeys the mistress!’
Without any further ado in case she changes her mind, or has to rush off to catch her train, I lower my face to the lower rim of the bar stool on which her pretty feet are now resting side by side. I then lower my lips to the outer side of her right shoe.
My face is now very close to the blonde office-girl’s feet and footwear. I can now see things that no other human being – however good their eyesight – can see, not even the wearer of the shoes and socks herself.
I can see, for example, a little loose stitch sticking up near the rounded toe of her right ballet flat where the sole is sewn onto the base of the leather upper. An insignificant little loose, cream-coloured stitch in the grand scheme of things, but it looms large in my life – for I am now serving as this young woman’s footslave, and must obsess myself with her footwear, even if I don’t know her name.
I make sure my sensitive tongue flattens down the rebellious, loose piece of stitching as I run my tongue through the dirt on the side of the young, blonde woman’s soft, black ballet flat.
I like to lick shoe with my eyes fully open, so that I may observe closely the stitching in a young woman’s accompanying sock as I lick. And truly fascinating stitching it is too – black, ribbed, little corridors of stitches within stitches. I only wish I had time to count the individual stitches, or, even better, to run my slave tongue down each row of sock-stitches. Imagine being able to count each individual stitch on the tip of your footslave-tongue!
But in the present case it is clear that I may only look at, and not touch, the sock. And so I confine myself to observing in more detail the little black balls of worn sock-lint stuck to some of the stitches.
When I get to the area of her right shoe immediately below the thinning area of sock I admire the tantalising, veiled glimpse of the young woman’s soft, bare, white footflesh directly beneath the equally soft, black, sock material. As luck would have it this particular area of sock is also now quite creased, which only adds to my pathetic, footslavish excitement, as a creased sock on a young woman’s foot is a sign of a living sock; it is a sock in action; in movement. It is not some static, discarded sock, lying crumpled-up on the floor in the corner of the young woman’s bedroom. The sock-creases on a socked foot move, and come and go, according to the flexing of the young woman’s foot inside the sock, which in turn is the result of a pleasurable reaction to the feel of my tongue licking along the side of her soft, black leather shoe.
I love watching the movement in a young woman’s superior sock whilst I lick her outer footwear!
But, of course, it’s not just a close up and intimate view of the young woman’s footwear that I get when I am this close to her feet and footwear. For the first time I can now taste and smell her footwear.
I can smell the musty aroma of soft, black, ballet-flat leather, and taste its bitterness.
Somewhat disappointingly, however, the delicate smell and taste of sweet, feminine foot odour are not present this morning. The young woman’s feet have presumably not yet had time to perspire inside her flat, leather shoes. I would dearly love to be able to smell along her socked instep later this evening as she returns home from her long, hard day at the office. I am sure her feet and socks would have a much sharper aroma by then!
But for now the strong smell of her plain, black shoe leather is reward enough, and I literally lap up the bitter taste of soft, feminine shoe-leather seasoned by fresh mud – especially the mud at the back of her left heel.
All the while the young woman has reverted to reading her paper and drinking her coffee. Her foot muscles may be flexing inside her short, black sneaker-socks and ballet flats in a subconscious and instinctive reaction to my slave-tongue’s humble administrations to the sides of her shoes, but she seemingly has no interest in consciously acknowledging my continued presence at her feet.
Not, that is, until I feel that I have finished my humble task-in-mouth, and, somewhat reluctantly, seek her permission to depart from her footwear:
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if it pleases you, pretty mistress, this slave humbly beseeches the mistress to inspect his work, and to indicate whether or not she is satisfied, or wishes to avail herself further of the public footslave’s service, if it would be so pleasing to you most beautiful and all-powerful mistress.’
She tuts, clearly annoyed at being interrupted in her reading by a mere, down-in-the-dirt footslave, but nevertheless graciously deigns to inspect her footwear, by turning each foot up sideways so that she can observe the freshly-licked sides of her erstwhile dirty shoes:
‘You may go, slave!’
So that’s it. No words of thanks given; no thanks expected or required. No tip given – no tip expected or required. Just contempt – the righteous contempt of a superior young woman for an inferior male, public footslave, a footslave who is now honoured to have the taste of her shoe-dirt lingering in his mouth as he spots yet another pretty pair of feminine shoes and socks some 50 yards away which require to be licked and admired.’
Tale no.16 – No to Socks
‘It is freezing cold inside my footslave-cubicle. I have no way of knowing for sure whether it is light or dark outside, since I am denied any natural light in my life - just the one, bare spotlight of the private cubicle which shines down on the feet and footwear of whichever female customer happens to be sitting imperiously above and in front of me at the time.
But I do know it is wintertime. I know that because of the way my female customers are all well wrapped up in their arm, winter coats, and with winter-style footwear on their pretty feet – boots or heavy, closed-in shoes and the like.
All, that is, apart from the young women who are going out clubbing of an evening. They all seem to still be wearing strappy sandals and short, flimsy dresses – their only concession to the cold being their flesh-coloured, nylon tights designed to protect their otherwise bare legs from the elements. Judging by the freezing cold feel of their nylon-covered toes on my lips as I pay homage to their painted toenails, the thin tights and stockings have only limited success in keeping their tootsies warm!
But they are young, and appearance means more to them than practicality and comfort. Besides, I’m hardly likely to complain at the sight of a shapely pair of nylon-stockinged ankles in strappy, silvery, high-heeled sandals in the middle of winter!
But these young, female clubbers generally only avail themselves of my footslave-services in the evening – on their way to or from the nightclubs. They want their sandals to be spruced up and looking all nice and shiny for their boyfriends, beautifying even further their already beautiful feet and ankles.
Right now, it must be morning time – probably the morning rush hour – for my customers are all well wrapped up and wearing practical, low-heeled boots, or low-heeled courts, or flats on their feet, usually with trousers. These are young commuting-women – on their way into work.
Some of them, indeed, are my ‘regulars’ – young women who stop off once or twice a week on their way into work in order to have the public footslave in the private footslave-cubicle shine up their dirty shoes or boots with his slave tongue as they head into the office.
My next customer is one such ‘regular’ – a young Pakistani woman by the name of miss Zanub.
Miss Zanub, I happen to know, is a solicitor’s clerk. I know that because she is always happy to chat to me about her life, and her footwear. Not all mistresses are so inclined to engage in conversation with a humble, public footslave such as myself. Many see me, quite rightly, as being both literally and figuratively beneath them, and unworthy of having a conversation with a superior, free woman.
Others however, like miss Zanub, are sweet and kind-hearted girls who will indulge my thirst for knowledge about the superior lives and footwear of my female betters – providing, of course, I still afford them the respect that a mere, male slave must always afford to a superior mistress. I must never forget that they are my mistresses, not my friends.
I don’t recognise it is sweet, mistress Zanub until she speaks – for as she locks the door to the dark and dingy footslave-cubicle behind her and settles herself down into the raised chair in front and above me, all I can see are a pretty pair of brand new, black leather, lace-up, round-toed and block-heeled, ankle boots beneath the hems of some black, office-wear slacks as she positions her dainty, booted feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face at eye-level.
‘Good morning, slave! How are you today?’
My heart leaps! It is indeed the unmistakable voice of mistress Zanub, the solicitor’s clerk! It has been only three days or so since she last visited me in my footslave-cubicle, but she had been wearing her usual pair of black slip-on shoes with fancy, black nylons on that occasion – low-heeled shoes I had licked clean for her many times in the past; and fancy black nylons with a familiar, flowery pattern in the stitching which I had equally admired on many previous occasions – always beneath the hems of her smart, black, office-wear trousers, for I cannot recall ever seeing mistress Zanub wear anything other than trousers to work.
But these boots are most definitely brand new! Not only have I never seen them before; not only do they look pristine and new under the bright spotlight in the footslave-cubicle which highlights them in front of my footslave-eyes as I kneel on the floor in front of the cubicle-chair; they even smell new – that lovely, strong smell of brand new boot leather – fresh out of the box!
It is quite intoxicating!
I remember my footslave-manners:
‘Oh pray, mistress Zanub. Good morning mistress Zanub. This slave is blessed and honoured by the mistress’s presence in his cubicle, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress Zanub.’
Mistress Zanub, a confident and now totally anglicised young Pakistani woman, proceeds directly to give me her orders:
‘Shine up my new boots, slave….There are already some traces of street-dirt on the toes and on the sides as it’s raining outside this morning.’
I am very grateful to mistress Zanub for the weather update. As I indicated earlier – she is such a sweet and kind mistress. Few, if any, of my other customers would bother to inform me of the reason for the dirt on their footwear.
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress!’
I obediently lower my face the few inches to the rounded toe of her right boot and begin to lick away a trace of dirty rainwater from the top of the black boot-leather. Mistress Zanub’s boot-leather even tastes new – beneath the traces of rainwater-dirt!
Although I have been ordered to lick boot, I know that I can simultaneously get away with engaging miss Zanub in a conversation about her new boots. For she is that type of mistress - one who is happy to discuss her footwear with me.
I begin, as you might expect, by flattering her new boots – for I do genuinely admire them:
‘Oh pray mistress Zanub,’…lick…lick…'if it pleases you mistress Zanub,’…lick…lick…'this slave truly admires your new boots,’…lick…lick…'if it is so pleasing to you,’…lick…lick…'most sweet and kind mistress Zanub,’ …lick…lick.
I can feel her thin, black bootlaces which run all the way up the front of her boots brushing against my forehead as I diligently lick the rounded toes of her black ankle boots.
Mistress Zanub - unlike some mistresses who tend to just read the paper and/or listen to music on their MP3 players whilst I am attending to their dirty footwear - is displaying a real interest in my tongue-shining of her new boots by leaning forward and watching my every move, and giggles, seemingly in delight at the humble footslave’s admiration of her new boots:
‘Yes, they are nice aren’t they, slave? My boyfriend, Parvaiz, bought them for me – so make sure you clean them up jolly well. I don’t want him thinking I’m not taking good care of my new boots!’
The news that her boyfriend, master Parvaiz, has purchased her boots for her only serves to increase my sense of humility. It is truly an honour for me to shine another man’s girlfriend’s boots with my dirty, slave tongue – for being a free man with a girlfriend, he too is my better, and I feel that by licking his girlfriend’s boots clean I am serving him as well as her.
‘Yes mistress Zanub’…lick…lick… ‘Of course mistress Zanub’…lick...lick…'God bless master Parvaiz,’…lick…lick… 'for buying you such a lovely pair of boots, mistress,’…lick….lick…. ‘and God bless you, mistress Zanub,’…lick…lick… ‘for giving me the honour of licking your boots clean, mistress Zanub’…lick…lick.
By now I have moved onto the toe of mistress Zanub’s left boot, for I know from experience that she is not one of those mistresses who expects me to wait until she orders me to attend to her second boot. Mistress Zanub gives me quite a degree of freedom in how I attend to her footwear.
I am very much enjoying licking the new boots that her boyfriend has bought for her – but I am finding one thing quite frustrating. The hems of her boot-cut trouser legs are completely covering the tops of mistress Zanub’s boots – even when she is in her seated position – and so I have no way of telling whether or not mistress Zanub is wearing socks, or perhaps even her favourite pair of fancy, patterned, black nylons, inside her precious new boots.
I would very much like to know – for I am, naturally, fascinated by the footwear of whichever mistress I am serving at any given time, and knowing what sort of hosiery (if any) mistress Zanub is wearing inside her smart, new, lace-up, black leather ankle boots whilst I am licking them would make my life complete.
Selfish – I know – but I’m sure that knowing what type of socks or tights she has on inside her boots would also inspire me to even more diligent boot-licking, as I would then be in possession of all the facts about my customer’s current footwear, both her inner and outer footwear.
Now, with some mistresses – perhaps with most – I would just have to accept that I’m never going to know what she is wearing inside her boots, and just get on with the task-in-mouth – that of licking clean her glorious, outer footwear. But with mistress Zanub I know I can, probably, get away with quizzing her on this matter.
It’s not that I’m taking advantage of her sweet and kind Pakistani nature, you understand! It’s just that, as I said before, I know mistress Zanub is quite happy to discuss her footwear with me, and I think that she is one of those mistresses who even appreciates a dirty footslave’s interest in her superior footwear. Mistress Zanub is a very pretty girl, and she knows she looks the business. She likes to be fawned over, flattered and idolised as an Asian goddess – and I am in just the right position to massage her fragile ego: on my hands and knees licking her dirty boots.
The boot-shining is going well, with all the dirty rainwater and faint traces of street mud coming off easily onto my inferior slave tongue, and so I decide to put the same tongue to even more effective use, so to speak. Or rather, so to slave-speak:
‘Oh pray mistress,’…lick…lick… 'if it pleases you mistress Zanub,’ …lick…lick…'this dirty slave trusts that the mistress’s most beautiful and soft feet’ ...lick…lick… 'are well protected inside her new boots,’…lick…lick…'if this slave may make so bold, sweet and kind mistress Zanub?’ …lick…lick.
It is, I have to admit, a somewhat audacious thing for a mere public footslave to say, for he really has no legitimate interest in the state of the mistress’s bare feet. A public footslave tends to have to deal only with a lady’s outer footwear, except on a very few rare occasions. Even in the heat of summer he will be licking sandal straps rather than sucking on bare toes. Such intimacies are normally reserved for personal footslaves in the privacy of the mistress’s own home.
A public footslave and his female customers must always maintain a certain professional distance!
However, I just know that I can get away with such inquisitiveness when it comes to mistress Zanub. As I said, I suspect she finds my curiosity on such matters exciting and flattering.
I can tell by her laughter that she is certainly not offended by my enquiry:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry slave – my boyfriend Parvaiz bought me some new socks to go with my boots! Ha! Ha!...’
I feel my heart pounding once again – partly from jealousy at the thought that master Parvaiz actually gets to choose what type of socks his girlfriend wears inside her new boots – by buying them for her!; and partly just because the mere confirmation that mistress Zanub is wearing socks inside her boots excites me beyond all understanding!
Oh what I would give for a glimpse of those new socks! As I explained earlier, mistress Zanub nearly always wears fancy, black nylon tights inside her black slip-on shoes and, attractive though they are, I can’t recall seeing her ever wearing short, cotton socks inside her shoes. But now, it seems, she is wearing socks – inside her new boots. And a new pair of socks at that!
How I yearn to see them!
It’s almost as if mistress Zanub can read my pathetic slave-mind:
‘Ha! Ha! Would you like to see my socks, slave?’
I almost pass out with desire:
‘Oh mistress…oh pray, mistress Zanub…oh mistress…nothing would please me more, if you would be so kind, all powerful mistress Zanub…truly to see your new socks inside your new boots would be an honour and a privilege for a lowly footslave such as myself, most sweet and kind mistress Zanub!’
In my excitement I have actually forgotten to continue licking the side of mistress Zanub’s left boot, but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seems to find my pathetic yearning to observe her socks inside her boots rather amusing:
‘Ha! Ha! Very well, slave...I’ll show you just the tops of my new socks!’ and with that the divine mistress Zanub, Pakistani goddess, graciously reaches down to coquettishly hitch up the hem of her left trouser leg and reveal the ribbed, elasticated top of a thick, black, ankle-length woollen bootsock.
Very cosy! Very sensuous – especially as I just get a furtive glimpse of an inch or so of her soft, brown Pakistani leg above the top of her plain black, woollen sock!
The trouble is that, give a lecherous footslave like me an inch, and he’ll want to take a mile. I now find that the mere sight of the elasticated top of mistress Zanub’s black, woollen bootsock is not enough for me. I want to feel it with my footslave-nose!
My footslave-hormones carry me too far:
‘Oh pray, mistress Zanub…if it pleases you mistress Zanub… this slave truly admires your sock, mistress Zanub…Truly it is a most beautiful, feminine sock, well-chosen by master Parvaiz for the mistress to wear inside her most beautiful new boot... oh pray, sweet mistress…please permit this lowly footslave to nuzzle the top of your sock…oh pray mistress…oh pray mistress!’
The hem of mistress Zanub’s left trouser leg is suddenly lowered again, hiding the top of her black, woollen bootsock from view:
‘Ha! Ha! No, slave…I haven’t got time for that now! I have to get to work, but I’ll pass on your compliments to my boyfriend in his choice of socks for me!’
And with that mistress Zanub slips off the chair and exits my footslave-cubicle almost as quickly as she had entered it, leaving me with only the fantasy of nuzzling the top of her black, woollen bootsock in my pathetic footslave-head!
But what can I say or do? When a mistress says no to socks, she means it!
No means no!’
Tale no. 15 – A Rude Awakening
‘It was 03:00 A.M and I was fast asleep, my head resting on the wooden footblock to which it is permanently chained.
As a public footslave I have to sleep outside – on my hands and knees and chained to my wooden footblock, because I am technically never off duty. The State employs me as a public footslave 24 hours a day, 365 days a year and so, according to the Law, any woman can approach me at any time of the day or night in order to have her shoes or boots licked.
Fortunately, however, it is relatively rare for me to have any customers after midnight, given the location of my public footblock – round the back of a suburban train station which itself closes at 11:30 P.M.
I do, of course, get the occasional drunken, young woman in the small hours of the morning, usually accompanied by her boyfriend, who have both been out clubbing and have maybe missed their last train home. What better way for them to kill time than to tease and torment the public footslave in the small hours of the morning – making him lick and kiss her white stilettos and flesh-coloured, nylon stockings as a punishment for making them miss their last train?
However, such occurrences normally take place at the weekends, and this particular morning was a Wednesday morning – midweek – so no clubbers about to disturb my public slumber.
It was, however, bitterly cold – and I was dreaming about being naked and freezing to death in the Arctic!
Suddenly I was awakened by a gentle prod to the jaw from the pointy toe of a feminine boot. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the sight of the boot in front of my sleepy eyes – but I soon established that I had been prodded by a young black woman, who looked to be in her mid to late twenties, and who was wearing a curious mixture of traditional African and European dress.
From my kneeling position could just make out that she was wearing a brightly coloured, African-female-style headdress, a bright orange scarf, a beige coat, a green, knee-length, woollen skirt and beige-coloured, leather, knee-length boots.
Her feet and lower legs in particular where very well wrapped-up against the cold. In addition to her smart, pointy-toed, beige, knee-length leather boots, she appeared to me wearing bright orange nylon tights, with a pair of thick, green, woolly legwarmers over the nylon tights inside her boots (I could just see the thick, ribbed stitching of the tops of her woolly, green legwarmers peeping over the tops of her knee-length boots), and another pair of black, woolly legwarmers over the outside of her boots – legwarmers which came down to the tops of her blocky, 3 inch high boot heels at the back, and left only the front few inches of her beige leather boots exposed around the toe areas.
For all the multitudinous layers she was wearing, this young, black woman was most definitely not a vagrant. Her clothes were stylish and clean, and she even had an ultra-fashionable, designer shoulder-bag resting over her right shoulder.
She was just well wrapped-up against the cold – unlike me, the semi-naked public footslave!
But what was she doing out on her own at this time of night?
Just as soon as I had raised my sleepy head off my wooden ‘footblock-pillow’, the young, black, African-headdressed woman arrogantly and imperiously placed her pointy, right boot onto the footblock and barked an order down at me in a thick, West-African accent:
‘Slave, shine my boot!’
If I hadn’t been so tired and exhausted I would have laughed! Shine her boot? But most of it is covered in black, woollen legwarmer! Only a tiny slither of beige boot is visible just below her knee between the top of the outer, black legwarmer and the top of the inner green legwarmer; and of course the 3 inches or so at the bottom of her boot around the pointy toe area, together with the back of her blocky, 3 inch heel.
