A Footrest's Feedback

What will you be doing today? Going into work? Relaxing at home in front of the television? Surfing the Internet? Watching the football? Going out for a romantic meal with your partner in a restaurant?

I know exactly what I shall be doing, for I am obliged to do the same thing every day of the week – week in and week out; month in and month out; year in and year out. I shall be staring at the sides of superior women’s dirty boots and shoes.

For I am a ladies’ footrest in the Gynarchy of Barbaria.

Specifically I am employed as a ladies’ footrest in a restaurant. I am secured permanently on my stomach in a hollow in the restaurant floor beneath one of the tables, my face turned to one side towards the wall with my left cheek uppermost.

It is a single table for ladies who are dining alone. I say ‘dining’, but this is no posh restaurant – more of a snack bar. We get most of our trade at lunchtimes, as busy office secretaries, tourists and students pop in for a bite to eat before resuming their female business, whatever that may be. My job, or rather the job of my upturned left cheek, is merely to serve as a footrest for one of the lady’s two feet – usually her right foot - whilst her left foot rests on the floor directly in front of my face.

Practically all restaurants in the Gynarchy have such male footrests for the use of their female customers. It’s almost expected, and no-one gives us a second thought.

It has to be said that we are largely a ‘cosmetic’ item. Quite literally part of the furniture. We don’t really provide much in the way of a useful service to our customers. We don’t, for example, lick or clean their superior female feet and/or footwear (we couldn’t even if we wanted to, which we do, as our heads are secured firmly to the ground by means of an unbreakable metal bar across our necks). Literally all we do is give our superior female customers something to rest their feet on whilst they eat - a reminder to them, perhaps, of their absolute female power over the male, not that the customer is likely to pay much attention to her footrest.

He is, after all, just a ‘thing’ for her to rest her pretty feet on.

The only person who does pay any attention to me is my supervisor – mistress Mawusi. 35 year old Mistress Mawusi, whom I believe emigrated to the Gynarchy from West Africa many years ago, has the job of supervising all the restaurant footrests on behalf of the owner, Madam Brigitte, who also originates from abroad (Canada, I think) but who has taken full advantage of the opportunities open to women in the female-dominated Gynarchial society in which she first arrived some 10 years ago as a refugee, and who now owns a successful chain of 6 such restaurants or snack bars scattered throughout the capital.

Mistress Mawusi’s job is to monitor the footrests; quiz them after each female customer has left in order to ensure that they have been duly concentrating on the female customer’s feet and footwear (as footrests are required to do by law), and then reporting any underperformance back to Madam Brigitte so that she can take corrective measures – such as punishing the recalcitrant footrest with a sound beating!

I, I’m slavishly proud to say, am now rarely beaten – for I have already learnt my lesson the hard way having been employed in this particular restaurant since it opened some 8 years ago. I have not moved from this spot in the floor, beneath this very same table, since I was built into it, and I have footrested the weary feet of literally tens of thousands of women in that time. So I am, even if I say so myself, an experienced and diligent human footrest, who rarely needs the sharp stimulus of the female whip to remind him of his place!

Not that I can ever afford to rest on my laurels, for my supervisor, mistress Mawusi, is ever-vigilant and keen. She has been employed as a footrest-supervisor in this restaurant for some 6 years now, and evidently loves her work. Most of all she enjoys getting footrest-slaves into trouble, and she is constantly looking for shortcomings in their humble work which she can then gleefully report to Madam Brigitte, with a recommendation that the recalcitrant slave be soundly whipped!

Fortunately some of the less experienced footrests are much more likely to get it in the neck than I am. As I have already indicated, I know what is expected of me, and always seek to please!

And exactly what is expected of me? Well, I must simply study and admire the side of the seated, female customer’s shoe or boot – the one resting in front of my sideways-turned face - as the sole of her other dirty shoe or boot rests on my upturned, left cheek. And when the customer leaves I must then provide suitably humble verbal feedback to mistress Mawusi on what I have observed about the superior, female customer’s footwear, so that she can satisfy herself I have been dutifully concentrating on the superior, feminine footwear in front of me and have been studying it in appropriately slavish detail.

