Stereotypes
I fully realise that it is not exactly appropriate for a dirty, male slave such as myself to think of his mistresses and female betters in terms of mere stereotypes. Each and every mistress I serve should be viewed as a unique and superior female individual. However, the longer I serve in my capacity as a public footslave, the more I find myself ‘pigeon-holing’ my superior, female customers into various, recognisable types and personalities.
Allow me to demonstrate what I mean by quickly taking you through just one of my typical mornings licking female feet and footwear in the central town square of our great capital city:
Sporty Mistress
My first customer of the morning (and it has literally just gone 6:00 a.m.) is a young, blonde-ponytailed woman out for an early morning jog.
She is dressed, appropriately, in a navy blue tracksuit with pink stripes down the sides, white and pale-blue, lace-up sneakers, and matching navy blue ankle socks with a pale blue trim at the top.
She is hot and sweaty because she has been running for over an hour now, and as she sits down on the raised chair of my public footslave-stand, resting her pretty, sneakered feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face, I can hear her taking a swig of water from a small bottle she is carrying:
‘Clean my sneakers and then nose the tops of my socks, slaveboy,’ she barks down at me, her voice full of the natural, female authority of a young woman at the peak of her physical beauty and fitness. I reckon she can’t be any more than about 22 or 23 years old, yet, even though I am more than twice her age, she still regards me as a ‘boy’, and not a ‘man’.
She is, of course, quite correct. For I can never be a man – not a real man. I am just a slave.
It’s funny, but I have heard tell that back in the day, long before the Gynarchy was established, middle aged men such as myself would have been regarded as having a certain position in society and a kind of natural authority over women – particularly young women such as this attractive young female jogger, young enough to be any middle-aged man’s daughter. Apparently people even used to say that it was a ‘man’s world’.
Ha! Ha! How times have changed. Men – especially, fat, balding, middle-aged men like me – are now most definitely the weaker sex, and now, quite rightly, have no position of respect or authority in the new, female-dominated society. It is now, most definitely, a ‘young woman’s world’, and female youth and power are prized and respected above everything.
Hence I have absolutely no difficulty whatsoever in taking orders from this beautiful and attractive, fit young woman in her early twenties.
Because it’s still so early in the day, and because I am just a weak and feeble old man, I haven’t properly woken up yet. That’s why my mind is wandering like this. But a sharp cut of the stick across my bare, right shoulder – expertly delivered by the young, sporty woman seated above me, soon brings me back to my senses.
She has used the ‘public-use’ stick supplied with all public footslave stands. The female customers can use the dreaded, whippy stick in one of two ways – either to point to the specific area(s) of their feet or footwear they want licked or cleaned, or to punish the public footslave if he is slacking or a bit slow off the mark in responding to clear, feminine orders – as I have been.
Hence the sharp sting in my right shoulder blade. It spurs me into action:
‘Yes, mistress. At once mistress!’ and my lips quickly embrace the greying, scuffed toe of the jogging-girl’s right, well-worn, ‘white’ and pale blue sneaker as I put my tongue to the use it was designed for – licking clean young women’s dirty shoes.
Satisfied that I am now attending to her footwear in an appropriately submissive and obedient manner, the young, ponytailed, blonde woman inserts the earphones on her i-pod into her pretty ears and starts listening to some dance music, still taking the occasional swig of mineral water from her plastic bottle.
It has been raining, and the blonde, sporty mistress’s rather tatty-looking, greyish-white and pale blue sneakers are quite wet and covered in dirty splashes of rain water and wet mud stains, mixed in with one or two blades of wet grass. Part of her run must have been along wet grass. No matter – my experienced footslave tongue will soon remove all the offending dirt and foreign objects from the sides, soles and uppers of her pretty, feminine, lace-up running-sneakers.
As I dutifully lick clean the blonde mistress’s dirty, wet sneakers her feet start to tap in time with the music on their respective metal footrests, causing her navy blue ankle socks to crease and fold in front of my footslave eyes. This reminds me that I am to have the honour of ‘nosing’ the tops of her socks after I have finished licking the street dirt and muck off her sneakers i.e. I shall be required to gently run my nose along the pale-blue stripe that runs along the top of each navy-blue sock below her soft, white, feminine ankle skin.
Of course, sporty mistress will not regard it as an ‘honour’ which she is bestowing upon me. Rather she will see it as a further humiliation for the pathetic, ugly, sexually unattractive, middle-aged, male ‘slaveboy’ kneeling in the dirt at her feet – having to run his ugly, slave nose along the top of her sock whilst audibly breathing in the smell of her sweaty, running-shoe sock, and taking great care not to brush his nose against her bare leg-flesh. For that would be the ultimate crime that a public footslave could commit - allowing his bare flesh ,even just the tip of his ugly, slave nose – to touch the bare flesh of a superior young woman without her express permission.
She is probably hoping that I do, inadvertently, touch her skin – for that would then give her all the authority she needs to flay my prone and vulnerable bare back with the dreaded whipping stick!
However, what this young lady doesn’t know, is that I am a public footslave of many years’ experience, and I genuinely can’t remember the last time I had such a mishap with a superior, young woman’s bare footflesh. I am an expert sock-noser, just as I am an expert sneaker-licker, and I am confident that this demanding and fit young woman will have no cause for complaint when I have finished servicing both her outer and inner footwear.
I even have the confidence to decide for myself when the young, female jogger’s sneakers are sufficiently tongue-cleansed for me to start running my nose along the elasticated, pale-blue top of her navy-blue ankle sock.
Her only comment as I place my nose on the stripe at the top of her right ankle sock is:
‘Make sure you smooth out all the creases in the top of my sock with your nose, slave!’
You see! This demanding young mistress has clearly come to realise, after my somewhat faltering start, that I am actually quite a good and effective footslave. She is clearly satisfied that I have spruced up her sneakers sufficiently with my tongue, and she is equally clearly convinced that I know not to brush my nose against her bare skin whilst I am nosing the tops of her blue socks – otherwise she would undoubtedly have verbally warned me not to!
No, all she seems to be concerned about is that I should iron out any unsightly creases in the tops of her ankle socks with my slave nose as I run it along the pale-blue elasticated stitching of the top – which is somewhat ironic given the repeated creasing and folding in the rest of her sock caused by the movement of her pretty foot muscles in time with the rhythm of the dance music on her i–pod.
Of course, the fact that she is listening to music will also mean that she is unable to hear my pathetic, audible sniffing of her sock as I run my nose along it – but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to audibly sniff. I never pass up on the opportunity to sniff a young woman’s sock, as it is a true honour and a privilege for a lowly public footslave such as myself to smell the very essence of his female customer’s warm, sweaty foot – especially such a fit and pretty customer as this one.
And so I inhale through my nostrils as I run the tip of my nose gently along the top of each of the sporty, young woman’s navy-blue ankle socks, straightening out the tiny creases in the pale-blue elasticated tops, and breathing in the delicate aroma of young jogging-woman, early-morning footsweat.
I hear her take another swig of water above me as I do so, and suddenly realise that I too am quite thirsty. No chance of any refreshing mineral water for me, though! My female minder, miss Marguerita, a Latina student employed by my master to feed and water me every morning, has already given me my daily dose of tasteless gruel known as ‘slave-mush’. According to my master it contains all the nutrients a footslave needs to keep him working – although the meagre diet of slave-mush does assume that the public footslave will be able to supplement his diet throughout the day by eating the dirt from his female customers’ shoes and boots, the lint from their socks and woolly tights, and the toe jam from their bare feet. The only ‘drink’ I get all day is sweat – sweat from the ladies’ feet.
Still, it is a diet entirely fit for a humble, male footslave such as myself, and I forget my selfish thoughts of thirst and hunger to concentrate once again on nosing the pale blue elasticated tops of the blonde-ponytailed, sporty mistress’s otherwise navy-blue socks.
After some 10 minutes sticking my nose into her sock-business, I hear sporty mistress take a final swig of water from her plastic bottle. Her feet move off the metal footrests, and she takes off - spraying my gormless footslave-face with rain water from the backs of her grey-white sneaker-heels as she breaks out into a jog again!
Of course, she leaves without any words of thanks to the public footslave for her freshly-cleaned sneakers or freshly-straightened and now uncreased ankle socks. But then, why should she acknowledge my humble work? I am just a ‘thing’; a fat and ugly antiquated ‘machine’ - there to service her feminine feet and footwear. And she is a supremely fit and beautiful superior young woman in her prime. She has better things to do than speak to the likes of me! The absence of any further cuts to my back and shoulders from the stinging stick are evidence enough of her satisfaction with my performance.
Fat Mistress
I have no time to rest on my laurels, however, for my next female customer is already positioning herself in the vacated seat on my footslave stand.
Seated above me like a haughty African queen or princess, by way of complete contrast to the previous fit and svelte looking sporty mistress, is a young, fat black woman. I would guess the only thing she has in common with the sporty mistress is her age – early twenties – that and her innate sense of female superiority over weak men such as myself:
‘Clean the filth!' is all she says to me, in a cute West-African accent, as she places her broad, African feet clad, appropriately enough, in a pair of yellow, plastic ‘crocs’ onto the two metal footrests in front of my kneeling and humbly bowed face.
As I indicated before, it has been raining this morning, and the plastic soles of the black mistress’s yellow crocs are dripping with muddy rainwater – the ‘filth’ she is no doubt referring to!
The superior, young black mistress is wearing her yellow, cheap looking plastic crocs on her bare, black feet, and I can just see through the patterned holes on the tops of her round-toed crocs that she is wearing purple nail-varnish on her pretty, but rather podgy, toenails. I also have time to admire the creases and wrinkles in her soft, brown heel flesh beneath the yellow, plastic straps that divide her bare heels from her bare, lower calf-muscles.
And what beautiful plump calf-muscles they are too – stretching all the way up to the mistress’s fat, knobbly knees which themselves are only partially covered by her croc-matching, pale yellow leggings thanks to her now seated position, which has caused the hems of said yellow leggings to ride up thereby exposing her precious, and powerful, black kneecaps.
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress,’ I verbally acknowledge the black mistress’s absolute female power and authority over me as I humbly lower my already dirty tongue to the damp, lower rim of the plastic, rounded toe of her right, yellow, plastic croc.
As I start licking the superior, overweight, black mistress’s yellowy, plastic shoe I hear some rustling of paper above me and then feel some flakes of pastry fall onto the top of my bald head as the mistress tucks into a pain-au-chocolat. What a contrast to the previous sporty mistress! Fat, black mistress prefers to eat delicious but fattening pastries whilst having her shoes shined, to drinking healthy mineral water.
But who am I to judge a superior female’s chosen nourishment? If a young, black mistress wants to eat fresh pastries, then eat fresh pastries she damn well will! My role is not to question or disparage a mistress’s seemingly unhealthy lifestyle. She is, after all, a mistress – my mistress, my superior and my better – and my role is merely to serve her, obey her, and pander to her every whim.
The black mistress reminds me of this as she gives me further instructions in her sweet West African accent through her mouth now stuffed with pastry and chocolate:
‘Clean along the side!’
Fat mistress is clearly concerned that I am spending too much time licking away the wet muck and filth from the rounded toe of her right, croc shoe. She is the boss! I therefore immediately turn my tongue’s slavish attention to the lower rim along the side of the mistress’s plastic shoe. At such times I tend not to respond verbally to a mistress – my tongue is primarily for licking, not talking, and in any case swift and obedient actions speak louder than slow and languorous, sycophantic words.
