Know Your Mistress
If there is one thing you must do above all else in order to survive as a woman’s personal footslave – it is to get to know your mistress; her likes and dislikes; her whims and fancies; her moods and desires. For she is your mistress and better, and owns you body and soul. If you fail to please her, and satisfy her every whim, she will destroy you.
You must, therefore, get to know your personal mistress quickly and well – for you are completely and legally in her female power and at her sweet, feminine mercy.
Of course, however good and diligent a personal footslave you may be, she will inevitably tire of you, and sooner or later she will dispense with your services, as is her perfect right as a free, slave-owning woman. But if you have been a reasonably good footslave she will, hopefully, permit you to remain in personal servitude to women, and put you up for private auction as a second, third or fourth-hand personal footslave, rather than sell you on to the State auction house for employment as a mere public footslave; or even worse, as a mere work-slave in the dreaded slave-mines - unfit even to serve at the feet of anonymous women on the streets of our fair capital city!
Such a fate must be avoided at all costs if your wretched existence as a slave is to have any meaning! I should know, for I am now a failure – a public footslave – but only in my twilight years, and after some 40 years of private service to a succession of different mistresses, all of whom turned out to be very different in temperament; all of whom were demanding in their own ways; all of whom eventually got bored with me; but all of whom nevertheless saw fit to sell me on as a personal footslave – except, of course, for my last mistress, who could no longer see any merit in me whatsoever.
Please allow me, therefore, to summarise my relatively successful career as a personal footslave to a succession of mistresses, as I believe there may be lessons to be learnt by those of you who may be thinking of embarking on such a humble, but fulfilling, career yourselves.
The Kindly Mistress
I remember, like it was yesterday, my first moments with my first ever mistress. It was, in fact, over 40 years ago – when I was just 21 years old. The Footslave Training Academy had found me my first ‘placement’ with one of their so-called ‘training mistresses’ – young women in the community who volunteered to take on brand new footslaves and ‘bring them up to scratch’.
It was a good deal – especially for those young women from poorer backgrounds whose parents perhaps couldn’t afford to buy them a personal footslave when their daughters turned 21, and/or who were not earning enough money yet themselves to afford such a ‘luxury’ item as their own, personal footslave. The State, in the form of the ‘Footslave Training Academy’, effectively supplied them with a personal footslave free of charge – for anything up to a year - in exchange for the kind, young mistress taking the time and the patience to train the footslave further, and polish off the lessons he had learnt in the classroom - after which time the fully trained footslave would be put up for sale at a proper auction.
By definition, of course, many of these ‘training-mistresses’ were themselves, to all intents and purposes, ‘trainees’, in the sense that they were trainee mistresses; but I understand they underwent a six-week familiarisation course at the Training Academy, so they all knew exactly what to expect, before being given their first trainee footslave in the privacy of their own homes.
I was lucky. Sick with nerves though I was, from the moment I was introduced to my ‘trainee’ mistress, I knew I would be okay – for she had such a kind, pretty face.
Of course, this was my first mistake – looking a superior mistress in the face! But the very fact that my new mistress did not immediately beat me for such impudence, ably illustrates my point – mistress Tamara (as I soon found out was her name) was a truly kind and gentle, beautiful young woman.
She looked to be about the same age as me. I knew from the outset, of course, that she must be at least 21 – the minimum age for both enslavement and slave-ownership in the Gynarchy. I later found out she was, in fact, one year older than me i.e. 22, when I was first presented to her. I also later found out that she worked as a receptionist in a posh hotel. A typical ‘trainee’ mistress, really – not well paid enough to own a personal footslave outright, but nevertheless eager to help the State train up its future footslaves.
As I said, I somewhat arrogantly looked at her in the face from my kneeling position on her living room floor (my disappointed female trainer from the Academy standing behind me!), and so I could see instantly that my new mistress, as well as having a kindly face, was blonde, tall and slim.
She was casually dressed in a grey top, black denim jeans, and bright red, nylon tights inside a pair of black leather, kitten-heeled, court-style shoes on her pretty feet.
She looked calm and collected, and was even smiling warmly down at me, although I’m sure she must have been every bit as nervous as I was (I later found out I was her first trainee-footslave from the Academy!). She was standing, as the Academy trainers had taught her to, with both hands resting on her hips and her right foot slightly extended towards me.
From the moment she gave me her first order, I knew that this softly-spoken mistress was as genuinely soft and gentle as her smiling features suggested:
‘Kiss the toe of my shoe, slave.’
Simple; straightforward; concise and to the point.
Yet, to my eternal shame, I even managed to botch up my first ever response to my first ever real mistress’s command. As I crawled closer to her outstretched right foot and lowered my nervously dry lips for the first time towards the toe of her black leather, court shoe I became distracted by the thin, bright red material of the tights covering the top of her foot . I could see the tiny, individual stitches in the nylon material of her bright, red tights and, almost subconsciously, found my lips drawn to the arch of her nylon-covered foot.
To my eternal shame, my arrogant and impetuous lips felt the nylon material of her tights before they felt the leather of her shoes – a presumptuous and insubordinate act that would normally mean an instant flogging for such an impertinent slave. Kissing your new mistress’s inner footwear before you kiss her outer footwear! Outrageous behaviour! I still blush even now after all these years whenever I think about it!
But just to give you the measure of my kindly mistress Tamara, she did not express shock or outrage – or desire me to be soundly flogged for my impudence. Instead, she immediately forgave me!
She corrected me, of course – but only verbally:
‘Ha! Ha! I don’t believe I gave you permission to kiss my popsocks, insolent slave! Kiss the toe of my shoe, like I said!’
The instant she spoke I realised my terrible faux pas! Not only had I kissed my female superior’s inner footwear without permission – I had mistaken them for tights when they were, in fact, a pair of red, nylon, knee-length popsocks! What sort of a footslave am I? One who can’t even detect the difference between nylon tights and nylon popsocks on a young woman’s feet beneath her denim jeans?!
I’m pathetic!
I could sense the disapproval and irritation in my female trainer from the Academy, who was still standing behind me observing my ‘handover’ to mistress Tamara. But, luckily for me, I was no longer under the female trainer’s direct jurisdiction. From the moment I had botched my first ever footkiss to her pretty foot I was now under the yoke of the sweet and kind mistress Tamara – my new mistress – who, perhaps because she was new to this situation of slave-ownership herself, was proving to be a most magnanimous and forgiving young mistress.
I instantly bowed my head in shame and apologised to my new mistress in my best and humblest slave-speak :
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this stupid slave humbly apologises for his impudence, and craves the mistress’s sweet, feminine mercy, if it so pleases you sweet and powerful mistress. Oh pray, mistress…Please don’t beat me mistress!...Oh pray!...Oh pray!...’ and, with that, I did what I should have done in the first place, and respectfully kissed the toe of her obligingly outstretched black, leather kitten-heeled court shoe – several times.
Astoundingly, my new mistress just laughed at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry slave – I shan’t beat you. At least, not this time! Just make sure that in future you do exactly what you are told, and we’ll get along just fine! Oh, and you may address me as “mistress Tamara” from now on!’
My heart leapt for joy! I had landed on my knees – a kind and forgiving mistress; willing to overlook my mistakes and take into account my nervousness and inexperience! What a lucky footslave I was!
I’m sure my disapproving trainer from the Academy was thinking the same thing!
I vowed from that moment onwards to do ‘exactly what I was told’ by the sweet and generous mistress Tamara, for I respond well to her style of leadership: kind but firm. I had noticed that she had only promised not to beat me this time. She clearly did not wish her sweet, young-womanly forgiveness to be taken for granted, and I resolved within myself that I would not take advantage of mistress Tamara’s sweet and kind nature.
And, I’m pleased to say, I never did. From that moment on I relaxed and obeyed my mistress Tamara’s every command to the very letter. Of course, I’m only human, and there were times when I became complacent under mistress Tamara’s benign regime, and she therefore had no choice but to physically chastise me. But I can honestly say that, in the 12 months I served at her feet, she only had occasion to beat me on half a dozen or so occasions.
To give her her due, when she did whip, she whipped hard! But she was never out of control, and never whipped me in a fit of rage or anger. She whipped me solely out of a sense of sweet, feminine duty – the duty to correct me and discipline me and prepare me for my life of servitude at the feet and footwear of superior young women.
Of course, what she couldn’t possibly know back then, any more than I could, was exactly what type of person my next mistress would be like. But I can tell you now that my second mistress – who purchased me at a proper, public auction of personal footslaves – was a whole different kettle of fish from the sweet and kind mistress Tamara.
I had to adapt –and adapt quickly in order to survive. I had to get to know my new mistress, starting from scratch. And it was a steep learning curve!
The Cruel Mistress
I could see her clearly from the raised auction block. She seemed to stand out in the crowd – a beautiful, dark-haired young woman in her mid to late twenties, with long, curly locks and a long, ‘pointy’ face. Beautiful, but somehow reminiscent of a witch – particularly as she was sombrely dressed all in black; a black anorak over a black sweater; black, boot-cut trousers; and black, ankle boots.
She never once smiled whilst she was bidding for me. But I could nevertheless see it in her eyes that she was determined to own me – at any cost. I found this quite flattering.
I was delivered to her home that very afternoon – not a witch’s coven, as it turns out, but a perfectly ordinary suburban house where she lived alone. Ominously, in the back yard, was a short, stocky, wooden whipping post – the type a slave would be forced to kneel at whilst being whipped. Even more ominously she tethered me to it within five minutes of my arrival in my new ‘home’.
I started sweating as I watched her black ankle boots circle around me. I could now see them much closer up than I had been able to from the auction block – square-toed, block heeled, zip-up ankle boots beneath the hems of her stylish, black, boot-cut trousers. The ankle boots looked well-worn, and quite dusty. I found myself yearning to lick them clean for her – to demonstrate that I would be a good footslave to my new, witchlike mistress; to win her over as I had done my previous mistress Tamara; to reassure her that she had nothing to fear from me, and that I was a naturally submissive and compliant slave.
But this dark mistress, I was to discover, liked to ‘break in’ her slaves herself – even if they were already broken.
She still had not spoken a word to me as I knelt in the dirt of her back yard, tethered to the wooden whipping post, my naked back prone and vulnerable to the single-tailed, black leather whip which I could just see resting in my new mistress’s hands out of the corner of my eye.
I found the silence disconcerting, but that silence was soon broken as I observed my strange and enigmatic, new, dark-haired mistress’s right-booted foot suddenly move forward in the dirt, the black leather of the boot creasing and folding around her shapely ankle-bone, and then heard a sharp swish and a crack.
It was the crack of my new mistress’s black, leather whip across my kneeling back!
