Work, Rest and Play
Part 1 – Mistress Pratima’s Plaything
My new mistress, mistress Pratima, is showing me around her house. She has literally just purchased me a few hours ago as her personal footslave at the central slave auction in the town, but already, just by eavesdropping on her excited mobile phone conversations with her friends, I have deduced quite a lot about her. I know, for example, that she is 24 years old; she is of Indian origins, and still speaks with a strong Indian accent; she lives alone; she works as a cleaner; and I can clearly observe with my own, downcast, slave eyes that she is a very pretty-looking young, Asian woman - petite and slim.
I am humbly crawling behind her shoes and socks as she leads me behind her heels down a wooden staircase into the basement of her seemingly modest home. My new, Indian mistress is wearing dark blue jeans; shiny, black, flat, leather loafers; and short, navy-blue sneaker socks with a small, square-shaped, red logo on the sides. Only the upper part of the tiny, red logo is visible as mistress Pratima’s short, navy-blue socks disappear down into her shoes along her upper instep – disappearing completely from view by the time they reach her shapely, dark-skinned, Indian ankle bones and heels. I am already obsessed by my attractive new Indian mistress’s pretty feet, shoes and socks – and a good job too, as I shall be spending most of my time from now on servicing and pampering her superior feet and footwear.
As we reach the bottom of the wooden staircase my new mistress unlocks a heavy wooden door and leads me into a dark basement. It smells of wood, but I can’t see anything clearly until she switches on the rather dim ceiling light.
Suddenly, as my eyes adjust to the now dimly lit room, I understand the reasons for the overpowering smell of wood. Beyond the backs of my mistress’s shapely, unsocked heels I can see that the basement looks like some sort of medieval torture chamber or professional dominatrix’s den (not that my sweet and modest Indian-girl mistress Pratima could in any way be mistaken for a professional dominatrix!). The windowless basement room is full of what look like medieval torture contraptions – a set of low, wooden stocks; a wooden, floor-level stretching rack; a whipping post with what looks like a cat o’ nine tails hanging from the top; a whole row of nasty-looking, swishy rattan canes.
My pretty, young Indian mistress kindly explains the contents of the room to me in her broken English and strong Indian accent:
‘This is being Pratima’s playroom, isn’t it? This is where Pratima is hurting her slaves. Pratima is liking hurting slaves. Pratima is liking hurting you. Here Pratima is whipping you and punishing you if you are not obeying her, isn’t it?’
I am in shock. The first thought that flashes through my mind, somewhat bizarrely, is how can my new mistress, who works as a cleaner on what is presumably the minimum wage, possibly afford such expensive equipment? Surely it must all be stolen?
As I allow my thoughts thusly to digress, my new Indian mistress’s suddenly sharply-raised voice echoes around the bare-wooden-floored basement:
‘Answer Pratima, slave, or you will be feeling the whip!’
Her question ‘isn’t it?’ had evidently not been, as I had originally thought, a rhetorical question.
I answer my new Indian mistress humbly in the affirmative, even though I can’t actually remember what the original question was:
‘Yes mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima.’
Mistress Pratima says nothing, but drags me by the thick, metal chain attached to a leather slave-collar around my neck behind her shiny, black leather, low-heeled loafers over to the wooden stocks contraption. To my horror she raises the heavy, wooden crossbar and puts my head and hands into the holes before locking the same wooden crossbar back down on top of my neck – thus securing me on my hands and knees in the low stocks, with my head now hovering just inches above the bare, wooden floorboards of the basement floor.
I hear my mistress Pratima giggling as she then walks round to stand imperiously, hands resting on her hips, directly in front of me – her flat, shiny black shoes and what little I can see of her short, navy-blue ankle socks now directly under my nose beneath the stitched hems of her dark blue jeans which only reach down to the tops of her shapely, brown, Indian ankle bones.
Suddenly her right foot is stretched forward on the wooden floorboard beneath my kneeling and helplessly confined face:
‘Be kissing me on the toe of my shoe, slave!’
Uncomfortable though it is, I can just about stretch my neck down far enough to touch the shiny black shoe leather of my new mistress’s round-toed, flat loafer shoe.
Although this is not the first time I have kissed her shoe since she purchased me some three hours ago, the fact that I am now doing so whilst confined impotently in the wooden kneeling-stocks appears to add a frisson of excitement for her:
‘Ha! Ha! You are being nothing but a dirty, weak slave, isn’t it? A dirty footlick! An Indian girl’s shoelick, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
I have already established that my new mistress Pratima likes to hear an answer to her rhetorical questions:
‘Yes mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima, this slave is nothing but his beautiful, young Indian mistress’s dirty footlick and shoelick.’
‘Ha! Ha! You are liking the taste of Pratima shoe? You are liking her shoe dirt?’
Actually, if truth be told (and it undoubtedly will be), I am liking it. Although mistress Pratima’s shoe may look shiny and clean from a distance, this close up I can observe all the little traces of dust and street-dirt on the otherwise shiny, rounded toe of her patent-leather loafer. And I like what I see:
‘Oh pray mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima, this dirty slave is indeed honoured to taste his superior Indian mistress’s shoe-dirt and shoe-dust, if it so pleases you most beautiful mistress Pratima.’
My obsequiousness seems to tickle her fancy:
‘Ha! Ha! You must be licking my shoe, not be just kissing it, slave – otherwise you will not be tasting it fully, isn’t it? Be licking the dirt off my shoe now, slave, or I am whipping you!’
And with that I witness the elasticated top of her short navy-blue sock which runs along her shapely, soft, brown instep crease and fold around the area of the tiny, square, red logo as my mistress Pratima suddenly reaches over to unhook the cat o’ nine tails from the nearby wooden, whipping post.
She swishes the terrifying whip threateningly through the air before placing its twisted, leather lashes gently on my bare, vulnerable, kneeling-slave back and then drawing it softly across my taught, white skin as I lower my mouth to the outstretched toe of her right loafer shoe once again, and begin to diligently lick her dirty, dusty shoe leather.
She laughs at my evident fear and panic, brought on by the sight and feel of the multi-tailed leather whip resting ominously on my bare back:
‘Ha! Ha! This is being Pratima’s whip, slave. Are you feeling the knots in the lashes? They are tearing your skin if Pratima is bringing the lash down hard upon you, isn’t it? You must be licking all the dirt off my shoe or I am whipping you hard!’
So, the mistress who is a cleaner by profession now wants her personal shoe cleaner to polish up her dusty, dirty shoe leather with his slave tongue. As the mistress wishes, so shall it be done, for this slave fears the lash – particularly the cat o’nine tails. He already has enough whip marks on his back courtesy of his previous mistresses!
‘Oh pray mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima, please don’t beat me mistress Pratima. This slave will do a good job of licking clean his mistress’s dirty shoes, if it so pleases you sweet and kind feminine mistress Pratima. Oh pray mistress! Oh pray!’
Sorry to sound so utterly pathetic, but I always think it is a good idea to make it perfectly clear to your new mistress that you both respect her whip and her power and authority to inflict pain on you. You don’t, after all, wish to give the impression that you are an uppity slave who needs to be broken in, for, ultimately you will have to obey your mistress and submit to her will. May as well do it with as little pain along the way as possible. Servility is undoubtedly the best policy, for it is the cowardly slave who survives to serve another day!
Emboldened by my pathetic begging and slavish shoe-licking, mistress Pratima reminds me that she has other instruments of pain and punishment at her sweet, feminine disposal:
‘Ha! Ha! If you are not obeying Pratima she can be not only whipping you, but be stretching you on the rack! Ha! Ha! Pratima is making you lick the soles of her dirty shoes while she is stretching you on the rack. You will be experiencing many pain on the rack while you are tasting her shoe-dirt! Ha! Ha!’
I have never been racked before, and don’t wish to experience my arm and leg muscles being pulled from their sockets on the rack whilst my mistress Pratima wipes her dirty shoe-soles on my upturned face (As the rack is down at floor level mistress Pratima can presumably either stand over me, or perhaps even sit on a chair above me, and thereby humiliate and degrade me with the soles of her pretty feet and footwear whilst she racks me!)
I am frightened of my petite but all-powerful, 24 year old Indian mistress, and feel I must beg not be racked:
‘Oh pray mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima, please don’t rack me mistress! Oh pray, sweet mistress. Please be sweet and kind to your obedient, dirty slave, most beautiful, young Indian mistress! Have mercy mistress!’
