Virtual Reality
It is like a dream come true.
I appear to be the household slave of a dominant black family. I am kneeling in the corner of their living room, shackled and in chains, whilst they are enjoying a family celebration and party.
The master of the house, a very tall and muscular black man who seems to go by the name of master Winston, is lying indolently on the living room sofa, surrounded by his wife and his two beautiful daughters who are all relaxing in separate, leather armchairs.
My master’s wife, who goes by the name of Cherise (mistress Cherise to me), is an attractive black woman in her early forties. She is thin and svelte, with long, dark hair fetchingly tied back in a ponytail. She is wearing a black blouse with a red trim, and plain black leggings. On her shapely, black feet and ankles I can see that she is wearing a pair of plain, black, low-heeled pumps. I can also observe, from my kneeling position in the corner of the room with my back to the living-room wall, that the skin on the backs of her black heels is somewhat hard and chapped, in complete contrast to the apparent smoothness of her soft, brown arches and insteps.
Her legs are crossed as she sits in her comfortable, brown leather armchair, and her right pump is consequently dangling enticingly off the end of her right foot as it hovers coquettishly in the air, revealing even more of her pretty, brown-skinned, bare foot to my footslave gaze as I try desperately not to lust after my mistress’s bare footflesh!
One of her daughters – who looks to be the eldest of the two and in her mid twenties - is apparently called miss Lucy. She is somewhat taller than her mother, and, like her mother, is pretty of face - again with long, black hair, but braided rather than combed back in a ponytail. Miss Lucy is also stylishly dressed in a white, frilly blouse and a tight-fitting pair of designer-label, blue denim jeans. On her shapely feet she is wearing a sexy pair of shiny, black patent leather, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up, ankle boots. The hems of her blue, denim jeans are tucked into her boots, but I can also just make out the tiniest slither of plain, white sock atop her fashionable, black leather ankle-boots.
I wish I could see more of the white socks, so that I could determine the pattern of the stitching, but even though miss Lucy is emulating her mother and is reclining in her leather armchair with her right leg crossed over her left, the sock on her hovering right foot is, frustratingly, for the most part still hidden by shiny, black, designer ankle-boot.
The third female present, the youngest daughter, is twenty year old miss Abigail. I know she is 20 because it is her birthday the family are celebrating today.
Miss Abigail looks quite different from her sister. For a start, miss Abigail is clearly of mixed race, with a much paler complexion than that of her mother and, presumably, half-sister. Miss Abigail is also much podgier, and her black spectacles make her look much more intellectual and studious than her half-sibling.
Moreover, her clothes make her look comparatively frumpy, compared to both her mother and half-sister. Miss Abigail is wearing a plain, beige cardigan over a bright, red shirt; light-grey-coloured, combat-style trousers; and plain, black sneakers with patterned, black ankle socks containing large white spots on the sides.
Even though miss Abigail is seated with both her feet resting demurely on the living room carpet, and even though her socks are the short, modern, sneaker-style socks which only reach up as far as her lower ankle bones, I can still see more of her socks than I can of her sister’s plain, white boot socks – and so my footslave eyes are naturally drawn to the 20 year-old girl’s socks as I kneel humbly in the corner of the room. I would dearly love to kiss each and every large, white spot in the pattern of the otherwise black, cotton sneaker socks – and especially those white spots which are only partially visible above the upper rims of her plain, black, lace-up sneakers.
The family are happily chatting away amongst themselves whilst I kneel, head bowed, in the corner of their living room, admiring mistress Abigail’s spotty, black and white socks from a distance. Master Winston, meanwhile, is licking his lips and clearly starting to feel hungry as the smell of some delicious hot food is wafting through from the family’s kitchen.
I wonder who is cooking the food? That is clearly not my role! I presume my role is merely to wait on my black masters hand and foot; to await their commands. At least, that’s how I see myself.
The doorbell suddenly rings, and I receive my first order – appropriately enough from the master of the house:
‘Slave, get the door!’
I go to stand up, but then realise that my heavy, metal shackles and chains only permit me to crawl. Of course! How stupid am I! I am a footslave – therefore I must remain on my hands and knees at all times – that I may be close to my superiors’ feet and ready to serve their feet and footwear at the click of a finger.
And so I shuffle awkwardly on my hands and knees out of the living room and into the hallway. Misses Lucy and Abigail kindly accompany me, although they, of course, are walking upright as they are free human beings and are not in bondage to anyone.