The pain that ensued from that single stroke of the whip was a thousand times worse than the harshest beating I had ever received from my sweet and kind mistress Tamara. I had thought that mistress Tamara could whip hard, but this new, black-curly-haired mistress with the pointy features could wield a whip like no other mistress I had ever encountered thus far – not even in the Footslave Training Academy where there had been many, expert whip-mistresses.
I cried out in shock and pain:
‘Ahhhggg!.....mercy mistress!’
I still didn’t know my new mistress’s name, but the sting from her black leather whip compelled me to say something! Oh if only I wasn’t bound to the whipping post – I would immediately throw myself at my new mistress’s boots and demonstrate my respect for her power and authority by licking those pretty, black ankle boots until they shone in the sunlight.
The mistress stood behind me and regathered her whip in her hands as I felt the stripe on my back forming. Her booted feet were now side-by-side on the ground behind me. Ridiculously I found myself hoping against hope that the whipping was over – that I was to receive just one stroke; perhaps an ‘introductory’ stroke – just to show me who was boss. After all, to my knowledge, I had done nothing wrong.
Again, there was an eerie silence, punctuated only by my heavy breathing and the almost audible throbbing across my bare back and shoulder. The black ankle boots and black, boot-cut slacks circled around me again, like a panther stalking its prey.
What seemed like an eternity passed, although it was probably only some 60 seconds or so. Then, when it was behind me again, the right ankle-booted foot once again suddenly moved forward in the dirt - the dusty, black leather once again creasing and folding around the ankle - and the air, and my back, were once again cut by the stinging, black leather whip.
Need I go on? My new mistress did. I received twenty such fearsome lashes, and when it was all over knelt slumped at the whipping post, only my hands tied above me preventing me from collapsing onto the ground at my new mistress’s booted feet as she walked away from me, recoiling her now warm whip, and left me alone with my pain.
I didn’t know what to think, but fortunately I was in any case incapable of rational thought. My brain cells had no option but to concentrate on the pain in my back - so overwhelming were the throbbing sensations.
It must have been some two hours before my new, cruel mistress returned to the occupied whipping post in her back yard. To my horror, I could see behind me that she was still carrying her single-tailed, black leather whip!
But, mercifully, she didn’t unfurl it again. Instead she untied me, and my delayed collapse into the dirt at her feet could now take place. Instinctively I pressed my slave lips to the dirty, dusty toe of my new mistress’s right ankle boot – the boot which had helped to bear her weight as she had applied each cutting stroke of the lash to my bare back.
I kissed the female boot repeatedly. It was a risk of course. My new mistress, whoever she was, had not ordered me to kiss her boot. She might take offence at my presumptuousness. She might whip me again! But it was a calculated risk. Most women, 99% of women were reliably informed at the Footslave Training Academy, like to see and feel a male slave spontaneously grovelling at their booted feet. Surely my new, cruel mistress would not be in the 1% of mistresses who didn’t enjoy having her boots kissed?
As I kissed the dusty, square-shaped toe of my new mistress’s well-worn and creased, black boot leather, I wondered whether she was wearing black, ankle-length bootsocks inside her boots to match the rest of her dark outfit.
At last my mistress spoke:
‘I am mistress Sofia, dirty slave. Never look me in the eye again!’
Believe it or not her words brought comfort to me in my wretched condition, grovelling in the dirt at the boots of the one who had whipped me. Firstly, she had deigned to introduce herself to me. That must be a good sign! She would no longer be so aloof and mysterious. So unfathomable!
And secondly, I had evidently been whipped for a reason – and a legitimate reason at that! I had looked my new mistress in the eye – my old failing! Of course I had. From the sanctuary of the auction block! How could I have been so arrogant!
Mistress Sofia was clearly no mistress Tamara – prepared to laugh off and forgive such inappropriate behaviour in a slave. Mistress Sofia clearly found such cockiness in a slave deeply offensive, and demanded that her slaves look her only in the boot.
So be it – now that I know, now that I know my new mistress, I shall comply and obey.
I kissed the toe of her right boot again:
‘Oh pray mistress Sofia; please forgive this dirty, stupid slave his arrogance, mistress Sofia. This slave apologises for his behaviour, and blesses the mistress for correcting him with the female whip, if it so pleases you most beautiful, sweet and kind mistress Sofia.’
I think she could hear the genuine fear and remorse in my voice, for I distinctly heard mistress Sofia snort derisively down at me, as she repositioned her ankle-booted feet to afford my lips access to the equally dusty square-shaped toe of her left boot, the boot which had previously swung joyously behind her in the air as she had delivered each dreadful blow of the whip to my bare back with all the young-womanly energy she could muster.
Oh if only I could see whether she is wearing black socks inside her black boots. I would not dare to kiss my whipper’s socks, of course – not without her permission. Mistress Tamara had at least taught me about the sanctity of a woman’s intimate, inner footwear. But to have been able to admire the elasticated tops of mistress Sofia’s imagined black bootsocks whilst I grovelled in the dirt at her black ankle-booted feet would have made my life complete at that moment: female-generated pain in my back; female boot-leather on my lips; and female sock in my vision – sock I could nuzzle and whine over in my agony.
It wasn’t to be. Mistress Sofia was not for showing me her socks. Not at that particular moment in time.
Of course, I did get to see them later that evening – when I was ordered to unzip her ankle boots and take them off her feet in order to give her a foot massage whilst she relaxed in front of the television on her living room couch.
I was right – black, ankle-length bootsocks. And they smelt very different from my previous mistress Tamara’s socks. The distinctive foot and sock odour of a distinctive new mistress. It was a smell I would get to know well – just as I would get to know my new cruel mistress Sofia well.
I had to – in order to survive. As I said at the outset – know your mistress! Know her footwear; know her feet; know the unique aroma of her feet; the contours in her soft, feminine footflesh; the pattern of the stitches in her many pairs of socks, tights and stockings; the treads in the soles of her various pairs of boots, sandals and shoes. And above all, know her likes and dislikes. Her foot-preferences. Obsess yourself with her superior feet and footwear. For your back depends on it.
I was with mistress Sofia for three years, and by the end of that time could have identified a piece of her sweaty sock lint from a mixed pile of women’s sock lint – so intimately did I know my mistress Sofia’s socks and individual foot-smell. Naturally dominant and cruel though she may have been, unlike mistress Tamara, mistress Sofia never had occasion to whip me again – so deep was my respect and admiration for her, and so deep and lasting were the initial scars she had painted on my back that first afternoon in her yard.
To put it bluntly, the submissive and compliant slave and the strong and powerful mistress got along famously. We understood each other. She commanded and I obeyed.
Mistress Sofia may have been a young woman of few words, and a very different personality type from my previous mistress Tamara. But she was still ‘kind’ in her own way. She was ‘cruel to be kind’, for she at least let me know where I knelt – at her booted feet. It was a straightforward and uncomplicated mistress-slave relationship, with clear rules and boundaries. The sort of mistress-slave relationship I like.
Unlike my next mistress-slave relationship when mistress Sofia eventually tired of me and sold me on.
The Insecure Mistress
My next mistress was much less secure about her female power and authority over an inferior, male slave such as myself. Perhaps this was because she was from a traditional Asian family in which women still submitted to their menfolk. I think mistress Puspa, a somewhat frail and slightly built young, Indian woman, actually found it quite difficult to boss a man about – especially a white man who was slightly older than her (I was by now 25 years old whereas I was given to miss Puspa by her father on her 21st birthday).
However, with the help of the man in her life – her husband Iqbal – she instituted a regime designed to perpetually reassure herself of my submission and obedience towards her. I was under strict instructions to kiss her feet continuously throughout the day whenever they were stationary. In other words, unless mistress Puspa was walking or running, I was to repeatedly kiss her feet – or, more specifically, the sides of her boots – for mistress Puspa nearly always wore block-heeled, zip up, brown leather knee-length boots in a effort to make her feel taller and stronger (although she was from a traditional background, and had met her husband Iqbal as part of an arranged marriage, he had encouraged her to dress in a western manner since he himself was a man of relatively liberal, western views).
Soft, gentle and quietly spoken, mistress Puspa nevertheless always seemed to tower above me imperiously , thanks to the powerful sight of her knee-length skirts and brown leather knee-length boots, as I lay on my belly in the dirt on the ground at her feet, repeatedly kissing the side of her dirty, leather boot as she either stood talking to her friends or work colleagues, or as she was sitting on the bus,or as she was cuddled up beside her beloved husband on their living room sofa.
I once calculated that, on average, I must have kissed mistress Puspa’s boots some 10,000 times a day – an eloquent and more or less perpetual demonstration of my slavish respect for my young, increasingly-westernised, Indian mistress and her knee-length leather boots. Some mistresses, I’m sure, would have hated having a dirty, male footslave continually slobbering over their boots. But there is no doubt that my mistress Puspa found it comforting and reassuring. It boosted her rather fragile ego, and made her look like something she was not – a strong, powerful mistress whose slave lived in abject fear of her.
Whilst I was not, in reality, kissing miss Puspa’s knee-length leather boots in ‘abject fear’, but rather because I was under orders to do so from her husband, I nevertheless did fear my mistress Puspa – in the sense that her feelings of feminine insecurity could arise at any time, leading her to panic that I may be somehow disrespecting her, which in turn would lead to her feeling the need to punish me – often cruelly punish me – in order to reinstate her own sense of power and authority over me.
One example of this which springs to mind happened several months into our mistress/slave relationship. I had been unable to sleep particularly well the night before – largely because mistress Puspa had decided to leave her dirty, white, knee-length bootsocks inside my mouth overnight for a good saliva-soaking. It was not the sweaty, salty taste of her socks that kept me awake. I was, by now, well used to the taste of sweet, feminine footsweat – even the stale variety most often encountered on recently worn and still warm female socks. Nor did the smell – the sweet, ammonia-like odour of miss Puspa’s feminine footsweat - keep me awake. No, it was the inability to breathe through my sock-filled mouth, and the need to breathe through my bunged-up nose (I had a slight head cold) that kept me awake that particular night.
Unfortunately for me my mistress Puspa was working on early shifts all that week (she was working at that time as an information assistant at a busy airport), and so, exhausted through lack of sleep or not, I had to get up at 05:00 a.m. on a cold winter’s day and, having dressed my mistress Puspa’s feet and legs in a pair of calf-length, woolly, yellow bootsocks and her ubiquitous, knee-length, brown leather boots, accompany her to her place of work where I was, as usual, required to kneel under her desk behind the airport enquiry counter and continuously kiss the lower sides of her boots whilst she dealt with the passengers’ enquiries.
Some two hours into my boot-kissing morning I suddenly had the uncontrollable urge to yawn, which prevented me from kissing my mistress Puspa’s boots for a period of what must have been no more than about 3 or 4 seconds.
Having yawned, I resumed kissing my mistress’s boots, and thought nothing more of it.