Mistress Pratima just laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Pratima is liking to play with her rack! Pratima is liking to be stretching her slaves on the rack. She will be racking you if she damn well wishes it, isn’t it slave?’
Of course, she speaks the truth. My mistress Pratima can do whatever she likes to me. I am just her plaything every bit as much as the wooden ‘toys’ in her dungeon.
I promptly apologise for my self-indulgent arrogance in begging not to be stretched on the rack:
‘Oh pray mistress. Please forgive this haughty, arrogant slave, mistress. The mistress is all–powerful and may indeed treat her slave as she wishes, if it so pleases you sweet and kind feminine mistress Pratima.’
Mistress Pratima pauses for a few seconds before twisting the side of her still outstretched, right foot, to reveal more of her navy-blue socked instep inside her shiny, black loafer shoe:
‘Slave be kissing me on the side of my sock! Be kissing the red logo and then be running your nose back and forward along the top of my sock like a dog!’
She draws the leather lashes of her cat o’ nine tails gently across my bare shoulders again, allowing me another close-up feel of the twisted little knots in the leather – knots which I have no doubt would only serve to increase my pain should she ever decide to draw the cruel whip across my back in anger!
Even stationary, the feel of the leather whip on my bare back spurs me on to ever more slavish obedience.
I meekly lower my lips to the red logo on the top-middle of her short, navy blue sneaker sock, respectfully kiss it, and then run my nose back and forth along the elasticated top of mistress Pratima’s navy blue sock – just as she had commanded me to do, all the while taking great care not to touch her bare, Indian footflesh with the tip of my ugly, slave nose as I somehow sense that my mistress Pratima, and her cat o’ nine tails, would not approve of that!
Mercifully, she appears satisfied with my humble act of sock worship and laughs down at me:
‘Ha! Ha! The slave is being an Indian-girl’s sock kisser and sniffer! You are having to be obeying me and to be humbly kissing and sniffing Pratima’s dirty socks! Ha! Ha! You are being frightened of Pratima, isn’t it? Pratima is going to be enjoying playing with you in her dungeon! Ha! Ha!’
Yes, mistress Pratima clearly has a brand new plaything to toy with in her dungeon during her spare time – me!
But no slave can expect to live a life of all play and no work, as my new mistress Pratima goes on to explain:
‘Pratima is being working hard. Pratima is being cleaning hard in an office. Pratima is being better than you, you are being Pratima’s slave, so you will be being working and cleaning harder than Pratima! You will be being licking and cleaning Pratima’s dirty shoes and socks. You will be being smelling Pratima’s dirty, stinky socks before you are licking them clean, and you will be being swallowing all the dirt on Pratima’s mucky shoes. You are being her dirty slave, and Pratima is liking being your master. Ha! Ha!’
I brace myself for a life of pain and humiliation at the feet and footwear of my pretty, new female master – a life spent licking and cleaning the Indian cleaning-girl’s black, loafer shoes, and sniffing and sucking the Indian cleaning-girl’s sweaty, blue socks!
Are you at all jealous, perchance?
Part 2 – Mistress Pratima’s Workthing
I soon discovered, however, that mistress Pratima intended for me to work at much more than just tongue-shining her shoes and mouth-washing her socks.
The following day she desires me to accompany her to her place of work as an office cleaner, where she uses me as one of her cleaning tools.
She is wearing the same black, loafer shoes and navy blue sneaker-socks as the day before – socks which had been washed in my slave mouth, hand-washed by my slave hands and then dried on my slave face overnight as I slept by the foot of her bed.
As soon as we get to her cleaning cupboard in the office mistress Pratima puts on her navy-blue tabard to match her dark blue jeans and navy blue sneaker-socks inside her shiny, flat, black leather loafers, and promptly attaches a long, metal pole into a hole in the back of the leather slave-collar which permanently encircles my scrawny neck. She then, rather roughly, inserts a mop-end into my mouth, raises my head by means of the metal pole, and dunks my mop-face in a metal bucket full of lukewarm water.
I am now a human mop, ready to help her scrub the office floors.
We begin in the kitchen. A succession of female office workers are passing in and out of the kitchen making themselves early-morning cups of tea and coffee. There do not appear to be any male workers in the office, so the first thought that occurs to me is that I will be face-mopping off the linoleum floor the shoe-dirt from the soles of exclusively female office workers’ shoes, as mistress Pratima expertly manipulates my head and face back and forth over the floor by means of the metal mop-pole attached to the back of my leather slave collar.
I am frustrated, for I would much rather be licking and tasting the female office workers shoe-dirt neat, rather than having to taste their shoe-dirt through the dirty water of the mop-end. Watered down female shoe-dirt is most unappetizing!
Then again, I am not here for my own delectation and pleasure. I am here to work, not to play.
After some 15 minutes a particularly tall woman, in her early 40s, enters the kitchen. From the corner of my eye I can see that she has, short, stylish, blonde hair. She is wearing a smart, black trouser-suit, with particularly smart, sharply-pressed, black, boot-cut trousers over what appear to be a pair of ultra-modern, block-heeled, square-toed, black leather ankle boots.
My mistress Pratima greets her in a most respectful tone:
‘Good morning, Madam Alison. Please be being careful, Madam. The floor here is being very wet!’
‘Hello, Pratima…that’s okay,’ responds the blonde lady, whom I now know is called Madam Alison (or ‘mistress Alison’ to me). ‘Oh, I like your new mop! What happened to your old one?’
‘Ha! Ha! The old mop was unfortunately being too old and weak, Madam Alison. Pratima was having to get rid of him, isn’t it?’
‘Get rid of him? How do you mean?...you didn’t…?’
‘Ha! Ha! No, Madam…Pratima is just selling the old mop to a slave-trader so that he can be working in the salt mines!’
‘Ha! Ha! That’s so cool, Pratima! Ha! Ha! Your old mop is so old and decrepit that you sell him to the salt mines! My God, I wonder how long he’ll last down there! Ha! Ha! How much did your new mop cost, Pratima?’ enquires the tall, blonde, extremely svelte for her age, blonde woman.
‘Erm…Pratima is thinking that it was costing about £35 Madam’, replies my new- mop-owning mistress. I happen to know for a fact that she was only £5 down on the deal as she had received £30 from the slave trader for her previous ‘decrepit’ slave-mop.
‘Mmm…well, I’ll tell you what. Since you’re using the new mop to clean the girls’ dirty shoe marks from my nice clean office floors why don’t you put in an expenses claim and we’ll pick up the bill!’ responds the blonde, forty-something mistress.
Mistress Alison is evidently the boss around here. She certainly sounds confident and authoritative, and clearly at the very least has the authority to approve expenses claims!
Needless to say my new mistress Pratima is delighted! This will mean she is effectively £30 richer, as she will have procured her new cleaning tool for free! And not only that, she can take him home with her at night and play with him to her fiendish, female heart’s content in her dungeon-playroom!
My petite mistress Pratima gushes her thanks to the tall and svelte, blonde mistress Alison:
‘Oh thank you, Madam! Pratima is being most grateful, Madam,’ and with that she reaches down and pulls the dirty, sodding wet, smelly mop-end out of my already aching slave-mouth, and gives me another order:
‘Slave, be kissing Madam Alison’s boots and be thanking her for paying for you!’
If truth be told, I can’t wait to kiss Madam Alison’s stylish, black, leather ankle boots – for they are the black leather boots of a woman in authority.
As mistress Alison duly extends her right leg under my kneeling nose, the boot-cut hem of her smart, black trouser leg rides up somewhat to reveal more of her zip-up ankle boot, although sadly not enough for me to ascertain whether she is wearing any socks inside her boots.
I would guess, however, that mistress Alison would be wearing black ankle length socks inside her boots, in keeping with the rest of her officewear outfit.
I duly kiss the square-shaped toe of the office manageress’s stylish, black ankle boot. As I do so I notice that the leather of her boot is well creased – a sure sign that mistress Alison has worn these boots to work many times before. The inner linings of her boots must smell of her feet and socks!
I add to my mistress Pratima’s words of thanks to mistress Alison, with my own, humble, slave-speak words of slavish gratitude:
‘Oh pray, mistress Alison, if it pleases you mistress Alison, this slave is truly grateful for the mistress’s kind offer to reimburse his mistress Pratima for the cost of this dirty slave-mop. God bless you mistress Alison, if it so pleases you most powerful and magnanimous mistress Alison.’
