Footslaves' Tales Volume 5

This is the fifth 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 5 CONTENTS (scroll down for tales in reverse numerical order)

20. Sock-Fever

19. Under Arrest

18. The Alpha-Female

17. The Wedding Gift

16. Thai Bride

15. The Two Heels

14. Paraphiliac Paraphernalia

13. The Countryside Bootscraper

12. The Philogynist

11. Geekdom

10. Complex Inferiority

9. The Sock Voyeur

8. Regime Change

7. Imprisonment with Humble Labour

6. The 'Sneaker-Shiner'

5. The Professional Sock-Sniffer: FAQs

4. Besotted

3. The Birth of the Gynarchy

2. Try before you buy

1. Moving On
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Tale no. 20 – Sock-Fever

‘Sock-fever - it’s a disease which only affects pathetic footslaves.

It is essentially a psychiatric disorder. It is caused by the male slave’s constant overexposure to his mistress’s feet and footwear – by the sheer fact that he spends his entire adult life crawling or kneeling at his mistress’s feet; by the fact that all he sees, hears, smells, tastes, feels and thinks about throughout the day is his beloved mistress’s footwear.

He becomes obsessed about it, and gets to the stage where he cannot live without it. If he is separated, even for one second, from his mistress’s feet or footwear he gets immediate withdrawal symptoms: he sweats; he trembles; he gets a headache; he becomes distressed; he wails; he panics.

He must – at the very least – have his mistress’s discarded socks and/or shoes in his febrile presence, that he may smell them and suck them and lick them. Better still, he must be reunited with his beloved mistress’s socks and shoes whilst she is still wearing them, for only then will he feel truly at ease with the world.

The prognosis is not good. There is no known cure.

Doctors and scientists have experimented at various times on footslaves suffering from sock-fever, trying to break their habit, for it can interfere with a slave’s ability to provide good all-round footservice to his mistress. The medical experts have tried gradually withdrawing the slave from his mistress’s footwear, reducing his daily exposure to her socks until he can at least become satisfied with her bare feet, which is much more socially acceptable.

Or they have tried aversion therapy, even throwing male socks into the mix.

But nothing has ever been proven to work. The footslaves soon go back to their old ways, seeking out their mistresses’ dirty socks - sleeping with them; stealing them; writing stories about them.

I suffer from sock-fever. I cannot live without my mistress Olga’s socks. From the moment I wake every morning, until the moment I eventually fall asleep through sheer, slavish exhaustion at the foot of my mistress’s bed every night, I must have sock!

I sleep with my mistress Olga’s dirty socks in my mouth, so that I may taste them all night long. I awake every morning well before my mistress stirs from her sweet, feminine slumbers in order that I may then wash my mistress Olga’s socks properly by hand, after they have had their presoak in my mouth overnight. I then wring out her precious socks by hand, prior to blow-drying them with my mouth.

I like watching my mistress’s socks drying on the sock-rack.

Then, as soon as my mistress Olga wakes up, I anxiously await her choice of sock for the new day, and crawl feverishly to her sock drawer to fetch the pair of socks she desires to wear.

I kiss the selected, rolled-up pair of socks before crawling back with them in my slave-mouth to my mistress’s bare, unwashed, bedside feet.

I then humbly and respectfully unfurl the rolled-up pair of socks, and smooth them gently onto my mistress Olga’s pretty, white feet. It is my first chance to observe every aspect of my mistress’s favoured socks for the day, and so I focus intently on the pattern of the stitches in her chosen socks; on the colour; on the style and length of the socks; on the texture of the material. In short, I admire and honour her socks.

I kiss them, dozens of times.

My mistress then orders me to fetch her chosen outer footwear for the day.

I am very lucky, for my mistress Olga indulges my sock fever. She never wears footwear that completely hides her socks. Even when she wears her ankle boots, the elasticated tops of her socks will be visible above the upper rims of her boots. She will only wear her low-cut, ultra-short, ankle socks with her sneakers, ballet flats, or peep-toe sandals, so that they too will be at least in part visible to me as I crawl around behind her shapely heels and ankles, even though they are marketed as so-called ‘no show’ or ‘secret’ socks.

My sweet and kind mistress Olga only withdraws her socks from my view as a punishment for impudence or disobedience. Basically, if I behave myself, she allows me to see sock. So I am always an extremely humble and well-behaved slave.

My mistress even thinks my affliction is funny. She has given me the disparaging nickname of ‘sockslave’, and allows her female friends to tease me with their socks too. She makes me kiss her girlfriends’ socks, and sniff them out loud whilst they are still wearing them, and tells them all in great and amusing detail about my sock-obsession, so that they can truly despise and mock me as I pay slavish and feverish homage to their socks:

‘Ha! Ha! How do you like my socks, sock-fancier? How do they compare to your own mistress Olga’s socks? Are they nicer? Or are they smellier? Or do you, perchance, actually like young women’s smelly socks? The smellier the better, eh? Ha! Ha! What a fool! What a dunderhead! A sockhead! Ha! Ha! Totally obsessed by female socks! Ha! Ha!’

Their mocking, feminine laughter only feeds my sock fever, and I become all the more obsessed by my tormentresses’ socks, thrilled to be spoken of only in connection with girls’ socks.

I hope they never do find a cure for sock-fever, for it is a delicious affliction to be suffering from. It keeps me contrite and humble as I realise in my more lucid moments how pathetically obsessed I am, and how helpless I am to do anything about it.

I am stricken. I am completely the slave of my mistress Olga’s socks, and I praise and bless her for putting up with me, and for saving my soul with her socks.

Without her – without them – I would surely die!’




Tale no. 19 – Under Arrest

‘So I am under arrest. The pretty, uniformed, female police officer with shoulder-length, red hair has me kneeling on the dusty ground at her feet, with my hands secured tightly in steel handcuffs behind my back.

She has ordered me to keep my head bowed and to stare at her boots – pretty, black leather, block-heeled, zip-up, police uniform ankle boots beneath her boot-cut, navy blue, police uniform trousers.

She has not had to read me my rights – for I am just a male slave; and male slaves have no rights in the Gynarchy – apart from the right to be whipped.

A surrounding crowd of pretty, female onlookers are gleefully pointing and laughing at me – trussed up and powerless as I am at the feet of a superior, young woman. They are verbally mocking me, and congratulating her – for her skill and dexterity in physically and mentally subduing me:

‘Ha! Ha! Well done, officer! Bravo! I’d like to see him try to escape feminine justice now! Ha! Ha! He’s well and truly your prisoner now, officer!’

‘Ha! Ha! Yes, slave! How does it feel to be in the young policewoman’s power? Do you fully submit to her feminine authority?’

‘Ha! Ha! Yes – what’s it like to have to abase yourself at the black, leather boots of such a pretty representative of the Female Law, wretched slave? Ha! Ha!’

‘Ha! Ha! Yeah, tell us slave - are you frightened of the policewoman? Do you fear her? Are you frightened of what she might do to you?’

I realise, of course, that these mocking, female voices are asking me purely rhetorical questions, but if the truth were required to be told I would have to confess to being genuinely frightened of the beautiful, young, ginger-haired, female police officer. She is a young woman with absolute power and authority over me, and I am completely at her sweet, feminine mercy.

I feel the urge to lick her boots, by way of demonstrating my respect for, and fear of, her lawful, feminine power, but she has not ordered me to do so – and she is very much the one in charge.

I am a slave – not a man. And so I just humbly bow my head as I have been told to do and look at the rounded toecaps of her dusty and scuff-marked, black leather, police-uniform, ankle boots as we wait for the police van to arrive and take me, her male prisoner, to the Female Police station.

It pulls up after just a few minutes, and the young, female police officer deftly attaches a thick, metal chain to the handcuffs which are securing my wrists behind my kneeling back.

She then moves round in front of me so that the blocky and scuff-marked backs of her ankle-booted heels are now directly in front of my face.

She then pulls on my chain:

‘Come on, slave! Move! Shuffle forward on your knees and keep your eyes lowered onto the backs of my boots!’

A slave must always obey a mistress – especially a police-officer mistress.

To the enormous merriment of the surrounding crowd of baying, female onlookers I endeavour to shuffle forward on my knees but almost immediately fall flat on my face. It is very difficult to crawl forwards on your hands and knees towards the back of a prison van when 50% of your limbs - your hands - are shackled tightly behind your back!

‘Ha! Ha! I think he can’t wait to lick the backs of your boots, officer!’ exclaims an excited, young, female voice from the crowd. ‘He’s virtually throwing himself at them! Ha! Ha!’

The red-haired policewoman glances back over her pretty shoulder and also laughs at me because I am such a pathetic sight – trussed up and lying face first in the dirt.

She then grits her teeth and yanks my hands up roughly by means of the cutting and chafing chain attached to my handcuffs, thereby forcing my head up out of the dirty ground onto which it had just fallen – the very ground on which she has just been walking (I can clearly see the imprint of her police-boot treads in the mud and dirt where my face had been lying!)

‘I said move – slave!’ she barks at me with an impatient flick of her fiery-red hair, clearly keen to get me back to the police station and into a cell as quickly as possible so that she can wipe her hands off me – or perhaps her boots on me – and finish her shift.

She surely won’t have much paperwork to do. The arrest of a male slave requires little or no written justification.

‘Ha! Ha! Use your whip on him, officer!’ suggests another female voice in the crowd.

The gleeful, female voice is referring to the short, black leather, ‘bulls-pizzle’ whip which every female police-constable in the Gynarchy carries on her belt as standard.

But fortunately for me this particular red-headed police officer is a kind and generous young woman. She is a disciplined and professional law-enforcement officer, and is not disposed to use the whip on me at this point, as she can clearly see that I am already broken, and that I am endeavouring to the best of my feeble, male-slave abilities to comply with her feminine commands.

The slave mind is willing, but the slave flesh is weak!

Just as soon as she pulls me forward again I fall flat on my face once more straight into the dirt on which she has been walking!

‘Ha! Ha! Whip him officer! Whip him! Draw your whip!’ exhorts yet another female voice, breathless with excitement.

I realise that I must be trying even this young, merciful police woman’s professional patience by now, so I quickly pull myself up onto my knees again and focus on a particularly prominent scuff-mark on the blocky, black heel of her right police-boot as she continues to yank me forward through the dirt towards the back of the waiting police van.

When we eventually reach the van she moves behind me, still with the chain in her hand, and kicks me unceremoniously on my buttocks with the reinforced, rounded toecap of that same, scuff-marked, black leather, police boot:

‘Crawl up into the van, slave!’ she demands.

Mercifully, there is a ramp at the back of the van specifically to enable bound and kneeling slaves who are under arrest to crawl into their temporary, mobile cell which will transport them to their more permanent place of righteous confinement.

I therefore manage to crawl up the ramp into the inviting back of the van with relative ease – aided and abetted by the occasional sharp kick to my buttocks courtesy of the increasingly impatient, red-haired police officeress.

As soon as my bent and trussed-up torso is safely in the back of the van the young police woman climbs up behind me, slams the back door of the van firmly shut, and then sits down on a bench along the inner side of the van, positioning me - still handcuffed and on my knees - on the dusty floor of the van directly beneath her dusty, scuff-marked, police boots.

Specifically, beneath the dusty sole of her scuff-marked, right boot which is now resting victoriously on my upturned, left cheek whilst it presses my right cheek into the cold floor of the back of the police van. Meanwhile the zip-side of her equally dusty, left ankle-boot is resting on the floor of the van directly in front of my frightened, male face. I can see the leather on the inner side of her left boot creasing and folding around the area of the zipper as the arresting young policewoman makes herself comfortable on the bench above me.

She lights up a cigarette and is clearly feeling much more relaxed now that I am well and truly in her personal custody. She even reaches down with her left hand to adjust the hem of her left, navy-blue, police-uniform trouser leg – and in so doing she kindly, though unwittingly, affords me a fleeting glimpse of the somewhat twisted, elasticated top of her black, cotton bootsock atop the upper rim of her left boot. I even catch a glimpse of her pale, smooth, white, lower leg above the plain, black ankle-sock!

I too am now more relaxed about being confined beneath this all-powerful young woman’s boots and socks. For she is self-evidently my female master and better.

She must be – for she is not the one who is under arrest and lying in the dirt beneath a pair of dirty, dusty and scuff-marked, female police boots!

I surrender myself absolutely to her absolute female power and authority over me – female power and authority invested in her by the Female State. I am her male prisoner.

How could I possibly resist such a sweet and feminine arrest?’




Tale no.18 – The Alpha Female

'Today it is my great honour and privilege to serve mistress Alison on my public shoelick-stand. 27 year old Mistress Alison is what I would describe as an ‘alpha female’ – blonde, good-looking, intelligent and justifiably haughty. Some people might suggest that with regard to her physical appearance she is a little on the plump side, especially around the area of her thighs, but in my humble slave-opinion she is nothing less than perfection.

I am, quite frankly, embarrassed to be permitted to be in her presence and to be serving at her superior feet and footwear.

I don’t know much else about mistress Alison, given that she never deigns to talk to me since I am so much her inferior. Besides, as a mere male slave, my brain would clearly be incapable of engaging in a meaningful conversation with such a superior female being, so there is no point in my attempting to have a discourse with my female master and better.

I therefore always just focus my attention on her beautiful feet and footwear as she sits above me on the public shoelick-stand.

Today, as mistress Alison is haughtily seated with her two feet resting on the metal footrests at my face level, I can observe that she is wearing a particularly dominant pair of soft, black leather, ballet-flats over matching, black, cotton ankle-socks, beneath a pair of smart navy-blue trousers.

The short, black ankle-socks are of the towelling-sock variety, and are therefore quite thick and fluffy in their appearance. Oh how I would dearly love to express my slavish admiration for superior, alpha-mistress Alison and her black ballet-flated and besocked feet by immediately burying my lips in the soft, fluffy, cotton material of her superlative, black ankle socks!

But of course, I must do no such thing, and must restrain myself from such inappropriate presumptuousness. I am a dirty, male slave – permitted to kneel at her divine, female feet purely so that I may do her bidding – and thus I must await my superior Alpha-mistress’s orders, and then act upon them with humility and obedience; and only upon them.

I am permitted, however to humbly greet my superior mistress, and to welcome her to my shoelick-stand by respectfully inviting her to state her foot-service requirements and wishes:

‘Good afternoon, mistress Alison, and God bless you, mistress Alison, for honouring me with your superior, feminine presence. This dirty, male slave contritely awaits your orders, oh most precious and divine mistress Alison – if it would be so pleasing to you to avail yourself of his humble services, most respected and all-powerful mistress.’

Mistress Alison, having made herself comfortable in the raised chair above me, merely sweeps her pretty, right hand through her bleached blonde, shoulder-length hair, and responds curtly, as befits a superior mistress:

‘Begin by giving me 20, slave.’

I know from experience exactly what mistress Alison is referring to – I am to kiss her feet 20 times; 10 times each – on the soft, leather, rounded toes of her pretty, black ballet flats.

To give her her due, mistress Alison is not one to simply ignore a public footslave whilst he is serving at her feet. She watches me closely from above, albeit with righteous, feminine contempt and disdain, as I lower my dirty, slave lips to the upper leather of the beautiful, if slightly scuffed-marked, ballet-flat on her divine, right foot and humbly kiss it.

The soft shoe tastes simultaneously bitter and sweet – bitter because it is dirty, black shoe-leather, soiled by the city’s street dirt and dust; sweet because it is sweet and kind alpha-mistress Alison’s dirty, black, soiled shoe-leather.

No sooner have my unworthy lips made contact with the rounded toe of her right shoe, than protocol dictates that I must raise my ugly, male head again and move it over to the toe of her similarly positioned left foot on the adjacent, metal footrest, in order to pay my respects to it also. And so the humiliating process continues, until I have ‘given her 20’ as she so imperiously demanded of me; 20 kisses on the scuff-marked, rounded toe areas of her black ballet-flats – 10 on each foot.

With her ballet-flats duly respected, I know I can expect my main orders from my superior, female customer:

‘Now tongue-shine my ballet-flats, slave. Make sure you shine them up properly and remove all the filth and dirt from them.’

‘Yes, mistress Alison. At once, mistress Alison. This slave obeys the mistress.’

I can sense that mistress Alison is still watching me intently as I lower my mouth once again to the vicinity of her right ballet-flat:

‘…And make sure you don’t touch the sock, slave,’ she adds as an arrogant afterthought. ‘My sock is too good for you.’

The supremely intelligent mistress Alison must have already noticed my lust for her beautiful, soft, black fluffy towelling socks. She must, in her infinite, female wisdom, be able to tell that I am truly yearning to bury my male nose and face in her sweet, feminine socks! But, being a superior mistress, she is equally aware that I have humble work to do in shining up her outer footwear. I have not yet earned the privilege of touching her inner footwear with my mouth, lips, or nose.

And therefore, frustratingly, I can merely look at, and not touch, her divine, fluffy, black socks whilst I attend to her soft, black shoes with my slave-tongue.

Mistress Alison, however, is such a tease! I sense that she has a wry and supercilious grin on her pretty, blonde-framed features as she deliberately hitches up the hems of her navy-blue trouser legs – ostensibly to give my face unencumbered access to her ballet-flats, but in reality, I have no doubt, in order to frustrate me further – so that I now have a much clearer view of virtually the whole of her creased, black towelling sock on her shapely right foot as my tongue gets to work on the toe area of her dusty, black ballet flat. I can even see her soft, smooth, white leg above the top of the black, fluffy, ankle-sock!

What a minx! An alpha-minx!

But by law she is entitled to tease me with her beautiful socks and bare legs all she likes. A free man could, arguably, choose to like it or lump it, but I have no choice but to like it, for I am just a humble and powerless, male footslave to this superior alpha-female.

As I begin licking clean the dusty, rounded toe of her right ballet-flat mistress Alison goes even further in her teasing of the public footslave at her feet by cocking her pretty, blonde head to one side in order to get a better look down at her public slave’s humble mouth-ministrations to her dirty, black shoe-leather. She also flexes her divine, female foot-muscles thereby causing her thick, black towelling sock to crease and fold in front of my very eyes. In so doing, she is consciously reminding me that I am licking the scuffed shoe-leather of a superior, free living female – a being who has total supremacy and power over me by virtue of her sex.

I submit to that power by licking her shoe-leather all the more assiduously, as though my very life depended on it.

Maybe it does!

After I have licked her right ballet-flat on her foot all over for some 10 minutes, mistress Alison coquettishly twists her right foot to one side, and then the other, in order to visually inspect my work from on high. I notice that my dirty, slave saliva is still glistening on the sides of her superior, feminine shoe-leather. I hope this will be pleasing to the mistress, and that she will not be angered by it.

The alpha-female certainly appears to be content with my vigorous shoe-licking efforts, though she doesn’t say so in so many words:

‘Now do the other one, slave.’

I obediently move my mouth, still containing the residue of the mud and dirt from her right ballet-flat, to her left ballet-flated foot.

Again an expanse of black, feminine towelling sock fills my vision as my tongue starts to pay attention to the offending street dirt and dust on the soft, black leather of her equally scuff-marked left shoe. This left sock is, if anything, even more creased than the right one. It is particularly twisted at the top – mistress Alison must surely have noticed and felt it!

Yet still the order does not come to straighten her sock with my face – something I would dearly love to do for her!

Perhaps, in her eyes, I am just not worthy to touch her sock with any part of my face, and never will be, no mater how diligently I tongue-shine her shoes!

I fully understand – for I am just a simpleton piece of male-slave dirt, and no young and beautiful alpha female wants a piece of male dirt touching her nice, clean, feminine socks.

Her phone rings.

She immediately loses interest in me and my work at her feet, and answers it.

From her conversation it sounds like it may be her boyfriend or husband, for I can just make out a happy male voice on the other end of the line. I do not know whether mistress Alison is married or not – but she certainly seems very gentle and loving towards the lucky person on the other end of the phone. So it is unlikely to be a mere work colleague – unless, of course, her male partner is also a work-colleague!

Whatever – none of that is really any of my business. My business – right now – is to lick clean superior mistress Alison’s dirty, left shoe – to make it sparkle in the afternoon sunshine.

The thought that it is afternoon, however, only draws my pathetic, footslave mind back to the mistress’s socks. They must have been on her feet since at least this morning – and it is quite a hot day. The socks are thick, and must be warm on mistress Alison’s precious, white feet. Her feet must surely, therefore, be hot and sticky inside her thick, black towelling socks and black, leather ballet flats on this warm summer’s afternoon.

Oh how I yearn to sniff her moist and sweaty, black, ankle-length towelling socks – especially the reinforced parts inside her shoes which cover her precious toes and heels!

It’s as if - even when she is preoccupied in lovey-dovey conversation with her alpha-male boyfriend - alpha-female mistress Alison can just tell what I’m thinking – for at that very moment she subconsciously allows the back of her left foot to rise up out of her ballet flat – providing me with the truly astounding revelation that her black, towelling socks are not purely black! The reinforced heel area, hitherto hidden inside the back of her shoe, is actually bright-blue in colour – a triangular area of bright-blue sock material is covering her pretty heelbone!

My pathetic, sock-obsessed mind starts racing! I’ll bet the reinforced toe area at the front of her sock is also bright-blue! How shocking! How surprising! How awe-inspiring!

The fantastical thought of being ordered to kiss the blue areas of the socks – but only the blue areas – thrills me to the core. I truly love it when a mistress specifies a particular area or areas of sock that she desires the slave to kiss or nuzzle. It is so much more humiliating for a slave to have his lips confined to a particular area of a female better’s sock, than to be given free rein on her sock!

But – I need to take a reality check here! No such order is likely to be forthcoming whilst my sock-tease, alpha-mistress is busy chattering away to her beloved husband or boyfriend on the phone. She is not thinking about her socks; about the fact that her bright-blue sock heels are now on display; or about the pathetic footslave lusting after her sock-heels at her feet. She is thinking about how she can please her boyfriend in bed later that evening.

And so I must just continue to lick her shoe – the shoe that is still, frustratingly, hiding the toe area of her sock.

I do allow myself one little indulgence, however. I deliberately lick the back of her soft, black ballet-shoe, so that my face is at least a little bit closer to her blue-coloured, socked heel. This, of course, in turn enables me to surreptitiously breathe in the warm and moist aroma of her freshly-liberated, socked heel.

The faint whiff of slightly stale, feminine foot odour emanating from the back of her sock should be reward enough for a down-at-heel footslave such as myself.

I find myself wondering whether alpha-mistress Alison’s bare heels are rough and chapped inside her soft, black and blue, towelling socks. Presumably not – since mistress Alison is perfect.
Even if they are chapped, however, they are still perfect heels – for they are the heels of an infinitely superior, young woman; a young, blonde woman in whose foot and sock presence I am not worthy to breathe.

Mistress Alison finishes her phone conversation with her (almost) equal male partner, and then once again turns her attention down to more mundane things – down to me.

I hear her snigger to herself at my evident wide-eyed admiration for the bright blue backs of her socked–heels as I lather away at the black leather backs of her scuff-marked ballet flats with my slave-tongue:

‘Ha! Ha! Do you like my socks, slave?’ she asks rhetorically.

I interrupt my shoe-shining, briefly, in order to confirm that I like the mistress’s black and blue towelling socks very much:

‘Oh pray mistress Alison, if it pleases you mistress Alison, this slave has been truly awestruck by the sight of the mistress’s most beautiful, soft and fluffy, black and blue-coloured towelling socks whilst he has been diligently tongue-shining the mistress’s equally beautiful and soft, black leather ballet-flats, if the mistress finds it so pleasing to her, most sweet and powerful mistress Alison.’

I suspect that mistress Alison does find my wretched, slavish admiration for her socks pleasing – or, at the very least, amusing. For there can surely be no more satisfying sight for a superior alpha-mistress than that of a pathetic, male slave totally enraptured by her shoes and socks?

Her next actions certainly seem to confirm my suspicions, for mistress Alison seductively slips the remainder of her socked foot out of her left shoe – leaving the discarded, black ballet-flat resting on the metal footrest underneath my face – and graciously raises her socked toes to my humbly kneeling nose.

I am in female-sock ecstasy – for the extra thick reinforced toe area of the sock is indeed bright blue to match the bright blue of the reinforced heel area!

Mistress Alison then laughs out loud at me as she wriggles her sweaty toes inside her thick, towelling sock directly in front of my face:

‘Ha! Ha! Very well, slave, you have now earned the right to have my stinky sock on your face. You may bury your nose in my sock and sniff it! Smell my toes! Breathe in my stinky footsweat, slave! Go on! Do it! Do it now!’

I need no further encouragement from the superior, young, blonde mistress. My heart is truly racing now as my greatest wish is fulfilled and I am afforded the inestimable honour of sniffing the warm, moist, sweaty, black and blue towelling sock of a superior alpha-mistress - whilst she is still wearing it!

Not even the sweat marks on the inner lining of her discarded shoe, still resting on the metal footrest beneath my chin, can distract me from this.

I lose myself in her thick cotton, black and blue-coloured, towelling sock!

Now do you see why mistress Alison is truly an alpha-female? Only a gracious and divine goddess would condescend to fulfil a dirty, humble, public footslave’s fantastical dreams by indulging him with her superior sock smell in such a magnanimous way!

You’ll have to excuse me now. I really can’t talk any more.

I can only sniff!’




Tale no. 17 – The Wedding Gift

‘My new master, who has just purchased me at the slave market a few hours ago, is explaining to me exactly how my life is going to be from now on.

I am kneeling on the cream-coloured carpet in the front living room of his opulent home, with my head humbly bowed, contritely and submissively listening to my fate. The master – a somewhat weaselly looking man of a similar age to me, in his late forties, and with dirty, greasy, black hair – is explaining that he is getting married this coming weekend, and that he has therefore purchased me as a personal foot-fool for his beautiful, young bride.