The whole point is that a human footrest must think about nothing other than his superior female customers’ feet and footwear. That’s the law – and mistress Mawusi is merely an agent of law enforcement in the Gynarchy, albeit a privately-employed one by Madam Brigitte.

Allow me to describe a typical lunch hour in our restaurant. Perhaps that will help you to better understand my utterly servile role.

Mistress Mawusi is showing a young, ponytailed, blonde woman to ‘my’ table. Mistress Mawusi even pulls back the chair and helps the customer to sit down, for, free woman though she is, and even though she must be at least 10 years older than the blonde girl, she is still duty-bound to show courtesy towards the customer, for in the Gynarchy the female customer is always right! Mistress Mawusi is better than me, but she is not better than her customers!

I know the customer is blonde and has a ponytail because, I must admit, I do like to give myself the luxury of a quick, surreptitious glance up at the customer as she settles herself down into the restaurant chair above me. I like to see what sort of woman I shall be serving as a footrest for the next 20 minutes or so. Is she young or middle-aged? Is she blonde or brunette? White, black or Asian? How is she dressed? Casually, or is she in her smart, office attire? Is she even uniformed or in corporate wear (e.g. a bank clerk or a police lady?)

It’s not that I need to know such details about my customers, you understand. The only thing I need to know in order to do my slavish job properly is what type of footwear she is wearing, for that will affect the sensation I experience on my upturned cheek as the sole of her shoe or boot rests on it, and will dominate my senses of sight and smell as her other foot rests directly in front of my eyes.

Therefore I need to know, for example, whether or not the lady is wearing heels – for sharp, spiked heels, in particular, can dig rather painfully into my upturned cheekbone. I shall also, of course, feel a gap on my cheek between the toe of the lady’s high-heeled shoe or boot, and the spiked heel itself. Furthermore, if they are 3 or 4 inch heels or higher, they will raise the arch of the lady’s other foot somewhat above my immediate field of vision even when it is resting on the ground directly in front of my footrest-face, thereby obliging me to concentrate on the stitching that runs along the lower side of her shoe or boot sole rather than on her shapely foot itself.

Flat shoes, by way of contrast, will mean that the whole of my upturned cheek will feel the entire tread of the young woman’s shoe-sole, and I shall also have a direct view of her bare, socked, stockinged or perhaps even booted ankle (if they are low-heeled boots).

Such details are important, for it is precisely these details that I shall have to provide feedback to mistress Mawusi on – not whether or not the young woman is an attractive blonde or a sultry brunette! However, as I said, I still like to know for my own slavish benefit what sort of young woman I am dealing with, as she is my undoubted better and knowing a little bit about her general appearance can only enhance my sense of footslavish humility as I lie silent and motionless beneath her shoe or boot dirt.

Needless to say, I must be ultra-careful in my initial furtive glances up at the female customers. If mistress Mawusi ever caught me looking up I could be sure of a whipping at the sweet, feminine hands of my owner, Madam Brigitte!

But, touch shoe-leather, mistress Mawusi has never yet spotted my disobedience in this regard!

And so the attractive and very svelte young, blonde woman settles herself down into her restaurant chair and places her right foot on top of my upturned left cheek. I don’t need to see her left foot in front of my face to know immediately that she is wearing heels – for I can already feel the indentation of her spiked heel in my lower cheekbone, along with the tell-tale, smooth, beige-coloured leather sole of a smart, black high-heeled pump resting on my upturned cheek. The leather sole also feels a bit wet. It must be raining outside.

When the young blonde woman’s left, high-heeled pump does position itself on the floor in front of my face a split second later, my suspicions of rain outside are confirmed – for I can observe little droplets of dirty rainwater and faint traces of street-mud all along the side of the otherwise smart-looking, black leather, high-heeled, office pump.

The superior, young blonde office-worker is wearing flesh-toned nylons inside her black leather, office pumps, and a pair of black, boot-cut trousers – part of a smart, black trouser suit. She is not one of my regulars - but I would be happy for her to be so, for her feet and ankles are very shapely and pretty. I shall truly enjoy staring at her mud-stained, black pump and flesh-coloured nylon-stockings as she eats her snack lunch.