Mistress Alison appears less than impressed with her latest ‘mop-employee’:
‘Shut up, slave, and just kiss my boots. And you’d better make damn sure you do a good job of mouth-mopping my dirty floors, or I’ll personally consign you to the salt mines like Pratima did with our previous office mop!’
It wasn’t clear to me from this who actually owned me now! Was it still mistress Pratima, or did mistress Alison now view me as her property, now that she had offered to pay for me from the company accounts?
Momentarily I felt slightly sorry for my mistress Pratima having to deal with this domineering, tall blonde woman.
Mistress Alison’s seeming arrogance, however, only spurred me to kiss the toes of her black,leather ankle boots all the more diligently, for this was clearly a woman of natural power and authority who was used to getting her way.
As for my mistress Pratima, she needn’t have worried. Mistress Alison gave her a verbal guarantee whilst I, mistress Pratima’s mop, lip-shined her black, officewear, ankle boots:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry Pratima – I’ll reimburse you if we do have to get rid of the new mop! Make sure you work him hard, though. I cannot stand dirty floors – especially dirty kitchen floors!’
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, Madam. Thank you Madam. Pratima will indeed be working the mop hard, and will be making him start with the dirt under your own boots, Madam Alison!’
Madam Alison then laughed and stood back, revealing a few faint traces of dirt from her boot soles on the white linoleum of the kitchen floor:
‘Ha! Ha! You’re quite right , Pratima! The soles of my boots must indeed be dirty! Just look at that filth on the floor! Make him mop it up now!’
Mistress Alison then made her early morning cup of tea whilst mistress Pratima reinserted the foul-tasting mop-end into my mouth. It occurred to me that it was perfectly right and proper that the superior feminine mouth of mistress Alison, clearly used to barking out orders, should be full of the refreshing taste of warm tea, whilst my own male slave mouth experienced the delights of lukewarm, dirty mop water and mistress Alison’s watered-down bootsole dirt.
But again, I must remember that I am not here to relax and savour the taste of dirty mop water. I am here to work, as the metal pole being manipulated at the back of my aching neck by my mistress Pratima abruptly reminds me. She deftly manipulates my mop-face over the dirty area of the floor where mistress Alison had previously been standing, and mistress Alison’s bootsole-dirt promptly disappears before my very eyes off the white, linoleum floor and into my slavemop-mouth – where it belongs.
After mistress Alison had left, a succession of other pretty, young female office workers entered in and out of the kitchen – all of them carefully avoiding me as they stepped over and around me, but in so doing they frequently re-dirtied, with their dirty shoe-soles, the areas of the floor I had just mopped clean with my mop-mouth!
I’m pleased to say that I observed a great variety of female footwear as the office girls came and went in and out of the kitchen – everything from black, patent leather, high-heeled pumps on shapely, dark-nylon stockinged ankles below short black miniskirts; to black, suede, loafers on white-stockinged feet beneath navy blue trousers; to soft, black mary-jane style ballet-flats on dark grey ankle socks beneath black, office trousers. One young, blonde office woman was even wearing jeans and sneakers to work – albeit smart, black designer jeans and plain black sneakers. She didn’t appear to be another cleaner (no tabard), but from her conversation with my mistress Pratima was evidently some sort of office junior.
I have to admit I didn’t pay too much attention to the young, blonde woman’s sneakers until the now familiar stylish, black ankle boots and boot-cut trousers of Mistress Alison re-entered the kitchen and spoke to her:
‘Philippa darling, have you met Pratima’s new mop?’
‘No, mama. What’s its name?’
Mama! This must be Mistress Alison’s daughter – the boss’s daughter!
Suddenly I have a lot more respect for the blonde girl with the black sneakers!
‘Ha! Ha! It doesn’t have a name, darling – it’s just a mop!...Pratima, make your mop kiss my daughter’s feet, would you?’
‘Yes certainly, Madam,’ responds my mistress, the cleaner, crouching down to once again remove the dirty mop-end from my mouth – not to give my aching jaw a rest, but to enable me to kiss yet more feminine footwear.
Meanwhile miss Philippa, with the nonchalant arrogance of youth, has stretched forward her right, sneakered foot on the linoleum floor as she leans with her shapely back against the kitchen worktop and cradles her cup of tea in her hands.
I ultra-respectfully (for I now know this is the boss’s, presumably spoilt, daughter – spoilt in the sense that I can’t imagine Mistress Alison allowing any of her other office workers to come into work dressed in jeans and sneakers, apart, perhaps, from miss Pratima the cleaner!) lower my freshly liberated jaw to the leathery, black top of the arrogantly outstretched, lace-up sneaker and kiss the rather scuffed toe.
I hear mistress Philippa – the owner of the sneaker – slurping noisily on her tea as I admire a flash of bright, pink, feminine sneaker-sock beneath the hem of her black, denim, designer-jean leg:
‘You will get me my own footslave for my 21st birthday next month, won’t you mama? I mean…you have promised me my own slave!’
‘Ha! Ha! Of course, darling!...’ responds her indulgent mother. ‘…Just as soon as it’s legal for you to own one!’
Mistress Philippa smiles at her mother as she bites into a biscuit and casually replaces her right sneakered foot with her left under my nose.
‘Jenny’s already got one, and she’s not 21 until next year mama!’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, I’m not Jenny’s mum – and I’m not having any of my daughters owning their own personal slave until they turn 21. That is the law, darling! I’m sure you can wait another month!’
Miss Philippa tuts petulantly:
‘Whatever!’
‘I am being sure miss Philippa will be making a good mistress,’ opines my mistress Pratima, endeavouring to lighten the mood.
I am sure of it too – such youthful petulance and arrogance! What a privilege it would be for any male slave to serve at the scuffed, black sneakers and pink socks of the boss’s, 21 year old daughter! Ha! Ha! As if an ugly, middle-aged slave such as me would ever stand a chance of being enslaved to a beautiful, rich, young woman like miss Philippa! She’s well out of my league! I have no doubt her mother will purchase her a handsome, designer-footslave to go with her designer-jeans!
The bossy mother and petulant daughter leave the kitchen again together, but are soon replaced by a further succession of office ladies, some of whom, like Madam Alison their boss, are wearing black ankle boots of various descriptions – some spike heeled; some low-heeled, some lace-up, some zip-up.
This constant stream of office shoes and boots are leaving their mark, however, on the kitchen floor, and I am having to mop and re-mop the linoleum floor with my face just as furiously as the girls keep coming in to wash up their cups or make yet more tea!
It was as my jaw was really beginning to ache and tire that I discovered my mistress Pratima had another tool, tucked quite literally up her sleeve, with which to inspire her slave-floormop to ever greater efforts. She produced a thick, leather tawse or strap, and promptly brought it swishing down through the kitchen air across my prone and vulnerable, kneeling, bare slave-back.
A shock wave of unexpectedly sharp pain coursed through me:
‘Be working harder slave. Be putting your back into it! I am wanting to be seeing this floor shining, isn’t it? Be sweating for Pratima, or Pratima will be beating you harder!’
And as if to reinforce the point she delivered another stinging blow with her strap across my back, just as a young, female officer worker, a pretty, twenty-something, Chinese girl, was entering the kitchen with her empty cup:
‘Ha! Ha! That right, Pratima! You whip dirty slave! Ha! Ha! Make dirty mop work harder! Make dirty mop sweat! Ha! Ha!’
The Chinese mistress was wearing muscle-tight, calf-length, black leather, zip-up boots with spiked heels on her soft, and extremely shapely bare legs beneath a very short, black, thigh-length dress.
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, Wei Ling… the dirty mop is beginning to be being tired, but Pratima will be making damn well sure he is not being slacking!’
The Chinese office girl, miss Wei Ling, clearly didn’t have a lot waiting for her in her In-Tray this particular morning, for she had a special request of the office cleaner:
‘Ha! Ha! Wei Ling have favour to ask, Pratima! Wei Ling feet dirty; feet sweaty inside boots, for Wei Ling not have time shower this morning! Wei Ling out dancing at party all night! Mop lick clean Wei Ling dirty feet if Wei Ling take off boots and socks?’
My mistress Pratima chuckles to herself:
‘Yes please, Wei Ling. I am being very pleased that you will be using my slave in this way! Where are you liking him to be licking you on your bare feet?’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, not here – not in kitchen. Wei Ling feet smell too much! Wei Ling not want stinky feet upset other girls! Ha! Ha! We go to stationary cupboard?’
