The Neighbourhood Footslave
Prologue
Being a public footslave all your adult life does have some compensations. If you work hard, and serve your female masters and betters to the best of your footslavish abilities whilst you are still young, you may find towards the end of your miserable and humble existence that you are allowed to take things a little bit easier – almost to enter a state of semi-retirement!
I am now 69 years old, and this is a snapshot of my twilight years:
I am employed as a public footslave in a small, middle-class neighbourhood in the suburbs.
I wasn’t always a local, neighbourhood footslave. I used to work as a public footslave at the busy, main railway station in the centre of town, but I became too old for that and just couldn’t keep up with the pace of things there. You see, most of my female customers and betters at the railway station were busy, commuting businesswomen – seemingly always in a hurry. They demanded a quick and efficient boot or shoe shine, and had little time to hang around while the decrepit, old footslave’s worn-out tongue feverishly attempted to lift the ingrained city-street dirt off their pretty, feminine footwear. These young business ladies at the railway station, by definition, had a train to catch – and they needed a younger footslave’s fresher tongue on their expensive, designer, office shoes and boots – one that hadn’t already been worn down by years and years of humble, female boot and shoe licking – a slave-tongue that could still capture all the dirt at the first lick!
And so I was laid off and moved out to the suburbs some four years ago (a public footslave is never allowed to fully retire) where my owner considered I could still provide a boot and shoe licking service to the female public, but at a reduced pace.
He was right. I quickly found my elderly-footslave niche, and I have never been happier! It is a nice, friendly neighbourhood, and I now know virtually all my female superiors and customers by name. My middle-class, female betters in the suburbs have time to stop and chat to me whilst I slowly tongue-shine their boots (I’m pleased to say my tongue is still capable of lifting dirt off female shoe leather; it just takes a bit longer than it did in the days of my youth! And what I lack in tongue power I can make up for with experience!)
Of course, I’m still very much regarded, and treated, by my female customers as a humble footslave – something that is, quite literally, beneath them. My young, female customers, even out here in the more relaxed and laid-back suburbs, could never really be considered my ‘friends’ as such. Ha! Ha! What a ridiculous and naïve thought!
But at least they have the time to be polite and civil towards me as they give me my orders – not like the busy, arrogant, young businesswomen in the city centre who only have time to bark down the most peremptory of orders at me. I never even got to know the names of my regular customers at the railway station – even though I tongue-shined the shoes and boots of several of them every single working day! They remained faceless and nameless strangers to me - however familiar their individual, feminine boots and shoes may have become to me over the years!
But here in the suburbs it’s an entirely different matter. I not only get to know my female betters’ shoes and boots, but also the owners of the footwear themselves. And not just their names! I know all about their lives – their domestic circumstances; their jobs; their hopes and dreams. For they actually bother to talk to me. And, like all slaves, I am an innately good listener.
I’m pleased to see that one of my regular suburban customers, mistress Olga, is now approaching my public footslave-stand!
What can I tell you about mistress Olga? Well, she is married, in her late twenties; a pretty girl, quite petite in stature, with long, blonde hair; always very cheerful, outgoing and gregarious; I would guess she is the life and soul of the party - not that I have ever been to a party – or ever will be invited to a party. Although I might regard myself as being in a state of semi-retirement, I am still, officially and legally, a public footslave for life – chained to my public footslave-stand 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, so that my slave-owning master can make as much money as possible out of my humble and degrading labour before I eventually snuff it!
And, I’m (literally) bound to say – that’s the way it jolly well should be! My master has invested a lot of money in me over the years – feeding me and buying me new chains whenever my old ones get rusty (I am, after all, chained up outside to my shoeshine stand in all weathers. Even my former shoeshine-stand at the station wasn’t protected from the elements!)
Something else I have observed about mistress Olga: like many modern, young women nowadays she never seems to wear skirts or dresses – always trousers or jeans, be they smart boot-cut trousers like she appears to have on today, or scruffy, frayed, denim jeans. But she is such a pretty girl she looks beautiful even when she is scruffily and casually dressed – in my humble opinion.
She also has a penchant for black, leather ankle boots – and over the four years I have been serving her in my capacity as a neighbourhood, public footslave I have been honoured to lick many different pairs of mistress Olga’s ankle boots. Indeed, thanks to mistress Olga’s regular attendance at my suburban footslave-stall I have been able to observe the various changing fashions in young-woman, ankle-boot style over the past 4 years. Her more recently purchased boots, for example, have stylish, pointy toes and sharp, spiked heels.
Today, however, I can observe from the corner of my kneeling, footslave eye, as she marches cheerily up towards my public shoeshine-stand, that she is wearing one of her favourite pairs of old boots beneath her smart, black, boot-cut slacks– her well-worn pair of round-toed, block-heeled, zip-up, ankle boots, boots that always seem to need a good tongue-shine even though they are never particularly dirty as such. It’s just that ( a bit like me, perhaps!) the black, boot leather is now so old and creased it has become rather dull–looking - not as shiny as it once used to be.
But my young, customer-mistress Olga clearly still likes this particular pair of old, black, leather ankle boots – presumably because they are now ultra-comfortable on her petite and shapely, pretty white feet and ankles, moulded as they are to the contours of her soft and shapely feminine feet by repeated wear.
I too, very much admire this particular pair of mistress Olga’s boots. As I hinted before, they present something of a challenge to a public footslave – how to tongue-shine up old boot leather to a satisfactory degree. For, however friendly mistress Olga may appear to be on the surface, she is still a paying, female customer, who will expect and demand that her boots look better after my tongue has done its humble work on them than they did before she decided to avail herself of my public-footslave services.
The black, block-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankle boots climb up onto my shoeshine-stand and rest on the two metal stirrups directly in front of my kneeling- footslave face. This is the other thing I like about my suburban footslave-stand, compared to my former city-centre stand. I am still working on my knees of course – kneeling on the dirty, hard ground – but here in the suburbs my female betters get to sit down above me whilst I tongue-shine their outer footwear. In my city-centre stall the customers had to stand, resting one foot at a time on a wooden footblock positioned on the ground directly beneath my kneeling nose.
Whilst it was always nice to have the sensation of a superior, young woman towering above me, as she stood arrogantly with her hands on her hips, one foot stretched out imperiously in front of her on the wooden footblock beneath my humble footslave-face whilst I licked and fawned over her shoe-leather, it didn’t exactly make for good conversation. The shoeshine-stall at the railway station was, in keeping with the busy customers’ wishes, very much designed for a quick lick and a polish. The mistress never stayed long – she would get tired standing in this position for more than a few minutes, even if her train was delayed, and would soon head off for a coffee and croissant at the adjacent station café just as soon as I had finished tongue-shining her shoe.