A good 90% of the boot, however, is covered by thick, black woolly legwarmer, so exactly what part of her boot does she wish me to ‘shine’? I presume the young African woman is referring to the area of exposed boot around her toes, now resting on the wooden footblock directly beneath my nose, and so I lower my numb-with-cold lips to the top of the pointy toe area.
The beige leather is already quite clean and shiny, and my freezing breath causes mist to appear on the area of the leather I am about to tongue-shine. I notice also a few creases in the beige leather – a sure sign that the boots, for all their smart appearance, are not brand new and have been worn by the mistress many times before.
I sense from the tone of her voice that this West African mistress is not messing about, even if it is 03:00 A.M. She wants the toes of her boots to be shined by the public footslave and so he had damn well better do a good job of it!
She watches in silence for a few moments as the only sound to be heard is my slave tongue scraping the cold leather of her shiny, beige boot.
‘Don’t touch my legwarmer with your dirty tongue, slaveboy!’ she suddenly snaps.
I have to confess I am in a bit of a bad mood – having been so rudely awakened in the middle of the night in order to perform such nugatory work as ‘shining’ an African girl’s legwarmer-covered boots – and I am sorely tempted to reply to the mistress in the following, abrupt terms:
a) I have no intention of touching your black, woollen legwarmer with my dirty tongue. I am a professional and experienced footslave, and know better than to touch any part of a lady’s footwear without her express permission;
b) What, in any case, is the point of my tongue-shining your beige, leather boots at this ungodly hour of the morning when they already look so clean and shiny?
c) I am not a ‘slave boy ’; I’m a ‘slave man’, and must be nearly twice your age, African missy!
d) Haven’t you got a home to go to, mistress?
I am tempted to say all that, but of course I refrain from doing so – for a slave must never be rude to a mistress, even if she is rude to him, and even if she rudely awakes him with an arrogant prod from the pointy toe of her leather boot to his sleeping face at 03:00 A.M on a bitterly cold winter’s morning!
No, instead all I say is:
‘No mistress. This dirty slave hears and obeys the superior mistress,’ and then I continue to humbly lick the three inches of exposed, beige-leather boot-toe.
I sense the young African woman smiling smugly down at me, and cocking her pretty, African-headdress covered head to one side in order to get a better view of my humble bootlicking. She is clearly wide awake herself and relishing her power over me – a bootlicking slave – even if it is 3 o’clock in the morning and she should be in bed!
She makes me lick the toe of her perfectly clean and shiny right boot for a further 10 minutes or so, before eventually replacing it with her left boot on the wooden footblock beneath my face. I am just glad my footslave-stand is just that – one where the female customer has to stand! If it was one where the female gets to relax and sit down we could be here all night!
I am, sadly, beginning to become a bit more alert now, and doubt that I shall be able to get to sleep again this morning – all thanks to this inconsiderate and selfish, West-African, insomniac-mistress! My regained footslave-alertness, however, means that I can now fully appreciate the sight of a little loose stitch at the very bottom of the black, woollen legwarmer covering the African mistress’s left boot. My footslave-hormones kick in, and I almost find myself wishing that the African mistress would give me an order to kiss and pay homage to her black legwarmers, so that I could warm my still freezing and numb lips on their thick, black wool.
But the outer legwarmers are clearly designed to warm the mistress’s boot – not my slave lips! The comfort of her inanimate boot is of much more importance than the cold lips of a living, breathing footslave! That, of course, is because the boot is feminine, whilst the slave is masculine, and feminine is always better and more important than masculine!
I find myself wondering whether this well-wrapped up, black mistress may even have another layer of clothing on her already well-protected feet. Could she possibly be wearing thick, woollen socks inside her boots, along with her orange, nylon tights and green, woolly, inner legwarmers? It’s quite possible, though it’s hard to tell just from licking the outside of her leather boots. I can certainly feel something soft beneath the cold leather of the boot, but it may just be her tights-covered toes, or even the bottoms of her green legwarmers covering the tops of her sweet, African toes!
Given her West African accent, I’m assuming that this young woman still lives most of the time in Africa, and is only visiting the Gynarchy. She probably isn’t used to such bitterly cold weather, and her pretty African feet certainly deserve to be well wrapped up on a night like this.
But all of that begs the question again – what is she doing wandering the streets at this time of night?
I begin to feel sorry for her! My natural, male footslavish-submissiveness and protectiveness begins to kick in as I wake up. I am concerned for the well-being of this strange, young African mistress’s soft and delicate African feet. I want to know that her precious feet are warm and protected inside her boots, for she is my female better.
She knows she is better than me, and I know it. And if anybody else was about to observe us at this time of night – the African mistress and her pathetic, bootlicking footslave - they would know it too.
She says nothing more as I continue to lick the shiny, beige, leather toe area of her stylish, left, black-legwarmer-covered boot for a further 10 minutes or so.
Then, as rudely as she arrived, she is gone – without so much as a by-your-leave!
I almost feel like calling her back! I feel like praising and blessing her for disturbing my sleep and forcing me to lick her boots at 3 o’clock in the morning! For I am feeling lonely now, and would be quite prepared to pay homage to each and every aspect of her footwear throughout the rest of the night should she so wish me to. I would quite happily now kiss the nylon of her bright-orange-stockinged, African knees; I would kiss the thick, ribbed stitching of the woollen tops of her inner, green legwarmers which are peeping out from inside the tops of her smart, beige-leather kneeboots; then I would kiss and sniff all along the exposed slither of beige, leather boot above the top of her black, woollen outer legwarmers; then I would run my slave nose down each and every groove in the ribbed stitching of those thick, black outer legwarmers; and finally I would kiss and lick the exposed toe and heel areas of her stylish, beige-leather boots.
And I would ask for no reward for doing all this, other than the reward of knowing that I was paying due homage to the feet and footwear of a superior and selfish, haughty young African woman who could not sleep, and therefore got out of her nice, warm bed and dressed herself up in order to disturb the slumber of a nearby public footslave.
For I really cannot think of any other reason why this young woman should have come to see me at 03:00 A.M. in the morning.
She was a complete, but delightful, feminine mystery!’
Tale no. 14 – Something Borrowed; Something Blue
‘I am employed as an office shoe-lick in a large office consisting of several hundred women. I am chained to the wall in the lobby entrance to the ladies’ rest room, on my hands and knees, my face permanently lowered over a plain, wooden footblock on which the office ladies can place their feet for cleaning.
I am, as far as I know, the only male in the building.
I have been here for 15 years, and will more than likely continue to be employed here in this capacity for another 15 years for, whilst the female employees come and go on maternity leave, career breaks, level transfers and promotion, my job has absolutely no prospects of promotion, or even of a sideways move.
I am just the office shoelick; I lick female shoes and boots for a living, and I always will.
One of the joys of being a shoelick in a large office, however, is the sheer variety of female feet and footwear that I get to service with my slave tongue: sweet, feminine feet of all shapes and sizes – from the petite and dainty to the large and fat; and, of course, many different styles of footwear, from soft ballet flats through to spike-heeled, knee-length boots.
And not just black shoes and boots, for this particular office does not have a dress code as such, and so the ladies are free to express their individual personalities through their choice of footwear. Some even seem to delight in wearing brightly coloured and almost zany footwear to work – one young woman (I don’t know her name for she has never deigned to tell me) regularly wears garish, bright orange luminous leg warmers, with yellow flats and black socks! She likes me to kiss her black socks, and is always most insistent that my lips and nose should not brush against her luminous, orange leg warmers as I am doing so.
And that is the other joy of being an office footslave – getting to know each and every lady’s foot-preferences: whether she likes her shoes or boots to be licked, or just kissed; whether she likes her socks or stockings to be honoured, or just her outer footwear; whether she wears the same socks two days in a row, or changes her socks every day. Such little details keep my job interesting, even if it is totally unpaid, oral labour and I am going nowhere.
Of course, with all the inevitable staff movements amongst the superior, free females of the office I am regularly introduced to new pairs of feet. The female mentors always make sure that the new female members of staff are made fully aware of the shoelick-facility at the entrance to the female restroom. I am never introduced to the new lady by name, since I don’t have a name, and don’t need to know the superior lady’s name in order to lick clean her dirty, office shoes. I am invariably just described to the newcomer as the ‘office shoelick’.
However, over time, I do get to know the names of some of the ladies – my ‘regulars’ so to speak. And one such ‘regular’ is the lady whose feet are inevitably the first that I get to see every morning – those of the office cleaning lady, a young woman by the name of miss Neepa.
Miss Neepa is of Indian origins, and is a very genteel and pretty young woman in her early twenties. She is very short and petite in stature, though she, of course, seems to tower masterfully above me as I am confined permanently down on the ground on my hands and knees.
I always think miss Neepa looks very fetching in her shiny blue tabard, her plain, black leggings, and her heavy, black leather, calf-length, biker boots which seem so incongruous on such a sweet-natured and softly-spoken, slightly-built Indian girl. Her biker boots even make her petite and dainty feet look grossly oversized.
Although she is primarily in the lobby of the ladies’ restroom first thing every morning in order to mop the floor, miss Neepa always stops what she is doing in order to do me the honour of placing her heavy biker boots, one after the other, onto my wooden footblock for me to give them a quick lick and a shine.
How I love licking miss Neepa’s big, heavy, biker-style boots at the start of each working day! They always taste and smell foul – really musty. I think she has had the boots for several years now as, no matter how hard I lick, I can never seem to remove the various scuff marks on the rounded toes or the ingrained dirt along the tops of the soles and underneath the many, dull metal buckles. They are certainly a well-worn pair of boots and miss Neepa never seems to wear anything else on her pretty, Indian feet – not even in the summer months!
Miss Neepa’s tight, black leggings only reach down to the tops of her shapely, brown calf and shin muscles, and so I always get a nice view of the tops of her bootsocks inside her boots. Being the creature of habit that she clearly is (or perhaps she is just poor and cannot afford much in the way of footwear) miss Neepa invariably wears thick, cream-coloured ankle socks inside her boots. They may have once been white socks, but if so they have become somewhat discoloured with regular wear.
My only regret is that, because her bootsocks are only ankle-length, the tops of her socks are out of reach of my nose and tongue as I diligently attempt to tongue-polish the musty-smelling leather at the tops of her boots. I can look at, but not touch or smell the elasticated tops of her cream-coloured, whitish ankle socks inside her boots, and it is very frustrating for a worshipful and attentive footslave such as myself!
Nevertheless, the sheer honour of licking an Indian cleaning-girl’s dirty, leather calf-length boots outweighs any slavish frustrations on my part, and I always very much enjoy my early morning encounter with miss Neepa’s heavy, black, metal-buckle covered biker boots before the shoes and boots of the actual, female office workers start to present themselves on my wooden footblock for kissing and licking.
This morning, however, I am in for a shock! For the first time in I don’t know how long it is not the familiar tight, black leggings and heavy black biker-boots of miss Neepa that greet me first thing in the morning, but the black, denim jeans and flat, black patent leather, slip-on shoes with dark blue, ankle-length towelling socks of another Indian girl.
Like miss Neepa, she is carrying a bucket and a mop, and I can just see out of the corner of my kneeling eye that she is wearing a blue tabard – so she is evidently the cleaner. But she must be a new cleaner!
My heart sinks! Has miss Neepa moved on without so much as a ‘by your leave’? Am I never to see her sweet, feminine, clodhopping biker boots ever again?
The female stranger, who like miss Neepa appears to be in her early to mid twenties, sees the evident consternation on my gormless footslave-face:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave look dumb! Ha! Ha! You look stupid! You the stupid shoelick! Ha! Ha!’
She puts down her bucket and mop and walks slowly up to my footblock, but without placing one of her feet onto the wood for kissing. She has just come to explore. She is clearly curious (rather like me!)
‘Ha! Ha! My cousin Neepa go away on holiday to India. I do her job while she away! She tell me about you. She say you a dirty shoe-pig! You the office shoelick! Ha! Ha! She say you like lick girls’ dirty boots and shoes? Ha! Ha! You a creep! You a fool! Ha! Ha!’
So, I now know that this young Indian woman is miss Neepa’s cousin, and that miss Neepa herself is off on a well-earned holiday. Furthermore, during her handover to her cousin, she has clearly accurately described my role and character to her Indian relative. I find the incredulity in the young Indian cleaning-woman’s voice stirring – the fact that she clearly finds it hard to believe that I could actually like licking young women’s dirty shoes and boots!
I decide I must reassure this young woman that this is indeed the case, since my footslave-tongue is already aching to lick the dust off the sides of her otherwise pristine, patent leather slip-ons!
‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you sweet, feminine mistress, this dirty shoelick does indeed like to lick clean superior mistresses’ dirty shoes and boots, and would be truly honoured to remove the dirt from the side of the sweet and powerful mistress’s shoes, if it would be so pleasing to you, most kind and beautiful miss Neepa’s cousin.’
Of course, I don’t yet know whether or not this strange Indian girl is herself ‘sweet’ or ‘kind’, but she is certainly, like her cousin miss Neepa, extremely beautiful, and I do very much like her patent, black leather, slip-on shoes and thick, dark-blue towelling socks. I am hoping, therefore, that my flattery of her cousin, and her good self, will get my lips onto those sweet, Indian shoes and socks. This could, dare I say it, be an even better wake-up call than miss Neepa’s biker boots – for I just might get to kiss and pay slavish homage to an Indian girl’s socks as well!
Miss Neepa’s replacement laughs out loud. I just hope she has understood my obsequious slave-speak, for it is clear from her own broken English and heavy accent that this particular young Indian woman, unlike her cousin miss Neepa, has not been in the country long:
‘Ha! Ha! My name Reshma! You call me miss Reshma! You a slave! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, miss Reshma. God bless you, miss Reshma!’
Always nice to be on first name terms with a superior mistress so soon in one’s working relationship with her!
‘Ha! Ha! I – Gujerati girl. You want lick Gujerati girl dirty shoe?’
My heart starts racing! An invitation to lick a Gujerati mistress’s slip-on, patent black leather shoe! Fresh from India!
I make my willingness to lick miss Reshma’s shoe perfectly clear to her:
‘Oh pray miss Reshma, if it pleases you mistress Reshma, this dirty shoelick would indeed be honoured to taste the dirt on your pretty, black shoe, if it so pleases you most sweet and kind beautiful mistress Reshma!’
You would think, wouldn’t you, that a new office cleaner on her first day, would be wanting to concentrate on her floor-mopping? To make a good impression on her new employers? But miss Reshma appears to be in no rush to mop the floor of the ladies’ restroom!
Nor, sadly, dos she appear to be in any hurry to have her shoe licked! Both her black, shiny, slip-on shoes remain stubbornly fixed on the tiles of the floor in front of my wooden footblock. I hope she is not just one of these shoe-teases!
‘Ha! Ha! Neepa say you like wery dirty boots and shoes! She say you like taste thick mud on girl shoe, isn’t it?’
Whilst I am indebted to miss Neepa for passing on such detailed, and accurate, information to her newly-arrived Indian cousin from Gujerat, I do wish that miss Reshma would just get on with placing her shapely, right foot onto my wooden footblock so that I might start licking her shoe. Apart from anything else I am dying for a closer look at those dark blue towelling socks! They look decidedly well-worn and ropey, ill-fitting even, on miss Reshma’s pretty feet.
Be that as it may, I would very much like to study the pattern in the stitching of the towelling socks, and to bury my nose in them. For they are the chosen ankle socks of a superior, young woman!
I therefore, politely but somewhat impatiently, confirm my predilection for ‘wery’ muddy shoes and boots:
‘Oh pray sweet mistress, if it pleases you most beautiful and esteemed mistress Reshma, this dirty shoelick does indeed like the taste and texture of very muddy female shoes and boots, if it is pleasing to you most powerful mistress Reshma.’
Miss Reshma appears to examine her shoes. She twists her right foot coquettishly to one side beneath her, causing her dark blue towelling sock to crease and fold enticingly before my very eyes!
‘Ha! Ha! Reshma shoe not dirty enough for slave!...You wait here…I go and make shoe wery dirty for slave!....Ha! Ha!...I make Gujerati girl shoe nice and dirty for stupid slave to lick, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!....’
And with that miss Reshma leaves the lobby and heads outside, presumably towards the nearby office garden where the office ladies can sit and relax with a cigarette and enjoy a well-earned break. I’ve never actually seen the garden myself, but I have tasted it many times on the soles of the various office ladies’ shoes.
Much as I appreciate miss Reshma’s kind gesture of offering to muddy-up her shoes, I am impatient to start licking them! They already looked sufficiently dirty to me, with streaks of dust on the otherwise shiny black, patent leather! Besides if I am totally honest, I am more interested in getting my nose near miss Reshma’s socks. I do like girls’ ropey-looking towelling-socks, and it’s not often that I get to nose a pair of socks like that!
I also think it is somewhat amusing that miss Reshma has ordered me to wait for her! Like I can go anywhere - chained up as I am to the wall of the restroom lobby!
Be that as it may I have no choice but to obey mistress Reshma, and to anxiously await her return. At least I will have something to look forward to when she returns – fresh mud on what for me will be a ‘fresh’ pair of shoes!
When she does stroll back into the lobby I am not disappointed! It must be damp outside, for the soles and sides of her patent black leather slip-on shoes are now covered in wet, sticky mud. Indeed, the irony of the situation is that miss Reshma is inadvertently creating more work for herself, for the tiled floor of the restroom lobby now has a visible trail of mud from her shoes – mud which she will have to mop up, for my tongue, regrettably, won’t reach that far!
Miss Reshma appears happy and unconcerned about this however. In fact, I sense that this is going to be the highlight of her day – having her dirty, muddy slip-on shoes licked clean by a dirty office-shoelick!
It will almost certainly be the highlight of my day!
Mud is falling off the flat heel of her right shoe as she imperiously and haughtily stretches her right leg forward and places her dainty foot onto my wooden footblock. I can now smell the mud!
More importantly, to my simultaneous delight and horror, I can see that she has managed to smear some wet mud onto the side of her dark-blue towelling sock – just below her outer, right ankle bone! My heart races at the very thought of being ordered to lick the mud off the side of miss Reshma’s sock!
But my initial orders are clear:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave lick dirty mud off side of miss Reshma shoe! Ha! Ha! You lick Gujerati girl shoe- mud! Swallow! Ha! Ha!...Make Reshma shoe shine!’
Without any further ado I lower my tongue to the side of miss Reshma’s patent black leather, slip-on shoe – to the muddiest part - and assiduously start licking.
My slave tongue is soon coated in fresh, garden mud.
Miss Reshma expresses her rightful disgust at me:
‘Ha! Ha! You dirty! You a filthy pig! You a shoe-pig! Ha! Ha! You lick mud from Gujerati girl dirty shoe! Ha! Ha! You make Reshma feel sick! Ha! Ha!’
It is only natural, I suppose, that a young woman whose job it is to clean things should be disgusted and repelled at a footslave who revels in dirt and mud. What the sweet young Gujerati woman doesn’t seem to realise is that this is not just any old mud. It is the mud from the side of her shoe – and is therefore precious mud.
Not as precious, however, as the mud on the side of her sock! Now that is pure gold! Golden mud! Sock mud! I am tasting the mud from her shoe leather, but I am looking at, and longing to taste, the mud on the side of her sock!
I must be being obvious about it, for miss Reshma has clearly noticed my perverse fixation with the sight of her muddy sock:
‘Ha! Ha! You like Reshma sock? You want clean Gujerati girl dirty sock?’ she asks, again almost incredulously.
Incredulous or not, as far as I am concerned this is a rhetorical question! Would I like to lick the mud off the side of a beautiful, young Gujerati woman’s dark blue , and somewhat ropey-looking, towelling sock?
