The Concentrator
The concentrator – it is a truly fiendish device; surely the invention of a warped and cruel mind? And yet I bless the day my mistress Felicity fitted it into my brain, for it helps me to be a better footslave. It does exactly what its name suggests – it helps me to concentrate on my mistress’s feet and footwear.
I don’t pretend to understand all the technology behind it. All I know is that some sort of tiny sensor implanted in my tiny footslave brain is electronically connected to a sensor implanted in the lining of my mistress Felicity’s right shoe, and that if I allow my eyes to stray from the side of her shoe I feel a sudden and prolonged shaft of pain in my head – worse than any migraine you may have ever experienced. It is a sharp pain that brings me back to my footslave-senses, and can only be alleviated when I refocus my slavish attention on the side of my mistress’s shoe. Even then the relief from the pain will take some time.
Again, I don’t know how, but the concentrator somehow affects my vision so that I have ‘tunnel vision’. All I can see is the side of my mistress’s shoe and sock. Furthermore, that which I am humbly staring at is magnified tenfold in my eyes. I can literally see each and every minuscule crease in the side of her shoe-leather, each and every individual stitch in the side of her sock.
The concentrator also, somehow, acts on all the other receptors in my brain which control my remaining 4 senses.
Take my sense of smell. I now have a sense of smell as strong as that of any sniffer dog, which is entirely appropriate given that this is all I really am – a sniffing dog, continuously sniffing his beloved mistress’s shoes and socks.
I can also feel each and every pore in the leather of my mistress’s shoe through the enhanced sensitivity on the tip of my slave nose, or on the surface of my slave lips. Every tiny scuff mark on my mistress’s shoe-leather feels as rough to my ultra-sensitive lips as a gravel courtyard! Every crease in my mistress Felicity’s shoe leather feels as wide as the Grand Canyon!
My sense of taste too is unnaturally enhanced. When I lick or kiss my mistress Felicity’s leather shoes or boots (as I am often required to do) I can taste the very fabric of her shoe-leather – such a bitter, bitter taste! Mixed in, of course, with the equally bitter taste of mud and dirt. For, even if my mistress Felicity’s outer footwear is relatively clean – even spotless to the naked eye – the tiniest speck of dirt and dust floods my slave mouth with the flavour of mud. All, somehow, thanks to the workings of the concentrator on that part of the brain which controls my sense of taste!
I can even hear her footwear! I can literally hear the leather in her shoes creasing as she moves her pretty feet around. The sound booms in my slave ears. I can also hear her soft, cotton socks creasing inside her shoes or boots. The sound of female sock is quite deafening to me.
The concentrator can even detect when I am allowing my very thoughts to stray away from my mistress Felicity’s superior feet and footwear. It somehow monitors my brain activity, and will send me pain in my head if it suspects I am not concentrating mentally on my mistress’s feet.
Yes, it is truly a magnificent device. The footslave’s friend – albeit a cruel friend; a taskmaster who never relents from his close supervision of one’s work. Or should that be taskmistress? I understand, after all, that the device was invented by a woman!
Be that as it may, please allow me to describe a typical day under the yoke of the concentrator at my mistress Felicity’s feet.
My mistress is a wealthy, 24 year old, white, middle-class, young woman. She lives with her African boyfriend, master Olukojo, who is a student of accountancy at university. My mistress Felicity could be described as averagely pretty – long dark hair which she tends to wear tied back in a tight ponytail, and glasses which serve to emphasise her intelligence and studiousness. She is studying to be a neurosurgeon – to alleviate the pain and suffering of free men and women – which is how she came to hear about the concentrator, a causer of neuralgic pain in slaves.
All her shoes and boots are now fitted with concentrator-sensors. The shoes and boots look, of course, perfectly normal. The sensors are only a millimetre in diameter and are sewn discreetly into the lining of her shoes.
My mistress Felicity is not particularly fashion-conscious, and likes to wear casual clothes – jeans and T shirts and the like – with casual footwear to match: sneakers; loafers; flat-heeled ankle boots etc. She is not one for stylish high-heeled shoes and short skirts. She is a very serious-minded young woman, who takes life, and her personal footslave, very seriously. Above all, my mistress Felicity likes rules – her rules- which I, her slave, must always obey. That is why she is such a fan of the concentrator: it helps me to obey her number 1 rule – always to concentrate on her superior, feminine feet and footwear.