Here, in my suburban footslave-stand, the mistress gets to sit down. She can relax whilst I tongue her shoes or boots. There is no hurry! And that means, if the mistress so wishes it, she can engage me in conversation. Not a conversation of equals, of course. The mistress is still ‘above’ me in every sense of the word. But she can, nevertheless, talk to her slave if she so wishes. Explain to me in more detail her requirements, for example.
I know for a fact that mistress Olga will wish to talk to me – such a sweet and kind young woman, and she always knows precisely what she wants from me:
‘Hi, slave, how are you today?’
‘Good morning, mistress Olga. I’m fine, thank you, mistress Olga…’
The footslaves amongst you will no doubt be kneeling open-jawed as you read this! A mistress greeting a mere footslave! And a footslave replying in normal free-speak, as opposed to humble slave-speak! Outrageous, I hear you cry!
Outrageous yes – but quite normal in the suburbs! Things are much more relaxed between footslaves and mistresses out here in the sticks. And, as I said, it’s a particularly friendly neighbourhood!
It is still true, of course, that even after four years of utilising my boot-cleaning services, mistress Olga still doesn’t know my name. She always just addresses me as ‘slave’. In fact, there is nothing at all unusual in this, for although I am a good listener and know much about the personal lives and circumstances of all my female superiors, I can’t think of even one of them who has ever enquired after my life and circumstances – beyond politely enquiring as to my current well-being, as mistress Olga has just done.
But then again, why should the suburban mistresses like mistress Olga be interested in my slave-name or my life story? There’s nothing to tell. A public footslave since the age of 21, first in the town centre at the railway station for over 40 years, and now, for the last 4 years or so, in the suburbs. There really is nothing else to tell. You already know all there is to know about me. I lick clean dirty, female boots and shoes!
Another thing that will shock many readers is that, here in the suburbs, I can actually initiate conversation with my female better seated on the shoeshine-stand above my humbly, bowed face. I don’t have to just humbly and respectfully await the mistress’s orders, and verbally acknowledge her commands – like most footslaves. I do not have to speak only when spoken to! I can actually enquire, politely and respectfully of course, as to the mistress’s specific requirements:
‘What can I do for you today, mistress Olga?’
As if I don’t already know! And mistress Olga must know that I already know! She is nothing if not a delightful creature of female habit. She always just wants ‘a nice shine’. But it is nevertheless the height of good manners for a suburban, public footslave to ask, just on the off-chance that, for once, the mistress has other ideas!
‘Oh, just the usual please, slave – give them a nice shine!’
Yes, you heard right again - mistress Olga actually said ‘please’! To me – a public footslave!
‘Yes mistress Olga. Of course mistress Olga. At once mistress Olga!’
I probably don’t have to be this obsequious where mistress Olga is concerned. But old habits die hard. I have, after all, been a public footslave for nearly half a century – and normal, free-human speak is not exactly my native language (I am still much more comfortable in ‘slave-speak!)
Before I can lower my cracked, old lips and leathery, old, dried-up tongue to the toe of mistress Olga’s superior, right boot, she hitches up the stylish, boot-cut hems of both her black trouser legs - above the tops of her well-worn, black, block-heeled, zip-up ankle boots - to reveal the scrunched-up tops of a somewhat ropey-looking pair of dark, navy-blue ankle socks:
‘Look what I’m wearing today, slave – my navy-blue bootsocks! Your favourite pair! Ha! Ha!’
My elderly slave-heart begins pounding. She may not know my name, but after 4 years of servitude at her booted feet mistress Olga sure knows my likes and dislikes when it comes to her pretty, feminine feet and footwear! And she is definitely correct about her navy-blue bootsocks! I love white girls who wear black ankle boots with dark-coloured socks! The dark socks contrast so sweetly with the soft and smooth, white skin of their lower legs. And they just make them look so professional! So businesslike! Probably a taste I developed over my long years of serving haughty and arrogant, ankle-booted businesswomen at the busy, central railway station.
Not that my suburban mistress Olga is remotely haughty or arrogant – nor is she a businesswoman. I know for a fact that she only works part-time, three days a week, in a local supermarket as a checkout girl! I also know for a fact, because she has delighted in telling me many times, that she doesn’t really have to work at all, as her husband, John, earns a good salary in the city. But mistress Olga likes to do something with all her spare time, and, being gregarious by nature, working part-time in the supermarket brings her into contact with lots of different people throughout the day. Besides, she told me that she left school with virtually no qualifications. I don’t think that mistress Olga is particularly academically-inclined.
So, working part-time in a supermarket suits her just fine! A bit of extra pocket money for buying herself new pairs of boots and shoes! Oh how I would dearly love to kneel at mistress Olga’s feet all day as she sits at the checkout till – admiring and sniffing her well-worn, black ankle boots and ropey, equally well-worn, navy blue bootsocks as she processes the supermarket customers' purchases.
Don’t worry, mistress Olga knows that I have such self-centred fantasies as I have been so bold as to tell her so myself! Again, I can sense the shock in some of my readers! But I can assure you that mistress Olga was not in the least bit offended when I told her of my daydreams. In fact, I think she was flattered! She certainly laughed out loud at me – and that’s also how she knows I like this particular pair of navy-blue ankle socks that she has on inside her boots today; I have told her so! In fact, it wouldn’t even surprise me if she had chosen to wear them today specifically for my benefit – to tease and torment me with her dark, blue socks whilst I tongue-shine her boots!
‘Oh mistress Olga, your navy-blue socks are indeed beautiful, mistress Olga!’
I just had to reconfirm my opinion out loud for mistress Olga to hear! And before all you prudish footslaves out there rush to condemn, you know that you would do exactly the same if you had the same freedom that I do to speak your footslave-mind!
In any case, mistress Olga, who is virtually unoffendable, just laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Well, if you’re a good footslave today I might just let you nuzzle them later! But first, you have work to do, slave!’
And with that she cocks her pretty, blonde head to one side and coquettishly twists the side of her right ankle boot so that it is resting lengthwise in front of my humble, kneeling, footslave face – ready to be licked.
I know what I must do. Even though it pains me to have to avert my gaze from the top of mistress Olga’s still visible, scrunched-up, navy blue bootsock, I lower my wrinkly, old lips to the wrinkly leather on the side of this superior, young woman’s right boot and begin licking.