A waitress takes her order, as mistress Mawusi retires to one side. You may be interested to know that mistress Mawusi is wearing the standard uniform worn by all the female restaurant staff, consisting of a red and white blouse, plain white trousers, and red and white, lace-up sneakers. Although the female staff all choose their own socks to wear inside their sneakers, I happen to know that mistress Mawusi nearly always wears plain, white, sneaker-style socks, the tops of which only just show above the upper rims of her red and white sneakers. She does so because she likes to wear plain, white socks as she thinks they look nice against her soft, black skin, even if most of her bare legs are hidden beneath her uniform-trousers!

I know that because she has told me as much. Mistress Mawusi often dines in the restaurant herself, and has frequently sat above me at my table, resting her weary, sneakered feet on my face and giving me a nice view of the elasticated top of her white ankle sock inside her left sneaker.

I should explain that, although she is employed as a ‘meeter and greeter’ of the female customers in addition to being a supervisor of the male footrests, mistress Mawusi is not expected to wait on tables. She must be allowed to concentrate on the various footrests and make sure they are not allowing their footslave-eyes to stray from the female customer’s foot. I know that the keen and diligent mistress Mawusi will be watching me like an African Hawk Eagle from a distance, making sure I concentrate on the pretty office-girl foot now resting in its equally pretty high-heeled pump directly in front of my face.

It’s not difficult for me to concentrate on the beautiful young blonde woman’s foot, for as she adjusts herself further into her seat I can observe an alluring little crease in her finest-denier, flesh-coloured, nylon stocking along her instep, starting just above the pointy toe-area of her black, leather shoe and reaching up as far as my footslave-eye can see. A crease in a thin, nylon stocking is always an exciting sight for a footrest, for it reminds me that this is the foot of a living, breathing, superior young woman, and that I am truly in a privileged position: that of lying below her feet with her left, nylon-stockinged foot just inches away from my sideways-turned face.

Simultaneously, the wet, metal-tipped heel of her right pump digs down deeper into my upturned left cheek as she subconsciously rests her right foot harder on my face. The more comfortable she makes herself, the less comfortable it is for me – but that is precisely how it should be, for a mistress’s foot comfort is more important than a human footrest’s facial comfort!

Somewhat frustratingly, as the blonde, ponytailed mistress studies the menu, the thin crease along the side and top of her flesh-coloured nylon stocking disappears again as she subconsciously flexes her foot muscles underneath, leaving only the ultra-fine, minute nylon stitches for me to study. It is actually quite difficult to make out the stitches - so finely toned are they with the natural hue of the mistress’s pretty, soft, white foot. I know, however, that mistress Mawusi will accept no excuses, and will be expecting me to admire those stocking-stitches – the sheer minuteness of them, almost invisible to the naked eye; unless your eye, like mine, is resting just a few inches away from them!

I try, therefore, to focus in on the stitches covering the mistress’s shapely, left ankle bone because the nylon material is naturally more stretched over the bone and the nylon stitches are, consequently, a little bit bigger and easier to make out. However the height of the office girl’s 3 inch heel makes it a little bit difficult to see her ankle bone clearly – especially as the hem of her right trouser leg is partially obscuring my view as her right pump literally pins down my upturned left cheek.

Nobody ever said being a girl’s footrest was easy!

I find myself, partly through my frustration at not having a clear view of the mistress’s nylon-stockinged anklebone, drifting off into footslave-fantasy, and wishing that I myself could be infinitesimally small – a bacteria-sized mini-man, small enough to immerse myself in the tiny stitches of this superior, young, blonde woman’s flesh-coloured, nylon stockings. Small enough to be able to climb up the stitches, like I would a rope ladder, until I could reach her outer ankle bone and then climb over it like a mountaineer making his way up to the summit of her stockings – the reinforced tops covering her shapely thighs!

But, frustratingly, that, of course, will never happen! I am a fully grown man, not a mini-man!

Well, I am a fully grown footslave at any rate, and I have absolutely no business in even thinking about my mistress’s nylon-covered thighs! If miss Mawusi knew what I was thinking…!

Not being able to immerse myself in the stitching of the superior young woman’s nylon stocking is not the only frustration I experience. A footrest’s existence, it has to be confessed, is full of frustrations!