It is a common enough tradition in the Gynarchy of Barbaria for a free man to purchase his bride a personal, male footslave on the eve of her wedding, but I understand that the man’s fiancée does not yet know that he has purchased me for her. I will, therefore, be something of a – hopefully pleasant – surprise for her when she returns home from work later this afternoon. The master has already informed me that his fiancée works as a bank-teller in the city, and that she is due home from work in about one hour’s time.

He is clearly very proud of her, for he begins by describing his fiancée – my new mistress - to me in glowing terms. He explains that she is just 22 years old, with long, blonde hair and a shapely figure, and that because she is so young I will be her first ever personal slave. The master stresses to me that, even though his fiancée is inexperienced in the art of managing a personal footslave, he will make damn sure that I afford her the proper, slavish respect and devotion which she deserves.

He tells me that his beautiful, young fiancée’s name is Katy, but that I must address her at all times as ‘mistress Catherine’ or ‘miss Catherine’. I am never to use the shortened version of her name even though everybody else does, as that would imply that I was her friend and equal – which I most definitely am not. Mistress Catherine is my superior and better and she now owns me – and I must never forget that.

The master states that if ever I did forget it, he will whip me, and he then shows me the fearsome-looking, brown leather, single-tailed slave-whip which he has also purchased today for both his and his wife-to-be’s use on my bare back.

The master goes on to explain in more detail what precisely is meant by the term ‘foot-fool’. He explains that I will basically be his beautiful new wife’s hooded and masked, personal footslave - responsible for taking care of her feet and footwear. He then shows me the rubber mask that I shall be required to wear permanently over my ugly, slave face – the mask that will make me look like an utter fool as I kneel at his wife’s pretty feet and crawl along the dirty, city streets behind her shapely heels and ankles in full, public view.

He points out to me the various features in my custom-made foot-fool mask:

*It is primarily made of black rubber, but also has some garish, mismatched colours around the eye, nose, mouth and ear slits;

*The eye slits are bright yellow and look wonky – thereby giving the impression that I am looking out through wonky eyes. One of them is so skewed that it makes it look as though I am permanently squinting. The eyebrows are also made of rubber and are purple and brown respectively. The right eyebrow (the purple one) points upwards, whilst the left eyebrow (the brown one) points downwards. My new master demonstrates to me that the wonky, yellow eye slits can be fastened shut over my eyes, thereby depriving me of my sense of sight whensoever it pleases my new mistress Catherine. She will, therefore, have complete power over what, or even whether, I can see at any given time;

*Similarly the ear slits – which are bright green and shaped like a fox’s pointy ears – can be closed over in order to plug my earholes and deprive me of my sense of hearing. The master stresses, however, that most of the time my new, 20 year old blonde mistress is likely to keep the ear slits open so that I can hear her commands and do her bidding;

*The nose on the black, rubbery foot-fool mask is a pig-shaped snout, and is the only aperture that cannot be sealed up. The master explains that this is because it is inconceivable that I should ever be prevented from smelling his wife’s feet and/or footwear, or from breathing in the air surrounding her feet, since that is one of my core duties – to sniff and smell her precious feet and footwear. My rubbery pig-snout is coloured bright red;

*The aperture over the mouth can, and will, of course, be zipped closed by my new mistress, as she will often not wish to hear me grunt or speak – but the master opined that nevertheless for most of the time it would probably be left open in order to enable me to kiss and lick his wife’s feet, shoes and socks – although he couldn’t be 100% sure about this. He explained that it would be entirely up to his wife and her wishes;

*If my footfool-mouth was ever sealed up, however, I would at least still be able to breathe in my pretty, blonde mistress’s stinky foot-air through my bright-red, rubbery, pig-snout nose. The mouth, he pointed out, was pink in colour and shaped to look sad and droopy – since no young woman’s foot-fool should ever be allowed to look happy or contented. Being a humble foot-fool is such a humiliating and degrading existence that no other expression other than sadness and despair could ever be appropriate on a foot-fool’s mask;

*The master then delighted in pointing out to me that on the top of the specially commissioned, black, rubber footfool-mask there were little rubber miniature-models of various items of feminine footwear: a little white, rubbery pair of stiletto shoes; a little model of a pair of black and pink, girly sneakers which dangled from the tops of one of the bright green ears by means of a fetching little pair of pink, rubbery shoelaces; a tiny pair of navy-blue, rubbery socks over the left, brown-coloured eyebrow; and a tiny pair of beige-coloured, rubbery tights hanging from the right cheek. The master explained that all of these things emphasised to the world my lowly status as a young woman’s footslave;

*As did the words written in large, white capitals all over the black, rubbery face mask. The master explained that he himself had selected the words to put onto the mask: SOCKS; TOEJAM; NYLONS; LICK; SNIFF; STINK; FEAR; BOOTS; WHIP – all words which the master believed would sum up my pitiful existence from now on;

*Finally, he pointed out that there was a label attached to the base of my custom-made, rubber mask which stated the following:

‘Dirty foot-fool; property of mistress Catherine Colton. If found please whip, and hand in to the nearest Female Police station.’


The master then asked me if I liked the mask that he had commissioned for me? I replied that I did, and he said that was good as he was now going to fix it permanently onto my ugly slave-face in preparation for my introduction to his bride-to-be when she arrived home from work in a few minutes’ time.

The master then pulled the rubber mask roughly over my head and down onto my face, adjusting it so that the eye, nose, mouth and ear slits all covered their respective features on my footslave-face. The mask seemed to be a good fit although, being made entirely of rubber, it would probably stretch to fit over any male slave’s face! Just as soon as it was secured on me the master laughed at me and mocked me – the first, no doubt, of many superior, free people who would delight in mocking my new, ridiculous, foot-obsessed appearance from now on.

Having fitted me with my rubbery, foot-fool mask the master then proceeded to explain to me in more detail exactly what my duties as his young wife’s personal foot-servant would be:

*My primary functions would be to wash, massage and pedicure my mistress’s bare feet. The master explained that, because his pretty, young fiancée had a penchant for wearing high-heels, the insides of her shoes often rubbed against her toes and heels – and her soft and vulnerable bare, pinky-white feet therefore often contained areas of red, rough skin which it would be my duty to soothe and calm with my slave-tongue;

*Likewise I would oftentimes be required to gently scrape out the dirt and toejam from beneath his wife’s toenails with my slave-teeth, and to then swallow it. The master laughed at this point asking me if I had a taste for young women’s toejam, as he understood it was something of an acquired taste? I assured the master that I had indeed acquired such a taste for sweaty toejam over my many years of humble foot-servitude. The master said that that was good, as he wouldn’t tolerate me baulking at the idea of swallowing his lovely wife’s superior toejam – and he stressed that it would be an honour for a dirty, male slave like me to taste and swallow miss Catherine’s superior toenail and foot dirt. I wholeheartedly agreed with the master;

*Next the master stressed to me that I would be responsible also for attending to his pretty, young, blonde wife’s hosiery. He explained that, although she sometimes wore her high-heel shoes on her bare feet, especially during the hot, summer months, she also often liked to wear nylon stockings or pop-socks with her heels in order to try to protect the sensitive, feminine skin on her heels and toes;

*He explained, for example, that his bride-to-be liked to wear tan-coloured, knee-length, nylon pop-socks to her place of work underneath her navy-blue, bank-uniform trouser suit, and that one of my main tasks every evening would be to sniff his wife’s sweaty, nylon-popsocked feet after she came home from work and was relaxing with her feet resting on the arm of the sofa;

*He described how I would have to kneel at his wife’s nylon-covered feet, and place my bright-red, rubbery, snout-shaped footfool-nose on the reinforced areas of the tan-coloured, nylon popsocks covering her sweaty toes and audibly sniff at them, whilst she rested her weary head on his lap. The master stated that I might then also be required to ‘nose’ his pretty wife’s nylon-popsocked feet, which he explained meant that I would have to run my pig-shaped snout all over the soles of his wife-to-be’s sweaty, stockinged feet without tickling her, all the while breathing in their fragrant aroma and rejoicing in my humiliation and degradation at a young working-woman’s sweaty, workaday feet;

*The master then went on to explain that, on her days off, his fiancée tended to wear ballet flats or sneakers with socks during the daytime, and nylons with high-heels if she was going out clubbing with her girlfriends, or out drinking with him, in the evening. He explained that I must show the same respect to her thin cotton, or thick woollen, socks as I would to her nylon popsocks or full-length, nylon stockings, and that whenever I am kneeling at or crawling behind her feet – both of which activities, he added, I would be spending most of my time doing from now on - I was to stare at and admire her socks and/or stockings whenever they were visible beneath the hems of her trouser or jean legs;

*The master then kindly showed me various pairs of his wife’s dirty, unwashed nylons and socks. He gleefully held each one up to my rubbery-masked footfool-face and stretched the nylon, cotton or woollen material of each and every unwashed stocking or sock over my wonky, yellow eye-slits. He counselled me to, whenever possible, study and concentrate on the various patterns in the stitching of his wife’s socks or stockings around her shapely ankles whilst she was wearing them, as that way I would never forget my humble position as her pathetic, personal foot-fool;

*My new master added that I would only be permitted to focus my wonky, yellow eyes on his wife’s outer footwear – her shoes or boots – if her inner footwear - her socks or stockings - were completely hidden from my view, for example by the hems of her trouser-legs or by the outsides of her boots;

*But, if even the merest ‘slither’ of the elasticated top of her plain black, ankle-length bootsock was visible atop her pretty, black ankle boot, I was to concentrate on that slither of sock – for a young woman’s sock, he explained, is more intimately connected to her superior, feminine foot than her outer boot-leather is, and it is therefore a greater privilege for a dirty, humble footslave such as myself to stare at his mistress’s sock than it is for him to stare at the outside of her boot. I could not fault my master’s unassailable logic on this issue;

*The master then went on to explain in more detail his wife’s preferences in outer footwear. He repeated that she had a particular fondness for wearing high-heels – even to work – and he reminded me that I would soon be greeting his young fiancée’s work-uniform, navy-blue, leather, high-heeled courts just as soon as she returned home from work. He advised me to prepare myself mentally for that, as a mistress’s first impressions of her new footslave were always supremely important, and he warned me that if his beloved fiancée didn’t like me he would have no hesitation in taking me back to the slave market and getting a refund;

*The master clarified that the particular slave market in question – an unlicensed, unofficial slave-market – had a policy of only accepting back goods if they were damaged – but he informed me that he would have no hesitation in damaging me in whatever way was necessary if he ended up having to take me back at his fiancée’s behest for a refund;

*With these words of warning ringing in my head, I decided to follow the master’s advice and think about how I was going to pay my respects to my new mistress’s navy-blue, workday shoes. However, whilst I was preparing myself mentally to make a good first impression on my new mistress, in the meantime the master kindly brought out a large, cardboard box containing his bride-to-be’s many other pairs of shoes, sandals and boots. He showed me various pairs of stilettos – all different styles and colours; some with straps; some peep-toed; some with open heels at the backs; some evidently well-worn (if the brown stains on the insoles were anything to go by); others, apparently, quite new and hardly ever worn;

*The master then delighted in holding the inside of one of his wife’s rather tatty and dirty-looking, pink and black, lace-up sneakers over my pig-snout nose, and in ordering me to inhale his fiancée’s stale sneaker-odour. I noticed that the sneakers matched the little miniature-model, rubber sneakers hanging from my pointy, green, rubbery left ear. My master explained that his pretty, blonde fiancée often went jogging in the morning before setting off to work, and that her feet, naturally, tended to sweat a lot whilst she was jogging in her favourite pair of pink and black sneakers. Therefore, he explained, I would normally have to wash her feet every morning after her morning run, and not before;

*The master also helpfully found the pair of miss Catherine’s unwashed and smelly, pink and white jogging socks which she had worn whilst out jogging in her pink and black sneakers that very morning, and he held the dirty socks too over my rubbery, pigsnout-nose so that I could catch and appreciate the full force of his fiancée’s stale foot-scent – almost as though I were her pet dog (or pig?). The smell was suitably tart and pungent, but nice;

*The master then explained that one of my major duties every day as his wife’s footwear-slave would be to launder her dirty stockings and socks in my footslave-mouth, and to dry them with my footslave-breath. I would also be required to tongue-shine her dirty shoes and boots – including her rather tatty and scuff-marked black and pink jogging-sneakers – ensuring that every last morsel of street-dirt and grime was removed from them so that they were fit, once again, to grace the pretty stockinged or socked feet of my superior mistress;

*The master laughed mockingly at this point again and enquired as to whether I liked the taste of ladies’ shoe and boot dirt mixed in with the bitter taste of their actual shoe-leather? I replied that once again I did, though I acknowledged that, rather like the taste of sweet feminine toejam, it was something of a footslave-acquired taste. The master, quite rightly, laughed at me and mocked me out loud for my obsequious reply to his disparaging question;

*Finally, the master gave me a number of pointers as to the correct demeanour I was to adopt in his young wife’s presence. He explained that I was to remain on my hands and knees at all times as befits a footslave – and that I was always to focus my eyes on her precious feet and footwear. He emphasised once again that my priority should be to focus on the stitching in my mistress’s nylons or socks whenever possible, but that failing that I was permitted to look at the leather on the outsides of her boots or shoes – or, indeed, on the fine pores in her bare footskin if she was barefoot in my presence;

*He helpfully explained that I was to kiss his wife’s feet whenever she entered or left a room; whenever she stopped walking ; whenever she sits down for the first time; or, of course, whenever she consciously presents her foot for me to pay my humble respects to. He further confirmed that I was to kiss the feet of any other woman whose feet my mistress Catherine desired me to kiss – such as her mother’s feet; her sisters’ feet; or her friends’ feet;

*The master stressed that he expected to see me paying my humble respects to his wife’s (or indeed her relatives’ or friends’) feet in a suitably reverent manner – to wit, he would expect me to first cup my hands worshipfully around the superior, female foot which I was about to kiss, and to then lower my lips accurately and crisply to the toe of the female boot or shoe, before raising my head again after one second – still, of course, keeping my eyes focussed on the object of my adoration i.e. the foot, shoe or boot which I have just kissed – and waiting to hear if I was required to kiss that same female foot or item of female footwear again, or not;

*The master also clarified that most of the time the woman whose feet I was honouring would tell me in advance how many times she wished each foot to be kissed, but that I couldn’t always bank on it and should therefore be prepared to kiss her outstretched foot again - and possibly even repeatedly until I was ordered to stop. It would be entirely up to the individual whim of the mistress - and I, the foot-kisser, would have absolutely no say in the matter;

*My master then confirmed that, in addition to addressing his wife as ‘mistress Catherine or ‘miss Catherine’ all the time, I was to employ only the most humble of male slave-speak when conversing with a superior woman. Thus I must all the time crave my mistress’s indulgence, and pray for her to permit me to serve her, acknowledging that I was not worthy to do so, if it so pleased her etc. However, I am also only to speak to my mistress as and when I am spoken to, for a lady’s foot-fool should ordinarily be seen and laughed at - but not heard.


Suddenly we both heard a key turning in the lock of the front door to the house – I through my ridiculous looking, bright green, fox-shaped ears with the miniature model-sized, rubbery sneakers attached; my master through his free and unencumbered ears.

It was the mistress –mistress Catherine - returned home from work.

Now she would receive her ‘surprise’ wedding gift from her husband-to-be – me, the foot-fool!

A stunningly attractive young, blonde woman, dressed in a smart navy-blue , corporate-wear trouser suit entered the living room and cried out in shock at the sight of me!

‘Surprise!’ shouts her weaselly-looking, much older fiancé - my master!

The young woman quickly puts her keys and her handbag down onto a nearby coffee table, and places her pretty right hand in shocked disbelief over her equally pretty, red-lipstick-painted mouth:

‘What’s all this, honey?’ she exclaims – seemingly totally bewildered at the pathetic sight of me kneeling before her in my ridiculous-looking rubber footfool-mask and staring at her pretty, navy-blue, high-heeled shoes and feet .

‘Ha! Ha! That is yours, darling! Ha! Ha! That is your personal foot-fool! It’s your wedding-gift from me, if you want it?’

The young woman seemed to blush and come over all romantic as she ran over to embrace and kiss her manly fiancé and thank him for his generous wedding-gift to her. As she embraced him and kissed her ‘handsome’ fiancé on the lips, I observed how her right foot coquettishly raised up behind her off the cream-coloured carpet of the living room floor.

Just as the master had told me she would be, miss Catherine was wearing a pair of tan-coloured popsocks inside her navy-blue, leather, high-heeled courts. The raised position of her right foot in the air behind her meant that her shapely-stockinged anklebone beneath the hem of her smart, navy-blue trouser-leg was clearly visible to me in front of my kneeling footslave-face.

I remembered the wise words of my weaselly-looking master and dutifully focussed my footslave eyes through their wonky-yellow footfool-mask eye-slits on the stretched, nylon stitching that covered the young blonde woman’s outer, right anklebone. I even noticed a tiny piece of black fluff stuck to one of the fine denier nylon stitches.

‘Oh darling! What a lovely surprise! Thank you! Thank you’ the young woman was gushing at my master, in between showering his unmasked and free, male face with loving, feminine kisses.

It was a few minutes before the happy couple focussed their attention on me again, with the master showing his soon-to-be wife the various details of my humble foot-fool mask – just as he had earlier pointed out each of the individually humiliating features to me, the pathetic wearer of the mask.

The mistress appeared particularly taken by the miniature, rubbery models of various items of feminine footwear that were dangling from the mask – particularly the little pink and black sneakers that hung by their tiny rubbery laces from my pointy, bright-green left ear. She also delighted in reading out loud the humiliating words that were plastered in big, white letters all over my face, and she examined closely the label declaring me to be her personal property, in her new married name:

‘Ha! Ha! Oh thank you darling! It’s a wonderful wedding present. Thank you! Thank you! Oh I do love you, sweetheart!’

She embraced and kissed her fiancé again on the lips, whilst I felt a foolish sense of footslave pride at being so appreciated as a wedding gift by my new mistress.

But ,of course, as the master had so rightly pointed out to me earlier, the really crucial test would be the initial impression my wonky footslave lips would make on my new mistress’s navy-blue, corporate office footwear.

That test soon came as the master desired his pretty fiancée to stretch forward her right foot for me to humbly kiss:

‘Ha! Ha! Stretch your right foot out, darling, so that your new footfool-slave can greet you properly. Order him to kiss your foot!’

The young woman was clearly planning to take the old-fashioned, pre-Gynarchial oath to ‘love, honour and obey’ her husband at her forthcoming wedding ceremony, as she immediately complied with her fiancé’s request and, hands arrogantly positioned on her shapely hips, stretched forward her right leg until her pretty, navy-blue-stiletto-heeled right foot was resting on the cream-coloured carpet directly beneath my kneeling footfool-snout:

‘Ha! Ha! Kiss my foot, dirty foot-fool!’ she barked down at me with undisguised glee in her young-womanly voice.

I remembered my footslave manners:

‘Yes, mistress Catherine. At once, mistress Catherine’.

I then respectfully cupped my hands around my new mistress’s right foot, just as my master had instructed me to do, lowered my lips to the pointy toe of her navy-blue court shoe, and kissed it crisply and respectfully.

And likewise, just as my master had further instructed me to do, I then raised my head above the feminine shoe and focussed my attention on the stitching in my mistress’s tan-coloured, nylon popsock, whilst I waited to hear whether she wanted me to kiss her imperiously-outstretched foot a second time.

Mistress Catherine merely switched her feet underneath my kneeling face and said:
‘And the other one, foot-pig!’

It was an appropriate slave-nickname for me given my pig-like snout – the very same rubbery, red snout through which I now breathed in the scent of my new mistress’s navy-blue shoe leather as I humbly paid my respects to my new owner’s left foot through my downcast, pink-coloured mouth.

It seemed that I had passed the foot-kissing test, for mistress Catherine immediately burst out into a fit of girlish giggles, and embraced her husband-to-be yet again in order to thank him, yet again, for her wonderful wedding gift! She then picked up the accompanying, brown-leather slave whip and ran it through her delicate, feminine fingers.

It seemed that the master could throw away the receipt for his purchased goods and that, mercifully, he would have no need to ‘damage’ me.

This particular wedding gift would not need to be returned unwanted and unused to the dodgy slave-market for a refund!’






Tale no 16. – Thai Bride

‘Life as a public footslave in the central square of Barbaria is, of course, full of daily humiliations.

How else would it be, when you are compelled to kneel over a wooden footblock all day long, kissing and licking and smelling the dirty feet and footwear of often extremely arrogant and imperious young women?

But it can be even worse than that. For me, the biggest humiliation is when I am required to make another man look good in front of his female partner. Free men in the Gynarchy of Barbaria just love to ‘lord it over’ we humble, male footslaves as a way of impressing their girlfriends, and ‘lording it over’ us usually takes the form of directing exactly how we honour and obey their girlfriends’ or wives’ or fiancées’ feet and/or footwear as we carry out our public duties.

What puts me in mind of all this is an incident which occurred yesterday afternoon. It was a lovely, bright, hot and sunny day in the square – lovely and hot, that is, for the free women and men who were at liberty to mill around in the shade whenever they so desired.

For me – the hard-working public footslave, kneeling on the ground near the centre of the square with my bare, unprotected back fully exposed to the unrelenting rays of the hot burning sun – it was just another sweltering hot, working day in the capital.

But just as the sun was at its zenith in the sky, I espied a pair of pretty, red, open-toed, backless mules - worn, unusually for such a hot, summer’s day, with a matching pair of red and white, low-cut ankle socks - approaching my humble, wooden footblock.

From my kneeling position, with my head kept humbly bowed, I could just make out from the corner of my footslave-eye that the wearer of the socks was an exceptionally pretty and petite-looking, dark-haired oriental girl in her early twenties. She was wearing nothing else on her legs, being clad from the waist up in very short red shorts, and a white T shirt with some sort of squiggly writing on it above a picture of a sandy beach in some exotic, far-flung location.

My footslave-mouth, pathetically, started to salivate somewhat at the sight of the oriental girl’s fully exposed, pretty red and white ankle-socks – for in such hot weather I had been virtually starved of female sock all day; nothing but bare feet in strappy, open-toed sandals to attend to!

It is, of course, not unpleasant to have to kiss and lick dirty, leather sandal straps on soft, bare feminine feet, but a bit of colourful feminine sock thrown into the equation every now and then always brightens up the day – at least, that’s what I always find!

I was delighted to observe that the oriental girl with the red socks and red, open-toed mules was heading straight towards me, but, regrettably she was not alone. Some free male was accompanying her – arm in arm. Not only that – but the white man looked to be in his early sixties!

I jumped to conclusions – an elderly, West-European man with his Thai girlfriend? If so, this next few minutes would surely mean some serious humiliation heading my way, for in my footslave-experience the older the man, the greater his desire to impress his beautiful, young, female partner with his prowess and machismo.

I stole myself for the worst.

I could hear the happy couple already laughing at me – she giggling nervously, he guffawing mockingly – as the pretty, oriental girl’s red mules and socks walked right up to my footblock and stood directly on the dusty ground of the town square in front of my kneeling face.

Like all my customers, she didn’t seem quite so petite in stature now; indeed, she seemed to tower above me like some sort of red and white socked, oriental goddess.

The man was explaining to his bemused, oriental girlfriend exactly what I was:

‘Ha! Ha! This is one of them public footslaves I was telling you about, honey! Ha! Ha! Look at his gormless face! Ha! Ha! Can you see, honey? Can you see how the chains around his neck force him to look at that dirty, wooden footblock underneath his face? Ha! Ha!’

The oriental girl was giggling even more vigorously now as the very same chains the free man had been referring to did their job of obliging me to stare humbly and contritely at her pretty, oriental, red and white socks on her dainty, oriental feet.

She spoke with a strong, Asian accent in broken English:

‘Ha! Ha! Pranee like! Like see slave kneel humble on ground at Pranee feet! Ha! Ha! Slave-man look like fool. Ha! Ha! He not able to lift up head and look at Pranee face! Ha! Ha! Only look at Pranee feet! Ha! Ha!’

Miss ‘Pranee’s’ much older boyfriend laughed along with her at my enforced humility at his pretty, oriental girlfriend’s feet:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, honey...I’ll bet he wishes he could look at your pretty face, for you are my beautiful Thai bride!’

Flattery, it seemed, was getting him everywhere, for I observed the cotton material of the young woman’s red and white socks suddenly crease and fold in front of my face as she temporarily twisted her feet in order to reach up and kiss her elderly fiancé lovingly on the lips.

At least I was able to flatter myself that I was right about her being a Thai bride!

After they had snogged noisily above me, the white man – testosterone no doubt newly pulsing through his elderly veins - manfully took charge of the proceedings:

‘Pranee darling, let’s humiliate the slave with your pretty feet and socks! Ha! Ha! Let’s make this fool smell your feet and socks – here in public, in front of everyone in the town square! Ha! Ha!’

I sensed the young and beautiful oriental girl put her hands up to her face in order to spare her blushes and stifle still more giggles:

‘Ha! Ha! You make public slave smell Pranee socks – while Pranee still wearing them?’ she asked her boyfriend, incredulously.

‘Sure, honey! Haven’t you ever had your socks worshipped in public before? Don’t they have public footslaves in Thailand? Ha! Ha!’

It was, of course, a rhetorical question on the part of the man. Even if he had never been to Thailand, and had chosen his Thai bride-to-be over the net or from a catalogue – he would know full well that the only county in the world to have public footslaves is the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria in which we now found ourselves!

‘Ha! Ha! Pranee not want slave smell Pranee dirty socks! Pranee shy – socks stinky. Pranee wear socks since Tuesday…since leave Thailand! Ha! Ha!’

It was now Thursday.

The elderly man sought to reassure his bashful, Thai girlfriend that she had no need to feel diffident or embarrassed about having her dirty socks sniffed in public:

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry your pretty little head, honey – the stinkier your socks, the better! That’s precisely what these guys are here for – to smell young women’s stinky, sweaty socks and shoes. It’s like their punishment for something. They’re all convicted criminals!’