As I said before, mistress Olga’s boots are never all that dirty – just faded and dull through constant wear. However, no matter how ‘clean’ a mistress’s boots may be close-up – as they are now in front of my footslave-eyes – there will always be some traces of dirt and dust from the streets. I can feel the little traces of dirt on my tongue – and in at least one area, in the stitching which joins the sole of her pretty, ankle-boot to the leather upper at the back of the boot near the blocky-shaped heel, I can see a definite slither of mud; probably from a muddy puddle; or mistress Olga may have walked over some grass at some point.
Whatever the provenance of the slither of offending boot-dirt, its destination is in no doubt. It will be joining the many other traces of female shoe and boot mud already nestling in my footslave-stomach this morning – for mistress Olga is by no means my first customer today. Even in the relatively quiet suburbs I get a fairly constant stream of eager, female customers. In fact, I would estimate her to be my 9th or 10th customer this morning. It is mid-morning after all (presumably my mistress Olga is on a late shift today!)
I can sense mistress Olga watching me like a hawk as I lick and then swallow the trace of dirty mud from the stitching at the heel of her blocky ankle boot:
‘Make sure you lick all the dust and filth out from beneath my heel, slave!’ she requests.
And it does sound more like a ‘request’ than an ‘order’. Mistress Olga is not one to bark down orders at her public footslave. She has no need to. She knows that I will do whatever she says, for I am an elderly and experienced footslave of many years’ humble servitude at the feet and footwear of young women.
But, having said all that, mistress Olga is definitely one of those young women who does like to verbally direct my work. She will often crouch down to point out with her pretty, slender, feminine, index finger a particular part of her boot or shoe that needs my tongue’s slavish attention. And I would never dream of arguing with her (you’ll be pleased to hear!) Mistress Olga may be a sweet, kind and polite young woman, but she is still a superior, young mistress, and I must never forget that!
‘Yes mistress Olga. At once mistress Olga. As it pleases you mistress Olga!’
Ah – you see! I’m drifting back into slave-speak again! It just comes so naturally to me, especially when responding to a superior mistress’s polite ‘requests’.
‘And don’t forget to lick the zip area as well, slave. It gets so dusty in there!’
Mistress Olga, I have to say, knows her favourite pair of black, ankle boots very well. Almost as well as I do! The narrow, black, fabric-track that runs down the side of her boot and surrounds the metal zip does indeed have a tendency to pick up dust from the street, and - if you’ll forgive the criticism, fellow-footslaves – it is an area of a young woman’s boot that is often forgotten about or neglected by an inattentive footslave’s tongue!
If there is one thing I have learnt over the years it’s that a public footslave is responsible for cleaning the boot, the whole boot, and nothing but the boot – not just the leather uppers or soles. Any areas of fabric or stitching, especially around the zip areas, must equally be licked and sucked clean – otherwise you are just not doing your job properly!
I reassure mistress Olga that I will be onto her boot-zips, just as soon as I’ve finished licking the dirt from underneath her block-heel:
‘Yes mistress. Olga. Of course, mistress Olga. As you say, mistress Olga – the zip area could indeed do with a nice tongue-shine!’
Mistress Olga appears satisfied, and I do believe is actually on the point of thanking me when her mobile phone rings.
She answers it:
‘Hi, honey!...Yeah I’m just with the public footslave…Ha! Ha! No…I mean he’s cleaning my boots! …I’m just making him lick the dust out of my boot-zip!...What’s that?... Oh fantastic!...Ha! Ha!...Yeah cool!...Ha! Ha!...Fab! …When do we go?...Really?....Great!...Cool!…Ha! Ha!....Sounds great, sweetheart!...I can’t wait!...I’ll meet up with you after work, shall I?... What all do we need to get?...’
I don’t like eavesdropping on my female customers’ and betters’ telephone conversations whilst I am licking their boots. It’s not really any of my business, and besides, my mistress Olga will doubtless tell me what her conversation was all about if she feels so inclined. She’s like that!
Sounds like good news whatever it is anyway!
Whilst she continues her happy conversation with her ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’ (presumably her husband!) as she sits haughtily above me on the shoeshine- stand, I continue to kneel at her booted feet in the dirt and employ my elderly tongue in the cleaning of her well-worn, right ankle boot.
Having tongue-shined the blocky heel and then licked the dust out of her zip-track, both as specifically requested by the superior, young mistress seated above me, I find myself coming to the most frustrating part of her ankle boot – the upper rim!
It is frustrating because it is the closest part of the boot to her lovely, ropey-looking, navy-blue bootsock, which, as I lick around the rim of her boot, once again looms large before my sock-loving eyes. Oh how I would dearly love to just brush my nose against the scrunched-up top of mistress Olga’s well-worn, navy-blue, soft, cotton bootsock whilst she is distracted on the phone!
Not even a suburban footslave, however, be he in a de facto state of ‘semi-retirement' or not, is permitted to take such liberties! I may have it easy compared to other, younger footslaves who are still employed at busy railway stations or in busy, town-centre, shopping malls– but I am still not immune from the whip! Like any public footslave, I have my ‘customer comments’ book hanging from a string beside my footslave-stand, and should any mistress decide to write a note of complaint about me in the book I know that my owner and master will be guaranteed to give me a severe whipping when he comes to feed me at the end of the day.
If there is one thing my master does not tolerate it is female-customer dissatisfaction with any of his public-service footslaves (I am one of just many he owns). And my young master equally makes no allowances for my age – he whips me as hard as any of his younger slaves if I fail to perform to my suburban, female mistresses’ required standards.
And rightly so.
I’m pleased to say, however, that my master has not had occasion to whip me in over two years! (again, gasps of amazement from my fellow-footslave readers! A slave that hasn’t been whipped in over two years!)
I am determined, if I can, never to feel the sharp sting of the whip across my back ever again, and so, good and well-behaved footslave that I am I resist temptation, and studiously avoid brushing my nose against mistress Olga’s soft and inviting, navy-blue bootsock.
Not yet, at any rate – not until she tells me to. For I am on a promise! You heard her!
Mistress Olga’s telephone conversation with her ‘sweetheart’ ends, and, as I had expected, she immediately fills me in on her good news whilst I turn my footslavish attention to her left ankle boot:
‘That was John, my husband, slave…He’s just managed to get a last minute deal on a holiday in Florida! I’m flying off with him tomorrow! Ha! Ha! Isn’t that wonderful?’
I am very pleased for mistress Olga, and share her excitement and delight at her good news, even though my first thought, somewhat selfishly, is to know how long she will be away for – for I shall miss her boots and socks!
‘Oh…Oh yes mistress! That’s wonderful news! I am very pleased for you both, mistress!’