I would dearly love, for example, to be able to lick those fine traces of muddy rainwater off the side of the young woman’s smart, black leather shoe. To beautify and polish up her dirty office shoe for her with my tongue. Even just the opportunity to nose the side of her leather shoe would be an honour – to run my nose all the way along the musty-smelling leather of a superior, blonde office-girl’s shoe whilst she is still wearing it, the hem of her black trouser leg brushing against my forehead as I did so! Oh what an honour that would be!

But it is an honour way beyond anything that is ever afforded to a mere footrest. I did, once, have aspirations of becoming a fully-qualified public footslave – of having my very own shoelick-stand somewhere out on the bust streets of the Gynarchy’s fair capital, where I could serve my female betters by licking clean and tongue-shining their superior feminine shoes and boots. Why, my customers then might even deign to talk to me – even if it was only to bark down their impatient orders at me: ‘Lick my heels!... Polish my boots!... Nose my socks!’

But such fantasies must, I fear, remain the stuff of dreams – for I am fairly convinced that my current owner, madam Brigitte, has no plans to get rid of me as a footrest. She certainly cares nothing for my pathetic ambitions to be a public footslave.

A footrest is what she paid good money for, and I came with a lifetime guarantee! And so I can be fairly certain that I shall be spending the rest of my natural life lying on my stomach beneath this very restaurant table – staring at and admiring women’s feet and footwear, but never getting to kiss or lick them with my mouth.

I can look, but not touch!

And so, resigned to my fate, I do just that. I study; I look; I observe; I memorise - all whilst the young blonde woman eats her sandwich and drinks her fruit juice – for I am acutely aware that mistress Mawusi will be asking me questions later!

A few more transient creases in the young woman’s stocking around her instep entertain me whilst she eats. I am also enamoured by a small, loose, white stitch protruding from the sole near the pointy toe of her left shoe. There may well be similar loose stitches on the sole of the black, leather pump-shoe near her heel, but I can’t tell since the 3 inch heel raises the back of her shoe-sole above my field of vision – still restricted by the hem of her right trouser leg and the weight of her right pump resting on my upturned cheek.

Looking at her flesh-coloured, nylon-stockinged foot once again, however, I am particularly impressed by the fact that I can just make out the tops of her nylon-covered toes before they disappear inside the pointy-leather of her shoe. They look like they are a very pretty row of delicate little feminine toes, and I only wish the mistress would subconsciously slide her foot out of her shoe in order to temporarily release her hot and tired toes, and to wiggle them inside her nylon stockings. That way I would also get to see whether or not her toenails were painted, and whether her stockings are reinforced at the toes – though it would be nice if they were not as I wouldn’t want the darker material of reinforced nylon to obscure any of the view of such sweet and delicate female toes, painted or otherwise!

At least I have the privilege of feeling her wet shoesole-dirt from her right foot seeping into my cheek-skin as I admire the tiny creases and wrinkles in her fine denier stocking on her left foot.

The young woman finishes her snack-meal after about fifteen minutes or so, and her departure is signalled by the sharp, metal-tipped heel of her right shoe digging even deeper into my upturned, left cheek as she temporarily places more weight onto her right foot in order to raise herself up off the restaurant chair.

She, of course, cares not one iota that her high-heeled, pump shoe is causing me faceache at that moment in time. In fact, I doubt that she has even consciously registered my existence. I am just a human footrest – invisible underneath the table. Something for her to rest her foot on whilst she eats lunch and reads her glossy magazine.

She thanks mistress Mawusi for helping her out of her seat and leaves her a small tip - a less painful tip than the imprint of the tip of her right heel which she has kindly left on my face.

Mistress Mawusi then helps the waitress to clear the table ready for the next customer, before quizzing me as to how well I had been concentrating on the young blonde woman’s feet.

Mistress Mawusi still speaks with a strong West African accent, even though she is now totally fluent in English. Accent or not, she always sounds excited and keen to know all the details of my humiliation at my female customers’ feet:

‘Oh….describe the mistress’s feet to me slave! What did you think of her shoes and her nylon stockings? Did her stockings look nice and sheer, or were they quite thick? Answer my questions, slave, or I will report you to madame!’