I, on the other hand, am clearly in bondage to them. Miss Lucy impatiently kicks me on my buttocks with the sharp, pointy-toe of her right boot in order to hurry me along.
Since, from my humble kneeling position, I cannot reach up to the door handle it is miss Abigail who kindly opens the front door on my behalf. As she does so the hem of her light-grey, right combat-trouser leg rises up slightly to give me a splendid, close-up view of creased, black and white, spotty sneaker-sock inside her right sneaker. I find myself almost salivating at the close-up view of her sock, although it could also be that, like master Winston, the smell of the delicious warm food is making me hungry. I certainly appear to be emaciated and hungry as I catch a brief glimpse of my scrawny, white body in the hallway mirror.
As soon as the door opens, however, my eyes are drawn away from miss Abigail’s sneakers and socks and towards a pair of fetching, calf-length, beige-coloured Ugg boots, turned over at the tops to reveal a rim of creamy-white wool. The Ugg boots are being worn on the black, woolly tights of a black mini-skirted, blonde, white girl who looks to be the same age as my two young, black mistresses, misses Lucy and Abigail – i.e. early to mid twenties.
‘Hi Suzie!’ exclaims miss Abigail excitedly.
‘Hi Abby!’ responds the white girl, her beige Ugg boots creasing and folding around her ankles in front of my kneeling face as she leans forward to embrace her mixed-race friend:
‘Happy birthday!’
Suzie, who presumably shall be ‘mistress Susan’ to me as she is clearly my mistress Abigail’s guest and friend, and is also female – and therefore on both counts is my superior and better – hands some sort of wrapped present over to miss Abigail.
Meanwhile mistress Susan greets and embraces miss Lucy also. All three girls are clearly the best of friends. Nice to see such multiracial harmony amongst three superior young women!
‘Slave kiss our guest’s boots and welcome her to our home!’ demands miss Abigail suddenly.
Mistress Susan, still standing in the hallway although miss Abigail has by now closed the door behind her and removed her coat (I noticed it is freezing cold outside!), obligingly stretches forward her right, Ugg-booted foot for me to pay my humble, footslavish respects to.
I shuffle forward in my clanking chains and duly lower my lips to the white girl’s outstretched Ugg boot. It smells musty, but the beige-coloured sheepskin feels nice and soft on my slave lips. I notice some small, dark brown stains on the broad, rounded toe of the otherwise light brown boot, and make sure that I deliberately place my lips on one of those dark brown stains. I suspect it is just melted ice or frost, but I kiss it just in case it may be street-dirt, for a footslave must always pay his respects to the dirtiest part of a young woman’s shoe or boot.
It’s just the done thing.
I notice how the round-toed, rather shapeless and oversized boot is intriguingly creased and folded around the top of the young, blonde woman’s ankle due to the imperiously outstretched positioning of her right foot. I admire those creases in the musty-smelling sheepskin boot, as they seem to accentuate the beauty of the young woman’s black-woolly-tighted shin and calf.
I am conscious of the fact that I have been ordered by my mistress Abigail to not only kiss her guest’s boots, but also to welcome her to my black masters’ home. Almost magically, therefore, I find myself greeting miss Susan in the most obsequious of humble slave-speak:
‘Oh pray, mistress Susan. God bless you, mistress Susan. This slave praises and blesses the mistress, and welcomes her to the home of my masters. Pray treat me as your own slave during your visitation to this household!’
I have no idea where that all came from! It sounded like I was almost regarding her as some sort of divine, supernatural being, rather than just an Ugg-booted slip of a girl, but I understand it was nothing more than would be expected of a household footslave humbly and respectfully greeting his mistresses’ female guest.
Miss Susan, at any rate, appears singularly unimpressed, as she turns up her nose at me, says nothing, and merely replaces her right foot with her left underneath my turned-down, slave nose – again presenting me with frost-imbued, musty-smelling Ugg boot to kiss.
Once again my lips taste creased sheepskin boot, and I find myself wondering whether I shall be ordered to take off mistress Susan’s boots before she enters the living room. That would be something of a treat for me, as I would then get to see, and hopefully smell, the reinforced toes of her plain black, woolly tights!
But sadly no such order is forthcoming, and so I can only imagine the little, black balls of warm, woollen lint that must be stuck to the reinforced toes of her tights inside her warm, moist Ugg boots.