As I run my wet tongue along the lower side of the black mistress’s yellow croc a flake of pastry falls onto the side of my face. I am, of course, permanently hungry – as slave-mush and young women’s shoe dirt can only ever provide temporary satisfaction to a male footslave’s stomach – and consequently I would dearly love to taste even just this one flake of fresh pastry that has fallen from my black mistress’s pain-au-chocolat.
But of course, that’s completely out of the question! A slave such as myself is not permitted to taste human food – not unless a superior mistress has first chewed all the flavour and goodness out of it! And so I just wait for the wind, which is picking up a bit now, to blow the stray pastry flake off the side of my face, and continue to taste young black-woman’s plastic-yellow-shoe dirt instead.
I notice as I do so that the mistress is quite a noisy eater – slapping her way heartily through her pastry in a rather unladylike manner. But it is good that she feels so relaxed and unselfconscious in my presence. The fact that she has no regard for me and no table manners is surely a good thing – for it indicates that she sees me as less than the dirt beneath her yellow crocs.
‘Now the other one!’ she barks through her mouth full of food.
I obediently turn my attention to the mistress’s left croc-ed foot, resting on the left footrest in front of my footslave face. You will notice how this young woman doesn’t even bother to address me as ‘slave’ or footslave’. It’s as if I am a mere automaton – a robot that responds to predefined orders.
Actually, that’s pretty much what I am. Perhaps more of an android than a robot?!
The mistress lets out a soft, girlish belch as she finishes her delicious pain-au-chocolat, scrunches up the white paper bag it had come in, and chucks it on the ground for me to dispose of. Disposing of her own litter is clearly beneath her!
She then climbs down, somewhat awkwardly, from the raised chair of my footslave-stand, adjusts her pale yellow leggings over her fat thighs and knees, inspects the soles of her freshly-licked, yellow crocs, and then walks off without so much as a ‘by your leave’.
It has started raining again, and the irony is, of course, that the soles, toes and sides of the black African mistress’s yellow crocs will soon be just as muddy and dirty as they were before she ordered me to ‘clean the filth’. But that doesn’t mean she has wasted her time. She has had a nice rest whilst she tucked into her unhealthy, breakfast snack, and at the same time has successfully exerted her natural female authority over a dirty public footslave. She therefore feels good about herself – and justifiably so.
The last few minutes have only amounted to nugatory work from my point of view – and nobody cares a fig about that!
Bossy Boots
As I said, it is starting to rain again, and the wind is also picking up a bit, so my next customer, I suspect, is taking the opportunity to have her boots shined whilst she shelters from the wind and rain.
My female customers, I should explain, are completely sheltered whilst they sit on my covered footslave-stand – as, indeed, is my unworthy head whilst I attend to their feet and footwear. Only my naked, kneeling back is permanently exposed to the elements as I serve at the feet of the superior women who come my way and deign to have me service their footwear.
My third customer of the day is an Indian girl with long, dark, straight hair– slightly older perhaps than my first two customers, I would say late twenties or early thirties – and clearly an office manageress or boss of some sort, doubtless on her way into work. Not one of my regulars though – so I have to think of her as a stereotypical, bright, intelligent high-flying, young Asian businesswoman.
Her smart attire is in sharp contrast to that of my two previous customers – a crisp, black, pinstriped trouser suit; an equally crisp white blouse underneath; and a pair of stylish black leather, zip-up, spike-heeled and pointy-toed ankle boots.
Having made herself comfortable in the raised chair above me, the Indian businesswoman picks up the whipping stick, but doesn’t use it to whip me – just to point to the inner side of her right boot.
‘Shine my boots, dirty slave… and make damn sure you run your dirty, slave tongue all along here and beneath the spiked heel. I want to feel your damned tongue lifting off all the wet mud that’s stuck along the lower rim of my boot. I’m not leaving here until my boots are spotless!’
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. This dirty slave hears and obeys the sweet, feminine mistress, if it so pleases you most gracious and all-powerful mistress!’
This mistress deserved such an obsequious, cringing slave-speak response. Ah, what class! She had said “Shine”; not “Clean”. This young woman clearly knows the difference between tongue-shining and tongue-cleaning a superior, young, Asian lady’s boots – and she obviously wants to be able to see her pretty, Indian features in her back leather boots by the time I have finished licking them!
In fact, her reference to ‘not leaving until my boots are spotless’ is something of a veiled threat to me – for she will doubtless know that my owner and master expects me to clean at least 60 pairs of female shoes and/or boots per day – and that consequently the longer she sits there, the fewer customers I will be able to serve – leading to severe punishment at the end of the day.
I should explain at this point that my master uses CCTV to keep an eye on the activities of all the public footslaves he owns and operates, and woe betide any public footslave who isn’t pulling his weight!
The pretty, dark-haired Indian businesswoman then takes out her newspaper and begins reading the financial pages, busying her pretty Asian head with much more important things than her wet, boot mud. She leaves that to me! She has given me her instructions and expects me now to get on with it.
Which is exactly what I do. She reads newspaper; I lick black leather boot; all the while the wind and the rain bouncing off my now shivering and windswept back. I concentrate on licking her boot well, however, for I sense that this smart, young Asian business woman is used to getting her way and to being instantly obeyed, and, cold though I now am, I have no wish for the mistress to warm my shoulders with the stick which she now has resting on her pinstriped lap!
Her boot tastes nice. Even the mud on her black, leather ankle boot seems to taste better than the mud from the previous mistress’s plastic, yellow crocs. A different class of mud, perhaps – from the upmarket, young Indian lady’s upmarket driveway? Who can tell? It’s probably all in my imagination – although there is nothing imagined about the attractive, young Asian woman’s filthy boot-mud now sliding down my footslave throat and into my footslave stomach!
Although she herself is sheltered from the wind and the rain, the Indian businesswoman’s boot-cut, pinstriped, black trouser hems are flapping around her ankles as I deftly run my tongue along the stitching on the inside of her right ankle boot – exactly where she had pointed to with the pointing/whipping stick. I find myself hoping, praying even, that a gust of wind will raise the hems of her trouser legs long enough for me to be able to see the elasticated tops of the Indian mistress’s bootsocks – for such a smart and pretty, modern young businesswoman must surely be wearing matching, black bootsocks inside her stylish, zip-up ankle boots?
But sadly that must remain as conjecture on my part – for I never do get to see the upper rims of her ankle-length boots. This Indian-Asian business mistress clearly knows I am not worthy to look at her socks, and the elements evidently agree with her.
True to her word, the Indian mistress does not appear to be in any particular hurry to get into work, and so I end up spending some 30 minutes in total tongue-shining the mud and the rain off the sides, the spiked-heels, and the uppers of the haughty, Indian goddess’s black, leather, zip-up ankle boots.
As you would expect of such a clever and high-flying young female executive, the mistress puts down her paper and inspects her boots before leaving me – although I fancy that another factor in her decision to depart is not so much the satisfactory shine on her boots, but the fact that the wind and the rain have stopped!
Again, no words of goodbye or thanks for the humble, bootlicking footslave.
Goth Girl
I love my job! And one of the reasons I love it is the complete contrast one can have between customers.
No sooner has the smartly-dressed, besuited Indian business woman left my stand than a clodhopping great big pair of calf-length, wedge-heeled, shiny black, metal buckled, biker-style boots are positioned on the two metal footrests in front of my face – boots covering a pair of shapely, if slightly plump, female legs clad in purple and black stripy tights.
Although I dare not look the superior, female owner of the boots in the face, I can sense that this mistress has jet-black shoulder-length hair and several piercings in her pretty, young face. She looks about 19 or 20 years old.
A Goth girl!
Goth girls can be challenging for a prone and vulnerable, public footslave such as myself –for their footwear, like the boots this current customer is wearing, is typically complicated and difficult to clean (all those straps and buckles) and yet, for all the seeming scruffiness of their appearance, Goth mistresses, in my humble footslave experience, usually expect high standards of a public footslave, and actually can be very pernickety and demanding – as is their perfect right, of course.
It is the right of all superior, young women!
‘Yo bitch! …’
I know that the mistress is addressing me, for there is currently no-one else about:
‘Clean up my boots, bitch-boy, and then take them off and smell my stripy tights!’
It is the command I have been dreading – not so much the ‘clean up my boots’ part, complicated though that will be, but the ‘then take them off and smell my tights’ part, for I can just tell that this young woman’s thick, woolly, purple and black, striped tights will be truly fragrant inside such hot and heavy boots (it is not a particularly cold morning despite the autumnal showers, and besides, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Goth mistress had been wearing that same pair of tights inside those same boots for several days!)
Whatever, it is my role to respect and obey the feet and footwear of all my female betters – as my master has repeatedly whipped into me throughout my many years of public foot-servitude.
And so I, the ‘bitch-boy’, answer the Goth mistress, who is not a bitch, in an appropriately respectful tone:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. God bless you mistress.’
I don’t know whether this Goth mistress believes in God or not. I don’t. I believe in the goddess. But I want my customer to know that she is my better, and perfectly entitled to talk down to me and shout at me as she is now doing.
She responds by kicking me in the face with the rounded, steel-capped toe of her heavy, multi-buckled, black leather biker boot. It leaves a musty, leathery smell on the side of my face, as well as a dirty, wet mud-stain:
‘No talking, bitch! Start licking, and make sure you get your tongue in beneath those metal buckles! There’s lots of crap and stuff for you to lick out from underneath them, boot-bitch!’
The ‘crap and stuff’ the young mistress is so delicately referring to appears to be an accumulation of now damp dust and general street muck. I can tell that these boots have not been polished or cleaned, and certainly not tongue-shined, for many months. Tut! tut! young Goth mistress. You really should have these boots professionally tongue-shined at least every other day. Never mind, sweet and kind Goth mistress. I’ll do my best!
That is what I am thinking as I lower my now throbbing (from the kick to my face) jaw to one of the metal buckles that criss-crosses the front of her heavy, calf-length, black leather biker-boot and insert my slave tongue into the gunk underneath it.
I can now taste musty boot leather as well as smell it.
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, bitch-boy, extract all the grot from underneath my boot-buckles with your tongue. Ha! Ha! That’s right – lick it and suck it!...I want to hear you swallow it – swallow my boot-dirt, filthy boot-bitch!’
To the Goth Mistress’s immense pleasure and amusement I duly swallow the grot and gunk that I have successfully extracted from underneath her metal boot-buckles with my tongue. It tastes foul, but my slave stomach is grateful for the extra nourishment.
Having spruced up the leather of her boots with my slave tongue, and extracted all the globules of mud and dirt from beneath the many buckles and straps on the Goth girl’s heavy, biker boots, it is then a relatively easy task for me to ‘shine up’ the metal buckles themselves with my tongue – although the Goth mistress feels the need to give me several stinging cuts with the whipping stick as I do so as, rather like the smartly-dressed Indian businesswoman who sat in that same raised seat before her, the scruffily dressed Goth-mistress wants to ‘see her reflection’ in her metal boot buckles.
I suppose it’s a good sign. If she can see her reflection she mustn’t be a vampire!
Boots and buckles duly licked and shined, the Goth mistress then has me turn my attention, as promised, to her purple and black stripy tights. I pull each boot off with a whoosh (it transpires that all the straps and buckles are purely decorative!) and she then wiggles her purple and black striped toes directly over my footslave nose. To my horror I notice a hole in the tights on top of the big toe on her right foot, allowing her black-painted big toenail to peep through.