And so the sodden and dirty mop-end was, mercifully, once again extracted from my aching jaw, and I found myself being led on my hands and knees behind the Chinese girl’s spike-heeled, leg-hugging, calf length, black leather boots and my own mistress Pratima’s shiny, flat, black leather loafers and short, navy blue sneaker socks towards the privacy of the hermetically-sealed office stationary cupboard.
Once inside, the door was closed and miss Wei Ling sat down on a metal office chair, ready to unzip her boots.
My Indian mistress, miss Pratima, reminded her Chinese colleague that this wasn’t necessary, as her new cleaning tool could do it for her:
‘Ha! Ha! Wei Ling is please being relaxing! The slave-mop will be unzipping and removing Wei Ling’s boots for her!’
Miss Wei Ling smiled and did relax back in her chair, as miss Pratima, still unceremoniously manipulating my head with the mop-pole attached to the back of my leather slave collar, pushed me forward on my hands and knees in front of the seated Chinese girl’s sexily booted feet.
I gingerly reached up and pulled down the zip on the side of miss Wei Ling’s calf-hugging, pointy-toed and spike heeled, black leather boot. As the zip reached the bottom of the fashionable, feminine boot I could see that miss Wei Ling was indeed wearing short, ankle socks inside her boots – a rather ropey pair of yellow, cotton ankle socks that, quite frankly, deserved to be kept hidden from view! Most unflattering, and in stark contrast to the stylishness of her lower-leg-hugging, black leather boots! The short, yellow ankle socks looked, and smelled, like cheese.
But somehow the smell seemed even worse when I peeled the cheesy socks off miss Wei Ling’s pretty Chinese feet! The pink toenail paint on her moist and sweaty toes was showing signs of peeling off, and the undersides of her toenails were quite dirty – slithers of black, ripe, cheesy toe-jam clearly visible underneath the tips of her pretty, but chipped, oriental toenails.
Miss Wei Ling had not been lying. Her feet stank, and truly needed a good wash!
Even my mistress Pratima had to comment on the smell:
‘Ha! Ha! Wei Ling’s feet are indeed being smelly and dirty. It is lucky I am being having a foot-cleaning mop! Ha! Ha! Please be allowing my slave to now be sucking and cleaning your toes, Wei Ling!’
Miss Wei Ling also now laughed as she pushed the entire contents of her petite, Chinese, right foot into my already mop-stretched mouth, and wriggled her toes around on my slave tongue.
My overall taste-impression was of salt mixed with little lumps of rubbery toe-jam, as I ran my slave tongue in and around the pretty Chinese girl’s pretty, but stinky- dirty, toes. I decided to focus my gaze humbly on her discarded and crumpled up, dirty yellow ankle socks lying on the floor beneath me – mainly because I could still smell their cheesy aroma as I simultaneously tasted mistress Wei Ling’s salty, sweaty feet.’
The sight of my oriental-toe-stretched mouth gagging with the Chinese office girl’s dirty bare feet clearly tickled my Indian mistress, mistress Pratima, who started laughing hysterically:
‘Ha! Ha! I am thinking my slave is liking the taste and smell of your feet, Wei Ling. He is being most enthusiastic in his sucking of your dirty toes, isn’t it?’
Miss Wei Ling too appeared pleased by my efforts:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes! Wei Ling like feel of slave tongue on toes. Feel feet getting clean! Feel stinky dirt coming off toes!’
The stinky dirt may have been coming off miss Wei Ling’s toes and sliding down my slave-mop throat, but, having dried miss Wei Ling’s pretty, young Chinese feet in my greying, middle-aged slave hair, I then had the indignity of having to put her still sweaty and dirty, short, yellow ankle socks back onto her freshly washed feet.
So what had been the point of the whole dirty exercise – other than to humiliate and degrade me?
Oh…I see! That was indeed the whole point ! Silly me! I must have a mop for a brain as well as a mouth!
Having said all that, are you not just a teensy bit jealous of me?
Part 3 – Mistress Pratima’s Footrest
When we eventually got home later that day my mistress Pratima, clearly impressed with my liking for young women’s sweaty, stinky feet decided to treat me to her own stinky-socked foot smells in her basement-dungeon playroom.
Somewhat ominously she secured me, flat out on my back and lying face upwards, onto her floor-level, wooden stretching rack – my arms and legs stretched out by means of leather straps to all four corners of the rack – not too tightly, I’m relieved to say, but tight enough to ensure that I was, in every sense of the word, ‘tense’ whilst my grinning, Indian mistress pulled up a wooden chair and sat over me – looking confident and relaxed.
My sweet and kind Indian mistress then kicked off her black,leather loafers that had been on her hot and tired feet all day long, and rested the soles of her navy-blue, ankle-socked feet on my upturned face.
I could feel little, rough balls of navy-blue sock lint on my cheeks as my nose became buried in the stitching of the blue sock directly underneath her toes.
I can hereby confirm that Indian cleaning-girl, sweaty, blue socks smell much the same as Chinese office-girl, sweaty, yellow socks – cheesy and vinegary. I could feel the sweat from the soles of my mistress Pratima’s moist, warm socks coming off onto my slave face and seeping victoriously into my facial skin-pores as she merrily rubbed her hot and tired socked feet up and down my stupid, gormless, footslave face.
‘Ha! Ha! Slave, be sticking out your tongue,’ ordered my mistress Pratima. ‘I am wanting to be feeling your tongue licking my socks!’
It’s not often a slave can get away with ‘sticking out his tongue’ at his mistress, but, of course, tonguing a young woman’s socks is far from being a rude gesture – on the contrary it is a gesture of humility and servitude, for it is designed to facilitate the licking away of the mistress’s cheesy sock sweat and dirty sock lint.
My mistress Pratima, however, was not content that my nose should be enveloped in just the smell of her outer-socked feet. She wanted me to taste the very essence of her stinky socks – for she now peeled off her socks (I, sadly, secured as I was by my outstretched arms and legs to the four corners of the rack, was in no position to remove her precious socks from her Indian feet for her), turned them inside out – her pretty Indian nose turned up in disgust at the stinky stench of her own sweaty, blue socks - and unceremoniously stuffed them both inside my slave-mop mouth.
My mouth was now awash with the taste of Indian girl sweaty sock, the same socks I had be staring at all day long inside her black, leather loafers as I had mouth-mopped the office floors.
Mistress Pratima then rested her pretty brown, bare feet on top of my upturned face and pinched my nose between the unpainted big and second toes of her pretty, right foot.
‘Ha! Ha! You will now be smelling my toes while you are being tasting my socks, pathetic sock-sucker! Ha! Ha! Pratima is being your better and master, for you are being her workhorse all day and her footrest all evening. Ha! Ha! You are being less than the dirt on her feet and socks, isn’t it?’
This time I was prevented from answering my Indian mistress’s rhetorical question by the navy-blue socks stuffed inside my mouth.
And so mistress Pratima sat triumphantly on her wooden chair with her human-footrest stretched out helplessly on the rack beneath her pretty, Indian feet – his mouth filled with her sweaty, blue socks with the tiny, red, square-shaped logos on the sides.
After she had retired to bed I remained lying uncomfortably on my back secured to the floor-level, wooden rack. Needless to say, with my leg and arm muscles stretched to their limits I slept rather fitfully, my predicament made all the more humiliating by having one of mistress Pratima’s black, leather loafers tied over my slave nose. As my mouth was still gagged with the sweaty, blue ankle socks, I had no choice but to breathe in through my nose the moist, stale air of the sweaty inside of her black, shiny, patent leather loafer, and whenever I opened my eyes all I could see was the stained-with-sweat, inner lining of her other loafer which was secured over my eye sockets.
But then, how else could an Indian cleaning-girl’s personal footslave be expected to sleep during the night? At least I am still working and serving my mistress throughout my fitful sleep by inhaling the residual sweaty air from her inner shoe and by ingesting the stale sweat from her dirty socks.
And tomorrow will be another day at the office – mouth mopping the dirty, female shoe-marks from the soles of the office girl’s shoes and boots off the crisp, white linoleum of the office floors.
It is only right and proper that this is how an Indian cleaning girl’s personal footslave and cleaning tool should be made to work, rest and play. Socks, boots, shoes, feet and pain. This is to be my existence from now on.
You must surely admit to being jealous now?
P.S. Incidentally, in case you were wondering, I eventually found out just how my mistress Pratima could afford to equip her basement dungeon with all her expensive, fiendish, wooden contraptions and playthings: hire purchase. Simple!