Until, that is, later that afternoon, after my mistress Puspa’s early morning shift had ended, and we were back in the comfort and warmth of her living room.
As she was sitting alone on her sofa, having taken off her coat, but still wearing her brown, knee-length, zip up leather boots, which I, of course was still kissing, mistress Puspa suddenly snapped down at me in her heavy, Indian accent:
‘Dirty slave, why is it that you were stopping kissing my boots this morning?’
Somewhat ironically, I was so shocked and surprised at mistress Puspa’s outburst, that I actually stopped kissing her boots there and then! But I couldn’t for the life of me work out what she was talking about! Stop kissing her boots? When had I stopped kissing her boots? I had been kissing her boots religiously throughout the morning – as per usual!
And yet, I knew that a mistress is never wrong. A superior mistress, even an insecure one like sweet mistress Puspa, can never do any wrong or say any wrong – so far as a male slave is concerned.
I was in a veritable quandary, but felt I had no choice but to seek further clarification as to my wrongdoing from my Indian female better:
‘Oh pray, mistress Puspa, if it pleases you mistress Puspa, this slave humbly begs the superior mistress to enlighten him further as to his failure to please the mistress, as he is but a dumb and ignorant footslave, if it so pleases you most sweet and merciful mistress Puspa.’
Mistress Puspa tutted with evident irritation. Although she wasn’t exactly shouting, I had never before seen her this agitated:
‘Stupid, insolent slave! Earlier today – at the information kiosk – I saw you yawning when you should have been being kissing my boots, isn’t it? You were being stopping kissing my boots for several seconds while you were being yawning! Why were you being so rude to your mistress, footslave? Are you finding my boots boring for you? Are you finding my boots boring because you are not being able to be seeing my yellow socks inside my boots while you are kissing them? Or are you perhaps thinking that you are being too high and mighty a slave to be continuously kissing your mistress’s dirty boots? Would you, the dirty, no-good slave, rather be studying philosophy or anthropology, or something? Or is it just that you are being a rude and insolent slave, who is being deserving the whip?’
I had never heard such biting sarcasm in my sweet and gentle Indian mistress’s voice before. But it was clear that my almost subconscious act of yawning, which I only recollected now that my mistress Puspa had mentioned it, had genuinely upset her.
I knew I was in deep trouble. It wasn’t like mistress Puspa to mention the whip! My days as her personal footslave had, thus far at any rate, been relatively whip-free (and therefore pain-free!)
I decided that all I could really do was to attempt to reassure my sweet and kind mistress, in my humblest and most submissive slave-speak, that no slight to her, or her boots, had been intended, and that I profusely apologised to her for any distress I may have caused. Mindful of the fact that it was my interruption to the kissing of her boots, rather than the impudent yawn in and of itself, which had so upset her, I resumed my respectful kissing of her boots whilst I performed my verbal grovelling:
‘Oh pray mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'if it pleases you, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'this dirty slave apologises to the mistress most profusely, mistress…’ kiss…kiss….'and throws himself on the mistress’s…’ kiss…kiss…'sweet and kind, feminine mercy…’ kiss…kiss…'if it so pleases you, sweet mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss… ‘Oh pray, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'this dumb and lazy slave assures the mistress…’ kiss…kiss…'that he had no intention of slighting or disrespecting the superior mistress or her beautiful boots…’ kiss…kiss…'if it so pleases you, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'but was rather compelled to yawn through a lack of sleep last night, mistress…’ kiss...kiss…'which was occasioned by his having a head cold, if it so pleases you mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'Oh pray, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'please don’t have me whipped, mistress Puspa!...’ kiss…kiss.’
I thought it best not to apportion any blame to the presence of my mistress’s dirty socks inside my nocturnal mouth the night before, thereby blocking my airways. You will also note that I humbly begged my mistress not to ‘have me whipped’, for mistress Puspa was much too fragile and delicate a young Indian woman to wield a whip convincingly herself. I knew she would ask her husband Iqbal to whip me for her – something he always seemed to enjoy doing on the rare occasions that mistress Puspa deemed my physical chastisement to be necessary.
I was hoping against hope that my pathetic and servile pleading would get me off the hook on this one, but mistress Puspa was, seemingly, unplacatable:
‘Tch! You are being lying to me, dirty slave! You are just becoming a downright impudent and lazy fellow! You are being taking my boots for granted, and are not being concentrating on your work of kissing my boots. I am therefore sentencing you to 50 lashes which my husband Iqbal will be delivering to you later this evening when he is coming home from work! Be getting out of my sight now, and be smelling my dirty tights in my laundry basket! I am not wanting to be seeing you again until you are being whipped by my husband!’
‘Yes mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'Thank you, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'this slave blesses the mistress for having him whipped and corrected, most sweet and kind, superior mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss.
A slave, sentenced to a whipping, must always thank his mistress for taking the time to have him whipped.
And so I skulked, shamefaced, on my hands and knees, out of the living room – away from the brown, leather, knee-length boots I had so unwittingly slighted – and towards my mistress Puspa’s dirty laundry basket in the utility room, where the dirty, sweaty, black woolly tights she had been wearing for two days in a row inside those selfsame boots earlier in the week, were still waiting to be mouth-washed by her personal footslave - i.e. by me!
As I sucked the sweat out of the reinforced stitching of the woollen toes of miss Puspa’s black, woolly tights, I realised that I did not yet know my mistress Puspa properly – all her insecurities and her propensity for being easily offended by an involuntary gesture – and I contemplated the resultant whipping that I would soon be receiving at the hands of her husband, my master Iqbal.
I was frightened, but only had myself to blame. I sucked hard on my mistress’s sweaty tights, hoping that her precious footsweat would give me strength to bear the impending pain.
The ‘Intellectually Challenged’ Mistress
I’m no genius. I wouldn’t even describe myself as being of ‘average intelligence’ – certainly not compared to the average intelligence of a superior female. But my next mistress, it has to be said, was a bit…erm… ‘thick’.
I really don’t mean to sound disrespectful – but ‘thick’ is the only word that adequately describes my mistress Dawn.
Mind you, she was beautiful with it, and she knew it - long, straight, bleached-blonde hair, often tied up in a tight ponytail; piercing blue eyes; a pretty little nose and beautiful, full lips (you see, I still just had to observe and admire my mistress’s facial features, even though such impertinence had earned me a severe whipping in the past. I actually became quite adept over the years at surreptitiously observing my personal mistresses’ faces!)
In addition to her pretty, fair-skinned face, my mistress Dawn was also blessed with a shapely and curvaceous figure, which turned free men’s heads wherever she went. I understand she had her breasts artificially enhanced, though such things are beyond my comprehension.
I did appreciate her great legs, however! So much so that I sometimes pretended to myself that I was her leg-slave, rather than just her foot-slave. Not that any male slave would have been in any way disappointed in her shapely, well-turned ankles and pedicured toenails!
But no-one can have it all – and mistress Dawn was, it has to be said, somewhat lacking in the brain department.
Sadly for a footslave like myself, a thick mistress – even a beautiful one – is extremely high-risk. Stupidity corrupts; absolute stupidity corrupts absolutely! It is highly dangerous to be in the power of, and at the mercy of, a not very bright mistress. For she is likely to be somewhat impetuous and impulsive. Irrational even. And such a mistress can turn on her slave in the flutter of a pretty eyelid, and happily dispose of him without thinking about the consequences – for him or for her.
A thick mistress is, therefore, quite difficult to get to know. But if you are her personal slave – you must try. Your very survival may depend on it!
A classic example of my impetuous mistress Dawn’s stupidity was as follows:
One day she spotted her erstwhile best friend, miss Chantelle, hanging out with her Jamaican Yardie boyfriend, master Leroy, in the local shopping Centre. My mistress Dawn was always jealous of her friend Chantelle because of the many expensive presents Leroy bought for ‘his woman’, but I think miss Dawn was feeling particularly vulnerable and jealous this day as she had just split with her own boyfriend, master Stephen – something to do with her catching master Stephen snogging her best friend Chantelle, or so I was lead to believe.
Whatever, my mistress Dawn suddenly gave me a most disconcerting order:
‘Slave, crawl over to that bitch Chantelle and tell her you think her ankles are fat and ugly; her feet stink; and her boyfriend is a knucklehead!’
My heart sank! For the first time in my life I actually queried an order from a superior mistress, and begged to be absolved from having to carry it out:
‘Oh pray mistress Dawn, God bless you, mistress Dawn...this slave begs his mistress not to make him do such a thing, as this slave is unworthy to speak to a mistress in such terms, if you would be so kind, sweet, feminine and forgiving mistress Dawn.’
My bleach-blonde mistress Dawn, who was chewing gum and wearing a pink, leather miniskirt with pink leather, pointy-toed, stilettos on her pretty, bare, tattooed ankles, just kicked me hard – in my right cheek – with the pointy toe of her right stiletto, and reiterated her order:
‘Do as I say, Soreback, or I’ll flay the skin off you!’
‘Soreback’ is the name she calls me when she wants to remind me of the sting of her whip. My mistress Dawn is not a particularly good whipper. She tends to whip me in anger using a multi-tailed leather whip, leading to an unseemly mishmash of bright, red stripes on my bare back – unlike, for example, the expertly crafted stripes that mistress Sophia had previously left on my ‘sore back’ with her single tailed, black leather whip.
But mistress Dawn’s whip still stings nevertheless – and so I feel I have no option but to drag myself over on all fours to the feet of mistress Chantelle, where I must insult her and her boyfriend in their presence at my impetuous mistress Dawn’s behest.
I actually like miss Chantelle. She is a petite, black girl of 23 (the same age as my blonde mistress, mistress Dawn) with long, black dreadlocks and pretty, Afro-Caribbean features. Her ankles are most definitely not fat, and her feet do not stink!
More’s the pity!
As I approach her she is sitting on a railing in the shopping centre, several bags of shopping resting on the ground by her black leather, block-heeled, ankle-booted feet. I can just see that she is wearing a pretty pair of black ankle socks inside her zip-up ankle boots on her shapely black legs beneath her ultra-short, black leather miniskirt.
Rather like her erstwhile best friend (of just last week), miss Chantelle is chewing gum. Her tall and manly Jamaican boyfriend, master Leroy, who is also resting on the railing beside her, is smoking a cigarette. At least, I think it’s a cigarette.
Miss Chantelle and her Jamaican boyfriend barely notice me as I crawl over towards them. Why would they? I am, after all, just a two-a-penny footslave crawling through the dirt of the streets. Why would they, as superior, free human beings, pay any attention to me?
I therefore have to interrupt their conversation as I reach mistress Chantelle’s pretty, black-socked and black ankle-booted, Jamaican feet:
‘Oh pray, mistress Chantelle…begging your pardon, mistress Chantelle…but I think that your ankles are fat and ugly; your feet stink; and your boyfriend is a knucklehead.’
