Slave of the Gangsters' Molls

Part 1 – Albania

Within the infinite vastness of space is the universe – perhaps there are many universes. Within the known universe, however, there are certainly billions of galaxies - each containing billions of stars and hundreds of planetary systems. Within just one such Galaxy, the Milky Way, there is a planetary system known as ‘The Solar System’, containing several planets orbiting just one of those billions of stars – a star which we call the Sun. One of the planets in that particular solar system is called Earth. Planet Earth is divided into continents, which in turn are divided into countries, regions, cities, towns and villages.

In one such village, in a country called Albania, is a house containing, amongst other rooms, a dimly-lit, dingy basement. In that basement are stored all the shoes and boots of the family who occupy the house. One such shoe - a scruffy, purple and white sneaker - belongs to one of the young women living in the house, 21 year old miss Luljana. Stuffed inside the scruffy sneaker is one of her discarded, and as yet unwashed, white, low-cut, cotton sneaker socks. Stuck to the reinforced toe-area of the feminine, white sock is a tiny, feminine hair.

A forty year old man called Philip is kneeling over miss Luljana’s discarded sneaker and sock and staring at the tiny hair stuck to the toe of the sock. He is obsessed by it. He cares for nothing else in the infinite vastness of the universe. For he is miss Luljana’s personal footslave, and she has ordered him to stare at the tiny, foreign object stuck to her recently worn sock by way of a penance. For she is offended by the hair soiling her sock, and will soon be berating and beating her footslave because of it. So it is perhaps understandable that the footslave known as Philip should be indifferent to everything else in the universe at that particular point in time.

But how did he sink to this ridiculous level – to the level of being an arrogant and overly-fastidious, young, East-European woman’s foot and sock-slave?

Well, it all began a few months before – in London, England. Philip had been stupid enough to cross an East European gangster by the name of Arlind. It was a drugs deal gone wrong, and Philip was partly to blame. If truth be told, he was out of his league, and he soon found himself pleading for his life on his hands and knees before the gangster, Arlind, in a derelict warehouse, surrounded only by some of the gangster’s goons and two of his ‘girlfriends’ – the vacuous, 18 year old, blonde bimbo known as ‘Tristy’, and the equally vacuous 19 year old black girl known as ‘Poppy’.

Both the ‘young ladies’ appeared to be enjoying Philip’s fear and distress in front of their gangster-boyfriend. They were both giggling and laughing at the pitiful Philip as they sat on either side of gangster Arlind’s lap – Tristy twiddling with the locks on her long, blonde hair and Poppy chewing noisily on her gum:

‘So, girls, do you see how pathetic this no good waste of space is?’ Arlind was saying to his two girls.

‘Uh-huh,’ echoed the two vacuous females in unison. They always agreed with their protector and benefactor, the handsome East European gangster, Arlind. He provided them with everything they needed – food, shelter and drugs.

‘What do you think I should do with him, girls?’ continued the gangster.

Philip gulped. What do they think? These girls can’t think. They don’t have a brain between them!

‘Erm…kill him?’ suggested Tristy after some deep-seated deliberation and weighing up all the evidence judiciously.

Poppy just giggled her agreement in between chomping noisily on her chewing gum.

Arlind also laughed – not because it was a ridiculous suggestion. He quite liked the idea. But he had something better in mind:

‘Mmm… I could kill him of course, Tristy darling, but I can’t help feeling that he’d be getting off lightly. This pig owes me money, and I always get my money back – even if it’s in kind. Isn’t that right, Igor?’

‘Yes, boss!’ confirmed one of the heavy goons who had just given the hapless Philip a good kicking on the way to the warehouse.

‘Aww…’ sighed Tristy, disappointed that she wasn’t going to witness another ‘execution’.

‘What I was thinking of instead,’ continued Arlind, unfazed by his blonde girlfriend Tristy’s initial disappointment, ‘was making him work off his debt – as a personal slave to my family back home in Albania. He could be a personal footslave to my darling wife, Luljana! What do you think, Poppy?’

Poppy giggled and continued to chew noisily on her gum:

‘Erm…what’s a footslave, honey?’ she asked her boyfriend in all innocence.

Arlind, rather rudely, laughed out loud at his girlfriend Poppy’s naivety. Taking her cue, his other girlfriend Tristy laughed too, even though she hadn’t the faintest idea what a footslave was either!

‘Ha! Ha! OK honey – I’ll show you! Stand up and walk over in front of him, Poppy,’ ordered Arlind.

Poppy obeyed. She always obeyed Arlind. She couldn’t contemplate ever not doing what he said for, although she really loved him, she was also frightened of him.

The sound of her spiked heels echoed around the empty warehouse as she walked the few steps over to where Philip was sobbing and kneeling, with his head humbly bowed, awaiting his fate. He was too weak from the beating he had already received at the hands of Igor to raise his head up, and so all he could now see were Poppy’s bare, brown, shapely legs in their silvery, designer stilettos (bought for her by Arlind of course), as she stood, hands on hips, chewing gum in front of him.

Arlind, still with his other girlfriend, Tristy, twiddling her hair in curiosity as she sat on his lap, then spoke directly to Philip for the first time:

‘You, the down-in-the-dirt pig, you are now my women’s slave. I’m going to send you to my wife in Albania and you will serve her for the rest of your life as her personal footslave. First though, you’re going to worship the feet of my English girls. Do you understand?’

Philip, just relieved that he wasn’t about to be killed, answered the all-powerful gangster Arlind:

‘Yes, Arlind. Thank you, Arlind.’

Igor, the chief goon, kicked him hard in the ribs, winding him and causing him to collapse at a giggling Poppy’s silvery-stiletto shod feet:

‘That’s -“Yes, master Arlind. Thank you, master Arlind”- slave!’ barked Igor.

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, boy!’ confirmed ‘master’ Arlind. ‘You’re now a slave – and you’d better start addressing your betters as befits a slave! Take your mistress Poppy, here, for example. Beg her to grant you permission to kiss her feet, like a good, little footslave!’ decreed Arlind.

Broken in spirit (and broken quite literally as far as his ribs were concerned), Philip was in no position, and had no desire, to argue. Philip was fundamentally a coward, and to his mind being a women’s footslave was infinitely preferable to being dead. And so he begged – he begged the giggling, vacuous, gum-chewing, 19 year old black girl named Poppy for the privilege of kissing her stiletto-shod feet and of being her footslave:

‘Oh please, mistress Poppy, please can I be your footslave and kiss your feet?’

Poppy giggled even more hysterically. She glanced over to Arlind for some clue as to what she should do next.

‘Well, sweetheart, would you like this piece of filth to kiss your feet?’

‘Oh yes please Arlind!’ she responded enthusiastically, mainly because she wasn’t so thick that she couldn’t see that Arlind wanted to see the pathetic man kissing her feet.

‘Well then, stretch your right foot forward and order him to kiss it, honey!’ suggested Arlind, becoming just a tad impatient at Poppy’s slowness on the uptake, but nevertheless quite enjoying his girlfriend’s innocence! He had to laugh to himself at the irony of the situation. Poppy was a ‘mistress’ to both him and to the newly enslaved Philip – but in the two very different senses of the word!

If there was one thing Poppy did know how to do it was how to adopt an ‘arrogant’ pose. She mainly used her arrogant pose in front of other women – any women who appeared to want to muscle in on the happy threesome she enjoyed with Arlind and her friend, Tristy. But she adopted the same arrogant pose now in front of the kneeling slave who had just begged to kiss her feet.

Hands on hips, she tossed back her black hair, extended her long, bare, shapely right leg in front of her, causing her black, leather miniskirt to ride even further up her deliciously fleshy, black thigh (much to the secret admiration of Igor and the other goons present), until her silvery-stiletto-shod foot was wobbling in it’s heel on the dusty ground directly underneath slave Philip’s nose:

‘OK then, slave. Kiss my foot!’

These were words that Poppy had never uttered before, and she giggled at the unfamiliar authoritative tone of her own voice.

Slave Philip, still winded, submissively lowered his lips to touch the pointy, silver toe of miss Poppy’s expensive, designer stiletto. As he did so, he was sure he saw a vein, running along the top of her black foot, twitch and pulsate in delighted reaction to his humble act of obeisance.

And he was right, for a surge of power was now coursing through 19 year old Poppy’s veins. For the first time in her life she was experiencing the thrill of absolute power – power over a man! It was a truly novel experience for her. And she liked it!

‘And the other one!’ she barked, her innate feminine dominance taking over as she switched feet under his nose.

Everyone present laughed with pleasure at the young black woman’s evident delight – everyone, that is, apart from slave Philip. He just obediently kissed the toe of her outstretched, left stiletto-shoe.

‘Ha! Ha! Make him kiss my feet also, Arlind!’ pouted Tristy – the young, blonde woman who had previously wanted slave Philip to be killed. She was now beginning to feel a bit jealous that her friend Poppy had a male slave kissing her feet.

‘Sure, honey. Move over to where he’s kneeling and order him to kiss your feet. He’s your slave too – I’m making him the slave of all my women!’

Miss Tristy kissed her gangster boyfriend on the cheek and slid off his lap to march over to where slave Philip was still kneeling. Her friend, Poppy, not wishing to upset Arlind, obligingly moved to one side to give her friend Tristy access to the kneeling footslave.

Slave Philip could now see that miss Tristy, whose feet had been hidden behind a desk as she sat on her boyfriend Arlind’s lap, was wearing knee-length, white leather, stiletto-heeled, lace-up boots under a white, leather miniskirt. Peeping out of the tops of her boots were the elasticated tops of a pair of pink kneesocks. They looked, again, like expensive designer boots, paid for, no doubt, from Arlind’s ill-gotten gains. What slave Philip didn’t know was that they were also expensive designer socks – also paid for by Arlind.

The young woman’s right boot was soon arrogantly extended beneath the kneeling and contrite slave Philip’s face:

‘Lick my boot, slave,’ barked miss Tristy down at him.

‘Ha! Ha!,’ laughed master Arlind, approvingly. ‘That’s right, honey – make him lick all the filth off your pretty, white boots!’

Poppy felt a twinge of jealousy. Why hadn’t she thought to make the stupid slave lick the filth off her pretty shoes? The floor of this decrepit, draughty old warehouse really was filthy, and Arlind was supposed to be taking her and Tristy out clubbing later that evening. She couldn’t go clubbing in dirty shoes!

For his part, slave Philip was just relieved to be still alive and in a position to lick the dirt off his would-be executioner’s white, leather, knee-length boots – and so he licked the dirtiest part he could see; a mud-streaked area just above the sole on the outer side of the young, blonde woman’s boot.

Miss Tristy, it seemed, was even more of a ‘natural’ when it came to female domination than her friend Poppy:

‘Can I spit on him, Arlind?’ she enquired.

Arlind just laughed:

‘Sure you can, honey! You can do whatever you like to him – he’s your slave!’

Again, Poppy felt jealous. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

‘Can I spit on him too?’ she pouted, temporarily removing her chewing gum from her pretty mouth.

‘Of course sweetheart. You can both spit on him. Go ahead!’