She laughs at my evident fear and distress:
‘Ha! Ha! What’s up, bitch? Never had to sniff a Goth girl’s dirty, stinky tights before? What kind of a public footslave are you? Do you reckon you’re too good to smell my stinky tights, or something?’
I know I must reassure the mistress immediately that I meant no disrespect by my involuntary flinching and facial grimaces at the sight - and strong, vinegary smell – of her holey, purple and black stripy tights waving around in front of my pathetic, footslave nose:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave would truly be honoured to sniff the toes of your sweaty tights, as it is truly a smell fit for a humble footslave, if it so pleases you most respected mistress’
That’s what I’m saying, but what I’m thinking is – ‘I hope the wind picks up again and blows away some of the smell!’
It doesn’t, and I find myself enveloped in the pretty Goth –girl’s foot stink as she laughs at me from her seated position of power above me.
She’s not the only one laughing at me, for a small crowd of superior women has gathered to watch my stinky-tights humiliation, and right now I am nothing but a Goth Girl’s public, stripy-tights sniffer!
Rich Arab Girl & Her Filipina Maid
I’m no snob – believe me I’m not – but it is almost with a sense of blessed relief that I pull the heavy, calf-length biker boots back onto the young Goth mistress’s purple and black striped tights and kiss her boots farewell, only to have them replaced on my footslave stand with the smart, designer, white leather pumps of an evidently very rich, Arab girl - for she is accompanied by her Filipina maid.
The Arab girl, who is wearing a traditional, full length, black jilbaab, barks down her orders at me in Arabic. Even though I can’t understand a word of Arabic, I can tell that the orders are directed at me just by the curt and derogatory tone in the Arab girl’s voice. It’s as if she can hardly bear to speak to a piece of dirt as lowly as myself.
Understandable really.
Luckily her Filipina maid can speak Arabic, and happily translates her mistress’s words for me:
‘Ha! Ha! Madam say she have small stone inside left shoe! You, the slave, must take off Madam shoe and remove stone with teeth! Ha! Ha! Maria watch while you swallow stinky stone from inside Madam shoe! Ha! Ha!’
The gleeful maid, whom I surmise must be referring to herself when she uses the name Maria as that sounds much more Filipino than it does Arabic, must be overjoyed to see someone else performing a demeaning task for her mistress! She certainly seems pleased with herself.
‘Madam’ must be at least 10 years younger than her Filipina maid. I would guess the Arab girl to be around 25 or 26 years of age, but I can really only go by the sound of her pretty voice, as she is veiled. The softness of her bare, brown feet inside her white, designer pumps suggests youth also, however.
The white shoes are quite low-heeled, but they are nevertheless fashionable and expensive-looking – with quite pointy-toes and some very pretty, decorative white stitching on the white leather uppers.
I foolishly make to remove Madam’s left shoe with my humble slave hands when the rich, young Arab woman shouts something down at me in Arabic, the meaning of which would be nevertheless clear to any humble slave in any language – don’t touch!
The maid hurriedly explains my faux pax as she, clearly at the behest of her Arab mistress, beats me hard several times across my bare back with the whipping stick:
‘You not touch Madam white shoe until first kiss Madam white shoe!’… Whack! Whack!...'You a dirty slave!’…Whack! Whack!....'You not fit touch Arab woman shoe until first kiss Arab woman shoe with respect!’ ...Whack! Whack!...'Madam angry with slave!’... Whack!...'Madam spit on slave!…’
And no sooner has the maid explained this than a gob-full of the rich Arab girl’s superior, female spit lands on top of my unworthy, slave head.
As her saliva runs down the front of my face I make amends as best I can by showering Madam’s left shoe with respectful kisses, taking particular care to caress the patterned, white stitching with my slave lips as it is something a bit different for me.
I beg the Arab girl’s maid to translate my apologies to her mistress for me:
‘Oh pray, mistress maid Maria, if it pleases you most beautiful mistress maid, please convey my humble apologies to your mistress, and bless her and thank her for correcting me and spitting on me, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress maid Maria.’
The Filipina maid snorts somewhat derisively at me, but nevertheless conveys my apologies to her boss in Arabic.
At least, I sincerely hope that’s what she is doing. It occurs to me that I am now every bit as much at the mercy of the Filipina maid as I am of her Arab mistress!
Judging by the translated reply from the Arab mistress, however, my apology has been duly conveyed and accepted:
‘Madam say you take off shoe now…swallow stone…Madam say you suck Madam footsweat off stone before swallow! Ha! Ha! You a fool! You a Arab-woman’s whipped, foot-fool. Ha! Ha! Maria a maid. Maria better than you!... Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Maria speaks the truth in her broken English – for she is, self-evidently, better than me. She may be a lady’s maid but at the end of the day she is not the one having to kiss her female employer’s feet. She is not the one having to remove the rich Arab girl’s left shoe from her professionally pedicured foot, and then having to suck on and swallow the sweaty stone that has been irritating her mistress’s soft, brown foot inside her sweaty, white, designer shoe!
As I take the small, offending stone into my slave mouth, the Arab Girl claps her pretty hands in delight, and joyfully screams something else in Arabic:
‘Ha! Ha! Madam mock the slave – say slave just a dirty foot-whore! Ha! Ha! Madam say you like dirt – you like women foot dirt! You not a real man! You a woman’s foot- servant! Ha! Ha!...’
‘Thank you, mistress Maria. God bless you and your mistress, Mistress Maria!’
The Filipina maid translates my humble blessing for her mistress again, who responds with yet more yelps and happy words in Arabic from beneath her black veil as I place her white, leather designer pump back onto her soft, brown skin.
Ha! Ha! Madam say she now make you thank Maria for beating you… Maria now take Madam’s place on shoeshine-stand…You kiss Maria feet now! Ha! Ha!’
The Arab girl climbs down from, and the Filipina girl climbs up onto, the ‘shoeshine’ stand, resting her two, pretty Filipina feet on the metal footrests in front of my face. The Filipina maid is so petite and slightly built that she has to sit on the edge of the comfortable, brown leather seat for her pretty feet to be able to rest on the two metal footrests below them!
I can now see the Filipina maid’s feet clearly for the first time. She is wearing plain, black ballet flats and plain, white sneaker socks beneath black, ankle- length leggings or footless-tights.
A soon as she is in place her employer says something else again in Arabic, which her maid duly translates:
‘Ha! Ha! Madam say you now kiss Maria’s feet – you kiss feet of Filipina maid; lick Filipina maid’s shoes; kiss Filipina maid’s socks…Ha! Ha!...Madam say if you not show respect for Maria she beat you herself with stick!’
I had already noticed that mistress Maria had handed over the dreaded whipping stick to her Arab employer, and so I waste no time in doing exactly as I have been told – I kiss the Filipina maid’s soft, black leather shoes and equally soft, white cotton ankle socks.
As I do so Mistress Maria translates her own happy thoughts to me:
‘Ha! Ha! You a wimp; you a dog! Ha! Ha! You lick Filipina maid feet like dirty dog…Ha! Ha! Maria your master! You frightened of Maria. You frightened of stick! Ha! Ha! You a Filipina woman shoe and sock licker!’
It’s true! It’s all true. I am nothing but a dirty, whipped cur, desperately licking his Filipina mistress’s dirty shoes and socks in a pathetic effort to avoid more pain from the whipping stick. What must her Arab mistress be thinking of me! An Arab woman’s servant’s slave! Ha! Ha! I am truly pathetic – the lowest of the low.
The Hippy Chick
You would think, wouldn’t you, that a girl who was into new-age philosophy and the ‘love and peace’ ethos of the hippy movement would treat me a bit less harshly than a haughty, spoilt, rich Arab girl and her Filipina maid?
Read on!
For my next customer-mistress is just that: a beige-brown-moccasin-wearing, bespectacled ‘hippy-chick’, dressed in a long, frilly, brightly coloured floral patterned dress, and with – yes quite literally - flowers in her curly, brown hair!
Love and peace to all men does not, however, seem to extend to male footslaves:
‘Soothe my feet, slaveman. Take off my shoes and suck on my toes. They’re hot and sweaty and need cooling down, slaveman.’
I have to say that this youngish woman sounds a bit spaced out on something as she sits somewhat dreamily on the raised chair of the public footslave-stand, her pretty, bare feet resting on the two metal footrests inside her tasselled, beige moccasin shoes. Had she really called me “slaveman”?! I have never been referred to as that before! Sounds almost like “caveman”, although that would be appropriate given that I am clearly lower down the evolutionary scale than this intelligent and peace-loving, thoughtful and sensitive young woman.
I remember this time to kiss each shoe, before attempting to remove them with my hands (I am nothing if not a quick learner and the whipping stick when wielded by a pretty, Filipina maid is an excellent teacher!)
The moccasins slip off easily, to reveal the unpainted toenails and rather pasty-looking, bare white feet of the hippy-mistress. I instantly notice also that her feet have several, small red blotches on them. They could even be insect bites (I would imagine that this young woman spends much of her time walking around music festivals in her bare feet – or am I just thinking purely in stereotypes?!)
If they are indeed insect bites, then I must suck the poison out of them as I obediently soothe the young hippy mistress’s bare feet with my slave tongue.
Her feet are indeed a bit hot and sweaty, but not as pungent as the Goth girl’s purple and black stripy-stockinged feet had been.
I lick the hippy girl’s pasty white feet and shapely ankle bones with my footslave tongue, pausing over each red mark on her bare feet in order to try and suck any insect poison out of the tiny sores that are scattered along her delicate, feminine arches and insteps.
I sense that the spaced-out, hippy mistress appreciates this extra, unrequested attention to her bare feet, but I sense wrongly.
Whack!
The familiar sound of whippy wood on bare back! The stick breaks through the peace and tranquillity of the scene and sends a sudden shock wave of pain coursing through my bare back and shoulders;
‘I said, suck on my toes, slaveman...not on my insteps!’
So, this hippy mistress in her mid to late thirties may well be a believer in peace and love, but she is clearly equally a supporter of the corporal punishment of slaves!
Duly chastened, I apologise to the sweet, youngish mistress and concentrate my slave mouth and lips on her unpainted toes and toenails.
I soothe and suck, and, I’m pleased to say, receive no more lashes from the bespectacled and curly-haired hippy mistress, as I simply do what I am told!
Posh Green Wellies
From hippy chick to country lady. My next female customer is not the sort I encounter all that often in the big city – although I have served enough of her sort to know how to categorise them – green welly-wearing, countrified snobs, the sort of women who literally look down on me as though I was something they had inadvertently trodden in with their green, muck-covered, country-style wellington boots.
Which is entirely appropriate since I am, effectively, something they have trodden in - a piece of particularly foul-smelling muck beneath their superior, rubber wellington boots, that’s all I am!
The lady, who has her white riding-breeches tucked into the tops of a pair of thick, woolly, argyle-patterned kneesocks inside her muddy, green wellingtons, even sounds terribly posh and snooty:
‘Lick the mud off one’s boots, wretched slave, and be quick about it. One hasn’t got all day!’
She sounds a little bit older than my previous customers so far today – perhaps early forties? Still, she is at least 10 years younger than me – she is still my female younger and better!
You know, there is absolutely no doubt about it – country muck tastes and smells differently from city mud! Don’t get me wrong – it is just mud I’m talking about. But it is fresh, unadulterated mud – fresh from the fields – and it is such a nice change to be tasting female, country boot mud mixed with green wellington boot rubber, rather than the ubiquitous boot and shoe leather of city women. I adore the taste of female boot-rubber; it is so much more bitter to the slave tongue than leather, and complements the dull taste of mud and filth just nicely!