I brace myself.
I must stress again, that I don’t believe any of the above is true. I am just obeying my mistress Dawn’s orders – because, even though she is a bit dim, mistress Dawn always knows best. For she is a superior woman.
Of course, I am immediately beaten for my downright impertinence by miss Chantelle’s boyfriend, master Leroy. Or rather, not so much ‘beaten’, as beaten up. He uses his fists and legs to beat and kick me as I cringe defencelessly on the ground.
It was not pleasant. I would have much preferred miss Chantelle to be kicking me with her delicate, feminine, ankle-booted feet. But miss Chantelle appeared to be content to watch her boyfriend do all the kicking!
A slave, needless to say, is never permitted to fight back – even against another man, especially a free man. A slave must simply take whatever his female and male masters and betters decide to dish out to him. But even a slave such as myself, can’t help but curl up instinctively into a ball on the ground in an effort to try and deflect some of the kicks and blows.
Through my pain I can hear my mistress Dawn laughing at me in the background for several minutes before she finally intervenes and supposedly comes to my rescue.
‘Hey – stop that, knucklehead! Stop kicking my slave! Only I’m allowed to kick my slave!...’ and with that my well-meaning, but meddlesome, mistress Dawn tried to grab hold of master Leroy’s torso and pull him away from me.
At this point, of course, miss Chantelle grabbed hold of miss Dawn, and a truly awesome catfight ensued, whilst master Leroy continued to defend his Jamaican girlfriend’s honour by pulverizing me.
Eventually, of course, the Female Police arrived to break things up. All four of us were carted off to Court, where the good Lady Judge heard all the evidence from the ‘witnesses’ - misses Chantelle and Dawn, and master Leroy - and duly passed sentence on me as follows:
For insulting a mistress’s feet – 50 strokes of the cane at miss Chantelle’s booted feet;
For insulting a mistress’s free boyfriend – 20 strokes of the cane at miss Chantelle’s booted feet;
For disobeying my own mistress (mistress Dawn’s testimony in Court was that she had never ordered me to insult her ‘friend’ Chantelle, and had done her best to prevent me from doing so) – 75 strokes of the cane at miss Dawn’s stiletto-heeled feet.
For brawling in the street – a further 30 strokes of the cane at my mistress Dawn’s stiletto-heeled feet.
The punishment was carried out immediately in the Court Room itself, the dreaded Police punishment cane being wielded across my bare buttocks by a truly expert, female police caner, wearing her policewoman’s uniform of plain white blouse; navy blue tie; navy blue, knee-length skirt; dark nylon stockings; and black leather, knee-length, chunky-heeled, zip-up, police uniform boots.
Witnessing my public punishment and humiliation in the Courtroom seemed to bring misses Dawn and Chantelle closer together, and as I was lead off to the caning recovery room, I saw the black ankle-booted feet of miss Chantelle and the pink, pointy-toed, stilettoed feet of my own mistress Dawn walking out together – the two young women clearly best of friends again, even though I was not exactly in a position to make things up with master Leroy, who after this event always gave me a hard slap whenever I was ordered to kiss his girlfriend’s boots in his presence – just to remind me who was boss!
So, I suppose you could say that all was well that ended well! But the example I have given above was just one incident out of many that I think demonstrates just how reckless my mistress Dawn could be!
I might have been killed!
The Studious Mistress
My next mistress, mistress Caroline, could not have been more different from mistress Dawn – both in her personality and in her appearance. Mistress Caroline was a somewhat ‘mousy’, but nevertheless ultra-intelligent, young woman. Bespectacled, and with naturally curly black hair, my mistress Caroline would never have been seen dead in a pair of pink, pointy-toed stilettos, or in a pink, leather miniskirt! She much preferred to wear a sensible pair of soft, black ballet flats with her dark blue denim jeans.
She nearly always wore socks with her black ballet flats – plain grey or black socks. Sensible socks. Socks that a footslave could truly study and appreciate without any distracting logos or cartoon characters – as my previous mistress, mistress Dawn, had been prone to wear with her stiletto-heeled shoes or boots during the winter months!
It is just as well I can appreciate a nice, plain, female sock – for I must have spent literally hours kneeling at mistress Carline’s feet in lecture halls and libraries as she studied for her degree in Financial Law. As she filled her pretty, curly-haired and bespectacled head with knowledge of Financial Markets and the Law, I amused my self by studying all the various patterns in the stitching of her plain, grey socks, or counted the folds and creases in her socks as she subconsciously flexed her feet inside her soft, leather ballet-flats on the floor of the lecture hall in front of my contrite and kneeling face.
Occasionally I would even rest my nose on one of the folds in the top of her ankle sock and audibly sniff – just to remind my sweet, intelligent mistress that I was her footslave, and honoured and worshipped her socked feet. It was a little indulgence that my mistress Caroline granted me as I think she liked the feel of a loser-footslave nosing her socks whilst she bettered herself. At the same time I had the footslavish satisfaction of knowing that I was staring at and nosing the socked, ballet-shoed feet of a future top, female financial lawyer – a young woman who would command a high salary and lots of power and respect in the financial capital of the Gynarchy.
Of course, I had to do a lot more than just admire and nose my mistress Caroline’s plain, grey socks whilst she was wearing them inside her black ballet-flats. She actually worked me very hard – mouth and hand washing her dirty socks and thick, woolly tights; then drying them by mouth prior to ironing them and folding them away neatly into her sock drawer (my ‘drawer of delights’ as I referred to it - for I truly loved rummaging in my mistress Caroline’s sock drawer whenever I had a few spare minutes!); tongue-shining her dirty boots, shoes and sandals; massaging her bare and/or socked feet; cleaning and cutting her toenails; and acting as her footrest.
In all of these things mistress Caroline was actually something of a hard taskmistress. She was a bit of a perfectionist – obsessively compulsive even. She would, for example, often inspect – as well as supervise – my work. So, for example, she would examine her socks after I had washed, dried and ironed them, and would punish me and make me do them again if she wasn’t completely satisfied with the results.
Similarly, her outer footwear had to be sparkling clean – even her trainers – or she would not hesitate in having me tongue-shine them all night until they passed her rigorous inspection in the morning. And if they still weren’t clean enough for her liking I would have to remain at her home and continue licking them all day whilst she was out at college – a dreadful punishment and humiliation as it meant I couldn’t observe her socks all day whilst she was wearing them.
But I responded well to my mistress Caroline’s fastidious demands and incessant and close supervision of my work. For I knew it meant she cared – about the state of her feet and footwear, if not about me.
And because she cared, I cared. I was a good footslave to mistress Caroline.
The Indifferent Mistress
The very worst thing about being a personal footslave, in my view, is being continuously ignored by your superior and beloved mistress. Even being perpetually whipped by a vicious and cruel mistress is, believe it or not, preferable to being ignored – to being reduced to the level of a thing; an inanimate object; rarely spoken to or even shouted at.
Just plain ignored!
Unfortunately for me, my final mistress of 15 years was just such an indifferent mistress. Indifferent to me, that is – as was her perfect right, of course.
Her name was mistress Marielle, and she was a very beautiful, 37 year old black woman of French origins. As I said, mistress Marielle first purchased me some 15 years ago, when she was just 22 (and I was 46). It was only three, short months ago that she eventually dispensed with my services
I suppose I must have been doing something right for mistress Marielle to have kept me in servitude to her feet for such a long time – but I have to say that I felt she never really warmed to me in all that time.
She warmed her pretty, black feet on my face – yes! Many times! But I do not think she really liked me. She used me – as a hot water bottle for her feet; as a shoe and boot cleaner; as a toenail-clipper; and as a footrest. But I don’t believe she ever saw me as any kind of living, sentient being – just as a thing who was there to do her foot-bidding.
Take my role as a footrest, for example. My mistress Marielle rarely went barefoot around the house – preferring instead to relax in her sneakers –for the most part, irritatingly, without socks. I do, of course, very much admire any, pretty, female-foot in a stylish, modern sneaker – but the sight of a soft, feminine sock inside the sneaker – even just an elasticated slither of sock running along the upper rim of a feminine sneaker, somehow adds to the beauty of the mistress’s sneakered foot. I think that’s because the sock reminds me that the inner lining of my mistress’s sneaker needs protection from her precious footsweat, which is what the sock is primarily for. That, of course, and the fact that pure, white, cotton sock always looks great when embellishing a black mistress’s beautiful, soft black footskin.
But I digress! The point I’m trying to make is that my mistress Marielle liked to wear her sneakers without socks around the house. This meant that I had to spend hours lying on my stomach on the living room floor with my right cheek resting on the carpet as I stared at my mistress’s left, sneakered foot whilst her right sneakered foot rested on my upturned left cheek.
As a result of the hours and hours I spent in this humble position over the years, the left side of my face actually became moulded to the contours of my mistress Marielle’s right sneaker. My left cheek dips into a shallow hollow where her sneaker-heel normally rests, and there are permanent tread marks from the sole of her well-worn sneaker all the way down my left cheek.
It is so noticeable, that I know for a fact my mistress Marielle’s friends mockingly referred to me as ‘Sneakerface’ – because my face now resembles the sole of mistress Marielle’s leathery, white sneaker!
However, I’m not even sure that my mistress Marielle ever noticed how my face had ‘evolved’ to fit the sole of her sneakered foot. Or if she did notice, she clearly didn’t care. For she never once mentioned it to me – not even to mock me because of it.
How I wish she would have mocked my ‘sneaker face’! I wish she would have mocked me and laughed at me like her friends – for at least I would then have known that my mistress Marielle was aware of me as a sentient being – with fears and feelings; feelings which could be hurt every bit as much as my face or body.
But she just didn’t seem to notice or care about me. She merely had to utter the command ‘footrest’, and before she could lower her sneakered foot to the ground my face was lying on the carpet ready to take the weight of her right-sneakered foot on my upturned and suitably-moulded left cheek.
I really do sense that it was pure laziness which prevented mistress Marielle from getting rid of me for so long (for my mistress Marielle did become increasingly lazy and lethargic over the years – as was her perfect right as a mistress of leisure).
And then, three months ago, the fateful day finally came. Mistress Marielle bought herself a new pair of sneakers, and it was only then that she noticed that her personal footslave’s face no longer fitted the treads of her new sneaker sole. I was unceremoniously cast aside into the footslave wilderness, along with her worn-out sneakers, unable to get a new personal mistress at my advanced time of life, and therefore sold to the State authorities as a public footslave in the lobby entrance to the Ladies’ restroom in a busy railway station.
At least, as I serve out the rest of my miserable days kissing and licking the boots and shoes of anonymous, and now faceless women, my own face continues to bear the tread marks of my indifferent mistress Marielle’s sneaker soles – a true mark of my life of servitude at the feet and footwear of superior young women – women of all personality types and temperaments; women it has been my privilege to know and to serve as a personal footslave.