The End
My new mistress, mistress Pratima, is showing me around her house. She has literally just purchased me a few hours ago as her personal footslave at the central slave auction in the town, but already, just by eavesdropping on her excited mobile phone conversations with her friends, I have deduced quite a lot about her. I know, for example, that she is 24 years old; she is of Indian origins, and still speaks with a strong Indian accent; she lives alone; she works as a cleaner; and I can clearly observe with my own, downcast, slave eyes that she is a very pretty-looking young, Asian woman - petite and slim.
I am humbly crawling behind her shoes and socks as she leads me behind her heels down a wooden staircase into the basement of her seemingly modest home. My new, Indian mistress is wearing dark blue jeans; shiny, black, flat, leather loafers; and short, navy-blue sneaker socks with a small, square-shaped, red logo on the sides. Only the upper part of the tiny, red logo is visible as mistress Pratima’s short, navy-blue socks disappear down into her shoes along her upper instep – disappearing completely from view by the time they reach her shapely, dark-skinned, Indian ankle bones and heels. I am already obsessed by my attractive new Indian mistress’s pretty feet, shoes and socks – and a good job too, as I shall be spending most of my time from now on servicing and pampering her superior feet and footwear.
As we reach the bottom of the wooden staircase my new mistress unlocks a heavy wooden door and leads me into a dark basement. It smells of wood, but I can’t see anything clearly until she switches on the rather dim ceiling light.
Suddenly, as my eyes adjust to the now dimly lit room, I understand the reasons for the overpowering smell of wood. Beyond the backs of my mistress’s shapely, unsocked heels I can see that the basement looks like some sort of medieval torture chamber or professional dominatrix’s den (not that my sweet and modest Indian-girl mistress Pratima could in any way be mistaken for a professional dominatrix!). The windowless basement room is full of what look like medieval torture contraptions – a set of low, wooden stocks; a wooden, floor-level stretching rack; a whipping post with what looks like a cat o’ nine tails hanging from the top; a whole row of nasty-looking, swishy rattan canes.
My pretty, young Indian mistress kindly explains the contents of the room to me in her broken English and strong Indian accent:
‘This is being Pratima’s playroom, isn’t it? This is where Pratima is hurting her slaves. Pratima is liking hurting slaves. Pratima is liking hurting you. Here Pratima is whipping you and punishing you if you are not obeying her, isn’t it?’
I am in shock. The first thought that flashes through my mind, somewhat bizarrely, is how can my new mistress, who works as a cleaner on what is presumably the minimum wage, possibly afford such expensive equipment? Surely it must all be stolen?
As I allow my thoughts thusly to digress, my new Indian mistress’s suddenly sharply-raised voice echoes around the bare-wooden-floored basement:
‘Answer Pratima, slave, or you will be feeling the whip!’
Her question ‘isn’t it?’ had evidently not been, as I had originally thought, a rhetorical question.
I answer my new Indian mistress humbly in the affirmative, even though I can’t actually remember what the original question was:
‘Yes mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima.’
Mistress Pratima says nothing, but drags me by the thick, metal chain attached to a leather slave-collar around my neck behind her shiny, black leather, low-heeled loafers over to the wooden stocks contraption. To my horror she raises the heavy, wooden crossbar and puts my head and hands into the holes before locking the same wooden crossbar back down on top of my neck – thus securing me on my hands and knees in the low stocks, with my head now hovering just inches above the bare, wooden floorboards of the basement floor.
I hear my mistress Pratima giggling as she then walks round to stand imperiously, hands resting on her hips, directly in front of me – her flat, shiny black shoes and what little I can see of her short, navy-blue ankle socks now directly under my nose beneath the stitched hems of her dark blue jeans which only reach down to the tops of her shapely, brown, Indian ankle bones.
Suddenly her right foot is stretched forward on the wooden floorboard beneath my kneeling and helplessly confined face:
‘Be kissing me on the toe of my shoe, slave!’
Uncomfortable though it is, I can just about stretch my neck down far enough to touch the shiny black shoe leather of my new mistress’s round-toed, flat loafer shoe.
Although this is not the first time I have kissed her shoe since she purchased me some three hours ago, the fact that I am now doing so whilst confined impotently in the wooden kneeling-stocks appears to add a frisson of excitement for her:
‘Ha! Ha! You are being nothing but a dirty, weak slave, isn’t it? A dirty footlick! An Indian girl’s shoelick, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
I have already established that my new mistress Pratima likes to hear an answer to her rhetorical questions:
‘Yes mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima, this slave is nothing but his beautiful, young Indian mistress’s dirty footlick and shoelick.’
‘Ha! Ha! You are liking the taste of Pratima shoe? You are liking her shoe dirt?’
Actually, if truth be told (and it undoubtedly will be), I am liking it. Although mistress Pratima’s shoe may look shiny and clean from a distance, this close up I can observe all the little traces of dust and street-dirt on the otherwise shiny, rounded toe of her patent-leather loafer. And I like what I see:
‘Oh pray mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima, this dirty slave is indeed honoured to taste his superior Indian mistress’s shoe-dirt and shoe-dust, if it so pleases you most beautiful mistress Pratima.’
My obsequiousness seems to tickle her fancy:
‘Ha! Ha! You must be licking my shoe, not be just kissing it, slave – otherwise you will not be tasting it fully, isn’t it? Be licking the dirt off my shoe now, slave, or I am whipping you!’
And with that I witness the elasticated top of her short navy-blue sock which runs along her shapely, soft, brown instep crease and fold around the area of the tiny, square, red logo as my mistress Pratima suddenly reaches over to unhook the cat o’ nine tails from the nearby wooden, whipping post.
She swishes the terrifying whip threateningly through the air before placing its twisted, leather lashes gently on my bare, vulnerable, kneeling-slave back and then drawing it softly across my taught, white skin as I lower my mouth to the outstretched toe of her right loafer shoe once again, and begin to diligently lick her dirty, dusty shoe leather.
She laughs at my evident fear and panic, brought on by the sight and feel of the multi-tailed leather whip resting ominously on my bare back:
‘Ha! Ha! This is being Pratima’s whip, slave. Are you feeling the knots in the lashes? They are tearing your skin if Pratima is bringing the lash down hard upon you, isn’t it? You must be licking all the dirt off my shoe or I am whipping you hard!’
So, the mistress who is a cleaner by profession now wants her personal shoe cleaner to polish up her dusty, dirty shoe leather with his slave tongue. As the mistress wishes, so shall it be done, for this slave fears the lash – particularly the cat o’nine tails. He already has enough whip marks on his back courtesy of his previous mistresses!
‘Oh pray mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima, please don’t beat me mistress Pratima. This slave will do a good job of licking clean his mistress’s dirty shoes, if it so pleases you sweet and kind feminine mistress Pratima. Oh pray mistress! Oh pray!’
Sorry to sound so utterly pathetic, but I always think it is a good idea to make it perfectly clear to your new mistress that you both respect her whip and her power and authority to inflict pain on you. You don’t, after all, wish to give the impression that you are an uppity slave who needs to be broken in, for, ultimately you will have to obey your mistress and submit to her will. May as well do it with as little pain along the way as possible. Servility is undoubtedly the best policy, for it is the cowardly slave who survives to serve another day!
Emboldened by my pathetic begging and slavish shoe-licking, mistress Pratima reminds me that she has other instruments of pain and punishment at her sweet, feminine disposal:
‘Ha! Ha! If you are not obeying Pratima she can be not only whipping you, but be stretching you on the rack! Ha! Ha! Pratima is making you lick the soles of her dirty shoes while she is stretching you on the rack. You will be experiencing many pain on the rack while you are tasting her shoe-dirt! Ha! Ha!’
I have never been racked before, and don’t wish to experience my arm and leg muscles being pulled from their sockets on the rack whilst my mistress Pratima wipes her dirty shoe-soles on my upturned face (As the rack is down at floor level mistress Pratima can presumably either stand over me, or perhaps even sit on a chair above me, and thereby humiliate and degrade me with the soles of her pretty feet and footwear whilst she racks me!)
I am frightened of my petite but all-powerful, 24 year old Indian mistress, and feel I must beg not be racked:
‘Oh pray mistress Pratima, if it pleases you mistress Pratima, please don’t rack me mistress! Oh pray, sweet mistress. Please be sweet and kind to your obedient, dirty slave, most beautiful, young Indian mistress! Have mercy mistress!’