I must always indulge mistress Mawusi and answer her questions with all due respect and humility, as befits an inferior, male slave addressing his female supervisor and superior:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave did indeed admire the mistress’s flesh-coloured stockings, and in particular the fineness and minuteness of the nylon stitching, if it so pleases you mistress. Oh pray, mistress, even when the superior young mistress subconsciously flexed her foot muscles inside her nylons, thereby causing her stocking to temporarily crease and fold around the instep in front of the slave’s face, it was clear to the dirty slave that the mistress’ flesh-coloured, nylon stockings must be made of the finest denier, if it so pleases you mistress Mawusi!’

Mistress Mawusi does indeed appear to be pleased with my detailed slave-speak reply to her questions:

‘Ha! Ha! Oh, and how many individual creases did you count in the mistress’s stocking, slave?’

It is a perfectly legitimate question on the part of my female supervisor, mistress Mawusi, but sadly it is not one to which I can give a straightforward, honest answer:

‘Oh pray mistress Mawusi, if it pleases you female master, this slave cannot give a definitive answer to the mistress’s just and righteous question, since the creases and folds in the superior mistress’s stocking kept coming and going in accordance with the mistress’s involuntary foot-movements, if it so pleases you mistress Mawusi. But this slave can say that on one occasion there were at least 4 such creases along the instep of the mistress’s stocking, if you would be so kind as to accept this slave’s woefully inadequate response to your judicious enquiry, most respected mistress Mawusi.’

Mistress Mawusi is predictably less pleased with this second response. She clicks her pretty, African teeth in annoyance:

‘Tch! Perhaps a taste of Madam Brigitte’s whip would help you to concentrate more on counting the creases in your female customers’ stockings, slave!...Oh, so if you were not paying sufficient attention to her stocking, what can you tell me about the customer’s shoe, slaveboy?’

I know that mistress Mawusi will be expecting a most thorough and detailed reply to this next question, given my woefully inadequate response to her previous question:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave did observe many more permanent and fine creases in the leather upper of the superior female customer’s shoe around the area of the toe, if it so pleases you mistress Mawusi. Indeed this slave counted 7 such creases in the leather, most respected mistress. Please don’t have me beaten, mistress!’

I am fully aware that I do actually deserve a beating, not least because my last ‘observation’ was a downright lie. I hadn’t bothered to count any creases in the young, blonde woman’s shoe leather (although there must surely have been such tiny creases in her pump) – but if I don’t give the impression that I was concentrating on the office-girl’s shoe, rather than her stocking, I am sure to be whipped for negligence, for mistress Mawusi will think I must have been just daydreaming down here, and not concentrating on my superior, female customer’s feet and footwear at all!

In such dangerous circumstances a little white lie about a black shoe has got to be worth the risk, in my humble opinion!

Mistress Mawusi is not stupid, however, and is clearly not convinced:

‘Mmm…Is that so, slave? And since you were counting the creases in the female customer’s shoe leather, you were presumably also counting the stitches along the side of her shoe?’

Again, a little white lie is called for, although I think I can come up with a more credible explanation for my failure to count the shoe-stitches:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you most astute and observant mistress Mawusi, this slave did begin to count the stitches running along the side of the superior young mistress’s shoe, but was unable to count the stitches beyond the arch of her foot as the back of her shoe was raised above the slave’s field of vision by the mistress’s high-heel, if you would be so kind and understanding mistress Mawusi. However this slave did manage to count 173 stitches from the tip of the customer-mistress’s toe to as far along as the middle of her shoe, if it so pleases you mistress… including one loose stitch, mistress.’

None of this, apart from my observation about the loose stitch, is true – I had, as you know, been wasting much of my time fantasising about being immersed in the stitching of the blonde mistress’s nylon stockings, but, since mistress Mawusi appears more interested in the number of the female customer’s shoe stitches, I have to make up some sort of credible figure!

There is no way of knowing whether I am anywhere near correct in my ‘guestimate’. Only mistress Mawusi can decide that, and her decision will determine whether I am beaten or not by Madam Brigitte when she provides her with feedback on my performance as a ladies’ footrest at the end of the working day.

Speaking of which, only 12 hours to go (we close at midnight!)