I should have guessed that mistress Susan would be keeping her boots on – after all, her hosts are fully foot-clothed inside the house! Not a house-slipper in sight!
I crawl after our newly-arrived guest’s Ugg boots, admiring the way they are completely wonky and misshapen on the backs of her shapely heels and black woolly-tighted calf-muscles, as the three girls make their way back into the living room. Here yet more embracing and kissing takes place as mistress Susan is warmly greeted by both master Winston and his wife, my mistress Cherise.
My superiors and betters then take to their seats again, whilst I instinctively crawl over to my slave-corner again, to attentively and submissively await my orders.
My betters ignore me, chatting away happily amongst themselves for several minutes until a uniformed, Filipina maid enters the room carrying a tray of drinks. She walks straight past me, of course, as there is no drink for me – the slave – but it does mean that I get a good view of the Filipina maid’s dark nylon-stockinged ankles and shiny, black high-heeled courts. I can even focus in on a tiny crease in the nylon stocking material around the outer anklebone of the pretty maid’s left foot.
She can’t be any more than about 30 years old, and so her legs and ankles are still shapely beneath her white pinafore and black, knee-length skirt. I especially like the way she curtsies politely before handing a drink to each of the family members and their guest – although it is also noticeable how the family speak to her in a pleasant manner and with respect – rather than just barking orders at her as they do with me. Thy also address her by her first name – ‘Maria’.
It seems there is one law for the female servant and another for the male servant. But then, in this particular reality, that is how it should be – for the maidservant is still a superior female. I am, no doubt, regarded as every bit as much her slave as I am the slave of her black employers. I wonder just how often I have had to respectfully kiss her shiny, black courts, and perhaps even nuzzle the sides of her nylon-stockinged ankles, in the past. And I wonder also how often I shall get to do so in the future!
I’m new to all this, you see!
It is clear, however, that I am not going to get the opportunity to pay my humble respects to the Filipina maid’s shoes and stockings just yet, for she soon exits the room with her empty drinks tray, again brushing past me like I don’t exist.
At least I now know who is cooking the delicious-smelling Cajun chicken! I feel my tummy rumble, and hope my superiors and betters have not heard it as it would not be becoming for a mere slave such as myself to distract his betters from their superior conversation with his base, bodily noises. A slave should be seen and obey, but not be heard – unless he is specifically ordered to speak!
If truth be told, I’m actually starting to get quite bored! I mean, nothing much is happening – slave-wise. I am just kneeling in the corner of the living room, with my head bowed to the floor, observing from afar the various movements in my female superiors’ feet; the wrinkles in the skin at the backs of mistress Cherise’s otherwise smooth, brown, bare feet; the enticing flashes of white sock on mistress Lucy’s smart,black, ankle-booted feet; the creases and folds in mistress Abigail’s spotty, black and white sneaker socks beneath the flared hems of her heavy, and distinctly unflattering, combat trousers; the creases and folds in the outer sheepskin material of mistress Susan’s beige, misshapen Ugg boots.
Suddenly, however, everything changes when the Filipina maidservant calls everyone into dinner.
For a moment I am unsure what to do; should I follow my masters and betters into the dining room or not? Clearly the food is not meant for me – hungry though I am!
Miss Abigail kindly puts me out of my dumb misery:
‘Slave follow me to heel!’ she barks.
I get the impression that I am more miss Abigail’s slave than I am anyone else’s slave in this household. Perhaps I have been give to her as a personal slave? Or perhaps she just has priority use over me today because she is the birthday girl.
Perhaps I am even her birthday present!
Who knows? All I can do, like any powerless slave, is go with the flow!
In any case I am quite pleased to be following miss Abigail to heel, for she is the only female present whose socks are clearly visible. Sure it would be nice to study the socks of her less frumpy, and more stylish, half-sister, the elegant mistress Lucy, but, as I have already remarked, it is only the elasticated tops of her plain, white, cotton socks that are visible inside her fashionable, black patent leather, spiky-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up ankle boots.
Oh what I would give to be ordered to pull down those zips at the side of her boots with my slave teeth that I might better study her plain, white socks! But, I must remember that mistress Lucy does not just exist for my benefit! The whole point of being a slave is that you don’t have control over your fate or over what happens. Being a slave is meant to have its frustrations – and not being able to see the sides of mistress Lucy’s socks is clearly going to be one of them!