Mistress Pratima just laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Pratima is liking to play with her rack! Pratima is liking to be stretching her slaves on the rack. She will be racking you if she damn well wishes it, isn’t it slave?’
Of course, she speaks the truth. My mistress Pratima can do whatever she likes to me. I am just her plaything every bit as much as the wooden ‘toys’ in her dungeon.
I promptly apologise for my self-indulgent arrogance in begging not to be stretched on the rack:
‘Oh pray mistress. Please forgive this haughty, arrogant slave, mistress. The mistress is all–powerful and may indeed treat her slave as she wishes, if it so pleases you sweet and kind feminine mistress Pratima.’
Mistress Pratima pauses for a few seconds before twisting the side of her still outstretched, right foot, to reveal more of her navy-blue socked instep inside her shiny, black loafer shoe:
‘Slave be kissing me on the side of my sock! Be kissing the red logo and then be running your nose back and forward along the top of my sock like a dog!’
She draws the leather lashes of her cat o’ nine tails gently across my bare shoulders again, allowing me another close-up feel of the twisted little knots in the leather – knots which I have no doubt would only serve to increase my pain should she ever decide to draw the cruel whip across my back in anger!
Even stationary, the feel of the leather whip on my bare back spurs me on to ever more slavish obedience.
I meekly lower my lips to the red logo on the top-middle of her short, navy blue sneaker sock, respectfully kiss it, and then run my nose back and forth along the elasticated top of mistress Pratima’s navy blue sock – just as she had commanded me to do, all the while taking great care not to touch her bare, Indian footflesh with the tip of my ugly, slave nose as I somehow sense that my mistress Pratima, and her cat o’ nine tails, would not approve of that!
Mercifully, she appears satisfied with my humble act of sock worship and laughs down at me:
‘Ha! Ha! The slave is being an Indian-girl’s sock kisser and sniffer! You are having to be obeying me and to be humbly kissing and sniffing Pratima’s dirty socks! Ha! Ha! You are being frightened of Pratima, isn’t it? Pratima is going to be enjoying playing with you in her dungeon! Ha! Ha!’
Yes, mistress Pratima clearly has a brand new plaything to toy with in her dungeon during her spare time – me!
But no slave can expect to live a life of all play and no work, as my new mistress Pratima goes on to explain:
‘Pratima is being working hard. Pratima is being cleaning hard in an office. Pratima is being better than you, you are being Pratima’s slave, so you will be being working and cleaning harder than Pratima! You will be being licking and cleaning Pratima’s dirty shoes and socks. You will be being smelling Pratima’s dirty, stinky socks before you are licking them clean, and you will be being swallowing all the dirt on Pratima’s mucky shoes. You are being her dirty slave, and Pratima is liking being your master. Ha! Ha!’
I brace myself for a life of pain and humiliation at the feet and footwear of my pretty, new female master – a life spent licking and cleaning the Indian cleaning-girl’s black, loafer shoes, and sniffing and sucking the Indian cleaning-girl’s sweaty, blue socks!
Are you at all jealous, perchance?
Part 2 – Mistress Pratima’s Workthing
I soon discovered, however, that mistress Pratima intended for me to work at much more than just tongue-shining her shoes and mouth-washing her socks.
The following day she desires me to accompany her to her place of work as an office cleaner, where she uses me as one of her cleaning tools.
She is wearing the same black, loafer shoes and navy blue sneaker-socks as the day before – socks which had been washed in my slave mouth, hand-washed by my slave hands and then dried on my slave face overnight as I slept by the foot of her bed.
As soon as we get to her cleaning cupboard in the office mistress Pratima puts on her navy-blue tabard to match her dark blue jeans and navy blue sneaker-socks inside her shiny, flat, black leather loafers, and promptly attaches a long, metal pole into a hole in the back of the leather slave-collar which permanently encircles my scrawny neck. She then, rather roughly, inserts a mop-end into my mouth, raises my head by means of the metal pole, and dunks my mop-face in a metal bucket full of lukewarm water.
I am now a human mop, ready to help her scrub the office floors.
We begin in the kitchen. A succession of female office workers are passing in and out of the kitchen making themselves early-morning cups of tea and coffee. There do not appear to be any male workers in the office, so the first thought that occurs to me is that I will be face-mopping off the linoleum floor the shoe-dirt from the soles of exclusively female office workers’ shoes, as mistress Pratima expertly manipulates my head and face back and forth over the floor by means of the metal mop-pole attached to the back of my leather slave collar.
I am frustrated, for I would much rather be licking and tasting the female office workers shoe-dirt neat, rather than having to taste their shoe-dirt through the dirty water of the mop-end. Watered down female shoe-dirt is most unappetizing!
Then again, I am not here for my own delectation and pleasure. I am here to work, not to play.
After some 15 minutes a particularly tall woman, in her early 40s, enters the kitchen. From the corner of my eye I can see that she has, short, stylish, blonde hair. She is wearing a smart, black trouser-suit, with particularly smart, sharply-pressed, black, boot-cut trousers over what appear to be a pair of ultra-modern, block-heeled, square-toed, black leather ankle boots.
My mistress Pratima greets her in a most respectful tone:
‘Good morning, Madam Alison. Please be being careful, Madam. The floor here is being very wet!’
‘Hello, Pratima…that’s okay,’ responds the blonde lady, whom I now know is called Madam Alison (or ‘mistress Alison’ to me). ‘Oh, I like your new mop! What happened to your old one?’
‘Ha! Ha! The old mop was unfortunately being too old and weak, Madam Alison. Pratima was having to get rid of him, isn’t it?’
‘Get rid of him? How do you mean?...you didn’t…?’
‘Ha! Ha! No, Madam…Pratima is just selling the old mop to a slave-trader so that he can be working in the salt mines!’
‘Ha! Ha! That’s so cool, Pratima! Ha! Ha! Your old mop is so old and decrepit that you sell him to the salt mines! My God, I wonder how long he’ll last down there! Ha! Ha! How much did your new mop cost, Pratima?’ enquires the tall, blonde, extremely svelte for her age, blonde woman.
‘Erm…Pratima is thinking that it was costing about £35 Madam’, replies my new- mop-owning mistress. I happen to know for a fact that she was only £5 down on the deal as she had received £30 from the slave trader for her previous ‘decrepit’ slave-mop.
‘Mmm…well, I’ll tell you what. Since you’re using the new mop to clean the girls’ dirty shoe marks from my nice clean office floors why don’t you put in an expenses claim and we’ll pick up the bill!’ responds the blonde, forty-something mistress.
Mistress Alison is evidently the boss around here. She certainly sounds confident and authoritative, and clearly at the very least has the authority to approve expenses claims!
Needless to say my new mistress Pratima is delighted! This will mean she is effectively £30 richer, as she will have procured her new cleaning tool for free! And not only that, she can take him home with her at night and play with him to her fiendish, female heart’s content in her dungeon-playroom!
My petite mistress Pratima gushes her thanks to the tall and svelte, blonde mistress Alison:
‘Oh thank you, Madam! Pratima is being most grateful, Madam,’ and with that she reaches down and pulls the dirty, sodding wet, smelly mop-end out of my already aching slave-mouth, and gives me another order:
‘Slave, be kissing Madam Alison’s boots and be thanking her for paying for you!’
If truth be told, I can’t wait to kiss Madam Alison’s stylish, black, leather ankle boots – for they are the black leather boots of a woman in authority.
As mistress Alison duly extends her right leg under my kneeling nose, the boot-cut hem of her smart, black trouser leg rides up somewhat to reveal more of her zip-up ankle boot, although sadly not enough for me to ascertain whether she is wearing any socks inside her boots.
I would guess, however, that mistress Alison would be wearing black ankle length socks inside her boots, in keeping with the rest of her officewear outfit.
I duly kiss the square-shaped toe of the office manageress’s stylish, black ankle boot. As I do so I notice that the leather of her boot is well creased – a sure sign that mistress Alison has worn these boots to work many times before. The inner linings of her boots must smell of her feet and socks!
I add to my mistress Pratima’s words of thanks to mistress Alison, with my own, humble, slave-speak words of slavish gratitude:
‘Oh pray, mistress Alison, if it pleases you mistress Alison, this slave is truly grateful for the mistress’s kind offer to reimburse his mistress Pratima for the cost of this dirty slave-mop. God bless you mistress Alison, if it so pleases you most powerful and magnanimous mistress Alison.’