‘Mmm…don’t you humbug me, slave!’ declares mistress Mawusi in an ominous tone.

Fortunately for me, however, the next customer is already making her way towards the restaurant table – a curly-haired brunette, somewhat plumper than the previous blonde mistress, but attractively dressed in a short, purple coat, a short, thigh-length black skirt, woolly black tights and black ballet flats. She has lots of shopping bags with her; obviously on a day out shopping for new clothes and shoes at all the big stores in the town!

Her legs and thighs are quite sturdy and plump, but her feet and ankles are slender and shapely. She is definitely heavier than my most esteemed, blonde, previous customer. As my new, and equally esteemed, brunette, female customer places her right foot down onto my left cheek (which still bears the marks of my previous customer’s shoe-sole - both the brown, wet dirt from the sole of her shoe and the red indentation of her metal-tipped high heel), I can feel my cheek sink under the weight of her ballet-flat.

Indeed, my whole cheek now feels the cold and wet of soft, flat, feminine shoe leather that has been walking along rain-soaked streets outside, and as the young, brunette woman’s left foot coquettishly positions itself on the ground in front of my face I can see even more tell-tale signs of rain and mud stains along the side of her shoe than I could on the shoe of my previous customer.

There is even a tiny slither of mud on the young woman’s black woolly-tighted inner anklebone! Some rainwater must have splashed onto it from a puddle! But, sadly, I am not in any position to lick it off – just to admire it.

And there is, in actual point of fact, much to admire about this particular young woman’s foot – for the fact that she is wearing ballet flats means that the whole length of her shapely and dainty foot, from rounded toe to flat heel, is clearly visible to me.

First of all, I must emphasise that her soft, black leather ballet flat has a fetching, broad, elasticated strap running along the top of her foot, dividing the toe area of her shoe from the rest of her shoe, and, of course, simultaneously cutting across her black woolly tights. I find the small area of tights which is isolated by this strap just above the rounded toe particularly appealing – and not least because I can clearly see little, black tufts of tights-lint sticking to the thick, ribbed stitching of the wool.

The stitching in these black, woolly tights is most definitely much thicker than the stitching had been in the finest denier, flesh-coloured nylon of the blonde mistress’s stockings. I could quite easily count the individual stitches in this particular mistress’s black woolly tights if I thought mistress Mawusi was likely to ask me about them.

But I am getting to know her supervisory whims quite well now, and I strongly suspect she will wish to hear different details about this new customer’s footwear. Like, for example, the pieces of lint on her tights. Just how many little balls of lint can I observe this close up?

I assiduously count them.

My counting is going well until the curly-haired mistress suddenly (and subconsciously, with no malice aforethought) twists her left foot on the ground to one side thereby causing her thick, black woolly tights to crease and fold significantly. Some of the little balls of black lint are now obscured from view inside the various creases! I shall have to start counting them all over again if and when the mistress straightens up her pretty foot again.

On the other hand, her somewhat awkward positioning of her foot means that her woolly-tighted heel has temporarily popped out of the back of her shoe, and I can now see that the material of the wool at the base of her heel is quite worn and thinning, meaning that I can actually see her veiled heel-skin below the nearly worn-out, black woollen material!

This is a rare and unexpected treat! A veiled glimpse of a mistress’s rough and chapped heel-skin beneath her thick, black, woolly tights!

Not only that – I can now see the inner sole of the fat, brunette mistress’s equally well-worn and stinky ballet flat, thanks to its semi-dangling position off the back of her precious foot. The inner sole appears to have once been pure beige in colour, but is now light brown and sweat-stained, with one particularly appealing area where the staining has turned the inside of the soft leather shoe almost dark brown!

This is the sort of detail mistress Mawusi might be interested in, for she could not possibly see such an inner shoe-stain from her standing position several feet away.

Joy of joys, I can also now smell the stinky insides of this young, brunette woman’s shoe! I catch a distinctive gust of warm shoe-air inside my nostrils as my footslave-heightened senses immerse themselves in this young woman’s warm feet and footwear.

Oh what I wouldn’t give to be able to shrink down in size and to crawl inside the mistress’s soft, black leather shoe and lick the brownish, stale, sweat stains of her inner shoe lining – even if I did run the risk of being crushed by her worn, woolly-tighted heel just as soon as she unthinkingly slips her shapely foot back into her shoe!