Still, being a slave also has its compensations, and as miss Abigail takes up her seat at the dining room table, I could not have scripted her next words any better myself:
‘Slave, kneel under the table at my feet and study my socks while I’m having dinner!’
My heart leaps! I am actually being ordered to study miss Abigail’s socks! It is expected – nay demanded – of me! So what if I’m not going to get anything to eat! I shall have a veritable feast before my footslave eyes – a feast of young woman sock!
‘Yes, mistress Abigail; this slave hears and obeys you, mistress Abigail!’
Of course I do! What choice do I have? I wouldn’t know how to extract myself from this situation even if I wanted to.
And I don’t!
Miss Abigail’s father (presumably her stepfather) master Winston reinforces his stepdaughter’s command, even though such reinforcement is hardly needed:
‘Hee! Hee! Obey my daughter, slave! Look at her socks while she is eating!’
‘Yes master; I obey you master.’
I seem to have an instinctive desire to abase myself and to obey. It feels good and right.
And so I settle down to some serious sock-study beneath the dining room table. Miss Abigail is seated beside her glamorous half-sister, miss Lucy, on the one side, and her equally glamorous, white friend, miss Susan, on the other side – but despite the proximity of the neighbouring pairs of glamorous, spike-heeled black leather boots and beige-coloured Ugg boots respectively, I am not distracted.
Nor am I distracted by miss Abigail’s mother’s shapely, brown, bare feet and ankles with her chapped and hard heels inside her dangling, black leather pumps hovering in front of my face as she sits opposite my mistress Abigail. For, of all the feminine feet and footwear on display underneath the dinner table, the footwear that attracts me the most is the sneakers-and-socks combo of the bespectacled miss Abigail.
The fact that she is a somewhat frumpy and studious-looking girl, compared to her neighbours at the dinner table, only serves to heighten my sense of admiration for her – for it reminds me that a slave does not choose his mistress. The mistress chooses the slave – and miss Abigail has decided I shall study her feet and footwear under the table.
And there is truly much to study and admire in her patterned, short black sneaker-socks with the large white spots. Quite apart from the inevitable little creases and folds in the cotton material of her socks – which come and go enticingly in front of my eyes as she subconsciously flexes her sweet, feminine foot muscles whilst consuming her delicious meal of spicy, Cajun chicken – there is the layout of the white spots as well. As I indicated earlier, some of the large white spots are only partially visible as they disappear down into the warm, moist depths of her black, lace-up sneakers – and yet other spots are completely unencumbered.
As I kneel humbly at miss Abigail’s feet, therefore, I decide to pay cerebral homage to her socks by counting the number of tiny stitches in one of the full, unencumbered spots on her right socked-foot, and then counting the stitches in one of the partially visible white spots, just so that I can determine what percentage of stitches are visible in the partially-viewable spot. I know that my mistress Abigail would want me to do this, as it shows that I am studying her socks as she had demanded, and that I am taking her socks seriously, allowing them to totally dominate my thoughts – as befits a devoted and obedient personal footslave.
And so I start counting the minute stitches in the fully visible, upper, white spot – a task soon made extremely difficult if not impossible by the subconscious movements in my mistress Abigail’s feminine foot. I have to refocus my footslave eyes and restart my mental arithmetic several times, as my superior, mixed-race mistress is in the habit of repeatedly crossing and uncrossing her pretty, sneakered feet at the ankles whilst she eats – as is her perfect right to do so. It is not her job, after all, to facilitate my sock worship!
Needless to say, in my inexperience and footslave-naivity I have indeed set myself an impossible task, and I fail to count even half of the stitches in the unencumbered white spot.
But it’s the thought that counts!
And at least I can admire the contrast between the black, elasticated tops of my mistress Abigail’s black and white, spotted, sneaker socks, the pale brown of her bare footskin, the dirty black of her plain, black lace-up sneakers, and the light grey of the flared hems of her combat trousers as I kneel humbly under the table at her feet. I know I shouldn’t be admiring all these things – I have been specifically ordered to concentrate on her socks. But I can justify my seemingly rebellious actions by saying that I am still admiring mistress Abigail’s patterned socks as part of the overall package of her feet and footwear. After all, I have to look at her sneakers when I am thinking about the areas of her socks inside her shoes – and it is only natural that I should be thinking about her soft, brown skin when I am looking at the elasticated tops of her black and white ankle socks.