I have to admit, I have loved them all!
The End
You must, therefore, get to know your personal mistress quickly and well – for you are completely and legally in her female power and at her sweet, feminine mercy.
Of course, however good and diligent a personal footslave you may be, she will inevitably tire of you, and sooner or later she will dispense with your services, as is her perfect right as a free, slave-owning woman. But if you have been a reasonably good footslave she will, hopefully, permit you to remain in personal servitude to women, and put you up for private auction as a second, third or fourth-hand personal footslave, rather than sell you on to the State auction house for employment as a mere public footslave; or even worse, as a mere work-slave in the dreaded slave-mines - unfit even to serve at the feet of anonymous women on the streets of our fair capital city!
Such a fate must be avoided at all costs if your wretched existence as a slave is to have any meaning! I should know, for I am now a failure – a public footslave – but only in my twilight years, and after some 40 years of private service to a succession of different mistresses, all of whom turned out to be very different in temperament; all of whom were demanding in their own ways; all of whom eventually got bored with me; but all of whom nevertheless saw fit to sell me on as a personal footslave – except, of course, for my last mistress, who could no longer see any merit in me whatsoever.
Please allow me, therefore, to summarise my relatively successful career as a personal footslave to a succession of mistresses, as I believe there may be lessons to be learnt by those of you who may be thinking of embarking on such a humble, but fulfilling, career yourselves.
The Kindly Mistress
I remember, like it was yesterday, my first moments with my first ever mistress. It was, in fact, over 40 years ago – when I was just 21 years old. The Footslave Training Academy had found me my first ‘placement’ with one of their so-called ‘training mistresses’ – young women in the community who volunteered to take on brand new footslaves and ‘bring them up to scratch’.
It was a good deal – especially for those young women from poorer backgrounds whose parents perhaps couldn’t afford to buy them a personal footslave when their daughters turned 21, and/or who were not earning enough money yet themselves to afford such a ‘luxury’ item as their own, personal footslave. The State, in the form of the ‘Footslave Training Academy’, effectively supplied them with a personal footslave free of charge – for anything up to a year - in exchange for the kind, young mistress taking the time and the patience to train the footslave further, and polish off the lessons he had learnt in the classroom - after which time the fully trained footslave would be put up for sale at a proper auction.
By definition, of course, many of these ‘training-mistresses’ were themselves, to all intents and purposes, ‘trainees’, in the sense that they were trainee mistresses; but I understand they underwent a six-week familiarisation course at the Training Academy, so they all knew exactly what to expect, before being given their first trainee footslave in the privacy of their own homes.
I was lucky. Sick with nerves though I was, from the moment I was introduced to my ‘trainee’ mistress, I knew I would be okay – for she had such a kind, pretty face.
Of course, this was my first mistake – looking a superior mistress in the face! But the very fact that my new mistress did not immediately beat me for such impudence, ably illustrates my point – mistress Tamara (as I soon found out was her name) was a truly kind and gentle, beautiful young woman.
She looked to be about the same age as me. I knew from the outset, of course, that she must be at least 21 – the minimum age for both enslavement and slave-ownership in the Gynarchy. I later found out she was, in fact, one year older than me i.e. 22, when I was first presented to her. I also later found out that she worked as a receptionist in a posh hotel. A typical ‘trainee’ mistress, really – not well paid enough to own a personal footslave outright, but nevertheless eager to help the State train up its future footslaves.
As I said, I somewhat arrogantly looked at her in the face from my kneeling position on her living room floor (my disappointed female trainer from the Academy standing behind me!), and so I could see instantly that my new mistress, as well as having a kindly face, was blonde, tall and slim.
She was casually dressed in a grey top, black denim jeans, and bright red, nylon tights inside a pair of black leather, kitten-heeled, court-style shoes on her pretty feet.
She looked calm and collected, and was even smiling warmly down at me, although I’m sure she must have been every bit as nervous as I was (I later found out I was her first trainee-footslave from the Academy!). She was standing, as the Academy trainers had taught her to, with both hands resting on her hips and her right foot slightly extended towards me.
From the moment she gave me her first order, I knew that this softly-spoken mistress was as genuinely soft and gentle as her smiling features suggested:
‘Kiss the toe of my shoe, slave.’
Simple; straightforward; concise and to the point.
Yet, to my eternal shame, I even managed to botch up my first ever response to my first ever real mistress’s command. As I crawled closer to her outstretched right foot and lowered my nervously dry lips for the first time towards the toe of her black leather, court shoe I became distracted by the thin, bright red material of the tights covering the top of her foot . I could see the tiny, individual stitches in the nylon material of her bright, red tights and, almost subconsciously, found my lips drawn to the arch of her nylon-covered foot.
To my eternal shame, my arrogant and impetuous lips felt the nylon material of her tights before they felt the leather of her shoes – a presumptuous and insubordinate act that would normally mean an instant flogging for such an impertinent slave. Kissing your new mistress’s inner footwear before you kiss her outer footwear! Outrageous behaviour! I still blush even now after all these years whenever I think about it!
But just to give you the measure of my kindly mistress Tamara, she did not express shock or outrage – or desire me to be soundly flogged for my impudence. Instead, she immediately forgave me!
She corrected me, of course – but only verbally:
‘Ha! Ha! I don’t believe I gave you permission to kiss my popsocks, insolent slave! Kiss the toe of my shoe, like I said!’
The instant she spoke I realised my terrible faux pas! Not only had I kissed my female superior’s inner footwear without permission – I had mistaken them for tights when they were, in fact, a pair of red, nylon, knee-length popsocks! What sort of a footslave am I? One who can’t even detect the difference between nylon tights and nylon popsocks on a young woman’s feet beneath her denim jeans?!
I’m pathetic!
I could sense the disapproval and irritation in my female trainer from the Academy, who was still standing behind me observing my ‘handover’ to mistress Tamara. But, luckily for me, I was no longer under the female trainer’s direct jurisdiction. From the moment I had botched my first ever footkiss to her pretty foot I was now under the yoke of the sweet and kind mistress Tamara – my new mistress – who, perhaps because she was new to this situation of slave-ownership herself, was proving to be a most magnanimous and forgiving young mistress.
I instantly bowed my head in shame and apologised to my new mistress in my best and humblest slave-speak :
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this stupid slave humbly apologises for his impudence, and craves the mistress’s sweet, feminine mercy, if it so pleases you sweet and powerful mistress. Oh pray, mistress…Please don’t beat me mistress!...Oh pray!...Oh pray!...’ and, with that, I did what I should have done in the first place, and respectfully kissed the toe of her obligingly outstretched black, leather kitten-heeled court shoe – several times.
Astoundingly, my new mistress just laughed at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry slave – I shan’t beat you. At least, not this time! Just make sure that in future you do exactly what you are told, and we’ll get along just fine! Oh, and you may address me as “mistress Tamara” from now on!’
My heart leapt for joy! I had landed on my knees – a kind and forgiving mistress; willing to overlook my mistakes and take into account my nervousness and inexperience! What a lucky footslave I was!
I’m sure my disapproving trainer from the Academy was thinking the same thing!
I vowed from that moment onwards to do ‘exactly what I was told’ by the sweet and generous mistress Tamara, for I respond well to her style of leadership: kind but firm. I had noticed that she had only promised not to beat me this time. She clearly did not wish her sweet, young-womanly forgiveness to be taken for granted, and I resolved within myself that I would not take advantage of mistress Tamara’s sweet and kind nature.
And, I’m pleased to say, I never did. From that moment on I relaxed and obeyed my mistress Tamara’s every command to the very letter. Of course, I’m only human, and there were times when I became complacent under mistress Tamara’s benign regime, and she therefore had no choice but to physically chastise me. But I can honestly say that, in the 12 months I served at her feet, she only had occasion to beat me on half a dozen or so occasions.
To give her her due, when she did whip, she whipped hard! But she was never out of control, and never whipped me in a fit of rage or anger. She whipped me solely out of a sense of sweet, feminine duty – the duty to correct me and discipline me and prepare me for my life of servitude at the feet and footwear of superior young women.
Of course, what she couldn’t possibly know back then, any more than I could, was exactly what type of person my next mistress would be like. But I can tell you now that my second mistress – who purchased me at a proper, public auction of personal footslaves – was a whole different kettle of fish from the sweet and kind mistress Tamara.
I had to adapt –and adapt quickly in order to survive. I had to get to know my new mistress, starting from scratch. And it was a steep learning curve!
The Cruel Mistress
I could see her clearly from the raised auction block. She seemed to stand out in the crowd – a beautiful, dark-haired young woman in her mid to late twenties, with long, curly locks and a long, ‘pointy’ face. Beautiful, but somehow reminiscent of a witch – particularly as she was sombrely dressed all in black; a black anorak over a black sweater; black, boot-cut trousers; and black, ankle boots.
She never once smiled whilst she was bidding for me. But I could nevertheless see it in her eyes that she was determined to own me – at any cost. I found this quite flattering.
I was delivered to her home that very afternoon – not a witch’s coven, as it turns out, but a perfectly ordinary suburban house where she lived alone. Ominously, in the back yard, was a short, stocky, wooden whipping post – the type a slave would be forced to kneel at whilst being whipped. Even more ominously she tethered me to it within five minutes of my arrival in my new ‘home’.
I started sweating as I watched her black ankle boots circle around me. I could now see them much closer up than I had been able to from the auction block – square-toed, block heeled, zip-up ankle boots beneath the hems of her stylish, black, boot-cut trousers. The ankle boots looked well-worn, and quite dusty. I found myself yearning to lick them clean for her – to demonstrate that I would be a good footslave to my new, witchlike mistress; to win her over as I had done my previous mistress Tamara; to reassure her that she had nothing to fear from me, and that I was a naturally submissive and compliant slave.
But this dark mistress, I was to discover, liked to ‘break in’ her slaves herself – even if they were already broken.
She still had not spoken a word to me as I knelt in the dirt of her back yard, tethered to the wooden whipping post, my naked back prone and vulnerable to the single-tailed, black leather whip which I could just see resting in my new mistress’s hands out of the corner of my eye.
I found the silence disconcerting, but that silence was soon broken as I observed my strange and enigmatic, new, dark-haired mistress’s right-booted foot suddenly move forward in the dirt, the black leather of the boot creasing and folding around her shapely ankle-bone, and then heard a sharp swish and a crack.
It was the crack of my new mistress’s black, leather whip across my kneeling back!
The pain that ensued from that single stroke of the whip was a thousand times worse than the harshest beating I had ever received from my sweet and kind mistress Tamara. I had thought that mistress Tamara could whip hard, but this new, black-curly-haired mistress with the pointy features could wield a whip like no other mistress I had ever encountered thus far – not even in the Footslave Training Academy where there had been many, expert whip-mistresses.