And so, whilst slave Philip’s saliva lathered and cleaned the filth off the bottom of miss Tristy’s white, knee-length, spike-heeled, lace-up leather boot, her saliva, along with that of her black girlfriend, Poppy, was propelled down onto the top of his slave head, and dribbled down the sides of his slave cheeks, to the raucous approval of the male gangster and his goons:

‘Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what, girls – why don’t you take off your shoes and make him smell and lick your toes! Tristy, you can take off your boots and make him kiss and smell your sweaty, pink socks – and Poppy, you can kick off your stilettos and make him suck on your toe-jam!’ suggested (i.e. commanded) Arlind.

‘What’s toe-jam?’ asked Poppy, again in all innocence. She wasn’t all that innocent about a lot of things, but footslavery was a new concept for her.

‘Toe-jam? It’s the little cheesy-smelling bits of dead skin and sweat and dirt that accumulates between your toes, darling. Since slave Philip is a footslave I think we should make him clean your feet with his tongue and swallow your toe-jam, don’t you?’

Poppy, her chewing gum now safely back in her mouth, naturally agreed with her gangster-boyfriend, Arlind. She always did!

Whilst miss Tristy was busy unlacing her white, knee-length leather boots, miss Poppy simply kicked off her stilettos and raised her pretty, right foot into the air beneath the still-kneeling slave Philip’s nose, and ordered him to suck away all her toe-jam (although she had already forgotten what it was called!):

‘You there, the slave, do as my boyfriend says and lick away all the dirty, cheesy bits from between my bare toes – and then swallow it!’

Slave Philip, any remaining traces of self-respect now long gone, and already resigned to his new life as a slave of the gangster’s molls, dutifully took miss Poppy’s bright-red-painted, black-skinned toes into his slave mouth and sucked. Her toes tasted salty and felt sticky on his tongue – no surprise really given that it was now early evening and the young woman would have been wearing her favourite pair of stilettos all day. He could feel the little balls of sweaty, dead skin known as toe-jam coming off the superior, young black woman’s toes, rolling along his tongue and then sliding down his throat:

‘Eww…gross!’ exclaimed miss Poppy, disgusted not by her sweaty feet but by the slave’s ticklish, slimy tongue as it darted in and out between her toes. It reminded her of when her pet dog, Rover, had once licked her feet. That had felt ticklish too, but this pathetic, middle-aged man was now her human dog! What a wimp! What a sad loser! Not like her all-powerful, alpha-male boyfriend, Arlind!

Miss Tristy, meanwhile, was now standing on the dusty floor of the derelict warehouse in her socked feet, ready to have her pink knee-socks kissed and sniffed by the footslave. She had even, for some unknown reason, felt the need to pull up her socks and make sure they were fully straight for the footslave to worship, perhaps because she wanted her socks to tower above him in his humble kneeling position in order to accentuate the womanly shapeliness of her calf-muscles and to impress upon him that he was ‘lower’ than her socks; of less value than her socks – duty bound to worship them.

At that point, slave Philip’s miserable life probably was worth less than the cost of miss Tristy’s pink, designer knee-socks. He certainly had no hesitation in paying his slavish respects to them – the pink, knee-length, designer bootsocks of a superior, 18 year-old, blonde bimbo. To her delight he sniffed them from top to bottom – starting at the elasticated rims at the top and running his nose down the groove of the stitching, audibly sniffing all the way down, until he reached the now dusty reinforced toe area, which he then dutifully kissed.

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave! Now lick the dust off the bottoms of my socks!’ squealed miss Tristy, raising her right socked foot of the ground and temporarily almost losing her balance as she did so.

‘Ha! Ha! Even better – make him sniff the dust off the soles of your pink socks, honey! Make him vacuum the dust up his ugly, slave nose!’ suggested Arlind.

As always, Tristy thought that Arlind was right. That would be so much more humiliating for the pathetic footslave – having to literally sniff her sock-dirt up his nose. Why hadn’t she thought of that? If she was lucky, it might even make the slave sneeze – and then she could have him punished for sneezing all over her precious, pink socks. Have him whipped, or something. After all, she knew enough about slavery to know that slaves who displeased their masters or mistresses got whipped!

‘Ha! Ha! You heard my boyfriend, slave, so do as he says! Sniff the dust off the bottom of my nice, pink socks up your ugly nose!’ barked miss Tristy.

‘Yes, miss Tristy. At once, miss Tristy!’ grovelled slave Philip.

But that wasn’t good enough it seemed:

Miss Poppy, who had put her silvery, designer stilettos back on her bare feet now that her toes had dried, promptly kicked slave Philip in his already damaged ribs with the pointy toe of her shoe, causing him to gasp for breath in not inconsiderable pain:

‘That’s “mistress Tristy” to you, footslave!’ snapped the black girl.

Her blonde friend Tristy smiled back at her by way of thanking her for helping to impose her authority on the dirty footslave.

Arlind smiled contentedly at both his girls. They were learning fast how to treat a dirty, personal footslave. He was confident his wife, Luljana, back home in Albania would soon do the same!

And, as always, gangster Arlind was right. His wife had been delighted with her ‘present’ – shipped out for her in the back of a lorry from England, and hand-delivered to her front door by some of her husband’s goons!

Luljana could have lived with her husband in London, but preferred to base herself in her home village in the Albanian mountains, so that she could be close to her 39 year-old, widowed mother, Valdeta, and her 20 year old sister, Zamira. All three ladies lived in the same house – an opulent house, paid for, of course, by the proceeds of Arlind’s drug-running in western Europe. Life was good, with regular large amounts of money being sent over by Arlind, and now, their very own personal footslave!

Arlind’s note had made it clear that his wife was to be the principal owner of slave Philip, although the dirty slave should be expected to serve his mother-in-law and sister-in-law as well!

And so Luljana, just as eager to please her husband Arlind as his two young, English girlfriends were back in London, duly took immediate control of the new, family footslave. She dressed him as a slave in plain brown sackcloth; she collared him as a slave with a dog-collar and chain; and she had him tattooed as a slave, with the words ‘Property of mistress Luljana’ tattooed indelibly onto his right thigh.

And on that very first day of his enslavement in her household she then explained to him, in her broke English spoken with a heavy, Albanian accent, just how his life was going to be from now on, as she made him kiss her scruffy,but expensive, purple and white sneakers on the mud-floor of the draughty, old former pigsty that was attached to her otherwise opulent home, and which would be the slave’s quarters from now on :

‘You now Luljana slave – Luljana footslave. You stay always on knees - kiss Luljana feet; lick clean Luljana dirty shoes and boots; wash Luljana dirty socks. Kiss feet, shoes and socks of Luljana mother and sister also.

You obey Luljana or feel whip…’ and at this point she had produced a single-tailed, brown leather whip which her beloved husband, Arlind, had also sent her to help her discipline her new slave.

The sight, and smell, of the brown, leather whip only made slave Philip kiss the flaky, white toes of mistress Luljana’s scruffy purple and white sneakers all the more vigorously. His ribs were still sore from the kicking he had received from both Igor and miss Poppy, and the last thing he wanted was to feel miss Luljana’s cruel whip wrapping itself around his tender back.

Mistress Luljana continued with her warm words of welcome to the new slave:

‘Inside house Luljana like take off shoes, walk around in socks. Slave keep Luljana socks clean while Luljana wear them; slave look only at Luljana socks; kiss socks, lick socks – lick dust and hairs off Luljana socks. Slave not obey – not keep socks clean – Luljana beat slave, with whip!’

And with that she did what slave Philip had most dreaded – she struck him across the ribs with her new, leather whip – a kind of warning shot across his bows, if you like. Appropriately, he bellowed like a ship sounding its horn, for his sackcloth provided him with little protection from the sharp sting of his mistress’s leather whip!

And that is also why, some 3 months later, we find him kneeling so fearfully in the basement-cum-punishment room of mistress Luljana’s opulent villa, awaiting a whipping, and obsessing himself about the offending hair stuck to the reinforced toe area of his mistress’s white sock. For he had failed to keep that tiny, female pubic-hair off mistress Luljana’s white ankle sock whilst she had been wearing it about the house. He had neglected his duty as her ‘sockslave’ – and now he was about to pay the price for such wanton negligence.

He flinched as the door to the basement screeched open on its rusty hinges and he heard some soft, feminine footsteps coming down the steps behind him.

Was it his mistress Luljana, wearing a fresh, unsoiled pair of socks, come to whip him?

No, it was her younger sister, 20 year old miss Zamira, wearing her favourite pair of red, denim jeans with her open toed, backless, flip-flop style, red plastic slippers on matching, bright red, thick, towelling socks – come to tease him:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave about to whipped! Luljana angry with slave – not keep Luljana dirty socks clean! Ha! Ha! Zamira watch while Luljana whip!’

Slave Philip had already learnt that miss Zamira loved watching him being whipped. Indeed she nearly always filmed his punishments on her expensive mobile phone (paid for by her brother-in-law Arlind) to show to her friends at work. Slave Philip was no ‘secret’ slave – he had kissed the feet of virtually all the young women in the village at some point or other over the past 3 months!

‘Ha! Ha! Slave kiss Zamira feet!’ continued the young tormentress, extending the red-socked toes of her right foot directly under slave Philip’s nose. She regarded the middle-aged manservant as being every bit as much her personal footslave as he was her elder sister’s.

So did slave Philip! He humbly and respectfully tore his gaze away from the offending hair on miss Luljana’s discarded, thin, white, cotton sneaker sock in order to lower his lips to the much thicker material of her sister, miss Zamira’s, red towelling sock. She wriggled her toes as he did so, helping to release some of the stink. The irony of the whole situation was that miss Zamira’s thick, red towelling socks were probably much dirtier than her elder sister’s thin, white cotton sock over which he was about to be punished, for miss Zamira was much less scrupulous about her personal foot-hygiene than her elder sister.

But such is the fate of a humble, powerless footslave – he could be punished at the whim of any of his superior mistresses at any time.

And the vast universe was as indifferent to the absurdity of his fate, as he was to the vastness of the universe.




Part 2 – Jamaica

And so 40 year old slave Philip and 20 year old miss Zamira both awaited the arrival in the basement of 21 year old miss Luljana with her brown, leather, slave-whip: he anxiously - because he, the slave, was fearing the whip; she eagerly - because she, the witness, was looking forward to seeing him whipped by her elder sister.

When miss Luljana eventually deigned to come down into the basement - like an angry, righteous goddess descending from the heavens in order to inflict pain and suffering on the recalcitrant sinner-slave in hell – she was, as usual, in her socked feet under a pair of dark blue, denim jeans. Except that this time she was wearing black socks – and so the household dirt and dust, as well as the inevitable tiny hairs, stuck to the soles of her socks weren’t showing up so clearly in the dimly-lit basement. It had been slave Philip’s great misfortune to neglect a pair of his mistress’s snowy-white socks, allowing the tiny dark hair stuck to his mistress’s sock to be clearly visible to her – and leading to his current predicament. If only his mistress had been wearing black socks earlier in the day!

No wonder slave Philip was indifferent to the heavens. The heavens clearly had it in for him!