My obsession with miss Abigail’s socks means that the family meal seems to pass all too quickly, for soon my superiors and betters, who it has to be said were all rather noisy eaters – slurping and audibly belching their way through their delicious, freshly-cooked food – are retiring back to the lounge for some post-dinner drinks.
Before my mistress Abigail can settle down into her chair, however, her mother, mistress Cherise, has a suggestion for her:
‘Abigail, darling, why don’t you and Lucy show Suzie the punishment stocks out in the yard? You can take slave Thomas with you, and demonstrate them on him!’
Ah, so that is my name – slave Thomas! I do have a name then – I’m not just called ‘slave’.
‘Ha! Ha! Oh yes, Abby – do show me your set of punishment stocks!’ exclaims mistress Susan enthusiastically! ‘ I love watching slaves all cooped up in the stocks!’
Master Winston, by now, I sense, slightly inebriated, adds his pennyworth:
‘Hee! Hee! You can put the dirty slave in the stocks, Abby darling, and show Suzie how vulnerable and exposed he is to the whip!’
Miss Abigail, and miss Lucy, think it is a wonderful idea – entertainment for their guest - and soon I am crawling out of the warmth and comfort of the living room and down the corridor leading out into the family’s back yard. Although I am crawling behind all three girls - misses Abigail, Lucy and Susan - I very much concentrate on the sneakered and socked heels of frumpy miss Abigail, largely because there is an intriguing, only partially-visible white spot on the back of her left sock; and yet no such corresponding white spot on the back of her right sock. Her socks must be uneven inside her sneakers! How could I not have ‘spotted’ that before!
As soon as we enter into the pitch black of the yard mistress Lucy switches on a bright spotlight which illuminates a wooden stocks-like contraption - presumably the ‘punishment stocks’ in which I am about to be secured by the young women by way of a demonstration of their female power and authority over me and my male vulnerability before them.
I am already shivering with cold, and for the first time I am truly conscious of my semi-naked status. I appear to be dressed only in a pair of white slave shorts – in addition, of course, to my heavy chains and shackles which keep me duly weighed down.
I find myself wondering whether mistresses Abigail or Lucy will be warming my bare back with a leather whip as part of their demonstration of the punishment stocks to their Ugg-booted, blonde-bimbo friend (as master Winston had seemed to imply they should); or do my sweet and kind young mistresses feel they need some act of disobedience or insolence on my part to justify beating me in front of their friend?
It is actually mistress Lucy who appears to be taking the lead in everything at present, presumably because she is the eldest of the three girls. She steps forward in order to raise the heavy, wooden crossbar of the stocks-cum-whipping-post contraption:
‘Slave, get your ugly head in there!’ she barks down at me, the pointy toe of her right, spike-heeled-booted foot seeming to tap on the cold concrete of the back yard with a degree of impatience.
I obediently shuffle forward, inadvertently grazing my bare knees on the rough concrete as I do so, and place my neck over the wooden hollow in the lower crossbeam.
Miss Lucy then locks the upper beam down on top of me – completely immobilising me as I kneel in the punishment stocks. She then strolls arrogantly round to the front of the wooden stocks and stands, hands on hips, with her pointy-toed, ankle-booted feet directly beneath my now confined and kneeling face.
At last I have a reasonably close-up view of the tops of her plain, white boot- socks. I can now see, directly below my eyes, the pattern in the white stitching of her socks as they disappear down into her designer ankle-boots - flowery, latticed-style stitching. Truly, they are ultra-feminine socks which deserve to be admired and worshipped by a lowly, male footslave such as myself, and miss Lucy appears to be thinking that very selfsame thing:
‘Slave, kiss the tops of my socks!’ she snaps, moving her right foot and ankle even closer to my face.
And so, without a moment’s hesitation, I stretch forward my slave neck and place my lips respectfully onto the soft, cotton material of the elasticated tops of black mistress Lucy’s snowy-white, ankle-length bootsocks.
This causes miss Susan, whose beige-coloured, sheepskin Ugg boots I can just see out of the corner of my eye, to laugh at me out loud:
‘Ha! Ha! He really is at your mercy, Luce! Look how he has to obey you by kissing the tops of your socks! Ha! Ha! And you haven’t even had to whip him to get him to do it! Ha! Ha! What a wimp! What a dork!’