Of course, it would never occur to my sweet and kind, feminine mistress Olga that her good news could be seen as ‘rubbing things in’ to her public footslave. It would never occur to her pretty, little, blonde head that, whilst she is free to go off gallivanting around the world at short notice with her wealthy husband – I, the public footslave, can never travel anywhere! I am permanently chained to my humble footslave-stand. I have only ever been two places in my entire adult life – at the railway station; and here, in this suburban neighbourhood.
For, at the end of the day, and at the end of my life, I am still a slave. I am not free to go and do as I please – unlike my mistress Olga.
But I am, nevertheless, genuinely pleased for her! It does sound like an exciting trip! Florida! And leaving tomorrow!
I venture to interrupt my slavish licking of her left boot briefly in order to ask her a polite question:
‘Have you been there before, mistress Olga?...’
But she is already on the phone again, this time, it seems, to one of her girlfriends. She clearly wants to share her exciting news with someone important!
‘...Hi, Samantha…It’s Oggy!...Hi…listen, guess what? John’s just phoned me…He’s got a last minute deal to Florida!....Yeah, that’s right...Ha! Ha!...Florida!...We’re off tomorrow!...Ha!..Ha!...Isn’t that so cool?...’
I can even hear the squeals of delight from mistress Samantha (whom I don’t think I know) down the phone, as she too, like me, is evidently very happy for her best friend Olga.
As mistress Olga is now ignoring me, the old man kneeling at her feet, I decide to study more closely the top of her scrunched-up, navy-blue bootsock on her smooth, white leg beneath her black, hitched-up, boot-cut trouser leg as I continue to humbly and obediently tongue-shine the top of mistress Olga’s left, zip-up, black leather, ankle boot.
The simple fact is that, whatever exciting sights mistress Olga and her husband John will see during their whirlwind holiday out in sunny Florida, nothing, to my humble, footslave-mind, could possibly be as exciting as the sight of the scrunched-up top of mistress Olga’s somewhat ropey-looking, soft, feminine, navy-blue bootsock on her smooth, white leg.
Indeed, if I could go on holiday to Florida with them (Ha! Ha!) I would wish for nothing more than to follow my mistress Olga’s booted feet on my hands and knees everywhere she goes, and to stare at the tops of her socks whenever she is seated in the tour coach or at a restaurant table – for mistress Olga’s socks are the only sights I would be interested in – especially when, as now, the top of her scrunched-up, left sock is creasing and folding enticingly in front of my very eyes as she subconsciously flexes her sweet, feminine foot muscles inside her black ankle-boots during her animated and excited mobile phone conversation with her best friend Samantha.
As I observe her sock, and lick her boot, a horrible thought occurs to me! What if my mistress Olga now decides to rush off without allowing me to nuzzle the top of her navy blue bootsocks? She promised! Yet, she is clearly now, understandably, so excited about her forthcoming, surprise holiday with her husband that she only has one thing on her pretty mind – getting her late shift over and done with at the supermarket so that she can meet up with her husband, go shopping, and then rush home in order to get packed and ready to fly off into the Florida sunshine!
What was that I was saying about my suburban mistresses never being in a hurry?!
Oh well, I can only hope that my mistress Olga will not forget her promise to her diligent public bootslave in the heat of the moment! At least I can say I was there – licking her boots – when she got her good news!
My mistress finishes her conversation with her friend Samantha just as I have finished tongue-shining her left boot.
Seemingly back in the world of reality, mistress Olga appears to remember where she is and, still smiling broadly, for she is now, needless to say, in a particularly happy mood, she twists and turns her booted feet as they rest on the two metal stirrups in front of my humbly-kneeling face, and crouches down to inspect my work.
I am confident, as ever, that I haven’t missed a bit, but no longer so confident in receiving my eagerly anticipated sock-nuzzling reward!
‘Ha! Ha! You’ve done well, slave! You may nuzzle the tops of my socks – but be quick about it, and don’t touch my bare skin!’
My heart leaps for joy! God bless you mistress Olga! What a sweet and kind, selfless and magnanimous young woman you are! Even though you have just received some fabulously exciting news; and even though your pretty blonde head must now be reeling with happy thoughts about your forthcoming holiday; and even though you now have to go into work, and then meet up with your wealthy husband after work, in order to hurriedly buy some holiday accoutrements, prior to rushing home to start packing for your imminent and unexpected flight to Florida tomorrow morning – despite all these important things going on in your superior, busy, female life you still have time to give the humble, elderly, male, public footslave at your feet his scant reward of nuzzling the tops of your navy-blue ankle socks!
That’s what I am thinking, and yearning to say to mistress Olga (without so much as the merest hint of sarcasm for I would genuinely mean every gushing and grateful word). However, my mistress has ordered me to be quick, so I must satisfy myself with a quick:
‘Oh thank you, mistress Olga! God bless you mistress Olga! Truly I am not worthy of such an honour, mistress Olga!’
And without any further ado (for my mistress Olga is still at liberty to change her mind at any time) I bury my footslave-nose in the folds of her right bootsock - her right, ankle-booted foot still resting in front of my kneeling face on the right-sided metal stirrup – and breathe in the sweet aroma of the sweet and kind, blonde, supermarket checkout girl’s sweaty, blue bootsock; my humble reward for tongue-shining her boots and boot-zips so efficiently and diligently.
Mistress Olga just laughs at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Loser! What a has-been! Having to nuzzle a young woman’s socks in public at your age! Ha! Ha! I’ll be thinking about you while I’m lying on the beach with my husband in sunny Florida, dirty, old slave! Ha! Ha! I might even wear these socks and boots for you on the beach, so that you can lick off the sand when I get back! Ha! Ha! Would you like that, slave-loser?’
‘Oh yes, mistress Olga. I would like that very much, if it pleases you mistress Olga!’
As I said earlier, a sweet and kind, thoughtful young mistress if ever there was one – prepared even to let me taste where she has been; to taste the sandy beaches of Florida from the soles of her pretty, black ankle-boots! Truly I do not deserve such sweet and kind customers as this!
I breathe in deeply through my elderly footslave-nose, and lose myself in this sweet, young, middle-class, suburban woman’s socks!
Epilogue
True to her word mistress Olga did wear her ankle-boots on the beach, and I did get to lick the sands of Florida from the treads in the soles of her well-worn boots on her return some two weeks later. So I suppose you could say that I have been to Florida – or at least I have licked the boots of a superior young woman who has been to Florida.
Her navy-blue bootsocks must surely have been very hot and sweaty inside those boots in the hot, Florida sunshine! She mockingly assured me she hadn’t washed them since returning from Florida as I stared longingly up at them whilst tongue-scraping the sand from her leather boot-soles.
As I intimated at the very beginning, life isn’t at all bad for the ‘semi-retired’ elderly, neighbourhood, public-footslave serving in the suburbs!