I just have time to count the worn lines of stitching at the back of her heel before the mistress once again pops her entire, black-woolly-tighted foot back inside her erstwhile dangling ballet-flat. Seven of them - seven lines of worn, black wool at the base of her heel that will soon combine to make a hole if the mistress continues to wear this particular pair of warm, woolly tights on a regular basis.

I can’t wait to tell mistress Mawusi what I have seen!

But now I am distracted by a tiny white piece of fluff stuck to the elasticated strap running over the top of the mistress’s ballet-shoe. Where did it come from? Is it a tiny piece of lint from a feminine white sock? If so, I yearn to consume it – but once again cannot touch it. I can only admire it and envy it from ‘a-near’, so to speak!

Meanwhile the heavy mistress’s other, right-ballet-flatted foot is digging painfully into my upturned left cheek. I am lucky she is not wearing heels – for at least the weight from the sole of her shoe is evenly distributed over the side of my face.

I may be imagining it, but I’m sure the mistress is wiping the wet sole of her shoe on my cheek. Wiping all the muddy rain water off it! If so I am honoured – though, if truth be told, it is more than likely that she is just subconsciously running her foot back and forward. After all, there’s no law that says you have to keep your foot still whilst it is resting on a human footrest.

There is no such law in the Gynarchy at any rate!

When the curly-haired, brunette mistress has consumed her meal and finished slurping her milkshake, adding even more calories to her overweight frame, the superior young woman manoeuvres herself off the seat, her departure once again signalled by the sensation of female footwear digging into my upturned cheek.

Once again mistress Mawusi elicits my humble feedback:

‘Oh….tell me slave, how did you like staring at the mistress’s black woolly tights? Did you truly appreciate the thickness of her tights as they protected her foot and ankle from the bad weather? Tell me what you observed about her tights, slaveboy!’

‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave was indeed enamoured by the mistress’s black woolly tights, as befits a humble footslave, and is pleased to report that he observed at least 50 pieces of black lint stuck to the stitches of the mistress’s well-worn tights, if it so pleases you mistress. Mistress Mawusi, this slave makes so bold as to surmise that the mistress’s tights were frequently worn by the mistress as he observed that the stitching was somewhat worn and thinning at the back of the mistress’s tights – around the heel area, if it so pleases you most respected female master, mistress Mawusi. Indeed, this slave managed to count 7 lines of worn stitching on the backs of the mistress’s left heel, if it so pleases you most superior mistress.’

‘Ha! Ha! Well done slave!..’

I feel a warm glow inside. A footrest is often criticised, and rarely praised.

‘…And what else did you observe about this female customer’s footwear?’

‘ Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you sweet and kind mistress, this slave observed a tiny piece of white sock lint stuck to the elasticated strap at the top of the mistress’s black, leather ballet-flat, if it so pleases you female master!’

‘Ha! Ha! And what do you deduce from that, footslave?’

‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress Mawusi, this slave deduces that the mistress must sometimes wear white, cotton socks with her black ballet-flats instead of her thick, black woolly tights, if it so pleases you mistress Mawusi.’

‘Mmm...you may be right, slave! And do you opine that the mistress wears ankle-length socks with her flats, or do you think she may wear calf or knee length socks with them?’

Mistress Mawusi is mocking me somewhat now. She knows full well that it matters not what a mere footrest ‘opines’ about his female customer’s sock-preferences. Nevertheless, a question from a superior mistress must never go unanswered by a slave:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave believes that the mistress may have a liking for wearing short, sneaker-style socks with her ballet flats, as he thinks the mistress’s feet would look very attractive in short white socks and black ballet-flats, if it so pleases you mistress, as indeed would your own feet, if this slave may make so bold, sweet and kind mistress Mawusi.’

This is all speculation on my part, of course. I have no idea whether the curly-haired, overweight brunette mistress with the purple coat likes wearing white sneaker socks with her flat, black shoes - perhaps during more clement weather - but that’s not really the point. I am doing my level best to ingratiate myself back into my supervisor mistress Mawusi’s good books, and if that means flattering her, and fawning to her, and making oblique references to her own pretty, white sneaker-socks, then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll do whatever it takes to get a good report from all-powerful mistress Mawusi, for I do not wish to hear the report of the female whip as it cracks down onto my bare flesh!