We won’t dwell on the pain and suffering justifiably inflicted on slave Philip by his angry mistress Luljana. Suffice it to say that the crack of the whip on his bare back, the howls of pain and pitiful whining for mercy, and the squeals of delight from miss Zamira, all attracted the attention of the girls’ mother, Madam Valdeta, who came down to see what all the commotion was about.

Madam Valdeta didn’t speak any English, but it was clear both from her body language and the tone of her voice that she was far from being disapproving of her daughters’ chastisement of the lazy, incompetent, household slave that her son-in-law had so kindly provided them. In fact, her raucous, middle-aged, smoker’s laughter betrayed the fact that she was clearly finding the slave’s agony equally as amusing as her youngest daughter Zamira was. But she wanted the two girls to go further – to punish and humiliate the dirty slave in public, as her daughter Zamira now kindly explained to the whipped slave after her sister, Luljana, had tired of whipping him:

‘Ha! Ha! Mama say we make you kiss and lick the dirty socks and tights of all the women in the village! Ha! Ha! We take you out to village square and make you public sock-and-feet cleaner for Albanian women! Ha! Ha! Mama say you learn how to clean women socks properly. How you say in English – “practice makes perfect”? Ha! Ha!’

Miss Zamira was clearly enamoured by her mother’s suggestion and, quite literally took the lead – the dog lead – in leading slave Philip on his hands and knees down to the village square, followed by her sister and mother. It was also Zamira who drew up the makeshift, cardboard sign which they hung around slave Philip’s neck, and which read (in Albanian):

“Women’s dirty sock cleaner. Free sock cleaning for superior Albanian women!”

They positioned him in a kneeling position in front of the steps of the village hall, and placed a nice, thick blanket on the top step for the ladies to sit on in front of the kneeling public footslave. Of course, a crowd of mocking village women soon gathered around in order to avail themselves of the new, free service.

Although it wasn’t snowing it was a bitterly cold, overcast day in the Albanian mountain village and, although it had been an extremely painful process, slave Philip was indebted to his three mistresses for putting his rough, coarse sackcloth back onto his freshly whipped back before they had brought him to the village square as it at least afforded him, and his whip-sores, some protection from the biting, eastern wind.

For their part most of the village women were wearing heavy coats with heavy shoes or boots of some description, and with either thick, warm bootsocks or thick, woolly tights inside their boots. Luljana, Zamira and their mother Valdeta, for example, had all changed into their respective pairs of favourite, warm boots – Luljana was now wearing her smart, stiletto-heeled, black-leather, zip-up, designer ankle boots; Zamira was wearing her favourite pair of beige-coloured, sheepskin Ugg-style boots; and Madam Valdeta was wearing a pair of knee-length, lace-up, block heeled, brown leather boots.

Slave Philip’s first ‘customer’, however - one of Zamira’s best friends, the 20 year old primary school-teacher, miss Mirjeta - was one of the few village women not wearing boots, but instead she was proudly sporting her brand new pair of pink and white sneakers (a present from her boyfriend who was studying and working in Western Europe) along with her black, denim jeans.

As slave Philip knelt humbly, head suitably bowed and with his makeshift cardboard sign of shame fluttering in the breeze below his face, he could see, as soon as the young Albanian teacher sat herself down on the blanket-covered step in front of him, causing the hems of her black, denim jeans to rise above the tops of her sneakers, that she was wearing a pair of plain, white, cotton, ankle socks inside her new sneakers – except that the white of the socks looked almost grey compared to the shiny, bright whiteness of the new sneakers. Slave Philip realised immediately, therefore, that whilst the sneakers may have been new, the socks were well-worn.

A fact confirmed by his tormentress, miss Zamira, who was again kindly acting in the role of translator as her friend, Mirjeta, didn’t speak very good English:

‘Ha! Ha! Mirjeta say white socks dirty and smelly. Mirjeta not change socks many days now. She say socks full of sweat and holes. Mirjeta want slave take off Mirjeta sneakers and clean Mirjeta dirty, white socks with tongue – lick off stink and dirt. Ha! Ha!’ explained miss Zamira gleefully.

Slave Philip braced himself for some serious public humiliation as he untied the laces of the young Albanian woman’s smart, new, pink and white sneakers to reveal her undoubtedly manky, old, pair of thin, white, cotton ankle socks.

And they were truly ‘manky’. Miss Mirjeta had not been lying, nor had her interpreter been exaggerating. The socks had several large holes or near-holes where the material had worn away due to constant wear and tear, including one particularly prominent hole over the big toe on her right foot, allowing her chipped and unpainted big toe nail to protrude through. The feminine, white socks also contained several areas of yellowy-brown staining and reeked of the delicate aroma of feminine footsweat. ‘How can such an attractive young woman’s feet and socks possibly be so sweaty on such a cold day?’ he wondered to himself. It also occurred to him that his fastidious mistress Luljana wouldn’t be seen dead in such a pair of manky, old, holey white socks. He white socks were always pristine-clean - apart from the odd stray hair!

What slave Philip didn’t realise, however, was that miss Mirjeta, unlike her friends Luljana and Zamira, was not from a wealthy family. Her teaching job didn’t pay well, she was poor, and therefore couldn’t afford many pairs of socks. That was why she was so proud of her new sneakers – bought for her by her boyfriend on the black market - and why she was now so keen to avail herself of the public sock-cleaner’s services: she genuinely wanted the footslave to do his best in sprucing up her grey-white socks, so that they wouldn’t let her sneakers down so much! That, of course, and the sheer fun of humiliating a middle-aged, western man in public in front of her good, female friends and neighbours in the village!

And so, slave Philip had no choice but to lower his cold and chapped lips to the white-socked foot of the young Albanian primary school teacher who was seated on the steps of the village hall, and to start licking off and sucking up the sweat from her dirty, right sock – the one with her bare big toe peeping through.

Mirjeta giggled and said something in Albanian to her friend Zamira who was watching the slave’s work intently:

‘Ha! Ha! Mirjeta say slave tongue tickle. Slave not tickle Mirjeta feet – or feel whip!’ declared miss Zamira, the interpreter, reminding slave Philip that her sister, his mistress Luljana, had brought the dreaded brown, leather single-tailed slave-whip out with her.

He knew that virtually all the ladies present would enjoy seeing him whipped!

And so he did his best not to tickle miss Mirjeta’s socked feet as he did his level best to lick her socks clean. Of course, the other thing he had to try to do was not to make the young woman’s socks too damp with his saliva – for she surely wouldn’t want to walk around in wet socks in this cold weather. He therefore, at the risk of angering her by tickling her sensitive, delicate, feminine feet even further, attempted to use his slave nose to scrape off some of her sock sweat – not that it is an easy task to scrape off a layer of ingrained sweat from a young woman’s white socks. He was absolutely determined, however, to be a good footslave to her, and to do absolutely everything he could to please the superior, young, 20 year old Albanian girl, and to avoid the further sting of the whip.

Even so, however hard he tried, it seemed miss Mirjeta was not satisfied with his humble, slavish efforts. Miss Zamira, as ever, had to translate:

‘Ha! Ha! Mirjeta say feet getting cold! Slave not work fast enough; hard enough! Mirjeta want slave breathe on Mirjeta feet – breathe on big toe; warm big toe up while cleaning sock! Slave obey Albanian mistress, or feel Albanian whip!’ she barked.

So, I’m not just a sock-cleaner; I’m also a warm-air unit, thought slave Philip to himself. Never mind that my own feet are freezing (slave Philip wasn’t permitted by his mistress Luljana to wear shoes), I have a slavish duty of care to keep my young, Albanian mistress’s feet nice and warm whilst I attend to her socks. I must therefore do as she says and warm her feet, and especially her exposed big toe, with my slave breath, or I will be justly punished.

And so that’s just what he did. At that moment he would have done anything to avoid the dreadful sting of the whip, still fresh in his memory!

After some 10 minutes of sock-licking, sock-sucking, sock-scraping with his nose, and hot air breathing, miss Mirjeta finally seemed satisfied that the humble slave-man had done his best to spruce up her manky, old white, ankle socks whilst keeping her feet warm. She ordered him, through her interpreter, Zamira, to put her sneakers back on her socked feet and lace them up:

‘Slave thank miss Mirjeta for let slave lick and suck Mirjeta dirty socks; slave kiss Mirjeta sneakers!’ ordered the beige, Ugg-booted translator-cum-taskmistress, miss Zamira.

Slave Philip, of course, obeyed. He placed several respectful kisses on the now fully-covered, pink-and-white-sneakered toes of miss Mirjeta and watched as her sadly still manky, grey-white ankle-socks disappeared from view beneath the hems of her black, denim jeans once again as she stood up to make way for the next customer.

The lady in question was a bit older than miss Mirjeta – perhaps late twenties to early thirties – and as she sat down on the blanketed step in front of him he could see that she was wearing the dirtiest, muddiest pair of black, Wellington boots he had ever been privileged to witness so close up. But then, it was perhaps hardly surprising that her Wellington boots should be so mud-caked and filthy, since, unbeknown to slave Philip, this particular young woman was the local farmer’s wife, Ms Teuta, who worked alongside her husband in the fields in all weathers.

Ms Teuta appeared to be wearing a knee-length, grey skirt, a black anorak, and grey, ‘peasant-girl’ headscarf. On her legs she was wearing a pair of plain, dark grey, woolly tights inside her plain, black Wellington boots. ‘It’s not the most flattering of feminine footwear,’ thought slave Philip to himself, ‘but Madam Valdeta is rights; this is all good experience for me, and should make me a better footslave for all women!’

Ms Teuta, it seemed, also needed the assistance of an interpreter. As always, miss Zamira was happy to oblige her peasant-woman neighbour:

‘Ha! Ha! Ms Teuta say tights dirty. Slave take off Ms Teuta boots and smell tights! But first clean Ms Teuta filthy boots; slave lick filth, mud off boots and swallow. Make Ms Teuta boots shine! Ha! Ha! Slave begin – lick!’

‘I lëpij këmbët!’ some women in the crowd were shouting. He guessed they too were urging him to lick the 30 year old peasant-woman’s muddy boots, and so, without delay, he humbly lowered his mouth to the soft, black rubber of the headscarfed-woman’s outstretched, right boot and began tasting her rubbery boot-mud.

He heard her squeal with delight and felt her wriggle her toes inside the rubber boot, causing the muddy, black rubber to crease and fold under his tongue. The female audience clearly enjoyed the sight of the western manservant, clad only in sackcloth, licking the thick Albanian mud off the peasant-woman’s boots whilst she was still wearing them.

For his part, slave Philip had to confess that the mud tasted sweet – for it was the mud off a superior woman’s black Wellington boot, and was therefore fit for male-slave consumption. He literally lapped it up. After several months of servitude slave Philip may have been a relatively poor sock-cleaner, but, it has to be said, he was now adept at female boot-licking, thanks to miss Luljana’s large collection of boots!