The End
Being a public footslave all your adult life does have some compensations. If you work hard, and serve your female masters and betters to the best of your footslavish abilities whilst you are still young, you may find towards the end of your miserable and humble existence that you are allowed to take things a little bit easier – almost to enter a state of semi-retirement!
I am now 69 years old, and this is a snapshot of my twilight years:
I am employed as a public footslave in a small, middle-class neighbourhood in the suburbs.
I wasn’t always a local, neighbourhood footslave. I used to work as a public footslave at the busy, main railway station in the centre of town, but I became too old for that and just couldn’t keep up with the pace of things there. You see, most of my female customers and betters at the railway station were busy, commuting businesswomen – seemingly always in a hurry. They demanded a quick and efficient boot or shoe shine, and had little time to hang around while the decrepit, old footslave’s worn-out tongue feverishly attempted to lift the ingrained city-street dirt off their pretty, feminine footwear. These young business ladies at the railway station, by definition, had a train to catch – and they needed a younger footslave’s fresher tongue on their expensive, designer, office shoes and boots – one that hadn’t already been worn down by years and years of humble, female boot and shoe licking – a slave-tongue that could still capture all the dirt at the first lick!
And so I was laid off and moved out to the suburbs some four years ago (a public footslave is never allowed to fully retire) where my owner considered I could still provide a boot and shoe licking service to the female public, but at a reduced pace.
He was right. I quickly found my elderly-footslave niche, and I have never been happier! It is a nice, friendly neighbourhood, and I now know virtually all my female superiors and customers by name. My middle-class, female betters in the suburbs have time to stop and chat to me whilst I slowly tongue-shine their boots (I’m pleased to say my tongue is still capable of lifting dirt off female shoe leather; it just takes a bit longer than it did in the days of my youth! And what I lack in tongue power I can make up for with experience!)
Of course, I’m still very much regarded, and treated, by my female customers as a humble footslave – something that is, quite literally, beneath them. My young, female customers, even out here in the more relaxed and laid-back suburbs, could never really be considered my ‘friends’ as such. Ha! Ha! What a ridiculous and naïve thought!
But at least they have the time to be polite and civil towards me as they give me my orders – not like the busy, arrogant, young businesswomen in the city centre who only have time to bark down the most peremptory of orders at me. I never even got to know the names of my regular customers at the railway station – even though I tongue-shined the shoes and boots of several of them every single working day! They remained faceless and nameless strangers to me - however familiar their individual, feminine boots and shoes may have become to me over the years!
But here in the suburbs it’s an entirely different matter. I not only get to know my female betters’ shoes and boots, but also the owners of the footwear themselves. And not just their names! I know all about their lives – their domestic circumstances; their jobs; their hopes and dreams. For they actually bother to talk to me. And, like all slaves, I am an innately good listener.
I’m pleased to see that one of my regular suburban customers, mistress Olga, is now approaching my public footslave-stand!
What can I tell you about mistress Olga? Well, she is married, in her late twenties; a pretty girl, quite petite in stature, with long, blonde hair; always very cheerful, outgoing and gregarious; I would guess she is the life and soul of the party - not that I have ever been to a party – or ever will be invited to a party. Although I might regard myself as being in a state of semi-retirement, I am still, officially and legally, a public footslave for life – chained to my public footslave-stand 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, so that my slave-owning master can make as much money as possible out of my humble and degrading labour before I eventually snuff it!
And, I’m (literally) bound to say – that’s the way it jolly well should be! My master has invested a lot of money in me over the years – feeding me and buying me new chains whenever my old ones get rusty (I am, after all, chained up outside to my shoeshine stand in all weathers. Even my former shoeshine-stand at the station wasn’t protected from the elements!)
Something else I have observed about mistress Olga: like many modern, young women nowadays she never seems to wear skirts or dresses – always trousers or jeans, be they smart boot-cut trousers like she appears to have on today, or scruffy, frayed, denim jeans. But she is such a pretty girl she looks beautiful even when she is scruffily and casually dressed – in my humble opinion.
She also has a penchant for black, leather ankle boots – and over the four years I have been serving her in my capacity as a neighbourhood, public footslave I have been honoured to lick many different pairs of mistress Olga’s ankle boots. Indeed, thanks to mistress Olga’s regular attendance at my suburban footslave-stall I have been able to observe the various changing fashions in young-woman, ankle-boot style over the past 4 years. Her more recently purchased boots, for example, have stylish, pointy toes and sharp, spiked heels.
Today, however, I can observe from the corner of my kneeling, footslave eye, as she marches cheerily up towards my public shoeshine-stand, that she is wearing one of her favourite pairs of old boots beneath her smart, black, boot-cut slacks– her well-worn pair of round-toed, block-heeled, zip-up, ankle boots, boots that always seem to need a good tongue-shine even though they are never particularly dirty as such. It’s just that ( a bit like me, perhaps!) the black, boot leather is now so old and creased it has become rather dull–looking - not as shiny as it once used to be.
But my young, customer-mistress Olga clearly still likes this particular pair of old, black, leather ankle boots – presumably because they are now ultra-comfortable on her petite and shapely, pretty white feet and ankles, moulded as they are to the contours of her soft and shapely feminine feet by repeated wear.
I too, very much admire this particular pair of mistress Olga’s boots. As I hinted before, they present something of a challenge to a public footslave – how to tongue-shine up old boot leather to a satisfactory degree. For, however friendly mistress Olga may appear to be on the surface, she is still a paying, female customer, who will expect and demand that her boots look better after my tongue has done its humble work on them than they did before she decided to avail herself of my public-footslave services.
The black, block-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankle boots climb up onto my shoeshine-stand and rest on the two metal stirrups directly in front of my kneeling- footslave face. This is the other thing I like about my suburban footslave-stand, compared to my former city-centre stand. I am still working on my knees of course – kneeling on the dirty, hard ground – but here in the suburbs my female betters get to sit down above me whilst I tongue-shine their outer footwear. In my city-centre stall the customers had to stand, resting one foot at a time on a wooden footblock positioned on the ground directly beneath my kneeling nose.
Whilst it was always nice to have the sensation of a superior, young woman towering above me, as she stood arrogantly with her hands on her hips, one foot stretched out imperiously in front of her on the wooden footblock beneath my humble footslave-face whilst I licked and fawned over her shoe-leather, it didn’t exactly make for good conversation. The shoeshine-stall at the railway station was, in keeping with the busy customers’ wishes, very much designed for a quick lick and a polish. The mistress never stayed long – she would get tired standing in this position for more than a few minutes, even if her train was delayed, and would soon head off for a coffee and croissant at the adjacent station café just as soon as I had finished tongue-shining her shoe.