This last point just isn’t true. Not all public footslaves in the Gynarchy are convicted male criminals. Some of them - myself included – simply choose to become public footslaves at the age of 21.

But if it helps the Thai girl to feel more relaxed and less guilty about imposing her stinky-socked feet on me, then I am quite prepared to let her labour under the illusion that I am indeed a dirty, convicted, male criminal who deserves all that he gets!

She certainly seems to have been won over by her elderly fiancé’s assurances:

‘Ha! Ha! OK – Pranee let slave smell Pranee socks! Ha! Ha! What Pranee have to do?’

‘Just place your pretty foot up onto his wooden footblock, honey. I’ll make him do the rest!’

The beautiful, young Thai girl obediently and submissively stretched out her shapely, bare leg, placing her right foot directly beneath my kneeling face.

I now had an even closer view of her allegedly ‘stinky’ sock – not that my fully-honed footslave nose could detect any Thai-girl foot odour (more’s the pity!).

But what the sock lacked in smell, it certainly made up for in its aesthetic beauty – for it was truly a very feminine and pretty, short, sneaker-style, red and white patterned, cotton ankle-sock.

Her open toed and open-backed, single-strapped, red mule, with its fetching 3- inch heel, only seemed to accentuate the beauty of the sock beneath my face. The single, broad, red-leather strap across the top of the mule seemed to divide the all–white reinforced toe area of her short ankle sock from the main body of the sock which was bright red. Only the heel and the elasticated top of the short sock were also white – and I now noticed as I studied the Thai girl’s sock in more detail that there was an intriguing little logo of some sort on the instep consisting of squiggly, yellow writing. The squiggly writing seemed to match that which I had glimpsed earlier on the girl’s T shirt. Presumably it was something written in the beautiful Thai language.

I found myself longing to know what the logo on the side of the beautiful young woman’s sock actually said!

The young woman’s sock creased and folded again around her shapely, outer anklebone as she now adjusted her posture in order to make herself more comfortable whilst she stood with her right foot imperiously outstretched onto my wooden footblock, and also, it seemed, to ensure that she could now lean forward and get a good view of whatever her beloved fiancé was going to make me do next at her feet.

I even saw her pretty, Thai toes wriggling inside the reinforced, white toe-area of the equally pretty sock in eager anticipation of my impending humiliation at her pretty, socked feet.

The next thing I knew, the master had crouched down beside me - with his bad breath - in order to give me my instructions directly to my prone and vulnerable, kneeling face:

‘This here is my beautiful, young Thai bride - miss Pranee, boy, and you are gonna pay some homage to her feet and socks! You hear me, boy?’

Boy? I’m 40 years old! Still – I suppose I am but a boy in the eyes of a man in his sixties. And I am certainly a ‘boy’ as far as my male status goes – having never been a man.

Nor will I ever be a man – for I am just a foot-kissing footslave.

I assure the superior, real man that I do indeed hear and understand his words:

‘Yes master. God bless you master, and your beautiful fiancée miss Pranee, master. This slave will indeed be honoured to pay homage to the beautiful mistress’s socks and feet in whatever way the master sees fit, if it would be so pleasing to the master and mistress.’

Humility; submission; compliance. That’s what free men want to see and hear in a public footslave when they are about to make them attend to their female partners’ feet!

Miss Pranee – though she must surely have had some difficulty understanding my verbose and obsequious slave-speak – nevertheless clearly picked up on my ultra-submissive and fearful tone of slave-voice:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave sound scared! Slave frightened of Pranee and Peter! Ha! Ha! Peter make slave kiss Pranee sock! Make slave beg for mercy! Ha! Ha!’

The man smiled up at his girlfriend, whose oriental inhibitions about the state of her socks were clearly fast deserting her, and he then addressed me again as he crouched beside me:

‘Well, you heard your mistress, boy – kiss her sock, and beg her for mercy! Kiss it on the toes!’

I needed no further encouragement from the master, whom I now knew to be called master Peter. His menacing tone of voice was more than enough to indicate that things would not bode at all well for me if I failed to please his delightful, Thai bride-to-be with my humble foot-homage.

I suspected that this attractive, young Thai-woman was a footkiss-virgin as I placed my slave-lips respectfully onto the reinforced, white cotton stitching of the sock area covering her big toenail, and gently kissed it.

My suspicions were instantly confirmed as, before I even had time to formally withdraw my lips from her sock and begin my verbal plea for mercy, she had pulled her foot off the wooden block in absolute hysterics of mocking, oriental laughter:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave’s mouth tickle Pranee! Ha! Ha! Slave’s dirty mouth tickle Pranee toes through sock!’

Yes – just as I thought! Clearly a footkiss-virgin – unused to the feel of a male-slave’s lips on her socked foot! To tell the truth I was just relieved that both she and master Peter, were still laughing. Causing discomfort of any kind to a superior mistress whilst kissing her feet is considered a serious criminal offence under the laws of the Gynarchy!

But this particular couple, mercifully, clearly found my footkissing ineptitude more amusing than criminal!

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry, honey. He can’t hurt you – put your foot back on the footblock. I’m going to make him put his nose down inside your sock now. Watch this!’… and with that the elderly, white man stood up again, put his arm around his ticklish fiancée, and gently guided her back over to the footblock where he held onto her by way of moral support as she somewhat gingerly extended her right foot once again onto the wooden board beneath my ticklish lips.

Once again the young Thai woman’s red and white socked foot creased and folded inside its red leather mule as she steadied herself above me.

‘Slave – you see that gap between my fiancée’s sock and her pretty, bare ankle bone?’

I did see the gap:

‘Yes master’

‘Well, you are now gonna put your ugly nose down into that gap and take a sniff! Ha! Ha! You’re gonna sniff my girl’s bare ankle-bone and sock at one and the same time! Ha! Ha! How do you like that, boy?’

If truth be told, I liked it very much – but I knew I had to at least pretend to the master that I found his ingenious idea humiliating and degrading, whilst at the same time being honoured to have my nose inside his beautiful fiancée’s sock:

‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master and mistress, this slave would truly be honoured to place his nose down inside the mistress’s sock whilst she is still wearing it master – but not that much!’

It’s a standard response by professionally-trained public footslaves such as myself in such circumstances. We effectively inform our betters that we do like being humiliated – but not that much. Such a response always seems to please one’s betters, as it demonstrates a measure of respect mixed in with our suffering and humility:

‘Ha! Ha! Well then boy, get on with it! Get your nose down my girlfriend’s ankle sock and give it a good, hard sniff! Ha! Ha!’

The gap at the top of the sock which master Peter was referring to was caused purely by the slender tendons in the oriental mistress’s shapely, feminine ankles. It meant that there was a small gap between sock and skin – a gap just big enough for a footslave such as myself to slide his ‘ugly’ nose down inside it.

I felt and heard the Thai girl giggle as my no doubt ticklish nose entered the top of her short sock:

‘Ha! Ha! Pranee feel slave-nose inside sock on Pranee ankle! Ha! Ha! Nose tickle. Nose warm! Pranee like feel of footslave nose on ankle!’

‘Okay honey – now listen to him take a sniff!’

It was clearly my cue from the master.

I audibly sniffed the inside of the Thai girl’s red and white sock.

Nothing – no vinegary, sweaty aroma of stale foot odour; no sweaty-sock-fragranced stale air; just the delightful feel of soft sock and soft, Thai skin on the sensitive tip of my footslave nose!

I’m glad to say that the owner of the soft skin and the soft sock was evidently enjoying my humiliation and degradation at her socked feet every bit as much as I was:

‘Ha! Ha! Look Peter - slave sniff Pranee stinky sock and ankle! Ha! Ha! Look - slave nose buried inside Pranee dirty sock! Ha! Ha!’

By now a crowd of mainly female onlookers, foreign tourists most of them, had gathered around the scene, and I could hear the repeated clicks of camera phones as my humiliating pose – with my nose deep inside a Thai girl’s short red and white ankle sock – was photographed for inclusion in personal souvenir albums all over the world.

My humiliation and degradation were only complete, however, when I was obliged to keep my nose perfectly still inside the pretty, Thai bride-to-be’s ankle sock whilst she once again embraced and kissed her manly, elderly fiancé on the lips.’





Tale no. 15 – The Two Heels

‘Danger!

My mistress Charlene is drunk in charge of a whip!

It is dangling threateningly from the black, leather belt around her waist. My mistress has just returned to her flat, where I am permanently confined, from a friend’s party. She is with a man – a stranger whom I have not seen before – and she is all over him! My mistress is self-evidently the worse for drink; slurring her words; giggling; uninhibited; lustful.

This is not like her. I have never seen her this tipsy before. She is not used to alcohol. I can smell it on her breath, even from my humble position kneeling next to her feet.

Even the way she is dressed is out of character for her, for my mistress Charlene is wearing a revealing party outfit consisting of a low-cut, white blouse (with what appears to be a fresh, red wine stain on it!); a short, black leather miniskirt; dark, nylon stockings – the reinforced tops of which are clearly visible beneath her ultra-short skirt; and strappy, sparkly, silver-coloured, open-toed, open backed sandals with three inch, silvery stiletto heels.

The sandals are brand new. She has never worn them before. In fact – my mistress Charlene never wears heels. She is normally a ‘converse’ girl – converse sneakers and socks with jeans. She is not normally a ‘party’ animal; she is a demure and studious librarian by profession! But, just for once, it seems, she wants to let her hair down and have a bit of fun. She is dressed to impress; she wants to ‘get laid’; she had gone out this evening with the specific aim of ‘pulling a man’ – a free man, that is.

And it seems to have worked! She has indeed pulled!

Like her, he is Afro-Caribbean in origin. I don’t pay much attention to him as I kneel at my tipsy mistress’s high-heeled, sandalled and nylon-stocking covered feet. For I am only concerned about my mistress – my pretty, black 23 year old mistress with her long, braided, black hair. I hope she is alright, for, although I am just her footslave – I nevertheless feel responsible for my young mistress’s welfare generally.

She is, after all, my mistress. She owns me. And she is clearly drunk and somewhat out of control. How could I not be concerned about her well-being in the presence of this strange man?

Besides, we slaves all know that there is nothing more dangerous than a mistress who is drunk – drunk with alcohol, and with power. Power over me. Who knows what she might do to me in this condition and with her slave-whip dangling eagerly from her shapely, black-miniskirted hip?

Yet I am essentially powerless to do anything about the situation – for I am literally just a down-in-the-dirt footslave, kneeling at his mistress’s wobbly, stiletto-heeled feet!

I hear her complaining to her new ‘boyfriend’ about the state of her post-party feet:

‘Hic!....Freddy, honey...these shoes are killing me!...Hic!...Hic!....’

My mistress Charlene almost falls over on her teetering heels and the master, whom I now know to be called ‘Freddy’ (‘master Frederick’ to me, presumably) gallantly catches her and breaks her fall.

She lovingly, but drunkenly, smooches with her strong and manly knight in shining armour, whilst I focus my attention discreetly on the creases and folds in my mistress Charlene’s dark nylon stockings around her twisted ankles.

I am well outside my comfort zone. I much prefer my sober, daytime, modestly dressed librarian-mistress Charlene - wearing her glasses, and with her scruffy red and white converse sneakers and matching white ankle socks beneath the hems of her blue, denim jeans - to this unfamiliar, vampish, nylon-stockinged and stiletto-heeled version. But I do know also that my place is still at her feet – however she is dressed and however she is behaving, for she is my female master and better.

The kissing, black couple, who both seem to tower above me, eventually stop snogging and come up for air:

‘Ha! Ha! If your pretty feet are hurting you why don’t you have your slave take off your shoes, sweetheart?’ suggests the master seductively.

He sounds a bit less drunk – much more in control, with his eminently sensible suggestion, although I don’t like the suggestive tone in which he said it. I know what he’s up to – he surely won’t stop at trying to persuade my chaste and modest mistress Charlene to take off just her shoes.

He wants her naked – I just know it!

My mistress giggles:

‘Ha! Ha! …Hic!...I know what, Freddy. I’ll have my slave break off the heels!...I’ll have my little bitty slaveboy turn them into a nice pair of silvery flats!...Ha! Ha!...That way I’ll be able to walk in the damn things!... Ha! Ha!’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing!

Firstly because my sweet mistress seemingly doesn’t yet realise that her new beau simply wants her to take off all her clothes as soon as possible!

Secondly because I have never heard her swear before.

Thirdly, because I am not her ‘little bitty slaveboy’, and never have been. I am 40 years old – 17 years her senior; and I am much bigger than her in physical stature (my mistress Charlene, though she may appear to tower above me like a veritable giantess whilst I am humbly kneeling at her feet, is really quite petite in stature).

And fourthly, and most worryingly, what my drunken mistress is proposing to make me do is actually to make me commit a serious crime – that of damaging a superior female’s shoes!

It’s a serious crime here in the Gynarchy, at any rate. The Gynarchy’s prisons are full of male footslaves who have inadvertently damaged their mistresses’ footwear whilst servicing it, such as laddering their tights; or snagging their socks; or discolouring their shoes with the wrong shade of shoe-polish.

Lord only knows what the Female Courts would do to a slave who deliberately broke off his mistress’s stiletto-heels – even if it was under the express orders of his drunken mistress!

I start to have a footslave panic-attack. I am sweating!

Master Frederick, however, apparently keen to keep my mistress Charlene sweet, just laughs and encourages her in her silly idea:

‘Ha! Ha! Whatever you like, honey! Order your dumbass-footslave to break off the heels if it’ll make your pretty feet more comfortable! Ha! Ha!’

Several things occur to me about master Frederick:

1. He may well laugh – for he is not the prone and vulnerable male-footslave who is about to be ordered to break the Female Law;

2. He called my mistress ‘honey’! Does he even know, or care, what her real name is? What a cad! What a heel!

3. He called me a ‘dumbass-footslave’! Well, he’s right about that, at least!

I bite my lip and say nothing as my superiors discuss my impending orders above me. My mistress then slurs her completely illogical and unlawful command down at me. It’s illogical because breaking off the heels at the back of her stiletto-heeled sandals won’t help her to walk any the easier – the curve of the sole will see to that; and it’s unlawful because, as I have explained, a mistress’s footwear is protected in law. It is sacrosanct – and anyone damaging it, especially a male footslave like me, can expect no mercy from the forces of Female Law and Order!

Be that as it may, my alcohol-induced command from my tipsy, black mistress, however slurred it may be in its delivery, is nevertheless crystal clear in its content:

‘Hic!...Ha! Ha! SLAVE – BREAK OFF MY HEELS!’

She is shouting. My mistress never shouts. She normally lets her whip do the shouting if I am slow to comply!

She holds on to master Frederick for greater support as she coquettishly, but unsteadily, raises the spiked heel on the end of her unsteady, right leg up behind her and looks down over her shoulder at me – waiting for my instant obedience to her insane command.

Now I am doubly worried – not only am I required to break the law and damage my mistress’s pretty, silver-coloured, stiletto party-shoe; I am being required to break off her stiletto heel whilst she is still wearing it! I might even damage or hurt my black mistress’s foot in the process!

Supposing I break her dainty ankle!

My God, it doesn’t bear thinking about!

For the first time in my slave-life I feel I must protest. It is surely my slave duty to protest – to warn my sweet and innocent mistress of the danger she is putting me, and herself, in?

I summon up the courage to actually answer back my mistress!

I kiss her dark-nylon covered heels whilst I do so, hoping the feel of my submissive and respectful lips on her stockings will assuage her inevitable anger at my reluctance to obey:

‘Oh pray, mistress Charlene; God bless you, mistress Charlene! Oh pray mistress, this dirty slave craves your indulgence, and implores the superior mistress not to make him damage your pretty shoes, if you would be so kind most merciful and all-powerful mistress…’

As slave-rebellions go I thought it was reasonably civilised and polite, but my mistress Charlene was not about to be shown up by a disobedient footslave in front of her new boyfriend.

She put her wobbly stiletto-heeled foot back down on the floor of her studio bedsit-room, turned around, stooped down, and gave me a stinging slap with the open palm of her pretty, black, right hand across my right cheek.

My head was sent spinning, but I could still hear her angry words.

I expect everyone in the entire block could hear my mistress’s angry words as she was shouting again at the top of her voice:

‘DIRTY SLAVE!... DIRTY, MALE FOOT-WHORE!... HOW DARE YOU QUESTION MY ORDERS!’

Whack!

Another slap from a black hand across the side of my cheek.

But this time it was the larger, and much harder, hand of master Frederick :

‘You heard your mistress, footslave-whore! Do as she says – or I’ll take the whip to your bare back!’

I don’t want to be whipped. I never want to be whipped, for the whip is dreadfully painful. It is also readily available, dangling as it is from my mistress’s shapely hip-bone.

I decide, therefore, that I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of my masters and betters, and apologise profusely for my arrogance and insolence:

‘Oh pray, master! Oh pray, mistress…please forgive this dirty, disobedient slave. This slave obeys his master and mistress instantly! Oh pray, master…Oh pray, mistress…Please don’t beat me!’

My mistress Charlene, still giggling, has now raised up her stiletto-heeled foot behind her again, and embraces her manly, dominant boyfriend by way of thanking him for his support – both physical and moral – whilst I, against all my best female-footwear-respecting instincts, grab hold of my mistress’s wobbly, right foot by the dark, nylon-stockinged ankle, and seek to break off the 3 inch stiletto heel.

To my surprise it snaps off quite easily! As does the one on her left foot! The shoes might look classy, but they are evidently quite cheap!

Thankfully, my mistress’s precious ankle bones are unharmed. I should be grateful for such small mercies, for I have an ominous sense that they are the only mercies I shall be receiving!

In any case, though I hate to say I told you so, I was right – my mistress Charlene did not find it any easier to walk about her studio-apartment in the erstwhile silvery-sparkly stilettos now transformed into stumpy-heeled flats.

In fact, to her enormous amusement she fell over when she tried to walk in them – straight onto the bed. Straight where master Frederick wanted her!

He quickly joined her on the bed, fumbling with his hands underneath her black, leather miniskirt. He even undid my mistress’s stocking-suspenders and pulled her finest-denier nylons down as far as her knees, before ordering me to pull them down the remainder of her legs:

‘Slave, pull your mistress’s stockings off her legs and remove her shoes! Then take them over to the corner of the room and sniff them!’

‘Yes, master.’

I was in no mood to resist any more orders from my superiors. I helped my new master undress my mistress.

She merely continued to kiss master Frederick and to giggle as he lay on top of her on the bed.

A few minutes later all I could hear was the sound of mad passionate love making, and the sound of my mistress screaming ‘YES!...YES!...YES!’ behind me as I knelt in the corner of the room and obediently buried my slave-nose in the sweaty, reinforced toe area of one of her freshly-discarded, dark nylon stockings.

I looked nervously at her broken, sparkly-silver shoes, which were lying beneath my slap-reddened face on the floor, as I did so.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Late the next morning my mistress Charlene woke up alone in bed. Master Frederick had evidently had to go, although I must admit I too had not heard him creeping out of the flat as I slept on the floor in the corner of the room with my head resting on my mistress’s discarded nylon party-stockings.

My mistress, eventually, swung her bare, black legs out from under the duvet and placed her soft, bare, black feet with her pedicured toenails on the fluffy cream-coloured mat by the side of the bed ready for me to put on her furry, pink slippers.

I sensed that my mistress was feeling somewhat ‘delicate’, for she was sharp and snappy with me, albeit no longer shouting:

‘Kiss my bare toes before you put my slippers on my feet, slave-pig.’

‘Yes, mistress. I obey you, mistress.’

She didn’t reply, and just lit up a cigarette, as I lowered my lips to her unwashed, overnight bare feet.

She was looking around the room by the time I was about to gently slide her second slipper onto her left foot, and she must obviously have spotted her broken stilettos lying in the corner of the room where I had left them:

‘Slave-pig – what happened to my shoes?’

I gather from this question that she must not remember her orders to me of the night before. For a brief second, and only for a brief second, I am tempted to lie to my mistress – to tell her that the heels must have just broken off whilst she was out dancing at her friend’s party.

But a slave must never lie to his mistress, except, perhaps to flatter her ego. Apart from anything else it is a criminal offence for a slave to lie to a mistress.

I had broken the shoes, and now I had to fess up to it and take the consequences. The most I can do is try to explain to my mistress all the circumstances.

I therefore humbly seek to remind my mistress of the events of the evening before:

‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, the mistress ordered her slave to break off the heels, mistress, as the shoes were hurting the mistress’s beautiful feet and the mistress was finding it difficult to walk in them, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress Charlene’

There is a pause.

A pregnant pause?

‘You broke off my heels, pig?’

She sounds incredulous. As well she might!

This is ominous. My mistress is clearly displeased.

I should just shut up now, and take whatever is coming to me, but instead I foolishly try to put the blame on my mistress again – Ha! Ha! What an idiot I am! Trying to suggest that my mistress, who can do no wrong, was to blame for the state of her broken, high-heeled shoes!

But I persisted in my foolish strategy of self-centred self-defence anyway:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave was ordered by the sweet and kind mistress to do so, if it pleases you mistress, and only did so out of concern for the mistress’s well-being, if you would be so kind most merciful and all-powerful mistress.’

Even as I was saying my weaselly words I recognised myself what a despicable heel I was.

I am doomed!

‘Liar!...’ exclaims my mistress – though not too loudly, given the delicate state of her head!

Nor, apparently, does she have the energy to reach down and slap me across my impudent face again.

‘…I’m reporting you to the Female Police!’ is all she says.

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach as my mistress’s bare, left foot sinks into the depths of her furry, red slipper.

And she kept true to her word – albeit several hours later. She called out the Female Police and reported me for the crimes of wantonly destroying her nice, new, silver-sparkly stiletto shoes, and then seeking to cover up my crime by lying to her about it, even to the extent of falsely accusing her of ordering me to break off the heels!

The Female Police officers had heard enough and I was promptly arrested and taken straight to the Female Courts where the broken shoes were presented in evidence against me.

I was, of course, found guilty by the good lady-judge, and I am now confined in a foothole-dungeon awaiting sentencing.

I don’t expect to see my sweet mistress Charlene ever again, for my female defence lawyer, who offered no defence on my behalf, has gleefully informed me that the minimum sentence I can expect is 20 years imprisonment in the foothole-dungeons, which at my age effectively amounts to a life-sentence.

I wonder if master Frederick will ever bother to see my beloved mistress again?’




Tale no. 14 – Paraphiliac Paraphernalia

‘There are many femininely fiendish pieces of equipment in daily use throughout the sweet Gynarchy of Barbaria, which those of you living in a non-female-dominated State would certainly not encounter in your day to day lives.

For they are the paraphernalia of male-slavery.

Here are brief descriptions of just some of them:


1. The Foot-Box

A foot-box is a box, normally made of wood on the outside and padded with velvet on the inside, into which a lady can place her dainty feet – for example whilst relaxing on her sofa at home, or just whenever she desires a bit of foot-pampering – and which is also just large enough for her footslave’s head to be locked into it.

Foot-boxes have a small light-bulb inside them which the mistress controls from the outside, and such boxes are obviously designed to ensure that the footslave has no distractions from his mistress’s feet whilst he admires and worships them.

The enclosed space of the box also means, of course, that the footslave is obliged to inhale air that is being fragranced by his superior mistress’s feet – be they socked, stockinged or bare.

An ingenious, and relatively inexpensive, way for a mistress to ensure that her personal footslave has no option but to concentrate on her feet, whilst at the same time saving her own delicate, feminine senses from the unpleasant sight of her dirty, male footslave’s ugly, male face.

However, my own fiery-tempered mistress, mistress Cara – a slim, 29 year old, red-headed girl of Irish origins who emigrated to the Gynarchy several years ago - has no need of a footbox, for she can afford both of the following accoutrements instead:


2. The Concentrator

This is an electronic device which, when fitted to the footslave’s brain, forces his obsessional concentration on all aspects of his mistress’s pretty feet. It doesn’t matter if there are distractions around him - such as other, perhaps prettier, mistresses’ feet - for a sensor located in his own mistress’s footwear will inexorably draw his attention towards her feet, enhancing his five senses so that he can see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, smell nothing, and taste nothing other than his own mistress’s superior feet and footwear.

My hot-headed and unpredictable mistress Cara has such a sensor inserted into her favourite pair of spike-heeled, pointy-toed, patent black leather, zip-up ankle boots and she frequently switches on the device in my head whilst wearing them so that the mere thought of my being separated from her black ankle-boots causes me a splitting headache and intolerable distress.

Whenever my mistress Cara is wearing the boots fitted with the concentrator-sensor, I exist only for those boots. They simply must dominate my entire being. I can’t begin to explain the science behind how it works, for I’m just a stupid, male slave. All I know is that nothing else matters in the world to me, and nothing can tear me away from my mistress Cara’s boots - not even if she were to be seated opposite the most beautiful goddess in the world who happened to be wearing the prettiest pair of strappy, gold-embroidered, high-heeled sandals ever to grace a lady’s fully pedicured, soft, feminine feet.

When the concentrator device is switched on the rest of the world switches off – inside my head. The concentrator does exactly what it says on the tin – it makes you concentrate on that which is the only thing worth concentrating on if you are a humble footslave: your own mistress’s pretty feet and footwear.

So my mistress Cara has no need of a physical ‘foot-box’ to hold my attention on her feet, and as for hiding my ugly maleslave-face from her divine, feminine presence – well she employs the next fiendish device on our list for that noble purpose:


3. The Footfool-mask

Sometimes compared to a ‘gimp’ mask, the rubber (or sometimes leather) footfool-mask covers a footslave’s head and face and ensures that the mistress has complete control over her personal slave’s senses.

For he can only see if she opens the eye-slits; he can only hear if she opens the ear-slits; he can only feel his mistress’s soft, bare feet through the rubber of the mask; he can only taste her precious shoe-leather or footsweat if she opens the mouth-slit; and if the mouth-slit is kept zipped-up by the mistress, he is obliged to breathe in the air around his mistress’s feet through his footslave-nose.