Erm…let me think about that for a moment:
OF COURSE I WOULD!
Needless to say, I cannot be so facetious in my reply to miss Reshma’s disbelieving but entirely legitimate enquiry:
‘Oh pray miss Reshma, if it pleases you mistress Reshma, this slave would indeed be honoured to clean your dirty sock for you, if you would be so kind to the slave, sweet mistress Reshma!’ I utter through my now muddy lips.
Miss Reshma laughs down at me, and tilts her right foot to one side directly in front of my face in order to inspect more closely the muddy streak on the outer side of her thick, blue, ankle-length towelling sock:
‘Ha! Ha! Sock not mine – sock Neepa’s! She borrow me her socks! Ha! Ha!...’
She pauses as if to let the full import of her words sink in to my thick skull. Although her cousin, miss Neepa, may not be physically present, but is currently back in India sunning herself and renewing acquaintances with her relatives, her socks are nevertheless present – on the feet of her equally beautiful, Gujerati cousin! And moreover, they are a pair of miss Neepa’s socks that I cannot recall ever having seen before! She must wear them during her time off – in her sneakers perhaps – for I am sure that I have never seen her wear dark blue socks inside her ubiquitous black leather biker boots!
This really is just too thrilling to be true!
Miss Reshma laughs further at me as she continues to examine her cousin’s socks on her own, pretty feet:
‘Ha! Ha! Neepa sock dirty – but slave mouth only make sock worse! Ha! Ha! Slave dirty mouth only make mud spread on sock!...You wipe off mud from sock with nose…Use end of nose…make sock clean…you obey Reshma!... MOVE!’
I wonder if miss Reshma is shouting at me because she has detected a hint of disappointment in my slave features. She must sense that I would truly love to taste the mud on her (or should that be miss Neepa’s?) sock, not just feel it on the end of my nose!
But miss Reshma is, of course, perfectly correct. Attempting to lick the mud off the side of her ankle-length towelling sock with my already muddy slave-lips and tongue would only make it worse – and miss Reshma’s sock is not there for my pleasure! It has been lent to her by her cousin, miss Neepa, in order to protect her foot inside her shoe; to help keep her cousin’s foot nice and warm and comfortable. And now that sock needs to be cleaned, for it has been inadvertently smeared with mud whilst mistress Reshma was kindly dirtying up her shoes for me! Only my nose might be able to successfully wipe off the offending muddy stain from the side of the dark blue towelling sock.
And so I obediently lower the tip of my ugly, pointy nose to the side of the sock. Any initial disappointment I may have felt is soon dissipated, as the feel of the soft, cotton material of the Gujerati girl’s thick towelling sock envelops the sensitive tip of my nose! I can feel the wet mud also, as I attempt to flick it off the superior, borrowed sock.
When I inhale through my nose I can smell only mud. The socks, however well-worn and ropey looking they may be, and however much they may previously have been inside miss Neepa’s imagined sneakers, are seemingly fresh on her female cousin’s feet this morning. Miss Reshma, and her cousin miss Neepa, are basically both clean girls, as well as being cleaning-girls. And as professional cleaners they are obsessed with cleanliness, just as I am dirty, and therefore obsessed with dirt and mud.
We are opposites – but opposites attract! And I just know that miss Reshma will be looking forward to our shoe and sock cleaning sessions every morning from now on every bit as much as I will be – until such time as her cousin, miss Neepa, returns from her holiday in India.
For I must admit that , for all my joy and excitement at serving miss Reshma and her ‘wery’ dirty black shoes and borrowed, blue towelling socks, I do still hanker over miss Neepa’s scuff-marked black biker boots and unreachable cream-coloured bootsocks!’
Tale no. 13 – At the Bus Stop
‘It is just after midnight, and it is only myself and my mistress Zeenat who are waiting at the bus shelter for the last bus home.
It is very cold and dark, for it is the wintertime, and we are somewhat exposed to the elements as, apart from a roof, the bus shelter offers little else in the way of protection. My mistress’s pure, feminine breath, and my dirty male-slave breath, is freezing in front of us.
At least my mistress Zeenat is well wrapped up. A slightly-built and petite young woman of Pakistani origins, my 23 year old mistress is wearing a brown, anorak-style hoodie coat; a black scarf which she is using to partially cover her pretty mouth; black gloves; black leggings which reach down to her lower calf and shin muscles; black ankle socks with a logo of a red dragon on the inner and outer ankles; and plain, black, lace-up sneakers. Only a small expanse of her soft, brown, Pakistani skin (apart from her upper face) is therefore exposed to the elements – that between the elasticated tops of her black ankle socks and the lower hems of her tight, black leggings. My mistress Zeenat would look almost tomboyish were it not for her long, black hair tied back in a ponytail underneath her brown hoodie.
I, on the other hand, am almost totally exposed to the elements, as I am dressed as a slave should be in only my white slave-shorts and with heavy, metal shackles on my arms and legs – shackles which allow me just enough movement to be able to crawl on my hands and knees to heel behind my superior, young, Pakistani mistress, or to lie humbly at her sneakered and socked feet as I am doing now whilst she sits on the green plastic bench that counts as a seat beneath the corrugated iron roof of the suburban bus stop.
Although we are alone, there is little in the way of traffic, it is late at night, and it is pitch dark apart from the light of the bus stop and the nearby street lamp, my mistress is nevertheless perfectly safe from attack, as I would lay down my life for my mistress Zeenat in order to protect her from harm.
Right now, I am laying down my face in the dirt so that my mistress can rest the dirty sole of her right, sneakered foot on my upturned left cheek. She is using my face to protect the sole of her right sneaker from the dirt on the ground – the discarded cigarette ends and blackened chewing gum that festoon the cold, concrete floor of the empty bus stop. Her left sneakered foot is, however, resting in that very dirt directly in front of my face, and thanks to the light of the bus stop I have a clear and close up view of one of the red dragon logos on the inner side of her left ankle sock. The red dragons make her otherwise plain, black, cotton ankle socks look almost oriental, though I believe they are actually a souvenir of my mistress’s college trip to Wales last year (which happened just before she purchased me at auction as her personal footslave).
My mistress Zeenat has only been living and studying in Europe for some 3 years and so still speaks English with a strong, and very appealing, Pakistani accent. I nevertheless fear her sweet, feminine, Pakistani voice, for when she speaks it will usually be to boss me about or to scold me. My mistress Zeenat rarely has any kind words for me – her slave. And why should she? She is not my friend or companion; she is my female master and better, and I am only permitted to be in her presence in order to do her bidding.
The only exceptions to her disdainful and dismissive manner towards me will occur when she has been drinking and is feeling ‘chilled out’, as she is probably feeling now, having just left a student party hosted by one of her fellow, female Philosophy students. My mistress is, of course, female and therefore very bright, and knows lots about all the great female philosophers of the Gynarchy. Unlike me. I am male, and therefore thick, and only know about female shoes and socks, specifically my mistress Zeenat’s shoes and socks, since they are all I ever get to study.
As I study the slightly creased red dragon logo on the inner side of my mistress Zeenat’s left sock, she suddenly speaks down to me:
‘Slave, why are you being shaking under my feet, isn’t it?... Ha! Ha! Are you being frightened of me, or are you just being feeling the cold?’
Her voice is slightly muffled due to the nice, warm scarf covering her lower face.
I immediately apologise to my mistress Zeenat for disturbing her with my shaking (a footslave should be seen and not felt) and offer her the explanation for my uncontrollable quivering underneath the dust and dirt-covered sole of her right sneaker:
‘Oh pray mistress Zeenat, please forgive me mistress Zeenat. This dirty slave does truly fear the mistress, and her power over him, and continuously throws himself on the sweet, feminine kindness and mercy of the superior mistress, if it so pleases you most beautiful mistress Zeenat, but the dirty slave must confess that his quaking on this occasion is a consequence of the cold and inclement weather, if you would be so kind mistress Zeenat, as the male slave is, quite rightly, unworthy of clothing that would protect him from the elements, and is semi-naked, as a humble footslave should be in the presence of his superior mistress, if it so pleases you sweet and kind feminine mistress Zeenat.’
Mistress Zeenat just laughs at my cringing and obsequious slave-speak response:
‘Ha! Ha! Well, your shaking is being disturbing me! You must be stopping it at once or I will be warming you up with my strap!’
She is referring to the brown, leather punishment-strap that she (and virtually every other slave-owning mistress in the Gynarchy) carries with her everywhere on her belt – the stinging strap which is used for ad hoc chastisement and correction of a disobedient slave on the streets until such time as he can be properly flogged with a single-tailed cowhide whip in the privacy of the mistress’s own home.
Not that my mistress Zeenat straps, or whips, me often. Certainly never without just cause. She is by no means a cruel mistress although, naturally, she will not hesitate to correct me if I displease or disobey her.
Right now, it seems, my involuntary shivering is displeasing her, and so I must do my best to stop it. I humbly acknowledge my mistress’s command:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. This slave obeys his superior mistress!’
Mistress Zeenat, probably still a bit merry if the smell of the alcohol on her breath emanating through her thick, woolly scarf is anything go by, laughs at me again:
‘Ha! Ha! You are being such a strange fellow, isn’t it? Your nose is being all red from the cold! Ha Ha! You are being looking like a stupid clown! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress. Pray forgive me mistress.’
I apologise for my red nose only because I am presuming that I should be having the appearance of a humble footslave – not a clown!
But my mistress Zeenat appears not to be offended as such by my red nose:
‘Ha! Ha! You may be rubbing your red nose on the side of my sock if you are thinking it will be helping you to be warming your clown nose, slave!’
My mistress Zeenat truly can be full of compassion for her personal footslave – especially when she is a little bit the worse for drink! Such kindness; such concern for the well-being of a mere dirty footslave such as myself – offering me the warmth of her sock on my raw-red nose!
I praise and bless my gentle Pakistani mistress for her kind offer:
‘Oh pray mistress Zeenat! God bless you mistress Zeenat! This slave is truly unworthy of such an honour, but will nevertheless avail himself of the mistress’s kind and generous offer to warm his ugly, slave nose on the side of the mistress’s warm, ankle sock, if it so pleases you most sweet and kind mistress Zeenat!’
And without any further ado, lest my somewhat squiffy, Pakistani mistress change her mind, I raise my now damp and dirty, right cheek off the ground - as much as her right sneakered sole which is still resting on my upturned left cheek will allow – and attempt to bury my cold, red nose in the creases and folds on the inner side of my mistress Zeenat’s left ankle sock.
I decide to bury my nose directly on the red dragon logo, and not just because my red nose will match its bright colour, but because, psychologically, I somehow associate fiery red dragons with heat. Perhaps the dragon will breathe fire onto my cold, red-raw nose!
My mistress’s warm sock certainly provides some respite from the cold for my red nose. It is, of course, the warmth from my red-blooded mistress’s petite and shapely Pakistani foot that is being transferred through the precious sock onto my nose. I notice also how my freezing breath steams up the side of her black, leather sneaker, and I find myself hoping that my breath will help to steam-clean the side of mistress Zeenat’s dirty, left sneaker as I feel I must perform some sort of service for her in return for her kindness in letting me warm my footslave-nose on the material of her sock.
However, after what seems like just a few seconds my mistress screams down at me:
‘Ha! Ha! I am feeling your cold nose through my sock, slave. It is being making the side of my ankle cold, isn’t it? Be removing your nose from my sock this instant, for I am not liking the feeling of your nose on my sock!’
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. Please forgive me mistress!’
I immediately withdraw my offending nose from the warmth of her dragon sock, as it is much more important that my mistress Zeenat’s ankle should be warm than my inferior, slave nose! How could I have been so selfish as to exploit this kind and generous young woman’s magnanimity towards her dirty, male slave? I should have respectfully declined her kind offer, and taken the consequences, even if that had meant a beating with her strap for such insolence and insubordination!
At least then my bare back and shoulders would have been warmed up!’
Tale no. 12 – Promotion
‘The whole male prison is buzzing. One of the female guards – junior officer-mistress Jane – is leaving on promotion. She is going to become a public whip-mistress, responsible for administering public whippings to recalcitrant male slaves in the town square. It is a prestigious post and will mean a major increase in salary for her. We male prisoner-slaves are all very surprised.
I think it’s fair to say that none of us would regard her as particularly worthy of such a promotion. Junior officer-mistress Jane could best be summed up as ‘average’ – average in all respects.
She is average in her physical appearance – blonde hair; pretty cheekbones; but slightly podgy, with no figure to talk about. She is also of average intelligence – arguably below average intelligence and ability – which is precisely why we male prisoners have to spend so much of our time fawning towards her and flattering her. My theory is that, for all her apparent , misplaced confidence in her own abilities (for mistress Jane is forever singing her own praises) deep down, junior officer-mistress Jane knows that she is just ‘average’, which in turn leads to her deep sense of insecurity, which in turn leads to her volatility.
We male prisoners all fear junior officer-mistress Jane for she has a reputation amongst the male prisoners of being completely unpredictable and emotional – likely to lash out without warning at any time if she perceives the slightest hint of disrespect in the demeanour or the voice of a dirty, male prisoner.
And so, as she turns the lock and enters through my cell door for the last time, I am absolutely determined to demonstrate my undying respect and adoration for this newly promoted officer of average appearance and competency; to congratulate, fawn over, and flatter her as I fear that even on this, her last day in the prison, she may hurt me if I fail to pander to her fragile, feminine ego.
My heart races as she enters my cell, and not just because I am now in danger, but because she is not in uniform. She must be wearing civilian clothes because it is her last day working in the male prison. She must have already handed in her uniform!
This is a real treat for a male prisoner such as myself – seeing one of his guards in her civilian clothing! From my humble, kneeling position in the centre of my cramped and dirty concrete cell, I can observe that junior officer-mistress Jane (soon to be public whip-mistress Jane) is wearing low-heeled, black leather, court shoes on bare feet below a pair of dark grey, denim jeans. I can’t really see what she is wearing on the top half of her body, as I must keep my head humbly bowed to the floor out of respect for my superior, female prison guard, but it is some sort of dark coat or anorak.
It is nice that she is well wrapped up, for it is cold in my unheated dungeon cell. I can testify to that as I am naked but for a pair of pink, cotton, prison shorts.
I concentrate on (the now ‘former’) junior officer-mistress Jane’s feet, as that is what I am always required to do whenever a female officer enters my cell. But it is just so nice not to be looking at a pair of dusty, black leather, knee-length, zip-up, female prison-officer, uniform boots for a change for, much as I admire my female wardresses’ police-uniform boots, they do all start to look the same after fifteen long years of incarceration in the same prison cell.
Here, in that same cell – for the first time - I can actually observe one of my female guard’s soft, bare, white feet – albeit inside her low-cut, black leather court shoes. I must have kissed junior officer-mistress Jane’s boots hundreds of times over the past three years or so since she first took up her job in the prison at the age of 21, but now, for the first time, I can actually see the feet that I have been kissing inside those dirty, dusty, feminine boots.
Like the rest of her body, her feet look somewhat pale and podgy, although, sadly, her bare toes are still hidden inside her court shoes. I notice also that, not surprisingly, the same prison dust and dirt that normally covers her boots is evident on the sides of her black courts.
She moves towards me, the keys to my cell jangling in her all-powerful, podgy, white hand:
‘I’ve come to say goodbye slave, so that you may wish me well.’
She speaks with no hint of irony. To the newly promoted junior officer-mistress Jane it is only natural that each and every male prisoner in her charge would wish to congratulate her on her undeserved promotion and wish her well – thank her, even, for her cruelty towards them; for junior officer-mistress Jane’s volatility truly made her a cruel and capricious prison guard at times. My own bare, kneeling back bears several marks of her previous wrath.
She arrogantly extends her right foot through the dust of my prison cell floor until her foot is pointed towards me directly below my humbly kneeling face. It is my cue to kiss her foot, and to praise and bless her on her rapid promotion.
I duly lower my prisoner-slave lips to the leather toe of plain, junior officer-mistress Jane’s plain, black, civilian court shoe and place a respectful kiss to the dustiest part of the leather:
‘Oh pray, junior officer-mistress Jane, if it pleases you, most respected and feared junior-officer mistress Jane, this dirty, lowlife, male prisoner truly congratulates the beautiful and intelligent mistress, and blesses her on her much deserved promotion to the post of public whip-mistress, if it so pleases you most powerful and kind junior officer-mistress Jane. Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! If this dirty, male slave may make so bold, this slave is of the humble opinion that the mistress will make a superb and much-feared public whip-mistress, if it so pleases you junior officer-mistress Jane, as his own poor back can testify to the power and dexterity of the mistress’s whipping arm, if it so pleases you most kind and gracious, beautiful, junior officer-mistress Jane. Oh pray mistress! Oh pray, sweet mistress! God bless you mistress! Most magnificent mistress!’
Mistress Jane giggles contentedly. My verbal flattery, delivered in fluent slave-speak, combined with my repeated, slavish and respectful kisses to the prison-dust-covered, leather toe of her outstretched, right, court shoe, has combined to massage her ego sufficiently that she does not feel compelled to hurt me in any way.
Of course, none of my obsequiousness towards her, verbal or physical, is truly heartfelt! As I indicated earlier, I actually think that junior officer-mistress Jane is quite average in every way. But clearly the female powers that be think otherwise, and they have duly promoted her.
So be it! This is, after all, a woman’s world, and who am I, a dirty male slave-prisoner, to question a superior young woman’s looks, intelligence or abilities?
I am such an arrogant and unpleasant, male slave!
‘Ha! Ha! You may kiss my bare footskin, prisoner!’
My heart skips a beat and I feel giddy. Junior officer-mistress Jane has just given me permission – nay an order – to kiss her bare footskin! For a dirty, male prisoner-slave such as myself this is truly unprecedented – the opportunity to kiss a female officer’s bare flesh, albeit the humblest and dirtiest part of her sweet and soft feminine body – her foot.
It is more than I could ever have wished for in my miserable, incarcerated life!
I am left virtually speechless:
‘Oh pray mistress! Oh pray mistress!...’
I quickly lower my lips to the top of her bare, white footskin on her still extended right, foot before she changes her magnanimous (but limited) mind.
My lips can feel one of her precious, blue veins under her soft, bare skin – a vein running across the top of her podgy, bare, white foot. This is such an unusual feeling for my footslave lips, accustomed as they are to the feel of black boot-leather. I revel in the thought that junior officer-mistress Jane’s living foot bacteria is in direct contact with my bare lips. What a privilege! What an honour!
She just laughs at the feel of my submissive, male lips on her superior, bare, female footflesh. Perhaps I am inadvertently tickling her! Perhaps she is just revelling in her power over me – the power of a female foot to entrance a male slave.
As I kiss her vein I am clearly pandering to her vanity!
My lips are only in contact with her superior, feminine flesh for a split second, for to allow my male-slave lips to linger on a superior young woman’s bare foot would be insulting rather than respectful. However it is long enough for me to taste and smell her soft, bare footflesh – and to observe a truly delightful little brown mole on the side of her otherwise pasty-white, right foot. I also like the way her foot muscles contract in a pleasurable reaction to the feel of my lips on her bare footskin.
‘Ha! Ha! And the other one, prisoner!’
Junor officer-mistress plain Jane suddenly withdraws her right foot from under my nose, only to replace it with her left. This time, bizarrely, the main thing I notice is a speck of mud on the hem of her dark grey, denim jean leg. It’s bizarre because you would think my eyes would be drawn to her beautiful, bare footskin once again – the pasty-white skin I am about to have to kiss.
But, you see, I am dirt – and dirt is attracted to dirt – wheresoever it is.