I cried out in shock and pain:
‘Ahhhggg!.....mercy mistress!’
I still didn’t know my new mistress’s name, but the sting from her black leather whip compelled me to say something! Oh if only I wasn’t bound to the whipping post – I would immediately throw myself at my new mistress’s boots and demonstrate my respect for her power and authority by licking those pretty, black ankle boots until they shone in the sunlight.
The mistress stood behind me and regathered her whip in her hands as I felt the stripe on my back forming. Her booted feet were now side-by-side on the ground behind me. Ridiculously I found myself hoping against hope that the whipping was over – that I was to receive just one stroke; perhaps an ‘introductory’ stroke – just to show me who was boss. After all, to my knowledge, I had done nothing wrong.
Again, there was an eerie silence, punctuated only by my heavy breathing and the almost audible throbbing across my bare back and shoulder. The black ankle boots and black, boot-cut slacks circled around me again, like a panther stalking its prey.
What seemed like an eternity passed, although it was probably only some 60 seconds or so. Then, when it was behind me again, the right ankle-booted foot once again suddenly moved forward in the dirt - the dusty, black leather once again creasing and folding around the ankle - and the air, and my back, were once again cut by the stinging, black leather whip.
Need I go on? My new mistress did. I received twenty such fearsome lashes, and when it was all over knelt slumped at the whipping post, only my hands tied above me preventing me from collapsing onto the ground at my new mistress’s booted feet as she walked away from me, recoiling her now warm whip, and left me alone with my pain.
I didn’t know what to think, but fortunately I was in any case incapable of rational thought. My brain cells had no option but to concentrate on the pain in my back - so overwhelming were the throbbing sensations.
It must have been some two hours before my new, cruel mistress returned to the occupied whipping post in her back yard. To my horror, I could see behind me that she was still carrying her single-tailed, black leather whip!
But, mercifully, she didn’t unfurl it again. Instead she untied me, and my delayed collapse into the dirt at her feet could now take place. Instinctively I pressed my slave lips to the dirty, dusty toe of my new mistress’s right ankle boot – the boot which had helped to bear her weight as she had applied each cutting stroke of the lash to my bare back.
I kissed the female boot repeatedly. It was a risk of course. My new mistress, whoever she was, had not ordered me to kiss her boot. She might take offence at my presumptuousness. She might whip me again! But it was a calculated risk. Most women, 99% of women were reliably informed at the Footslave Training Academy, like to see and feel a male slave spontaneously grovelling at their booted feet. Surely my new, cruel mistress would not be in the 1% of mistresses who didn’t enjoy having her boots kissed?
As I kissed the dusty, square-shaped toe of my new mistress’s well-worn and creased, black boot leather, I wondered whether she was wearing black, ankle-length bootsocks inside her boots to match the rest of her dark outfit.
At last my mistress spoke:
‘I am mistress Sofia, dirty slave. Never look me in the eye again!’
Believe it or not her words brought comfort to me in my wretched condition, grovelling in the dirt at the boots of the one who had whipped me. Firstly, she had deigned to introduce herself to me. That must be a good sign! She would no longer be so aloof and mysterious. So unfathomable!
And secondly, I had evidently been whipped for a reason – and a legitimate reason at that! I had looked my new mistress in the eye – my old failing! Of course I had. From the sanctuary of the auction block! How could I have been so arrogant!
Mistress Sofia was clearly no mistress Tamara – prepared to laugh off and forgive such inappropriate behaviour in a slave. Mistress Sofia clearly found such cockiness in a slave deeply offensive, and demanded that her slaves look her only in the boot.
So be it – now that I know, now that I know my new mistress, I shall comply and obey.
I kissed the toe of her right boot again:
‘Oh pray mistress Sofia; please forgive this dirty, stupid slave his arrogance, mistress Sofia. This slave apologises for his behaviour, and blesses the mistress for correcting him with the female whip, if it so pleases you most beautiful, sweet and kind mistress Sofia.’
I think she could hear the genuine fear and remorse in my voice, for I distinctly heard mistress Sofia snort derisively down at me, as she repositioned her ankle-booted feet to afford my lips access to the equally dusty square-shaped toe of her left boot, the boot which had previously swung joyously behind her in the air as she had delivered each dreadful blow of the whip to my bare back with all the young-womanly energy she could muster.
Oh if only I could see whether she is wearing black socks inside her black boots. I would not dare to kiss my whipper’s socks, of course – not without her permission. Mistress Tamara had at least taught me about the sanctity of a woman’s intimate, inner footwear. But to have been able to admire the elasticated tops of mistress Sofia’s imagined black bootsocks whilst I grovelled in the dirt at her black ankle-booted feet would have made my life complete at that moment: female-generated pain in my back; female boot-leather on my lips; and female sock in my vision – sock I could nuzzle and whine over in my agony.
It wasn’t to be. Mistress Sofia was not for showing me her socks. Not at that particular moment in time.
Of course, I did get to see them later that evening – when I was ordered to unzip her ankle boots and take them off her feet in order to give her a foot massage whilst she relaxed in front of the television on her living room couch.
I was right – black, ankle-length bootsocks. And they smelt very different from my previous mistress Tamara’s socks. The distinctive foot and sock odour of a distinctive new mistress. It was a smell I would get to know well – just as I would get to know my new cruel mistress Sofia well.
I had to – in order to survive. As I said at the outset – know your mistress! Know her footwear; know her feet; know the unique aroma of her feet; the contours in her soft, feminine footflesh; the pattern of the stitches in her many pairs of socks, tights and stockings; the treads in the soles of her various pairs of boots, sandals and shoes. And above all, know her likes and dislikes. Her foot-preferences. Obsess yourself with her superior feet and footwear. For your back depends on it.
I was with mistress Sofia for three years, and by the end of that time could have identified a piece of her sweaty sock lint from a mixed pile of women’s sock lint – so intimately did I know my mistress Sofia’s socks and individual foot-smell. Naturally dominant and cruel though she may have been, unlike mistress Tamara, mistress Sofia never had occasion to whip me again – so deep was my respect and admiration for her, and so deep and lasting were the initial scars she had painted on my back that first afternoon in her yard.
To put it bluntly, the submissive and compliant slave and the strong and powerful mistress got along famously. We understood each other. She commanded and I obeyed.
Mistress Sofia may have been a young woman of few words, and a very different personality type from my previous mistress Tamara. But she was still ‘kind’ in her own way. She was ‘cruel to be kind’, for she at least let me know where I knelt – at her booted feet. It was a straightforward and uncomplicated mistress-slave relationship, with clear rules and boundaries. The sort of mistress-slave relationship I like.
Unlike my next mistress-slave relationship when mistress Sofia eventually tired of me and sold me on.
The Insecure Mistress
My next mistress was much less secure about her female power and authority over an inferior, male slave such as myself. Perhaps this was because she was from a traditional Asian family in which women still submitted to their menfolk. I think mistress Puspa, a somewhat frail and slightly built young, Indian woman, actually found it quite difficult to boss a man about – especially a white man who was slightly older than her (I was by now 25 years old whereas I was given to miss Puspa by her father on her 21st birthday).
However, with the help of the man in her life – her husband Iqbal – she instituted a regime designed to perpetually reassure herself of my submission and obedience towards her. I was under strict instructions to kiss her feet continuously throughout the day whenever they were stationary. In other words, unless mistress Puspa was walking or running, I was to repeatedly kiss her feet – or, more specifically, the sides of her boots – for mistress Puspa nearly always wore block-heeled, zip up, brown leather knee-length boots in a effort to make her feel taller and stronger (although she was from a traditional background, and had met her husband Iqbal as part of an arranged marriage, he had encouraged her to dress in a western manner since he himself was a man of relatively liberal, western views).
Soft, gentle and quietly spoken, mistress Puspa nevertheless always seemed to tower above me imperiously , thanks to the powerful sight of her knee-length skirts and brown leather knee-length boots, as I lay on my belly in the dirt on the ground at her feet, repeatedly kissing the side of her dirty, leather boot as she either stood talking to her friends or work colleagues, or as she was sitting on the bus,or as she was cuddled up beside her beloved husband on their living room sofa.
I once calculated that, on average, I must have kissed mistress Puspa’s boots some 10,000 times a day – an eloquent and more or less perpetual demonstration of my slavish respect for my young, increasingly-westernised, Indian mistress and her knee-length leather boots. Some mistresses, I’m sure, would have hated having a dirty, male footslave continually slobbering over their boots. But there is no doubt that my mistress Puspa found it comforting and reassuring. It boosted her rather fragile ego, and made her look like something she was not – a strong, powerful mistress whose slave lived in abject fear of her.
Whilst I was not, in reality, kissing miss Puspa’s knee-length leather boots in ‘abject fear’, but rather because I was under orders to do so from her husband, I nevertheless did fear my mistress Puspa – in the sense that her feelings of feminine insecurity could arise at any time, leading her to panic that I may be somehow disrespecting her, which in turn would lead to her feeling the need to punish me – often cruelly punish me – in order to reinstate her own sense of power and authority over me.
One example of this which springs to mind happened several months into our mistress/slave relationship. I had been unable to sleep particularly well the night before – largely because mistress Puspa had decided to leave her dirty, white, knee-length bootsocks inside my mouth overnight for a good saliva-soaking. It was not the sweaty, salty taste of her socks that kept me awake. I was, by now, well used to the taste of sweet, feminine footsweat – even the stale variety most often encountered on recently worn and still warm female socks. Nor did the smell – the sweet, ammonia-like odour of miss Puspa’s feminine footsweat - keep me awake. No, it was the inability to breathe through my sock-filled mouth, and the need to breathe through my bunged-up nose (I had a slight head cold) that kept me awake that particular night.
Unfortunately for me my mistress Puspa was working on early shifts all that week (she was working at that time as an information assistant at a busy airport), and so, exhausted through lack of sleep or not, I had to get up at 05:00 a.m. on a cold winter’s day and, having dressed my mistress Puspa’s feet and legs in a pair of calf-length, woolly, yellow bootsocks and her ubiquitous, knee-length, brown leather boots, accompany her to her place of work where I was, as usual, required to kneel under her desk behind the airport enquiry counter and continuously kiss the lower sides of her boots whilst she dealt with the passengers’ enquiries.
Some two hours into my boot-kissing morning I suddenly had the uncontrollable urge to yawn, which prevented me from kissing my mistress Puspa’s boots for a period of what must have been no more than about 3 or 4 seconds.
Having yawned, I resumed kissing my mistress’s boots, and thought nothing more of it.
Until, that is, later that afternoon, after my mistress Puspa’s early morning shift had ended, and we were back in the comfort and warmth of her living room.