The footfool mask is distinguished from an ordinary ‘gimp’ mask, however, by virtue of the fact that it is specifically designed to humiliate the slave, to make him look ridiculous, and to declare to the world his lowly footslave status.

Thus the eye and mouth slits will look wonky or sad. The footfool mask will often be composed of garish and mismatched colours, and it may well contain key words which sum up the footslave’s pathetic existence: words that relate to humble foot-servitude such as:

‘Socks’; ‘stink’; ‘toe-jam’; ‘bootlick’; ‘foot-fancier’.

Some footfool-masks even have miniature models of ladies’ shoes or boots, made of rubber, attached to the top or the sides of the humbling-mask, thereby demonstrating the pathetic wearer’s complete and utter obsession with female footwear.

My own mistress Cara has kindly fitted me with a garish yellow, black and orange rubber mask that actually allows for two of her dirty, white ankle socks to hang down from the slits over my ears – making me look like some sort of long-eared freak with flapping, rabbit-like, sock-ears as I humbly crawl along the street on all fours behind her smart, leather, ankle-booted heels or her flat-heeled sneakers.

How free people of both sexes laugh when they see me in my garish footfool-mask! My ginger-haired mistress Cara can’t seem to take me anywhere without at least one female visitor to the Gynarchy wanting to congratulate her on her inventiveness, and wanting to take a picture of the ‘sock-eared’ footfool!


4. Footslave-blinkers

Because I am kept permanently in a yellow, black and orange, rubber footfool-mask, my mistress Cara has no need of blinkers for her footslave, but those male footslaves who are deemed handsome enough to have their pathetic, gormless faces on public display to the female world are often fitted with a set of leather blinkers by their mistresses which, again, are designed to prevent the slave from being distracted from his legally-enforceable concentration on his superior mistress’s feet.

The women of the Gynarchy recognise that their male footslaves can be very fickle and disloyal, and therefore kindly take whatever measures are necessary to help prevent their personal slaves' eyes and minds from straying from the feet they are supposed to be admiring and serving all the time.

Thus a footslave in the Gynarchy will typically be fitted with a concentrator device, and/or a footfool-mask , and/or with footslave-blinkers – depending on how much money his female owner and better is inclined to spend on him.

Having said that, some mistresses merely rely on the female whip or cane to instil proper concentration in their personal footslaves, and the whip and the cane rarely let them down!

My own mistress Cara is never slow to employ the whip.


5. The cangue (aka ‘the heavy cangue’)

Yet another device which is designed to force a male footslave to concentrate on his female master’s feet is the heavy, wooden slave-collar known as a cangue, for it makes it well-nigh impossible for the kneeling wearer to raise his head, and therefore his gaze, away from the floor – and therefore away from his mistress’s precious feet and footwear.

Unlike the other ‘concentration’ devices mentioned above, however, the cangue is also designed to cause more or less constant physical discomfort in the poor slave’s neck and shoulders. It is, really, a punishment device more than a training device and, in my sweet and kind mistress Cara’s opinion, should only be applied to ‘dirty, criminal slaves’.

I am eternally grateful for my fiery-tempered, mistress Cara’s liberal-minded views on the subject of the cangue, for they are in stark contrast to her views on most other aspects of male-servitude in which she is ultra conservative with a small ‘c’, and the cangue (also with a small ‘c’ but with a large ‘angue’ for anguish) is assuredly the most dreaded of devices employed by the mistresses of the Gynarchy to control their slaves.

Imagine your neck and shoulders being permanently bent over and locked in the stocks - that’s what wearing the heavy cangue feels like!

Or so I am told.


6. Gags

Gags are a matter of choice – for the mistress, of course.

It really very much depends on whether or not the mistress wishes to hear from her slave. Some mistresses, my own mistress Cara included, quite enjoy hearing a slave humbly acknowledging their orders, or fearfully begging for mercy, or even just praising and blessing them in verbose and obsequious slave-speak.

Other mistresses believe that slave-actions speak louder than slave-words, and prefer to gag their slaves with uncomfortable, wooden gags to prevent them from speaking.

Of course, gags can have other uses as well – such as those gags to which the mistress can attach a small scrubbing-brush; useful if the mistress wishes her footslave to scrub the shoe-dirt off the linoleum floor on which she has just been walking. Other gags can hold tiny little pedicure-brushes, so that the footslave can effectively be made to paint and varnish his mistress’s dainty toenails with his slave-mouth.

My own mistress Cara, God bless her, doesn’t bother with gags. She just closes the zip over my mouth on my rubber footfool-mask whenever she wishes me to be seen but not heard. And as for painting her toenails, she simply makes me hold the tiny brush in between my slave-teeth.

I do just as good a job this way as any gagged footslave, even if I do say so myself (which I can do since I am not wearing a gag and my mouth-slit is currently open!)


7. Footslave Face-Straps

These are very popular at the moment. They are straps specifically designed to tie a discarded and recently worn shoe, boot or sandal to a footslave’s face – often as a punishment during the night, for example, by way of forcing a disobedient or disrespectful footslave to breathe in the acrid aroma of his mistress’s inner shoe-lining whilst he slumbers.

Of course, many mistresses, in time-honoured mistress-slave tradition, just tie their soiled outer footwear to a naughty footslave’s face by means of their soiled inner footwear - their dirty, warm stockings, tights or even socks, if the socks are long enough to go around the back of the footslave’s head! But the purpose-made, leather face-straps are considered much more reliable by experts, and will even hold the dirty, stinky shoe or boot firmly in place over the footslave’s nose as he is crawling about on his hands and knees behind his affronted mistress’s heels.

My own mistress Cara doesn’t bother with face-straps, although I’m ashamed to say she did have occasion to discipline me once by tying her hot, sweaty, green and white sneakers over my nose with a pair of her matching green and white, knee-length tube socks for 24 hours, after I had inadvertently allowed one of her tube socks to slide down her pretty, Irish calf-muscle thereby making her socks look uneven on her shapely, lower legs during a high-profile event at her college sports day.


8. Slave-Shorts

All male slaves in the Gynarchy, including footslaves, are required to wear a pair of plain, white, cotton shorts known as ‘slave-shorts’ – designed both to emphasise their lowly, unmanly status in society, and to hide their ugly, male organs from the sensitive sight of the demure and feminine mistresses of the Gynarchy.

Indeed male slaves are not permitted to wear any other form of clothing – apart from whatever chains, slave-collars or rubber masks their mistresses choose to put on them – so that their bare backs are constantly exposed to the sting of the female lash.

And rightly so, in my view. We slaves need to know that we are constantly at the sweet, feminine mercy of our superior mistresses, and that the stinging, feminine lash may strike our bare backs at any time should we fail in our duty to please our female betters.

Believe me, there is nothing more shameful than for a slave to have to crawl behind his mistress with angry, red stripes adorning his bare back – for a whipped slave is a sign of a disobedient or insubordinate slave; and he is therefore a despised slave - at least in the Gynarchy he is!

Free people often comment that the slender, fiery, red stripes on my slave-back match my slender, fiery mistress Cara’s fiery, red hair. I think that’s one of the reasons why she likes to whip me from time to time, even when she’s not ‘fired-up’. I am her stripy-red fashion accessory.

It is entirely thanks to my unfashionable, white slave-shorts that everyone can see my beloved, whip-skilled mistress’s, fiery-red latticework on my bare back.


9. Slave-Restrainers

And underneath those ubiquitous slave shorts? Yes indeed – most male slaves are quite rightly required, by their mistresses, to wear so called ‘slave-restrainers’ – male chastity belts if you like, designed to ensure that the slave’s sexual urges are fully sublimated towards making him passionate about his mistress’s feet and footwear.

A footslave can never be permitted to have any kind of sex-life. He lives for his mistress’s socks, not for her sex! He leaves the whole messy business of sexual activity to the free man or men in his mistress’s life - men whose male appendages are in full working order and are kept suitably ‘free’ in order to pleasure the superior women of the Gynarchy - whilst he, the footslave, kneels over his mistress’s discarded socks and shoes in the corner of the bedroom, kissing licking and sniffing them to the sounds of his betters’ love-making.

As you can probably tell I am passionate about my mistress Cara’s feet, shoes and socks – and you will therefore surmise that I am indeed wearing one such ‘slave-restrainer’.

I can personally testify, therefore, that they do work! Nothing arouses me now other than the sight, touch and smell of my red-headed, Irish mistress Cara’s socked or bare feet – or, of course, her spike-heeled black leather, ankle boots when she is wearing them with the concentrator device switched on!


10. Footslave-Carts

Finally, in our collection of footslave-paraphernalia – all of which devices are intended in one way or another to enhance the mistress-slave experience for both parties to the legally-binding relationship – there are the exotic ‘footslave-carts’ (sometimes shortened to ‘slave-carts’) which are designed to facilitate the slave in transporting his indolent mistress about the town whilst all the while ensuring that he may continue to concentrate on her feet and footwear.

Now these are an expensive piece of kit – and have become something of a status symbol for mistresses in the Gynarchy, particularly in the trendy capital!

The mistress sits on a comfortable, leather-bound, driving seat on top of the wooden slave-cart, in front of and above the kneeling footslave, with her feet resting on a metal footplate directly in front of his face. The slave remains on his hands and knees at all times, of course (for he is a footslave!), but now he has a clear and close-up view of the shapely backs of his beloved mistress’s heels inside her shoes, or perhaps the creased leather in the backs of her boots, as he pushes her along the city streets in accordance with her directions; fast; slow; right; left.

The slave-powered carts are highly manoeuvrable, and all the while the footslave has the honour of staring at his mistress’s heels as he powers her along.

My mistress Cara does not own such a cart herself (she is still a student and they are very expensive), but she did fit me to one once during a visit to the ‘Footslave Themepark’, when she made me take part in a ‘Slave-cart’ race.

Thankfully we won, or rather my mistress won – for a footslave can never really be described as anything other than a ‘loser’, can he?


There are, of course, many other slavery-related devices in use in the Gynarchy – the world’s only female-dominated State. Look out for them the next time you visit, for they are all the products of ingenious and cruel female minds!’




Tale no. 13 – The Countryside Bootscraper

‘Not all public footslaves in the Gynarchy of Barbaria are located in the towns and cities.

I am a countryside bootscraper – employed near a muddy field in the countryside as a means for ladies to wipe clean the soles of their muddy boots after they have been for a walk or a hike in the surrounding hills. I am permanently buried on my back in the ground, with only my upturned face exposed.

My face is actually the bootscraping device, for the ladies use my ugly, male facial features – my nose,eyes, cheeks and lips – to dislodge the dirty mud from the treads in the soles of their superior, female boots, following which I must give their boot-soles a lick and a shine with my inferior, slave tongue.

And that’s pretty much all I do – day in and day out. I clean and lick feminine bootsoles with my confined face. Unlike a ‘townie-footslave’, however, I don’t see anything like the same volume of customers that they must service on a daily basis. A public footslave in the central town square of Barbaria for example, would probably serve anything up to a thousand women on a busy day. I will get a maximum of 10 – if I’m lucky.

So much of my footslave existence consists of long periods of boredom – staring up at the sky.

The sky is boring to look at after a while – I want to look at the soles of female boots! They are much more interesting and varied to look at, for one gets to see all different kinds of boot soles – some with straight-lined treads; some with zigzagged treads; some even with flowery-patterned treads.

And the consistency of the ladies’ boot-mud changes too. Much of it may come from the same neighbouring hills, and even from the adjacent field, but it somehow transforms itself into a very individualistic texture of mud when it attaches itself to an individual lady’s leather bootsole. It reacts with the leather to produce something unique – her personal bootmud; personal bootmud which the owner and wearer of the boots will then gaily spread onto my gormless, upturned face!
I love my job as a countryside bootscraper– even if it is boring for most of the time!

Just occasionally, however, something really different and exciting happens – usually at the booted feet of a particularly cruel or inventive young woman. And yesterday afternoon was just one such exciting occasion for me!

It had been a raining all day, and I had only seen 3 previous customers – a group of three young women, campers I think – each of whom wanted to scrape the muddy soles of their rubber, wellington boots all over my upturned face.

The three girls seemed to find the whole process immensely amusing as they managed to turn my face from white to black with their muddy, wellington bootsoles.

They were very pretty wellingtons too – very feminine. One girl, a brunette with shoulder-length hair, had traditional, ‘upper-class’ green wellies, with two green straps and metal buckles at the top.

The second girl, a blonde, had a nice pair of pink wellies with a fetching, albeit somewhat muddy, white drawstring dangling from the top.

The third girl, a redhead, had pale grey wellies with large, bright, yellow spots up and down the sides.

But, as I intimated earlier, it wasn’t the designs of the uppers, but the designs of the different treads in the soles of wellington boots that affected me most – for whereas the upper-class, brunette girl’s green wellies had thick treads, and the wet mud from her bootsoles therefore came out easily in large globules that I was able to roll about on my tongue before swallowing, the rubber boots of the other two girls had quite thin treads on their soles – making it much harder for me to extract the mud with my slave teeth and tongue.

It was obvious to me that the brunette girl with the green wellies was a proper country girl, wearing proper wellington boots designed for walking about in the muddy fields of the countryside; whereas the other two girls were clearly city girls wearing city wellingtons – designed more for walking about on the city pavements. Their brightly coloured wellies were more of a fashion statement than practical countryside-bootwear. That was why their designer-soles were harder to clean!

Unfortunately for me the two girls with the grey and yellow-spotted and the bright pink wellies respectively didn’t see it that way, however. They naturally assumed that I was showing favouritism to their posh countrygirl-friend by cleaning her green wellington boots better than theirs!

Accordingly they decided to ‘punish’ me (albeit whilst giggling and laughing at me) by picking up some fresh mud, placing it onto my upturned face and then grinding it into my facial pores with the rubbery soles of their ‘offended’ city-wellington boots!

Now, you might think that all this was exciting enough for me – but I’m afraid I digress for that wasn’t, actually, the exciting incident I was alluding to earlier. That came later in the day – near tea time, at about 5 o’clock in the afternoon - when a young, hiking couple in their early thirties approached me as I lay in the ground with my upturned face still bearing the marks of the two wellington-booted city girls’ thin rubber-boot treads.

Fortunately, although it had now stopped raining, the heavy rain earlier in the afternoon had washed away most of the thick mud that the two city girls had ground into my face, so it was nice and clean and presentable for the young, blonde-ponytailed hiking woman to scrape the muddy, wet soles of her ankle-length, brown leather hiking boots on.

They looked like a proper pair of purpose-made hiking boots too – fetchingly worn with a pair of thick, woollen, navy-blue hiking socks into the tops of which were tucked the hems of her brown-coloured corduroy trouser-legs.

I always notice such important details when I am serving my mistresses. It’s hard not to focus in on all aspects of a superior woman’s footwear when her booted foot is descending onto your upturned, prone and vulnerable face.

I noticed too - with some relief given my earlier experiences that day - the thick, dark brown treads on the dirty sole of the thirty-something, blonde lady’s right, lace-up, hiking-boot, the leather upper of which was a much paler shade of brown. Indeed the dark-brown of the bootsole almost camouflaged the considerable amount of dark, brown, wet sticky mud that covered it, and it was the contrast between the dark mud stains and the pale brown on the upper of her boot that really gave away just how dirty and filthy these hiking-boots were. She must have been out hiking with her partner all day!

The lady’s male partner was standing to one side enjoying the sight of my impending humiliation at his blonde-ponytailed girlfriend’s dirty, hiking boots. Had he been more of a gentleman he might have moved forward in order to hold onto his girlfriend and offer her more support as she sought to keep her balance whilst scraping the muddy sole of her right boot up and down my face, but he was too busy laughing at me and mocking me as my face disappeared beneath his girlfriend’s dirty bootsole:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, honey. Give your boot a good, hard scrape down the dirty footslave’s face! Ha! Ha! Use his pointy nose to rub off all that sticky, wet mud! Ha! Ha! Just look at him – what a loser! What a dweeb! Ha! Ha!’

Above her brown leather, ankle-length, lace-up hiking boot, and the exposed and crumpled top of her thick, woolly navy-blue, calf-length bootsock, I could observe the young blonde woman smiling mischievously down at me as she sought to please her beloved boyfriend by wiping her feet ever more vigorously on my face – first her right boot, then her left.

My face was once again soon covered in female bootmud.

But this was the moment when things took a somewhat unusual twist, as the master suddenly commented on the state of his beloved girlfriend’s boot:

‘Tania, darling, those boots of yours really have seen better days – just look at that hole on the side of your left boot! I can even see your sock through it!’

The master was perfectly correct. I had noticed it too - a large hole, about an inch or so in diameter, along the inner instep of the young , blonde woman’s left hiking boot, just where the sole is supposed to be firmly stitched to the upper. And you could, indeed, see her navy-blue, woolly, hiking-boot sock through the hole in the side of her boot!

The young woman unabashedly acknowledged that her boots, proper hiking boots though they were, were no longer up to the job of protecting her pretty feet properly from the elements:

‘Ha! Ha! Yeah, Michael – you’re not wrong! My socks are soaking inside my boots – especially the sock on my left foot! It’s minging! Ha! Ha!’

Both the young man and his woman laughed at her apparent nonchalance about the decrepit state of her well-worn, brown leather hiking-boots and thick, navy-blue bootsocks. They may have been a professional pair of hiking boots once, but repeated wear, and repeated hiking, had basically worn them out!

The clever young man then had an idea:

‘Tell you what honey, why don’t you take off your boots and dry your socks on this idiot’s face? Here, you could sit over him on this…’, and with that he took some sort of foldable, portable chair out of his heavy rucksack.

The young blonde woman giggled:

‘Ha! Ha! Nice one, Michael! I think I’ll do just that!’ and she then happily took the portable chair and positioned it over my buried torso so that she could sit triumphantly over me with both her hiking-booted feet resting on my upturned face, whilst she stooped down to untie her thick, muddy-white bootlaces.

It is always thrilling when a lady rests her bootsole on your face whilst she is untying her bootlaces above you, but it is a very rare event in my calendar! Imagine therefore, my excitement when the first boot came off with a whoosh, and I suddenly saw the sole of a thick, damp, navy blue bootsock that had been darkened by the rainwater that had manage to seep through the holes in her brown, leather hiking boot.

And this was just her right boot – not the left boot with its massive hole in the side!

The young woman laughed as she took of her other boot and then placed both her wet-socked feet on my upturned face. She deliberately positioned the damp, reinforced toe areas of her woolly-socked feet over my nose so that I could smell their mustiness.

Her male partner laughed at my discomfort:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, honey…make the fool breathe in through your dirty socks! Ha! Ha! Poison his air with your sock stink!’

The young woman feigned offence at her boyfriend’s unchivalrous last comment:

‘Ha! Ha! My socks don’t smell, Michael! They’re just a bit wet, that’s all!’

‘Ha! Ha! You were the one who said they were minging, darling!...’ the young man interjected in his defence.

They both laughed.

‘…Rub your socks up and down his face, honey. Rub them dry on his ugly face!’

My admittedly ugly face, accustomed to the feel of harsh, coarse, feminine bootleather rubbing up and down it, was now experiencing the much softer feel of damp, feminine bootsock.

It felt nice, but I could smell my footslave-face turning musty as the dampness was transferred from the soles of my mistress’s socks onto my facial skin.

Not quickly enough, however, for the female wearer of the socks:

‘Tch! This is useless, honey. His face just isn’t drying out my socks! They feel just as damp as they did a few minutes ago!’

‘Ha! Ha! Try making him blow-dry them, honey!’ suggested her ever-supportive boyfriend. ‘Hold them over his mouth and make him breathe on them until they dry out!’

His girlfriend laughed at the ludicrousness of her boyfriend’s suggestion. These socks were much too wet to be capable of being dried by a dirty, inadequate footslave’s breath alone!

She knew it and I knew it.

Nevertheless she gamely gave it a go – just to please her boyfriend:

‘Ha! Ha! You heard my boyfriend, slave. Breathe on the bottom of my socks and make them all nice and dry for me!’, she pouted down at me, and with that she raised her right, socked foot off my face until the reinforced toe-end was hovering enticingly over my gaping mouth – ready for me to blow-dry it.

I did my best, much to the dominant young couple’s great joy and mocking amusement, but, of course, my efforts wee domed to failure.

Eventually the young woman gave up on my blow-drying efforts:

‘Ha! Ha! It’s no use, Michael honey! His breath just isn’t warm enough! My socks are still minging! Ha! Ha!’

‘Ha! Ha! Oh well, nothing else for it then, honey! You’ll just have to take them off and wring them out over his face! Ha! Ha!’

It was, I have to admit, a brilliant idea on the part of the young master – having his girlfriend wring out her soaking-wet socks over my receptacle-face! If I’d been wearing a hat, I’d have taken it off to him!

Brilliant! Quite brilliant!

His girlfriend clearly thought so too, for, without further ado, she peeled off both her calf-length, thick woolly, navy-blue bootsocks, scrunched them up in her pretty, gloved hands, and then wrung them out directly over my face and mouth.

‘Ha! Ha! Keep your mouth open wide, slave!’ she demanded. ‘I want my dirty sock-juice to fall directly into your throat! Ha! Ha!’

She needn’t have worried. Whilst a free person’s natural instincts would undoubtedly have been to try and turn away their face and close their mouth in such humiliating and degrading circumstances, the instincts of a natural-born footslave such as myself were, of course, to do precisely the opposite. This was a rare opportunity for me to drink dirty, feminine sock! And it was an opportunity I wasn’t about to miss!

The young woman’s hiking-sock juice tasted just divine – although by the looks of the screwed-up features on the young, blonde woman’s face as she wrung out her socks over my gaping mouth, she was clearly under the impression that what I was tasting must be bitter and foul!

She was clearly disgusted – not at her dirty socks, but at me – a sock-juice drinking queer!

Her boyfriend evidently concurred with her opinion of me:

‘Ha! Ha! What a dork! What a lamebrain! Ha! Ha! Look honey – he’s lapping it up! He’s actually lapping up your dirty sock-juice! Ha! Ha!’

My master and mistress were both in hysterics of laughter as the mistress squeezed the last drop of muddy rainwater out of her navy-blue bootsocks over my face.

She still wasn’t satisfied, however, that they were dry enough to put back on her pasty-white, bare feet – and asked her boyfriend to get a fresh pair of socks for her out of her nearby rucksack.

This was the only point at which I felt jealous of her boyfriend, for he was getting to touch a beautiful young woman’s fresh socks with his bare hands – something I can never do given that my arms and hands are buried by my side underground!

Nevertheless, my face got to touch the fresh pair of light-grey, woollen bootsocks as the young, blonde-ponytailed woman used my upturned face as a footrest whilst she pulled on her fresh pair of dry, light-grey socks onto her pretty, white feet, over her shapely, white anklebones, and up over the hems of her brown corduroy trouser legs.

And then – get this – she puts the same old pair of hole-ridden hiking boots back onto her feet and laces them up – just as it was starting to rain again! It will only be a matter of time before her fresh new, light-grey socks are every bit as damp as the musty, old navy-blue socks she has just wrung out over my face!

But does she care? Not really!

I suppose she can always come back to the human sock-wringer later this evening, and give me another dose of her flavoursome sock-juice!

Sadly, she never did though!’




Tale no. 12 – The Philogynist

‘Being a natural philogynist – an admirer of women – certainly helps when you are employed in the Gynarchy of Barbaria as a ladies’ public shoe-licker.

For every hour, of every day, I find myself kneeling before my superior, female customers as they sit above me in the raised chair on my 'sit-down' shoelick stand, whilst I kneel below them on the ground at their foot-level and attend with my male-slave lips and mouth to their pretty, feminine footwear.

My superior, female customers are, therefore, quite literally, put on a pedestal above me, and by law I am required to make them feel appreciated and worshipped. The law requires that I must let each and every one of them know how truly privileged and honoured I am to be allowed to be in the very presence of their superior, female feet – let alone to touch their outer footwear with my dirty, slave lips.

And I must make this clear to each and every female customer on each and every occasion they make use of my humble shoelick-stand, even if they are regular customers who deign to have me lick clean their dirty shoes or boots every day of the week. My obsequious words of slave-speak awe and flattery must ever demonstrate my genuine admiration for their feminine superiority, and my humble acknowledgement of my own male inferiority and unworthiness.

Allow me to illustrate what I mean:


The hospital orderly, mistress Arooj

It is 4 o’clock in the afternoon – the beginning of the afternoon rush-hour commute home. As my first customer of the hour - 26 year old mistress Arooj – takes up her position in the very public seat of power above and in front of my humbly bowed and kneeling face on her way home from work as a hospital orderly, I praise and bless her with genuinely heartfelt slavish enthusiasm and gusto – even though I attend to her shoes every day.

Mistress Arooj is a slightly-built, fairly ordinary looking girl of Pakistani origins with dark, shoulder-length hair. She has changed out of her hospital-orderly uniform back into her own casual clothing, and is now modestly dressed in her familiar, but somewhat scruffy, navy-blue anorak; a black knee-length skirt; opaque, black woolly tights; and shiny, black flat shoes with pink bows on the toe areas.

By the time I have finished eulogising her, however, she must surely feel like an elegantly-dressed and outstandingly beautiful, worshipped Asian goddess!

I lower my lips to the pretty, pink bows on the fronts of her shoes and begin my service towards her by praising and thanking her, in the humblest of male slave-speak, for deigning to grace my lips with her divine, but street-dirty, female footwear:

‘Good afternoon, mistress Arooj. God bless you, mistress Arooj, for placing your divine, Pakistani feet so close to my tongue once more. Truly this slave is not worthy to brush his inferior, ugly, male lips against such potent symbols of supreme feminine power as the pretty, pink bows on the toes of your shoes, if it so pleases you, mistress Arooj! Truly this slave is blessed by the dirt on the soles of his mistress’s shoes as it slides down his male throat, as that very dirt has graced the mistress’s precious, feminine footwear. Oh pray, mistress Arooj, oh pray - please be so kind as to permit this dirty slave to kiss the material of your black, woolly tights over your left ankle – if only to remove the piece of alien white fluff that he can see attached to the fold in the mistress’s precious, black tights – if it would be so desirous to the superior mistress. Oh pray, mistress Arooj! Oh pray!’