Once again I feel the ridge of a sweet, feminine foot-vein underneath her soft, bare footskin. I can also smell the musty leather of junior officer-mistress Jane’s black, leather court shoe.
She speaks down to me once more as I pay my male-prisoner homage to her outstretched left foot:
‘Ha! Ha! I’ll come back and whip you once I’ve been fully trained if you like, prisoner-slave?’
My heart sinks! What can I possibly say to that? A generous offering of a professional whipping from a superior young woman once she has been fully trained in the art of public whipping, and yet I can think of nothing I would fear more – a harsh flogging from a volatile and self-opinionated young woman once she has been skilled up in how to extract the greatest degree of male suffering from each and every cut of the female lash!
No thank you!
And yet, I must thank and bless junior officer-mistress Jane for her kind offer:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you most sweet and kind junior officer-mistress Jane, this slave is truly honoured at the mistress’s kind offer of a professional whipping at her most fair and beautiful hands, if it so pleases you junior officer-mistress Jane, but he truly fears both the mistress and the power of her feminine whip, for he has already been the humble recipient of its dreadful sting on several occasions! Oh pray, sweet and all-powerful mistress, this helpless and vulnerable, male prisoner-slave throws himself on your sweet, feminine mercy, and begs the mistress on bended knee to show clemency towards this poor and wretched slave. Oh pray, sweet mistress, please spare him the sting of the lash, for truly he is a weak and feeble male slave, and would be unable to withstand the mistress’s righteous power and anger as she wields the whip, if it so pleases you most sweet and kind, beautiful junior officer-mistress Jane. Oh pray mistress! Pray have mercy on this slave’s poor back, mistress!’
I place several more respectful kisses on her bare footflesh in a genuine effort to convey my fear and distress at the mere thought of being whipped by a fully trained, public whip-mistress. I am hoping that mistress Jane will be able to sense my fear not just from my humble words but also through the feel of my humble lips on her feet.
She just laughs – seemingly revelling in her female power over me:
‘Ha! Ha! Let’s hope, in that case, that the Female Courts never have occasion to put you in front of me for a public punishment, slave! Ha! Ha! You are right to be afraid of me, for I’m going to enjoy whipping dirty, convicted male criminals like you in public, and seeing them quake with fear before me like you are now. Ha! Ha!’
I was wrong! Junior officer-mistress Jane is not average. Or plain! Or stupid! She is a supremely talented and beautiful, young mistress. Her love of the whip makes her beautiful. Her position of power makes her beautiful. Her promotion makes her beautiful.
I kiss her beautiful, outstretched foot again and again, and this time genuinely wish she wasn’t leaving!’
Tale no. 11 – The Five Commandments
‘My 25 year old mistress, miss Rohanah, is a very chaste and modest young woman. She is married, and of Malaysian origins, and she likes to wear her traditional, white hijab (or headscarf) along with her casual, western clothing – jeans; T shirts and the like – as a symbol of her feminine purity and superiority.
I am her personal footslave, and have been so for 4 years. I was given to her as a slave on her 21st birthday. I therefore know my mistress – her likes and dislikes – very well, and as a result I know exactly where I kneel in my slave relationship with my mistress.
I am forbidden to speak, and my mistress Rohanah only ever speaks to me to give me one of five commands:
‘Slave, kiss my feet.’
‘Slave, lick my boots.’
‘Slave, smell my socks.’
‘Slave, massage my feet.’
‘Finish, slave.’
Those five commands pretty much some up my entire existence at my mistress’s feet. There is, however, more to them than may at first appear. Each one requires a bit of explanation if you are to fully understand what my life of humble servitude fully involves at my mistress Rohanah’s pretty, Malaysian feet.
1. ‘Slave, kiss my feet.’
My mistress has her beloved husband, master Adil, also of Malaysian origins, to take care of all her sexual needs, so when my mistress orders me to kiss her feet it is an entirely non-sexual, and non-sensual order. She is requiring me to kiss her feet in such a way that I am merely demonstrating my humility and respect for her feminine purity and superiority.
Therefore my kisses to her feet must be unhurried, crisp, clean and respectful. They are also to be repeated and continual, until my mistress gives me the fifth commandment of – ‘Finish, slave.’ Sometimes she will have me kiss her feet repeatedly for hours on end, anything up to five thousand times in one session.
The word ‘feet’ is perhaps somewhat misleading in this regard, for my young, Malaysian mistress is much too chaste to ever allow a dirty, male footslave’s lips be in direct contact with her superior, bare footflesh. Whenever she orders me to kiss her ‘feet’, therefore, be it in public or in private, she means for me to pay my respects to whatever footwear she has on at that time i.e. her boots or socks. It would also include her shoes, sandals, stockings or tights if she ever wore any, but my mistress Rohanah seems to always wear her favourite pair of black leather, block-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankle boots, with socks.
Her outer footwear never seems to change – whatever the weather or the time of year – although I know for a fact that she does have several other pairs of shoes, boots and sandals in her shoe closet. I know that because I have to sleep at night in her shoe closet, surrounded by her boots and shoes.
However, if it is my mistress Rohanah’s choice to wear the same pair of comfortable, yet stylish, ankle boots all the time then so be it. The mistress’s whim is everything!
At least she doesn’t wear the same pair of socks all the time!
Whenever I am ordered to kiss her feet, my mistress likes me to kiss as much of her boots or socks as is slavishly possible. So, for example, I must not just kiss the scuff-marked toes of her black, leather ankle boots whilst she is wearing them outside, but also the sides of her boots, and the heels, the zips, the upper rims, even the dirty soles if she is seated in such away that my lips can have access to them.
The same goes for her socks if she is inside the house and in her socked feet. My mistress always wears either low-cut, sneaker-style socks (even if she never wears her sneakers!) or traditional-length ankle socks on her pretty, Malaysian feet. I must be sure to respectfully kiss all the areas of her socks that I can reach beneath the frayed hems of her blue, boot-cut denim jeans – the reinforced toe areas of the socks; the insteps; the ankle bones – even the elasticated tops of her socks if applicable (taking great care, of course, not to let my dirty, slave lips stray onto her soft and smooth bare skin!)
My mistress likes to hear – and likes everyone else present to hear – my humble footkisses to both her inner and outer footwear, as well as to see and feel them. And she also stressed to me right from the beginning that I must look at, and think about, whatever area of her sock or boot I am kissing. So, if, for example, I am kissing a particularly dirty or muddy area of her boot, I must not just admire the mud – because it is no longer ordinary street mud, but is now hallowed mud as it is stuck to my superior mistress’s boot – but also think about where that mud may have come from. How it got onto my mistress’s boot. It’s provenance etc.
Similarly, whilst I am kissing her socks, if I see a foreign object stuck to one of the stitches in her sock e.g. a tiny piece of black fluff stuck to the instep of her white sock, I must not just admire the audacity of that piece of fluff, and be jealous of its intimacy with my mistress’s superior, white sock; I must consider where it may have come from. Is it a piece of lint from one of my mistress’s other socks? And if so, how did it come to be attached to the instep of her nice, clean white sock?
Such pathetic, footslavish thoughts must preoccupy my mind whenever I a kissing my mistress Rohanah’s ‘feet’. In short, I must only be thinking at the level of her feet, as all other thoughts are prohibited to me. I truly am the slave of my mistress Rohanah’s feet and footwear, and must concern myself with nothing else in life.
2. ‘Slave, lick my boots.’
Whenever my sweet and chaste mistress Rohanah orders me to lick her boots, she is, in effect, ordering me to lick clean her boots. Her black, leather ankle boots inevitably get dirty as she walks out and about in the city streets. That’s why she wears her boots – to protect her feet from the dirt and filth of the streets!
It is, of course, only right and proper that I, as her personal footslave, should be charged with this humiliating and degrading task, for mud and dirt on a superior mistress’s boot – even though it be hallowed mud as I have explained earlier - is, nevertheless an abomination, as it ultimately sullies the purity of the mistress’s boots and, left unchecked, could even ruin and damage them in the longer term.
The mistress is therefore, entirely within her mistressly rights to require me to remove that mud and filth, at appropriate junctures throughout the day, using only my dirty, slave tongue. I am, after all, a piece of dirt myself – and dirt attracts dirt. My mouth, throat and stomach are therefore the only fitting receptacles for my mistress Rohanah’s boot dirt.
Once again, whenever I am ordered to lick my mistress’s boots, I must make sure not to neglect the less obvious parts of her boots – the uppers; the felt, zip-track area; the gap between the block-shaped heel of her boot where it merges with her bootsole. These are all areas were the dirt may be less obvious and visible, but that’s not to say that they do not contain foreign bacteria that must be steadfastly removed by my tongue.
My mistress Rohanah likes her boot, her whole boot, and nothing but her boot to be sparkling following a bootlicking session on my part. She will often inspect her boots after I have licked them, and will not hesitate to have me punished if I have omitted to remove the merest trace of dust or dirt from her outer footwear.
Of course, just as I am restrained and respectful in my kisses to her boots and socks, even so I must be restrained and respectful when I am licking clean her ankle boots – short, brisk strokes of the tongue, designed purely to lift off dirt and to polish and shine the boot leather. And again also, I must concentrate on what I am licking; think about the dirt I am swallowing; its provenance; its taste; its texture. I must both respect and envy my mistress’s boot dirt, because it has been intimately attached to my mistress’s boot in a way I myself can only dream of. It is, therefore, an honour for me to ingest such dirt from my mistress Rohanah’s dirty, black leather, ankle boots.
One thing I must be very careful to avoid doing is inadvertently licking the tops of my mistress’s ankle socks whilst I am licking the upper rims of her ankle boots. That would be a sure-fire way of offending my mistress and earning me severe punishment at the hands of her outraged husband, master Adil.
And rightly so! I mean, it’s not like it’s difficult to distinguish between the black leather of a superior, young woman’s ankle boot, and the soft, elasticated material of the top of her ankle sock – even if that sock is also black!
3. ‘Slave, smell my socks.’
Which brings me on to my mistress’s precious socks, and her third commandment.
I know what you’re thinking! You’re wondering whether my mistress would first order me to ‘take off’ her boots for her, before ordering me to smell her socks?
The answer is no. My mistress Rohanah prefers to take off, and indeed to put on, her boots and socks by herself. It’s not that I wouldn’t be only too willing to carry out this task for her! God knows I would be honoured to slowly unzip the side of her black, leather, block-heeled ankle boot, and gently slip it off her shapely foot, taking great care not to pull or crease the sock inside!
But my mistress Rohanah just happens to be one of those mistresses who prefers to take off and put on her own footwear. Perhaps that’s simply because she is perfectly capable of doing so herself, whereas if you look at her commandments, she can hardly be expected to kiss her own feet; or lick her own dirty boots; or smell her own socks; or massage her own feet!
Whatever her motives, I am, sadly, denied the small, slavish pleasure of removing my mistress’s footwear from her hot and sweaty, socked feet. Once her boots are off, however, I am frequently called upon to smell her socks.
I think my mistress Rohanah’s use of the word ‘smell’ as opposed to ‘sniff’, is very significant. She only ever orders me to put my nose to her socks when she knows they are dirty and sweaty. The whole purpose of this particular commandment is not really to provide her with a service The command to smell her socks is purely about degrading and demeaning her slave.
Think about it. Licking a mistress’s boots, or massaging her feet (which we will come on to in due course) provides a service for the mistress, either by way of sprucing up her footwear or by providing her with relaxing and pleasurable feelings of feminine power and authority. Kissing her feet demonstrates her slave’s submission and admiration for the mistress. Smelling her socks, whether in private or in front of her friends or relatives, is, on the other hand, designed purely to humiliate the footslave.
Some footslaves may sometimes give the impression that they almost like the smell of their mistress’s sweaty socks. I think they are being somewhat disingenuous! The smell of sweaty feet and socks is a naturally unpleasant odour, and, in my humble experience, no amount of exposure to this particular, humiliating smell can ever truly accustom one’s sense of smell to it, to the point where one actually revels in it. It is meant to be a degrading and humiliating experience, and, believe me, it is! I mean, it’s not as if my sweet and kind mistress Rohanah would ever impose her sock-smell on her beloved and much-respected husband, or indeed on her many friends.
She probably wouldn’t even impose her sweaty socks on her worst enemy!
But I am not her enemy. Or her friend. I am her slave – her foot slave – and so, for me, as far as he is concerned, her dirty, stinky socks come with the territory.
Once again my mistress Rohanah expects short, sharp, crisp sniffs to her socks. She does like to feel my nose repeatedly touching her socks whilst I am smelling them, but equally I must withdraw my nose from her sock after each humble, audible sniff, so that she may see the distress and anguish on my face.
She also requires me to smell the whole of her sock – not just the most obvious, smelliest parts i.e. the reinforced toe areas; the heels; the insteps. I must equally sniff at the relatively odour-free parts of her socks covering her shapely ankle bones, and all along the elasticated tops of her socks. Again also, I must alternate between the sock on her right foot, and that on her left foot. You can see the patterns emerging in the way I must attend to my mistress’s feet and footwear!
And speaking of patterns, I must, of course, study and admire the pattern in the stitching of my mistress’s socks. There is so much to observe and admire in a female sock! Some socks have patterns which allow furtive and exciting glimpses of the mistress’s bare (and in my case most definitely out of bounds) footflesh underneath. Others have very dense stitching which completely hides the mistress’s soft, bare footskin underneath. But all types of socks will inevitably have little creases and folds in the stitching whilst they are being worn on the mistress’s feet, and you will already have guessed that my mistress expects me to be thinking about those creases and folds in great detail whilst I attend to her socks; where did the creases and folds come from? How long have they been there? How many of them are there? If she moves or flexes her pretty, feminine foot will any given crease in the cotton sock material disappear?
She will also expect me to sniff along each crease and fold as a gesture of respect, and to think about the fact that the creased area of her sock is likely to be less contaminated by her foot odour as, by definition, it is an area of sock that, temporarily at least, is not in direct contact wit her precious bacteria on her skin.
Such pathetic, and seemingly inconsequential, thoughts must preoccupy my brain whilst my nose is preoccupied with my mistress Rohanah’s stinky socks.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, my mistress never has me smell her socks after she has taken them off. I don’t know why that is, for I would happily sleep in her shoe closet with her dirty, unwashed socks covering my face all night – not because I would enjoy the smell of her stinky socks on my face all night, but rather as a further gesture of my respect for my superior mistress and her socks.
But it is not to be.
4. ‘Slave, massage my feet.’
You will have already deduced that my mistress means her socked feet when she utters this particular command. We have already established that I am not worthy to touch her bare feet. Her husband, master Adil, might be worthy, but I rather get the impression that he is not particularly ‘turned on’ by his wife’s feet. I think he admires her legs, buttocks and breasts more, which is his perfect right as a free man. I, of course, as my mistress’s humble footslave, have no business even thinking about other parts of her beautiful soft, feminine body.
Indeed, not even her soft, bare feet are mine to fondle – only her soft, socked feet. And ‘fondle’ is not really the correct word either. It lacks a certain respect, for I am gently massaging my mistress Rohanah’s socked feet not for my own slavish pleasure or delectation, but purely for her gratification and enjoyment. I know she finds it soothing and relaxing, and that she doesn’t care whether her socks are damp and sweaty on my slave fingers or not as I knead her socked feet. I am there to please and satisfy her, and she, quite rightly, has no regard for my feelings or sufferings at her feet.
Of course, you’ve guessed it, I must always concentrate on exactly what I am massaging as I kneel at my mistress’s socked feet and gently rub them. I must look closely at what I am rubbing. So, if I am massaging the ball of her left foot, I shall be admiringly staring at the yellowy-brown stains on the otherwise pure white sock covering the ball of her foot; or I shall be deliberately moving my slave fingers in a soothing, circular motion over the little black balls of sock lint stuck to the sole of her black sock; or I shall be observing the extra creases and folds in her sock caused by her wiggling her toes in a pleasurable reaction to my humble ministrations to her hot and tired, aching feet.
This is by far the most intimate service I am ever allowed to perform for my mistress, and she is careful never to have me massage her socked feet when her husband is around. At such times I am limited to merely smelling her socked feet. They both enjoy watching me do that!
5. ‘Finish, slave.’
The fifth and final commandment – the command to finish whatever I am doing, be it kissing my mistress’s boots or socks; licking her boots; smelling her socks; or massaging her socked feet.
It is, in many ways, the most important of the five commandments, for it gives my mistress Rohanah complete control over when, and how much, I service her feet. It is the mistress, not the slave, who decides when the slave has paid sufficient respect to her boots; she decides when he has been humiliated enough by having to smell her sweaty socks. Even if he wants more, he must stop – for his mistress has commanded it, and her word is law.
Of course, nothing in life is ever completely cut and dried. I have to confess that I do find lots of little ways to express my devotion and admiration for my mistress Rohanah’s feet and footwear throughout the day, without being expressly order to do so by her.
For example, if she is seated at a restaurant table opposite her husband, staring lovingly into his handsome, Malaysian face, I will be kneeling by her black leather, ankle-booted feet under the table, staring lovingly at the elasticated top of her white ankle sock. I may even respectfully, nuzzle the top of that sock, just as a gentle reminder to my mistress that I am her devoted footslave who wishes for nothing more than to serve his superior mistress’s feet and footwear.
My mistress Rohanah could, of course, have me punished for such unsolicited expressions of affection towards her feet footwear, but she indulges me for she is ever bit as sweet and kind as she is chaste. And she knows that my heart and mind are in their right place – at her feet.
She knows that I am her truly devoted footslave; hers to command.’
Tale no. 10 – The Indifference of Youth
‘She can’t be any more than about 21 or 22 years old. Hair tied back tightly in a blonde ponytail; wearing a blue denim jacket over a white blouse; a matching blue denim miniskirt; shiny, black leggings; black and white, ankle length pirate-themed socks; and black, high-top, canvas sneakers with a thick tongue, and with the equally thick, grey laces loose and undone.
She is also totally engrossed in her mobile phone conversation with what sounded like the love of her life – presumably her boyfriend. From the snippets of her conversation that I can hear, I deduce that he must be in prison, for she has referred several times already to ‘your parole hearing honey’ and ‘when you get out’.
However much the couple have to talk about however, this young woman clearly still has the time to walk over to my wooden footblock on the corner of the town square, and to arrogantly and imperiously position her right sneakered foot onto said footblock, presumably for me to lick her footwear clean.
I have to presume that is what she wants, for the superior young woman continues all the while speaking to her imprisoned boyfriend on the phone. It seems that the mere act of placing her outstretched right foot onto my wooden footblock is enough of an indication from her that she wants me to tongue-clean her dirty sneaker.
I notice she is smoking a cigarette in between chattering on her phone. I notice it because she nonchalantly flicks some cigarette ash down onto the top of my balding head. I’m sure it’s not deliberate. It’s just that I am invisible to her – a thing not a person; a public footslave-thingy that kisses and cleans ladies’ shoes for free.
At least she has noticed that her black, high-top sneakers could do with a bit of sprucing up – for I would have to tell her, if it were my place to tell her, and always assuming that I could get a word in edgeways whilst she is on the phone, that her black, canvas sneakers are quite rank with street grime and dirt. Those thick, heavy, untied laces should be white, not grey!
Such a shame - for her black and white pirate-themed socks look nice and fresh on her shapely, feminine feet and ankles. The socks consist of many white skull and crossbone motifs on a black background, and I could happily study them all evening – study how the faces in the skulls are distorted by the various creases and folds in the soft, cotton material of her sweet socks.