Today my mistress is wearing a pink T shirt and black denim jeans, black leather, flat-heeled loafers, and black sneaker socks with a pink trim to match the pink of her feminine T shirt. She is making her way into the Medical College’s main lecture hall to witness a presentation by some eminent neurosurgeon. I, as usual, am crawling on my hands and knees behind the flat heels of her black leather loafers, my head and face still within the requisite distance to satisfy the electronic sensor in the side of her shoe that I am able to concentrate on my mistress’s feet as she walks along.
As she takes up her seat in the lecture hall and takes out her notepad, I kneel in the slave-hole provided beside her feet, and rest my face on the floor by the side of her right foot, ready to concentrate on my mistress Felicity’s black, leather shoe and black and pink sneaker sock as they rest on the floor directly in front of my eyes.
Thanks to the concentrator, my senses are overwhelmed with my mistress’s shoe and sock. They fill my field of vision, and I can smell the very fabric of the leather of her black, leather shoe. I’ll swear I can even smell the stale sweat on the inner lining of her shoe – even whilst she is wearing it! I can certainly smell the vinegary aroma of her inner sock.
And the side of her leather shoe truly looms large in my eyes. I can observe the tiniest creases in the soft, black shoe-leather – imperceptible creases to the naked eye, but clearly visible to the eye of a humble footslave fitted with a concentrator device in his slave brain! Not only that, I can see, magnified what seems like a hundred times (but what I am told by the scientists is actually only ten times) each and every little speck of dirt and/or dust on the side of my mistress’s feminine, loafer shoe.
Because the tiny specks of dirt seem so large, I find myself obsessed by them. Take that infinitesimally small, yet hugely magnified, trace of dirt just above the stitching of my mistress’s right shoe-sole, for example. Where did it come from? It looks like mud, as if from a muddy field or park, yet my mistress has not been anywhere near a field or park since I feverishly tongue-shined her black, loafer shoes to a sparkling, flawless shine just yesterday evening. I know they were flawless thanks to the concentrator – for any flaws or remaining specks of mud would have loomed large before my concentrator-enhanced eyes!
No, this must be fresh street-mud, fresh on her shoe this morning from the city pavements along which my mistress was walking towards her Medical School. I sniff the mud. It smells of water. Probably, therefore, it is a splash of mud from a muddy puddle (it had been raining earlier).
But the concentrator compels me to think further and harder about the provenance of that offending speck of mud on the side of my sweet mistress Felicity’s flat, leather shoe. Is it the mud from the sole of some other woman’s boot or shoe – washed off the dirty sole of her shoe or boot when she inadvertently walked through that selfsame puddle, and then transferred onto the side of my own mistress’s shoe? Or is it just naturally present mud from a grassy crack in the pavement? Perhaps the watery mud is from dirty, contaminated rain water which fell from the sky – it could be mud whipped up by the wind in some other country and then transferred by the rain clouds until it fell onto the ground through which my mistress Felicity was destined to walk?
Such pathetic, bizarre, obsessive, speculative thoughts about the origins my mistress’s tiny speck of shoe-mud fill my tiny slave brain as my mistress Felicity fills her own pretty, dark-haired and bespectacled head with thoughts of complex neurological conditions and treatments as she listens to the talk by the eminent, visiting neurosurgeon.
At least the concentrator is content with my pathetic, obsessive footslavish thought processes. It can tell that, although I am thinking about mud, it is the mud on the side of my mistress Felicity’s shoe. Therefore, my thoughts are acceptable to it. My head is free from pain – free to continue thinking about my mistress Felicity’s dirty shoe leather and shoe mud.
Of course, providing I don’t allow my eyes to stray more than a few inches from the sensor in the lining of my mistress Felicity’s shoe, I can look at other parts of her pretty, right foot – anywhere, really, below her shapely, white ankle bone will satisfy the concentrator – and so the elasticated, pink-trimmed top of my mistress Felicity’s short, black, sneaker-sock is within my legitimate field of vision.
What a blessing – for the elasticated top of a young woman’s black sneaker sock, magnified some 10 times, is a truly fascinating sight for a humble footslave such as myself. Just think of all those magnified stitches in the black, cotton fabric on the side of her short sock! They appear so large to me that I can almost see and smell my mistress’s bare, white footskin beneath them!