As she was sitting alone on her sofa, having taken off her coat, but still wearing her brown, knee-length, zip up leather boots, which I, of course was still kissing, mistress Puspa suddenly snapped down at me in her heavy, Indian accent:
‘Dirty slave, why is it that you were stopping kissing my boots this morning?’
Somewhat ironically, I was so shocked and surprised at mistress Puspa’s outburst, that I actually stopped kissing her boots there and then! But I couldn’t for the life of me work out what she was talking about! Stop kissing her boots? When had I stopped kissing her boots? I had been kissing her boots religiously throughout the morning – as per usual!
And yet, I knew that a mistress is never wrong. A superior mistress, even an insecure one like sweet mistress Puspa, can never do any wrong or say any wrong – so far as a male slave is concerned.
I was in a veritable quandary, but felt I had no choice but to seek further clarification as to my wrongdoing from my Indian female better:
‘Oh pray, mistress Puspa, if it pleases you mistress Puspa, this slave humbly begs the superior mistress to enlighten him further as to his failure to please the mistress, as he is but a dumb and ignorant footslave, if it so pleases you most sweet and merciful mistress Puspa.’
Mistress Puspa tutted with evident irritation. Although she wasn’t exactly shouting, I had never before seen her this agitated:
‘Stupid, insolent slave! Earlier today – at the information kiosk – I saw you yawning when you should have been being kissing my boots, isn’t it? You were being stopping kissing my boots for several seconds while you were being yawning! Why were you being so rude to your mistress, footslave? Are you finding my boots boring for you? Are you finding my boots boring because you are not being able to be seeing my yellow socks inside my boots while you are kissing them? Or are you perhaps thinking that you are being too high and mighty a slave to be continuously kissing your mistress’s dirty boots? Would you, the dirty, no-good slave, rather be studying philosophy or anthropology, or something? Or is it just that you are being a rude and insolent slave, who is being deserving the whip?’
I had never heard such biting sarcasm in my sweet and gentle Indian mistress’s voice before. But it was clear that my almost subconscious act of yawning, which I only recollected now that my mistress Puspa had mentioned it, had genuinely upset her.
I knew I was in deep trouble. It wasn’t like mistress Puspa to mention the whip! My days as her personal footslave had, thus far at any rate, been relatively whip-free (and therefore pain-free!)
I decided that all I could really do was to attempt to reassure my sweet and kind mistress, in my humblest and most submissive slave-speak, that no slight to her, or her boots, had been intended, and that I profusely apologised to her for any distress I may have caused. Mindful of the fact that it was my interruption to the kissing of her boots, rather than the impudent yawn in and of itself, which had so upset her, I resumed my respectful kissing of her boots whilst I performed my verbal grovelling:
‘Oh pray mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'if it pleases you, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'this dirty slave apologises to the mistress most profusely, mistress…’ kiss…kiss….'and throws himself on the mistress’s…’ kiss…kiss…'sweet and kind, feminine mercy…’ kiss…kiss…'if it so pleases you, sweet mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss… ‘Oh pray, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'this dumb and lazy slave assures the mistress…’ kiss…kiss…'that he had no intention of slighting or disrespecting the superior mistress or her beautiful boots…’ kiss…kiss…'if it so pleases you, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'but was rather compelled to yawn through a lack of sleep last night, mistress…’ kiss...kiss…'which was occasioned by his having a head cold, if it so pleases you mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'Oh pray, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'please don’t have me whipped, mistress Puspa!...’ kiss…kiss.’
I thought it best not to apportion any blame to the presence of my mistress’s dirty socks inside my nocturnal mouth the night before, thereby blocking my airways. You will also note that I humbly begged my mistress not to ‘have me whipped’, for mistress Puspa was much too fragile and delicate a young Indian woman to wield a whip convincingly herself. I knew she would ask her husband Iqbal to whip me for her – something he always seemed to enjoy doing on the rare occasions that mistress Puspa deemed my physical chastisement to be necessary.
I was hoping against hope that my pathetic and servile pleading would get me off the hook on this one, but mistress Puspa was, seemingly, unplacatable:
‘Tch! You are being lying to me, dirty slave! You are just becoming a downright impudent and lazy fellow! You are being taking my boots for granted, and are not being concentrating on your work of kissing my boots. I am therefore sentencing you to 50 lashes which my husband Iqbal will be delivering to you later this evening when he is coming home from work! Be getting out of my sight now, and be smelling my dirty tights in my laundry basket! I am not wanting to be seeing you again until you are being whipped by my husband!’
‘Yes mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'Thank you, mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss…'this slave blesses the mistress for having him whipped and corrected, most sweet and kind, superior mistress Puspa…’ kiss…kiss.
A slave, sentenced to a whipping, must always thank his mistress for taking the time to have him whipped.
And so I skulked, shamefaced, on my hands and knees, out of the living room – away from the brown, leather, knee-length boots I had so unwittingly slighted – and towards my mistress Puspa’s dirty laundry basket in the utility room, where the dirty, sweaty, black woolly tights she had been wearing for two days in a row inside those selfsame boots earlier in the week, were still waiting to be mouth-washed by her personal footslave - i.e. by me!
As I sucked the sweat out of the reinforced stitching of the woollen toes of miss Puspa’s black, woolly tights, I realised that I did not yet know my mistress Puspa properly – all her insecurities and her propensity for being easily offended by an involuntary gesture – and I contemplated the resultant whipping that I would soon be receiving at the hands of her husband, my master Iqbal.
I was frightened, but only had myself to blame. I sucked hard on my mistress’s sweaty tights, hoping that her precious footsweat would give me strength to bear the impending pain.
The ‘Intellectually Challenged’ Mistress
I’m no genius. I wouldn’t even describe myself as being of ‘average intelligence’ – certainly not compared to the average intelligence of a superior female. But my next mistress, it has to be said, was a bit…erm… ‘thick’.
I really don’t mean to sound disrespectful – but ‘thick’ is the only word that adequately describes my mistress Dawn.
Mind you, she was beautiful with it, and she knew it - long, straight, bleached-blonde hair, often tied up in a tight ponytail; piercing blue eyes; a pretty little nose and beautiful, full lips (you see, I still just had to observe and admire my mistress’s facial features, even though such impertinence had earned me a severe whipping in the past. I actually became quite adept over the years at surreptitiously observing my personal mistresses’ faces!)
In addition to her pretty, fair-skinned face, my mistress Dawn was also blessed with a shapely and curvaceous figure, which turned free men’s heads wherever she went. I understand she had her breasts artificially enhanced, though such things are beyond my comprehension.
I did appreciate her great legs, however! So much so that I sometimes pretended to myself that I was her leg-slave, rather than just her foot-slave. Not that any male slave would have been in any way disappointed in her shapely, well-turned ankles and pedicured toenails!
But no-one can have it all – and mistress Dawn was, it has to be said, somewhat lacking in the brain department.
Sadly for a footslave like myself, a thick mistress – even a beautiful one – is extremely high-risk. Stupidity corrupts; absolute stupidity corrupts absolutely! It is highly dangerous to be in the power of, and at the mercy of, a not very bright mistress. For she is likely to be somewhat impetuous and impulsive. Irrational even. And such a mistress can turn on her slave in the flutter of a pretty eyelid, and happily dispose of him without thinking about the consequences – for him or for her.
A thick mistress is, therefore, quite difficult to get to know. But if you are her personal slave – you must try. Your very survival may depend on it!
A classic example of my impetuous mistress Dawn’s stupidity was as follows:
One day she spotted her erstwhile best friend, miss Chantelle, hanging out with her Jamaican Yardie boyfriend, master Leroy, in the local shopping Centre. My mistress Dawn was always jealous of her friend Chantelle because of the many expensive presents Leroy bought for ‘his woman’, but I think miss Dawn was feeling particularly vulnerable and jealous this day as she had just split with her own boyfriend, master Stephen – something to do with her catching master Stephen snogging her best friend Chantelle, or so I was lead to believe.
Whatever, my mistress Dawn suddenly gave me a most disconcerting order:
‘Slave, crawl over to that bitch Chantelle and tell her you think her ankles are fat and ugly; her feet stink; and her boyfriend is a knucklehead!’
My heart sank! For the first time in my life I actually queried an order from a superior mistress, and begged to be absolved from having to carry it out:
‘Oh pray mistress Dawn, God bless you, mistress Dawn...this slave begs his mistress not to make him do such a thing, as this slave is unworthy to speak to a mistress in such terms, if you would be so kind, sweet, feminine and forgiving mistress Dawn.’
My bleach-blonde mistress Dawn, who was chewing gum and wearing a pink, leather miniskirt with pink leather, pointy-toed, stilettos on her pretty, bare, tattooed ankles, just kicked me hard – in my right cheek – with the pointy toe of her right stiletto, and reiterated her order:
‘Do as I say, Soreback, or I’ll flay the skin off you!’
‘Soreback’ is the name she calls me when she wants to remind me of the sting of her whip. My mistress Dawn is not a particularly good whipper. She tends to whip me in anger using a multi-tailed leather whip, leading to an unseemly mishmash of bright, red stripes on my bare back – unlike, for example, the expertly crafted stripes that mistress Sophia had previously left on my ‘sore back’ with her single tailed, black leather whip.
But mistress Dawn’s whip still stings nevertheless – and so I feel I have no option but to drag myself over on all fours to the feet of mistress Chantelle, where I must insult her and her boyfriend in their presence at my impetuous mistress Dawn’s behest.
I actually like miss Chantelle. She is a petite, black girl of 23 (the same age as my blonde mistress, mistress Dawn) with long, black dreadlocks and pretty, Afro-Caribbean features. Her ankles are most definitely not fat, and her feet do not stink!
More’s the pity!
As I approach her she is sitting on a railing in the shopping centre, several bags of shopping resting on the ground by her black leather, block-heeled, ankle-booted feet. I can just see that she is wearing a pretty pair of black ankle socks inside her zip-up ankle boots on her shapely black legs beneath her ultra-short, black leather miniskirt.
Rather like her erstwhile best friend (of just last week), miss Chantelle is chewing gum. Her tall and manly Jamaican boyfriend, master Leroy, who is also resting on the railing beside her, is smoking a cigarette. At least, I think it’s a cigarette.
Miss Chantelle and her Jamaican boyfriend barely notice me as I crawl over towards them. Why would they? I am, after all, just a two-a-penny footslave crawling through the dirt of the streets. Why would they, as superior, free human beings, pay any attention to me?
I therefore have to interrupt their conversation as I reach mistress Chantelle’s pretty, black-socked and black ankle-booted, Jamaican feet:
‘Oh pray, mistress Chantelle…begging your pardon, mistress Chantelle…but I think that your ankles are fat and ugly; your feet stink; and your boyfriend is a knucklehead.’
I brace myself.