Sadly, all too soon, the farmer-woman’s Wellington boots were shiny-clean, and miss Zamira, the interpreter, had to order him to complete the next part of his public footwear-cleaning penance:

‘Slave now take off Ms Teuta boots; smell Ms Teuta dirty tights; smell loud so we all hear; superior Albanian women want hear western manservant sniff Albanian woman dirty, stinky tights! Ha! Ha!’

There was no doubt that Zamira was loving every second of slave Philip’s public humiliation, but she was not alone. Her sister Luljana, her mother Valdeta, her friend Mirjeta, and all the other women from the village were loving it! Slave Philip could tell that by the way they all fell silent in order to be able to hear him sniffing the sweaty toe ends of Ms Teuta’s plain, dark grey, thick woolly tights whilst she was still wearing them – tights which smelt not only of the delicate fragrance of feminine footsweat, but also of the rubber lining of the insides of her black, Wellington boots.

It was an aroma fit for a footslave!

Later that evening miss Luljana was occupied in a long telephone conversation with her gangster-husband, Arlind, back in London, whilst she reclined on the opulent leather couch that was the centrepiece of her living room - her personal footslave, slave Philip, kneeling at her outstretched, black-socked feet and gently massaging them with his slave fingers, whilst taking great care to respectfully remove with his slave lips any small hairs or specks of house-dust attached to his mistress’s otherwise pristine, black, ankle socks.

The telephone conversation was in Albanian, so slave Philip couldn’t understand what was being said. If he could have understood, however, he would have realised that miss Luljana was explaining to her husband that she still wasn’t satisfied with her slave’s performance; that he was negligent and careless in taking care of her feet and footwear – and especially her socks; that she wanted a new slave; and that she didn’t care what her husband did with the old slave.

If he could have heard and understood it, slave Philip would also have overheard her husband, Arlind, apologising to his wife for the slave’s poor performance; assuring her that he would, indeed, find her a new personal footslave; and suggesting that he had something else in mind for the useless, and expendable, slave Philip in any case.

That plan, it transpired, involved using slave Philip as a drugs mule to smuggle cocaine into Europe from the Caribbean. Arlind’s plan was to hire a long-range private jet, to fly his two English molls Tristy and Poppy out to Jamaica for an all expenses-paid holiday in the company of slave Philip, who would act as their footslave during their holiday and double up as a drugs courier on the return trip. Arlind trusted Tristy and Poppy to supervise the drugs run, but didn’t want them to run the risk of being caught with the drugs in their possession. He liked them both, liked having sex with them both, and didn’t want to lose them. Not yet, anyway. His wife Luljana’s footslave, however, was expendable – especially as she no longer wanted him anyway. If the stupid ‘slave Philip’ was caught carrying the drugs he’d be banged up for life. So what?

If, on the other hand, he successfully got the drugs through, he could remain as a present for Tristy and Poppy to keep as a reward – their personal footslave instead of his wife’s. The girls were inseparable and Arlind was confident they wouldn’t mind sharing him.

Oh if only Arlind could have witnessed the fights over slave Philip on the private flight out to Jamaica! Both 18 year old Tristy and 19 year old Poppy wanted to use slave Philip as a footrest during the long 7 hour flight on board the luxury, private jet. Apart from the two girls and slave Philip, only the pilot, co-pilot, the hard-pressed stewardess, and Arlind’s chief goon, Igor, were on board. Arlind himself was busy with other criminal activity in London.

As he lay on the plush, carpeted floor of the jet under, variously, miss Tristy’s and miss Poppy’s feet, slave Philip was struck by the contrast between the sexily sandaled and pedicured feet of both the white girl and the black girl, and the almost continuously socked and booted feet of the various Albanian women he had been serving over the previous few months. The difference in footwear could, of course, be explained by the differences in climate that the various superior mistresses had to put up with. Open-toed sandals would definitely not have been appropriate footwear for the women outside in the bitterly cold air of the mountain village, whereas misses Tristy and Poppy were currently heading off for the warmth and bright sunshine of Jamaica!

Besides, he just couldn’t imagine two vain, glamorous girls like mistresses Tristy and Poppy in farmers’ Wellingtons!

Even slave Philip had been allowed to change out of his rough sackcloth into ‘normal’ servants’ clothes – he looked like a kind of junior butler or, perhaps more appropriately given the circumstances, a ‘footman’. However he had only been allowed to do this not for his own personal comfort, but to avoid arousing the suspicions of the Jamaican authorities when the plane landed. He even appeared on the passenger manifest as ‘manservant’, but only the crew of the plane, and, of course Igor, knew that he was actually the two girls’ slave.

When they eventually cleared Customs and reached the sanctuary of their 5 star hotel room, ‘slave’ Philip was ordered back onto his hands and knees, and to unpack the girls’ things whilst they went out to admire the sea view from their penthouse balcony. Igor went to his own room. Clearly it wouldn’t be appropriate for a man to share the same room as the two, nubile young women. It was deemed entirely appropriate, however, for the manservant to share their room – as he had to be on hand, or rather on foot, ready to serve his young mistresses 24 hours a day – although they decided he would have to sleep on the cold tiles of the bathroom.

Slave Philip took particular care to handle the girls’ footwear with appropriate respect as he unpacked their bags. The blonde ‘bimbo’ miss Tristy had packed only one pair of plain, white ankle socks with her – presumably to wear inside the one pair of spike-heeled, lace-up, black, patent leather, ankle boots she had brought with her. She thought she might wear these when she was out clubbing at night – otherwise she would only need to wear the many pairs of sandals she had packed. She had three pairs of beach flip-flops alone with her – each a different colour to match her different coloured bikinis!

The equally vacuous and shallow black girl miss Poppy, however, hadn’t brought any boots at all – and only one pair of flip-flops. Poppy preferred to wear heels, even on the beach, and she therefore had several pairs of high-heeled, open-toed, open-backed, strappy stiletto sandals with her – again of various colours to match her various bikinis and clubbing-outfits.

Slave Philip would be too embarrassed to provide us with a description of the girls’ undergarments since they were none of his business! He was their footslave, not their pantie-slave!

It was miss Poppy who got first use of the slave in the hotel room. She had tossed a coin with her friend Tristy for him and won – much to Tristy’s chagrin. But her turn would come.

Miss Poppy wanted slave Philip to freshen up her tired, black feet. Her normally shapely ankles had swollen somewhat during the long flight and she wanted to have a nice, relaxing foot-spa to refresh the circulation of the blood in her feet. Lucky, therefore, that she had a ‘footman’ to hand!

She came in from the balcony, sat down on the edge of one of the twin beds, and gave him his orders:

‘Slave, go fetch a bowl of warm water and a towel. You’re gonna wash my feet, innit?’ she informed him, still noisily and arrogantly chewing on her ubiquitous chewing gum. Her high-pitched voice grated on slave Philip’s ears somewhat, but she was such a beautiful goddess – with long, shapely black legs underneath her ultra-short, golden-coloured hot pants; how could he not feel the urge to obey such a dominant, young, black woman – the girlfriend of the East European gangster he had crossed - and to whom he had now been given as a slave, even though, underneath his manservant’s trousers, he still bore the tattoo on his right thigh marking him as miss Luljana’s property?!

He resolved not to worry about that. He would just seek to be the best possible slave-cum-servant to each and every young woman whose authority he was placed under from now on.

It was a wise policy for the slave of a gangster’s molls!

He retuned from the bathroom with a bowl of pleasantly lukewarm water and a fluffy, white towel, and then humbly knelt down in front of miss Poppy who was still noisily chewing her gum and seated on the edge of the bed. She had such a pretty face and mouth, but he daren’t look her in the eye. She was his mistress, and he wasn’t worthy to look her in the eye. So instead he humbly looked her in the foot, as befits a humble footman.

She was still wearing the same, strappy pair of high-heeled, golden sandals (another present paid for by Arlind) that she had been resting on top of his upturned face on the plane from London. She now nonchalantly stretched forward her long, smooth, black leg until her pretty, if slightly swollen, right foot was hovering inside its golden sandal in the air directly under her footman’s kneeling and bowed face:

‘Take it off!’ she ordered, curtly.

Slave Philip had to undo a thin, golden strap across the arch of her pretty, black foot in order to remove the golden, goddess-like, high-heeled sandal. He fumbled a bit with his fingers as he did so, for he was nervous. He didn’t want to touch her bare footflesh without permission, for he had already failed to satisfy one of the gangster’s molls with his incompetence – miss Luljana. He dreaded to think what would happen to him if he failed to satisfy miss Poppy or miss Tristy as well!

For her part, Poppy could see that the footslave was shaking and nervous – but she did nothing to help him or reassure him. She just continued to chew nonchalantly on her chewing gum – enjoying the underling’s distress and discomfort. In fact, the more nervous he became, the more dominant she felt. She knew what he was thinking:

‘Make sure you don’t scratch my foot, boy, or I’ll tell Igor!’ she cautioned him.

He started to sweat. He had already received one beating at the hands of the thug, Igor. He would actually prefer to be whipped by miss Luljana than beaten up again by Igor – and that’s saying something!

Thankfully, the nervous, bungling fool - footman Philip - somehow managed to get both the strappy, golden sandals off miss Poppy’s pure, feminine, black feet without sullying her flesh with his sweaty, male, slave fingers. As he placed the left sandal on the ground he noticed again (as he had done earlier on board the plane) that a piece of old, blackened chewing gum appeared to be attached to the dirty sole. He made a mental note to scrape that offending piece of chewing gum off her shoe later with his slave teeth – especially as it was almost certainly one of miss Poppy’s own pieces of gum and was therefore saturated not only with her precious shoe-dirt but also her saliva.

Washing her feet whilst she chewed on the fresh piece of gum in her mouth was relatively easy. At least he now had permission to touch her pretty, black feet, to ladle the water over her hot foot veins, and, as before in the derelict warehouse, to use his slave tongue to extract the various bits of sweaty toe-jam from the soft, sticky, pungent areas in between her ultra-soft, pedicured, black toes.

Miss Poppy’s toenails were painted gold to match her sandals, and, after he had dried her feet in the white fluffy towel, she ordered him to fetch her pedicure kit from her hand bag and repaint her toenails to ensure they ‘sparkled and glistened’ again.

This was new territory for slave Philip. He had never had to pedicure a woman’s feet before. Miss Luljana, her sister, and her mother had never bothered with pedicures – perhaps because they wore socks or tights nearly all the time – but the two glamour girls, misses Poppy and Tristy, felt almost undressed without properly varnished toenails!

It wasn’t, therefore, really slave Philip’s fault when he went to paint her toenails without first placing the spongy, white toe-dividers in between miss Poppy’s toes – but she soon enlightened him. She enlightened him in the way that a superior, young mistress is entitled to educate her stupid, incompetent footslave – she slapped him hard, across both cheeks, several times, and verbally berated him:

‘Stupid freak! What do you think your doin’? Get them dividers in between my toes now, moron, ‘fore an you start paintin’ em, or I’ll call Igor to whip your ass!’

She was so angry she almost inadvertently spat her precious chewing gum out into the stupid slave’s gormless face, but luckily her teeth caught it just in time!
Her shouting attracted, in every sense of the word, the attention of her friend miss Tristy, who came in from the balcony:

‘What’s he done now, Poppett?’ she enquired of her best friend.