Because I am forced to concentrate on such things I find myself counting the stitches – just the visible stitches, of course. I am then reduced to guessing the overall number of stitches in my mistress’s sock – and find my forehead sweating with the frustration and mental anguish of not knowing whether or not my estimate is correct. For such things as the number of individual stitches in my mistress Felicity’s sock are important to me.
The concentrator fitted inside my brain makes them so.
And the creases – the ever-changing creases and folds in my mistress Felicity’s socks as she subconsciously flexes her foot muscles inside her shoes. I can hear her pink and black cotton socks creasing and folding before my very eyes. The constant creasing and folding of the soft, cotton sock-material interrupts my stitch-counting, and I must start all over again!
I must start all over again because the concentrator compels me to count the stitches - and not to be to distracted by the sight or sound of my mistress’s socks creasing and folding, or indeed by the magnified speck of mud on the side of her black, loafer shoe, or by the sweaty, pungent smell of her inner shoe lining and sock, as I do so. I must concentrate on all these things at once – for the concentrator compels me to obsess myself with my superior mistress’s superior, feminine feet and footwear. This is my universe! This is my world! The world of a down-in-the-dirt footslave.
After the lecture, my mistress meets up with her West African boyfriend, master Olukojo, in a roadside café near their respective colleges, and the happy, young couple have a snack lunch together. I, of course, am continuing to kneel by my mistress Felicity’s feet – underneath the outdoor-cafe table, out of sight and out of mind as a young woman’s footslave should be.
My own mind, of course, continues to be focussed on my mistress’s footwear. Master Olukojo can enjoy admiring his girlfriend’s pretty, bespectacled face, shapely body, and pretty, pink T shirt. I, her personal footslave, must continue to admire her flat, black leather loafers and short, pink and black sneaker socks, for that is what the concentrator compels me to do.
To my horror I notice that the pink, elasticated top of my mistress Felicity’s right sock is now twisted below her outer ankle bone. My heart begins pounding with fear and I start sweating again, for I know that my mistress Felicity does not like her socks being twisted on her feet. I may be whipped for this later if she notices it – or even if her boyfriend master Olukojo notices it and ‘squeals’ on me.
It seems unlikely that he will notice, however, given that he is staring lovingly into my mistress Felicity’s eyes, and given that my mistress’s feet are hidden from his view under the table. But my mistress Felicity herself may well feel the twisted sock just below her shapely, right ankle-bone!
I must therefore repair the damage immediately – and there is only one way to do so, even though I risk drawing attention to the problem by fixing it! I must nuzzle the top of my mistress Felicity’s sock back into position by means of my sensitive, footslave nose.
I am, even if I say so myself, quite an expert at sock-straightening with my slave nose. The crucial thing is not to touch the mistress’s bare flesh, for that is a definite whipping offence. One just has to hope the mistress will not suddenly move her foot, perhaps in startled reaction to the feel of one’s nose on her sock, as one attempts to nose the top of her sock back into place.
Of course, my concentrator-induced hyper sense of smell means that my slave nostrils are filed with the scent of young woman sneaker-sock as I nose the pink, elasticated top of her short, black sock back into place. The sock is not, actually, all that sweaty, but try telling my ultra-sensitive sense of smell that! My nose is filled with the ammonia-like scent of sweet, feminine foot-and-sock sweat, and I can feel each and every individual stitch in the area of the sock beneath my nose as I nuzzle young-woman sock.
Fortunately, my mistress Felicity is well used to the feeling of my slave nose on her socks. She expects me to automatically straighten her socks with my nose whenever I detect a crease or fold that needs straightening. My clever mistress Felicity can relax, and continue staring lovingly into her boyfriend Kojo’s eyes, and nuzzling his handsome African face, whilst I lovingly and admiringly stare at, and nuzzle her short, pink and black, sneaker sock, for in the back of her mistress mind she knows that the fiendish concentrator device is keeping the well-being of her feet and footwear in the forefront of my slave mind.
The pink, elasticated top of my mistress Felicity’s feminine, black sock is successfully straightened by my slave nose – thanks in no small part to the stimulus of the concentrator.