I must stress again, that I don’t believe any of the above is true. I am just obeying my mistress Dawn’s orders – because, even though she is a bit dim, mistress Dawn always knows best. For she is a superior woman.
Of course, I am immediately beaten for my downright impertinence by miss Chantelle’s boyfriend, master Leroy. Or rather, not so much ‘beaten’, as beaten up. He uses his fists and legs to beat and kick me as I cringe defencelessly on the ground.
It was not pleasant. I would have much preferred miss Chantelle to be kicking me with her delicate, feminine, ankle-booted feet. But miss Chantelle appeared to be content to watch her boyfriend do all the kicking!
A slave, needless to say, is never permitted to fight back – even against another man, especially a free man. A slave must simply take whatever his female and male masters and betters decide to dish out to him. But even a slave such as myself, can’t help but curl up instinctively into a ball on the ground in an effort to try and deflect some of the kicks and blows.
Through my pain I can hear my mistress Dawn laughing at me in the background for several minutes before she finally intervenes and supposedly comes to my rescue.
‘Hey – stop that, knucklehead! Stop kicking my slave! Only I’m allowed to kick my slave!...’ and with that my well-meaning, but meddlesome, mistress Dawn tried to grab hold of master Leroy’s torso and pull him away from me.
At this point, of course, miss Chantelle grabbed hold of miss Dawn, and a truly awesome catfight ensued, whilst master Leroy continued to defend his Jamaican girlfriend’s honour by pulverizing me.
Eventually, of course, the Female Police arrived to break things up. All four of us were carted off to Court, where the good Lady Judge heard all the evidence from the ‘witnesses’ - misses Chantelle and Dawn, and master Leroy - and duly passed sentence on me as follows:
For insulting a mistress’s feet – 50 strokes of the cane at miss Chantelle’s booted feet;
For insulting a mistress’s free boyfriend – 20 strokes of the cane at miss Chantelle’s booted feet;
For disobeying my own mistress (mistress Dawn’s testimony in Court was that she had never ordered me to insult her ‘friend’ Chantelle, and had done her best to prevent me from doing so) – 75 strokes of the cane at miss Dawn’s stiletto-heeled feet.
For brawling in the street – a further 30 strokes of the cane at my mistress Dawn’s stiletto-heeled feet.
The punishment was carried out immediately in the Court Room itself, the dreaded Police punishment cane being wielded across my bare buttocks by a truly expert, female police caner, wearing her policewoman’s uniform of plain white blouse; navy blue tie; navy blue, knee-length skirt; dark nylon stockings; and black leather, knee-length, chunky-heeled, zip-up, police uniform boots.
Witnessing my public punishment and humiliation in the Courtroom seemed to bring misses Dawn and Chantelle closer together, and as I was lead off to the caning recovery room, I saw the black ankle-booted feet of miss Chantelle and the pink, pointy-toed, stilettoed feet of my own mistress Dawn walking out together – the two young women clearly best of friends again, even though I was not exactly in a position to make things up with master Leroy, who after this event always gave me a hard slap whenever I was ordered to kiss his girlfriend’s boots in his presence – just to remind me who was boss!
So, I suppose you could say that all was well that ended well! But the example I have given above was just one incident out of many that I think demonstrates just how reckless my mistress Dawn could be!
I might have been killed!
The Studious Mistress
My next mistress, mistress Caroline, could not have been more different from mistress Dawn – both in her personality and in her appearance. Mistress Caroline was a somewhat ‘mousy’, but nevertheless ultra-intelligent, young woman. Bespectacled, and with naturally curly black hair, my mistress Caroline would never have been seen dead in a pair of pink, pointy-toed stilettos, or in a pink, leather miniskirt! She much preferred to wear a sensible pair of soft, black ballet flats with her dark blue denim jeans.
She nearly always wore socks with her black ballet flats – plain grey or black socks. Sensible socks. Socks that a footslave could truly study and appreciate without any distracting logos or cartoon characters – as my previous mistress, mistress Dawn, had been prone to wear with her stiletto-heeled shoes or boots during the winter months!
It is just as well I can appreciate a nice, plain, female sock – for I must have spent literally hours kneeling at mistress Carline’s feet in lecture halls and libraries as she studied for her degree in Financial Law. As she filled her pretty, curly-haired and bespectacled head with knowledge of Financial Markets and the Law, I amused my self by studying all the various patterns in the stitching of her plain, grey socks, or counted the folds and creases in her socks as she subconsciously flexed her feet inside her soft, leather ballet-flats on the floor of the lecture hall in front of my contrite and kneeling face.
Occasionally I would even rest my nose on one of the folds in the top of her ankle sock and audibly sniff – just to remind my sweet, intelligent mistress that I was her footslave, and honoured and worshipped her socked feet. It was a little indulgence that my mistress Caroline granted me as I think she liked the feel of a loser-footslave nosing her socks whilst she bettered herself. At the same time I had the footslavish satisfaction of knowing that I was staring at and nosing the socked, ballet-shoed feet of a future top, female financial lawyer – a young woman who would command a high salary and lots of power and respect in the financial capital of the Gynarchy.
Of course, I had to do a lot more than just admire and nose my mistress Caroline’s plain, grey socks whilst she was wearing them inside her black ballet-flats. She actually worked me very hard – mouth and hand washing her dirty socks and thick, woolly tights; then drying them by mouth prior to ironing them and folding them away neatly into her sock drawer (my ‘drawer of delights’ as I referred to it - for I truly loved rummaging in my mistress Caroline’s sock drawer whenever I had a few spare minutes!); tongue-shining her dirty boots, shoes and sandals; massaging her bare and/or socked feet; cleaning and cutting her toenails; and acting as her footrest.
In all of these things mistress Caroline was actually something of a hard taskmistress. She was a bit of a perfectionist – obsessively compulsive even. She would, for example, often inspect – as well as supervise – my work. So, for example, she would examine her socks after I had washed, dried and ironed them, and would punish me and make me do them again if she wasn’t completely satisfied with the results.
Similarly, her outer footwear had to be sparkling clean – even her trainers – or she would not hesitate in having me tongue-shine them all night until they passed her rigorous inspection in the morning. And if they still weren’t clean enough for her liking I would have to remain at her home and continue licking them all day whilst she was out at college – a dreadful punishment and humiliation as it meant I couldn’t observe her socks all day whilst she was wearing them.
But I responded well to my mistress Caroline’s fastidious demands and incessant and close supervision of my work. For I knew it meant she cared – about the state of her feet and footwear, if not about me.
And because she cared, I cared. I was a good footslave to mistress Caroline.
The Indifferent Mistress
The very worst thing about being a personal footslave, in my view, is being continuously ignored by your superior and beloved mistress. Even being perpetually whipped by a vicious and cruel mistress is, believe it or not, preferable to being ignored – to being reduced to the level of a thing; an inanimate object; rarely spoken to or even shouted at.
Just plain ignored!
Unfortunately for me, my final mistress of 15 years was just such an indifferent mistress. Indifferent to me, that is – as was her perfect right, of course.
Her name was mistress Marielle, and she was a very beautiful, 37 year old black woman of French origins. As I said, mistress Marielle first purchased me some 15 years ago, when she was just 22 (and I was 46). It was only three, short months ago that she eventually dispensed with my services
I suppose I must have been doing something right for mistress Marielle to have kept me in servitude to her feet for such a long time – but I have to say that I felt she never really warmed to me in all that time.
She warmed her pretty, black feet on my face – yes! Many times! But I do not think she really liked me. She used me – as a hot water bottle for her feet; as a shoe and boot cleaner; as a toenail-clipper; and as a footrest. But I don’t believe she ever saw me as any kind of living, sentient being – just as a thing who was there to do her foot-bidding.
Take my role as a footrest, for example. My mistress Marielle rarely went barefoot around the house – preferring instead to relax in her sneakers –for the most part, irritatingly, without socks. I do, of course, very much admire any, pretty, female-foot in a stylish, modern sneaker – but the sight of a soft, feminine sock inside the sneaker – even just an elasticated slither of sock running along the upper rim of a feminine sneaker, somehow adds to the beauty of the mistress’s sneakered foot. I think that’s because the sock reminds me that the inner lining of my mistress’s sneaker needs protection from her precious footsweat, which is what the sock is primarily for. That, of course, and the fact that pure, white, cotton sock always looks great when embellishing a black mistress’s beautiful, soft black footskin.
But I digress! The point I’m trying to make is that my mistress Marielle liked to wear her sneakers without socks around the house. This meant that I had to spend hours lying on my stomach on the living room floor with my right cheek resting on the carpet as I stared at my mistress’s left, sneakered foot whilst her right sneakered foot rested on my upturned left cheek.
As a result of the hours and hours I spent in this humble position over the years, the left side of my face actually became moulded to the contours of my mistress Marielle’s right sneaker. My left cheek dips into a shallow hollow where her sneaker-heel normally rests, and there are permanent tread marks from the sole of her well-worn sneaker all the way down my left cheek.
It is so noticeable, that I know for a fact my mistress Marielle’s friends mockingly referred to me as ‘Sneakerface’ – because my face now resembles the sole of mistress Marielle’s leathery, white sneaker!
However, I’m not even sure that my mistress Marielle ever noticed how my face had ‘evolved’ to fit the sole of her sneakered foot. Or if she did notice, she clearly didn’t care. For she never once mentioned it to me – not even to mock me because of it.
How I wish she would have mocked my ‘sneaker face’! I wish she would have mocked me and laughed at me like her friends – for at least I would then have known that my mistress Marielle was aware of me as a sentient being – with fears and feelings; feelings which could be hurt every bit as much as my face or body.
But she just didn’t seem to notice or care about me. She merely had to utter the command ‘footrest’, and before she could lower her sneakered foot to the ground my face was lying on the carpet ready to take the weight of her right-sneakered foot on my upturned and suitably-moulded left cheek.
I really do sense that it was pure laziness which prevented mistress Marielle from getting rid of me for so long (for my mistress Marielle did become increasingly lazy and lethargic over the years – as was her perfect right as a mistress of leisure).
And then, three months ago, the fateful day finally came. Mistress Marielle bought herself a new pair of sneakers, and it was only then that she noticed that her personal footslave’s face no longer fitted the treads of her new sneaker sole. I was unceremoniously cast aside into the footslave wilderness, along with her worn-out sneakers, unable to get a new personal mistress at my advanced time of life, and therefore sold to the State authorities as a public footslave in the lobby entrance to the Ladies’ restroom in a busy railway station.
At least, as I serve out the rest of my miserable days kissing and licking the boots and shoes of anonymous, and now faceless women, my own face continues to bear the tread marks of my indifferent mistress Marielle’s sneaker soles – a true mark of my life of servitude at the feet and footwear of superior young women – women of all personality types and temperaments; women it has been my privilege to know and to serve as a personal footslave.
I have to admit, I have loved them all!
The End