I am as confident as I can be that the casually dressed young woman is wearing the socks with leggings or footless tights, as opposed to full length tights. I am confident, therefore, that the socks are in direct contact with her soft, feminine, pink and white footflesh. I certainly hope so, for there is nothing worse than an odour-free sock. A young woman’s sock should reek of her foot. It should not be a mere outer covering for her thick, black, opaque tights!
As I stare at the pretty, skull and crossbone socks, and submissively lower my footslave-lips towards a particularly muddy patch on the outer side of the young woman’s right, high-top sneaker, just below her shapely, socked ankle bone, I find myself wondering if the banged-up boyfriend she is so lovingly conversing with knows what she is doing right now. Does he know that his beautiful, young girlfriend on the outside is having her socks admired, and her black, high-top sneakers licked clean, by a dirty public footslave at that precise moment in time? And if he did know, would he be pleased? Would he be egging his girlfriend on – urging her to make me lick all the street filth off her black, high-top, canvas sneakers, and threatening me with violence if I failed in my duty towards his girlfriend’s shoes?
Or would he be jealous? Jealous of my unseemly lust for his girlfriend’s pretty ankle socks? Jealous of my proximity to her foot and leg flesh, even if she is well wrapped up against the cold this evening? Jealous that I can observe the shapeliness of her calf and shin muscles from my humble, kneeling footslave position, even if it is only through her shiny, black leggings?
The phone conversation ends abruptly. Presumably the young woman’s jailbird husband is limited as to the length of the phone calls he is allowed to make. It is quite late in the evening and must be nearly time for lockdown.
But that still doesn’t mean that the young woman feels any need to speak to me – her faceless, middle-aged, public footslave. She merely puts away her phone into her jacket pocket, takes another puff on her cigarette, twists her sneakered foot to one side to inspect the area where I have been licking (in so doing causing her pretty, pirate sock to crease and fold even further in front of my footslave eyes), and then unceremoniously withdraws her right foot from the wooden footblock under my face, only to replace it with her outstretched left, black, high-top sneaker.
She clearly does regard me as being beneath her in every sense of the word. A nonentity. A mere automaton that does not need to be told what to do, as it will automatically lick any female foot or footwear that is placed in front of it.
Which makes her a very astute young woman indeed, for that is exactly what I am, and that is exactly what I do. I lick shoes, therefore I am.
I continue to stare at the white skulls on her skull and crossbone socks as they stare mockingly back at me – their mistress’s public foot-servant, licking the dirt from the sides of her black high-top sneakers whilst she takes out her mobile phone once again in order, no doubt, to text the beloved boyfriend whom she misses so much, and who is always in her thoughts.
Unlike me.’
Tale no. 9 – Feminine Perfection
‘My mistress is sometimes referred to by free men as ‘a bit of a slag’. I know that for a fact as I have often heard them say it whilst she is in her bathroom, having just indulged in a threesome or even a foursome with them, whilst I, in my capacity as her personal footslave, am kneeling in the far corner of her bedroom humbly sniffing her discarded tights and shoes.
Free men are such hypocrites! I would never describe my superior mistress in such derogatory terms! I would never even think of her in such terms – and not just because it is illegal for a slave to judge his mistress’s character, but because I have nothing but genuine, slavish admiration for my superior mistress.
At 43, she is, arguably, no longer in the prime of her female, physical beauty, but she is still a very attractive woman; a good figure; bleached blonde hair; long, shapely legs with equally shapely ankles.
Because she suffers from varicose veins my beautiful mistress has a penchant for wearing short, above-the-knee skirts with thick, black woolly tights and blocky, high-heeled, black leather, court shoes. My only selfish regret, therefore, as I kneel throughout the day at her feet, is that she does not tend to wear socks with, say, ankle boots on her otherwise bare legs, meaning that I do not get to see much of her shapely, bare legs – except, of course, when I am kneeling in front of her with a bowl of lukewarm water at the end of each day in order to wash her sweaty, bare feet.
Although I have nothing but respect and admiration for my superior mistress, she, quite rightly, despises me and views me as less than the dirt beneath her feet. The only female attention I get from her is the frequent sting of her single-tailed, black, leather whip as it embraces my scrawny, slave ribs, and the closest I ever get to intimacy with her is when I am either massaging her black-woolly-tighted feet, sniffing her sweaty, discarded tights, or washing her bare feet.
This is because, although I am male, and my mistress clearly adores the company of men, she has no sexual interest whatsoever in a humble, raggedy-assed slave such as myself. What self-respecting woman would? My mistress finds me physically repulsive simply because I am a mere footslave, and the thought of making love to me would never cross her mind, even though she has had many physically ugly, male lovers in her time.
In fact, my mistress has been married 4 times. She is not currently married, but has several male lovers on the go at present. Two of them are coming round to her place this evening, and I am helping my mistress to get ready by removing her block-heeled, black leather court shoes from her feet and her black woolly tights from her legs (she rolls them down as far as her knees and I must take over from that point).
Having divested my mistress of her leg and foot wear, I must then take the discarded items and place them in a corner of her bedroom, where I must kneel and admire them, by sniffing, licking and kissing them. I shall be expected to do this even whilst my mistress is making love in the same bedroom with her two, virile male lovers. Being an impotent footslave, it’s all I am good for.
I make sure that the warm, moist toe ends of my mistress’s freshly-worn, black woolly tights are uppermost as I sniff them, as I very much enjoy the aroma of my mistress’s sweaty feet. I also like to look at, and kiss, the rough little balls of black lint on the soles of her woolly tights, as they are clear evidence that the tights have been frequently worn by my mistress.
Similarly, the insides of her shoes are nice to sniff and look at too, as I can see the stains and the wear and tear on the beige, inner lining of the shoes where her warm foot perspiration has seeped through the woolly material of her tights and reacted with the material of the lining.
I am, therefore, in female, black-shoe and black-woolly-tights heaven whilst my mistress brings her two free-male lovers to orgasm on her crowded bed. My humble, audible sniffs to my mistress’s dirty tights and shoes intersperse with the moans and groans of pure ecstasy and pleasure from the three, free human beings, and the creaks of my mistress’s worn out bedsprings.
It’s how it should be, for my mistress is my female master and better, is the epitome of feminine perfection, and I am fit only to sniff her dirty, discarded footwear whilst she makes love with real men. For I am, rather like her recently worn footwear, dirty and used - and dirt attracts dirt. The whip marks on my back are further eloquent testimony, if it were needed, to my mistress’s feminine power and authority over me, and my unworthiness to look her above the knee.
Yes, I can only admire my mistress via her discarded footwear whilst the lucky free men get to explore all the contours of her soft, shapely body. But I am content with my lot; for I can smell the very essence of my mistress’s feet on her sweaty, black tights and in her sweaty, black shoes – and that is the only intimacy with such a superior, female being that I am truly worthy of.’
Tale no. 8 – A question of loyalty
‘I face something of a dilemma.
My 23 year old mistress, mistress Emily, is sitting on a wall eating a sandwich alongside her best friend, 22 year old miss Agata.
I, of course, as miss Emily’s personal footslave, am required to kneel and stare at my mistress’s feet and footwear whilst she eats. However – this is my dilemma. My mistress Emily is wearing a black, knee-length skirt, plain, black, nylon tights and matching plain, black, ballet flats on her pretty feet, whereas mistress Agata is wearing bright red ballet flats, with pretty red bows on the tops, and black ankle socks beneath her blue, denim jeans.
I much prefer feminine socks to tights, and so my wandering footslave eyes are inevitably being drawn towards mistress Agata’s neighbouring feet.
It is a terribly risky thing for me to do – for I am clearly breaking the Law, and if a passing female police officer were to notice what I am doing I could expect to be hauled before the Female Courts and publicly flogged at my mistress Emily’s feet.
And rightly so! I mean, it’s not as if there is nothing to keep me entertained on my mistress Emily’s feet! Close-up I can see the dirt stains and creases in the soft, black leather all along the sides of her low-cut ballet flats. And the material of the black, nylon stocking around the ankle of her left foot– the one resting on the ground – is somewhat creased due to the positioning of her foot. Not to mention the little pieces of white fluff that are stuck to some of the thin, nylon stitches in her stocking!
And yet my eyes are still inexorably drawn towards mistress Agata’s black socks – and not just because they are black, but because, due to the fact that her right foot is dangling over her left due to her seated position on the wall with her right leg crossed over her left, I can espy a tantalizing glimpse of white heel area on the sock at the back of her short, red ballet-flat as her right foot hovers and flexes in the air.
I am truly intrigued by that tiny slither of white on the black sock, for it makes me wonder whether the reinforced toe areas of mistress Agata’s black socks, hidden deep inside her bright red ballet flats, may also be white!
And besides, that white sock-heel is just ripe for kissing. If I were her miss Agata’s personal footslave I would kiss it separately from the rest of her black sock – and quite deliberately so, as a mark of my respect for the white area of the otherwise black sock. That’s because the white heels and, if applicable, white toe areas of mistress Agata’s socks must inevitably be the sweatiest, stinkiest parts of her otherwise black socks, as they are the areas most frequently enclosed inside her shoes, except, of course, as now when her right ballet-flat is dangling coquettishly off the back of her right heel.
Needless to say, I would not neglect the black insteps and uppers of mistress Agata’s black and white ankle socks either. I would truly worship the sock, the whole sock, and nothing but the sock – if I were her personal footslave.
But I am not! I must pull myself together, and concentrate instead on the plain, black tights and plain, black ballet flats of my mistress Emily – for it is the chosen footwear of my mistress and owner. I am her slave, not miss Agata’s, and it is not for me - a humble down-in-the-dirt footslave - to dictate what my mistress should or should not wear on her pretty feet.
The Law is correct, and I must abide by the Law of the Gynarchy. I must be loyal to my own mistress’s feet and footwear. I must practise some sock-denial!
I therefore refocus my slavish attention on the creases in the dark nylon material covering my mistress Emily’s right foot, and silently praise and bless her for granting me the inestimable privilege of being her personal footslave.
Oh but mistress Agata has just bent down to straighten her right sock!’
Tale no. 7 – 70 X 7
‘My 22 year old mistress, mistress Tabitha, is a great believer in ritual. She has me kiss her feet 70 times, on 7 separate occasions, at set times throughout each and every day – as a demonstration of my undying respect and adoration for her.
My mistress never speaks to me, because she regards me as being too far below her in the food chain to be worth speaking to. By the same token I am totally forbidden to speak to her. I am what’s known in the Gynarchy as a ‘dumb’ footslave. So ritualistically kissing her feet throughout the day is the only way I can express my submissiveness and adoration towards my superior mistress, just as her whip does all the talking for her and expresses, when necessary, her justifiable and righteous anger and contempt for me.
My mistress Tabitha is a beautiful, slim, rather petite, swarthy-skinned mistress of Romany origins – though her family are no longer travellers and live in a large council house. She has long, black curly locks framing her piecing, dark eyes – although I have only ever seen her face in the reflection of her shoe leather, for I am, of course, unworthy to look my superior, young Romany mistress in the eye.
Our first ritualistic foot-kissing session of the day occurs as soon as my mistress wakes up. I must be ready and kneeling by the side of her bed (woe betide me if I am not!) waiting to pay my first homage of the day to her shapely, dusky, bare feet the instant she swings her shapely, bare legs out from under her duvet and rests her pretty feet on the bedroom carpet in front of my kneeling face.
There is a set way that I must kiss her feet 70 times. I must alternate between her feet, always starting with her right foot, and making sure that each kiss is short, respectful and audible. Mistress Tabitha does not want me licking her feet or slobbering all over them. I am not that sort of footslave. I am an unskilled, dumb foot-kisser, not even fit to wash my mistress’s dirty feet (the family have a maid to wash their feet).
No, my role is simply to pay my humble respects to this young, Romany goddess by kissing her bare feet – 70 times – my head repeatedly bobbing up and down as I lower and raise my lips 70 times alternately to her right and left foot, whilst she sits imperiously above me on the edge of her bed.
Of course, any podiatrist will tell you that, in kissing mistress Tabitha’s bare feet of a morning, my lips are in contact with many of her dead skin cells that her feet will have shed overnight. Her unwashed, early morning feet will, in fact, be covered in bacteria – bacteria which is now being transferred onto my slave lips. But that is how it should be, for even the dead skin and overnight bacteria on my mistress Tabitha’s soft, brown, unwashed feet is better than me. I am paying due homage to her superior foot bacteria which is a higher life form than me.
Oh how I savour the taste, the feel, and the aroma of my sweet and kind young Romany mistress’s bare feet first thing in the morning! It is manna from heaven for me, for I shall not get to kiss her bare feet again until the very end of the day. From now on it will only be her shoes and socks – not that that is any less of a privilege for a dirty, lowlife footslave such as myself.
I, of course, am considered incapable of adequately dressing my mistress’s feet in her shoes and socks, but I am allowed to watch as my mistress’s maid puts them on her pretty feet for her, feet which she will also first have washed in front of me. It’s not that my 22 year old mistress is incapable of putting on and taking off her own shoes and socks, you understand! It’s just that such mundane tasks are, quite literally, beneath her – especially when the State supplies her with a maidservant to do it for her.
Indeed, I have no choice but to frustratingly watch the maid performing such august chores for my superior mistress, as I am required to kneel by, and to stare at, my mistress Tabitha’s feet throughout the day. I must always follow her to heel, and kneel beside her shapely ankles. Staring at, and admiring, her feet is my main function in her life – even if the times when I am permitted to touch her feet and footwear (by kissing them) are strictly limited to the 7 ritual, foot-kissing sessions at various preordained times of the day.
The second such ritualistic foot-kissing session takes place mid-morning – at 10:00 a.m. This will be the case wherever my mistress is at that time and whatever she is doing. Even if she is walking in the street, she will stop by the kerb and present her feet to me for kissing – again 70 times in total; 35 times to each foot.
This time I will be kissing the rounded, and often dirty, toes of her black, leather, low-heeled, slip-on shoes. My mistress only has one pair of such leather shoes; one pair of scruffy, white, lace-up sneakers; and one pair of black, block-heeled, square-toed, zip-up ankle boots. So I will always be paying my slavish homage to one of those three styles of feminine footwear at this time of day – whichever style my mistress has chosen to wear that particular day.
Today is a weekday, and so my mistress is in college, where she is studying Philosophy and Law. She happens to have a lecture at 10:00 a.m. and so she is currently seated in a lecture hall, surrounded by her fellow female students, as I begin my second set of ritualistic footkissing for the day.
Although my footkisses to the toes of her black, leather shoes are audible, nobody blinks an eyelid. Why would they? I am just a two-a-penny footslave paying homage to my mistress’s shoes whilst she is wearing them, in line with her family’s cultural traditions. I can therefore concentrate on the task in mouth without feeling any inhibitions. I must kiss her feet in this way by Law, for it is the wish of my mistress.
Due to my superior mistress’s seated position in the lecture hall I can see her plain white, cotton ankle socks beneath the hems of her black, denim jeans as I kiss the scuff-marked and, this morning, rain-splashed leather toes of her black, leather, slip-on shoes. I say ‘white’ socks, but they have actually become more greyish in colour due to repeated washing and wear.
Again, I am not considered worthy to wash my mistress Tabitha’s socks. Only her maid gets to do that. But I shall at least get to kiss them, to pay my respects to them – while she is wearing them – although that will be for the next session, the third session of the day.
For now I must concentrate on alternately kissing the musty and scuff-marked, leathery toes of my mistress Tabitha’s well-worn, flat, slip-on shoes. For the moment I can only admire her socks inside her shoes from ‘anear’. And I do truly admire them. In fact, in particular, I note a small crease in the side of her left sock, just around her shapely, outer ankle bone. I make a mental note to be sure to kiss that sock-crease during my next ritualistic foot-worshipping session, assuming it is still there, of course, as I continue to kiss the black leather, rounded toes of my mistress Tabitha’s outer footwear.
My lips taste of her musty, shoe-leather after I finish my 70 kisses to the toes of her rain-dampened shoes. Having kissed them the full 70 times, I continue to kneel beside my mistress’s socked ankles, and study them whilst she studies philosophy. You could say that I am reading socks at university whilst she is reading Sartre. We are both studying what we are fit to study.
The third foot-kissing session with my mistress Tabitha takes place at lunchtime, in the Students’ Union bar, where my mistress tends to enjoy a ‘liquid lunch’ with some of her fellow philosophy-students. She is sitting, cross-legged, at a bar table with three of her female friends whilst she drinks, with me humbly kneeling under the table and staring at my mistress’s left foot – the one resting on the ground (my head thereby acts as a footrest for her right foot which hovers above me in the air, should she so require it).
At 13:00 hrs precisely, however, my mistress uncrosses her right leg and rests both her feet side by side on the floor. It is my signal to begin the third, preordained foot-kissing ritual of the day.
This time, as I indicated earlier, I am required to kiss the sides of her white socks – specifically her sock-covered outer ankle bones, as ever alternating between her right and left foot. If my mistress ever happened to be standing up at 13:00 hrs, she would gently hitch up the hems of her black, denim jeans to afford my humble slave-lips access to the sides of her socks, but today, being seated, the hems of her trouser legs are already raised above her shapely, socked ankle bones, and so I can immediately begin to respectfully kiss them.
I am delighted to say that the crease in the cotton, material of the greyish-white ankle sock on my mistress Tabitha’s left foot, which I had earlier noted during my previous shoe-kissing session, is still there! Things like that make my day, as I can now have the pathetic pleasure of feeling my mistress’s creased sock on my lips, so much more exciting for a footslave than smooth sock!
Why? I suppose it’s psychological. It’s the knowledge that my mistress’s short, cotton sock is twisted and creased inside her shoe, but that she doesn’t really care – for it is only her sock. Indeed, she probably is unaware of that crease, for if it was causing her any discomfort she would doubtless just reach down and subconsciously straighten her sock in front of my eyes (being a dumb foot, shoe and sock kisser she would never entrust me with such a complicated task as straightening her sock!)
But my mistress has done no such thing. She doesn’t care about the insignificant little crease in her sock. And nor does anyone else – apart from me. For right now I am nothing but her pathetic sockslave – kissing the sides of her socks on both her shapely, feminine ankle bones, and paying homage to them.
The next foot-kissing ritual, the fourth of the day, takes place mid afternoon at 3:00 p.m. I must now kiss the low heels of her flat, black leather, slip-on shoes 70 times. Even though I don’t need to worry about whether or not my mistress is standing up or sitting down for this particular ritual – for either way my lips will have access to her shoe-heels - it can, nevertheless be quite an awkward task, as it necessitates me bending my head around the front of my mistress’s foot.
I am never permitted to approach my mistress’s heels from behind when I am kissing them. The only time I am behind her heels is when I am crawling on all fours to heel, like an obedient puppy-dog, desperately hoping for the occasional glimpse of the backs of her greyish-white socks beneath her black denim, jean-leg hems as she walks along .
When it comes to kissing the flat heels at the backs of her shoes, however, I must approach my mistress’s feet from the front, and stretch my head around the side of her shoes.
As I said, it can be quite difficult, but, as the saying goes, ‘practice makes perfect’ – and I have had a lot of practice! I do enjoy kissing my mistress’s shoe-heels, for they are invariably the dirtiest part of her shoes – in contact with the ground – and, on a wet day like today in particular, they are covered with wet street mud, and even, I can see, on the underside of the heel on her right shoe, a blade of dirty, wet grass.
Oh how I would dearly love to lick that mud, and dirt, and grass off my mistress’s low, black leather, shoe-heels for her! But I am not considered worthy or competent to do so. Instead I must just kiss them; 35 times each; alternately; audibly; respectfully; whilst my petite and slightly-built, black curly-haired and dark-eyed, 22 year old Romany mistress towers above me like a female colossus!