One thing’s for sure - I won’t starve today, for there is plenty of nutritious and filling mud and muck on this upper-class, country mistress’s green, rubber boots. I eagerly lap it all up, leaving the green, knee-length wellingtons shining and glistening beneath the tops of her argyle-patterned kneesocks in the recently reappeared sunshine.
The woman, meanwhile, is ignoring me – and doesn’t even appear to have noticed that I have finished my humble task – as she is preoccupied with speaking to someone on her mobile phone:
‘Hello, Edward…It’s Cynthia!...Hi, listen, be a darling and saddle up Rosie when you are taking out Victor, would you?...I’m just in the town doing some shopping, but I’ll be with you in about an hour or so, and I do fancy a ride this morning…OK?...Thanks, honey..See you soon…Bye!’
I am assuming that Rosie and Victor are horses, and master Edward is a manfriend, with whom she now intends to go horse-riding – not that it’s any of my damned business. My only legitimate business is the aristocratic woman’ green, wellington boots.
Nevertheless, I can’t help images flashing through my mind of this posh, attractive woman changing out of her green, rubber wellingtons and into her brown, leather riding boots – with my footslavish assistance of course! Oh my God, how I would dearly love to be her official boot-changer; to kiss and then pull off her green, rubber wellingtons; to smell the insides of them; to straighten her knee-length argyle-patterned thick, woolly kneesocks; and then sniff the insides of her brown leather, knee-length riding boots prior to kissing them and pulling them onto her aristocratic, argyle-socked feet and legs.
Perhaps this posh mistress would then ride me around the stable yard, or at the very least would use my bare back as a mounting block up onto her horse, Rosie! Oh to feel the dirty, muddy soles of her brown, leather riding boots digging into my bare, sore, whipped back! What bliss that would be!
But as she climbs down from the footslave-stand, her erstwhile muddy, green wellingtons now shimmering in the bright sunlight, I am reminded that she, like all my customers, rich or poor, regards me as nothing more than a piece of filth beneath her boots, as she too leaves without thanking me for my sterling efforts in her posh, English accent!
The Tart
The sheer variety of feminine footwear truly never ceases to amaze me. From flat-heeled, green rubber wellingtons on argyle-patterned thick, woolly kneesocks, I go to a pair of spike-heeled , shiny black stilettos on black, fishnet stockings.
Or rather they come to me for, as a chained-up public footslave, I can never go anywhere!
This young, sexily-dressed woman is wearing stockings and suspenders beneath a ridiculously short, white leather miniskirt. She is undoubtably a ‘lady of the night’ – even though it is only about 10:00 in the morning! I sense that she has been walking the streets all night, and that her feet are now sore and tired, for her orders are somewhat predictable as she nonchalantly lights up a cigarette – with total disregard to the ‘no smoking’ sign which my master has placed outside by foot-booth – and then kicks off her shiny black, pointy, stiletto-heeled shoes:
‘Smell my feet and rub them with your nose, slaveboy!’
Slaveboy! That disparaging term again, denying me any manhood! I must be at least twice her age. This working girl can’t be any more than 20 years old – yet once again, in this scenario, I have to acknowledge that I am just a boy, for in her jaundiced eyes I am less even than one of her punters. At least they are proper men getting to have sex. All I ever get is socks!
Socks – or, more accurately in this case, fishnet stockings! They feel rough on my nose as I dutifully and obediently nose-rub the superior prostitute-mistress’s hot and tired, sweaty feet .
As I also inhale her foot aroma (for she has ordered me to) I wonder, briefly, what it must be like to have sexual intercourse with a woman.
Wonder is all I shall ever be able to do, however, as no woman, not even a prostitute, would ever dream of lowering herself to have sexual intercourse with a male slave! Not even if she was paid to do so by my master (for I myself, of course, have no money to my name). It is just unthinkable in a Gynarchial society that any superior female, whatever her occupation, would ever be intimate with a mere footslave!
It’s totally taboo!
And so I concentrate my footslave mind instead on the practical - on the mistress’s fishnet-stockinged feet. I can feel her pinky-white bare footflesh between the large, criss-crossed stitches of the black, nylon fishnet stockings. I deliberately rest my nose for a few seconds on each little area of bare footskin as I sniff. I hope the mistress –prostitute finds this relaxing and pleasurable.
She is certainly enjoying her illicit cigarette. I know my master will punish me for letting the young lady smoke on my footslave-stand when he sees this on the CCTV, but what can I do? Reprimand a superior mistress? Ha! Ha! My life wouldn’t be worth living!
No, if the mistress wishes to smoke then smoke she shall, and I for my part shall, quite literally, be her whipping boy – punished on her behalf.
In any case the cigarette smoke is doing me a huge favour, as it is helping to mask the pungent aroma emanating from the superior mistress-prostitute’s feet. Her feet, it has to be said, need a good wash – as do her stockings. I will be only too glad to mouth-wash the mistress-prostitutes fishnet stockings if she wishes to take them off for me.
But she apparently doesn’t. She just finishes her cigarette, drops the butt onto the ground beneath my kneeling face, slips her stilettos back onto her sweaty, stockinged feet, and then stubs out the illicit cigarette butt by twisting her shapely-ankled, fishnet-stockinged, stiletto-heeled, right foot over the cigarette-end, leaving it crumpled up and blackened by the dirt from the sole of her streetwalking shoe.
I briefly get to admire the creases and folds in her fishnet-stockinged ankle as she twists her foot over the cigarette butt.
After she has gone, I eat the cigarette butt.
Trailer Trash
It’s not a very nice term, but I really don’t know how else to describe my next female customer- like sporty mistress she is blonde-ponytailed, and wearing sneakers and a tracksuit of sorts (more a shiny, silver shell suit) – but there the similarity ends.
For this young, white woman is grossly overweight, her silvery-grey sneakers are cheap and nasty looking, and she is wearing thin, plain white sneaker socks below her somewhat podgy, tattooed ankles.
The tattoos appear to be of fish, which is appropriate as I suspect her feet will smell of fish inside those cheap sneakers and socks.
Most intriguingly of all, on her left ankle she is also wearing some sort of ridiculously clumsy-looking thick, plastic ankle-bracelet.
Oh my God – it’s an electronic tag! This mistress is electronically tagged – out on licence!
She is also, naturally, chewing gum as she sits down on my humble shoeshine stand.
I can’t actually bring myself to record verbatim what she says to me, as her language is truly blue – full of ‘effing’ and ‘blinding’ and other unmentionable expletives. Suffice it to say that the gist of what she says is that I must tongue-clean her sneakers, and then nose-worship the elasticated tops of her short, white ankle socks, or else she will have her boyfriend Darren come and beat me up.
In the mean time, presumably because she believes in brute force, she reinforces each expletive with a stinging blow to my bare back with the public-use whipping stick.
To give her her due, this particular blonde, ponytailed mistress doesn’t just use the stick to beat me, she also uses it to point to the area of her cheap, silvery sneaker that she wants licked and/or the area of her cheap, white sock she wants nose-worshipped.
Nose-worshipping a young woman’s sock, incidentally, means repeatedly placing your slave nose onto the material of the sock and sniffing – short, polite sniffs designed to humiliate a slave as he may be ordered to nose-worship a single area of sock as many as 5000 times in one go!
Fortunately for me I don’t think this particular blonde mistress can count beyond 10, as that seems to be the most I am required to ‘nose-worship’ any particular area of elasticated, dirty, white sneaker sock.
She then notices, however, a piece of gum – a piece of her old chewing gum – stuck to the sole of her left sneaker; the one below her electronic tag!
Needless to say, I am blamed for this offensive piece of blackened chewing gum on the sole of her silvery sneaker, beaten accordingly, and then ordered, again in most unladylike language, to remove the gum from the sole of her sneaker with my slave teeth, or master Darren will come and give me what for.
Thankfully, this takes me so long, the young lady doesn’t have time to make me take off her sneakers and smell her fishy sneaker socks and tattooed feet.
Oriental Charm
It is now approaching lunch time, but there will, of course, be no lunch break for the public footslave.
My next customer, however, has seemingly chosen to spend the whole of her lunch hour having her footwear attended to at my footslave-stand.
She is, without doubt, a foreign student – a charming young, oriental woman with a strong oriental accent– once again in total contrast to my previous (though equally respected) indigenous trailer-trash customer.
I would guess from the young oriental woman’s attire that she is either Japanese or Korean, as she is wearing brown leather, knee-length, block-keeled, zip-up boots with black kneesocks below a thigh-length coat and short skirt – typical attire for a young, oriental female student in her early twenties.
Stereotypical even?
Stereotypically as well she is ever so polite towards me, as she sits down on my footslave stand, rests her knee-length booted feet on the two metal footrests in front of my face, and takes out a sandwich of some sort from her Tupperware lunch box which she is now resting on her lap:
‘Slave lick Nagomi boots; clean off dirt while Nagomi eat lunch. Slave do well, make Nagomi boots nice and shine, Nagomi give slave piece of bread!’
You see, so charming and gentle – compared certainly to my previous, trailer-trash mistress. And the result of her feminine gentility is that I am absolutely determined to do a good job of licking clean miss Nagomi’s knee-length leather boots.
There is no way, however, I can accept her kind offer of a piece of her sandwich. Remember the CCTV cameras? My master would have me whipped and prosecuted for theft if I accepted a gift of human food from a superior mistress!
I respectfully explain this to miss Nagomi:
‘Oh pray mistress Nagomi, God Bless you mistress Nagomi. This slave will indeed be honoured to tongue-shine your beautiful, knee-length, leather boots, mistress Nagomi, and will indeed endeavour to make them shine like new, mistress Nagomi, but regrets that he is not permitted to accept your kind offer of a piece of your sandwich, for he is just a dirty footslave and is not worthy of such sustenance, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress Nagomi’.
Sweet and kind mistress Nagomi’s mood seems to darken at this rebuttal of her kind offer. She leans down and suddenly slaps me across the face:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave- insolent pig! Nagomi not offer slave piece of sandwich! Nagomi offer slave bread from inside boot! Nagomi wear bread all morning as insole for slave – make bread stinky and sweaty – fit for footslave mouth. You eat stinky bread if Nagomi tell you! You obey Nagomi, or Nagomi have you whip!’
I apologise profusely to sweet mistress Nagomi for the misunderstanding caused by my pig-ignorant stupidity:
‘Oh pray, mistress Nagomi, please forgive this dirty, stupid slave, mistress Nagomi. Of course this slave will gratefully consume any bread that has been soiled by your precious, feminine footsweat and sock lint inside your boots, most kind and generous mistress Nagomi!’
Food soiled by a mistress’s feet or footwear is permitted to me by my master. So long as he sees the bread coming out of her boots on the CCTV cameras, he will allow, indeed require, me to consume it.
And so I make sure that I do a damn good job of tongue-shining the softly-spoken, delightful and charming miss Nagomi’s boots, thereby earning my reward of unzipping her right boot and then savouring the bread-insole that has been seasoned inside her hot, brown leather, knee-length boot by her sweaty, oriental foot through the sole of her pretty, knee-length black bootsock.
Oriental charm – yet another stereotype.
But not as much of a stereotype as I am myself – the pathetic, middle-aged, balding male footslave, cringing in chains on his hands and knees, relishing his meal of sweaty, oriental-girl’s footbread whilst he admires her superior booted and socked feet, and thinking adoringly about all the lovely mistresses he has served thus far that morning, and will serve that coming afternoon.