It is, essentially, the absence of pain that stimulates me to concentrate on my mistress Felicity’s shoes and socks – most of the time. But every so often, I’m ashamed to say, my concentration slips. I am, after all, only slave, and as the saying goes ‘to err is to be slave’.
As the waitress brings my master and mistress’s freshly-made sandwiches to the outdoor café table, I am momentarily distracted. My tunnel vision is filled for just a split second with the purple-painted bare, brown toes and strappy, brown leather sandals of the black waitress. I can also smell her bare, Afro-Caribbean footflesh, and hear the leather of her sandal-soles creasing and folding as she reaches forward to place the plates of tasty sandwiches on the table above me.
It is a split second, however, that causes me a splitting headache! For the ever-alert concentrator detects that my eyes have strayed momentarily from the sensor located in the side of my own, white mistress Felicity’s black, leather, loafer shoe. A sharp pain rushes through my head, and I am in sudden, blinding agony.
I have trained myself not to scream at such times, for my mistress Felicity does not like to be disturbed in public by her footslave’s suffering. A slave should be suffering, and not heard. But I nevertheless have to bite my lip, as the pain is truly mind-shattering – literally.
Even after I refocus my wayward attention on the side of my mistress Felicity’s black, leather shoe, the concentrator will continue to deliver wave after wave of sharp, pulsating pain to my rebellious slave brain for some 10 minutes – as a punishment. My mistress Felicity has set it for 10 minutes. It can be set to deliver pain for anything from 1 minute to one hour. So in setting it to deliver just 10 minutes of continuous pain my mistress Felicity is actually demonstrating that she is a kind-hearted and merciful young woman.
My black master and white mistress continue their happy, lovey-dovey conversation above me as they tuck greedily into their sandwiches – blissfully unaware of the suffering below their feet, as is the Afro-Caribbean waitress who has now moved away, her soft, leather-sandalled footsteps echoing in my hearing-enhanced brain thanks to the now pulsating concentrator.
When will I ever learn? I must concentrate solely on the pretty feet and footwear of my mistress Felicity, or I will feel pain. Terrible pain – such as I am feeling now.
And even when the concentrator relents, after some 10 minutes of delivering pain to my brain, the pain and punishment will not be over. For every evening my mistress logs onto her computer and somehow gets a printout of the concentrator’s activity during the day.
She has kindly shown me such printouts in the past. Every time the concentrator delivers pain to my wayward brain it shows up as a spike in a graph. One of my mistress Felicity’s many rules is that for every such spike I shall receive 10, hard lashes across my bare back with her split-tailed leather whip – stinging lashes which she oftentimes delegates to her beloved African boyfriend, master Olukojo, to deliver to me whilst I kneel humbly and penitently at my mistress’s feet.
This is the only time my mistress Felicity will switch off the concentrator – not because she does not want me to concentrate on her feet during my whipping, but because she wants me to concentrate more, for a change, on the pain in my back caused by the stinging whip!
As soon as the whipping is over, the concentrator will be switched back on, and once again my attention must switch from the pain in my freshly-whipped back to the creases and folds in my mistress’s socks.
Even during the night, when my mistress is curled up in bed with her boyfriend, master Olukojo, my mind must be focussed on my mistress Felicity’s footwear for, as I lie on my still-sore back in my boxroom cell adjoining her master bedroom, her still-warm, left, black, loafer shoe will be attached over my slave nose whilst her right shoe (the one with the sensor in the lining) is attached over my eyes and forehead.
Throughout the night, therefore, I must concentrate on the insides of my mistress’s shoes – both the enhanced sight and the enhanced smell. The concentrator will not even alow me to close my eyes. I must sleep with my eyes open – a concept only a slave can understand, as only a downtrodden slave’s body could ever adapt to sleeping with one’s eyes wide open: an evolutionary necessity brought on by the fitting of the terrible concentrator into the humble slave’s brain.
To stop me wincing from the enhanced feel of the rough, bare wooden floorboards on my freshly-striped back, my mistress will have also unceremoniously stuffed my slave mouth with her dirty, sweaty, pink and black sneaker socks – the ones that have been on her feet all day long inside her black, loafer shoes.
Even in my sleep, therefore, I am tasting, smelling, and staring at my mistress Felicity’s used and well-worn footwear. Thanks to the concentrator I even find myself dreaming about her superior feet and footwear.