Session number 5, which takes place at teatime (about 5:00 PM) is the trickiest of the lot – for I must now pay my humble respects to my mistress Tabitha’s socked heels, whilst she is still wearing her ankle-socks inside her shoes. Don’t get me wrong – I relish the challenge! For the socks at the backs of her heels are particularly thin and well-worn, so much so that I can even see a faint trace of my Romany mistress’s dusky, brown heel-skin beneath the grey-white of the plain, cotton ankle sock as I kiss it – and on both her precious feet!
But it is a tricky manoeuvre, nonetheless, as, once again, I must approach my mistress’s socked heels from the front. This really is the one ritual of the day where my mistress Tabitha has little choice but to sit down, for she knows that, incompetent sock-kisser that I am, I would find it well-nigh impossible to reach round to kiss her socked heels if she was standing up – even if she was kind and condescending enough to turn up the hems of her black, denim jean-legs for me!
And so my mistress Tabitha, kindly and magnanimously, always makes sure to be seated at 5:00 p.m. – usually on her train home – which allows me to kneel on the dirty floor of the train, in front of her feet, and to stretch my slave head round to the back of her feet in order to kiss her worn-down sock-heels 70 times.
Again, none of the other passengers bat an eyelid – and not just because the sound of my humble sock-kissing is drowned out by the sound of the train engine – but because this is nothing unusual. Just a young gypsy-woman’s sockslave paying homage to his mistress’s socks. The commuters carry on reading their evening newspapers, as does my charming young mistress.
For the first session of the evening, session no. 6, which takes place at 7:00 p.m. after my mistress has had her evening meal, I am required to pay homage to my mistress’s sweaty, socked toes.
Of course, she will have kicked off her shoes by now, or had them taken off by the maidservant, and will be relaxing in front of the television with her socked feet up on the sofa. At 7:00 p.m. precisely my mistress Tabitha swings her socked feet down onto the floor (rather like she does first thing in the morning when she first wakes up) in order that I may pay my humble respects to the reinforced stitching of the greyish-white, cotton sock material which covers her pretty toes.
Of course, I will have been kneeling and staring at my mistress’s pretty, socked feet as they rested up on the arm of the sofa, but my mistress considers that for ritualistic sock-kissing her feet should be resting on the ground. It’s as if they should be resting in the dirt, so that the dirty slave can have access to them in the proper place – at floor level.
This is probably, if I am honest, my favourite ritual of the day, for I not only get to feel the softness of my mistress’s cotton socks on my lips, I can simultaneously breathe in the aroma of her warm, socked feet as I do so. It is such a distinctive aroma – very personal to my mistress. It is both sweet and sour. Sweet and sour sock! I’m sure my mistress Tabitha must be able to hear my surreptitious breathing in through my slave nostrils as I kiss each set of socked toes. But she indulges me, for she knows that the stale air surrounding her socked feet is the only air I am fit to breathe.
Finally, just before she retires to bed, her socks deftly removed from her feet by her highly-skilled maidservant, I must perform the final foot-kissing ritual of the day – the seventh. I must kiss my mistress Tabitha’s big toenails 70 times, again alternating between her right and left foot.
Just the unpainted and unvarnished toenails mind – not the cuticles of her big toes; and not the skin! At least, that’s the theory! The problem I have in practice is that my slightly-built, 22 year old, mistress Tabitha’s big toenails are so small and delicate, and my ugly, male, slave mouth is so big, I find it impossible to avoid my lower lip straying onto my mistress’s cuticles.
At first this used to displease my mistress – and she whipped me soundly many times over it. But she gradually came to realise that I was not being intentionally disrespectful, and that my mouth was genuinely just too big for me to be physically able to kiss her big toenails alone. I mean, it wasn’t like I was attempting to exceed my remit by scraping out the black toe-jam from underneath her toenails with my teeth – like some sort of skilled and fully trained footslave might do! No – I was merely trying to respectfully kiss the tops of my mistress’s petite and delicate big toenails.
And so, yet again, my sweet and kind mistress Tabitha indulges my ineptitude and clumsiness – only punishing me once every 6 months for my unavoidable toeskin-kissing liberties, that punishment being that once every six months I am only permitted to kiss the ground in front of her bare, big toes 70 times.
Which sweet, feminine clemency is precisely why I make sure that each and every one of the 490 ritualistic kisses I deliver to my mistress Tabitha’s feet and footwear throughout the day is genuinely filled with slavish admiration and respect.
She is my Romany goddess, and I am her humble, pathetic foot-servant.’
Tale no. 6 – Cold and Lonely
‘Cold!
I am freezing cold – cold and alone in my public footslave-cubicle. For it is winter, and it is late at night. Almost midnight. Not many people out and about in the wind and rain swept town square tonight.
My footslave-cubicle offers some protection against the elements, for it resembles a toilet cubicle. It has 3 sides, a roof, and a door with a lock on the inside– all to provide privacy for the female-customer whilst she is having her shoes or boots licked clean. The walls and roof are not actually there for my protection or comfort, you understand! Nevertheless, I benefit from the design of my workplace.
It is also dark inside the cubicle – for the only light is a spotlight which shines down from the roof at an angle onto the wooden footrest in front of which I am chained and kneeling – the footrest on which the female customer, if there was one, would rest her superior feet as she sits in the ‘seat of power’ in front and above me, her feet resting at my face-level, ready to be licked, kissed or whatever else the mistress desires the public footslave to do to them.
The rest of the cubicle is pitch black, as many mistresses prefer it that way. They prefer their pretty faces and upper torsos to be ‘invisible’ to me as they sit in the high chair of power above me – only their lower legs and feet are visible to me thanks to the single spotlight.
Some mistresses like it that way because it provides them with an even greater degree of anonymity as I lick clean their dirty footwear. Others like it because it focuses all my slavish attention on the task in mouth – that of tongue-shining their pretty, feminine footwear.
But, whatever their reasoning, all of them seem to like it. Such advanced, private footslave-cubicles are becoming all the rage!
If only it was draught proof, for the wind and rain are howling outside and I am naked but for my slave-shorts. All slaves in the Gynarchy are kept semi-naked, whatever the weather. I mean, who ever heard of a slave wearing proper clothes! Ha! Ha!
I suppose I should just be grateful I’m not one of the many public footslaves who have to ply their trade in the open – fully exposed to the elements, for one thing you can be completely sure of is that their owners will make no allowances for them in such weather!
Yes, at least I am sheltered from the rain as I shiver in the draught! I am grateful for such small, feminine mercies.
Suddenly I hear the door to my cubicle creaking open and a young woman steps inside, deftly locking the door behind her. At first I can only hear her, and not see her, as my back is to the door, and she must walk round me in order to take up her seat in the chair in front of me.
I can tell she is young, however, by the style of her leg and footwear – black ski-pant style trousers hugging a young, shapely pair of calves and shin muscles, and low-heeled, lace-up, black leather ankle boots. I would say this young woman is in her mid to late twenties, even though I cannot hope to see her pretty face in the pitch black of the booth.
As she settles herself into the chair, however, both her ankle-booted feet now resting on the wooden footrest directly in front of my humbly bowed and kneeling face, I can clearly see, thanks to the spotlight, the thick, elasticated tops of her black, ankle-length bootsocks on soft, brown skin. The light shines so brightly on her socks and ankle boots I can even see the individual stitches in the tops of her plain black, woollen socks. I am gratified to know that my late-night customer is either black or Asian, and that her pretty, feminine feet must be nice and cosy on this bitterly cold night inside her nice, warm, thick bootsocks.
Thanks to the spotlight I can also see clearly the tiny, tell-tale signs of wear and tear in this evidently well-worn and favourite pair of ankle-boots – little creases in the black leather around the toe areas; one or two scuff marks on the low heels; a slight tear in one of the stitches along the lower rim of her right boot.
Above all, however I can see the results of the inclement weather outside on the pretty, female boots – droplets of dirty rainwater running down the sides; patches of wet mud running along the sides and the soles; a blade of wet, sticky grass stuck in the gap between the low-heel and the sole of her left boot.
I can well understand therefore, why this young woman feels she needs the services of the public footslave – even if it is less clear to me what such a modestly dressed young woman is doing out and about on her own at this time of night, and in such dreadful weather!
She gives me her orders:
‘Slave clean the filth off my boots.’
It is a Pakistani accent. I know that because I have become a good judge of female accents over the years. I have to be, for I get few visual clues as to the ethnic origins of my customers (not all of them are so unguarded about allowing me a furtive glimpse of their soft, bare legs above the tops of their socks!)
I find myself wondering whether this young Pakistani woman may be wearing a traditional headscarf. I have no way of knowing, of course, but she seems quite demurely dressed as far as her lower clothing is concerned, and, despite her nonchalance concerning her lower, bare leg, I sense that this may be a young woman of strong morals from a traditional background. In my humble experience it is not uncommon for such modest and traditional young Pakistani women to wear a mixture of traditional and western clothing – such as headscarves and jeans; salwar kameez outfits with sneakers etc.!
I suppose a flimsy, silken salwar kameez outfit would not provide her with much warmth or protection from the elements on a cold and windy night such as this. She could well be wearing her jeans and thick bootsocks for purely practical reasons on a night like this!
Then again, would a young Pakistani woman with traditional values from a traditional family be out and about on her own this late at night? Probably not!
My musings and speculations are soon interrupted by further clarification from the young Pakistani woman as to her requirements. She points to the outer side of her right boot with a slender, brown, index finger:
‘Make sure you clean here…lick away all that filth; and clean up my laces also. I want you to suck all the mud out of them.’
‘Yes mistress…at once mistress. This slave obeys the superior mistress.’
I decide that this is one customer I must be sure to keep on the right side of. She clearly knows her own mind, traditional values or not. She also sounds authoritative and accustomed to being obeyed by slaves. No inhibitions about giving such demeaning orders to a male slave who must be nearly twice her age. Perhaps she has her own slaves at home.
And so I decide that I must ingratiate myself towards the all-powerful young mistress. The public-use whip is, after all, hanging beside her right arm on the wall of the cubicle, ready and waiting for her to pick it up and warm my cold shoulders for me should I fail to please her!
I therefore immediately begin licking away the offending streak of street-filth on the outer side of her right boot, just as she had ordered me to. As I do so, I sense her leaning forward to watch me at my humble work.
I seek to ingratiate myself towards her, in between licking:
‘I trust the mistress is not too cold, tonight, young mistress? The weather sounds really bad out there tonight.’
‘Shut up slave! No talking! Just lick my boots and suck my laces!’
‘Yes mistress…pray forgive me, sweet mistress!’
I then shut up. This young woman is clearly not what I call a ‘chatterer’ – a mistress who likes to hear a slave verbally grovel at her feet whilst he physically grovels over her boots. Indeed, from her haughty and dismissive tone she sounds as though she regards herself as being too and mighty to engage in polite conversation with a lowly, dirty, public footslave such as myself.
And she is, of course, quite right about that.
I therefore concentrate on licking, and swallowing her boot mud, and then sucking and swallowing the dirt and mud from her dirty bootlaces.
All the time I am salivating – not with the taste of her dirty footwear in my mouth, but with the sight of her pretty, black bootsocks. Oh how I would love to nuzzle at them – just to demonstrate my pathetic, cringing servility to this superior young, Pakistani woman – be she head scarfed or not! Besides, burying my nose in the folds at the tops of her woollen socks might help to warm my slave nose up a bit. It is starting to go numb with the cold!
The young woman’s mobile phone rings just as I am starting to lick at that blade of dead grass underneath the dirty heel of her left ankle boot. She sits back in her seat again, and answers it in Urdu.
It is quite an animated conversation, but I have no way of knowing, of course what it is about. Perhaps it is her concerned boyfriend, – wondering where she is? Perhaps it is a female friend with whom she has just had an argument? Perhaps it is her father, or elder brother, ordering her to return home immediately?
Whatever and whoever it is, it is none of my business. My business is to lick the dirt and filth of this superior, young woman’s black leather, low-heeled, lace-up ankle-boots.
She finishes her phone conversation and appears to take out a compact mirror in order to apply some lipstick. All the while I continue to tongue-shine her boots and suck on her dirty laces – for the golden rule of public footslavery is that it is the female customer who decides when the job is finished, not the slave. I must lick and suck until I am told to stop.
It truth be told I don’t even want to stop – because I am quite enjoying the company of this superior, young Pakistani woman with the black, lace-up ankle boots and thick, black bootsocks. I love the company of warm, female boots and socks!
Sadly, however, the young Pakistani mistress has better things to do than to sit all night having her boots licked by a dirty, middle-aged footslave. She suddenly gathers up her things, climbs down from the high seat, and exits my footslave-cubicle without a word of goodbye or thanks.
But I am not expecting any such niceties from such an innately superior and haughty young Pakistani woman. She is quite right to treat me like dirt – like the dirt beneath her boots; for that very dirt is now inside my mouth and stomach, where it belongs, and the erstwhile owner of the bootdirt has disappeared into the night to wherever she belongs.’
Tale no. 5 – Female foot-company
‘I am serving a life sentence in one of the Gynarchy’s infamous foothole-dungeons. I am now in my early fifties and have been incarcerated in this same, coffin-sized foothole-cell, lying on my bare and often empty stomach, for over 30 years. It is appropriate that my cell is coffin sized as I shall never be released into the outside world.
Like all foothole dungeon-cells it is also an isolation cell on an isolation wing, and so my only human contact is with the dusty, black leather, spike-heeled, zip-up, knee-length boots of the female guards. Most of my guards – all young women in their twenties and thirties – are sweet and compassionate towards me, in that they do allow me to project my neck through the ground level aperture at the base of my cell door into the dimly-lit corridor outside, that I may observe their boots as they walk past me. A few of the guards, occasionally, will even indulge me by stopping outside my cell door to allow me to kiss, smell, or lick their dirty boots – an inestimable honour for a dirty, convicted footslave such as myself, for, as the good lady Judge declared at my trial, I am not worthy to be in the polite company of female feet and footwear.
But, though it ill-behoves me to moan about it, I have to say there is little or no variety in the boots I have the honour of occasionally serving - given that they are female prison-officer, uniform-issue, knee-length boots - and whilst I have come to recognise and distinguish between the individual creases and contours in the black leather of my various female guards’ boots, I truly yearn for some other styles and colours of sweet, feminine footwear to admire and fawn over: high-heeled courts; strappy mary-janes; block-heeled ankle-boots; sweet and soft ballet-flats; lace-up and/or velcro-fastened sneakers; canvas deck shoes; loafers; strappy, plastic sandals and crocs etc. etc.
And besides, the female guards are busy, and have better things to do than to indulge me with their dirty boots – such as lounging around in their office at the end of my isolation corridor, reading their girly gossip magazines or chatting to one another about their experiences the night before with their manly boyfriends.
And so for the most part, as my pathetic, footslave-felon face is projected out and looking downwards from the neck-sized aperture at the base of my heavy, metal, cell door, I am staring through the gloom at the bare dirt of the nearby prison floor just inches away from my nose.
However, the female prison authorities in the glorious Gynarchy are nothing if not merciful and clement towards me, and occasionally – very occasionally, maybe once every six months or so – I am permitted to have female visitors to brighten up my day; civilian women who have expressed an interest in teasing and tormenting one of the lifer foothole-slaves with their pretty, feminine feet and footwear. And oh how I look forward to such impromptu visits! They break up the monotony of my long, dark days in the dank and dingy foothole-dungeon, and bring the light of some genuine female foot-company, albeit the company of strangers, into my otherwise miserable existence.
Such visits are always unannounced, which fact in itself keeps my hopes alive – even if most days my head is disappointed as it is shoved back into my cell by the booted foot of one of the female guards, prior to the metal aperture being firmly clanged shut – plunging me once again into total loneliness and darkness. However I cannot complain. I am here to be punished, and the absence of female foot-company is a large part of my sentence. I should have been a much better and more obedient footslave to my erstwhile mistress when I was on the outside. I only have myself to blame.
Today, however, is to be one of those few glorious days when I am granted an audience with the feet and footwear of a female, civilian stranger. I can sense, just from her style of casual clothing – bomber-jacket and jeans - that she is a young woman in her early twenties, as she strolls happily down the dimly-lit corridor towards my cell.
Unusually she is accompanied by a young man - presumably her boyfriend. Free men normally avoid visiting the foothole-dungeons as I think they worry about feeling sorry for the poor male slave fawning over their girlfriend’s feet, clearly desperate for some female foot-company. It tends to be only the cruelest and most insensitive of masters, therefore, who accompany their girlfriends on such visits – males who actually enjoy adding to the distress of the pathetic, male prisoner-footslave at their girlfriend’s feet by their own very intrusive and inhibiting, male presence.
I am therefore simultaneously delighted and concerned when I see the two pairs of denim-jeaned legs – male and female – heading towards me behind the familiar booted feet of one of the female guards, officer-mistress Tracy:
‘Enjoy!’ is all she says to the civilian couple as she leaves them to torment me as they see fit.
The happy couple begin by laughing at me.
I concentrate, of course, on the civilian footwear of the young woman who is now standing directly in front and above me, her boyfriend standing to her right with his arm apparently wrapped affectionately around her slender waist. She is wearing a pair of plain, white (or more accurately dirty-grey, though it’s somewhat hard to tell in the dimness of the dungeon-corridor) lace-up sneakers, and dark blue denim jeans. Frustratingly, I cannot initially tell whether or not the young woman is wearing any socks inside her sneakers, as the somewhat frayed, and even mud-stained, hems of her blue, boot-cut, denim jeans are covering the uppers of her sneakers.
It is frustrating because it is important to me to know whether or not this young, civilian mistress is wearing any socks inside her sneakers. This might be the only female sock I get to see all year, for the socks of the female guards are well-hidden inside their knee-length boots, and the prison-governess has decreed that I am to be denied any sock-sniffing rights by my female guards given the nature of my crime – the theft and unauthorised disposal of a pair of my former mistress’s white ankle-socks (I had stupidly attempted to dispose of the evidence after my illicit sock-sniffing session when I was alone in her bedchamber with her dirty, unlaundered socks).
You might think that I would be hoping against hope that my female visitor would be barefoot inside her sneakers, but we footslaves do tend to hanker after a sweet, feminine sock. Socks beautify female feet, adding colour and variety to them. I suppose the perfect combination is the sight of short, sweet ankle sock on soft, bare feminine skin, be it black, white, brown or yellow skin. Given that women’s ankle-socks come in a wide variety of styles and colours, the combinations then become almost endless!
It’s as if the young woman’s boyfriend – my master and better, for he is a free man – can sense what I am thinking, for he speaks down to me in a mocking tone:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave like my girlfriend sneakers?...Ha! Ha!...Slave want see my girlfriend socks? Ha! Ha!’
He sounds oriental – Chinese perhaps. I wonder, therefore, if his girlfriend may also be Chinese? It’s hard to tell, for she has not yet spoken, and is only giggling. Needless to say I cannot look up at their faces as my face is compelled to look only at the ground and at the young woman’s sneakered feet.
I must, of course, answer the master – one of the rare opportunities I have in this female-dominated place to respectfully address a master in humble slave-speak:
‘Oh pray master…oh yes master…this dirty prisoner-slave would indeed be honoured to look at the precious socks of your most respected and beautiful girlfriend, inside her most beautiful and respected, dirty sneakers, if you would both be so kind, most respected and superior master and mistress.’
The couple laugh and the young woman seems to whisper something in an oriental language to her beloved boyfriend. As she does so, I notice how her right foot raises up slightly and temporarily off the dusty floor of the stone corridor – but, frustratingly, I still don’t catch a glimpse of sock.