The divine Pakistani girl in the scruffy, navy-blue anorak, twists her left ankle nonchalantly to one side in order to better examine the piece of white fluff allegedly stuck to the outside of her pretty, left anklebone and with a dismissive and peremptory wave of her pretty, Pakistani hand indicates her superior-female condescension to my humble, male request.

Yes! I am to be permitted to kiss and lick her black, woolly tights! God bless you mistress Arooj. Praise be to you mistress Arooj!

I kiss the side of her shapely, Pakistani ankle bone and the white fluff disappears into the cesspit of my maleslave mouth – where it belongs, as opposed to continuing to sully the otherwise perfect black woolly tights of my superior Pakistani goddess-mistress, mistress Arooj.

Having removed the offending fluff by mouth from my Pakistani-female customer’s opaque, black, woolly tights, I proceed to do what I do best – I lick female shoe. I polish it with my tongue. I add to its already gleaming shininess in the late afternoon sunshine by removing every last trace of street dirt and dust – all the while paying kiss-homage to the pretty pink bows that adorn the fronts of mistress Arooj’s shiny, black, round-toed flats, as the pink bows are truly an indisputable symbol of her superior, young-womanly femininity.


The recently-wed mistress Lisa

My next customer, another regular – a 23 year old, trouser-suited office-girl with blonde, curly hair whom I know to be called mistress Lisa - is wearing pointy-toed, flat, black leather shoes with low heels at the backs and shiny, heart-shaped silver buckles on the fronts. These heart shaped buckles are likewise a symbol of superior femininity – for they indicate her womanly love.

Not her love for me, of course. Ha! Ha! I’m just a faceless public servant kneeling at her feet!

No – the shiny, metal buckles symbolise mistress Lisa’s continuing love for her manly husband, master Jonathan, for I happen to know that mistress Lisa and master Jonathan have been married for just over 3 months now. I know that because I was obliged to shine her white, stiletto-heeled wedding shoes with my footslave tongue the day before her wedding. Mistress Lisa kindly brought them to me – her regular public footslave – on the eve of her wedding for a thorough tongue shining.

She hadn’t been wearing them at the time, of course. She had, if I remember correctly, been wearing a pair of rather scruffy, plain black sneakers at the time, along with a pair of frayed, black, bell-bottom, denim jeans. But she had kindly brought her smart pair of white, high-heeled wedding shoes in a carrier bag for me to lick them clean, and to shine them up with my tongue, whilst she held them down to my shoelick-face. She had explained at the time that she wanted her wedding shoes to look nice and pure and gleaming for her handsome fiancé during their forthcoming wedding ceremony – therefore she effectively wanted me to shine them up for master Jonathan’s benefit as much as for her own satisfaction.

It is truly a great honour to be entrusted with the cleaning of a young woman’s wedding shoes –possibly the greatest honour a public footslave can ever have. And so diligently tongue-shine them I did. I humbly tongue-shined a free man’s wife-to-be’s white, leather wedding shoes – because that is all I am good for: tongue-shining superior women’s shoes so that they may beautify further their soft, feminine feet for the benefit of their boyfriends and husbands.

Just as I shall now tongue-shine mistress Lisa’s everyday, office-wear, black leather, pointy-toed flats with the silver, heart-shaped buckles – hearts which express to the world her eternal and undying love for her new husband – master Jonathan.

I humbly express my gratitude to mistress Lisa for the honour of tongue-shining her black, daily-wear shoes – an honour which I take every bit as seriously as that of tongue-shining her white, wedding shoes - as I submissively lower my lips to touch the metal buckle on the pointy toe of her extended right shoe as it rests on the metal footrest beneath the hem of her navy-blue, pinstriped trouser leg:

‘God bless you, mistress Lisa, and God bless your husband master Jonathan, for permitting me to pay homage to the mistress’s stunningly beautiful, black leather shoes with their pretty, heart-shaped decorative metal buckles, if it is so pleasing to you superior and all-powerful mistress Lisa. Truly this slave is not worthy to even look at the mistress’s beautiful, black socks!’

I am referring to mistress Lisa’s short, black ankle socks inside her black, slip-on, pointy-toed, flat-heeled shoes, for they truly are a magnificent sight for a footslave’s eyes. The plain black, cotton socks are so short the elasticated tops do not even cover mistress Lisa’s somewhat thin and pasty, white ankle bones. Indeed, the short, black socks actually accentuate the shapeliness of her soft, feminine ankle bones as she sits high above and in front of me, her pretty feet demurely tucked around each other as her pointy, leather toes rest on the ground beneath my humbly-bowed face.

Her pasty-white foot muscles flex inside her black ankle socks in delighted reaction to my lowly and admiring kisses to the metal, heart-shaped buckles on the pointy toes of her shoes, causing her black ankle socks to temporarily crease and fold in front of my footslave eyes. A poignant reminder that - despite my philogynist-tinted spectacles - mistress Lisa is not perfect. Her short, black socks are creased on her pasty-white feet!

But, be that as it may, she is still infinitely my better - for she is female, and is to be admired in her imperfection. She is my female master and better, just as her young husband is my male better – for he gets to kiss her lips whilst I must merely polish her shoes with my tongue for his future delectation. How he will admire the sight of his young wife’s freshly-shined, pointy shoes and metal, heart-shaped shoe-buckles – the buckles she wears to proclaim to the world her sweet, feminine nature and her undying love for her husband - as he kisses and caresses her after they both return home this evening from their respective places of work!

I am honoured to be of service to this superior, young couple - albeit in such a humble and anonymous, public-footslave way.


The unknown biker-girl

Finally this hour I must pay homage to the heavy-looking, calf-length, leather boots of a female stranger – the street-dirty boots of a female customer I do not believe I have had the privilege of serving before.

I would certainly have remembered such a delectable pair of dirty, black, female boots. They too have buckles – decorative metal buckles and black leather straps, three of them across each outer side of each boot – and clumping great block-shaped heels with thick, platform soles. For these are a pair of girly biker-boots – worn by a pretty, blonde-ponytailed, cigarette-smoking girl along with her black, leather, motorcycle jacket, black leather miniskirt, and dark-coloured, sheer nylon tights.

The boots are truly filthy – and most of the filth has accumulated in the areas in and around the decorative buckles and straps on the sides of her black leather boots. My tongue will have to be at its most dexterous if I am to successfully clean out all the offending motorcycle grease and general street-dirt!

But first my tongue’s dexterity must express my philogynist love and admiration for the blonde, stranger-mistress’s boots. For even though I don’t know this particular young biker-lady’s name – I can be absolutely sure of one thing: she is my better, because she is female. She is therefore prettier, stronger, and more intelligent than I am – just as all women are superior to all men, particularly male slaves.

I therefore praise and rejoice in the presence of the stranger-mistress’s boots:

‘Good afternoon, mistress. Thank you, and God bless you, mistress, for presenting me with your dirty, biker-boots for cleaning. Oh pray, mistress, please permit this wretched slave to lick away the grey scuff-marks on the heavy, rounded toes of your black leather boots, and to insert his tongue into the cavities beneath your upper bootstraps, so that he may diligently extricate the accumulated street-dirt, motorcycle oil, and filth from beneath the mistress’s divine, leather boot straps – if it would be so pleasing to the superior mistress?’

The biker girl indicates that I have her permission to attend to her dirty, calf-length boots by casually flicking her cigarette ash down onto my bald pate whilst holding up the reinforced, round-shaped toe of her right boot to my eagerly-awaiting lips.

Once again my lips taste black, feminine shoe-leather, only this time I do not have a clear view of female hosiery as I kiss. The biker-girl’s dark-nylon tights are too high above me on her shapely calf and leg muscles for me to be able to hold them in my limited, footslave field of vision as I pay my humble attention first to the somewhat scuff-marked, rounded toes of her heavy, black leather, biker boots, and then to the decorative, but foul-tasting and dirty leather straps and metal buckles on the sides of her boots.

I might not be able to focus on the stitching of the biker-mistress’s dark nylon tights, but I am constantly aware of the nylon inside her boots, and enjoy thinking about how sweaty and damp her pretty, nylon-covered toes must be inside such boots at the end of a long day out and about on her motorcycle.

You might think that such a heavy and indelicate pair of calf-length, black leather biker-boots is not very feminine on a young woman’s feet and legs, but you would be very wrong! They are supremely feminine – for powerful-looking and strong though they may be, they are still woman-sized boots on a pair of pretty, woman-sized, nylon-covered feet. Hot and sweaty nylon-covered feet - but feet that nevertheless belong to a supremely superior and dominant young woman – a young woman who is used to being in control.

After all, if she is capable of controlling a 100 horse-powered motorbike engine with her black leather boots, she is certainly capable of controlling a one-jackass-powered footslave such as me with those selfsame boots!

And, extending the motorbike analogies even further - though she may often ride pillion behind her boyfriend on his powerful motorbike, she is now very much in the driving seat when it comes to her dealings with me; for she confidently directs my boot-licking with the cigarette-holding fingers of her pretty, right hand – making sure that no bootstrap is left unlicked by my worthless tongue; that no trace of motorcycle grease and oil is left underneath each strap to sully her precious boot-leather.

She does so with supreme arrogance and confidence because she knows, and I know, that she is my female better - and that I, as a mere, male footslave, am worth less than the very grease and dirt I now seek to extract with my slave-tongue from beneath her superior, feminine boot-buckles.

I truly admire her poise. I admire her charm. I admire her boot-dirt – and relish its taste in my mouth, just as I admire the acrid smell of her cigarette smoke up my nose. For it is expelled cigarette smoke, and extricated boot-dirt, that is quintessentially female. They have both been made female by their intimate association with the blonde-ponytailed biker-mistress.

The dirt and grease in particular has been feminised by contact with her boots, and I therefore savour the greasy, feminine boot-dirt as I humbly chew and swallow it.

I truly am not worthy of such feminine delicacies!

As I indicated right at the beginning, it is truly fortunate that, as I carry out my public duties on my public shoelick-stand, I am a natural philogynist and appreciator of all things female!’




Tale no. 11 – Geekdom

‘One of the things I love about being a ladies’ public footslave in the central town square is the sheer fact that I can have no say on exactly who approaches my 'step-up' shoelick-stand at any given time in order to have their feet attended to. Any woman - black or white, oriental or south Asian, rich or poor, beautiful or plain -can use my services, and as a male slave, I must afford each and every one of them the same degree of slavish respect and submissiveness.

Take the young, white woman who is gaily approaching my 'step-up' shoelick stand right now. She looks like a bit of a ‘geek’ – thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses; untidy, tousled, mousy-brown hair; scruffy blue denim jeans and a matching blue denim jacket over a plain, white T shirt; and - most significantly of all from my point of view as a humble footwear-slave – short, plain, white ankle-socks with flat, blue leather, strappy sandals.

The blue sandals are open-toed and open-heeled with 3 broad straps across the tops of her plain white ankle socks. Socks with sandals – and on a relatively warm summer’s day! Why does she bother wearing socks with such open-toed footwear, unless she deliberately wishes to appear ‘geeky’?

Perhaps the geek-look is the new cool, but I have to say that in my limited experience of what free men might think, this girl, who should be in her prime of physical attractiveness being in her early to mid twenties, is unlikely to ‘turn heads’ in such an outfit. To be perfectly honest she does look quite plain to begin with; she is not what you would describe as a natural ‘looker’. But if she will insist on wearing such a dorky combination of clothing and footwear she can hardly be said to be making much of an effort to improve on her appearance!

She seems happy enough in her geeky isolationism, however, as she steps confidently up to the wooden footblock over which I am kneeling on the ground, and rather inelegantly plonks her right, sandalled foot down on top of the wooden block directly beneath my face, whilst simultaneously hitching up the lower hem of her right, blue denim jean-leg – as if to afford me an even better view of her plain, white sock inside her strappy, open-toed, blue leather sandal:

‘Kiss my sock, slave…kiss each area of sock between my sandal straps 50 times – starting with the toe area.’

Well, at least the geeky young woman knows her own mind! She seems to know exactly what she requires of me. But…erm...has she not realised that the public sock-kisser is just around the corner? Has she not seen the sign above my head on the wall behind me:

‘Ladies’ Public Shoelick’ ?!

I am trained to lick clean dirty, female shoes and boots – not to kiss female socks!

But, of course, a superior mistress, even a superior geeky mistress, can never be in the wrong. If this young woman wants me to simply kiss her white socks, then kissed they shall be! I have absolutely no desire to feel the sting of the public-use whip which hangs threateningly from a hook on the wall behind me.

The young geek-woman may have missed my sign, but she sure as hell won’t have missed the whip!

Besides, it will be a welcome change for me to feel soft feminine sock on my lips as opposed to my usual diet of dirty, feminine shoe-leather.

I therefore happily take up the young lady’s unorthodox challenge:

‘Yes, superior mistress. At once, superior mistress.’

I decide to throw in the ‘superior’ epithet as it occurs to me that this young woman could probably do with some morale-boosting, footslave-flattery. I mean, she surely can’t be very used to feeling innately superior to anyone. Geeks are normally looked down upon by their free peers, aren’t they?

I am determined, therefore to make this geeky young woman’s experience of having her socked and sandalled feet kissed in public as pleasurable as possible for her – give her a real sense of what it means to feel superior to someone for a change, for, geek or not, she is undoubtedly better than me, both in law and in nature, being free and female!

Since time immemorial the act of kissing another human being’s feet has been an unmistakable act of admiration and submission on the part of the foot-kisser – and you will probably have gathered by now that the longer this young woman deigns to grace me with her presence, the more I am coming to genuinely admire and respect her.

I just loved the way she so abruptly and confidently barked her orders down at me, unconcerned as to whether I liked the sight of her sandals and socks or not, and totally unabashed about any possible dirt or stinkiness on her white sock. ‘Kiss my sock…’ she had demanded, in a quite ungeeklike manner - and she was even prepared to specify which areas of sock I was to kiss - and how many times in each area.

It’s true what they say – never judge a geek by its cover!

Her orders will, in effect, mean that I shall be kissing her white, cotton sock 150 times in total, for there are three distinct areas to kiss - the toe area, as she has already specified herself; the area between the lower and middle blue leather sandal straps; and finally the area between the middle and upper straps. I’m guessing that I won’t be required to place my lips above the uppermost sandal strap as, even with her jean-hem helpfully hitched up, there is not enough sock area to kiss. It is a very short, sneaker-style ankle-sock!

I therefore begin my act of public humility and meekness, as instructed, by lowering my slave lips to the reinforced, white cotton covering her socked toes.

Although the sock-material may be reinforced and slightly thicker in this area, because it is almost pure white with little sign of dirt or dust on the sock I can see the geeky mistress’s pink, big toenail directly underneath the edge of the sock. The toenail probably needs trimming, for it appears to be almost ready to burst out from underneath the mistress’s sock.

When I say her big toenail is ‘pink’ I don’t think it has been painted pink. Geek-girls tend not to bother with pedicures – especially when they are disposed to cover their toes with socks!

No, I am referring to the pink of her toe-skin underneath the white sock. I am thrilled to see her big toe twitch inside the sock, causing the white sock material to crease and fold slightly, as I place my first of the ordered 50 kisses on the tops of the bespectacled, be-tousled, denim-clad, geek-girl’s socked toes. It’s as if her toes are wriggling with gleeful anticipation of my impending humility and servitude towards them.

Although I don’t routinely kiss feet for a living (I lick shoes for a living) I was, of course, given some training in the delicate art of humble foot-kissing whilst undergoing my training course at the Public Footslave Training Academy all those many years ago. I remember, for example, how the female trainers had always stressed the importance of ‘bobbing one’s head up and down’ in between each individual footkiss. This was deemed very important as the mistress may wish to count the number of kisses to her feet herself – although it is by law the footslave’s own responsibility to ensure that the requisite number of kisses is delivered to his mistress’s feet.

The point I am trying to make, however, is that a mistress might lose count of the number of kisses to her feet if the slave fails to remove his lips from her skin or sock after each kiss. Hence it is considered best slave-practice for a slave to always raise his head after each kiss (still looking respectfully down at the superior, female foot he is venerating of course) and to wait for one full second before lowering his head and lips for the next deferential footkiss.

It’s not only courteous to the mistress – it also prevents any inappropriate lasciviousness on the part of the dirty footslave. He is not to kiss the lady’s feet lustfully or erotically, with lingering, passionate kisses such as a male lover might deliver to his girlfriend’s or wife’s feet! On the contrary, the footkisses of a public footslave are to be sharp and respectful. They are to be the ‘the respectful and worshipful kisses of a self-evident inferior towards the feet and footwear of his manifest better’. That was the mantra they drummed into us all those years ago at the Footslave Training Academy!

And so my training all comes flooding back to me as I lift my lips off the young, bespectacled, geeky-looking woman’s right sock for the first time, count to one, and then lower my lips for the second kiss.

The geek-girl is clearly paying close attention to my work as she towers over me, her right leg outstretched imperiously before her on the wooden footblock, for she verbally reminds me of something else that was drummed, or more accurately beaten, into us at the Footslave Training Academy, but which I must confess I had temporarily forgotten:

‘Don’t just kiss my big toe, dirty slave! Kiss my other toes as well!’ snaps the young woman impatiently.

Now, leaving aside the technicality that it is not actually her toes that I am kissing, but her sock, the young woman is quite right to pull me up on my performance. For I had made the classic mistake of automatically kissing her socked big-toe in exactly the same place as before, rather than directing my lips to the neighbouring toe. To be fair, the young woman had specifically stipulated that I was to kiss each area of her sock, starting with the toe area, and yet there I was lazily and clumsily placing two of my 50 kisses on an identical area of sock!

No wonder the young woman felt the need to verbally chide and correct me!

I humbly implore her forgiveness:

‘Yes mistress. Please forgive this dirty, stupid slave, mistress. This slave obeys his mistress,’ and I immediately ensure that my third kiss to the toe area of her white sock is placed beside the original two kisses.

Likewise I continue to move my bobbing head and lips back and forth along the entire reinforced toe area of the geeky-mistress’s white, ankle-socked foot, and this seems to satisfy the owner and wearer of the white sock, for she says nothing more until I reach kiss no. 50.

She must indeed be counting the number of footkisses herself, for she moves her right foot ever so slightly further forward on the wooden footblock as I prepare to position my slave-lips over the second area of white sock – that between the lower and middle of the three blue, leather straps that cross the top of her socked foot.

Before I can lower my lips for my second series of 50 respectful kisses, the mistress provides me with some further, timely advice:

‘Make sure your dirty lips don’t touch my sandal straps, slave! Kiss only the sock!’

She is using the word ‘dirty’ figuratively, of course. My slave lips are not literally dirty! If they were they would be leaving dirty marks on her geekily-clean, nice white socks – and that would be most disrespectful!

No, the young woman is, quite rightly, merely reminding me that she is pure and female, whilst I am male and dirty.

I verbally acknowledge that I have registered her timely warning in my weak and feeble male brain:

‘Yes mistress. This slave obeys the mistress’s every wish, most beautiful and respected mistress.’

I’m not that worried, to be honest. Providing the most beautiful and respected mistress doesn’t try to trick me by suddenly moving her right foot, I should have no difficulty in keeping my lips well way from her blue, leather, sandal straps. There is plenty of white sock to kiss in this area – superior, feminine sock which demands and deserves my utmost, male-footslavish respect.

The main difference I notice is how much softer this area of sock feels under my lips compared to the reinforced cotton covering the toe area. Perhaps that’s because there are no hard toenails underneath this area of sock - just soft, feminine foot-skin. It is truly a delight to kiss such soft, protective sock – sock which is presumably designed to protect the geeky mistress’s bare foot from the elements, exposed as it would otherwise be in such pretty, open toed and strappy, blue leather sandals.

My only regret is that the sock is not a bit dirtier or sweatier. It would seem to be fresh on the mistress’s foot this morning. She may dress like a geek – but she is evidently a very clean and fastidious young woman. Even the blue leather straps on her sandals appear to be quite clean.

Clean or not, I do find my professional shoelick impulses starting to kick in, and have an almost overwhelming urge to transgress against my geek-mistress’ specific orders, and to lick her blue leather sandal straps!

I must be allowing my performance to wane from the immediate task-in-mouth with these thoughts, however, as suddenly the geek-mistress-girl again expresses her dissatisfaction with my sock-kissing efforts:

‘Concentrate on my sock, slave! Think about what you are doing, and stop looking at my sandal-straps!’

Spooky as well as geeky! This intelligent, young woman can evidently read my thoughts. Crikey! I hope she doesn’t have some sort of geeky mind-reading ability. All those unflattering assumptions I’ve been thinking about her!

I am genuinely grateful to her kindly words of warning, and immediately snap out of my shoelick-reverie:

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. This slave truly admires and honours the mistress’s sock, most respected mistress!’

Well, that much is true! The more I kiss her sock, the more I am coming to admire it – for it is, like the mistress herself - pure, soft and white. The soft, white sock of a soft and kind, young woman who chooses to verbally warn me of my underperformance rather than just impetuously reaching for the punishment whip in order to beat me, as most of her non-geek peers would undoubtedly do!

I kiss the middle area of her white sock with renewed slavish-vigour and respect. 50 times in total. As I do so, I wonder if free men are watching me and laughing at me – the bespectacled geek-girl’s public footslave and sock-kisser!

The superior mistress’s foot then moves even further forward for the third and final area of sock to be kissed – that between her middle and upper sandal straps. This area seems even softer than the previous area of sock under my lips, but I surmise that this is because there are more creases and folds in the higher area of sock caused by the outstretched positioning of the young woman’s right foot.

As I near my 50th kiss to this final designated area of her right sock my heart is gladdened by the thought that I shall in all probability have to repeat the whole humiliating and degrading process with her left foot. Very few mistresses ever wish to have only one foot attended to by a public footslave.

But then, this particular mistress is different. One of a kind. She stands out from the crowd. She is a geek. And I am proved wrong – for as soon as my lips leave her right sock for the last time, her foot is withdrawn from the footblock and is not replaced by her left.

Instead she just walks off.

My sense of shock and disappointment is quite overwhelming. Clearly I must not have pleased the superior mistress as much as I would have liked, for she is so unimpressed with my sock-kissing efforts to her right foot she evidently cannot be bothered to present me with her left socked and sandalled foot for kissing.

Instead she just walks away - off, no doubt, to buy yet more geeky clothes in the nearby shops – and leaving me with no more white sock to kiss, and you with no more white-sock-kissing to read about.

But then, that is her choice to make. She may be a geek, but she is free to do whatsoever she pleases. And rightly so, for she is a superior female.

Unlike me, an inferior male slave. As I said right at the beginning, I have no say in who approaches my shoelick-stand for their feet to be serviced, nor do I have any say in what that service involves, or in how long it lasts for.

You could say it keeps me on my footslave-toes – being at the constant mercy of others. But it can also be so terribly frustrating!

I lick my lips so that I may taste the residue of the disappearing geek-mistress’s white ankle-sock one last time, before my next female customer – a very ungeeklike young, blonde woman in her mid to late twenties wearing a very flimsy-looking and short little black summer dress and stylish, shiny, bright red, high-heeled stilettos - places her shapely, right, tattooed foot and ankle down onto my wooden footblock!

The free men in the town square will undoubtedly be more interested in observing my humble foot-service towards this young blonde woman’s sexy, red, high-heeled shoes , but if you’ve bothered to read this far I suspect that, like me, you would rather hold on to the memory of the geek-girl’s plain white socks and flat, blue leather sandals!’



Tale no. 10 – Complex Inferiority

‘My inferiority complex vis-à-vis my 25 year old mistress Clare is…well, complex!

I fully recognise that she is a flawed human being, yet to me she is simultaneously perfect and divine. I worship her as though she were a goddess sitting, often quite literally, above me on a pedestal whilst I attend to her feet.

As I am doing right now, in fact! Right at this moment I am kneeling on the floor at her feet whilst she relaxes above me in the comfortable armchair of her student bedsit. My head is suitably bowed over her feet, as it should be, whilst I pay my humble respects to my mistress’s superiority by silently and obsessively staring at her black and gold, lace-up sneakers and matching, short, black sneaker-socks below her somewhat podgy, white ankles.

My pretty, but slightly overweight, brunette mistress is casually flicking through a glossy, gossip magazine – wondering, no doubt, how she could ever possibly attain a svelte figure to match those of the female celebrities who feature so prominently in the pages of such magazines – when she suddenly, and without warning, arrogantly barks down an order at me:

‘Slave! My feet are hot and sweaty. Fetch a bowl of water and a towel. You’re going to wash my feet.’

This is typical of my mistress Clare’s dominant – but flawed – personality. She is highly impetuous and narcissistic; she thinks the whole world revolves around her and exists merely to do her bidding.

Of course, in respect of me, she is perfectly correct. I am her legally-owned footslave. By law, therefore, I do exist merely in order to do her bidding, and I acknowledge that simple fact by immediately assuring my all-powerful mistress of my complete compliance with her snapped orders:

‘Yes, goddess-mistress. At once goddess-mistress Clare.’

I am so keen to stress my immediate compliance with my mistress’s demands as I have learnt, through bitter experience, of the power of her whip to instil obedience and compliance in a slave should they ever be lacking.

My mistress Clare loves to whip – another personality flaw? Or just her perfect, womanly right?

Whatever the rights and wrongs of being subject to another human-being’s whip, I am actually delighted to be given the order to wash my mistress Clare’s dirty feet. For it will mean I shall have to touch her sneakers and socks – the sneakers and socks of a goddess - as I take them off her divine feet, and then, of course, I shall get to touch my mistress’s bare feet themselves; the bare feet of a goddess!