Or was everything I have recounted above in itself just a bad dream?
Who can tell?
The End
I don’t pretend to understand all the technology behind it. All I know is that some sort of tiny sensor implanted in my tiny footslave brain is electronically connected to a sensor implanted in the lining of my mistress Felicity’s right shoe, and that if I allow my eyes to stray from the side of her shoe I feel a sudden and prolonged shaft of pain in my head – worse than any migraine you may have ever experienced. It is a sharp pain that brings me back to my footslave-senses, and can only be alleviated when I refocus my slavish attention on the side of my mistress’s shoe. Even then the relief from the pain will take some time.
Again, I don’t know how, but the concentrator somehow affects my vision so that I have ‘tunnel vision’. All I can see is the side of my mistress’s shoe and sock. Furthermore, that which I am humbly staring at is magnified tenfold in my eyes. I can literally see each and every minuscule crease in the side of her shoe-leather, each and every individual stitch in the side of her sock.
The concentrator also, somehow, acts on all the other receptors in my brain which control my remaining 4 senses.
Take my sense of smell. I now have a sense of smell as strong as that of any sniffer dog, which is entirely appropriate given that this is all I really am – a sniffing dog, continuously sniffing his beloved mistress’s shoes and socks.
I can also feel each and every pore in the leather of my mistress’s shoe through the enhanced sensitivity on the tip of my slave nose, or on the surface of my slave lips. Every tiny scuff mark on my mistress’s shoe-leather feels as rough to my ultra-sensitive lips as a gravel courtyard! Every crease in my mistress Felicity’s shoe leather feels as wide as the Grand Canyon!
My sense of taste too is unnaturally enhanced. When I lick or kiss my mistress Felicity’s leather shoes or boots (as I am often required to do) I can taste the very fabric of her shoe-leather – such a bitter, bitter taste! Mixed in, of course, with the equally bitter taste of mud and dirt. For, even if my mistress Felicity’s outer footwear is relatively clean – even spotless to the naked eye – the tiniest speck of dirt and dust floods my slave mouth with the flavour of mud. All, somehow, thanks to the workings of the concentrator on that part of the brain which controls my sense of taste!
I can even hear her footwear! I can literally hear the leather in her shoes creasing as she moves her pretty feet around. The sound booms in my slave ears. I can also hear her soft, cotton socks creasing inside her shoes or boots. The sound of female sock is quite deafening to me.
The concentrator can even detect when I am allowing my very thoughts to stray away from my mistress Felicity’s superior feet and footwear. It somehow monitors my brain activity, and will send me pain in my head if it suspects I am not concentrating mentally on my mistress’s feet.
Yes, it is truly a magnificent device. The footslave’s friend – albeit a cruel friend; a taskmaster who never relents from his close supervision of one’s work. Or should that be taskmistress? I understand, after all, that the device was invented by a woman!
Be that as it may, please allow me to describe a typical day under the yoke of the concentrator at my mistress Felicity’s feet.
My mistress is a wealthy, 24 year old, white, middle-class, young woman. She lives with her African boyfriend, master Olukojo, who is a student of accountancy at university. My mistress Felicity could be described as averagely pretty – long dark hair which she tends to wear tied back in a tight ponytail, and glasses which serve to emphasise her intelligence and studiousness. She is studying to be a neurosurgeon – to alleviate the pain and suffering of free men and women – which is how she came to hear about the concentrator, a causer of neuralgic pain in slaves.
All her shoes and boots are now fitted with concentrator-sensors. The shoes and boots look, of course, perfectly normal. The sensors are only a millimetre in diameter and are sewn discreetly into the lining of her shoes.
My mistress Felicity is not particularly fashion-conscious, and likes to wear casual clothes – jeans and T shirts and the like – with casual footwear to match: sneakers; loafers; flat-heeled ankle boots etc. She is not one for stylish high-heeled shoes and short skirts. She is a very serious-minded young woman, who takes life, and her personal footslave, very seriously. Above all, my mistress Felicity likes rules – her rules- which I, her slave, must always obey. That is why she is such a fan of the concentrator: it helps me to obey her number 1 rule – always to concentrate on her superior, feminine feet and footwear.