The End
Allow me to demonstrate what I mean by quickly taking you through just one of my typical mornings licking female feet and footwear in the central town square of our great capital city:
Sporty Mistress
My first customer of the morning (and it has literally just gone 6:00 a.m.) is a young, blonde-ponytailed woman out for an early morning jog.
She is dressed, appropriately, in a navy blue tracksuit with pink stripes down the sides, white and pale-blue, lace-up sneakers, and matching navy blue ankle socks with a pale blue trim at the top.
She is hot and sweaty because she has been running for over an hour now, and as she sits down on the raised chair of my public footslave-stand, resting her pretty, sneakered feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face, I can hear her taking a swig of water from a small bottle she is carrying:
‘Clean my sneakers and then nose the tops of my socks, slaveboy,’ she barks down at me, her voice full of the natural, female authority of a young woman at the peak of her physical beauty and fitness. I reckon she can’t be any more than about 22 or 23 years old, yet, even though I am more than twice her age, she still regards me as a ‘boy’, and not a ‘man’.
She is, of course, quite correct. For I can never be a man – not a real man. I am just a slave.
It’s funny, but I have heard tell that back in the day, long before the Gynarchy was established, middle aged men such as myself would have been regarded as having a certain position in society and a kind of natural authority over women – particularly young women such as this attractive young female jogger, young enough to be any middle-aged man’s daughter. Apparently people even used to say that it was a ‘man’s world’.
Ha! Ha! How times have changed. Men – especially, fat, balding, middle-aged men like me – are now most definitely the weaker sex, and now, quite rightly, have no position of respect or authority in the new, female-dominated society. It is now, most definitely, a ‘young woman’s world’, and female youth and power are prized and respected above everything.
Hence I have absolutely no difficulty whatsoever in taking orders from this beautiful and attractive, fit young woman in her early twenties.
Because it’s still so early in the day, and because I am just a weak and feeble old man, I haven’t properly woken up yet. That’s why my mind is wandering like this. But a sharp cut of the stick across my bare, right shoulder – expertly delivered by the young, sporty woman seated above me, soon brings me back to my senses.
She has used the ‘public-use’ stick supplied with all public footslave stands. The female customers can use the dreaded, whippy stick in one of two ways – either to point to the specific area(s) of their feet or footwear they want licked or cleaned, or to punish the public footslave if he is slacking or a bit slow off the mark in responding to clear, feminine orders – as I have been.
Hence the sharp sting in my right shoulder blade. It spurs me into action:
‘Yes, mistress. At once mistress!’ and my lips quickly embrace the greying, scuffed toe of the jogging-girl’s right, well-worn, ‘white’ and pale blue sneaker as I put my tongue to the use it was designed for – licking clean young women’s dirty shoes.
Satisfied that I am now attending to her footwear in an appropriately submissive and obedient manner, the young, ponytailed, blonde woman inserts the earphones on her i-pod into her pretty ears and starts listening to some dance music, still taking the occasional swig of mineral water from her plastic bottle.
It has been raining, and the blonde, sporty mistress’s rather tatty-looking, greyish-white and pale blue sneakers are quite wet and covered in dirty splashes of rain water and wet mud stains, mixed in with one or two blades of wet grass. Part of her run must have been along wet grass. No matter – my experienced footslave tongue will soon remove all the offending dirt and foreign objects from the sides, soles and uppers of her pretty, feminine, lace-up running-sneakers.
As I dutifully lick clean the blonde mistress’s dirty, wet sneakers her feet start to tap in time with the music on their respective metal footrests, causing her navy blue ankle socks to crease and fold in front of my footslave eyes. This reminds me that I am to have the honour of ‘nosing’ the tops of her socks after I have finished licking the street dirt and muck off her sneakers i.e. I shall be required to gently run my nose along the pale-blue stripe that runs along the top of each navy-blue sock below her soft, white, feminine ankle skin.
Of course, sporty mistress will not regard it as an ‘honour’ which she is bestowing upon me. Rather she will see it as a further humiliation for the pathetic, ugly, sexually unattractive, middle-aged, male ‘slaveboy’ kneeling in the dirt at her feet – having to run his ugly, slave nose along the top of her sock whilst audibly breathing in the smell of her sweaty, running-shoe sock, and taking great care not to brush his nose against her bare leg-flesh. For that would be the ultimate crime that a public footslave could commit - allowing his bare flesh ,even just the tip of his ugly, slave nose – to touch the bare flesh of a superior young woman without her express permission.
She is probably hoping that I do, inadvertently, touch her skin – for that would then give her all the authority she needs to flay my prone and vulnerable bare back with the dreaded whipping stick!
However, what this young lady doesn’t know, is that I am a public footslave of many years’ experience, and I genuinely can’t remember the last time I had such a mishap with a superior, young woman’s bare footflesh. I am an expert sock-noser, just as I am an expert sneaker-licker, and I am confident that this demanding and fit young woman will have no cause for complaint when I have finished servicing both her outer and inner footwear.
I even have the confidence to decide for myself when the young, female jogger’s sneakers are sufficiently tongue-cleansed for me to start running my nose along the elasticated, pale-blue top of her navy-blue ankle sock.
Her only comment as I place my nose on the stripe at the top of her right ankle sock is:
‘Make sure you smooth out all the creases in the top of my sock with your nose, slave!’
You see! This demanding young mistress has clearly come to realise, after my somewhat faltering start, that I am actually quite a good and effective footslave. She is clearly satisfied that I have spruced up her sneakers sufficiently with my tongue, and she is equally clearly convinced that I know not to brush my nose against her bare skin whilst I am nosing the tops of her blue socks – otherwise she would undoubtedly have verbally warned me not to!
No, all she seems to be concerned about is that I should iron out any unsightly creases in the tops of her ankle socks with my slave nose as I run it along the pale-blue elasticated stitching of the top – which is somewhat ironic given the repeated creasing and folding in the rest of her sock caused by the movement of her pretty foot muscles in time with the rhythm of the dance music on her i–pod.
Of course, the fact that she is listening to music will also mean that she is unable to hear my pathetic, audible sniffing of her sock as I run my nose along it – but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to audibly sniff. I never pass up on the opportunity to sniff a young woman’s sock, as it is a true honour and a privilege for a lowly public footslave such as myself to smell the very essence of his female customer’s warm, sweaty foot – especially such a fit and pretty customer as this one.
And so I inhale through my nostrils as I run the tip of my nose gently along the top of each of the sporty, young woman’s navy-blue ankle socks, straightening out the tiny creases in the pale-blue elasticated tops, and breathing in the delicate aroma of young jogging-woman, early-morning footsweat.
I hear her take another swig of water above me as I do so, and suddenly realise that I too am quite thirsty. No chance of any refreshing mineral water for me, though! My female minder, miss Marguerita, a Latina student employed by my master to feed and water me every morning, has already given me my daily dose of tasteless gruel known as ‘slave-mush’. According to my master it contains all the nutrients a footslave needs to keep him working – although the meagre diet of slave-mush does assume that the public footslave will be able to supplement his diet throughout the day by eating the dirt from his female customers’ shoes and boots, the lint from their socks and woolly tights, and the toe jam from their bare feet. The only ‘drink’ I get all day is sweat – sweat from the ladies’ feet.
Still, it is a diet entirely fit for a humble, male footslave such as myself, and I forget my selfish thoughts of thirst and hunger to concentrate once again on nosing the pale blue elasticated tops of the blonde-ponytailed, sporty mistress’s otherwise navy-blue socks.
After some 10 minutes sticking my nose into her sock-business, I hear sporty mistress take a final swig of water from her plastic bottle. Her feet move off the metal footrests, and she takes off - spraying my gormless footslave-face with rain water from the backs of her grey-white sneaker-heels as she breaks out into a jog again!
Of course, she leaves without any words of thanks to the public footslave for her freshly-cleaned sneakers or freshly-straightened and now uncreased ankle socks. But then, why should she acknowledge my humble work? I am just a ‘thing’; a fat and ugly antiquated ‘machine’ - there to service her feminine feet and footwear. And she is a supremely fit and beautiful superior young woman in her prime. She has better things to do than speak to the likes of me! The absence of any further cuts to my back and shoulders from the stinging stick are evidence enough of her satisfaction with my performance.
Fat Mistress
I have no time to rest on my laurels, however, for my next female customer is already positioning herself in the vacated seat on my footslave stand.
Seated above me like a haughty African queen or princess, by way of complete contrast to the previous fit and svelte looking sporty mistress, is a young, fat black woman. I would guess the only thing she has in common with the sporty mistress is her age – early twenties – that and her innate sense of female superiority over weak men such as myself:
‘Clean the filth!' is all she says to me, in a cute West-African accent, as she places her broad, African feet clad, appropriately enough, in a pair of yellow, plastic ‘crocs’ onto the two metal footrests in front of my kneeling and humbly bowed face.
As I indicated before, it has been raining this morning, and the plastic soles of the black mistress’s yellow crocs are dripping with muddy rainwater – the ‘filth’ she is no doubt referring to!
The superior, young black mistress is wearing her yellow, cheap looking plastic crocs on her bare, black feet, and I can just see through the patterned holes on the tops of her round-toed crocs that she is wearing purple nail-varnish on her pretty, but rather podgy, toenails. I also have time to admire the creases and wrinkles in her soft, brown heel flesh beneath the yellow, plastic straps that divide her bare heels from her bare, lower calf-muscles.
And what beautiful plump calf-muscles they are too – stretching all the way up to the mistress’s fat, knobbly knees which themselves are only partially covered by her croc-matching, pale yellow leggings thanks to her now seated position, which has caused the hems of said yellow leggings to ride up thereby exposing her precious, and powerful, black kneecaps.
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress,’ I verbally acknowledge the black mistress’s absolute female power and authority over me as I humbly lower my already dirty tongue to the damp, lower rim of the plastic, rounded toe of her right, yellow, plastic croc.
As I start licking the superior, overweight, black mistress’s yellowy, plastic shoe I hear some rustling of paper above me and then feel some flakes of pastry fall onto the top of my bald head as the mistress tucks into a pain-au-chocolat. What a contrast to the previous sporty mistress! Fat, black mistress prefers to eat delicious but fattening pastries whilst having her shoes shined, to drinking healthy mineral water.
But who am I to judge a superior female’s chosen nourishment? If a young, black mistress wants to eat fresh pastries, then eat fresh pastries she damn well will! My role is not to question or disparage a mistress’s seemingly unhealthy lifestyle. She is, after all, a mistress – my mistress, my superior and my better – and my role is merely to serve her, obey her, and pander to her every whim.
The black mistress reminds me of this as she gives me further instructions in her sweet West African accent through her mouth now stuffed with pastry and chocolate:
‘Clean along the side!’
Fat mistress is clearly concerned that I am spending too much time licking away the wet muck and filth from the rounded toe of her right, croc shoe. She is the boss! I therefore immediately turn my tongue’s slavish attention to the lower rim along the side of the mistress’s plastic shoe. At such times I tend not to respond verbally to a mistress – my tongue is primarily for licking, not talking, and in any case swift and obedient actions speak louder than slow and languorous, sycophantic words.