And yet, as I humbly return with the foot-bowl duly filled up with soothing, lukewarm water to wash my student-goddess’s feet, and the white fluffy, foot-towel to dry my student-goddess’s feet, I recognise at every stage of the foot washing process my human mistress’s flaws:

‘You may remove my shoes and socks, slave!’

There’s the main flaw again– my mistress Clare’s sheer, undisguised arrogance! I may remove her shoes and socks. Like it is some sort of honour for me to kneel before her; to untie her thick, black sneaker laces; to gently slide each black and gold-coloured sneaker of her socked feet; to then peel off each short, black sneaker-sock – all whilst she continues to have her pretty, brunette head buried in the pages of her glossy magazine, not lifting a single feminine foot-muscle to help me. And certainly not ever contemplating removing her own shoes and socks! Why should she? Does she not have a personal footslave for such mundane, sartorial tasks?

I have to recognise that my divine student-mistress’s footwear is flawed also. For these black and gold sneakers have seen better days - all of them on my mistress Clare’s feet, for she has worn them practically every day since she bought them some 4 years ago. I do my best to keep them clean, but there is only so much a humble footslave’s mouth can achieve. I have to acknowledge that the outsides of the sneakers are now well and truly tatty – scuff-marked on the rounded toe areas (the areas I kiss the most, so my own dirty, slave lips are probably, at least in part, to blame for those very scuff marks!).

And then there is the loose stitching at the backs of the sneakers where the soles are stitched to the soft, leather uppers. I wonder how long it will be before that loose stitching leads to a serious hole at the back of one of my mistress Clare’s increasingly tatty-looking sneakers. Already a small hole is developing on the lower instep of her left sneaker – I can sometimes even see my mistress Clare’s sock through it, especially if she is wearing brightly coloured socks! Today, however, the hole is somewhat camouflaged by the matching black of her cotton sneaker–sock.

Nevertheless, I do have to acknowledge that my divine mistress Clare is wearing dirty, scuff-marked, holey sneakers and that I am expected – nay obliged – to not only touch them, and their dirt, but also to pay homage to them; to kiss the sneakers whilst I untie the laces and remove them from my indolent, young mistress’s podgy, socked feet.

As soon as the sneakers are off I am reminded of another of my divine goddess-mistress Clare’s very human flaws – her smelly feet. Her socks, and by extension her feet, stink! She must know it - even though she is much further away from her smelly, socked feet than I am. After all, has she not nonchalantly informed me that her feet are ‘hot and sweaty’ and require to be washed?

My mistress Clare appears quite unabashed at imposing her sock and foot stink on her poor, hapless footslave. Indeed my mistress is subconsciously (I presume it is an unthinking, subconscious gesture on her part) wriggling her podgy, white toes inside her short, black sneaker socks – as if to release more of the stink into my gormless face.

She must relish the fact that footslave-protocol dictates I must now kiss her sweaty, stinky black socks prior to peeling them off her sweaty, white feet. The black socks have very distinct dark, damp patches where the feminine footsweat is at its freshest – on the undersides of my mistress’s wriggling toes, for example – and these darker, damp patches of sock merge in places with the more faded, greying areas where stale sweat has discoloured the socks after repeated wearing.

Yes, I can testify to the fact that, like her favourite pair of holey, black and gold sneakers, these socks have been repeatedly worn by my mistress Clare over the past 4 years. The plain, black sneaker-socks are on the verge of developing holes of their own in one or two areas, where the cotton stitching is showing clear signs of wearing thin.

They are the flawed socks of my flawed mistress, inside her flawed sneakers. And yet I worship all three superior entities – my mistress, her sneakers, and her socks. For they are all my betters – being female.

The tart, vinegary stench of sweaty, female sock is quite overwhelming as I taste the dampness of my mistress Clare’s black-socked toes. Her toes only stop wriggling as I kiss them – as if acknowledging my humble homage to them.

And then I remove the socks, touch them with my hands and place them on the studio-apartment floor beneath my face – an ever-present, smelly reminder of my humble position attending to my student-mistress’s flawed feet.

And her feet themselves are most definitely flawed. I may exist only to serve them, but I do recognise that my mistress Clare’s divine feet are far from perfect.

As I have already intimated, her feet and ankles are not the shapeliest. They are not like the svelte, pedicured feet and ankles of the famous young women in the photographs my mistress Clare is still leafing through. These are the flawed feet and ankles of the girl-next-door – except that she isn’t next door. She is seated above me, about to have her flawed feet washed by her personal foot-servant.

And its not just their lack of shapeliness, or their smell, that makes my mistress Clare’s feet imperfect. She has rather prominent and unsightly, large blue veins running down the arches of her feet – veins which I am now kissing out of respect and awe for, unsightly though they may be, they are nevertheless the superior, feminine foot-veins of my female master and better. They are victorious veins; not varicose veins!

My foot-kissing lips slip on my mistress’s fresh footsweat as I pay my respectful homage to her pulsating foot-veins.

I can now see her unsocked toes close-up. They too are flawed; unpainted – with little slithers of dark toe-jam beneath the edges – not that any amount of toenail scraping, pedicuring and painting would make them look any the less podgier. I just have to accept it – my divine mistress Clare has podgy-shaped toes and fat, varicose ankles, and always will have.

That doesn’t mean she is any less my female superior and better, and I still admire her feet, as I am required to do by law. For I am male – which by definition means I am inferior. The Female Law says so, and the Female Law is always right!

As I gently lift my all-powerful mistress Clare’s dirty, sweaty, varicose-veined and podgy feet, toes and ankles into the refreshing foot-bowl of lukewarm water, and watch the little pieces of black sock lint and dead skin come off her bare feet and float in the erstwhile clean water, I praise and bless my mistress internally for the honour of touching, washing and worshipping her superior, if flawed, feminine feet with my inferior, dirty, male-slave hands and mouth, using my tongue to scoop out the sweaty little balls of toe-jam that have accumulated between my mistress’s soft toes.

It’s a touching and beautiful scene, I think you’ll agree. Some ignorant people might just see an arrogant and self-centred, average-looking student-girl having her feet kissed and washed by a pathetically weak and gormless male servant. But as far as I am concerned it is a privilege to be washing the feet of a supremely divine and beautiful goddess such as my mistress Clare.

They say that female power enamours, and that absolute female power enamours absolutely. Perhaps that’s what I am experiencing as I tongue-clean my mistress Clare’s dirty feet in the lukewarm bowl of water. I am experiencing love.

Not romantic love, but slavish love – the love of an inferior for his deeply flawed, but self-evident superior.

I wish I could understand my feelings better. But I can’t, of course, because being male I am even more deeply flawed than my mistress’s feminine feet!

Love is a truly complex thing - isn’t it?’



Tale no. 9 – The Sock Voyeur

‘It’s 6 o’clock in the evening and my 24 year old Bangladeshi mistress, mistress Meena, is seated at the kitchen table enjoying her evening meal with her family – her parents and her husband – after a long day-shift working at the supermarket checkout.

I am on my hands and knees underneath the kitchen table with my head directly behind my mistress’s heels. Just a few minutes before I had humbly removed her shoes from her feet, and slipped her pretty, Bangladeshi, socked feet into her mule-style, open-backed, black leather, house slippers. So now, just about all I can see, are the backs of her low-cut, plain black, sneaker-style socks – the socks that have been encased inside flat, black leather shoes all day as she had sat at her supermarket checkout-till tallying up her customers’ purchases.

As her full-time personal footslave, I had, of course, also been kneeling all day behind her heels underneath her chair at the supermarket checkout-till – staring at the backs of her somewhat scuff marked, black leather shoes. A great honour for a personal footslave – to be allowed to accompany his mistress to her place of work and observe the backs of her feet and footwear all day long!

But it had amounted to a very frustrating day also – for her low-cut, short black cotton sneaker-socks were not visible inside the backs of her shoes. All I could see above the leather uppers of her flat, black shoes was her slightly wrinkled, soft, brown, heel flesh – a terribly pretty sight, yes! But the mere knowledge that she was wearing short, black socks inside those black, leather shoes – socks which were protecting her feet, keeping them warm and comfortable and sweaty throughout the working day, and yet which I was unable to observe and appreciate due to their having slipped down inside the backs of her shoes – was driving me crazy!

A humble footslave always yearns to see sock – for it is his mistress’s most intimate, inner foot-garment which he has adoringly and lovingly smoothed onto her pretty foot at the start of the day , only to be denied the sight of its loveliness as it does its job of protecting the mistress’s foot inside her leather shoe throughout the working day!

Oh the frustration of being a footslave!

But, at least now that my mistress is back home and changed into her open-backed, house slippers – at least now I can look at sock! It matters not that the smell of the delicious hot food wafting down from the kitchen table above me is making my stomach rumble with hunger. It matters not that I shall not even be permitted to lick clean my mistress’s plate when she has finished with her delicious, hot food (for I have already eaten my one slave meal of tasteless slave-gruel at the start of my slave day).

What matters is that I now have food for the soul from the sole of my mistress Meena’s foot – I am getting to stare at the backs of her illusive black socks!

And what a beautiful sight they make – the rich black of the cotton material contrasting so sweetly with the soft, brown wrinkled contours of her bare heel-flesh just above their elasticated tops. I study the backs of those black cotton socks closely for any signs of wear and tear – for the insides of my mistress’s leather shoe-heels will have been rubbing against the backs of her socks throughout the day. Has the inner lining of her shoes left any marks on the socks? Are there any tell-tale, greyish signs of thinning sock-material?

No – I can’t, in all honesty, see any signs of disturbance to the surface of her black, cotton socks – at least not on the rounded heels. Now, if only my mistress Meena would subconsciously rest her pretty toes on the kitchen floor and raise up the soles of her socked feet in front of my face inside her soft, leather mules – then I would be able to tell if her socks were showing any signs of sweat and wearing!

It would have to be a subconscious gesture on my mistress Meena’s part, of course. She is blissfully unaware of my presence kneeling at her feet under the kitchen table, just as she was unaware of my pathetic presence as I knelt behind her shoes and feet at the supermarket checkout-till all day long. That’s because I am invisible to her – not literally invisible; but figuratively invisible.

For I am just a ‘dirty footslave’ – an appendage to her footwear; an object for her to rest her tired, sweaty feet on from time to time, but which, for the rest of the time, is nothing more than a vague bundle of rags kneeling humbly behind her feet - a bundle of rags that puts on and takes off her shoes and socks at the click of a slender, feminine, Bangladeshi finger, but which is, to all intents and purposes, good for nothing else.

My mistress hardly even bothers to speak to me throughout the day. She mainly speaks Sylheti – as she is doing now with her parents and husband as she sits above me at the kitchen table – although she will break into English whenever she requires me to serve her in some humble, personal-footslave way. Curt, abrupt, mistress-speak English seasoned by her cute, Bangladeshi accent.

She will say things like:

‘Slave, be taking off my socks.’

‘Slave, be rubbing my socks.’

‘Slave, be kissing the backs of my shoes.’

‘Slave, be nosing my socks.’

‘Slave, be licking the dirt off my boots.’

‘Slave, be smelling my dirty socks, and then be taking them off my feet and sucking off the dirt from in between my toes.’

But for now she is not talking to me. She has no need to. She is engrossed in happy, teatime conversation in her native tongue with her relatives over the kitchen table.

However, as I kneel behind her socked and slippered heels under the kitchen table, listening to the noisy eating and Sylheti chatter of my betters, my mistress suddenly bursts out laughing and subconsciously fulfils my slavish wish by tucking her shapely, Bangladeshi ankles around each other – thereby giving me a full-on view of the soles of her black-socked, Bangladeshi feet!

I can now see virtually the whole of the bottoms of both her socks! I can see the numerous, tiny creases and folds in the bottom of her socks which, no doubt, are mirroring the creases and folds in my mistress’s soft, bare soles inside them!

And even more importantly, I can see the familiar smudged, white numbers on the soles of her black, cotton socks.

I have never understood what the numbers refer to: ‘6-26’. The numbers are written into the cotton stitching in white on the soles of both her otherwise black, sneaker-socks. What do they mean? They can’t refer to the size of her pretty foot, so the number ‘6-26’ must either be the date of manufacture (June 26th?), or a brand name or, more likely, a batch number or a style number. Perhaps the most credible explanation is that they are a style number, as a batch number would be likely to be a much more complicated number, and a date of manufacture would surely include the year?

I doubt that my mistress Meena knows what the smudged, white numbers on the bottoms of her black sneaker-socks mean, or even cares. In fact, she probably doesn’t even know the numbers exist, for she doesn’t need to concern herself with her socks. That is my job – the job of her personal footslave. My mistress Meena is, quite literally, above such things.

But the white numbers are of great importance to the humble footslave. Like all sock ‘logos’ they are the footslave’s friend – for they help me to determine the state of my mistress’s socks; how sweaty they are; how well worn. As I have already indicated, the numbers ‘6-26’ are now quite smudged on both my mistress’s sock-soles – reminding me that she has owned this particular pair of short, black sneaker-socks for many months now, and has worn them inside her shoes, sneakers, boots and slippers many times.

These particular socks have also, therefore, inevitably been mouth-washed inside my slave mouth several dozen times – and I take some sort of foolish, footslavish pride in the pathetic thought that some of the white dye from the logos on the bottom of my mistress Meena’s socks must surely be inside me. What an honour! What a privilege! The logos may well be ‘smudged’ in appearance at least in part due to the fact that I have sucked some of the white dye out of my mistress’s socks along with her stale footsweat!

Oh how I wish my mistress Meena would now lift up the kitchen tablecloth, and order me in her curt, Sylheti-English to ‘be licking the bottoms of my socks’, or to ‘be running your nose along the bottoms of my socks!’ How I wish I could taste and smell the bottoms of her hot and spicy socks whilst she tastes and smells her delicious, hot and spicy, Bangladeshi food!

But sadly this wish, it seems, is not to be granted – for no sooner have I started examining the state of the white, numerical logos on the creased bottoms of my mistress Meena’s black sneaker-socks than she has unfolded her ankles again and slipped her socked feet back into her leather slippers.

Still, I cannot complain. My mistress Meena’s socked feet do not exist purely for my delectation! On the contrary, I exist for their delectation. I am their servant; their slave. Her black socks are my betters and it is an honour for me to merely be in their presence whilst they adorn my mistress’s pretty, Bangladeshi feet.

I focus once more on the stretched, black-cotton stitching on my mistress’s shapely, rounded heels, and internally praise and bless my Bangladeshi mistress for allowing me to kneel quietly at her feet and admire her socks.’




Tale no. 8 – Regime Change

‘My new mistress, mistress Deborah, is instructing me in her individual whims and fancies. She is explaining to me her likes and dislikes, and what she expects of her new personal footslave. She is explaining to me exactly how my life will be from now on - now that I am serving at the feet of a new mistress.

As she does so, I am humbly kneeling at her pretty feet, contritely looking at her soft, black ballet flats and plain, black ankle socks beneath the hems of her white, corduroy jeans as she sits in front of me and above me exulting in her female power – the absolute power of a young woman over her helpless, vulnerable and nervous personal slave.

I like the combination of white trouser hems and black footwear that my new mistress is wearing today. It is a combination my previous mistress, mistress Olga, never wore. I am privileged and honoured, therefore, to be kneeling at the feet of my strange, new mistress and, as she continues with her introductory lecture, it is becoming clear to me that a change in my mistress’s footwear preferences is just one of the many new things which I shall have to adapt to, not all of which shall be so welcome to me.

Not that my likes or dislikes are of any importance. I am but a slave – a slave being introduced to his new regime of servitude at the feet of his new mistress, and like it or lump it, I shall have to live under my new mistress’s rules.

These are just some of the differences I shall have to adapt to:

For a start, my new mistress Deborah is a 22 year old redhead, and is still a student at College. She has kindly informed me that she is studying Ancient History at university.

My previous mistress Olga was a 35 year old brunette, and worked as a ladies’ hairdresser.

My new mistress Deborah gleefully now informs me, as I kneel and stare at her black ballet shoes and socks, that she is a great believer in the power of the female whip, and she kindly shows me her personal slave-whip, insisting on drawing it’s harsh leather lashes gently, but threateningly, across my bare, crouched shoulder blades as she describes it in loving detail to me.

She explains that her whip consists of a thick, brown leather stock-handle which has three twisted, brown leather lashes attached to it. She enthusiastically points out the little knots in the leather at the end of each of the three lashes, knots which, she informs me, are specifically designed to cause me extra pain.

Mistress Deborah then kindly takes the time to show me a video of her previous slave suffering under the lash, and stresses to me that she doesn’t give a damn whether or not I am accustomed to being whipped. Under her regime, she assures me, I can expect to be whipped often – and whenever she ‘damn well’ pleases!

I think she may have been influenced by her study of the treatment of slaves in the Ancient World!

I kiss the rounded, slightly-scuffed toes of history-student mistress Deborah’s ultra-modern, soft, black ballet flats at this point, by way of demonstrating my fear of her whip, and my submission both to her and her whip.

My previous mistress Olga rarely whipped me, and her whip was a simple, black leather, single-tailed whip - with no extra knots on it!

Next, my new mistress Deborah explains to me that I shall be employed purely as her personal footslave – taking care of her pretty, feminine feet and footwear, including all her socks, boots, shoes and sandals. She stresses that I shall not have any other slave-duties about the house.

My previous mistress Olga gave me additional chores to do, things like scrubbing her floors; weeding her garden; polishing her furniture etc. Being able to concentrate on just being a footslave to mistress Deborah has its obvious appeal to me, as it means I shall not be involved in any form of heavy, manual labour! But I am worried that I shall lose my other menial slave-skills which I developed over many years whilst I was in bondage to mistress Olga.

Mistress Deborah goes on to explain that because I am just a footslave, and nothing more, she will be having me fitted with a bespoke, heavy, wooden collar around my neck known as a ‘cangue’. The cangue, she explains, will help me to concentrate on her feet and footwear, as it will prevent me from standing up, or even from raising my head above floor level. The cangue will help to keep me permanently on my hands and knees at my new mistress’s feet – as befits a full-time footslave.

My previous mistress Olga had me on my hands and knees most of the time, but I was permitted to stand up and walk about, albeit with my head kept humbly bowed, whilst I was going about my other household chores. Apart from my normal slave-chains, therefore, my mistress Olga never fitted me with a ‘cangue’ or any other such humiliating device.

Again I kiss my new mistress Deborah’s feet, this time respectfully placing my lips directly onto her plain, black socks, by way of expressing my slavish gratitude to her for investing her money in a bespoke, heavy, wooden cangue just for my benefit. I understand they can be very expensive, even if they do last a lifetime!

Next, my new mistress explains in more detail her personal footwear preferences. She explains that she likes to dress casually – in jeans or trousers, rather than skirts – and nearly always with ballet flats or sneakers on her feet, although she also has an extensive collection of block-heeled ankle boots. She further explains that she always wears socks with her shoes or boots, never tights or stockings, and that she will be introducing me to her shoes, boots and socks later in the week - after I have been measured and fitted with my bespoke, wooden cangue - so that I may pay my humble respects to each and every item of her footwear by putting them on her feet and then kissing them 100 times each.

Mistress Deborah clarifies that, with or without the encouragement of her stinging whip, I shall come to admire and respect all her shoes and socks, and to regard them as my inanimate betters, for they are even closer to her ‘divine, goddess-like’ feet than I am.

I once again feel it is appropriate to kiss the black ballet flats and black ankle socks which my new, red-headed mistress Deborah is currently wearing, by way of a demonstration of my readiness to serve her footwear with the respect and devotion it deserves without the added stimulus of the sting of her whip!

My previous mistress Olga preferred to wear skirts and dresses with high heels and nylons, rather than jeans and trousers with socks and flats. Feeling the material of thick, cotton socks on my lips will be quite a different experience for me from that of the sheer, finest-denier nylon material I am used to. I have to admit, however, that I am already beginning to appreciate the thicker, softer feel of mistress Deborah’s short, black cotton socks on my lips. I can really feel the lines of the stitching underneath my parched-with-fear lips!

Mistress Deborah next confirms that, in my capacity as her personal footslave, I shall be spending practically all my time - morning, noon and night - either crawling behind, or kneeling at her feet.

She explains, for example, that during the daytime I shall have to kneel under her desk when she is at college, and study her sneakers and socks whilst she listens to her Ancient History lectures; that in the evenings, whilst she is relaxing on the sofa in front of the TV, I shall be obliged to kneel at the end of the sofa where her socked feet are resting and massage her tired and sweaty, socked feet with my hands and face; or, if she is out in the students’ union bar having a drink with her friends, I shall be kneeling at the base of her bar-stool and staring adoringly at her shoes and socks for everyone to see and mock me.

Mistress Deborah also explains that I shall have to sleep on my knees at the foot of her bed, my head underneath her duvet – my face acting as a hot water-bottle for her bare, night-time feet. She also mentions, almost as an aside, that I must wash her dirty socks by allowing them to soak in my slave-mouth overnight. The socks, she informs me, will also help to ensure that I don’t snore!

My previous mistress Olga never permitted me to sleep at the foot of her bed. I had my own boxroom-cell next to her master-bedroom which she shared with her husband, master Daniel. I also never accompanied mistress Olga to her place of work in the ladies’ hair salon, or when she was out on social engagements. I was strictly her ‘house-slave’ – confined to her house – and I rarely got to serve her, or pay my slavish homage to her feet, in front of others, apart, of course, from her husband, my master!

Mistress Deborah explains to me that, unlike my previous mistress, she is not married – and that she has many male lovers, all of whom I must address as ‘sir’, and must respect as my betters, as they, unlike me, are free men. She further explains that I shall not, of course, be permitted to engage in any form of sexual activity myself, but that I may be required to clean up her ‘spendings’ after she has made love with one of her male partners.

I am truly shocked by this! Mistress Deborah is clearly completely uninhibited in discussing intimate details of her sex-life with her celibate footslave!

My previous mistress Olga was much more conservative, and was happily married to master Daniel for many years. Mistress Olga never discussed her sex life with me. In fact I was always required to leave my master and mistress’s bedroom whenever they were making love. Mistress Deborah, it seems, will be having me kneel in the corner of her bedroom ready to wipe away her ‘spendings’ once she has finished making love to her partner – whosoever he happens to be that particular evening!

But it is not for me, a mere down-in-the-dirt personal footslave, to judge the morals of a superior mistress, or to baulk at the idea of mopping up my mistress’s intimate spendings. I am just a slave, and must do whatever my mistress commands with humility and good grace.

Finally, my new mistress Deborah strongly advises me to fear and respect her – for she reminds me that she is my mistress, not my friend. She explains that she is going to enjoy having me in her power, and stresses, once again, that she is not squeamish about using the whip – the whip now coiled up like a sleeping snake on her pretty, feminine lap.

My previous mistress Olga was never, exactly, my ‘friend’ either, but she was always fair to me. She would never whip me purely on a whim, just because she felt like it. Mistress Deborah, I sense, will be employing her whip frequently and with sweet, feminine capriciousness and gusto!

I therefore decide to immediately take my new mistress Deborah up on her sound and helpful advice and - whilst repeatedly kissing the soft, cotton tops of her short, black ankle socks inside her equally soft, and musty-smelling, scuff-marked, black leather ballet flats - I verbally assure her of my genuine fear and respect for my new mistress and her harsh regime, utilising the most sycophantic and humble of slave-speak that I can muster:

‘Oh pray mistress Deborah,’…kiss…kiss… ‘if it pleases you, mistress Deborah,’ …kiss…kiss…'truly this slave fears and respects his new mistress and her most beautiful feet and footwear,’…kiss…kiss…'if you would be so kind, mistress Deborah.’ …kiss…kiss… ‘This slave kneels at the feet of his mistress,’ …kiss…kiss…'with fear and trembling,’…kiss…kiss…'if it is so pleasing to you, mistress Deborah,’ …kiss…kiss…'and cowers wretchedly beneath his mistress’s righteous, feminine whip,’…kiss…kiss…'sweet and kind mistress Deborah.’ …kiss…kiss... ‘Oh pray have mercy on this poor, pathetic slave, mistress,’ …kiss…kiss…'for he is nothing but a weak and feeble manservant, most esteemed mistress Deborah.’…kiss…kiss… ‘Pray guide me, mistress.’ …kiss…kiss…'Whip me; teach me respect and obedience towards your superior feet and footwear, mistress;’…kiss…kiss… ‘Pray rest your tired, socked feet on my face, mistress,’…kiss…kiss…'that I may absorb the sweat from the soles of your socks into the pores on my face, mistress.’…kiss…kiss…'For I am nothing but a humble vessel for the service of your feet, mistress.’…kiss…kiss…'I kiss your feet – therefore I am, mistress.’…kiss…kiss.

I can tell that my new mistress Deborah approves of my grovelling, fearful, foot-kissing display, as she repeatedly changes the positioning of her feet beneath my kneeling face, in order that my slave lips may gain access to the less accessible areas of her shoes and socks.

Suddenly the doorbell rings and my mistress gets up in order to admit two female cangue-fitters who have come to measure my neck for the heavy, wooden cangue.

I stare humbly and contritely at the creases and folds in the black leather of the two, female cangue-fitters’ respective, zip-up, black leather ankle-boots as my mistress Deborah’s freshly-kissed, black leather ballet flats, black socks, and white corduroy jeans stand happily to one side, no doubt relishing the prospect of having my neck in a wooden collar that will force me to keep my head permanently low and bowed in their superior, female presence.

It will be the most obvious manifestation of my new, harsh, slave regime under my demanding, new mistress – mistress Deborah.’





Tale no. 7 – Imprisonment with Humble Labour

‘I am currently serving a sentence of 3 months’ imprisonment in the foothole-dungeons, with humble labour.

My crime was ‘neglect of duty in public office’. More specifically, I disrespected an African mistress and her dirty sneakers whilst performing my duties as a public sneaker-shiner (see Tale no. 6 below, which you may wish to read first if you have not already done so!).