‘Huh! The stupid dolt was only gonna try an’ paint my toenails without putting the dividers in place!’ exclaimed miss Poppy, genuinely incredulous at the footslave’s ignorance and stupidity.

‘Idiot!’ exclaimed miss Tristy, kicking slave Philip in the small of his back with the toe of her own, sandaled, right foot and thereby, somewhat ironically but perhaps predictably, causing him to inadvertently do the very thing the spongy toe-dividers were supposed to help prevent him from doing – smudging the gold-coloured toenail paint onto miss Poppy’s bare footflesh!

There was a moment’s shocked silence as both girls looked with open-mouthed disbelief at the results of the stupid, footslave’s clumsiness.

Then they both cried out in unison:

‘Igor!’



Part 3 – Colombia

When he awoke on the cold and unforgiving tiles of mistresses’ Tristy and Poppy’s bathroom floor the following morning slave Philip had a goodly collection of bruises on his body, courtesy of the thuggish goon Igor, to complement the whip-marks placed on his back in Albania by the sweet and feminine mistress Luljana.

Not that it mattered - for no-one in the posh, 5 star, Jamaican tourist resort would see the marks on his body since he always appeared in public in his manservant’s livery. To the outside world he seemed to be nothing more than the girls’ butler; it was only in the privacy of misses Tristy and Poppy’s hotel room that he was required to serve them as their kneeling footslave.

And so it was that he spent the rest of the week waiting on his two, young mistresses, miss Tristy and miss Poppy, hand and foot – primarily foot. All too soon, however, their week long holiday, paid for by their Albanian gangster-boyfriend Arlind back in London, was over and it was time for the two girls to fly back to England with slave Philip acting as their drugs mule.

Tristy and Poppy both immensely enjoyed shoving the condoms full of cocaine down slave Philip’s scrawny, middle-aged throat. They thought it was funny when he gagged and struggled.

They also thought it was funny when he was caught by the female Jamaican Custom’s officer at Kingston International Airport just as he was about to board the plane. Sure, Arlind wouldn’t be best pleased that his consignment of illicit drugs had been seized – but it wasn’t their fault that slave Philip was such a useless drugs mule! Besides, there were plenty more drugs where those had come from – Arlind had many business contacts in Colombia. Look on the bright side - perhaps the two girls might even get a trip to Bogota out of it!

Needles to say Tristy and Poppy were allowed to proceed on their trip back to London by the Jamaican authorities as they were two, sweet, innocent young girls who were deemed to be entirely innocent of their despicable manservant’s attempted drug-smuggling activity. Indeed they were financially compensated by the Jamaican authorities for the inconvenience of having their ‘butler’ impounded.

And so, we rejoin slave Philip as he now found himself languishing for what must have been nearly a month in solitary confinement in a Jamaican prison cell, clad once again only in plain, rough, prison-sackcloth, awaiting trial, or so he thought, for attempted drug smuggling.

The key turned in the lock of his cell door and his young, 23 year old, uniformed, female prison guard, whom he knew only as ‘guard-mistress Alisha’ entered his cell. Guard-mistress Alisha was a pretty girl, if slightly on the plump side, who always looked resplendent and dominant in her prison-guard’s uniform consisting of a white shirt, black tie, black knee-length skirt, and matching black, knee-length, zip-up prisoner-officer boots. Only the boots ever seemed to let the tidiness of her uniform down, as they inevitably became dusty and dirty from the muddy floors of the corridors and cells of the Jamaican prison.

But slave Philip and guard-mistress Alisha had come to an understanding over the several weeks of his incarceration without trial – he would keep her boots clean by licking the dust and mud off them and, in return, she wouldn’t beat him with the thick, heavy, brown leather punishment strap in the way that she regularly beat the other male prisoners on her wing; or, at least, she wouldn’t beat him as much as she did the other male prisoners.

It was a good deal for the already whipped and bruised women’s footslave – the skills he had learnt in Albania were bound to have come in useful some time!

And so as soon as guard-mistress Alisha entered his cell, prisoner-slave Philip crawled over to her black leather, knee-length, zip-up, prison-officer uniform boots and began licking the Jamaican, prison-floor filth off the sides and soles of the boots:

‘Please don’t beat me today, superior guard-mistress Alisha’ …lick; lick…’I’ll be a good boot-licker for you today’ … lick; lick…’sweet and kind guard-mistress Alisha,’ he fawned. He had already learnt that it was best to demonstrate his complete and utter subservience towards the superior, young Jamaican female who was in a position of absolute authority over him.

Not that guard-mistress Alisha was particularly unfriendly – at least, not compared to some of the other prison guards, especially the male guards. In fact, her young-womanly compassion even extended to keeping him informed on the progress of his case, or rather on the lack of progress.

Until today that was. As slave Philip’s mouth filled with the taste of his plump, Jamaican female-guard’s, black leather prison-officer boots, the latter had some genuinely interesting news for him:

‘Ha! Ha! I’ve just heard that we’re gettin’ rid of you later today, drug-smuggling scum!’ she snapped down at him in her heavy, Jamaican accent. ‘You’re goin’ on a little trip!’

Slave Philip momentarily forgot what he was doing and stopped licking guard-mistress Alisha’s boots just for a second or two. ‘A little trip’ – that sounded ominous! What did she mean? A trip to Court? A trip to the Jamaican countryside – never to be seen again? His imagination started to run riot! After all, she had used the expression ‘we’re getting rid of you’!

A sharp kick from the dusty toe of miss Alisha’s right, prison-officer boot brought him back to his senses:

‘Keep licking my boot, scumbag!’ she barked, fingering her prison punishment-strap and genuinely offended that the prisoner should see fit to stop licking her boot without her permission:

‘Yes, superior guard-mistress Alisha…please forgive me, superior guard-mistress Alisha,’ grovelled the hapless male prisoner, promptly resuming his licking of his female guard’s superior, booted Jamaican feet:

‘Yes, as I was saying, filth, you’re goin’ on a little trip – down South; all the way to Colombia, in fact!’

She paused for dramatic effect to allow the import of her words to sink in.

‘Colombia? What Colombia as in South America?’ was what the prisoner-slave wanted to ask his superior guard, but, of course, he couldn’t as his mouth was humbly preoccupied with licking the prison muck from off her dirty, black leather boots.

It didn’t matter, however, for guard-mistress Alisha knew what her prisoner was thinking and was keen, as ever - for she was a compassionate young prison-guard - to put her boot-licking charge out of his misery:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes, you’re goin’ on a little trip down to Bogota as there’s some people down there who wants to see you. I understand they wants to aks you about the loss of some property of theirs – some cocaine or somefin’ – that you had been entrusted with? Ha! Ha! I expect they wants to thank you for the loss of their property, and to congratulate you on losing them millions of dollars! Ha! Ha!’

Slave Philip’s heart sank. The loss of their property? She must mean the Colombian drug barons whose cocaine had been inside his stomach when he was caught! My God, what would they do to him?

Slave Philip was, not for the first time, confused:

‘But superior guard-mistress Alisha…what about my trial here in Jamaica?’ he queried, as he continued to humbly lick the dust off the soles of miss Alisha’s black, leather, prison-officer boots.

‘Hah! Trial? …You don’t think we wants to keep a filthy piece of scum like you here in Jamaica at the Jamaican taxpayers’ expense for a trial, does you? Not when that nice Mr Arlind back in London have offered to pay for you to be properly punished by his business contacts in Colombia? I understand that Mr Arlind was really angry that you has jeopardised the freedom of his two young friends, miss Tristy and miss Poppy, by attemptin’ to smuggle drugs onto his private plane, and so he have come to an arrangement with his Colombian friend, Mr Carlos, who have some ideas as to how you can be taught a lesson! Oh, and don’t worry, piece of scum, we has been assured that Mr Carlos won’t kill you…we understand that he have arranged for you to be the servant of one of his girlfriends, a miss Sancha, who have lost a lot of money thanks to your incompetence. Let’s see how you likes serving she! I expect she will be ever so grateful to you for losing her all that money, and will express her gratitude to you when she have you in her power! Ha! Ha!’

Miss Alisha was clearly finding slave Philip’s predicament highly amusing. He sensed a certain amount of corruption coming into play here. He wondered how much prison-guard mistress Alisha herself was being paid to ‘release’ him into the custody of the Colombian drugs cartel! That ‘nice Mr Arlind’s’ influence obviously ran deep across the entire world, but then – money talks!

Later that same day the inside of slave Philip’s mouth still tasted of guard-mistress Alisha’s Jamaican boot mud as he found himself trussed up and gagged inside a wooden crate heading as ‘cargo’ to Bogota, Colombia.

At least I’m getting to see the world, or rather I’m getting to taste women’s feet and footwear around the world, he thought to himself!

On arrival in Bogota he had expected to find himself in Mr Carlos’s opulent villa – all paid for by drugs money of course – and to be thrust down on his hands and knees on the plush carpet of Mr Carlos’s living room floor before the feet of the Colombian drug baron’s doubtless wealthy and bejewelled wife, miss Sancha, as she finally got the chance to physically and verbally abuse him for his incompetence in falling to smuggle her husband’s precious consignment of drugs through Jamaican Customs – thereby losing her beloved husband millions of dollars and meaning that she couldn’t buy all those luxury fur coats she had her eye on!

In fact, however, when the lid of his wooden crate was finally opened he found himself in what was obviously a dark and dingy slum-dwelling in the centre of Bogota – surrounded, not by Mr Carlos, his goons, and his rich, bejewelled wife, but by three, dirty-looking, scruffily dressed, greasy-haired, young Colombian women – all glaring down at him with looks that could kill.

‘Slave get out of box and on hands and knees!’ barked one of the scruffy-looking young women in a thick, South American accent.

Slave Philip was by now well used to obeying the commands of women – whatever their accent and whatever their apparent station in life. He was actually only too glad to be able to get out of that cramped, wooden crate.

As soon as he had crawled out of the crate and onto the dusty, wooden floorboards of the shanty-town hovel, the same young woman stooped down to cut off his gag with a knife and to similarly cut the ropes tying his hands. It now appeared to be time for the introductions:

‘My name Sancha,’ continued the same young woman. ‘You call me miss Sancha for I now your mistress and you my slave! Carlos buy you for me as you lose us money! Carlos plan buy me a new house with money you lose him!’

Her pretty, if dirty, Colombian features now appeared to be contorted with rage as the young woman screwed up her face, puckered her lips, and spat directly into slave Philip’s startled face.

The other two scruffily dressed young women in the room followed miss Sancha’s example and soon slave Philip’s face was covered in Colombian girls’ spit!

‘These my sisters – miss Juanetta and miss Rosalinda. You their slave too. You obey them – kiss their feet; you nothing but filthy, dirty scum!’

Miss Sancha then crouched down again to grab the back of his head and pull his face over to one of her sister’s feet – the one she had indicated to him as being miss Juanetta.