As I run my wet tongue along the lower side of the black mistress’s yellow croc a flake of pastry falls onto the side of my face. I am, of course, permanently hungry – as slave-mush and young women’s shoe dirt can only ever provide temporary satisfaction to a male footslave’s stomach – and consequently I would dearly love to taste even just this one flake of fresh pastry that has fallen from my black mistress’s pain-au-chocolat.
But of course, that’s completely out of the question! A slave such as myself is not permitted to taste human food – not unless a superior mistress has first chewed all the flavour and goodness out of it! And so I just wait for the wind, which is picking up a bit now, to blow the stray pastry flake off the side of my face, and continue to taste young black-woman’s plastic-yellow-shoe dirt instead.
I notice as I do so that the mistress is quite a noisy eater – slapping her way heartily through her pastry in a rather unladylike manner. But it is good that she feels so relaxed and unselfconscious in my presence. The fact that she has no regard for me and no table manners is surely a good thing – for it indicates that she sees me as less than the dirt beneath her yellow crocs.
‘Now the other one!’ she barks through her mouth full of food.
I obediently turn my attention to the mistress’s left croc-ed foot, resting on the left footrest in front of my footslave face. You will notice how this young woman doesn’t even bother to address me as ‘slave’ or footslave’. It’s as if I am a mere automaton – a robot that responds to predefined orders.
Actually, that’s pretty much what I am. Perhaps more of an android than a robot?!
The mistress lets out a soft, girlish belch as she finishes her delicious pain-au-chocolat, scrunches up the white paper bag it had come in, and chucks it on the ground for me to dispose of. Disposing of her own litter is clearly beneath her!
She then climbs down, somewhat awkwardly, from the raised chair of my footslave-stand, adjusts her pale yellow leggings over her fat thighs and knees, inspects the soles of her freshly-licked, yellow crocs, and then walks off without so much as a ‘by your leave’.
It has started raining again, and the irony is, of course, that the soles, toes and sides of the black African mistress’s yellow crocs will soon be just as muddy and dirty as they were before she ordered me to ‘clean the filth’. But that doesn’t mean she has wasted her time. She has had a nice rest whilst she tucked into her unhealthy, breakfast snack, and at the same time has successfully exerted her natural female authority over a dirty public footslave. She therefore feels good about herself – and justifiably so.
The last few minutes have only amounted to nugatory work from my point of view – and nobody cares a fig about that!
Bossy Boots
As I said, it is starting to rain again, and the wind is also picking up a bit, so my next customer, I suspect, is taking the opportunity to have her boots shined whilst she shelters from the wind and rain.
My female customers, I should explain, are completely sheltered whilst they sit on my covered footslave-stand – as, indeed, is my unworthy head whilst I attend to their feet and footwear. Only my naked, kneeling back is permanently exposed to the elements as I serve at the feet of the superior women who come my way and deign to have me service their footwear.
My third customer of the day is an Indian girl with long, dark, straight hair– slightly older perhaps than my first two customers, I would say late twenties or early thirties – and clearly an office manageress or boss of some sort, doubtless on her way into work. Not one of my regulars though – so I have to think of her as a stereotypical, bright, intelligent high-flying, young Asian businesswoman.
Her smart attire is in sharp contrast to that of my two previous customers – a crisp, black, pinstriped trouser suit; an equally crisp white blouse underneath; and a pair of stylish black leather, zip-up, spike-heeled and pointy-toed ankle boots.
Having made herself comfortable in the raised chair above me, the Indian businesswoman picks up the whipping stick, but doesn’t use it to whip me – just to point to the inner side of her right boot.
‘Shine my boots, dirty slave… and make damn sure you run your dirty, slave tongue all along here and beneath the spiked heel. I want to feel your damned tongue lifting off all the wet mud that’s stuck along the lower rim of my boot. I’m not leaving here until my boots are spotless!’
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. This dirty slave hears and obeys the sweet, feminine mistress, if it so pleases you most gracious and all-powerful mistress!’
This mistress deserved such an obsequious, cringing slave-speak response. Ah, what class! She had said “Shine”; not “Clean”. This young woman clearly knows the difference between tongue-shining and tongue-cleaning a superior, young, Asian lady’s boots – and she obviously wants to be able to see her pretty, Indian features in her back leather boots by the time I have finished licking them!
In fact, her reference to ‘not leaving until my boots are spotless’ is something of a veiled threat to me – for she will doubtless know that my owner and master expects me to clean at least 60 pairs of female shoes and/or boots per day – and that consequently the longer she sits there, the fewer customers I will be able to serve – leading to severe punishment at the end of the day.
I should explain at this point that my master uses CCTV to keep an eye on the activities of all the public footslaves he owns and operates, and woe betide any public footslave who isn’t pulling his weight!
The pretty, dark-haired Indian businesswoman then takes out her newspaper and begins reading the financial pages, busying her pretty Asian head with much more important things than her wet, boot mud. She leaves that to me! She has given me her instructions and expects me now to get on with it.
Which is exactly what I do. She reads newspaper; I lick black leather boot; all the while the wind and the rain bouncing off my now shivering and windswept back. I concentrate on licking her boot well, however, for I sense that this smart, young Asian business woman is used to getting her way and to being instantly obeyed, and, cold though I now am, I have no wish for the mistress to warm my shoulders with the stick which she now has resting on her pinstriped lap!
Her boot tastes nice. Even the mud on her black, leather ankle boot seems to taste better than the mud from the previous mistress’s plastic, yellow crocs. A different class of mud, perhaps – from the upmarket, young Indian lady’s upmarket driveway? Who can tell? It’s probably all in my imagination – although there is nothing imagined about the attractive, young Asian woman’s filthy boot-mud now sliding down my footslave throat and into my footslave stomach!
Although she herself is sheltered from the wind and the rain, the Indian businesswoman’s boot-cut, pinstriped, black trouser hems are flapping around her ankles as I deftly run my tongue along the stitching on the inside of her right ankle boot – exactly where she had pointed to with the pointing/whipping stick. I find myself hoping, praying even, that a gust of wind will raise the hems of her trouser legs long enough for me to be able to see the elasticated tops of the Indian mistress’s bootsocks – for such a smart and pretty, modern young businesswoman must surely be wearing matching, black bootsocks inside her stylish, zip-up ankle boots?
But sadly that must remain as conjecture on my part – for I never do get to see the upper rims of her ankle-length boots. This Indian-Asian business mistress clearly knows I am not worthy to look at her socks, and the elements evidently agree with her.
True to her word, the Indian mistress does not appear to be in any particular hurry to get into work, and so I end up spending some 30 minutes in total tongue-shining the mud and the rain off the sides, the spiked-heels, and the uppers of the haughty, Indian goddess’s black, leather, zip-up ankle boots.
As you would expect of such a clever and high-flying young female executive, the mistress puts down her paper and inspects her boots before leaving me – although I fancy that another factor in her decision to depart is not so much the satisfactory shine on her boots, but the fact that the wind and the rain have stopped!
Again, no words of goodbye or thanks for the humble, bootlicking footslave.
Goth Girl
I love my job! And one of the reasons I love it is the complete contrast one can have between customers.
No sooner has the smartly-dressed, besuited Indian business woman left my stand than a clodhopping great big pair of calf-length, wedge-heeled, shiny black, metal buckled, biker-style boots are positioned on the two metal footrests in front of my face – boots covering a pair of shapely, if slightly plump, female legs clad in purple and black stripy tights.
Although I dare not look the superior, female owner of the boots in the face, I can sense that this mistress has jet-black shoulder-length hair and several piercings in her pretty, young face. She looks about 19 or 20 years old.
A Goth girl!
Goth girls can be challenging for a prone and vulnerable, public footslave such as myself –for their footwear, like the boots this current customer is wearing, is typically complicated and difficult to clean (all those straps and buckles) and yet, for all the seeming scruffiness of their appearance, Goth mistresses, in my humble footslave experience, usually expect high standards of a public footslave, and actually can be very pernickety and demanding – as is their perfect right, of course.
It is the right of all superior, young women!
‘Yo bitch! …’
I know that the mistress is addressing me, for there is currently no-one else about:
‘Clean up my boots, bitch-boy, and then take them off and smell my stripy tights!’
It is the command I have been dreading – not so much the ‘clean up my boots’ part, complicated though that will be, but the ‘then take them off and smell my tights’ part, for I can just tell that this young woman’s thick, woolly, purple and black, striped tights will be truly fragrant inside such hot and heavy boots (it is not a particularly cold morning despite the autumnal showers, and besides, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Goth mistress had been wearing that same pair of tights inside those same boots for several days!)
Whatever, it is my role to respect and obey the feet and footwear of all my female betters – as my master has repeatedly whipped into me throughout my many years of public foot-servitude.
And so I, the ‘bitch-boy’, answer the Goth mistress, who is not a bitch, in an appropriately respectful tone:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. God bless you mistress.’
I don’t know whether this Goth mistress believes in God or not. I don’t. I believe in the goddess. But I want my customer to know that she is my better, and perfectly entitled to talk down to me and shout at me as she is now doing.
She responds by kicking me in the face with the rounded, steel-capped toe of her heavy, multi-buckled, black leather biker boot. It leaves a musty, leathery smell on the side of my face, as well as a dirty, wet mud-stain:
‘No talking, bitch! Start licking, and make sure you get your tongue in beneath those metal buckles! There’s lots of crap and stuff for you to lick out from underneath them, boot-bitch!’
The ‘crap and stuff’ the young mistress is so delicately referring to appears to be an accumulation of now damp dust and general street muck. I can tell that these boots have not been polished or cleaned, and certainly not tongue-shined, for many months. Tut! tut! young Goth mistress. You really should have these boots professionally tongue-shined at least every other day. Never mind, sweet and kind Goth mistress. I’ll do my best!
That is what I am thinking as I lower my now throbbing (from the kick to my face) jaw to one of the metal buckles that criss-crosses the front of her heavy, calf-length, black leather biker-boot and insert my slave tongue into the gunk underneath it.
I can now taste musty boot leather as well as smell it.
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, bitch-boy, extract all the grot from underneath my boot-buckles with your tongue. Ha! Ha! That’s right – lick it and suck it!...I want to hear you swallow it – swallow my boot-dirt, filthy boot-bitch!’
To the Goth Mistress’s immense pleasure and amusement I duly swallow the grot and gunk that I have successfully extracted from underneath her metal boot-buckles with my tongue. It tastes foul, but my slave stomach is grateful for the extra nourishment.
Having spruced up the leather of her boots with my slave tongue, and extracted all the globules of mud and dirt from beneath the many buckles and straps on the Goth girl’s heavy, biker boots, it is then a relatively easy task for me to ‘shine up’ the metal buckles themselves with my tongue – although the Goth mistress feels the need to give me several stinging cuts with the whipping stick as I do so as, rather like the smartly-dressed Indian businesswoman who sat in that same raised seat before her, the scruffily dressed Goth-mistress wants to ‘see her reflection’ in her metal boot buckles.
I suppose it’s a good sign. If she can see her reflection she mustn’t be a vampire!
Boots and buckles duly licked and shined, the Goth mistress then has me turn my attention, as promised, to her purple and black stripy tights. I pull each boot off with a whoosh (it transpires that all the straps and buckles are purely decorative!) and she then wiggles her purple and black striped toes directly over my footslave nose. To my horror I notice a hole in the tights on top of the big toe on her right foot, allowing her black-painted big toenail to peep through.
She laughs at my evident fear and distress:
‘Ha! Ha! What’s up, bitch? Never had to sniff a Goth girl’s dirty, stinky tights before? What kind of a public footslave are you? Do you reckon you’re too good to smell my stinky tights, or something?’