Mistress Abigail is laughing at me also. She doesn’t appear at all jealous of her half-sister getting her socks kissed.
Mistress Lucy herself just smiles smugly down at me, and then withdraws her right foot from under my nose, replacing it with her left:
‘And the other one, slave!’ she snaps.
I might have a slave-name, but it is clearly hardly ever used to address me. And why should it be? After all, I am the only slave present in this household.
Again I lower my lips to white female-sock.
It occurs to me that life is full of irony! For all my intense and devotional study of miss Abigail’s black and white spotted ankle socks I have still not been permitted to kiss them, or pay any kind of oral homage to them. Only mental homage. And yet here I am physically kissing the white socks of her half-sister – socks which I can barely see inside her shiny, black ankle boots, and yet socks which are now totally dominating my footslave senses and thoughts!
I find myself hoping that I will be whipped – whipped by frumpy miss Abigail in her black and white spotted ankle socks whilst I pay homage to her glamorous half-sister’s plain, white bootsocks, my punishment gleefully observed by their black-woolly-tighted and Ugg-booted friend miss Susan.
But it seems that it is not to be! For there is no sign of a whip being drawn from anywhere. I shall just have to continue paying my slavish homage to miss Lucy’s socks without the sting of the lash to keep my bare, crouched back warm.
All too soon for my liking, I am released from the stocks and ordered to crawl back after my three mistresses into the house – not because they are worried that I am freezing cold, but rather because they are worried that they themselves might catch a chill.
Of course, I should be grateful for small mercies, for my female superiors could just as easily have left me all night shivering and alone in the punishment stocks. I could have had no cause for complaint if they had, for I am theirs to do with as they wish.
That’s the whole point of this footslave-experience!
However, the script seems to dictate that I now follow these three feisty young women upstairs to mistress Abigail’s bedroom, where she wishes to show her friend, miss Susan, another birthday present.
It’s a ‘virtual reality’ helmet. I’ve heard of them. You put it on and it transports you to another world – fooling your brain and your senses into thinking that you are actually there –wherever ‘there’ is!
It sounds like fun, and miss Susan certainly seems to enjoy whichever world it is that she is transported to when she puts on the helmet.
After some 20 minutes of playing with the virtual reality helmet, the three girls return to the living room. Miss Abigail, however, orders me to remain in her bedroom:
‘Slave, stay here and sniff those dirty socks over there in the corner!’
She points to a pair of her dirty socks – thick, red bootsocks by the look of them – which are lying, somewhat forlornly, all crumpled up in the corner of her bedroom.
The girls all laugh as I obediently crawl over to miss Abigail’s, dirty discarded socks and start audibly sniffing them.
Miss Abigail then closes her bedroom door on the way out, leaving me alone in her bedroom - alone with her dirty, sweaty, red socks, and, of course, her virtual reality machine.
To begin with, I play the part of the dutiful sockslave – sniffing his mistress’s dirty, red bootsocks as he has been ordered to do. But I’ve always been intrigued by technological gadgets, and it’s not long before I find myself disobediently leaving the socks and crawling over to the bed where the virtual reality helmet has been left lying by mistress Susan.
I pick it up and put it on. Daring – I know! But then, the door is closed; I am on my own; and I am confident that I will hear any of my betters coming back up the stairs.
And so I switch the device on – to programme ‘3’ – which is entitled ‘ Early 21st century shopping experience’.
Suddenly I find myself walking arm in arm with a beautiful, young, black woman through a shopping mall! She is giggling and laughing beside me, and occasionally kissing me lovingly on the lips! Yes – I am actually walking upright, like a free human being! An equal to my ‘girlfriend’. I can smell her sweet perfume as she leans over to kiss me.
It feels all wrong! This is not right! This is just not me!
I quickly switch the device off and remove it from my head. I am in a cold sweat! What an unpleasant and ridiculous experience!
I crawl hastily back to the dirty, crumpled up pair of female socks lying in the corner of my mistress Abigail’s bedroom, and bury my footslave nose into them. I feel comforted by the familiar smell of sweaty, female sock.
This is the only reality I crave – the real world of footslavery to my frumpy, mixed-race mistress in the Gynarchy of Barbaria!
I only hope I didn’t cry out during my brief sojourn in the world of the early 21st century, for if my mistress Abigail even suspects me of using her virtual reality machine without her permission I am sure to be sorely whipped in the punishment stocks!
The End