All three young women appeared to be in their twenties, with miss Sancha probably the eldest. They did all look like sisters, and were all dressed much the same in scruffy-looking, frayed, blue denim jeans and cheap-looking T shirts of various descriptions. Their hair looked tousled and dirty and all three girls looked decidedly ‘scrawny’ and unkempt – not exactly the well-to-do, exotic Colombian women he had been expecting to serve.

True, the three young women would probably have ‘scrubbed up well’ given half the chance – but it was gradually dawning on slave Philip that he had just ruined their latest chance of bettering themselves by getting caught by Jamaican Customs. Miss Sancha, he surmised, must be Mr Carlos’s ‘bit of rough on the side’ – his ‘mistress’, in the same sense that misses Tristy and Poppy were Mr Arlind’s ‘mistresses’. Mr Carlos, however, clearly liked his women cheap and dirty!

However cheap and dirty they may be however, the three Colombian girls now had slave Philip in their power, and their spit dribbling down his face denoted the fact that they were his superiors and were to be treated with the respect they deserved as his superiors and as the Colombian gangster’s molls.

Just about the only thing that distinguished the three young women from each other was their different coloured, cheap flip-flops on their dirty, unkempt feet. Miss Juanetta, for example, was wearing dirty, yellow flip-flops; miss Rosalinda was wearing dark blue flip-flops; and miss Sancha herself – evidently the Colombian gangster’s favourite moll – was wearing bright red flip- flops. The only other thing that distinguished one of the pairs of Colombian feet from the other two pairs were two dirty-looking, flesh-coloured plasters or band-aids on the backs of miss Rosalinda’s bare heels.

As slave Philip first of all kissed miss Juanetta’s yellow flip-flopped, dirty feet his slave nose, now fine-tuned to the varying foot odours of women’s feet, detected a pungent, cheesy aroma of sweaty, unwashed, feminine feet – not that he needed his sense of smell to establish that miss Juanetta’s feet needed a good wash; even in the dimly-lit hovel of the shanty-town slum he could see that her feet needed cleaning. That, presumably, would be his degrading task, using, as ever, his slave tongue. Guard-mistress Alisha’s Jamaican boot mud will soon be joined by miss Juanetta’s Colombian foot dirt in my slave-stomach, he thought to himself!

It was much the same for miss Rosalinda’s blue flip-flopped feet and miss Sancha’s red flip-flopped feet; they all smelt and tasted much the same – sweaty and salty. Miss Sancha, however, appeared to be the only one who could speak English, and she was clearly relishing the, unusual for her, position of having a humble, frightened, male footslave in her power and at her mercy.

As he respectfully kissed the top her dirty, chipped and unpainted big toe nail on her shapely, but dirty, red flip-flopped, right foot, she verbally humiliated him:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave like taste of miss Sancha and sisters’ dirty feet? Slave like taste of superior Colombian woman foot-sweat?...Slave answer Sancha!’ and she suddenly kicked him in the mouth with her scrunched-up toes.

Slave Philip knew he had to be at his most contrite in front of the genuinely angry Colombian gangster’s moll and her two beautiful, but dirty, sisters:

‘Yes mistress Sancha…if it pleases you mistress Sancha, this slave is honoured to taste the superior foot-sweat of his three, sweet and kind, superior Colombian mistresses, if it so pleases you mistress Sancha.’

It seemed that his slavish grovelling was indeed pleasing miss Sancha and that she wanted him to grovel even more. Having translated his response to the mocking delight of her two sisters, miss Sancha then ordered slave Philip to resume his verbal self-deprecation:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave a piece of dirt under our feet. Slave less than dirt under miss Sancha and sisters’ feet, for dirt on Colombian woman’s feet – good dirt from Colombian streets! Slave – bad dirt; slave a dirty piece of no-good filth! Slave say – “I am dirty piece of no-good filth; I not worthy to lick good dirt off superior Colombian woman feet!” Slave say it! Speak now! Obey!’

Slave Philip was happy to oblige his angry, young Colombian mistress, and not just in order to placate her, but because he did, now, actually believe it. So many women had made this point to him over the past few months since master Arlind had effectively sold him into slavery - he was worth less than the dirt and sweat on superior women’s feet!

‘Oh pray, mistress Sancha, if it pleases you sweet, feminine mistress Sancha, this slave is truly a no-good piece of filth, and is not fit to lick the superior Colombian street-dirt off his Colombian mistresses’ sweaty feet, if it so pleases you most merciful and all-powerful sweet, feminine mistress Sancha!’

And, as actions speak louder than words, with that he vigorously licked said, superior Colombian street dirt from underneath miss Sancha’s dirty, black toenails inside her dusty, red flip-flops. It was a fine meal – fit for a footslave – and one which complemented the superior, Jamaican, female boot-mud already inside his slave stomach. All these things were, of course, an acquired taste, but then they do say that travel broadens the mind and widens the palate!

But the angry and aggrieved Colombian sisters had yet another undeserved culinary treat in store for their newly acquired footslave. Miss Rosalinda was explaining something to her elder sister, miss Sancha, in Spanish, which the latter kindly translated for the kneeling slave:

‘Ha! Ha! Miss Rosalinda say if slave like taste of Colombian woman foot-dirt, maybe slave like taste of Colombian woman foot-plaster? Ha! Ha! Miss Rosalinda heels sore on right foot many days now. Miss Rosalinda wear high heels to club. Shoes rub on back of miss Rosalinda heels. Miss Rosalinda put plasters on heels, but plasters get dirty. Miss Rosalinda say slave like clean outside of miss Rosalinda plasters?’

Slave Philip gathered that miss Rosalinda’s kind ‘offer’ for him to clean the outside of her heel-plasters, presumably with his slave tongue, was more of a command than a suggestion. But even with his well-developed footslave-palate, by now well accustomed to the various tastes of female feet and footwear from around the world, he baulked somewhat at the idea of having to lick the dirty, and in places blackened by street-dirt, outsides of the young mistress’s plasters - not so much because he felt such humble tastes were beneath him, but because he was concerned that the pressure of his tongue on the back of her sore and chapped heels might cause the superior young woman some discomfort.

It was a risk, however, that the courageous miss Rosalinda was apparently prepared to take as she was already kindly taking up position with her back to him in order to allow him greater access to the band-aids on the backs of her sore and chapped heels. Her sister, miss Sancha, now kindly proceeded to guide the humble footslave through the plaster-cleaning process:

‘Ha! Ha! Dirty slave lick outside of miss Rosalinda plasters. Lick off street dirt; clean; swallow dirt! Dirty footslave obey! Move!’ she ordered him, now quite breathless with cruel, feminine excitement.

Slave Philip felt an overwhelming sense of awe at miss Rosalinda’s magnanimity in permitting him this unique honour. And so he lowered his slave mouth first to the back of her blue flip-flopped, right heel and gently began licking the fabric of the outside of her band-aid. He concentrated on a black streak of what actually tasted like shoe polish down the centre of her heel-plaster.

Miss Sancha and her other sister Juanetta supervised the slave’s ministrations closely as miss Rosalinda herself was finding it difficult to observe whether or not the slave was doing a good job. Miss Sancha, in particular, reminded the slave that he was just a slave, and that any poor performance was therefore punishable with the strap:

‘Slave lick off all dirt and marks from back of miss Rosalinda plaster! Not touch miss Rosalinda bare flesh with dirty mouth. Not hurt miss Rosalinda foot with teeth, or miss Sancha beat slave with strap!’ and with that miss Sancha undid her brown, leather belt from around her jeans-waist, and placed it over slave Philip’s, prison-sackcloth-covered back, showing him exactly where she would strike him if he hurt her beloved sister in any way during the delicate operation of licking clean the outside of her dirty plaster!

Fortunately for slave Philip he was now well used to using his mouth to gently lick the dirt off ladies’ feet and footwear, and so using his tongue to lick clean a plaster that was attached to the back of a young woman’s heel, without allowing his lips to brush against her superior, bare footflesh, wasn’t beyond his capabilities. He successfully moistened and then cleaned the outside of the band-aid on her right heel, and then performed a similar task on the band-aid attached to her precious left heel.

He regarded his plaster-cleaning chore as an honour and a privilege, but mistresses Sancha, Rosalinda and Juanetta clearly thought he was now a totally gross individual, and despised him all the more for his abject licking clean of the outsides of a young woman’s foot-plasters. Miss Sancha expressed the three young women’s entirely understandable feelings of feminine disgust and contempt towards him eloquently:

‘Eww…slave make Sancha feel sick! Slave a dirty, filthy pig – lick filth from young woman dirty foot-plaster! Ha! Ha! Slave like whore – dirty, stinking foot-whore! Dirty whore lick at sore! Ha! Ha! Slave a dirty dog!’

Slave Philip, as he sucked off, then savoured, and then finally swallowed the dirt and shoe-polish from the outside of miss Rosalinda’s left foot-plaster, had to agree. He was nothing but a pig, a dog and a whore – a women’s foot-whore!

Miss Sancha, it seemed, wanted him to demonstrate his dog-like credentials in front of her sisters by making him whimper like a dog:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave whine like dog! Slave whine at miss Rosalinda feet; beg for miss Rosalinda let slave peel off plaster with teeth and lick inside of plaster!'

Slave Philip had to acknowledge that to lick the inside of miss Rosalinda’s plasters – the gauzy areas that were doubtless saturated with her precious footsweat and little bits of dry and chapped footskin, would indeed be an honour and a privilege for a dirty dog such as himself. He therefore whined and begged his mistress Rosalinda to let him remove her plasters and lick the insides:

‘Oh pray, mistress Rosalinda, please be so kind as to permit this dirty dog to remove your foot-plasters from your precious heels with his slave teeth and to taste the insides of your plasters, if it so pleases you most sweet and kind, superior mistress Rosalinda!’

If truth be told he felt something of a cad asking mistress Rosalinda for the honour of licking the insides of her foot-plasters - even though he had been ordered to beg for such a privilege by her elder sister, miss Sancha - as he knew in his heart of hearts that it wouldn’t be in miss Rosalinda’s own best interests to risk infection in her sore and raw heels by removing the protective plasters, just so that her slave could taste the dead skin of her chapped heels! He needn’t have worried though, for the answer to his request from ‘most sweet and kind, superior mistress Rosalinda’, when it came to slave Philip via her translator, miss Sancha, was firmly in the negative:

‘Ha! Ha! Miss Rosalinda say not want slave dirty-dog saliva and dirty-dog breath near miss Rosalinda bare heels. Slave finish now; slave dry outside of miss Rosalinda plasters with slave-dog breath!

So his ‘slave-dog breath’, it seemed, wasn’t good enough for miss Rosalinda’s bare skin, but could legitimately be used to dry the fabric of her band-aids. Slave Philip was disappointed, but fully understood the superior young Colombian mistress’s reasoning. She was a very wise young woman, and, although he felt it appropriate to amuse his three tormentresses further by whimpering and nuzzling miss Rosalinda’s blue-flip-flopped feet like a disappointed puppy, deep down he had to agree with her viewpoint as expressed through her interpreter-sister miss Sancha.