Here, in my suburban footslave-stand, the mistress gets to sit down. She can relax whilst I tongue her shoes or boots. There is no hurry! And that means, if the mistress so wishes it, she can engage me in conversation. Not a conversation of equals, of course. The mistress is still ‘above’ me in every sense of the word. But she can, nevertheless, talk to her slave if she so wishes. Explain to me in more detail her requirements, for example.
I know for a fact that mistress Olga will wish to talk to me – such a sweet and kind young woman, and she always knows precisely what she wants from me:
‘Hi, slave, how are you today?’
‘Good morning, mistress Olga. I’m fine, thank you, mistress Olga…’
The footslaves amongst you will no doubt be kneeling open-jawed as you read this! A mistress greeting a mere footslave! And a footslave replying in normal free-speak, as opposed to humble slave-speak! Outrageous, I hear you cry!
Outrageous yes – but quite normal in the suburbs! Things are much more relaxed between footslaves and mistresses out here in the sticks. And, as I said, it’s a particularly friendly neighbourhood!
It is still true, of course, that even after four years of utilising my boot-cleaning services, mistress Olga still doesn’t know my name. She always just addresses me as ‘slave’. In fact, there is nothing at all unusual in this, for although I am a good listener and know much about the personal lives and circumstances of all my female superiors, I can’t think of even one of them who has ever enquired after my life and circumstances – beyond politely enquiring as to my current well-being, as mistress Olga has just done.
But then again, why should the suburban mistresses like mistress Olga be interested in my slave-name or my life story? There’s nothing to tell. A public footslave since the age of 21, first in the town centre at the railway station for over 40 years, and now, for the last 4 years or so, in the suburbs. There really is nothing else to tell. You already know all there is to know about me. I lick clean dirty, female boots and shoes!
Another thing that will shock many readers is that, here in the suburbs, I can actually initiate conversation with my female better seated on the shoeshine-stand above my humbly, bowed face. I don’t have to just humbly and respectfully await the mistress’s orders, and verbally acknowledge her commands – like most footslaves. I do not have to speak only when spoken to! I can actually enquire, politely and respectfully of course, as to the mistress’s specific requirements:
‘What can I do for you today, mistress Olga?’
As if I don’t already know! And mistress Olga must know that I already know! She is nothing if not a delightful creature of female habit. She always just wants ‘a nice shine’. But it is nevertheless the height of good manners for a suburban, public footslave to ask, just on the off-chance that, for once, the mistress has other ideas!
‘Oh, just the usual please, slave – give them a nice shine!’
Yes, you heard right again - mistress Olga actually said ‘please’! To me – a public footslave!
‘Yes mistress Olga. Of course mistress Olga. At once mistress Olga!’
I probably don’t have to be this obsequious where mistress Olga is concerned. But old habits die hard. I have, after all, been a public footslave for nearly half a century – and normal, free-human speak is not exactly my native language (I am still much more comfortable in ‘slave-speak!)
Before I can lower my cracked, old lips and leathery, old, dried-up tongue to the toe of mistress Olga’s superior, right boot, she hitches up the stylish, boot-cut hems of both her black trouser legs - above the tops of her well-worn, black, block-heeled, zip-up ankle boots - to reveal the scrunched-up tops of a somewhat ropey-looking pair of dark, navy-blue ankle socks:
‘Look what I’m wearing today, slave – my navy-blue bootsocks! Your favourite pair! Ha! Ha!’
My elderly slave-heart begins pounding. She may not know my name, but after 4 years of servitude at her booted feet mistress Olga sure knows my likes and dislikes when it comes to her pretty, feminine feet and footwear! And she is definitely correct about her navy-blue bootsocks! I love white girls who wear black ankle boots with dark-coloured socks! The dark socks contrast so sweetly with the soft and smooth, white skin of their lower legs. And they just make them look so professional! So businesslike! Probably a taste I developed over my long years of serving haughty and arrogant, ankle-booted businesswomen at the busy, central railway station.
Not that my suburban mistress Olga is remotely haughty or arrogant – nor is she a businesswoman. I know for a fact that she only works part-time, three days a week, in a local supermarket as a checkout girl! I also know for a fact, because she has delighted in telling me many times, that she doesn’t really have to work at all, as her husband, John, earns a good salary in the city. But mistress Olga likes to do something with all her spare time, and, being gregarious by nature, working part-time in the supermarket brings her into contact with lots of different people throughout the day. Besides, she told me that she left school with virtually no qualifications. I don’t think that mistress Olga is particularly academically-inclined.
So, working part-time in a supermarket suits her just fine! A bit of extra pocket money for buying herself new pairs of boots and shoes! Oh how I would dearly love to kneel at mistress Olga’s feet all day as she sits at the checkout till – admiring and sniffing her well-worn, black ankle boots and ropey, equally well-worn, navy blue bootsocks as she processes the supermarket customers' purchases.
Don’t worry, mistress Olga knows that I have such self-centred fantasies as I have been so bold as to tell her so myself! Again, I can sense the shock in some of my readers! But I can assure you that mistress Olga was not in the least bit offended when I told her of my daydreams. In fact, I think she was flattered! She certainly laughed out loud at me – and that’s also how she knows I like this particular pair of navy-blue ankle socks that she has on inside her boots today; I have told her so! In fact, it wouldn’t even surprise me if she had chosen to wear them today specifically for my benefit – to tease and torment me with her dark, blue socks whilst I tongue-shine her boots!
‘Oh mistress Olga, your navy-blue socks are indeed beautiful, mistress Olga!’
I just had to reconfirm my opinion out loud for mistress Olga to hear! And before all you prudish footslaves out there rush to condemn, you know that you would do exactly the same if you had the same freedom that I do to speak your footslave-mind!
In any case, mistress Olga, who is virtually unoffendable, just laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Well, if you’re a good footslave today I might just let you nuzzle them later! But first, you have work to do, slave!’
And with that she cocks her pretty, blonde head to one side and coquettishly twists the side of her right ankle boot so that it is resting lengthwise in front of my humble, kneeling, footslave face – ready to be licked.
I know what I must do. Even though it pains me to have to avert my gaze from the top of mistress Olga’s still visible, scrunched-up, navy blue bootsock, I lower my wrinkly, old lips to the wrinkly leather on the side of this superior, young woman’s right boot and begin licking.