Mistress Alison appears less than impressed with her latest ‘mop-employee’:
‘Shut up, slave, and just kiss my boots. And you’d better make damn sure you do a good job of mouth-mopping my dirty floors, or I’ll personally consign you to the salt mines like Pratima did with our previous office mop!’
It wasn’t clear to me from this who actually owned me now! Was it still mistress Pratima, or did mistress Alison now view me as her property, now that she had offered to pay for me from the company accounts?
Momentarily I felt slightly sorry for my mistress Pratima having to deal with this domineering, tall blonde woman.
Mistress Alison’s seeming arrogance, however, only spurred me to kiss the toes of her black,leather ankle boots all the more diligently, for this was clearly a woman of natural power and authority who was used to getting her way.
As for my mistress Pratima, she needn’t have worried. Mistress Alison gave her a verbal guarantee whilst I, mistress Pratima’s mop, lip-shined her black, officewear, ankle boots:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry Pratima – I’ll reimburse you if we do have to get rid of the new mop! Make sure you work him hard, though. I cannot stand dirty floors – especially dirty kitchen floors!’
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, Madam. Thank you Madam. Pratima will indeed be working the mop hard, and will be making him start with the dirt under your own boots, Madam Alison!’
Madam Alison then laughed and stood back, revealing a few faint traces of dirt from her boot soles on the white linoleum of the kitchen floor:
‘Ha! Ha! You’re quite right , Pratima! The soles of my boots must indeed be dirty! Just look at that filth on the floor! Make him mop it up now!’
Mistress Alison then made her early morning cup of tea whilst mistress Pratima reinserted the foul-tasting mop-end into my mouth. It occurred to me that it was perfectly right and proper that the superior feminine mouth of mistress Alison, clearly used to barking out orders, should be full of the refreshing taste of warm tea, whilst my own male slave mouth experienced the delights of lukewarm, dirty mop water and mistress Alison’s watered-down bootsole dirt.
But again, I must remember that I am not here to relax and savour the taste of dirty mop water. I am here to work, as the metal pole being manipulated at the back of my aching neck by my mistress Pratima abruptly reminds me. She deftly manipulates my mop-face over the dirty area of the floor where mistress Alison had previously been standing, and mistress Alison’s bootsole-dirt promptly disappears before my very eyes off the white, linoleum floor and into my slavemop-mouth – where it belongs.
After mistress Alison had left, a succession of other pretty, young female office workers entered in and out of the kitchen – all of them carefully avoiding me as they stepped over and around me, but in so doing they frequently re-dirtied, with their dirty shoe-soles, the areas of the floor I had just mopped clean with my mop-mouth!
I’m pleased to say that I observed a great variety of female footwear as the office girls came and went in and out of the kitchen – everything from black, patent leather, high-heeled pumps on shapely, dark-nylon stockinged ankles below short black miniskirts; to black, suede, loafers on white-stockinged feet beneath navy blue trousers; to soft, black mary-jane style ballet-flats on dark grey ankle socks beneath black, office trousers. One young, blonde office woman was even wearing jeans and sneakers to work – albeit smart, black designer jeans and plain black sneakers. She didn’t appear to be another cleaner (no tabard), but from her conversation with my mistress Pratima was evidently some sort of office junior.
I have to admit I didn’t pay too much attention to the young, blonde woman’s sneakers until the now familiar stylish, black ankle boots and boot-cut trousers of Mistress Alison re-entered the kitchen and spoke to her:
‘Philippa darling, have you met Pratima’s new mop?’
‘No, mama. What’s its name?’
Mama! This must be Mistress Alison’s daughter – the boss’s daughter!
Suddenly I have a lot more respect for the blonde girl with the black sneakers!
‘Ha! Ha! It doesn’t have a name, darling – it’s just a mop!...Pratima, make your mop kiss my daughter’s feet, would you?’
‘Yes certainly, Madam,’ responds my mistress, the cleaner, crouching down to once again remove the dirty mop-end from my mouth – not to give my aching jaw a rest, but to enable me to kiss yet more feminine footwear.
Meanwhile miss Philippa, with the nonchalant arrogance of youth, has stretched forward her right, sneakered foot on the linoleum floor as she leans with her shapely back against the kitchen worktop and cradles her cup of tea in her hands.
I ultra-respectfully (for I now know this is the boss’s, presumably spoilt, daughter – spoilt in the sense that I can’t imagine Mistress Alison allowing any of her other office workers to come into work dressed in jeans and sneakers, apart, perhaps, from miss Pratima the cleaner!) lower my freshly liberated jaw to the leathery, black top of the arrogantly outstretched, lace-up sneaker and kiss the rather scuffed toe.
I hear mistress Philippa – the owner of the sneaker – slurping noisily on her tea as I admire a flash of bright, pink, feminine sneaker-sock beneath the hem of her black, denim, designer-jean leg:
‘You will get me my own footslave for my 21st birthday next month, won’t you mama? I mean…you have promised me my own slave!’
‘Ha! Ha! Of course, darling!...’ responds her indulgent mother. ‘…Just as soon as it’s legal for you to own one!’
Mistress Philippa smiles at her mother as she bites into a biscuit and casually replaces her right sneakered foot with her left under my nose.
‘Jenny’s already got one, and she’s not 21 until next year mama!’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, I’m not Jenny’s mum – and I’m not having any of my daughters owning their own personal slave until they turn 21. That is the law, darling! I’m sure you can wait another month!’
Miss Philippa tuts petulantly:
‘Whatever!’
‘I am being sure miss Philippa will be making a good mistress,’ opines my mistress Pratima, endeavouring to lighten the mood.
I am sure of it too – such youthful petulance and arrogance! What a privilege it would be for any male slave to serve at the scuffed, black sneakers and pink socks of the boss’s, 21 year old daughter! Ha! Ha! As if an ugly, middle-aged slave such as me would ever stand a chance of being enslaved to a beautiful, rich, young woman like miss Philippa! She’s well out of my league! I have no doubt her mother will purchase her a handsome, designer-footslave to go with her designer-jeans!
The bossy mother and petulant daughter leave the kitchen again together, but are soon replaced by a further succession of office ladies, some of whom, like Madam Alison their boss, are wearing black ankle boots of various descriptions – some spike heeled; some low-heeled, some lace-up, some zip-up.
This constant stream of office shoes and boots are leaving their mark, however, on the kitchen floor, and I am having to mop and re-mop the linoleum floor with my face just as furiously as the girls keep coming in to wash up their cups or make yet more tea!
It was as my jaw was really beginning to ache and tire that I discovered my mistress Pratima had another tool, tucked quite literally up her sleeve, with which to inspire her slave-floormop to ever greater efforts. She produced a thick, leather tawse or strap, and promptly brought it swishing down through the kitchen air across my prone and vulnerable, kneeling, bare slave-back.
A shock wave of unexpectedly sharp pain coursed through me:
‘Be working harder slave. Be putting your back into it! I am wanting to be seeing this floor shining, isn’t it? Be sweating for Pratima, or Pratima will be beating you harder!’
And as if to reinforce the point she delivered another stinging blow with her strap across my back, just as a young, female officer worker, a pretty, twenty-something, Chinese girl, was entering the kitchen with her empty cup:
‘Ha! Ha! That right, Pratima! You whip dirty slave! Ha! Ha! Make dirty mop work harder! Make dirty mop sweat! Ha! Ha!’
The Chinese mistress was wearing muscle-tight, calf-length, black leather, zip-up boots with spiked heels on her soft, and extremely shapely bare legs beneath a very short, black, thigh-length dress.
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, Wei Ling… the dirty mop is beginning to be being tired, but Pratima will be making damn well sure he is not being slacking!’
The Chinese office girl, miss Wei Ling, clearly didn’t have a lot waiting for her in her In-Tray this particular morning, for she had a special request of the office cleaner:
‘Ha! Ha! Wei Ling have favour to ask, Pratima! Wei Ling feet dirty; feet sweaty inside boots, for Wei Ling not have time shower this morning! Wei Ling out dancing at party all night! Mop lick clean Wei Ling dirty feet if Wei Ling take off boots and socks?’
My mistress Pratima chuckles to herself:
‘Yes please, Wei Ling. I am being very pleased that you will be using my slave in this way! Where are you liking him to be licking you on your bare feet?’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, not here – not in kitchen. Wei Ling feet smell too much! Wei Ling not want stinky feet upset other girls! Ha! Ha! We go to stationary cupboard?’