The young man then kindly translates his girlfriend’s whispered thoughts for me:
‘Ha! Ha!... My girlfriend say first you smell outside of her sneakers; you smell sneakers out loud; then she show you sock! Ha! Ha!’
It’s fair enough. It seems only right and proper that I should earn the right to look at a superior, young, oriental woman’s socks inside her dirty, white sneakers by first paying my audible respects to those sneakers by humbly sniffing their outsides whilst she is still wearing them. Sniffing the outsides of her dirty sneakers in front of her boyfriend – yes, I can see why that would appeal to a dominant young woman.
Her right foot is now coquettishly extended in the dirt directly below my prostrate face, but, because of the length of her denim jean-leg, and the wide, frayed boot-cut hem, I still cannot see her sock. Only the rounded, dirty and dusty, flaky, leathery toe of her evidently well-worn, white sneaker.
‘Yes master and mistress…at once, master and mistress.’
I lower my nose as low as it will go until it is just touching the toe area of her sneaker, and audibly sniff the leather – a long,hard, deep and respectful sniff. It smells musty.
The couple laugh out loud at me, their laughter echoing down the bare corridor of the dungeon and drowning out the sound of my public shoe-sniffing. I am glad, however, that the couple are laughing at me - for it indicates they are pleased and, more importantly, my female guards will hear their laughter and be satisfied that I am pleasing my civilian prison-visitors.
Displeasing a civilian visitor would be sure to earn me punishment – probably six months of complete solitary confinement in my pitch black cell; six long, lonely months without the privilege of having the aperture at the bottom of my cell-door opened so that I may observe my passing guards’ boots. I never want to have to go through that again!
The young Chinese woman has now replaced her right sneakered foot with her left underneath my prostrate nose. Again, no hint of sock – just white, musty-smelling, feminine sneaker-leather.
Again I audibly sniff.
Again they audibly laugh at me.
This time, however, the young woman, who sounds very cute and kind, says something out loud to her beloved boyfriend, who still has his arm protectively around her.
Again he kindly translates for me:
‘Ha! Ha! Girlfriend say slave sniff well! Girlfriend pleased with slave! …Girlfriend say she now show you sock... Ha! Ha! …You look at sock!....You admire Chinese girl sock!... Ha! Ha!’
And with that the demure, young woman hitches up the frayed hem of her blue denim jean-leg on her still outstretched left, sneakered foot to reveal the top of a beautiful, blue and white striped, feminine ankle sock. I can even see the elasticated top of the sock against her smooth, bare, Chinese skin!
Her ankles are actually quite skinny, but that matters not to me! My heart is racing – for I am looking at the blue and white striped ankle sock of a superior, young, oriental woman, and she is deliberately revealing her sock to me! What an honour! What a privilege! How I long to respectfully kiss that sock! My lips are dry with anticipation! Oh please, sweet mistress, please order me to kiss, or at least sniff, the side of your stripy, blue and white ankle sock!
It seems, however, that a quick glimpse is all I am going to get, for the couple merely laugh at my evident frustration, before the master embraces his girlfriend and kisses her on the lips, causing her to let go of her hitched-up trouser hem – thereby once again hiding her precious, feminine ankle-sock from my view.
Having kissed his beautiful girlfriend, the master then verbally mocks me again:
‘Ha! Ha! You a sad loser…you a wimp!... Ha! Ha!... You only get to see my girlfriend sock; while I kiss beautiful girlfriend on lips!... Ha! Ha!...We leave now…You not get to sniff or kiss my girlfriend sock…you not worthy...you a piece of dirt…Ha! Ha!... You thank us for not let you kiss girlfriend sock!...You obey Chinese master and mistress!....You obey now!’
Oh the frustrations of being a convicted footslave-felon – confined for life in the foothole-dungeons and despised by all polite society, including, it seems, visitors from overseas and foreign students; not even considered worthy to kiss a young, Chinese woman’s blue and white stripy ankle-sock over her skinny anklebone!
‘Oh pray master and mistress…God bless you master and mistress…this dirty prisoner-slave thanks the master and mistress for denying him access to the superior mistress’s most beautiful sock, if it so pleases you most powerful master and mistress.’
What else could I say? I am trapped. If I am rude to the cruel, visiting master and mistress the female prison guards will make damn sure I never get another visitor, and that way I will never get to see a pretty, female ankle sock ever again, even one covering the skinny ankle of a slightly-built and slender, young, oriental woman. I crave female foot-company, and so I must be on my best behaviour, and be grateful to the respected master and mistress for at least taking the time to allow me a sniff of female, oriental sneaker and a glimpse of female, oriental sock.
Yes, I must be grateful for small mercies. At least I have experienced a smidgen of female foot-company today, however brief, and I shall doubtless dream about stripy, blue and white, feminine ankle-sock tonight, and every night for the next six months or so until my next female visitor from the outside!’
Tale no. 4 – Unrequited Love
‘My Nigerian mistress, mistress Jumoke, and I had always got on well together. We were of a similar age (late twenties), and I had been her personal footslave since she had turned 21. I think it’s fair to say that there was a certain mutual affection between us – the worshipful, adoring affection of a humble and submissive footslave for his mistress; and the indulgent affection of a kind and merciful mistress for her property.
But that mutual affection changed dramatically one fateful day when my mistress called me into her bed chamber and ordered me to kneel at her feet whilst she sat on the edge of the bed in order to deliver some truly devastating news to me – her boyfriend of several months, master Darren, was moving in with her and, whilst she wanted me to remain as her personal footslave (subject to master Darren’s approval), things were going to have to change between us as she ‘would not hesitate to ditch me’ if master Darren felt I was getting in the way of their relationship. She explained that she was in love with master Darren as he was a strong and powerful free man – unlike me, a weak and feeble male slave – and that therefore I was the one who was expendable in her relationships.
As my mistress Jumoke gave me this news I started sobbing into her booted feet. My mistress was wearing blue denim jeans, slightly frayed at the hems, and her favourite pair of well-worn, black, wedge-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankle boots, together with her equally well-worn, dark, navy-blue ankle socks – the elasticated tops of which were just visible to my moistening eyes against the rich black of her soft, smooth, feminine skin.
Mistress Jumoke just laughed at my distress and so, as usual whenever I was seeking to win over her compassion and sympathy, I made to nuzzle the tops of her blue bootsocks. But this time she bent forward and slapped me hard with the palm of her pretty, African hand across my right cheek.
I was shocked as well as stung, for my mistress Jumoke rarely, if ever, had occasion to physically chastise me – especially when I was merely demonstrating my adoration and affection for her superior feet and footwear. But mistress Jumoke immediately explained to me that, whether I liked it or not, things were going to be very different between us from now on.
She explained that I was no longer permitted to spontaneously nuzzle, or even nose, her socks whilst she was wearing them – as this might make master Darren jealous if he ever found out about it. Indeed, she explained that I was no longer permitted to even touch her inner footwear – her socks and tights – whilst she was wearing them on her feet and legs, as she now believed such a privilege was much too intimate for a dirty slave such as myself.
Instead, she decreed, I was to concentrate on her outer footwear – her boots and shoes. I could still look at her socks inside her boots, but my slave nose, lips and tongue were no longer permitted to pay homage to her socks whilst she was wearing them. Instead I was only permitted to kiss her boots – and then they were to be short, repeated, respectful kisses – not the feverish ‘slobbering’ I had become accustomed to performing on my mistress’s boots hitherto.
Unmoved my self-pitying distress, mistress Jumoke now made it quite clear that she was no longer prepared to put up with my public displays of slavish affection for her feet and footwear, and that from now on I would either play the role of the respectful footslave, or she would sell me to the auction house and get a new slave. Nothing I do must be capable of being construed as affection for her, lest it make master Darren jealous. Instead I was to be the submissive but downtrodden footslave. She was my mistress, not my friend.
Mistress Jumoke went on to explain that master Darren believed a slave should be regularly whipped, and that, even though she didn’t much care for the use of the whip herself, her live-in boyfriend would have her full authority and blessing to discipline me with the whip on her behalf whenever he deemed it appropriate. Mistress Jumoke explained that I was to respect master Darren’s authority every bit as much as I respected her authority over me, and she opined that it was probably, in any case, about time I had a few whip-marks on my bare back as stripes were the universally-recognised badge of shame of a slave.
As she was uttering these words my mistress Jumoke subconsciously flexed her right, ankle-booted foot beneath my kneeling face, causing the metal zip to flap by the side of her boot and the elasticated top of her plain, navy-blue sock to crease and fold atop her shapely, booted anklebone. My instincts, honed by years of affection and admiration for my mistress Jumoke’s socks, were to bury my nose in the folds of her right sock – but the stinging in my right cheek abruptly reminded me that I was no longer permitted to touch her sock.
At least mistress Jumoke had said nothing about a prohibition on my touching her socks when she is not wearing them. After all, I assume I must still have permission, as her personal footwear-slave, to pick them up off the ground in order to hand and mouth wash them? How else can I clean my mistress Jumoke’s dirty socks?
I decided to clarify this important point with her, but no sooner had I begun to speak with the usual opening, slave-speak supplication of ‘Oh pray, mistress…’ when her hand, once again, came crashing down into my already tingling right cheek, sending me reeling temporarily so that for a few terrible seconds I wasn’t even able to see her boots and socks.
As I regained both my composure and my humble kneeling position at mistress Jumoke’s pretty, African feet she explained that this brought her on to the next element of her new regime: I was no longer permitted to speak, except to acknowledge her, or master Darren’s, orders by answering ‘At once, mistress’ or ‘At once, master’; to answer a rhetorical question from my superior mistress or master in the affirmative or the negative, as appropriate, by saying either ‘Yes mistress’ or ‘Yes master’, or ‘No mistress’ or ‘No master’; and to thank her, or master Darren, for the infliction of physical punishment on me by saying ‘God bless you, mistress’ or ‘God bless you, master’, all of which words must be uttered in a heartfelt and contrite tone.
This was perhaps an even more cruel blow to my pathetic, footslavish esteem than the prohibition on nuzzling my mistress’s socks, for I had always prided myself on my humble and respectful slave-speak towards my mistress, often taking several minutes just to praise and bless my mistress and to complement her on the aroma of her socked feet.
Now, it seemed, speech was to all intents and purposes, above me. Mistress Jumoke kindly explained to me that as far as she was concerned from now on I was just a thing – and appendage to her feet that should be seen and not heard, lest, once again, master Darren become jealous.
My head sank over the creased leather of the rounded toes on my mistress’s black ankle boots along with my heart, as I realised that as far as my mistress’s new, harsh footslave-regime was concerned I could either like it or lump it. I was expendable, unlike her beloved boyfriend master Darren, and if I wanted to remain in mistress Jumoke’s presence this was how it was going to be.
The last thing I wanted was to be cast out altogether by my sweet and kind African mistress, and so, my cheek still stinging from the blow of her harsh, feminine hand, I kissed the creased, musty-leathery toe of her right ankle boot in the new manner in which I had been instructed to do so from now on – briskly; respectfully and repeatedly – her creased, navy-blue sock so near and yet so far.
As I did so, mistress Jumoke asked me if I had understood everything.
‘Yes mistress.’
Tale no. 3 – Service Washes
‘I am employed as a footslave service-washer in a launderette. Specifically my job is to pre-wash the female customers’ dirty socks, tights and stockings in my slave mouth prior to them joining the rest of their clothing in the automatic washing machines.
My humble and demeaning work is closely supervised by the launderette manageress – a young, slightly-built, 22 year old Bangladeshi girl by the name of miss Sukpal. Miss Sukpal is a stickler for providing good customer service, and is forever reassuring her lady customers that their dirty hosiery will be in a pristine condition when they come back to collect it in a few hours’ time, thanks largely to the pre-wash the hosiery receives in my footslave mouth.
I am kept on my hands and knees in a corner of the launderette close to the actual washing machines where I can be clearly seen and mocked by everybody, yet at the same time am out of the way, as there is nothing that annoys my diligent mistress-supervisor miss Sukpal more than having a dirty slave getting in the way under her feet.
Miss Sukpal works hard too in the launderette, sorting out all the service washes; cleaning and maintaining the machines; collecting the payments; answering the phone; doing the accounts etc. She is not just a pretty face and feet.
So, compared to my female superior in the launderette, I have it easy. I just suck dirty, feminine socks all day long.
The door opens and one of our regular female customers enters the launderette – a young, black woman by the name of miss Justine. Miss Justine is a little bit older than miss Sukpal – in her late twenties or early thirties, I would say. But she is an incredibly fit-looking young woman, and I know for a fact that she works out at the gym every day. I know that because one of my regular tasks is to suck clean her dirty, white gym socks from her sweaty workouts, and of the two carrier bags full of dirty laundry that she is now bringing through the door, I can state with confidence that the smaller of the two will contain at least 6 pairs of her dirty, smelly, white socks.
Of course, the carrier bag won’t just contain her dirty workout socks. Miss Justine’s everyday socks will also be included, and will also require a pre-wash in my mouth. In fact, I know just as soon as I see miss Justine’s familiar, black, block-heeled, zip-up ankle boots and blue denim jean-legs entering through the launderette door that I shall be sucking young black-woman’s precious socksweat for at least the next hour.
‘Godd morning, miss Justine! How are you being today?’ asks my supervisor, miss Sukpal, politely, of her black customer, in her still strong Bangladeshi accent (my supervisor, miss Sukpal, has only been living in the Gynarchy for just over a year, and her English is still a bit stilted, though charming).
Miss Justine, who has lived in the Gynarchy for over 20 years, responds equally politely as she enters the launderette and the door swings shut again behind her:
‘Hi, Sukpal...I’m doing just fine, thanks!’
‘Please be letting me help you with your bags! Ha! Ha!...I am being hoping there are some dirty socks as usual for the sockslave to be sucking clean?’
Miss Justine laughs too:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes…and I even have a special treat for the dirty slave…my 20 year old cousin, Desiree, is over on a visit from Jamaica. I’ve brought some of her dirty socks for cleaning also!’
Overhearing this conversation between my two, superior mistresses from my humble kneeling position in the corner, I am immediately excited, and disappointed, at one and the same time – excited that I apparently have the dirty socks of a new and strange mistress to suck clean; disappointed that the owner of the dirty socks, mistress Desire, is seemingly not present in the launderette, that I may admire her feet and legs and conjure up a mental picture of her in my head whilst I am sucking the sweat out of her dirty socks.
I do like to have an image in my pathetic slave head of the female owner of the dirty socks or tights I am sucking on. It makes my task so much more humiliating and degrading to know what the owner of the dirty hosiery looks like, and to imagine her pretty face sneering down at me with disgust as I suck clean her sweaty socks in her absence (for a superior mistress has much better things to do with her spare time than to sit around in a launderette watching her dirty hosiery being cleaned in a footslave’s mouth!)
I’m guessing, however, that miss Desiree, if she is anything like her cousin, is a very pretty girl – black, presumably, and, presumably also, extremely fit. Oh how I would love to hear her Caribbean lilt as she ordered me in person to suck the stale perspiration out of her sweaty, worn socks!
But I’m getting carried away with myself! The reality is that miss Desiree, for whatever reason, is not actually present – and the closest I am going to get to miss Desiree in the flesh, at least for the time being, is the taste of her precious, Jamaican footsweat in my mouth. Which, of course, is still an exciting thought for a humble, white footslave such as myself!
‘Ha! Ha! I am being most pleased, Madam!’ miss Sukpal responds to the news from miss Justine, echoing my own thoughts. ‘I am wondering if the dirty slave will be being able to taste the difference between your dirty socks and those of your cousin, miss Justine? Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, I don’t know about any difference in the taste of our dirty socks! I am originally from Jamaica myself, after all, and we are cousins! But he’ll certainly be able to see the difference. My cousin Desiree seems to wear only brightly coloured socks with funny logos on them! Ha! Ha!’
This is indeed interesting information for me! Miss Justine herself, I know from experience, tends to wear either white gym socks (usually with some sort of colour in the trim – usually pink or red), or plain, black bootsocks. I’ll bet a pound to a penny, for example, that she is wearing black, bootsocks inside her black, zip-up, block-heeled, ankle length boots right now – not that I can see them inside her boots or beneath the hems of her blue denim jean-legs (more’s the pity!)
It will be particularly exciting for me, therefore, to suck on a young black woman’s multicoloured socks for a change. In fact, this may well be the highlight of my insignificant day – sucking the sweat out of a black, female stranger’s, multicoloured, ‘fun-style’ socks.
How pathetic I truly am!
Of course, although she doesn’t mind describing her cousin Desiree’s socks to the launderette manageress, miss Justine is much too polite to actually open up the carrier bag containing the dirty socks in order to show them to miss Sukpal – lest the smell overwhelm her. Instead miss Justine leaves the two laundry bags – the one containing her and her cousins’ dirty socks, the other containing the rest of their dirty laundry – on the floor next to the counter whilst miss Sukpal makes out a receipt for her.
I hear miss Sukpal invite miss Justine to return later that day for collection of the completed laundry, as I look avidly out of the corner of my footslave eye at the smaller carrier bag containing the two black ladies’ precious, dirty socks.
Which is a bit naughty for I should really be staring at our esteemed customer’s black, zip-up ankle boots until such time as she leaves the shop. Those, at least, are my kneeling instructions!
After miss Justine has left, miss Sukpal puts on a pair of thin, white, surgical gloves, in order to ensure her pretty, Bangladeshi hands are not sullied by the dirty socks, opens the carrier bag, and literally pours the pile of mixed-up dirty socks into the laundry basket beneath my kneeling and expectant face.
Sure enough, in amongst the familiar, white, low-cut sports-socks and black, ankle-length bootsocks of miss Justine are several pairs of unfamiliar, brightly-coloured female-stranger’s socks. I can see, for example, a pretty pair of frilly, feminine ankle socks with bright pink toes and heels and white insteps; plus a pair of bright yellow ankle socks with a red, cartoon logo on the sides; plus a pair of bright blue ankle socks with a map of Jamaica in the colours of the Jamaican flag on the sides (i.e. black, green and yellow). The socks are clearly meant to depict the Island of Jamaica in the deep, blue sea of the sunny Caribbean! Oh how I long to pay my respects to those, pretty, female-sized socks – worn all the way from the heat and humidity of the Caribbean (or so I would like to think!)
Miss Sukpal notices the excitement on my pathetic footslave-face, and gives me a verbal warning:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave, you must be making sure that you are not neglecting our good customer miss Justine’s socks. Just because they are not being so brightly-coloured as her cousin’s socks it is not meaning that you are being permitted to ignore them. Remember I shall be inspecting all the socks before I am adding them to the wash, and will be beating you if they are not all being cleaned around the toes, heels and insteps!...Now be starting your work, slave, and be making damn sure you are sniffing each sock before you are cleaning it in your mouth!’
‘Yes mistress Sukpal...at once mistress Sukpal…I obey you, mistress Sukpal!’
It is an apt and timely warning from my Bangladeshi mistress-supervisor, for I do have a tendency to suck the hardest on those items of feminine footwear I find the most appealing. I would dearly love, for example, to have a good suck on the socks mistress Sukpal is currently wearing herself today inside her flat, black leather, slip-on, round-toed, loafer-style shoes, for she is wearing her familiar pair of light grey, low-cut sneaker socks with the two red stripes along the top – socks I have pre-washed in my mouth for her on many previous occasions, and socks which always leave a pleasant aftertaste in my mouth; that of pure, beautiful young Bangladeshi-woman footsweat!