As I said before, mistress Olga’s boots are never all that dirty – just faded and dull through constant wear. However, no matter how ‘clean’ a mistress’s boots may be close-up – as they are now in front of my footslave-eyes – there will always be some traces of dirt and dust from the streets. I can feel the little traces of dirt on my tongue – and in at least one area, in the stitching which joins the sole of her pretty, ankle-boot to the leather upper at the back of the boot near the blocky-shaped heel, I can see a definite slither of mud; probably from a muddy puddle; or mistress Olga may have walked over some grass at some point.
Whatever the provenance of the slither of offending boot-dirt, its destination is in no doubt. It will be joining the many other traces of female shoe and boot mud already nestling in my footslave-stomach this morning – for mistress Olga is by no means my first customer today. Even in the relatively quiet suburbs I get a fairly constant stream of eager, female customers. In fact, I would estimate her to be my 9th or 10th customer this morning. It is mid-morning after all (presumably my mistress Olga is on a late shift today!)
I can sense mistress Olga watching me like a hawk as I lick and then swallow the trace of dirty mud from the stitching at the heel of her blocky ankle boot:
‘Make sure you lick all the dust and filth out from beneath my heel, slave!’ she requests.
And it does sound more like a ‘request’ than an ‘order’. Mistress Olga is not one to bark down orders at her public footslave. She has no need to. She knows that I will do whatever she says, for I am an elderly and experienced footslave of many years’ humble servitude at the feet and footwear of young women.
But, having said all that, mistress Olga is definitely one of those young women who does like to verbally direct my work. She will often crouch down to point out with her pretty, slender, feminine, index finger a particular part of her boot or shoe that needs my tongue’s slavish attention. And I would never dream of arguing with her (you’ll be pleased to hear!) Mistress Olga may be a sweet, kind and polite young woman, but she is still a superior, young mistress, and I must never forget that!
‘Yes mistress Olga. At once mistress Olga. As it pleases you mistress Olga!’
Ah – you see! I’m drifting back into slave-speak again! It just comes so naturally to me, especially when responding to a superior mistress’s polite ‘requests’.
‘And don’t forget to lick the zip area as well, slave. It gets so dusty in there!’
Mistress Olga, I have to say, knows her favourite pair of black, ankle boots very well. Almost as well as I do! The narrow, black, fabric-track that runs down the side of her boot and surrounds the metal zip does indeed have a tendency to pick up dust from the street, and - if you’ll forgive the criticism, fellow-footslaves – it is an area of a young woman’s boot that is often forgotten about or neglected by an inattentive footslave’s tongue!
If there is one thing I have learnt over the years it’s that a public footslave is responsible for cleaning the boot, the whole boot, and nothing but the boot – not just the leather uppers or soles. Any areas of fabric or stitching, especially around the zip areas, must equally be licked and sucked clean – otherwise you are just not doing your job properly!
I reassure mistress Olga that I will be onto her boot-zips, just as soon as I’ve finished licking the dirt from underneath her block-heel:
‘Yes mistress. Olga. Of course, mistress Olga. As you say, mistress Olga – the zip area could indeed do with a nice tongue-shine!’
Mistress Olga appears satisfied, and I do believe is actually on the point of thanking me when her mobile phone rings.
She answers it:
‘Hi, honey!...Yeah I’m just with the public footslave…Ha! Ha! No…I mean he’s cleaning my boots! …I’m just making him lick the dust out of my boot-zip!...What’s that?... Oh fantastic!...Ha! Ha!...Yeah cool!...Ha! Ha!...Fab! …When do we go?...Really?....Great!...Cool!…Ha! Ha!....Sounds great, sweetheart!...I can’t wait!...I’ll meet up with you after work, shall I?... What all do we need to get?...’
I don’t like eavesdropping on my female customers’ and betters’ telephone conversations whilst I am licking their boots. It’s not really any of my business, and besides, my mistress Olga will doubtless tell me what her conversation was all about if she feels so inclined. She’s like that!
Sounds like good news whatever it is anyway!
Whilst she continues her happy conversation with her ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’ (presumably her husband!) as she sits haughtily above me on the shoeshine- stand, I continue to kneel at her booted feet in the dirt and employ my elderly tongue in the cleaning of her well-worn, right ankle boot.
Having tongue-shined the blocky heel and then licked the dust out of her zip-track, both as specifically requested by the superior, young mistress seated above me, I find myself coming to the most frustrating part of her ankle boot – the upper rim!
It is frustrating because it is the closest part of the boot to her lovely, ropey-looking, navy-blue bootsock, which, as I lick around the rim of her boot, once again looms large before my sock-loving eyes. Oh how I would dearly love to just brush my nose against the scrunched-up top of mistress Olga’s well-worn, navy-blue, soft, cotton bootsock whilst she is distracted on the phone!
Not even a suburban footslave, however, be he in a de facto state of ‘semi-retirement' or not, is permitted to take such liberties! I may have it easy compared to other, younger footslaves who are still employed at busy railway stations or in busy, town-centre, shopping malls– but I am still not immune from the whip! Like any public footslave, I have my ‘customer comments’ book hanging from a string beside my footslave-stand, and should any mistress decide to write a note of complaint about me in the book I know that my owner and master will be guaranteed to give me a severe whipping when he comes to feed me at the end of the day.
If there is one thing my master does not tolerate it is female-customer dissatisfaction with any of his public-service footslaves (I am one of just many he owns). And my young master equally makes no allowances for my age – he whips me as hard as any of his younger slaves if I fail to perform to my suburban, female mistresses’ required standards.
And rightly so.
I’m pleased to say, however, that my master has not had occasion to whip me in over two years! (again, gasps of amazement from my fellow-footslave readers! A slave that hasn’t been whipped in over two years!)
I am determined, if I can, never to feel the sharp sting of the whip across my back ever again, and so, good and well-behaved footslave that I am I resist temptation, and studiously avoid brushing my nose against mistress Olga’s soft and inviting, navy-blue bootsock.
Not yet, at any rate – not until she tells me to. For I am on a promise! You heard her!
Mistress Olga’s telephone conversation with her ‘sweetheart’ ends, and, as I had expected, she immediately fills me in on her good news whilst I turn my footslavish attention to her left ankle boot:
‘That was John, my husband, slave…He’s just managed to get a last minute deal on a holiday in Florida! I’m flying off with him tomorrow! Ha! Ha! Isn’t that wonderful?’
I am very pleased for mistress Olga, and share her excitement and delight at her good news, even though my first thought, somewhat selfishly, is to know how long she will be away for – for I shall miss her boots and socks!
‘Oh…Oh yes mistress! That’s wonderful news! I am very pleased for you both, mistress!’