Today my mistress is wearing a pink T shirt and black denim jeans, black leather, flat-heeled loafers, and black sneaker socks with a pink trim to match the pink of her feminine T shirt. She is making her way into the Medical College’s main lecture hall to witness a presentation by some eminent neurosurgeon. I, as usual, am crawling on my hands and knees behind the flat heels of her black leather loafers, my head and face still within the requisite distance to satisfy the electronic sensor in the side of her shoe that I am able to concentrate on my mistress’s feet as she walks along.
As she takes up her seat in the lecture hall and takes out her notepad, I kneel in the slave-hole provided beside her feet, and rest my face on the floor by the side of her right foot, ready to concentrate on my mistress Felicity’s black, leather shoe and black and pink sneaker sock as they rest on the floor directly in front of my eyes.
Thanks to the concentrator, my senses are overwhelmed with my mistress’s shoe and sock. They fill my field of vision, and I can smell the very fabric of the leather of her black, leather shoe. I’ll swear I can even smell the stale sweat on the inner lining of her shoe – even whilst she is wearing it! I can certainly smell the vinegary aroma of her inner sock.
And the side of her leather shoe truly looms large in my eyes. I can observe the tiniest creases in the soft, black shoe-leather – imperceptible creases to the naked eye, but clearly visible to the eye of a humble footslave fitted with a concentrator device in his slave brain! Not only that, I can see, magnified what seems like a hundred times (but what I am told by the scientists is actually only ten times) each and every little speck of dirt and/or dust on the side of my mistress’s feminine, loafer shoe.
Because the tiny specks of dirt seem so large, I find myself obsessed by them. Take that infinitesimally small, yet hugely magnified, trace of dirt just above the stitching of my mistress’s right shoe-sole, for example. Where did it come from? It looks like mud, as if from a muddy field or park, yet my mistress has not been anywhere near a field or park since I feverishly tongue-shined her black, loafer shoes to a sparkling, flawless shine just yesterday evening. I know they were flawless thanks to the concentrator – for any flaws or remaining specks of mud would have loomed large before my concentrator-enhanced eyes!
No, this must be fresh street-mud, fresh on her shoe this morning from the city pavements along which my mistress was walking towards her Medical School. I sniff the mud. It smells of water. Probably, therefore, it is a splash of mud from a muddy puddle (it had been raining earlier).
But the concentrator compels me to think further and harder about the provenance of that offending speck of mud on the side of my sweet mistress Felicity’s flat, leather shoe. Is it the mud from the sole of some other woman’s boot or shoe – washed off the dirty sole of her shoe or boot when she inadvertently walked through that selfsame puddle, and then transferred onto the side of my own mistress’s shoe? Or is it just naturally present mud from a grassy crack in the pavement? Perhaps the watery mud is from dirty, contaminated rain water which fell from the sky – it could be mud whipped up by the wind in some other country and then transferred by the rain clouds until it fell onto the ground through which my mistress Felicity was destined to walk?
Such pathetic, bizarre, obsessive, speculative thoughts about the origins my mistress’s tiny speck of shoe-mud fill my tiny slave brain as my mistress Felicity fills her own pretty, dark-haired and bespectacled head with thoughts of complex neurological conditions and treatments as she listens to the talk by the eminent, visiting neurosurgeon.
At least the concentrator is content with my pathetic, obsessive footslavish thought processes. It can tell that, although I am thinking about mud, it is the mud on the side of my mistress Felicity’s shoe. Therefore, my thoughts are acceptable to it. My head is free from pain – free to continue thinking about my mistress Felicity’s dirty shoe leather and shoe mud.
Of course, providing I don’t allow my eyes to stray more than a few inches from the sensor in the lining of my mistress Felicity’s shoe, I can look at other parts of her pretty, right foot – anywhere, really, below her shapely, white ankle bone will satisfy the concentrator – and so the elasticated, pink-trimmed top of my mistress Felicity’s short, black, sneaker-sock is within my legitimate field of vision.
What a blessing – for the elasticated top of a young woman’s black sneaker sock, magnified some 10 times, is a truly fascinating sight for a humble footslave such as myself. Just think of all those magnified stitches in the black, cotton fabric on the side of her short sock! They appear so large to me that I can almost see and smell my mistress’s bare, white footskin beneath them!