I know I must reassure the mistress immediately that I meant no disrespect by my involuntary flinching and facial grimaces at the sight - and strong, vinegary smell – of her holey, purple and black stripy tights waving around in front of my pathetic, footslave nose:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave would truly be honoured to sniff the toes of your sweaty tights, as it is truly a smell fit for a humble footslave, if it so pleases you most respected mistress’
That’s what I’m saying, but what I’m thinking is – ‘I hope the wind picks up again and blows away some of the smell!’
It doesn’t, and I find myself enveloped in the pretty Goth –girl’s foot stink as she laughs at me from her seated position of power above me.
She’s not the only one laughing at me, for a small crowd of superior women has gathered to watch my stinky-tights humiliation, and right now I am nothing but a Goth Girl’s public, stripy-tights sniffer!
Rich Arab Girl & Her Filipina Maid
I’m no snob – believe me I’m not – but it is almost with a sense of blessed relief that I pull the heavy, calf-length biker boots back onto the young Goth mistress’s purple and black striped tights and kiss her boots farewell, only to have them replaced on my footslave stand with the smart, designer, white leather pumps of an evidently very rich, Arab girl - for she is accompanied by her Filipina maid.
The Arab girl, who is wearing a traditional, full length, black jilbaab, barks down her orders at me in Arabic. Even though I can’t understand a word of Arabic, I can tell that the orders are directed at me just by the curt and derogatory tone in the Arab girl’s voice. It’s as if she can hardly bear to speak to a piece of dirt as lowly as myself.
Understandable really.
Luckily her Filipina maid can speak Arabic, and happily translates her mistress’s words for me:
‘Ha! Ha! Madam say she have small stone inside left shoe! You, the slave, must take off Madam shoe and remove stone with teeth! Ha! Ha! Maria watch while you swallow stinky stone from inside Madam shoe! Ha! Ha!’
The gleeful maid, whom I surmise must be referring to herself when she uses the name Maria as that sounds much more Filipino than it does Arabic, must be overjoyed to see someone else performing a demeaning task for her mistress! She certainly seems pleased with herself.
‘Madam’ must be at least 10 years younger than her Filipina maid. I would guess the Arab girl to be around 25 or 26 years of age, but I can really only go by the sound of her pretty voice, as she is veiled. The softness of her bare, brown feet inside her white, designer pumps suggests youth also, however.
The white shoes are quite low-heeled, but they are nevertheless fashionable and expensive-looking – with quite pointy-toes and some very pretty, decorative white stitching on the white leather uppers.
I foolishly make to remove Madam’s left shoe with my humble slave hands when the rich, young Arab woman shouts something down at me in Arabic, the meaning of which would be nevertheless clear to any humble slave in any language – don’t touch!
The maid hurriedly explains my faux pax as she, clearly at the behest of her Arab mistress, beats me hard several times across my bare back with the whipping stick:
‘You not touch Madam white shoe until first kiss Madam white shoe!’… Whack! Whack!...'You a dirty slave!’…Whack! Whack!....'You not fit touch Arab woman shoe until first kiss Arab woman shoe with respect!’ ...Whack! Whack!...'Madam angry with slave!’... Whack!...'Madam spit on slave!…’
And no sooner has the maid explained this than a gob-full of the rich Arab girl’s superior, female spit lands on top of my unworthy, slave head.
As her saliva runs down the front of my face I make amends as best I can by showering Madam’s left shoe with respectful kisses, taking particular care to caress the patterned, white stitching with my slave lips as it is something a bit different for me.
I beg the Arab girl’s maid to translate my apologies to her mistress for me:
‘Oh pray, mistress maid Maria, if it pleases you most beautiful mistress maid, please convey my humble apologies to your mistress, and bless her and thank her for correcting me and spitting on me, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress maid Maria.’
The Filipina maid snorts somewhat derisively at me, but nevertheless conveys my apologies to her boss in Arabic.
At least, I sincerely hope that’s what she is doing. It occurs to me that I am now every bit as much at the mercy of the Filipina maid as I am of her Arab mistress!
Judging by the translated reply from the Arab mistress, however, my apology has been duly conveyed and accepted:
‘Madam say you take off shoe now…swallow stone…Madam say you suck Madam footsweat off stone before swallow! Ha! Ha! You a fool! You a Arab-woman’s whipped, foot-fool. Ha! Ha! Maria a maid. Maria better than you!... Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Maria speaks the truth in her broken English – for she is, self-evidently, better than me. She may be a lady’s maid but at the end of the day she is not the one having to kiss her female employer’s feet. She is not the one having to remove the rich Arab girl’s left shoe from her professionally pedicured foot, and then having to suck on and swallow the sweaty stone that has been irritating her mistress’s soft, brown foot inside her sweaty, white, designer shoe!
As I take the small, offending stone into my slave mouth, the Arab Girl claps her pretty hands in delight, and joyfully screams something else in Arabic:
‘Ha! Ha! Madam mock the slave – say slave just a dirty foot-whore! Ha! Ha! Madam say you like dirt – you like women foot dirt! You not a real man! You a woman’s foot- servant! Ha! Ha!...’
‘Thank you, mistress Maria. God bless you and your mistress, Mistress Maria!’
The Filipina maid translates my humble blessing for her mistress again, who responds with yet more yelps and happy words in Arabic from beneath her black veil as I place her white, leather designer pump back onto her soft, brown skin.
Ha! Ha! Madam say she now make you thank Maria for beating you… Maria now take Madam’s place on shoeshine-stand…You kiss Maria feet now! Ha! Ha!’
The Arab girl climbs down from, and the Filipina girl climbs up onto, the ‘shoeshine’ stand, resting her two, pretty Filipina feet on the metal footrests in front of my face. The Filipina maid is so petite and slightly built that she has to sit on the edge of the comfortable, brown leather seat for her pretty feet to be able to rest on the two metal footrests below them!
I can now see the Filipina maid’s feet clearly for the first time. She is wearing plain, black ballet flats and plain, white sneaker socks beneath black, ankle- length leggings or footless-tights.
A soon as she is in place her employer says something else again in Arabic, which her maid duly translates:
‘Ha! Ha! Madam say you now kiss Maria’s feet – you kiss feet of Filipina maid; lick Filipina maid’s shoes; kiss Filipina maid’s socks…Ha! Ha!...Madam say if you not show respect for Maria she beat you herself with stick!’
I had already noticed that mistress Maria had handed over the dreaded whipping stick to her Arab employer, and so I waste no time in doing exactly as I have been told – I kiss the Filipina maid’s soft, black leather shoes and equally soft, white cotton ankle socks.
As I do so Mistress Maria translates her own happy thoughts to me:
‘Ha! Ha! You a wimp; you a dog! Ha! Ha! You lick Filipina maid feet like dirty dog…Ha! Ha! Maria your master! You frightened of Maria. You frightened of stick! Ha! Ha! You a Filipina woman shoe and sock licker!’
It’s true! It’s all true. I am nothing but a dirty, whipped cur, desperately licking his Filipina mistress’s dirty shoes and socks in a pathetic effort to avoid more pain from the whipping stick. What must her Arab mistress be thinking of me! An Arab woman’s servant’s slave! Ha! Ha! I am truly pathetic – the lowest of the low.
The Hippy Chick
You would think, wouldn’t you, that a girl who was into new-age philosophy and the ‘love and peace’ ethos of the hippy movement would treat me a bit less harshly than a haughty, spoilt, rich Arab girl and her Filipina maid?
Read on!
For my next customer-mistress is just that: a beige-brown-moccasin-wearing, bespectacled ‘hippy-chick’, dressed in a long, frilly, brightly coloured floral patterned dress, and with – yes quite literally - flowers in her curly, brown hair!
Love and peace to all men does not, however, seem to extend to male footslaves:
‘Soothe my feet, slaveman. Take off my shoes and suck on my toes. They’re hot and sweaty and need cooling down, slaveman.’
I have to say that this youngish woman sounds a bit spaced out on something as she sits somewhat dreamily on the raised chair of the public footslave-stand, her pretty, bare feet resting on the two metal footrests inside her tasselled, beige moccasin shoes. Had she really called me “slaveman”?! I have never been referred to as that before! Sounds almost like “caveman”, although that would be appropriate given that I am clearly lower down the evolutionary scale than this intelligent and peace-loving, thoughtful and sensitive young woman.
I remember this time to kiss each shoe, before attempting to remove them with my hands (I am nothing if not a quick learner and the whipping stick when wielded by a pretty, Filipina maid is an excellent teacher!)
The moccasins slip off easily, to reveal the unpainted toenails and rather pasty-looking, bare white feet of the hippy-mistress. I instantly notice also that her feet have several, small red blotches on them. They could even be insect bites (I would imagine that this young woman spends much of her time walking around music festivals in her bare feet – or am I just thinking purely in stereotypes?!)
If they are indeed insect bites, then I must suck the poison out of them as I obediently soothe the young hippy mistress’s bare feet with my slave tongue.
Her feet are indeed a bit hot and sweaty, but not as pungent as the Goth girl’s purple and black stripy-stockinged feet had been.
I lick the hippy girl’s pasty white feet and shapely ankle bones with my footslave tongue, pausing over each red mark on her bare feet in order to try and suck any insect poison out of the tiny sores that are scattered along her delicate, feminine arches and insteps.
I sense that the spaced-out, hippy mistress appreciates this extra, unrequested attention to her bare feet, but I sense wrongly.
Whack!
The familiar sound of whippy wood on bare back! The stick breaks through the peace and tranquillity of the scene and sends a sudden shock wave of pain coursing through my bare back and shoulders;
‘I said, suck on my toes, slaveman...not on my insteps!’
So, this hippy mistress in her mid to late thirties may well be a believer in peace and love, but she is clearly equally a supporter of the corporal punishment of slaves!
Duly chastened, I apologise to the sweet, youngish mistress and concentrate my slave mouth and lips on her unpainted toes and toenails.
I soothe and suck, and, I’m pleased to say, receive no more lashes from the bespectacled and curly-haired hippy mistress, as I simply do what I am told!
Posh Green Wellies
From hippy chick to country lady. My next female customer is not the sort I encounter all that often in the big city – although I have served enough of her sort to know how to categorise them – green welly-wearing, countrified snobs, the sort of women who literally look down on me as though I was something they had inadvertently trodden in with their green, muck-covered, country-style wellington boots.
Which is entirely appropriate since I am, effectively, something they have trodden in - a piece of particularly foul-smelling muck beneath their superior, rubber wellington boots, that’s all I am!
The lady, who has her white riding-breeches tucked into the tops of a pair of thick, woolly, argyle-patterned kneesocks inside her muddy, green wellingtons, even sounds terribly posh and snooty:
‘Lick the mud off one’s boots, wretched slave, and be quick about it. One hasn’t got all day!’
She sounds a little bit older than my previous customers so far today – perhaps early forties? Still, she is at least 10 years younger than me – she is still my female younger and better!
You know, there is absolutely no doubt about it – country muck tastes and smells differently from city mud! Don’t get me wrong – it is just mud I’m talking about. But it is fresh, unadulterated mud – fresh from the fields – and it is such a nice change to be tasting female, country boot mud mixed with green wellington boot rubber, rather than the ubiquitous boot and shoe leather of city women. I adore the taste of female boot-rubber; it is so much more bitter to the slave tongue than leather, and complements the dull taste of mud and filth just nicely!