Of course, it would never occur to my sweet and kind, feminine mistress Olga that her good news could be seen as ‘rubbing things in’ to her public footslave. It would never occur to her pretty, little, blonde head that, whilst she is free to go off gallivanting around the world at short notice with her wealthy husband – I, the public footslave, can never travel anywhere! I am permanently chained to my humble footslave-stand. I have only ever been two places in my entire adult life – at the railway station; and here, in this suburban neighbourhood.
For, at the end of the day, and at the end of my life, I am still a slave. I am not free to go and do as I please – unlike my mistress Olga.
But I am, nevertheless, genuinely pleased for her! It does sound like an exciting trip! Florida! And leaving tomorrow!
I venture to interrupt my slavish licking of her left boot briefly in order to ask her a polite question:
‘Have you been there before, mistress Olga?...’
But she is already on the phone again, this time, it seems, to one of her girlfriends. She clearly wants to share her exciting news with someone important!
‘...Hi, Samantha…It’s Oggy!...Hi…listen, guess what? John’s just phoned me…He’s got a last minute deal to Florida!....Yeah, that’s right...Ha! Ha!...Florida!...We’re off tomorrow!...Ha!..Ha!...Isn’t that so cool?...’
I can even hear the squeals of delight from mistress Samantha (whom I don’t think I know) down the phone, as she too, like me, is evidently very happy for her best friend Olga.
As mistress Olga is now ignoring me, the old man kneeling at her feet, I decide to study more closely the top of her scrunched-up, navy-blue bootsock on her smooth, white leg beneath her black, hitched-up, boot-cut trouser leg as I continue to humbly and obediently tongue-shine the top of mistress Olga’s left, zip-up, black leather, ankle boot.
The simple fact is that, whatever exciting sights mistress Olga and her husband John will see during their whirlwind holiday out in sunny Florida, nothing, to my humble, footslave-mind, could possibly be as exciting as the sight of the scrunched-up top of mistress Olga’s somewhat ropey-looking, soft, feminine, navy-blue bootsock on her smooth, white leg.
Indeed, if I could go on holiday to Florida with them (Ha! Ha!) I would wish for nothing more than to follow my mistress Olga’s booted feet on my hands and knees everywhere she goes, and to stare at the tops of her socks whenever she is seated in the tour coach or at a restaurant table – for mistress Olga’s socks are the only sights I would be interested in – especially when, as now, the top of her scrunched-up, left sock is creasing and folding enticingly in front of my very eyes as she subconsciously flexes her sweet, feminine foot muscles inside her black ankle-boots during her animated and excited mobile phone conversation with her best friend Samantha.
As I observe her sock, and lick her boot, a horrible thought occurs to me! What if my mistress Olga now decides to rush off without allowing me to nuzzle the top of her navy blue bootsocks? She promised! Yet, she is clearly now, understandably, so excited about her forthcoming, surprise holiday with her husband that she only has one thing on her pretty mind – getting her late shift over and done with at the supermarket so that she can meet up with her husband, go shopping, and then rush home in order to get packed and ready to fly off into the Florida sunshine!
What was that I was saying about my suburban mistresses never being in a hurry?!
Oh well, I can only hope that my mistress Olga will not forget her promise to her diligent public bootslave in the heat of the moment! At least I can say I was there – licking her boots – when she got her good news!
My mistress finishes her conversation with her friend Samantha just as I have finished tongue-shining her left boot.
Seemingly back in the world of reality, mistress Olga appears to remember where she is and, still smiling broadly, for she is now, needless to say, in a particularly happy mood, she twists and turns her booted feet as they rest on the two metal stirrups in front of my humbly-kneeling face, and crouches down to inspect my work.
I am confident, as ever, that I haven’t missed a bit, but no longer so confident in receiving my eagerly anticipated sock-nuzzling reward!
‘Ha! Ha! You’ve done well, slave! You may nuzzle the tops of my socks – but be quick about it, and don’t touch my bare skin!’
My heart leaps for joy! God bless you mistress Olga! What a sweet and kind, selfless and magnanimous young woman you are! Even though you have just received some fabulously exciting news; and even though your pretty blonde head must now be reeling with happy thoughts about your forthcoming holiday; and even though you now have to go into work, and then meet up with your wealthy husband after work, in order to hurriedly buy some holiday accoutrements, prior to rushing home to start packing for your imminent and unexpected flight to Florida tomorrow morning – despite all these important things going on in your superior, busy, female life you still have time to give the humble, elderly, male, public footslave at your feet his scant reward of nuzzling the tops of your navy-blue ankle socks!
That’s what I am thinking, and yearning to say to mistress Olga (without so much as the merest hint of sarcasm for I would genuinely mean every gushing and grateful word). However, my mistress has ordered me to be quick, so I must satisfy myself with a quick:
‘Oh thank you, mistress Olga! God bless you mistress Olga! Truly I am not worthy of such an honour, mistress Olga!’
And without any further ado (for my mistress Olga is still at liberty to change her mind at any time) I bury my footslave-nose in the folds of her right bootsock - her right, ankle-booted foot still resting in front of my kneeling face on the right-sided metal stirrup – and breathe in the sweet aroma of the sweet and kind, blonde, supermarket checkout girl’s sweaty, blue bootsock; my humble reward for tongue-shining her boots and boot-zips so efficiently and diligently.
Mistress Olga just laughs at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Loser! What a has-been! Having to nuzzle a young woman’s socks in public at your age! Ha! Ha! I’ll be thinking about you while I’m lying on the beach with my husband in sunny Florida, dirty, old slave! Ha! Ha! I might even wear these socks and boots for you on the beach, so that you can lick off the sand when I get back! Ha! Ha! Would you like that, slave-loser?’
‘Oh yes, mistress Olga. I would like that very much, if it pleases you mistress Olga!’
As I said earlier, a sweet and kind, thoughtful young mistress if ever there was one – prepared even to let me taste where she has been; to taste the sandy beaches of Florida from the soles of her pretty, black ankle-boots! Truly I do not deserve such sweet and kind customers as this!
I breathe in deeply through my elderly footslave-nose, and lose myself in this sweet, young, middle-class, suburban woman’s socks!
Epilogue
True to her word mistress Olga did wear her ankle-boots on the beach, and I did get to lick the sands of Florida from the treads in the soles of her well-worn boots on her return some two weeks later. So I suppose you could say that I have been to Florida – or at least I have licked the boots of a superior young woman who has been to Florida.
Her navy-blue bootsocks must surely have been very hot and sweaty inside those boots in the hot, Florida sunshine! She mockingly assured me she hadn’t washed them since returning from Florida as I stared longingly up at them whilst tongue-scraping the sand from her leather boot-soles.
As I intimated at the very beginning, life isn’t at all bad for the ‘semi-retired’ elderly, neighbourhood, public-footslave serving in the suburbs!
The End