But I must now concentrate on the job in nose – the 9 pairs, or so, of dirty female socks that belong to mistresses Justine and Desiree. And, mindful of miss Sukpal’s stern warning, I shall afford each and every one of the dirty, female socks the slavish respect it deserves, be it white, black or multicoloured.
I shall therefore kiss and sniff the crusty, stale, reinforced toe-end of each soft, feminine sock, and run my slave nose along each sweaty instep, breathing in the aroma before I place the recently-worn sock inside my mouth and savour its salty taste.
Tasting the essence of a female foot; swallowing the bacteria and traces of dead foot-skin; ingesting the sock lint. I actually find that I have to control myself, for I am truly ravenous for it all!
And whilst images of the powerful and pretty mistress Justine flash through my pathetic footslave-mind whenever I am sucking on one of her dirty, white sports- socks or black bootsocks, images of my imagined mistress, her 20 year old cousin miss Desiree, equally flood my mind as I suck on her brightly-coloured and frilly, foreign ankle socks.
In my sock-obsessed mind, I am no longer kneeling in the corner of the launderette. In my mind I am humbly kneeling by miss Desiree’s feet on a sandy, Jamaican beach, sniffing and sucking on her discarded ‘Jamaican-map’ socks as they lie scrunched up inside her warm, white, lace-up sneakers resting on the sand - my arched, white back all red and sunburnt whilst her beautiful, black skin merely glistens as she lies back on a lounger in her brightly-coloured bikini, a cool refreshing drink in her hand, her lithe and fit 20-year old, Jamaican body soaking up the sun’s rays.
Her dirty sock has transported me there! Thank God for the footslave-imagination!
Later that afternoon I receive a reality check when miss Desiree enters the launderette along with her cousin Justine, to collect their finished washing. The bespectacled miss Desiree is actually quite plump and plain – not quite the beautiful, lithesome, Jamaican beach-goddess of my imagination!
Nevertheless it has been an honour and a privilege to both smell and taste her dirty, Jamaican socks, for - plump and plain or not - she is my female better, and I am truly worthy of the look of disdain she casts down at me through her thick glasses as I, for my part, humbly stare at the bright red, stripy ankle socks she is currently wearing inside her strappy, brown, leather sandals on her plump, Jamaican feet.’
Tale no. 2 – The Socktease
‘I have nothing but the utmost respect for each and every one of the superior, young women whom I serve day after day in my capacity as a public footslave in the central railway station. Whosoever is seated above me in the seat of female power, before which I humbly kneel with my head bowed, in order to have her boots or shoes licked and cleaned, is absolutely guaranteed my undying, footslavish respect.
But some of my mistresses, especially the most beautiful ones, can be such teases to we humble, helpless, down-in-the-dirt footslaves kneeling and attending to their outer footwear. In particular, they can be terrible sockteases – tormenting us with occasional, transient glimpses of their pretty, feminine socks inside their shoes or boots – soft socks which they allow us to see, but not touch or sniff as we attend instead to the rough leather of their outer footwear.
Such beautiful socktease-mistresses seem to know that it drives us public footslaves mad with desire – desire to just respectfully rub the tips of our footslave-noses down the very grooves in the stitching of their cotton socks, as a pathetic, humiliating gesture of our respect and admiration for their most intimate, inner footwear, and just as their privileged personal footslaves would do in the privacy of the mistress’s home.
Mistress Clare is one such beautiful socktease – in her late twenties; arguably slightly plump, and with mousey-coloured, shoulder-length hair framing her pretty, semi-oriental features. Mistress Clare always – and I do mean always – wears black, leather ankle boots and dark, navy blue slacks. Over the 5 years or so that she has been coming to my public-footslave stand I have never seen her wear anything other than black, leather ankle-boots and navy blue slacks.
The slacks are, I believe, part of her security-guard’s uniform, but the ankle boots are clearly a fashion choice – for over the years they have varied in style; always black; always leather; but sometimes lace-up, square-toed, block-heeled ankle-boots; sometimes spike-heeled, pointy-toed, lace-up ankle boots; or sometimes wedge-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankle boots – as she currently wears to work.
Just as consistent as her navy blue slacks are her black bootsocks inside her boots – but this is where the ‘tease’ element comes in. I only ever get to see the elasticated tops of her ankle-length, plain black bootsocks, as she helpfully and coquettishly pulls up the hems of her navy blue trouser-legs in order to afford my footslave tongue full and unhindered access to the upper rims of her leather ankle-boots. For mistress Clare likes the boot, the whole boot, and nothing but the boot to be tongue-shined by her pathetic, public bootlicker – hence the furtive, but agonisingly frustrating, glimpses of the tops of her socks inside her boots – soft, black socks against smooth, white feminine skin.
Oh how I yearn to just nuzzle the elasticated tops of mistress Clare’s black socks as I lick the tops of her black ankle-boots. It is cruelty almost beyond endurance for a humble footslave to be so near, and yet so far, from the soft, warm, inner foot-garment of a superior, young mistress such as mistress Clare. And yet she knows I am helpless to do anything about it. She knows the power of her sock over me, and she exults in the fact that I can look, but cannot touch. For she is the mistress and I am the slave, and she merely wishes me to tongue-shine her black work-boots as she makes her way into work.
However, for all her sweet, feminine cruelty, mistress Clare is equally imbued with sweet, feminine mercy. And today this most supreme of female sockteases gave me the thrill of a public-footslave lifetime.
I was, as per usual, diligently tongue shining the lower, outer side of her right boot this morning, as it rested on the metal footrest in front of my face, when mistress Clare suddenly, and without warning, crossed her shapely right leg over her left and, seemingly nonchalantly, gave me an order I shall undoubtedly remember for the rest of my pathetic footslave-life:
‘Slave, unzip the side of my boot with your mouth and straighten my sock with your hands. I want you to pull up the top of my sock as far as it will go. And make sure you smooth out all the creases and twists in the sock. I want the stitching in my sock to be completely straight on my leg!’
I could not believe my ears – or my eyes! Suddenly my mistress Clare’s right, ankle-booted foot, instead of resting on the metal footrest below my humbly-bowed, servile face, was now hovering in the air directly in front of my face – the outer zip of the pretty, feminine, black leather ankle-boot fully exposed to me below the flapping hem of her navy blue, security-guard, trouser leg, and ready for me to pull down with my footslave-mouth – like a personal footslave might do in order to reveal the side of his mistress’s black bootsock in all its feminine glory!
And then – and then – even though I was nothing more than a mere public footslave, destined to serve the outer footwear of superior women - then I was being ordered to expose, and touch with my dirty, footslave hands, the very inner footwear, the sock, of a superior, young woman!
I could not believe my luck. Even hearing miss Clare mentioning her sock in her sweet, feminine voice was such a huge thrill for one so lowly as myself:
‘Yes mistress Clare…At once mistress Clare…God bless you mistress Clare!’
I really couldn’t think of anything else to say! What an honour! What a privilege! I’m going to be touching mistress Clare’s sock!
I heard her laugh – a teasing, mocking laugh:
‘Ha! Ha! And make damn sure your dirty, slave fingers don’t touch my bare leg while you’re unzipping my boot and straightening my sock, slave, or I’ll unzip your bare back!’
She laughed out loud at her witty remark – comparing the unzipping of her boot with the unzipping of my back; presumably by means of the public-use whip which hangs on the wall beside my footslave-stand.
I have no desire to have my back ‘unzipped’ and, if truth be told, no particular desire to touch superior, mistress Clare’s bare skin, for I am not a free man who is worthy to touch a woman’s bare flesh. Her sock is more than good enough for me. Just touching a garment that is in such close and intimate contact with her bare foot and ankle is intimacy enough for the likes of me – a dirty sock-serf!
Somewhat ironically the very thought of touching the sock of my mistress Clare, in public, was causing me to shake with excitement, thereby making it more likely that I would, inadvertently, touch my mistress’s bare leg with my trembling and clumsy hands – thereby earning myself an unzipped back!
But I did my best to control my pathetic, footslavish emotions:
‘Oh pray mistress Clare, if it pleases you mistress Clare, this slave will indeed ensure that his dirty, slave hands do not sully the smooth, bare flesh of the most beautiful mistress, if it so pleases you most sweet and kind superior sock-mistress!’
Sock-mistress Clare laughed at her new title:
‘Get on with it, slave!’
I hesitated no longer. I raised my footslave teeth to the dangling, metal zip at the top of mistress Clare’s black leather, wedge-heeled and round-toed, ankle boot, and slowly and respectfully pulled down the zip until it was just below her shapely, socked ankle bone.
The sight now directly in front of my footslave-face was truly awesome – the sight of plain, black, feminine, creased, ankle-length bootsock, still warm from being inside mistress Clare’s zipped-up ankle boot. She flexed her foot muscles thereby creasing the soft, cotton material of the recently liberated black bootsock even more.
The pretty, feminine sock – undoubtedly – did need straightening, and I was the humble slaveman to do it! Almost breathlessly, and keeping my head suitably bowed with my footslave eyes firmly and respectfully focussed on the side of the ankle-length sock, I reached up to the top of the precious sock and, using my trembling fingers to pinch the soft, cotton material, began pulling the elasticated top of the black bootsock up my mistress’s shapely, white calf-muscle.
I continued to tremble both with excitement and fear – for I knew I must not inadvertently touch mistress Clare’s bare leg, on pain of the whip! I truly fear the sting of the female whip, and therefore I was ultra-careful as I pulled and rolled the plain, black sock up my mistress’s shapely, white, shin and calf-muscle.
Mistress Clare seemed satisfied with my methodology:
‘That’s right, pathetic slave, straighten my sock! Pull it up as far as it will go, and smooth out all the creases around my ankle. I want to be able to see the grooves in the stitching running perfectly straight up and down my shin and ankle bone. Make sure you straighten my sock properly, or you’ll be whipped!’
‘Yes mistress. This sock-slave obeys you, mistress Clare!’
I was obeying her, but I was also, internally, rebelling against her – for, unbeknown to mistress Clare, in my mind, can you believe it, I was actually wishing she would go further, and would order me to take off her boot, and to sniff her sweaty-socked toes!
You see, that’s the problem with a dirty, no-good footslave. Give him an inch and he wishes to take a mile! Here I am, being bestowed with the inestimable honour of straightening my mistress Clare’s sock inside her boot, and yet I find myself yearning to now take off her unzipped ankle boot altogether and to sniff her socked toes! It’s almost as if the honour of just touching her sock isn’t enough! Now I want to sniff it!
I am despicable! I am ashamed of myself! I am nothing but a dirty sock-whore!
I gather myself together, and concentrate once again on the sock in hand. It is duly straightened. My mistress Clare examines it on her lower leg from on high, and, clearly satisfied with my sock-straightening efforts, orders me to zip up her right boot again.
Now you, like me, must be wondering whether or not mistress Clare, the socktease extraordinaire, will permit me to do the same with her left sock?’
Tale no. 1 – Miss Zhi Ling’s Foot-Masseur
‘I am being punished by my master. I am being punished because he is dissatisfied with my pathetic efforts to tongue-clean his 26 year old Chinese wife’s dirty, pink and white, lace-up sneakers whilst she is out at work. My master had hoped to impress his beautiful young wife, miss Zhi Ling, by having her favourite pair of well-worn sneakers all nice and pristine, and ready for her pretty, Chinese feet before he accompanied her to the gym this evening where they both regularly work out.
But I have let him down, for even my leathery, slave tongue – well used to cleaning even the dirtiest and scruffiest of feminine footwear over the years (I even used to be a public footslave out on the streets!) cannot seem to shift the ingrained dirt along the lower sides and upper toe-areas of the Chinese mistress’s sneakers. It is therefore entirely right and proper that I should be punished, for if a personal footslave is unable to clean a young woman’s footwear properly, what else is he fit for?
My master has decided that the punishment should fit the crime, and has therefore tied the open end of one of the pink and white sneakers over my footslave nose using one of miss Zhi Ling’s dark-coloured, dirty, nylon stockings. The rounded toe end of the pink and white sneaker is directly in front of my eyes – so close up that I can focus in on the offending dirt that my inadequate, slave tongue has so shamefully failed to remove.
For good measure, my master has also stuffed one of his wife’s dirty, white, low-cut sneaker socks into my slave mouth, so that I may taste her stale footsweat whilst I am forced to smell the sweat-stained inner lining of her well-worn, pink and white sneaker and stare at her outer sneaker dirt. He also has me waiting humbly, on my hands and knees, directly inside the front porch of their home, for the return of my mistress Zhi Ling from work, in order that she may see my shame and disgrace immediately upon entering their flat.
After kneeling humbly in such a shameful pose for over an hour, I hear the door key turning in the latch, and in walks mistress Zhi Ling, wearing her knee-length, black skirt, black woolly tights, and low-heeled, black court shoes. Petite in stature though she is, she always seems to tower above me as I kneel at her feet – my pretty, dark-haired, oriental goddess-mistress, recently emigrated from the Far-East having met my master on an internet dating website.
She laughs at me as soon as she sees me with her dirty, old sneaker tied to my gormless and penitent face:
‘Ha! Ha! Look at slave!... Slave smell inside of Zhi Ling stinky shoe!... Ha! Ha! Shoe tied to slave ugly face with Zhi Ling dirty stocking!... Ha! Ha! You a fool! You a halfwit!... You look like dork! Ha! Ha!’
My mistress Zhi Ling, though she still speaks English with a strong Chinese accent, has nevertheless learnt a lot of derogatory terms for me, her personal footslave – courtesy of her husband’s expert tuition - since she moved to Europe some 12 months ago now. That’s because there is nothing this dominant and superior couple likes more than to verbally humiliate and berate me – as is their perfect right; for they own me and can do whatever they like with me.
My master hears his sweet Chinese wife’s high-pitched voice and hurries out of the kitchen, where he is lovingly preparing her evening meal for her, in order to greet her as she takes off her coat in the front porch.
They embrace and kiss in front of me as I observe, past the dirty pink and white, rounded toe-end of mistress Zhi Ling’s sneaker tied to my face, how her thick, black woolly tights crease and fold around her shapely, feminine ankles as she raises herself up on tiptoe in order to kiss her much taller husband on the lips:
‘Welcome home, darling…have you had a nice day?’ enquires the master.
Mistress Zhi Ling sighs:
‘Yes, husband, but Zhi Ling very tired…stand on feet all day. Zhi Ling feet sore...feet tired!’
Mistress Zhi Ling now works as a shop assistant in the perfumery department of a major store, so she often complains of tired and sore feet when she arrives home from work in the afternoon. Indeed, that was prompted the master to buy her a personal footslave in the first place – someone to soothe and massage her aching, tired feet at the end of the day, whilst he took care of the rest of her beautiful, soft feminine body.
‘Oh well, don’t worry honey…I’m preparing your favourite meal tonight. That should cheer you up! Why don’ t you just relax on the sofa whilst the footslave rubs your tired feet, and I’ll bring your dinner into you just as soon as it’s ready?’
My master is very good to his beautiful, Chinese wife. He treats her like a queen. She has really fallen on her feet in meeting him – for I understand that she is from a very poor background in rural China, and my master is quite a wealthy businessman. I have to admit, for his part my master has done well also - for miss Zhi Ling makes a beautiful wife for him. If I were a free man I would be quite jealous!
But I’m not a free man – I’m just a humble footslave, fit only to have my superior master’s pretty, young, Chinese wife’s smelly, old sneaker tied to my face and over my nose.
‘Ha! Ha! …Thank you, darling! Zhi Ling take slave into living room, and have slave rub feet …Why you tie Zhi Ling dirty sneaker to slave face?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry darling …he won’t be able to kiss your feet at the moment! I’m punishing him for not cleaning your dirty pink and white sneakers properly…I wanted him to see the remaining dirt close up – the dirt he failed to lick out of them!’ explains the master, kicking me angrily in my kneeling thigh as he does so.
Zhi Ling just laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Zhi Ling not mind if slave not kiss feet for once! Zhi Ling like see dirty sneaker tied to dirty slave face…like see slave have to smell inside of Zhi Ling stinky shoe! Ha! Ha! Husband clever. Zhi Ling like…make slave look stupid. Ha! Ha!’
Miss Zhi Ling, quite rightly, clearly despises me every bit as much as she admires and loves her husband. I do look ‘stupid’, and I’m not even in a position at present to acknowledge her superior feminine power and authority over me in the customary manner by respectfully kissing her feet, owing to her dirty sneaker being tied over my face.
Still, at least I can humbly remove her black, leather court shoes from her woolly-tighted feet as she slumps into the comfortable sofa in her living room, and puts her pretty, Chinese feet up onto the arm rest. Mistress Zhi Ling could, of course, simply kick off her, low-heeled, black court shoes. They slip easily on and off her pretty feet. But she doesn’t. Instead she waits for me – her footslave – to take them off her feet for her, for that is my job. A young lady with a personal footslave never takes off or puts on her own shoes.
As I slip them off her feet I catch a pleasing whiff of sweet, feminine foot odour emanating from the reinforced toe areas of her black, woolly tights as she flexes her freshly-liberated toes inside the tights. It must truly be a relief for the hard-working mistress Zhi Ling to at last have her shoes off!
I can also see, again past the white leather toe-area of her dirty, pink and white sneaker, little pieces of white fluff and lint attached to her black tights – probably just the general fluff and detritus that a young woman’s tights or stockings would inevitably pick up during a long, hard day walking around the shop floor.
Oh how I would dearly love to apply my footslave-tongue to those little pieces of white fluff on my mistress Zhi Ling’s sweaty, black woolly tights – and remove then for her. But I cannot – for my tongue is being punished for not having cleaned her sneakers adequately. It is being punished both by having her dirty, white, low-cut sneaker sock stuffed on top of it, and by being denied access to my mistress’s warm and sweaty, woollen-tighted feet.
Instead therefore, I must try to use my slave hands and fingers to remove the detritus from the soles of my mistress’s black, woolly tights as I gently massage and rub the undersides of her toes.
The master, meanwhile, brings in my mistress a refreshing glass of white wine:
‘Here you are darling…dinner won’t be long…You, the slave, make sure you relax my wife’s feet! Rub all the tiredness and the sweat out of them, boy!’
‘Yeth, mathter.’ I mumble through my mistress’s sneaker sock.
Mistress Zhi ling bursts out laughing again, as she has now realised for the first time that my mouth is full of her sneaker-sock:
‘Ha! Ha! Dirty slave suck Zhi Ling dirty sock! Ha! Ha! He a sock-mouth! He a Chinese girl sock-mouth! Ha! Ha! Zhi Ling love husband…husband better than slave. Slave a moron...husband clever!’
They kiss again, and my master, whom as miss Zhi Ling has so correctly and eloquently pointed out is much cleverer and better than me, returns to the kitchen to finish preparing his wife’s evening meal.
Miss Zhi Ling, meanwhile, takes a sip of her refreshing, white wine whilst I take a suck of her sweaty, white sock.
‘Slave rub ball of Zhi Ling foot…not just toes!’ she suddenly barks at me.
Yet again I am failing in my duty to properly serve my mistress’s feet and footwear! I am selfishly concentrating on massaging the sweaty toe-areas of her black, woolly tights, and neglecting the balls of her feet. But miss Zhi Ling is wise to me. She too, like the master, is cleverer and better than me. That’s why she is the one relaxing on the sofa having her feet rubbed, and I am the one humbly kneeling at her feet, touching her sweaty, black woolly tights with my fingers whilst my nose is covered with her dirty pink and white sneaker and my mouth is full of her short, white, unwashed sneaker sock.
I only hope the master hasn’t overheard miss Zhi Ling reprimanding me, for this evening, of all evenings, I must please the mistress!
Otherwise I might no longer get the sock. I’ll get the sack!’
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