The three young women felt they couldn’t top slave Philip’s humiliation any further, and so they simply put him to work cleaning the soles of their respective flip-flops with his tongue. Indeed he spent the next two weeks shackled up in their shanty-town hovel, licking their dirty feet and flip-flops throughout the day and especially after they had each been entertaining one of the many male ‘visitors’ to their hovel. Or should we say ‘clients’ - for now that slave Philip had lost them the money that Mr Carlos had planned to buy miss Sancha a new apartment with, the three sisters had to continue working for a living and earning money in the way they knew best. Slave Philip therefore became the Colombian whores’ foot-whore, much to the amusement and entertainment of their wealthy gentlemen-guests (many of whom were friends and business-associates of the drugs baron Mr Carlos), who would often pay the girls extra just to watch slave Philip cleaning his Colombian mistresses’ dirty feet with his tongue in front of them.

The good news was that miss Rosalinda’s chapped heels healed up nicely beneath their freshly-cleaned plasters.

The even better news, for the three, twenty-something prostitutes, was that another of Mr Carlos’s subsequent drug runs was apparently more successful as he suddenly appeared in their hovel one day with the keys to a swanky new apartment for a delighted Miss Sancha and her two sisters to move into.

The apartment came, it seemed, complete with three, hunky, personal servants for each of the three women – and so they indicated to Mr Carlos that they felt they no longer needed the services of the dirty footslave. They didn’t want him ‘stinking out’ their new home.

Mr Carlos therefore asked the three girls what they wanted him to do with the footslave, as he had no further use for him. Miss Juanetta said she wanted him killed. Miss Rosalinda said she didn’t really care, but wondered if he couldn’t be put to work in the cocaine fields harvesting yet more crops for Mr Carlos to sell on? It was his favourite, miss Sancha, however whom Mr Carlos, predictably, listened to.

She suggested that her boyfriend Carlos ship slave Philip out to his contact in the Hong-Kong Police – the corrupt female police officer who ensured that all their shipments of cocaine to the far east got through without any problems – as she reminded Carlos that he had heard just a few days earlier on the grapevine that the female police officer concerned was interested in having a personal slave for herself and her family. What better way could there be for Carlos to ensure the bent copper’s continued support than to give her the gift of a slave – slave Philip?

And so, yet again slave Philip had to pack up his belongings, or rather was packed up in a wooden crate as the belongings of yet another gangster’s moll, and this time found himself heading for the exotic female-foot delights of the far east!




Part 4 – China

He must have passed out in the crate, for the next thing slave Philip was aware of was the shock of being woken up by means of a bucket of cold water unceremoniously splashed over his stupid head.

It took him a few moments to get his bearings, but when he came to he appeared to be confined on his hands and knees, naked, in some sort of wooden pillory-contraption. His aching head and neck, as well as his equally aching arms, were secured through some holes in the wooden crossbar forcing him to stare at the drops of water, which were still streaming down his face, and falling onto the dusty floor beneath him.

It looked like the floor of yet another deserted warehouse and, just for a brief moment, he wondered if he might actually be back in London! But he was soon disabused of this fanciful notion as a pair of shapely, white-stockinged, white-stilettoed heels suddenly stood in the emerging puddle under his gormless, dripping, wet face.

The white-stockinged, stiletto-heeled legs, beneath their matching, white mini-skirt, appeared to be laughing at him:

‘Ha! Ha! What a drip! You a fool! Look like ugly, wet fish!’

The accent was distinctly Chinese, and it was that which triggered his memory – the Colombians had shipped him out to Hong Kong, something about making him serve a corrupt female officer in the Hong Kong police? Could this be her? Could this be the plain-clothed police officer?

It was time for the introductions:

‘My name DC Wing Shi,’ said the young woman’s voice. ‘You now my slave. Ha! Ha! Slave of my sister also – Li Hua. You learn obey superior Chinese women; learn kiss superior Chinese women feet! Clean superior Chinese women dirty shoes and socks! Wing Shi learn slave how obey Chinese women. Slave not learn - Wing Shi hurt slave; cause slave many pain; make slave many cry! Ha! Ha!’

As he listened to the young detective constable’s diatribe in her broken English, the confined criminal Philip couldn’t help but notice how clean and pure her white, nylon stockings and shiny, white stiletto-heeled shoes appeared to be, compared to the muck and dirt of the female feet and footwear he had grown accustomed to serving in Albania, Jamaica and Colombia. And yet, for all her ‘purity’, his natural criminal instincts caused him to immediately regard DC Wing Shi as ‘the filth’. She was, after all, a copper – albeit, by all accounts, a corrupt one in the pocket of the Colombian gangster and drug baron, Carlos – and, at the end of the day Philip was a criminal, albeit a singularly unsuccessful one who had been playing well out of his league when he had crossed the Albanian gangster Arlind back in London.

Be that as it may, Philip still hated coppers, all coppers - be they Chinese or any other nationality. He would much rather serve a gangster’s wife or girlfriend than a copper!

Judging by her mocking, Chinese voice DC Wing Shi appeared to hold him in equal contempt:

‘Ha! Ha! Dirty criminal-slave kiss Wing Shi foot. Pay respect to Wing Shi foot. Honour it!’ and with that she stretched forward her right leg so that her white-nylon-stockinged, white-stilettoed foot was resting on the wet ground directly beneath his kneeling and confined face.

Yes, this was one woman whose feet slave Philip definitely did not want to have to kiss. A female copper’s feet! But, thick though he was, even the petty-criminal slave Philip was astute enough to realise that he was in no position to argue with the attractive young DC, whom he estimated to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Best to play along with her demands for the time being in order to humour her – until he could make good his escape. He was damned if he was going to remain the slave of a female copper!

He therefore lowered his lips and placed a cursory kiss on the shiny, white leather of the young DC’s outstretched, pointy-toed stiletto shoe.

DC Wing Shi was no mug, however. She knew exactly what was going on inside slave Philip’s criminal mindset. She could sense his distaste and reluctance to pay homage to her superior, police-officer feet and footwear. It actually amused her, and added to her pleasure. Nevertheless, she couldn’t just let it pass. She had to turn him into a contrite and humble footslave for all Chinese women, including herself. She had, after all, promised her sister Li Hua nothing but the best!

‘Ha! Ha! Dirty criminal not like kiss feet of superior, Hong Kong female Police officer? Criminal-slave too high and mighty to pay respects to superior Chinese woman? Ha! Ha! Wing Shi soon change that – learn dirty slave respect. Make slave honour Wing Shi shoe; make slave beg Wing Shi for honour of worshipping lady police officer dirty shoe!’

Slave Philip quickly realised that his perfunctory and half-hearted attempt at feminine shoe worship had been rumbled, and braced himself for some sort of beating. It was a natural reaction for a literally downtrodden man who had now been enslaved and oppressed by women all over the world. But there was no sound of a whip, cane or strap being test-swung through the air. Instead all he could hear was the creaking lid of a small, plastic box being opened. From the corner of his eye he could just observe that DC Wing Shi was taking out some sort of syringe, and a small phial of yellowish liquid.

For a split second she almost resembled a nurse, albeit a sexy, ‘male-fantasy’ type nurse, in her pure white, nylon stockings and shiny, white stiletto-heeled shoes. But DC Wing Shi was no nurse. Right now she resembled more of a torturer, as she kindly, and gleefully, explained to her helpless victim:

‘Ha! Ha! This – slave serum. Wing Shi bring back from trip to Europe; smuggle into Hong Kong! Serum make slave humble; make slave want obey Wing Shi. Wing Shi inject serum into slave neck!’

Slave Philip sensed the irony of the situation. He found himself in his current predicament at least in part because of his inability to successfully smuggle drugs through Jamaican Customs, and yet this corrupt, female Police officer, DC Wing Shi, was now in a position of absolute power over him precisely because she, for her part, had successfully ‘smuggled’ some sort of drug into Hong Kong!

Wing Shi noticed the look of consternation on slave Philip’s face, but mistook it for a fear of needles:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave not worry – injection not hurt, but soon slave feel completely in Wing Shi power!’

Although he couldn’t see it, DC Wing Shi was grinning almost lovingly down at her soon-to-be-submissive plaything. Although she herself wasn’t going to be injected with any substances, a surge of absolute power coursed through her veins that was every bit as powerful as the surge of submissiveness-serum that would soon be coursing through slave Philip’s scrawny body:

‘Sharp scratch coming, slave!’

It was the only warning he got. The next thing slave Philip knew DC Wing Shi was crouching down beside him as he knelt confined in the stocks and was inserting the long, sharp needle of the syringe into a vein in the side of his neck.

A sharp scratch indeed! He felt betrayed! DC Wing Shi had assured him the injection wouldn’t hurt. But it did! And she had actually been partly right - he was frightened of injections!

But he realised there was no point in struggling – DC Wing Shi was truly the one with all the feminine power, and if she wanted to penetrate and violate his male flesh with a needle there was nothing he could do to stop her. Besides, just as soon as the yellowish liquid entered his neck he seemed to lose all sense of fear about the injection, and instead felt an overwhelming surge of fear and respect for the superior young woman who was so selflessly prepared to cure him of his arrogance and stubbornness.

His head started to spin and he was a bit confused. Why had he been so disrespectful of mistress DC Wing Shi? Was she not self-evidently a pure and superior young woman? How on earth had he ever reached the conclusion that she was ‘filth’ and how could he possibly have baulked at the idea of paying slavish homage to the young, female police officer’s pure, white shoes? She was clearly his better – flawed, yes – but infinitely his better, for he was nothing but a low-life piece of criminal scum soiling the sole of her pretty shoe. He wished he could be just that – a dirty slither of muck on the sole of her shoe that she could wipe off on the grass and leave for dead. He wasn’t fit to be in this young woman’s presence. He was the filth; he was the scum; he was trash; he was vermin. And she was an oriental goddess!

Amidst the derogatory voices circulating in his head he heard the goddess herself suddenly speak:

‘Ha! Ha! Now slave respect Wing Shi? Feel humble towards Wing Shi? Want kiss Wing Shi dirty shoe; swallow Wing Shi shoe dirt?’

At that particular moment slave Philip could think of nothing he wanted more – except, perhaps, to be punished for his earlier surliness and disobedience towards goddess-mistress DC Wing Shi. He must beg the goddess to punish him for his insolence.

He sobbed, adding his tears of submission to the already wet floor:

‘Oh pray, mistress Wing Shi, if it pleases you, superior goddess-mistress Wing Shi, this dirty, no-good slave is truly sorry for his arrogance and lack of slavish humility when paying homage to your superior, feminine shoe and humbly implores his mistress to punish him for his inexcusable disrespect towards his superior mistress, if it so pleases you, superior goddess-mistress Wing Shi. Of pray, mistress Wing Shi, please punish this disobedient, insolent slave. Beat him! Whip him! This slave implores you on bended knee, sweet, feminine superior mistress Wing Shi. Please cause the slave pain! Please show him no mercy!’

If it had been some kind of drug-induced, misguided attempt at reverse-psychology, designed to actually appeal to miss Wing Shi’s better nature and get him off a beating, it didn’t work. For she took the now contrite slave at his word, and gave him what he wanted – a severe beating. She beat him repeatedly with a heavy, brown leather, punishment strap across his bare back and shoulders.