My supervisor, miss Chantelle, who is herself of Afro-Caribbean origins, read my previous tale on this blog, was outraged by my disrespectful and manipulative behaviour towards my female, African customer, reported me to the Female Police, and had me charged with neglect.

In the Female Court the good Lady Judge, Justice-mistress Priscilla, (who is also – you’ve guessed it - a beautiful Afro-Caribbean lady) was equally disgusted at my behaviour and attitude towards a superior, young African woman’s footwear, and she assured me that she would make damn well sure my punishment fitted the crime!

She therefore specifically ordered that the Female Prison-Authorities should locate the African customer-mistress concerned, and politely request her to supply them with the selfsame pair of dirty, pale blue and white, trashed and holey sneakers that I had so publicly ‘dissed’; that they should also politely request her to supply them with her unwashed, pale pink sneaker-socks – the ones I had foolishly attempted to blow-dry from the splashes of muddy rainwater – and all so that I could be made to perform hours of humble and demeaning labour whilst I am confined in my prison cell for the 3 months, kissing, sniffing and licking the very sneakers and socks I had so recklessly failed to serve contritely and appropriately in the town square.

The ever efficient Female Prison-Authorities of the glorious Gynarchy soon located the young African woman in question, whose name they established to be miss Efua. It turned out that I was entirely wrong about her. She was indeed from West Africa, but she was not an impecunious overseas student; rather she was working illegally in the Gynarchy as a cleaner.

The Female Authorities, however, embarrassed by one of their publicly-owned footslaves’ disgraceful and self-centred behaviour towards miss Efua, granted her an immediate amnesty and full Female Citizenship of the Gynarchy, as well as a considerable sum of money by way of compensation for any ‘distress’ I may have caused her.

Given that she now had lots of money, miss Efua was clearly only too happy to donate her trashed and worn-out, pale blue and white sneakers, and her manky, pink sneaker-socks, to the Female Prison-Authorities – for at this very moment I am kneeling over them in my tiny, dank cell and about to start paying my humble and penitent respects to them by kissing them hundreds of times.

Specifically, the ‘humble labour’ element of my judicial punishment involves the following (all stipulated in precise detail during my sentencing by the good lady Judge, Justice-mistress Priscilla):

1. Miss Efua’s dirty, holey, blue and white sneakers and manky, pink sneaker-socks are laid out permanently on the cell floor in front of me.

2. I am secured to the cell floor, by some heavy metal chains, in a contrite and penitent kneeling position. This includes a heavy chain around my neck which compels me to keep my prisoner-head humbly bowed directly above the offended sneakers and socks.

3. Immediately following my one prison meal of the day, consisting of prison slave-gruel, i.e. from 06:00 A.M until 12:00 noon every day, I must begin my worship of miss Efua’s stinky, old sneakers and socks by respectfully kissing them.

4. I must start by kissing the first of the pink socks on the manky, stinky, sweat-encrusted toe-end 20 times. I then have to move my mouth over to respectfully kiss the flaky, rubbery, almost-brown-with-ingrained-dirt, but nonetheless nominally white toe-end of her discarded left sneaker 20 times, before moving on to the stinky toe area of miss Efua’s second pink sock, which, once again, I must respectfully kiss 20 times. I then have to kiss the flaky and dirty toe of her right sneaker 20 times, before repeating the whole process, beginning once again with her first sock – although this time I must kiss it 20 times slightly below the toe area.

5. And so my humiliating labour continues, with me gradually working my way down each item of footwear with my convicted prisoner-slave mouth, by kissing them 20 times each in turn, until I eventually reach the heel areas of each item of the African girl’s discarded footwear. At which point I must start to work my way back up again – always alternating between socks and sneakers as I kiss them 20 times each. And thus my sneaker and sock kissing continues until the bell in my cell rings at 12:00 noon precisely.

6. But it does not signal any rest for me. I am a convicted, male, prisoner-slave who is being punished! No, the dreaded bell merely signals the next part of my day of humble, penitent labour at miss Efua’s African sneakers and socks. For my afternoons must be entirely devoted to sniffing her various items of discarded, manky old footwear – once again following the now familiar pattern of 20 sniffs to each item of footwear, alternating betwixt socks and sneakers, working my way slowly down, and then back up each item of footwear with my slave-nose, repeatedly and for a further 6 hours, until the early evening bell sounds.

7. The 18:00 hrs bell indicates that I am to start licking the former African cleaning-girl’s discarded socks and sneakers. The good lady-Judge Priscilla, in passing down her just sentence upon me, had stressed that it was my refusal to even make a serious attempt at cleaning her fellow black-woman’s dirty, well-worn sneakers with my slave tongue, and my subsequent bragging about my self-perceived inability to do so in my blog article, which she had found so deeply offensive and deplorable in a dirty, male slave such as myself.

8. The good lady-Judge therefore pronounced that she would soon silence my tongue and show me how to put it to slavish and proper use! She announced before the Female Court that, although my sentence of imprisonment was nominally for 3 months, she would nevertheless ensure that my sentence was reviewed at the end of that 3 months by the very same young, African woman whose sneakers I had so arrogantly disrespected, miss Efua. The good lady-Judge decreed that I would not in fact be released until such time as miss Efua herself was satisfied that her sneakers and socks were now properly cleaned by my rebellious slave-tongue, even though miss Efua would patently have no further use for the manky, old sneakers and socks having been able to purchase an entire new wardrobe of clothes with the financial compensation quite rightly awarded to her by the Female Courts.

9. Miss Efua, therefore, is to have the final say on exactly when, or indeed if, I am ever to be released back into my public foot-service in the Female Community, as she will be invited to visit the prison and inspect her former sneakers and socks at the end of my initial 3 month sentence.

10. You will appreciate, therefore, that it is very much in my own best interests to do a good job of licking the sweat-stains out of miss Efua’s dirty, pink, sneaker-socks, and the ingrained street dirt and mud out of her flaky and holey, pale blue and white sneakers, during my period of incarceration in my lonely prison cell.

11. Regrettably, however, I am, as I have explained above, restricted to actually licking clean the sneakers and socks to just 6 hours each day, from 18:00 hrs until midnight! Moreover, I must strictly adhere to the pattern, laid down by the good lady-Judge, of alternating between each smelly item of footwear with just 20 licks at a time, yet again working my way slowly down and then up each of the four items of footwear.
Oh if only I could lick and suck on miss Efua’s dirty socks and sneakers all day long – then I might have a chance of completing my humble chore in the 3 months allocated to me! As things stand, however, I have little chance of satisfying miss Efua that her old footwear is sufficiently clean for me to be released after just 3 months!

It seems that I just can’t shake myself out of my old defeatist attitudes when it comes to sneaker-cleaning with my slave-tongue!

In case you are wondering, by the way, my motivation for not ‘cheating’, and for following the good lady-Judge’s detailed stipulations to the letter, are that my prison cell is continuously monitored by CCTV. Furthermore, the good lady-Judge, Justice-mistress Priscilla, has instructed the female prison-guards that if they catch me deviating from the very specific stipulations of the Female Court - even if I, for example, inadvertently miscount the number of kisses to one of the items of dirty footwear through a genuine error caused by sheer, footslavish fatigue - I am to be denied my prison food for the following day.

It may only be one unappetising meal a day of tasteless prison slave-gruel, but I know that I need to eat it up and keep strong if I am ever to accomplish my humble sneaker and sock cleaning task to mistress Efua’s eventual satisfaction and get out of here!

One of my prison guards, blonde officer-mistress Sandra, has gleefully informed me that whilst I am languishing in my prison cell kissing, sniffing and licking an African girl’s dirty sneakers and socks, the former owner and wearer of those selfsame sneakers and socks has apparently been doing very well for herself.

In fact, all the publicity surrounding my court case and criminal conviction has made miss Efua, the erstwhile illegal entrant, something of a celebrity in the Gynarchy, and she is now, according to officer-mistress Sandra, feted wherever she goes. Officer-mistress Sandra has even taken great pleasure in informing me that, according to the Female Press, miss Efua will be taking part in the popular reality TV show called ‘Big Sister’, and that that this could have serious implications for my parole, since the live show is due to start just 3 days before my scheduled review date.

Officer-mistress Sandra has opined that I need to hope miss Efua is voted off the show by the Female Public after the first week, otherwise I shall just have to remain in prison at least until miss Efua can physically attend the prison and inspect her former footwear, as decreed by the good lady-Judge.

Officer-mistress Sandra reckons, however, that miss Efua is in with a very good chance of winning the show, as she is now, apparently, very popular amongst the young women of the Gynarchy. According to officer-mistress Sandra, miss Efua is now regarded by Female Society, and particularly by young women like officer-mistress Sandra herself, as being a champion of a girl’s right to have her sneakers properly cleaned by a dirty footslave’s tongue – however trashed-up and manky those sneakers may be. Miss Efua is a catalyst for the growing movement to teach dirty, male footslaves how to properly respect young women’s dirty and trashed casual footwear, as opposed to just their smart, stylish, feminine high-heeled boots and shoes!

One thing’s for sure – as I kneel on the bare, cold, stone floor of my dingy prison cell, and begin kissing the crusty toe-end of miss Efua’s pink sock at the start of yet another long day of ‘humble labour’ in the foothole-dungeons, however defeatist my attitude may still be with regard to my ability to clean dirty, female sneakers with my inadequate slave-tongue, I have certainly learnt to hold that tongue, and to respect my female betters!’




Tale no. 6 – The ‘Sneaker-Shiner’

‘Today I am on sneaker-shining duty in the town square.

I’d rather not be, for it’s raining, and as we public footslaves all know only too well:

rain + sneakers = mud.

I would much rather be on normal shoe-shining duty; or even boot-shining duty – attending to the smart, leather footwear of the office girls and business ladies. But we public footslaves have no say in the footwear we are allocated to deal with each day by our capricious, and oftentimes malevolent, female supervisors. And today my supervisor, miss Chantelle, has quite simply decided that I shall be labouring with my tongue on the ‘sneaker-shining’ stand - dealing with the dirty, disgusting sneakers of mainly student-girls on their way to and from their various colleges of higher, female education.

Hence I am secured on my hands and knees on the dirty, wet ground of the rain-soaked, town square in front of the public ‘sneaker-shine’ stand above which is a sign saying:

"Ladies’ Public Sneaker-Shiner

Dirty sneakers licked and shined free of charge!"

'Shined!' Ha! Ha! That’s a laugh! We all know that it is well-nigh impossible to even clean, let alone ‘shine’, a pair of dirty, feminine sneakers using only a slave’s tongue. We footslaves know it; our female supervisors know it; and even the owners and wearers of the dirty sneakers know it.

But still they insist on coming – on sitting down on the raised chairs in front of our kneeling, footslave faces, on resting their sneakered feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of our footslave mouths, and on demanding that we spruce up their filthy, dirty sneakers, with their ingrained street dirt, until they can ‘see their face in them!’

Take my very first customer of the day, for example. An overseas student from Africa, I would guess, judging from her strong and melodious, cute West African accent. She is also dressed in a pale pink, hoodie-style anorak (to protect her from the rain); a cute, pair of pale blue denim jeans; a fetching pair of pale pink sneaker-socks to match her hoodie-jacket; and a pair of white, lace-up sneakers with 3 pale blue stripes down the sides to match her pale blue denim jeans.

She is clearly young woman who likes her cute, feminine pastel shades!

But on closer inspection – and I really have no choice but to closely inspect the West African student-girl’s feet and footwear, given my humiliating and degrading position kneeling on the cold, wet ground with my face humbly bowed and hovering just inches away from her feet which are resting on the two metal footrests in front of me – this girl, and her pastel-coloured footwear, are far from ‘cute’.

For a start, the hems of her pale blue denim jeans are dirty and frayed. They are also soaking wet from the dirty rainwater that is running through the city streets. They are wide, bell-bottom style jeans, and they must cover her sneakers completely, and drag through the city mud and dirt, whenever she is walking along the pavements.

Moreover, her pale-blue and white sneakers have clearly seen better days, and cannot be affording her precious, West African feet much protection from the elements, as they are full of holes. I know the sneakers are full of holes because I can clearly see little flashes of pale, pink sock peeping out from beneath the holes in her sneakers. Her right sneaker, in particular, appears to have a large hole along the lower instep, where an inch or so of pale, pink cotton sock material is clearly visible.

At least her sock looks nice and clean inside the sneaker. She is clearly just poor – not dirty. She is, in actual fact, a fairly typical customer at the public ‘sneaker-shine’ stand - an impecunious overseas student who cannot afford to buy herself a new pair of sneakers.

But that is precisely why I am in danger. I am in danger because this young African woman, who is now seated imperiously above me on the ‘sneaker-shine’ stand, will be expecting me to work miracles with my footslave-tongue. She will be expecting me to spruce up her dirty, trashed sneakers and make them look as good as new. And if I don’t succeed, which I won’t, she will in all probability complain to my female supervisor, miss Chantelle - her fellow Afro-Caribbean ‘sister’ - who will then gleefully proceed to punish me with up to 20 stinging blows of her brown, leather, punishment strap across my bare, kneeling back.

And all in public – in the town square – for everyone to see my failure and shame!

My African student-customer barks down her orders at me:

‘Slave, clean off all the filth!’

That’s it! Just clean off all the filth! Simple! Are you sure that’s all, African mistress? No problem!

Ha! Ha! That’s what I would like to say – sarcastically of course.

What I am actually obliged to say, however, is:

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. God bless you mistress.’

And I must then obey the superior customer-mistress, and begin licking the filthy blue and white sneakers – and try my best to remove whatever traces of street muck and dirt that I can. I must try to think positively, for a defeatist attitude invariably leads to the punishment strap!

Besides, who knows, maybe I have misjudged this young African woman? Maybe her definition of ‘clean off all the filth’ will not be as rigorous and exacting as mine?

Any illusions I may have on that score are soon dispelled as the young, casually and scruffily dressed, hoodied, female African student suddenly twists her right foot, which is resting on the metal footrest, to one side and languorously bends down to point at the lower rim of the instep on her right sneaker:

‘Clean here, slave! Remove all the dirt wit your tongue or I will have you whipped!’

She means it! I can just tell from the tone of her voice.

And yet what hope have I got realistically, of fulfilling her wishes? I know I described her sneakers earlier as predominantly white with 3 pale blue stripes running down the sides. What I neglected to mention was that the lower rim along the lower instep of her right sneaker – the area to which she is now pointing with her slender, West African finger – is more brown than white; brown from months, if not years, of constant wear out on the filthy streets; brown with deeply ingrained dirt and mud.

It is a hopeless task, but still I must try! I brace myself and go in licking hard.

Suddenly I can see a possible road to salvation! The area of pink sneaker-sock which I mentioned before - and which is visible only thanks to a large hole, an inch or so in size, on the side of her right sneaker - is just above that very part of the sneaker which is now twisted round directly in front of my licking face, and as a result I can see that her exposed, pale pink sock is slightly darkened and dampened by splashes of dirty rainwater. It can’t be a pleasant feeling for the young African mistress to have the feeling of damp sock on the side of her pretty foot.

I therefore make so bold as to offer up a humble slave-inspired suggestion to her:

‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you sweet and kind mistress, would the mistress like the slave to dry the rain from the side of the mistress’s sock by blowing on it? This slave would truly be honoured to please the mistress by drying her sock out with his humble slave breath, if it would be so pleasing to you sweet and kind, African student-mistress?’

It’s a huge gamble I am taking – but it’s a calculated risk. I have been a public footslave for nigh on 17 years now, and I have never once known a young woman to turn down the offer of having her socks dried with a slave’s breath. It makes them feel strong and superior, and flatters their fragile, feminine egos even further to know that the humble footslave regards his breath as being fit only to dry her humble sock! It’s as if the footslave only wishes to breathe in order to serve her sock!

You can see why most women would like that sentiment in a male slave!

And what’s in it for me? Well – distraction! I can distract the superior, young woman from my failure to clean the dirt off her trashy, ripped-up sneakers, and leave her feeling good about the fact that her sock is no longer uncomfortably wet on the side of her pretty instep.

Manipulative? Yes! But I have learnt by bitter footslave-experience that these are the sorts of things a down-in-the-dirt, prone and vulnerable public footslave has to do in order to survive!

The African mistress takes the bait:

‘Very well, slave. You may dry my wet sock wit your breath!’

And so I blow and breathe, and breathe and blow onto the wet area of pink sock through the inch-wide hole on the side of her still dirty, right sneaker. I am blow-drying her pink sock in order to try and spare my slave-back from the pink blushes of the leather punishment strap!

The African mistress lightens up and giggles as she feels the pleasant sensation of my warm, slave breath on her previously cold and damp sock.

She has already forgotten that she actually came to me for a ‘sneaker-shine!’




Tale no. 5 – The Professional Sock-sniffer: FAQs

‘I am a professional ladies’ sock-sniffer. I sniff their dirty socks in the publicly owned ‘Sock-Sniffing Emporium’ in the centre of town.

And that is virtually all that I do, from 7 o’clock in the morning until 10 o’clock at night; all day and every day; 365 days a year.

I don’t really know why the Emporium is so popular with the ladies of the Gynarchy; perhaps they enjoy the sensuous feel of a male slave’s nose on their socked feet; perhaps it gives them a sense of overwhelming female power over another, lesser human being; perhaps they get a buzz out of humiliating a chained up and helpless male footslave beneath their stinky, well-worn socks; or perhaps they visit the Sock-sniffing Emporium just because it is a free service provided for them at no charge by the Female State.

Whatever their motivation, I must sniff the delicate, feminine aroma of their warm socks with humility, respect and adoration – for they are the humble foot-garments of my superior mistresses, beautifying and protecting that most precious part of their female anatomy: their feet.

Here are some answers to the frequently asked questions that are posed to me by my curious, if mocking, female customers and/or their non-slave, male companions, as I am attending to the ladies’ socked feet. You will have to imagine that my responses to my betters would normally, of course, be permeated with humble and long-winded slave-speak, which I will spare you on this occasion:


Q. What training did you need to have to become a full-time sock-sniffer?

I spent 3 years in the ‘Central Footslave Training Academy of the Gynarchy of Barbaria’, where I was taught under the whip how to fully appreciate all the various fabrics, textures and patterned stitchings found in sweet, feminine socks, as well as being trained in all the various sock-sniffing techniques.

Q. And what differing techniques are there?

It all depends on the lady-customer’s preferences. Some ladies like the slave to start at the smelliest, most pungent, area of the sock – usually the area directly beneath the toes - slowly progressing along the instep of the sock, to the back of the heel, and then up either the back or the side of the sock as far as the elasticated top; others prefer the slave to start at the top of the sock and work his way down – thereby leaving the smelliest parts until last. Still others expect the slave to trace his nose along the zigzagged pattern of the stitching in the sock, and to repeat such a humiliating action until each and every line in the stitching of the feminine sock has been dutifully sniffed.

The one thing nearly all my female customer’s like is to hear me sniffing their socks, as well as seeing and feeling me sniff them. And they also invariably like to see the humility and distress on my face as I am forced to breathe in the aroma of their footsweat through their sweet, feminine socks.

The most important thing is that the mistress’s will is always paramount, and therefore the professional sock-sniffing slave must always establish from his female customer at the outset the exact method of sock sniffing that she requires. If he gets it wrong, he is punished, and justly so.

Q. How will the slave be punished?

If the mistress reports him to one of the female supervisors, as she is encouraged to do, he will immediately be whipped at the female customer’s socked feet.

Q. And do you always sniff socks whilst confined on your hands and knees with the mistress seated above you, or do you ever lie on your back with her socked feet resting on your upturned face?

There are human footrests designed for ladies’ socked-feet in the Emporium, but I myself am permanently secured on my hands and knees on the floor, so that the mistress who is comfortably seated above and in front of me on the raised chair simply has to present her socked foot under my nose for sniffing.

Q. And do you always have to first remove the lady’s shoe or boot before you start sniffing her socks, or are you sometimes required to sniff her socks whilst she is still wearing her shoes or boots?

Again, it is entirely up to the mistress. Some young women just like to feel my nose running along the top of their sock above their shoe or bootline; others may instruct me to partially unzip the side of their boot, and then run my nose down the side of their sock.

Or, there are many young women who may wear their socks with sandals - especially during the summer months. In such circumstances it is not unusual for the female customer to keep her sandals on whilst I am humbly sniffing her socks – especially if they are peep-toe sandals. I quite like sniffing a lady’s socks whilst she is wearing a pair of strappy, leather sandals as I admire the aroma of sweaty, feminine sock mixed in with the strong, musty smell of hot sandal-leather.

Other female customers, however, will always insist on the immediate removal of their outer footwear, whatever they are wearing, before I commence sniffing their socks.

Q. And is it always down to you, the slave, to remove their outer footwear, and to put it back on the lady’s feet again when you have finished your humble sock-sniffing services?

Oh yes! A lady can never be expected to remove or to don her own footwear – not when there are professional footslaves present!

Q. How do you feel as your customer-mistress towers above you on her chair, and you are obliged to kneel humbly at her feet and sniff her dirty, sweaty socks in public?

I feel humiliated and degraded, as befits a slave. I am also ashamed and honoured.

Q. What type of female sock do you respect the most: ankle length; calf length; or knee length?

I respect all my mistresses’ socks, however long or short they may be, for whatever the length and style of the sock it is the chosen footwear of my superior mistress – and therefore totally deserving of my respect.

Having said that, if you were to push me for an answer, I would have to say that I respect a lady’s knee-socks the most, as they always seem to tower imperiously above me as I kneel with my head humbly bowed in front of them. I am acutely aware that all my mistresses’ socks are my betters, but knee-socks always seem to be particularly proud and haughty on a superior mistress’s legs, perhaps because they are invariably worn with a pair of dominant, knee-length boots!

Q. What do you think, in that case, of the modern, low-cut, so called ‘secret-socks’ that are currently all the rage amongst young women? Does that mean you respect and admire such short socks any the less just because they contain much less sock-material for you to sniff and worship?

On the contrary, I respect and worship such ‘secret socks’ very much, for they are very feminine, and accentuate admirably the shapeliness of a well-turned, feminine ankle-bone.

Q. And what type of sock-material do you respect the most? Cotton or wool?

Again, if pressed, I would have to say cotton, as it is often smellier than wool. The larger-sized stitching in a lady’s woollen socks allows the stink to escape more than the fine, delicate stitching in a pair of soft, cotton socks. And besides, ladies tend to wear woollen socks during cold and frosty days in the height of winter, when their feet are, naturally, much less likely to get all hot and sweaty inside their pretty, feminine shoes or boots.

Q. What colours of female socks do you respect the most?

I respect all colours of female socks – from plain-coloured socks through to multicoloured, patterned or striped socks.

I suppose that light-coloured socks, such as predominantly white socks, are easier to sniff, as one can see where the dirt and sweat is more easily than on dark-coloured socks. But even dark-coloured socks can have an enormous appeal for a humble footslave, as any thinning and worn patches in the sock material will be easier to identify, and the little balls of sock lint often also seem to stand out more prominently on dark-coloured socks.

Stripy and multicoloured socks give the mistress the opportunity to ‘play’ more with her footslave, ordering him to sniff a particular stripe or colour, or perhaps to sniff a particular part of a logo or a cartoon on the side of the sock.

The only types of socks I don’t really like, if I’m totally honest, are so called ‘toe-socks’, as they obviously are less creased around the toe area of the mistress’s foot whenever she wiggles her toes inside the sock, since there is no sock material covering the space in between her toes.

Q. So you prefer creased socks to fully straightened socks on a lady’s shapely foot and ankle?

Yes ma'am. Sniffing creased socks is somehow more degrading and humiliating than sniffing fully straightened and smooth socks. I think it’s because creases in a lady’s sock remind me that the sock is being worn at that very moment by a living, breathing female human-being who doesn’t much care about the state of the socks on her feet – and by extension who doesn’t, therefore, much care about me, her sock-sniffing slave.

Q. So by the same logic, therefore, the smellier and dirtier, and more unkempt the female customer’s socks - the better, as far as you are concerned?

That’s correct, sir, up to a point.

Nice new socks may look good on a superior woman’s feet, but it is much more degrading and humiliating for a slave to have to attend to a pair of socks that are not only well-worn, but are also somewhat unkempt and unwashed. After a while, a professional sock-sniffer’s nose gets to appreciate the aroma of sweaty, stinky socks, and regards clean socks as rather bland by comparison.

On the other hand, socks that have not been washed for several days can be just too overpowering – even for the experienced nose of a professional, female-sock sniffer.

I think I would answer your question by saying that for me, the perfect pair of socks, are dirty, creased, and have obviously been thrown on by the mistress without much thought; they may even have been put on the mistress’s precious feet inside out, for example. Such a pair of hastily-socked feet demonstrate the mistress’s complete disregard and disrespect for her public sockslave, which is how it should be.

Q. Do you also sniff nylon stockings and tights, or just socks?

I sniff all kinds of hosiery, and even bare feet too. The term ‘sock-sniffer’ applies purely because most young women tend to wear socks most of the time these days. Socks are very much in fashion, be they inside boots, sneakers or ballet flats. They are even considered fashionable nowadays with office-shoes such as low-heeled pumps or courts, and even with smart and elegant designer high-heels. Therefore the authorities have designated me as a public ‘sock-sniffer’ – but I have to sniff whatever footwear the lady happens to be wearing – even legwarmers if applicable.

Q. What is the difference between ‘nosing’ a sock and ‘nuzzling’ a sock?

‘Nosing’ means simply running your slave nose along the stitching in a lady’s sock, whilst breathing in the aroma of her sock through your nostrils. It is a purely pleasurable sensation for the mistress.

‘Nuzzling’ means burying your slave nose in the creases and folds in a lady’s sock, often whining pathetically like a dog as you do so, in order to enhance the mistress’s sense of power and superiority over you.

Q. Are you required to wash and clean ladies’ dirty socks, as well as sniffing them?

Yes. Some ladies do require me to lick their dirty socks with my tongue whilst they are still wearing them – in order to remove any sweat or dirt stains. Others, however, will have me peel off their socks, and will then leave them with me for more thorough cleaning. At the end of each day, once the Emporium closes, I must then mouth-wash all the dirty, female socks that have been deposited with me - soaking them, if necessary, in my slave mouth overnight.