Because I am forced to concentrate on such things I find myself counting the stitches – just the visible stitches, of course. I am then reduced to guessing the overall number of stitches in my mistress’s sock – and find my forehead sweating with the frustration and mental anguish of not knowing whether or not my estimate is correct. For such things as the number of individual stitches in my mistress Felicity’s sock are important to me.
The concentrator fitted inside my brain makes them so.
And the creases – the ever-changing creases and folds in my mistress Felicity’s socks as she subconsciously flexes her foot muscles inside her shoes. I can hear her pink and black cotton socks creasing and folding before my very eyes. The constant creasing and folding of the soft, cotton sock-material interrupts my stitch-counting, and I must start all over again!
I must start all over again because the concentrator compels me to count the stitches - and not to be to distracted by the sight or sound of my mistress’s socks creasing and folding, or indeed by the magnified speck of mud on the side of her black, loafer shoe, or by the sweaty, pungent smell of her inner shoe lining and sock, as I do so. I must concentrate on all these things at once – for the concentrator compels me to obsess myself with my superior mistress’s superior, feminine feet and footwear. This is my universe! This is my world! The world of a down-in-the-dirt footslave.
After the lecture, my mistress meets up with her West African boyfriend, master Olukojo, in a roadside café near their respective colleges, and the happy, young couple have a snack lunch together. I, of course, am continuing to kneel by my mistress Felicity’s feet – underneath the outdoor-cafe table, out of sight and out of mind as a young woman’s footslave should be.
My own mind, of course, continues to be focussed on my mistress’s footwear. Master Olukojo can enjoy admiring his girlfriend’s pretty, bespectacled face, shapely body, and pretty, pink T shirt. I, her personal footslave, must continue to admire her flat, black leather loafers and short, pink and black sneaker socks, for that is what the concentrator compels me to do.
To my horror I notice that the pink, elasticated top of my mistress Felicity’s right sock is now twisted below her outer ankle bone. My heart begins pounding with fear and I start sweating again, for I know that my mistress Felicity does not like her socks being twisted on her feet. I may be whipped for this later if she notices it – or even if her boyfriend master Olukojo notices it and ‘squeals’ on me.
It seems unlikely that he will notice, however, given that he is staring lovingly into my mistress Felicity’s eyes, and given that my mistress’s feet are hidden from his view under the table. But my mistress Felicity herself may well feel the twisted sock just below her shapely, right ankle-bone!
I must therefore repair the damage immediately – and there is only one way to do so, even though I risk drawing attention to the problem by fixing it! I must nuzzle the top of my mistress Felicity’s sock back into position by means of my sensitive, footslave nose.
I am, even if I say so myself, quite an expert at sock-straightening with my slave nose. The crucial thing is not to touch the mistress’s bare flesh, for that is a definite whipping offence. One just has to hope the mistress will not suddenly move her foot, perhaps in startled reaction to the feel of one’s nose on her sock, as one attempts to nose the top of her sock back into place.
Of course, my concentrator-induced hyper sense of smell means that my slave nostrils are filed with the scent of young woman sneaker-sock as I nose the pink, elasticated top of her short, black sock back into place. The sock is not, actually, all that sweaty, but try telling my ultra-sensitive sense of smell that! My nose is filled with the ammonia-like scent of sweet, feminine foot-and-sock sweat, and I can feel each and every individual stitch in the area of the sock beneath my nose as I nuzzle young-woman sock.
Fortunately, my mistress Felicity is well used to the feeling of my slave nose on her socks. She expects me to automatically straighten her socks with my nose whenever I detect a crease or fold that needs straightening. My clever mistress Felicity can relax, and continue staring lovingly into her boyfriend Kojo’s eyes, and nuzzling his handsome African face, whilst I lovingly and admiringly stare at, and nuzzle her short, pink and black, sneaker sock, for in the back of her mistress mind she knows that the fiendish concentrator device is keeping the well-being of her feet and footwear in the forefront of my slave mind.
The pink, elasticated top of my mistress Felicity’s feminine, black sock is successfully straightened by my slave nose – thanks in no small part to the stimulus of the concentrator.
It is, essentially, the absence of pain that stimulates me to concentrate on my mistress Felicity’s shoes and socks – most of the time. But every so often, I’m ashamed to say, my concentration slips. I am, after all, only slave, and as the saying goes ‘to err is to be slave’.