Fortunately, however, for slave Philip, it had not been an exercise in reverse-psychology. He had genuinely wanted to be punished for his earlier insolence towards goddess-mistress Wing Shi, and he screamed his thanks to her for every stinging blow, prior to politely requesting another. He only stopped begging for more when mistress Wing Shi’s right arm was clearly getting tired.

She had done enough to correct him. Now it was time for him to demonstrate his undying respect for her. Once again her right, stiletto-shod foot was positioned on the concrete floor of the derelict warehouse beneath his kneeling face for him to pay his respects to. The only difference this time was that the shiny, white shoe was a bit dustier, and the sheer, white, nylon stocking a bit sweatier – both caused by the superior young, Chinese woman’s exertions in generously and magnanimously beating him – and both her shoe and her stocking were therefore worthy of his even deeper respect. This time he literally showered them both with humble and respectful kisses as befits a whipped and penitent slave. He even nuzzled a tiny crease in the white material of her finest-denier stocking around her outer ankle-bone, and then repeated the entire process with her left foot as soon as it too was graciously presented to him.

Goddess-mistress Wing Shi seemed pleased, as, still somewhat breathless from her exertions with the punishment strap, she observed the complete change in the slave’s attitude:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave now humble! Wing Shi defeat slave! Wing Shi - winner; slave – loser. Wing Shi make dirty criminal into pathetic footslave for Chinese women! Ha! Ha! Now Wing Shi arrange for slave go to sister’s village in China. Slave serve as foot-cleaner for Wing Shi sister, Li Hua, and Li Hua friends. Criminal-slave eat only Chinese woman shoe-dirt; drink only Chinese woman foot sweat! Ha! Ha! You a dork! You a fool! You a Chinese women’s foot-fool! Ha! Ha!’

As he gently and lovingly nuzzled the slightly creased stocking on goddess-mistress DC Wing Shi’s left foot inside her stiletto-heeled white shoe, slave Philip had to agree with her. He was a Chinese women’s ‘foot-fool’, and deserved only to eat and drink Chinese women’s foot pollution. He resolved he would never look a Chinese woman in the eye, only in the foot, for they were all his superiors and betters, and he was nothing more than a foot-cleaning machine for their superior feet and footwear.

It was a position reinforced to him when, once again, he found himself trussed up like a piece of cargo in a wooden crate and shipped across the border between Hong Kong and the Chinese mainland in the back of a lorry. He was almost getting used to his itinerant lifestyle now – being passed from gangster’s moll to gangster’s moll like a piece of dirt being transferred from the sole of one female shoe to another. The journey this time seemed to last for several days, although it was hard to tell in the pitch black of the wooden crate. He could only go by the hunger pangs in his stomach and the thirst in his throat.

He wasn’t complaining, however. Even though the effects of the slave serum had worn off, he was still left with a feeling of absolute submissiveness and a desire to be a good foot-cleaner to Chinese women. Which was just as well – for DC Wing Shi, who had apparently accompanied slave Phillip on his journey, although presumably in more sumptuous surroundings, was equally determined that he would be a good slave for her sister, Li Hua, and her co-workers in the provincial village in rural China where Li Hua lived.

As soon as he was released from the wooden crate slave Philip found himself on his hands and knees in some sort of barn. He could hear chickens clucking outside, along with happy, female Chinese voices. Inside the barn, however, there were just two women – goddess-mistress DC Wing Shi, still, apparently, in her sheer, white, nylon stockings and matching white stiletto shoes; and another petite, dark-haired Chinese woman in her mid twenties whom slave Philip surmised to be mistress Li Hua, DC Wing Shi’s younger sister.

Mistress Li Hua, it seemed, could not speak any English as she was speaking animatedly in Chinese to her sister, whilst the latter acted as interpreter for the footslave:

‘Ha! Ha! Li Hua say like present from Wing Shi! Li Hua say make slave work hard – make slave clean dirty feet of women who work with Li Hua in paddy fields! Li Hua bury slave up to neck beside paddy field and make slave lick clean dirty footwear of superior Chinese peasant women. Ha! Ha! Slave never be free to walk or crawl again! Spend whole life buried in muddy field like boot and shoe-scraper! Ha! Ha!’

Slave Philip was now a completely submissive women’s footslave and was genuinely grateful to the inventive miss Li Hua for coming up with such a suitable, permanent position for a humble footslave – a bootscraper buried up to his neck in the ground beside a Chinese paddy field. Except that it, presumably, wouldn’t be just Chinese peasant-women’s muddy boots he would be scraping clean with his slave tongue, but also their shoes, flip-flops and bare feet.

What more could a humble footslave wish for?

Mistress Li Hua herself was currently wearing a dirty, mud-encrusted pair of ill-fitting, black, pull-on, rubber, flat-heeled, ankle-length boots and equally mud-stained, black denim jeans. Her method of becoming acquainted with her new footslave appeared to involve her spitting on the mud-encrusted toe of her dirty right boot, and then arrogantly holding it up in the air directly under the kneeling slave Philip’s nose as she waited for him to lick her saliva off the muddy toe of her black, rubber boot whilst she was still wearing it - all before she imprisoned him permanently in a hole in the ground beside her family’s paddy field.

It now seemed entirely appropriate to slave Philip that he should make the acquaintance of a new woman in his life in this way. There had been a time, before his enslavement, when he would have hoped to exchange saliva with a pretty, young woman by kissing her on the lips as a lover. But now, of course, he was far from being Li Hua’s lover – he was her footslave, and so it was only right and proper that his saliva should make contact with hers on the toe of her dirty boot.

Goddess mistress DC Wing Shi certainly seemed to think so:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave lick toe of miss Li Hua dirty boot. Lick Li Hua spit – thank Li Hua for find use for slave!’

Slave Philip now had his first taste of proper, mainland Chinese, female boot mud. Surprisingly, despite being mixed in with the taste of mistress Li Hua’s saliva, it tasted no different from the Albanian mountain-mud from Ms Teuta’s knee-length Wellington boots, or even the prison mud from the Jamaican prison guard-mistress Alisha’s knee-length, uniform-issue, black leather boots– it was the same acquired taste of bitter, feminine, black, boot rubber or leather mixed in with the brown earth. What an honour it was for such a humble footslave to lick the same earthly mud from a variety of superior goddesses’ boots and shoes around the world!

Mistress Li Hua, the Chinese peasant girl, was laughing and shouting something in Mandarin to her sister-translator, the city girl miss Wing Shi, for the latter to translate:

‘Ha! Ha! Li Hua say glad slave like taste of Chinese woman spit and boot-mud! Slave eat only Chinese woman boot-mud and drink only Chinese woman spit from now on! Ha! Ha!’

Slave Philip hoped miss Wing Shi had either misinterpreted what her sister, Li Hua, had said, or that miss Li Hua herself was joking. Obviously he wouldn’t be able to survive on just mud and spit, even if it was spit containing superior, feminine DNA! Surely he would also be allowed to drink the peasant women’s footsweat – as goddess-mistress Wing Shi had earlier promised him?!

Whatever, mistress Li Hua had clearly been deadly serious when she had suggested burying slave Philip up to his neck beside the paddy field - for just half an hour later that was exactly where he ended up, surrounded by several, grinning, petitely-built Chinese peasant women, who now seemed to tower above him like the veritable goddesses they undoubtedly were.

Each and every one of them, it seemed, wanted to spit on the westerner-footslave and then have him lick clean her feet or footwear, for he soon found himself covered in female spit and licking a succession of pretty, young Chinese peasant women’s feet – some in dirty flip flops (that reminded him of miss Sancha and her Colombian sisters); some in dirty boots (that reminded him again of miss Teuta and Miss Alisha, and even of miss Tristy on the occasion of his initial enslavement back in the derelict warehouse in London); and some even, somewhat surprisingly, in socks and sneakers – albeit rather cheap-looking sneakers (that reminded him of miss Luljana and miss Mirjeta’s sneakers back in Albania).

None of the Chinese peasant women appeared to speak any English, but then – why should they? Why should the mistress learn the language of the slave? He resolved that he would have to learn Mandarin Chinese – or, at least, learn to recognise orders in Chinese – orders such as ‘Slave lick shoes! Slave clean sweaty feet! Slave suck dirt off sock!’ – for goddess-mistress Wing Shi was unlikely to be around to translate for him all the time. He guessed she would have to get back soon to her job in the Police Force in Hong Kong – especially as she would probably have to oversee the next shipment of her Colombian paymaster Carlos’s illicit drugs safely through Customs.

It was therefore with a certain sense of sadness mixed with eagerness that he saw goddess-mistress DC Wing Shi’s rather incongruous, city-girl, shiny, white stilettos and fine, white denier stockings approaching him as he was surrounded by the much ‘rougher’ feet and footwear of the peasant women. The latter seemed to make way for DC Wing Shi almost out of a sense of deference for their boss, Li Hua’s, elder sister from Hong Kong.

For her part DC Wing Shi just continued to laugh at and mock the pathetic, now buried up to the neck, women’s footslave:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave like new accommodation? Chinese hole and dirt to slave’s satisfaction? Slave like taste and smell of Chinese peasant women dirty feet?’

The answer to all of those questions was, of course, yes! But slave Philip couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret at goddess-mistress Wing Shi’s imminent departure – and not just because he would be losing his translator in such a strange and foreign land.

He felt sorrow primarily because he felt guilt. Guilt at the way he had initially shown such disrespect to DC Wing Shi’s feet; guilt that he would not be able to serve her feet and footwear properly in the future, as he was destined to remain in this paddy-field hole whilst she returned to the luxury and comfort of the big metropolis; and, above all, guilt that as she stood above him now in her pristine white, designer, nylon stockings and designer, white patent leather, pointy-toed, spike-heeled stiletto shoes, a tiny blade of muddy grass had attached itself to the stitching of the stocking just below her right ankle.

Goddess-mistress DC Wing Shi appeared not to have noticed the minute blade of grass herself, but slave Philip found it offensive. It was soiling the otherwise flawless, pristine footwear of his superior Chinese mistress – the woman who had beaten his arrogance out of him and taught him the true meaning of humility.

As she stood over him, her petite Chinese hands on her petite and shapely Chinese hips, laughing at him, and mocking him in Chinese for the benefit of the surrounding female paddy-field workers, slave Philip could only yearn for her to give him the order in English to remove the offending blade of grass from the side of her white, nylon stocking with his dirty, unworthy, slave lips.

And so we leave slave Philip very much as we found him – obsessed by a tiny, foreign object attached to a superior young woman’s otherwise pristine, white footwear – only this time on the outskirts of a village in a country called China, on the continent called Asia, on the planet called Earth – which is but one of the planets in the planetary system known as the Solar System, orbiting just one of the many billions of stars, in just one of the many billions of Galaxies, a Galaxy known as ‘The Milky Way’.

And if our little story reveals anything it surely reveals both the absurdity and the wonder of the submissive male foot fetishist’s universe, within the infinite vastness of space.

The End