And so the sodden and dirty mop-end was, mercifully, once again extracted from my aching jaw, and I found myself being led on my hands and knees behind the Chinese girl’s spike-heeled, leg-hugging, calf length, black leather boots and my own mistress Pratima’s shiny, flat, black leather loafers and short, navy blue sneaker socks towards the privacy of the hermetically-sealed office stationary cupboard.
Once inside, the door was closed and miss Wei Ling sat down on a metal office chair, ready to unzip her boots.
My Indian mistress, miss Pratima, reminded her Chinese colleague that this wasn’t necessary, as her new cleaning tool could do it for her:
‘Ha! Ha! Wei Ling is please being relaxing! The slave-mop will be unzipping and removing Wei Ling’s boots for her!’
Miss Wei Ling smiled and did relax back in her chair, as miss Pratima, still unceremoniously manipulating my head with the mop-pole attached to the back of my leather slave collar, pushed me forward on my hands and knees in front of the seated Chinese girl’s sexily booted feet.
I gingerly reached up and pulled down the zip on the side of miss Wei Ling’s calf-hugging, pointy-toed and spike heeled, black leather boot. As the zip reached the bottom of the fashionable, feminine boot I could see that miss Wei Ling was indeed wearing short, ankle socks inside her boots – a rather ropey pair of yellow, cotton ankle socks that, quite frankly, deserved to be kept hidden from view! Most unflattering, and in stark contrast to the stylishness of her lower-leg-hugging, black leather boots! The short, yellow ankle socks looked, and smelled, like cheese.
But somehow the smell seemed even worse when I peeled the cheesy socks off miss Wei Ling’s pretty Chinese feet! The pink toenail paint on her moist and sweaty toes was showing signs of peeling off, and the undersides of her toenails were quite dirty – slithers of black, ripe, cheesy toe-jam clearly visible underneath the tips of her pretty, but chipped, oriental toenails.
Miss Wei Ling had not been lying. Her feet stank, and truly needed a good wash!
Even my mistress Pratima had to comment on the smell:
‘Ha! Ha! Wei Ling’s feet are indeed being smelly and dirty. It is lucky I am being having a foot-cleaning mop! Ha! Ha! Please be allowing my slave to now be sucking and cleaning your toes, Wei Ling!’
Miss Wei Ling also now laughed as she pushed the entire contents of her petite, Chinese, right foot into my already mop-stretched mouth, and wriggled her toes around on my slave tongue.
My overall taste-impression was of salt mixed with little lumps of rubbery toe-jam, as I ran my slave tongue in and around the pretty Chinese girl’s pretty, but stinky- dirty, toes. I decided to focus my gaze humbly on her discarded and crumpled up, dirty yellow ankle socks lying on the floor beneath me – mainly because I could still smell their cheesy aroma as I simultaneously tasted mistress Wei Ling’s salty, sweaty feet.’
The sight of my oriental-toe-stretched mouth gagging with the Chinese office girl’s dirty bare feet clearly tickled my Indian mistress, mistress Pratima, who started laughing hysterically:
‘Ha! Ha! I am thinking my slave is liking the taste and smell of your feet, Wei Ling. He is being most enthusiastic in his sucking of your dirty toes, isn’t it?’
Miss Wei Ling too appeared pleased by my efforts:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes! Wei Ling like feel of slave tongue on toes. Feel feet getting clean! Feel stinky dirt coming off toes!’
The stinky dirt may have been coming off miss Wei Ling’s toes and sliding down my slave-mop throat, but, having dried miss Wei Ling’s pretty, young Chinese feet in my greying, middle-aged slave hair, I then had the indignity of having to put her still sweaty and dirty, short, yellow ankle socks back onto her freshly washed feet.
So what had been the point of the whole dirty exercise – other than to humiliate and degrade me?
Oh…I see! That was indeed the whole point ! Silly me! I must have a mop for a brain as well as a mouth!
Having said all that, are you not just a teensy bit jealous of me?
Part 3 – Mistress Pratima’s Footrest
When we eventually got home later that day my mistress Pratima, clearly impressed with my liking for young women’s sweaty, stinky feet decided to treat me to her own stinky-socked foot smells in her basement-dungeon playroom.
Somewhat ominously she secured me, flat out on my back and lying face upwards, onto her floor-level, wooden stretching rack – my arms and legs stretched out by means of leather straps to all four corners of the rack – not too tightly, I’m relieved to say, but tight enough to ensure that I was, in every sense of the word, ‘tense’ whilst my grinning, Indian mistress pulled up a wooden chair and sat over me – looking confident and relaxed.
My sweet and kind Indian mistress then kicked off her black,leather loafers that had been on her hot and tired feet all day long, and rested the soles of her navy-blue, ankle-socked feet on my upturned face.
I could feel little, rough balls of navy-blue sock lint on my cheeks as my nose became buried in the stitching of the blue sock directly underneath her toes.
I can hereby confirm that Indian cleaning-girl, sweaty, blue socks smell much the same as Chinese office-girl, sweaty, yellow socks – cheesy and vinegary. I could feel the sweat from the soles of my mistress Pratima’s moist, warm socks coming off onto my slave face and seeping victoriously into my facial skin-pores as she merrily rubbed her hot and tired socked feet up and down my stupid, gormless, footslave face.
‘Ha! Ha! Slave, be sticking out your tongue,’ ordered my mistress Pratima. ‘I am wanting to be feeling your tongue licking my socks!’
It’s not often a slave can get away with ‘sticking out his tongue’ at his mistress, but, of course, tonguing a young woman’s socks is far from being a rude gesture – on the contrary it is a gesture of humility and servitude, for it is designed to facilitate the licking away of the mistress’s cheesy sock sweat and dirty sock lint.
My mistress Pratima, however, was not content that my nose should be enveloped in just the smell of her outer-socked feet. She wanted me to taste the very essence of her stinky socks – for she now peeled off her socks (I, sadly, secured as I was by my outstretched arms and legs to the four corners of the rack, was in no position to remove her precious socks from her Indian feet for her), turned them inside out – her pretty Indian nose turned up in disgust at the stinky stench of her own sweaty, blue socks - and unceremoniously stuffed them both inside my slave-mop mouth.
My mouth was now awash with the taste of Indian girl sweaty sock, the same socks I had be staring at all day long inside her black, leather loafers as I had mouth-mopped the office floors.
Mistress Pratima then rested her pretty brown, bare feet on top of my upturned face and pinched my nose between the unpainted big and second toes of her pretty, right foot.
‘Ha! Ha! You will now be smelling my toes while you are being tasting my socks, pathetic sock-sucker! Ha! Ha! Pratima is being your better and master, for you are being her workhorse all day and her footrest all evening. Ha! Ha! You are being less than the dirt on her feet and socks, isn’t it?’
This time I was prevented from answering my Indian mistress’s rhetorical question by the navy-blue socks stuffed inside my mouth.
And so mistress Pratima sat triumphantly on her wooden chair with her human-footrest stretched out helplessly on the rack beneath her pretty, Indian feet – his mouth filled with her sweaty, blue socks with the tiny, red, square-shaped logos on the sides.
After she had retired to bed I remained lying uncomfortably on my back secured to the floor-level, wooden rack. Needless to say, with my leg and arm muscles stretched to their limits I slept rather fitfully, my predicament made all the more humiliating by having one of mistress Pratima’s black, leather loafers tied over my slave nose. As my mouth was still gagged with the sweaty, blue ankle socks, I had no choice but to breathe in through my nose the moist, stale air of the sweaty inside of her black, shiny, patent leather loafer, and whenever I opened my eyes all I could see was the stained-with-sweat, inner lining of her other loafer which was secured over my eye sockets.
But then, how else could an Indian cleaning-girl’s personal footslave be expected to sleep during the night? At least I am still working and serving my mistress throughout my fitful sleep by inhaling the residual sweaty air from her inner shoe and by ingesting the stale sweat from her dirty socks.
And tomorrow will be another day at the office – mouth mopping the dirty, female shoe-marks from the soles of the office girl’s shoes and boots off the crisp, white linoleum of the office floors.
It is only right and proper that this is how an Indian cleaning girl’s personal footslave and cleaning tool should be made to work, rest and play. Socks, boots, shoes, feet and pain. This is to be my existence from now on.
You must surely admit to being jealous now?
P.S. Incidentally, in case you were wondering, I eventually found out just how my mistress Pratima could afford to equip her basement dungeon with all her expensive, fiendish, wooden contraptions and playthings: hire purchase. Simple!
The End