The female supervisors then inspect and sort the socks the following morning, drying them on my slave face if required, before informing the female owners of the socks just as soon as they are ready for collection.

Q. Do you have to iron the mouth-laundered and face-dried socks?

No. That is considered much too skilled a job for a mere sock-sniffing slave such as myself. Other, more qualified slaves, are entrusted with the ironing.

Q. Do you have any aspirations to be a skilled, sock-ironing slave, or do you see yourself remaining on your hands and knees as a mere sock-sniffing slave for the rest of your natural life?

It is not for a humble sockslave, such as myself, to have any aspirations. I must do whatsoever my female masters and betters require of me. If that means sniffing socks for the rest of my miserable existence, then so be it.

Q. Are you fitted with a ‘concentrator’ device?

No, but I would like to be. Anything that would enhance my physical senses and mental powers of concentration as I attend to a superior lady’s socks would be most welcome. But I think they are too expensive for my owners to contemplate fitting me with one. It tends to be private mistresses who fit their personal footslaves with such ingenious devices. They are not really for the likes of public footslaves such as myself. I just have to train my natural slave-senses to focus in on my superior female customers’ socks.

Q. You sound as though you almost enjoy your humble work. You’re pathetic, aren’t you?

Yes master and mistress, I am indeed pathetic – I’m nothing but a pathetic, sock-sniffing queer, if it so pleases you master and mistress.

Q. And does your pathetic, gormless face smell and stink of ladies’ dirty socks at the end of the day?

Yes it does. Many of the ladies specifically like to rub the sweat off their socks and onto my face – so that my face becomes a humble receptacle for their sock sweat, sock lint, and sock dirt.

Now be quiet. Keep your head bowed and low, and concentrate on sniffing your superior mistresses’ socks, dirty slave!

Yes master and mistress. As you wish, master and mistress.


And so there you have it – my humble Q & A on humble sock-sniffing.

Now I really must get back to my job, as a casually dressed, attractive, young, Japanese tourist, with dirty, white, lace-up sneakers and some fetching, bright yellow sneaker socks, is about to take up her seat in front of me, and she will no doubt be wishing to have the elasticated tops of her short, yellow socks humbly and expertly sniffed by the professional sock-sniffer!’






Tale no. 4 – Besotted

‘I have been with my 30 year old mistress, mistress Clare, for over 7 years now, and she is quite besotted.

Not with me – of course! Ha! Ha! I am just her dirty slave!

No, she is besotted with her new boyfriend and fiancé, master Callum – an ignorant, ugly, fat brute of a man who, at 53, is much too old for her, in my humble opinion.

Nevertheless he is, unlike me, a real man; a free man, who is clearly attractive to younger women and whom I, therefore, as a mere ‘unattractive’ bondsman, have to respect and look up to.

He is my mistress’s beloved, and she has made it obvious that she fancies him and wants to be with him. In spite of the fact that she has only known him for some two weeks, he has clearly swept her off her feet, whilst I am only fit to sweep the dirt off her feet.

Master Callum is, therefore, my male superior and better. He is a winner and I am a loser, for my mistress Clare loves and admires him, her handsome knight in shining armour, every bit as much as she, quite rightly, detests and despises me, her ugly manservant in a dirty, ragged loincloth.

My mistress Clare has made it perfectly clear what she expects of me from now on whenever I am in master Callum’s presence. She spelled out the ground rules for me just yesterday evening when she first shocked me with the surprise announcement of her very sudden and unexpected engagement to master Callum.

Almost breathless with excitement she informed me that from now on:

• I must address him as master, and only speak to him when I am spoken to. I am, effectively, to be seen and not heard;
• That I am forbidden to look him in the eye, and my countenance must always be contrite and humble in his superior and manly presence;
• That I must remain on my hands and knees at all times, on all fours like a dog, with my head humbly and respectfully bowed whenever I am in my master and mistress’s presence, and that I must only look at my mistress’s feet. I may not look at any other part of her beautiful body, including her pretty face, or even raise my gaze above her shapely ankle bones, lest master Callum become jealous;
• That master Callum has delegated authority to whip me on behalf of my mistress, and that I must submit to such painful whippings at his manly hands with humility and resignation as befits a weak slave. Moreover, I must always verbally praise and bless the master whenever he takes the time to correct me with the whip;
• That whensoever I am ordered to tongue-shine my mistress’s dirty shoes or boots, I must present them to master Callum for his inspection and approval after I have finished licking them clean. If master Callum decrees that I have not cleaned mistress Clare’s shoes or boots adequately with my slave tongue, I must apologise to mistress Clare, in the master’s presence, by kissing her feet 1000 times, and must then tongue-clean the offending pair of feminine shoes or boots all over again, this time under master Callum’s direct instruction and supervision. If I fail to satisfy master Calum with my humble and degrading work in cleaning his beloved fiancee’s boots or shoes for the second time, I shall have to submit to being sorely whipped by him in my superior mistress Clare’s presence;
• Master Callum is considerably taller than my mistress, and so whenever she wishes to kiss him on the lips I must lie on my stomach at my mistress’s feet with my left cheek turned upwards so that she may use the side of my gormless, slave face as a stepping block;
• Whenever my master and mistress are making love in their luxurious bed, I must respectfully kneel with my back to them in the corner of the master bedroom - my nose buried inside my mistress’s freshly discarded, still warm and moist shoes or boots, and my mouth gagged with my mistress’s dirty, warm and odorous stockings or socks - whilst I listen to the sounds of their passionate love making;
• Finally, mistress Clare informed me that if master Callum did not approve of me, or did not want me around any more, she would not hesitate to get rid of me by selling me to the slave traders in the centre of town. She explained that they, for their part, would like as not sell me on to the owners of the slave mines, as I am, in all honesty, too old and ugly to be a superior young woman’s personal footslave any more. Mistress Clare further explained to me that she was only keeping me on because she needed some ugly wretch to pedicure her feet, to wash her dirty socks, and to clean her dirty boots and shoes, so that her feet and footwear were always nice and clean for master Callum. She warned me in no uncertain terms, however, that there were plenty more footslaves in the dirt, where I came from, and that I should not, therefore, assume that my future was secure with her.

On hearing all of the above I threw myself on my mistress Clare’s tender, feminine mercy and feverishly kissed her feet, as I am very content being her personal footslave and do not wish to lose my humble position in her household. She was wearing blue denim jeans along with her favourite, well-worn pair of flat, black, slip-on shoes and short, black ankle socks with a pink, frilly trim, and so I made a special point of kissing her socks repeatedly, just below the pink trim, as I know my mistress Clare likes the feel of her footslave’s lips on her socks.

As I did so, I verbally assured the mistress of my undying devotion to her, and to her precious feet and footwear, and stressed that I would admire and respect master Callum as he was my better and her betrothed. I slavishly congratulated my mistress on finding happiness with master Callum, and wished her all God’s blessing for the future.

My mistress Clare just dismissed me with a peremptory kick of her pretty, right foot, as she explained that she wished to speak to her beloved fiancé privately on the phone. She ordered me to crawl away to the kitchen and to mouth-wash her dirty nylons that she had worn to work the previous day.

As I sucked on the sweaty, crusty, reinforced toes of her flesh-coloured, office nylons I could hear my mistress laughing and giggling coquettishly on the phone as she indulged in some lovey-dovey talk with master Callum.

I was jealous, of course – even though it is completely pathetic of a mere male footslave to be jealous of a real man! I could never be mistress Clare’s sexual partner or ever hope to give her sexual satisfaction. Ha! Ha! The very thought of it! I am nothing but a raggedy-assed, down in the dirt, nylon-stocking sucking footslave, and I know my place.

Everybody knows my place.

Nevertheless I can’t help being completely enthralled by my beautiful mistress Clare and, whatever she may have said, I shall continue to look at her shapely calf-muscles as I am serving her by pulling on, or peeling off, her short, cotton, ankle socks or her finest denier, nylon stockings.

I will just have to hope that my superior master and mistress don’t notice my furtive glances up towards her shapely, soft, feminine calf and leg muscles!

But even if I am spotted, it will be worth the whipping. For I am truly the one who is besotted!’




Tale no. 3 – The Birth of The Gynarchy

'In the beginning there was dirt,
and the dirt was male.

And the goddess looked down upon the male dirt,
and she saw that it was bad.

And the goddess said:

‘Let there be good. Let there be female,
that the male dirt may be crushed underfoot!’

And thus the goddess created woman,
and she saw that it was good.

And the goddess said:

‘Let woman have dominion over the dirt. Let the male crawl and slither on its belly beneath the feet of womankind!’

And so it was.

And woman rested her feet on the male dirt,
and she saw that it was good.

And the male dirt saw that it was good,
and worshipped the female foot.

And thus was born the Gynarchy.’




Tale no. 2 – Try before you buy

‘It is with an enormous sense of footslavish pride that I am lying face down in the dirty boot of my potential new owners’ car as they drive me to their home.

For they have chosen me at the slave-store on a ‘try before you buy’ basis. My fate is therefore very much in my own footslave lips, as I must demonstrate to them by my footslavish words and deeds over the next few days that I am indeed worthy to be the young woman’s personal footslave, and that they would do well to purchase me in that capacity.

I am confident that I shall be able to satisfy both the mistress, and her male partner, on this score, as I truly fell in love with the mistress’s feet and boots the very moment I first set eyes on them back in the slave-store – just one hour or so ago.

It is the mistress’s sexual partner, my potential new master, who literally takes the lead when the vehicle eventually stops, and drags me out of the boot of their car on my hands and knees into their living room just as soon as we reach my potential new home. He orders me to kneel in front of a comfortable armchair in which he then politely desires his slightly overweight, but pretty, bleached-blonde girlfriend to sit down, so that her most beautiful and desirable booted feet are resting on the cream-coloured, living room carpet directly beneath my kneeling and nervous footslave face.

Once again my field of vision is filled with the loveliness of the scuff-marked, rounded toes of the heavy, bleached-blonde mistress’s heavy-looking, black leather, biker-style boots beneath the hems of her dark blue, boot-cut slacks. Once again the slightly rusted silvery buckles on the sides of her black boots are clearly visible to me – two metal buckles desperately in need, it has to be said, of a good tongue-polishing, even if they are merely decorative buckles, there purely to beautify further the mistress’s leather footwear as both the boots also have zippers running up the sides, and beneath the hems of the mistress’s stylish, boot-cut, navy-blue trouser legs.

I truly yearn to run my footslave tongue up those zipper tracks to the very tops of my new mistress’s boots, and what a voyage of discovery that would be for my footslave tongue! For I still do not know how tall my mistress’s boots are beneath her trouser-legs. Are they ankle, calf or knee-length boots? It is difficult for me to tell at the moment, for I must keep my eyes humbly focussed on the scuff-marked, rounded leather toes of my mistress’s boots – the lowest and humblest parts of her chunky-heeled, biker style boots. I have not yet earned the right to look at the loftier parts of her superior boots – such as the uppers and the tops!

No, first I must pay my respects to the toes of her boots, and the master, quite rightly, orders me to kiss the scuff-marked toes of his beloved girlfriend’s boots 800 times each, alternately, before he politely enquires of her as to whether or not she is satisfied with the feel of my footslave-lips on the toes of her scuffed and dirty boot-leather.

I have been trained well by my would-be vendors back in the slave-store, and to my delight and slavish satisfaction the mistress confirms to her dominant boyfriend that she is generally satisfied with my slavish kisses to the toes of her boots, although she does express some dissatisfaction with one or two of my final kisses to the toe of her left boot as she opines that my lips were perhaps beginning to tire towards the end of my 1600 respectful kisses.

The master, who is standing behind and over me as he watches my slavish homage to his girlfriend’s boots with an equally critical eye, concurs with his girlfriend’s observations, and expresses his own anger at my perceived lack of attention and fortitude in carrying out my humble task.

The master articulates that anger both verbally and by means of a brown, leather strap which whistles through the air as he brings it down, several times, across my bare, kneeling, footslave back and shoulders. Whilst he is judiciously and righteously applying the strap to my bare back, he asks me if I am already tiring of his girlfriend’s boots, and suggests to me that perhaps I am too arrogant to be his beloved girlfriend’s personal foot and boot slave, as I clearly regard myself as being too ‘high and mighty’ to concentrate fully on the simple task of humbly and respectfully kissing the scuffed toes of his girlfriend’s black leather boots a mere 1600 times.

The master’s harsh words of criticism sting me every bit as much as the blows from the leather strap, and I seek to reassure the master, and indeed the female wearer of the boots, that I shall try harder in future. I then apologise directly to the mistress’s boots, imploring them for the honour of kissing them a further 1600 times, and assuring them of my undying respect and admiration for them.

I even make so bold as to suggest that I should be ordered to kiss each of the two metal buckles on the side of the mistress’s boots a further 800 times as, I venture to suggest, it will be all the more humiliating and degrading for me to have to feel the cold metal of the mistress’s boot-buckles on my inadequate slave lips rather than the relative warmth of the mistress’s black, boot leather.

My humble proposal appears to placate both the master and the mistress, as they laugh out loud at me and the master stops beating me with the brown, leather strap.

The mistress herself then explicitly consents to my humble request to kiss her cold boot-buckles, and kindly positions her booted feet so that they are pointing coquettishly inwards towards each other as they rest side by side on the living room floor, thereby simultaneously affording my eager mouth easier access to the buckles on the outer sides of her two boots as I begin to alternately kiss them, this time making sure my attention does mot wander from the task in mouth as I near the end of my boot-kissing marathon.

After my second session kissing my potential new mistress’s boots, which this time I conduct in a wholly satisfactory manner, the master and mistress reward me by showing me the full length of the mistress’s boots. The master desires her to hitch up further the hems of her navy-blue, boot-cut trouser legs, thereby revealing to me that they are, in fact, a pair of calf-length boots, with further decorative buckles running up the sides in line with the two zippers.

However the real prize is the exotic sight of the scrunched up, elasticated tops of the mistress’s dark-grey bootsocks atop her pretty, black, biker boots. My heart truly races at the sight of such sweet, dark-coloured, feminine socks! They contrast so sweetly with the pale white of her smooth, fair skin, and must be very sweaty and moist deep down inside the young woman’s heavy, zipped-up boots.

How I yearn to unzip the fat, blonde mistress’s black leather boots and respectfully sniff her dark grey socks!

I humbly inform the master and mistress of my pathetic, footslavish yearning to sniff the mistress’s calf-length, cotton bootsocks, but they both just laugh at me. The master then, quite rightly, tells me I must first earn the privilege of sniffing his girlfriend’s soft, warm bootsocks.

I must earn that which I yearn for.

He therefore informs me that I am next going to kiss the tops of his beautiful girlfriend’s boots 1600 times, my upper lip touching the elasticated and creased tops of her grey socks whilst my lower lip simultaneously touches the top of her black boot leather. He further explains to me that if my upper lip strays inadvertently onto his beloved girlfriend’s bare skin he will whip me soundly and return me, unpurchased and unwanted, to the slave-store. He informs me of what I already know – that I am not worthy to kiss his attractive girlfriend’s bare foot or leg flesh; only her socks and boots.

And so I get down to it – I carefully and diligently pay my respects simultaneously to the tops of the mistress’s black leather boots and the tops of her grey, cotton bootsocks, and I’m pleased to say that not once does my upper lip stray onto the mistress’s soft, bare, white, feminine calf-muscle.

My potential new master and mistress are nothing if not fair, and once I have finished my boot and sock kissing task I am duly rewarded by being permitted to pull down the zips on the sides of the mistress’s boots with my slave teeth, and then running my nose down the thick grooves in the stitching on the sides of her grey, calf-length bootsocks in order to inhale their sweaty aroma.

It is truly an aroma fit for a would-be footslave, and I praise and bless the mistress and her socks for the great honour that has been bestowed upon me.

The couple appear satisfied that I will indeed fit in with the mistress’s footwear, and just two days later the master rings the store to confirm that they are keeping me. They have tried me and not found me wanting, and so they have now purchased me.

I am owned at last – the personal slave of a young, beautiful, overweight, bleached-blonde woman’s socks and boots, and I embark on a whole new world of footslavish delight and discovery as I get to know the sight, taste and smell of her extensive wardrobe of boots, shoes, tights and socks over the coming weeks and months.

Truly I am blessed to be her personal footslave – the humble servant of her superior feet and footwear!’



Tale no. 1 – Moving On

‘Mistress Josephine (‘Jo’ to her friends) waits patiently for the kettle to boil before pouring the hot water onto the decaffeinated coffee granules resting at the bottom of her coffee mug.

She then turns around and walks up towards me – the office shoe-kisser. I am confined in a hole in the wall at the opposite end of the office kitchen near the door. My job is to respectfully kiss the office ladies’ feet as they leave the kitchen premises - should they so wish me to.

Most of them do.

Some of them always stop on the way out in order to have their feet kissed. One such lady is mistress Josephine – one of the office juniors. At just 23 years old, she is one of my favourite ‘customers’, as she never fails to delight me with her highly individualistic choice of colourful footwear. Mistress Josephine truly does brighten up my day by always wearing brightly-coloured, feminine socks inside her plain black office shoes.

Her shoes themselves never seem to vary – whatever the season outside: she always wears the same pair of black, low-heeled, closed-in shoes that reach up as far as her shapely, feminine, socked ankle bones.

Indeed, when her feet are level on the ground, and her black trouser hems are covering the tops of her shoes (mistress Josephine always wears trousers to work), the shoes almost look like a pair of ankle boots. It is only when she stretches forward her right foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face, and simultaneously hitches up the hem of her right trouser leg, that I can clearly see the shoes are not, in fact, a pair of boots (according to the dictionary definition of the term) as they do not cover the whole of her well-turned ankle – only the lower half.

They are therefore, technically, office shoes – and I must now kiss the black leather, rounded toe of blonde mistress Josephine’s proffered right shoe whilst she is still wearing it on her imperiously outstretched right foot. I must kiss it respectfully and repeatedly, thereby conveying my slavish submission to her. For that is what it means to kiss another human being’s shoes or feet – it is a very visible demonstration of one’s sense of inferiority before them; of one’s acknowledgement that that they are your superior and better; of one’s readiness to serve them in abject humility; of one’s total admiration for them.

What I really admire about mistress Josephine, however, as I intimated before, is her choice of brightly coloured socks – always contrasting so vividly with the plain black of her office shoes and her black, boot-cut trouser hems, and the pale white of her beautiful, bare leg-skin immediately above the sock.

Today, for example, I am delighted to observe that she is wearing her bright orange ankle socks with the white trim. She wears them often, and they are one of my favourite pairs of her socks, for absolutely no-one else in this office wears bright orange socks to work. They are, therefore, completely deserving of my slavish admiration and respect, as, indeed is mistress Josephine herself – the owner and wearer of the bright orange socks.

Sadly, however, I am never permitted to touch the socks – or, indeed, any of the office ladies’ socks or stockings. I can look – but not touch or kiss. For I am not employed as an office sock-kisser. I am merely an office shoe-kisser. I may only kiss shoes or boots, and I am not even permitted to lick clean said shoes or boots. My role is purely to kiss the ladies’ outer footwear in order to make them feel good as they exit the kitchen with their warming and refreshing cups of tea or coffee in their pretty, feminine hands.

That is why none of them ever bother to speak to me – not even to bark down their orders to me. My orders are clear and need not be verbally articulated – I am to repeatedly kiss the toe of their shoe or boot until it is withdrawn from the wooden footblock beneath my face. That’s all I do – all day long. And in the evening when the office closes I kiss the proffered sneakers of the uniformed cleaning ladies as they mop clean the kitchen floor.

I only get to know the names of my superior, female customers from overhearing their conversations with one another in the kitchen. That’s also how I know that mistress Josephine is just 23 years old. I also know how long she has worked in this particular office, of course (three years in her case), because I myself have been imprisoned in this office-kitchen wall for over 20 years. I have seen many mistresses come and go in that time, whilst I am going nowhere.

I also observe the various changes in my superior female customers’ lives. As I kiss the rounded toe of blonde mistress Josephine’s arrogantly outstretched shoe I know, for example, that she has gradually put on weight over the three years or so that she has been working here. She was once quite slim but is now quite podgy.

Although I have also overhead that she has recently got engaged (to a master ‘Sean’), I am sure that she has not put on weight because she is pregnant. Rather it is because mistress Josephine is, in my humble opinion, quite lethargic and lazy. I know that because she never seems to be in a hurry to get back to her desk. Mistress Josephine, to my pride and delight, unlike some of the other more diligent office workers, will often linger for several minutes in the kitchen, coffee cup in hand, having her shoes kissed and her socks admired.

And she must know that I truly do admire her socks, for as she looks down on me as I kiss the leather toe of her black shoe - with a smug and supercilious grin on her pretty, if now somewhat podgy, face - she must also be able to observe how my eyes are totally transfixed by the creases and folds in the tops of her bright orange, cotton ankle socks. She must know that I yearn to raise my slavish gaze above the thin, white stripe near the top of her bright orange ankle-sock, and to look more closely at the increasingly prominent blue vein that disappears down her outer ankle bone and into the top of the sock on her right foot.

For she knows, as she sips on her decaffeinated coffee, that her precious socks, shoes and ankle veins are all better than me – and worthy of my respect and adoration. They are, after all, the very individual foot-features of a superior, if indolent, young woman, who is undeniably my female master and better. She knows it and I know it.

The whole world knows it, for she is not the one stuck on her hands and knees with her face protruding at foot-level from the office-kitchen wall!

Her somewhat chubby right foot is suddenly, if lazily, withdrawn from my wooden footblock only to be replaced equally indolently by her left. Again my eyes are regaled by the sight of bright orange ankle sock, contrasting with black leather shoe and pale, white, smooth, hairless, feminine skin. And the tiny creases in those socks! Oh if only I were permitted to pay oral homage to them!

I sometimes fantasise about being mistress Josephine’s personal sockslave – about following her home every evening on my hands and knees; respectfully crawling after her shoes and socks as she walks along the pavements, catching the occasional, exciting glimpse of bright orange sock on the backs of her heels, the side of my face then serving as her footrest on the floor of her bus home; then I would have to remove her shoes from her socked feet as soon as we enter her living room, in preparation for massaging her hot and tired socked feet at the end of her long, hard day lazing around the office.

Each day of my life as her personal sockslave would be quite different as I have observed over the years that mistress Josephine has an extensive collection of different coloured ankle socks – everything from bright red, to rich blue, to bright pink, to multicoloured stripy socks. The only colours she doesn’t seem to have are plain black or plain white! If I were her personal sockslave I would kiss and honour each and every part of each and every one of her socks whilst I was massaging her tired and podgy socked feet in the privacy of her home.

But, sadly, I am not her private sockslave. I am her public shoe-kisser, and so kissing and massaging her beautiful and alluring socks must remain a dream. I must just be satisfied that my face is so close to them – close enough to observe the various patterns in the stitching and the slight movements in the creases and folds of the cotton sock-material as she subconsciously flexes her soft, feminine foot muscles inside her beautiful socks in reaction to my humble mouth-ministrations to her dirty, outer shoe-leather.

As I find myself beginning to wonder what mistress Josephine’s orange socks might smell like inside her closed-in leather shoes, another young, blonde woman enters the kitchen:

‘Hi, Jo! Hey – congratulations on your promotion! When are you off?’

Promotion! My heart sinks! Mistress Josephine has apparently been promoted!

Just shows you how much I know! I thought she was lazy and indolent – frequently neglecting her work. I thought, or rather hoped, that she would be remaining as an office junior in this organisation for years to come. I thought I would be kissing her shoes and admiring her socks for the foreseeable future!

But now, it seems she will soon be moving on! Mistress Sarah (the other young woman who has just entered the room) has just asked her when she will be ‘off’!

Mistress Josephine speaks to her female colleague because, unlike me, she is her friend – not her foot-kissing slave:

‘Hi, Sarah! Thanks! This is actually my last day! Will you be coming to my leaving do?’

Oh what an honour it would be for me to be invited to mistress Josephine’s leaving do! I kiss her still outstretched left shoe even more vigorously in the hope that she will notice me!

Fat chance! Mistress Josephine is engaged in conversation with mistress Sarah. Neither girl is even aware of my presence at that point in time.

‘You bet…!’ responds mistress Sarah happily as she washes her cup out in the kitchen sink.

‘…When is it?’ she asks now with her back turned to mistress Josephine, whose left foot is still being attended to by my foot-kissing lips.

‘5 o’clock on Friday…At the Six Bells!’ responds mistress Josephine, for some reason raising her voice slightly as if mistress Sarah might not be able to hear her over the running tap water in the kitchen sink. She also twists her pretty, blonde head around towards her office-colleague, causing one of the creases in her bright, orange ankle sock to temporarily disappear.

‘Great! See you there!’ responds mistress Sarah in her high-pitched, feminine voice, as mistress Josephine finally withdraws her pretty, if slightly plump, orange-socked foot from my wooden footblock and walks off and out of my life without saying goodbye to me or taking the trouble to thank me for all, my humble footkisses to her black office shoes during the past three years (although she does say ‘See you!’ to mistress Sarah).

For a few moments I am truly depressed. No more bright orange, feminine office-socks! No more pretty, blue ankle veins running down soft, pale white, feminine ankle bones.

I am bereft – until, that is, the petite and blonde mistress Sarah fills up her coffee cup and then steps over to my kitchen footblock. For I now notice that mistress Sarah is wearing an intriguing pair of ultra-short, red and black striped, sneaker-style socks inside her familiar soft, black ballet flats.

I have never seen her wear these socks before. They must be new. I am once again entranced by female sock.

Mistress Sarah shall be my new mistress Josephine. The latter has moved on, and I must do so too.

Oh if only I could kiss and massage mistress Sarah’s red and black stripy socks!’

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