As the waitress brings my master and mistress’s freshly-made sandwiches to the outdoor café table, I am momentarily distracted. My tunnel vision is filled for just a split second with the purple-painted bare, brown toes and strappy, brown leather sandals of the black waitress. I can also smell her bare, Afro-Caribbean footflesh, and hear the leather of her sandal-soles creasing and folding as she reaches forward to place the plates of tasty sandwiches on the table above me.
It is a split second, however, that causes me a splitting headache! For the ever-alert concentrator detects that my eyes have strayed momentarily from the sensor located in the side of my own, white mistress Felicity’s black, leather, loafer shoe. A sharp pain rushes through my head, and I am in sudden, blinding agony.
I have trained myself not to scream at such times, for my mistress Felicity does not like to be disturbed in public by her footslave’s suffering. A slave should be suffering, and not heard. But I nevertheless have to bite my lip, as the pain is truly mind-shattering – literally.
Even after I refocus my wayward attention on the side of my mistress Felicity’s black, leather shoe, the concentrator will continue to deliver wave after wave of sharp, pulsating pain to my rebellious slave brain for some 10 minutes – as a punishment. My mistress Felicity has set it for 10 minutes. It can be set to deliver pain for anything from 1 minute to one hour. So in setting it to deliver just 10 minutes of continuous pain my mistress Felicity is actually demonstrating that she is a kind-hearted and merciful young woman.
My black master and white mistress continue their happy, lovey-dovey conversation above me as they tuck greedily into their sandwiches – blissfully unaware of the suffering below their feet, as is the Afro-Caribbean waitress who has now moved away, her soft, leather-sandalled footsteps echoing in my hearing-enhanced brain thanks to the now pulsating concentrator.
When will I ever learn? I must concentrate solely on the pretty feet and footwear of my mistress Felicity, or I will feel pain. Terrible pain – such as I am feeling now.
And even when the concentrator relents, after some 10 minutes of delivering pain to my brain, the pain and punishment will not be over. For every evening my mistress logs onto her computer and somehow gets a printout of the concentrator’s activity during the day.
She has kindly shown me such printouts in the past. Every time the concentrator delivers pain to my wayward brain it shows up as a spike in a graph. One of my mistress Felicity’s many rules is that for every such spike I shall receive 10, hard lashes across my bare back with her split-tailed leather whip – stinging lashes which she oftentimes delegates to her beloved African boyfriend, master Olukojo, to deliver to me whilst I kneel humbly and penitently at my mistress’s feet.
This is the only time my mistress Felicity will switch off the concentrator – not because she does not want me to concentrate on her feet during my whipping, but because she wants me to concentrate more, for a change, on the pain in my back caused by the stinging whip!
As soon as the whipping is over, the concentrator will be switched back on, and once again my attention must switch from the pain in my freshly-whipped back to the creases and folds in my mistress’s socks.
Even during the night, when my mistress is curled up in bed with her boyfriend, master Olukojo, my mind must be focussed on my mistress Felicity’s footwear for, as I lie on my still-sore back in my boxroom cell adjoining her master bedroom, her still-warm, left, black, loafer shoe will be attached over my slave nose whilst her right shoe (the one with the sensor in the lining) is attached over my eyes and forehead.
Throughout the night, therefore, I must concentrate on the insides of my mistress’s shoes – both the enhanced sight and the enhanced smell. The concentrator will not even alow me to close my eyes. I must sleep with my eyes open – a concept only a slave can understand, as only a downtrodden slave’s body could ever adapt to sleeping with one’s eyes wide open: an evolutionary necessity brought on by the fitting of the terrible concentrator into the humble slave’s brain.
To stop me wincing from the enhanced feel of the rough, bare wooden floorboards on my freshly-striped back, my mistress will have also unceremoniously stuffed my slave mouth with her dirty, sweaty, pink and black sneaker socks – the ones that have been on her feet all day long inside her black, loafer shoes.
Even in my sleep, therefore, I am tasting, smelling, and staring at my mistress Felicity’s used and well-worn footwear. Thanks to the concentrator I even find myself dreaming about her superior feet and footwear.
Or was everything I have recounted above in itself just a bad dream?
Who can tell?
The End