One thing’s for sure - I won’t starve today, for there is plenty of nutritious and filling mud and muck on this upper-class, country mistress’s green, rubber boots. I eagerly lap it all up, leaving the green, knee-length wellingtons shining and glistening beneath the tops of her argyle-patterned kneesocks in the recently reappeared sunshine.
The woman, meanwhile, is ignoring me – and doesn’t even appear to have noticed that I have finished my humble task – as she is preoccupied with speaking to someone on her mobile phone:
‘Hello, Edward…It’s Cynthia!...Hi, listen, be a darling and saddle up Rosie when you are taking out Victor, would you?...I’m just in the town doing some shopping, but I’ll be with you in about an hour or so, and I do fancy a ride this morning…OK?...Thanks, honey..See you soon…Bye!’
I am assuming that Rosie and Victor are horses, and master Edward is a manfriend, with whom she now intends to go horse-riding – not that it’s any of my damned business. My only legitimate business is the aristocratic woman’ green, wellington boots.
Nevertheless, I can’t help images flashing through my mind of this posh, attractive woman changing out of her green, rubber wellingtons and into her brown, leather riding boots – with my footslavish assistance of course! Oh my God, how I would dearly love to be her official boot-changer; to kiss and then pull off her green, rubber wellingtons; to smell the insides of them; to straighten her knee-length argyle-patterned thick, woolly kneesocks; and then sniff the insides of her brown leather, knee-length riding boots prior to kissing them and pulling them onto her aristocratic, argyle-socked feet and legs.
Perhaps this posh mistress would then ride me around the stable yard, or at the very least would use my bare back as a mounting block up onto her horse, Rosie! Oh to feel the dirty, muddy soles of her brown, leather riding boots digging into my bare, sore, whipped back! What bliss that would be!
But as she climbs down from the footslave-stand, her erstwhile muddy, green wellingtons now shimmering in the bright sunlight, I am reminded that she, like all my customers, rich or poor, regards me as nothing more than a piece of filth beneath her boots, as she too leaves without thanking me for my sterling efforts in her posh, English accent!
The Tart
The sheer variety of feminine footwear truly never ceases to amaze me. From flat-heeled, green rubber wellingtons on argyle-patterned thick, woolly kneesocks, I go to a pair of spike-heeled , shiny black stilettos on black, fishnet stockings.
Or rather they come to me for, as a chained-up public footslave, I can never go anywhere!
This young, sexily-dressed woman is wearing stockings and suspenders beneath a ridiculously short, white leather miniskirt. She is undoubtably a ‘lady of the night’ – even though it is only about 10:00 in the morning! I sense that she has been walking the streets all night, and that her feet are now sore and tired, for her orders are somewhat predictable as she nonchalantly lights up a cigarette – with total disregard to the ‘no smoking’ sign which my master has placed outside by foot-booth – and then kicks off her shiny black, pointy, stiletto-heeled shoes:
‘Smell my feet and rub them with your nose, slaveboy!’
Slaveboy! That disparaging term again, denying me any manhood! I must be at least twice her age. This working girl can’t be any more than 20 years old – yet once again, in this scenario, I have to acknowledge that I am just a boy, for in her jaundiced eyes I am less even than one of her punters. At least they are proper men getting to have sex. All I ever get is socks!
Socks – or, more accurately in this case, fishnet stockings! They feel rough on my nose as I dutifully and obediently nose-rub the superior prostitute-mistress’s hot and tired, sweaty feet .
As I also inhale her foot aroma (for she has ordered me to) I wonder, briefly, what it must be like to have sexual intercourse with a woman.
Wonder is all I shall ever be able to do, however, as no woman, not even a prostitute, would ever dream of lowering herself to have sexual intercourse with a male slave! Not even if she was paid to do so by my master (for I myself, of course, have no money to my name). It is just unthinkable in a Gynarchial society that any superior female, whatever her occupation, would ever be intimate with a mere footslave!
It’s totally taboo!
And so I concentrate my footslave mind instead on the practical - on the mistress’s fishnet-stockinged feet. I can feel her pinky-white bare footflesh between the large, criss-crossed stitches of the black, nylon fishnet stockings. I deliberately rest my nose for a few seconds on each little area of bare footskin as I sniff. I hope the mistress –prostitute finds this relaxing and pleasurable.
She is certainly enjoying her illicit cigarette. I know my master will punish me for letting the young lady smoke on my footslave-stand when he sees this on the CCTV, but what can I do? Reprimand a superior mistress? Ha! Ha! My life wouldn’t be worth living!
No, if the mistress wishes to smoke then smoke she shall, and I for my part shall, quite literally, be her whipping boy – punished on her behalf.
In any case the cigarette smoke is doing me a huge favour, as it is helping to mask the pungent aroma emanating from the superior mistress-prostitute’s feet. Her feet, it has to be said, need a good wash – as do her stockings. I will be only too glad to mouth-wash the mistress-prostitutes fishnet stockings if she wishes to take them off for me.
But she apparently doesn’t. She just finishes her cigarette, drops the butt onto the ground beneath my kneeling face, slips her stilettos back onto her sweaty, stockinged feet, and then stubs out the illicit cigarette butt by twisting her shapely-ankled, fishnet-stockinged, stiletto-heeled, right foot over the cigarette-end, leaving it crumpled up and blackened by the dirt from the sole of her streetwalking shoe.
I briefly get to admire the creases and folds in her fishnet-stockinged ankle as she twists her foot over the cigarette butt.
After she has gone, I eat the cigarette butt.
Trailer Trash
It’s not a very nice term, but I really don’t know how else to describe my next female customer- like sporty mistress she is blonde-ponytailed, and wearing sneakers and a tracksuit of sorts (more a shiny, silver shell suit) – but there the similarity ends.
For this young, white woman is grossly overweight, her silvery-grey sneakers are cheap and nasty looking, and she is wearing thin, plain white sneaker socks below her somewhat podgy, tattooed ankles.
The tattoos appear to be of fish, which is appropriate as I suspect her feet will smell of fish inside those cheap sneakers and socks.
Most intriguingly of all, on her left ankle she is also wearing some sort of ridiculously clumsy-looking thick, plastic ankle-bracelet.
Oh my God – it’s an electronic tag! This mistress is electronically tagged – out on licence!
She is also, naturally, chewing gum as she sits down on my humble shoeshine stand.
I can’t actually bring myself to record verbatim what she says to me, as her language is truly blue – full of ‘effing’ and ‘blinding’ and other unmentionable expletives. Suffice it to say that the gist of what she says is that I must tongue-clean her sneakers, and then nose-worship the elasticated tops of her short, white ankle socks, or else she will have her boyfriend Darren come and beat me up.
In the mean time, presumably because she believes in brute force, she reinforces each expletive with a stinging blow to my bare back with the public-use whipping stick.
To give her her due, this particular blonde, ponytailed mistress doesn’t just use the stick to beat me, she also uses it to point to the area of her cheap, silvery sneaker that she wants licked and/or the area of her cheap, white sock she wants nose-worshipped.
Nose-worshipping a young woman’s sock, incidentally, means repeatedly placing your slave nose onto the material of the sock and sniffing – short, polite sniffs designed to humiliate a slave as he may be ordered to nose-worship a single area of sock as many as 5000 times in one go!
Fortunately for me I don’t think this particular blonde mistress can count beyond 10, as that seems to be the most I am required to ‘nose-worship’ any particular area of elasticated, dirty, white sneaker sock.
She then notices, however, a piece of gum – a piece of her old chewing gum – stuck to the sole of her left sneaker; the one below her electronic tag!
Needless to say, I am blamed for this offensive piece of blackened chewing gum on the sole of her silvery sneaker, beaten accordingly, and then ordered, again in most unladylike language, to remove the gum from the sole of her sneaker with my slave teeth, or master Darren will come and give me what for.
Thankfully, this takes me so long, the young lady doesn’t have time to make me take off her sneakers and smell her fishy sneaker socks and tattooed feet.
Oriental Charm
It is now approaching lunch time, but there will, of course, be no lunch break for the public footslave.
My next customer, however, has seemingly chosen to spend the whole of her lunch hour having her footwear attended to at my footslave-stand.
She is, without doubt, a foreign student – a charming young, oriental woman with a strong oriental accent– once again in total contrast to my previous (though equally respected) indigenous trailer-trash customer.
I would guess from the young oriental woman’s attire that she is either Japanese or Korean, as she is wearing brown leather, knee-length, block-keeled, zip-up boots with black kneesocks below a thigh-length coat and short skirt – typical attire for a young, oriental female student in her early twenties.
Stereotypical even?
Stereotypically as well she is ever so polite towards me, as she sits down on my footslave stand, rests her knee-length booted feet on the two metal footrests in front of my face, and takes out a sandwich of some sort from her Tupperware lunch box which she is now resting on her lap:
‘Slave lick Nagomi boots; clean off dirt while Nagomi eat lunch. Slave do well, make Nagomi boots nice and shine, Nagomi give slave piece of bread!’
You see, so charming and gentle – compared certainly to my previous, trailer-trash mistress. And the result of her feminine gentility is that I am absolutely determined to do a good job of licking clean miss Nagomi’s knee-length leather boots.
There is no way, however, I can accept her kind offer of a piece of her sandwich. Remember the CCTV cameras? My master would have me whipped and prosecuted for theft if I accepted a gift of human food from a superior mistress!
I respectfully explain this to miss Nagomi:
‘Oh pray mistress Nagomi, God Bless you mistress Nagomi. This slave will indeed be honoured to tongue-shine your beautiful, knee-length, leather boots, mistress Nagomi, and will indeed endeavour to make them shine like new, mistress Nagomi, but regrets that he is not permitted to accept your kind offer of a piece of your sandwich, for he is just a dirty footslave and is not worthy of such sustenance, if it so pleases you sweet and kind mistress Nagomi’.
Sweet and kind mistress Nagomi’s mood seems to darken at this rebuttal of her kind offer. She leans down and suddenly slaps me across the face:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave- insolent pig! Nagomi not offer slave piece of sandwich! Nagomi offer slave bread from inside boot! Nagomi wear bread all morning as insole for slave – make bread stinky and sweaty – fit for footslave mouth. You eat stinky bread if Nagomi tell you! You obey Nagomi, or Nagomi have you whip!’
I apologise profusely to sweet mistress Nagomi for the misunderstanding caused by my pig-ignorant stupidity:
‘Oh pray, mistress Nagomi, please forgive this dirty, stupid slave, mistress Nagomi. Of course this slave will gratefully consume any bread that has been soiled by your precious, feminine footsweat and sock lint inside your boots, most kind and generous mistress Nagomi!’
Food soiled by a mistress’s feet or footwear is permitted to me by my master. So long as he sees the bread coming out of her boots on the CCTV cameras, he will allow, indeed require, me to consume it.
And so I make sure that I do a damn good job of tongue-shining the softly-spoken, delightful and charming miss Nagomi’s boots, thereby earning my reward of unzipping her right boot and then savouring the bread-insole that has been seasoned inside her hot, brown leather, knee-length boot by her sweaty, oriental foot through the sole of her pretty, knee-length black bootsock.
Oriental charm – yet another stereotype.
But not as much of a stereotype as I am myself – the pathetic, middle-aged, balding male footslave, cringing in chains on his hands and knees, relishing his meal of sweaty, oriental-girl’s footbread whilst he admires her superior booted and socked feet, and thinking adoringly about all the lovely mistresses he has served thus far that morning, and will serve that coming afternoon.
The End