The point is that I am seeking to demonstrate my dutiful obsession with my superior female customers’ feet and footwear – as befits a humble footrest – even though they may be complete strangers to me. They are my betters and I do truly admire them. I am, after all, nothing but a place for these superior, young women to rest their feet, and so it is only right and proper that I should think about and speculate on their footwear tastes and preferences, as the law dictates I should!

Mistress Mawusi, perhaps unsurprisingly, appears very pleased with my latest feedback, but there is no rest for the submissive footrest - for my next customer is already in the process of taking up her seat above me. A petite Asian girl in her early twenties, Malaysian I would guess, modestly, if casually, dressed in a bright blue headscarf or ‘tudung’, a black anorak, dark blue denim jeans and thick, bright-blue towelling socks inside shiny black, plasticky-looking, slip-on loafers with a low heel.

The shoes and socks look clean (if a little wet), but cheap. The somewhat unflattering, thick ankle-socks also make the Malaysian mistress’s undoubtedly shapely ankles look rather fat and shapeless.

But I don’t care about that – for I simply adore feminine socks of all shapes and sizes; sneaker-length ‘footie’ style socks as favoured by mistress Mawusi; full ankle-length socks (such as these blue socks now being worn by the Malaysian girl); calf-length socks; knee-length socks; even thigh-length socks! Socks are the business – for they beautify a mistress’s feet, and there is no greater honour for a male, human footrest than to have a clear and uninterrupted view of the side of an Asian mistress’s thick, blue towelling sock inside her black, plastic, low-heeled, slip-on shoe whilst she is imperiously seated above him eating her lunch.

I couldn’t even begin to count the number of stitches, or indeed the creases, in the bright blue, almost luminous, thick towelling sock that now rests just inches from my footslave-face. It’s the sort of sweet, feminine sock, however, that a red-blooded footslave such as myself just wants to bury his face in. To feel its softness enveloping his nose. To inhale it. To nuzzle it. To suffocate in it.

For it is the blue towelling sock of a superior, young Asian woman – my female master and better – and I am not worthy to be in her superior sock’s presence.

Yet, here I am, not only privileged to be lying just inches away from the demure, young, Asian woman’s socked foot, but actually required by law to examine the sock in great detail, and then to provide feedback to my supervisory-mistress on my humble, footslavish observations.

As ever, however, I want more! I want to be this Malaysian girl’s public footslave – kissing the sides of her thick, blue towelling socks and shining her flat, plasticky, black shoes with my tongue in public. Yet again, I let my footslave imagination run away with me, and I can hear her giving me my orders in her cute Malaysian accent as I kneel at her feet in front of my public shoeshine-stand:

‘Ha! Ha! You a dirty slave!... You a dirty shoe-slave!... Husband say you shine my shoes or he come and beat you hard. Ha! Ha! … You make Puja shoes nice and shine for Puja husband…use face…wipe off dirt from side of Puja shoe with dirty, slave face…Ha! Ha! You not use tongue or mouth – only face! Ha! Ha! …and you make sure not touch side of Puja sock. You just a slave – you not worthy touch young, Malaysian woman sock with slave-face…Ha! Ha!... Puja better than you. Sock better than you. You a dirty foot-whore! Ha! Ha!...’

Of course this modest and morally upright young woman would never permit a public footslave to touch her inner foot garment. That would be much too intimate a gesture! A public footslave could only ever look at and admire her sock, but not touch it as he wiped clean her dirty shoe with the side of his footslave-face.

Rather like I am doing now – he could look and admire, but not touch!

Truly I love being a footrest in the Gynarchy! I could happily spend the rest of my life staring at and inhaling the side of this young woman’s sock whilst she totally ignores me under the restaurant table.

I am a footrest for the wicked – the female wicked, who shall never be held to account for their wickedness. For in the eyes of the Law they are doing, and can do, no wrong. In the glorious Gynarchy they are the Law, fully entitled to rest their dirty feet on me, and I am proud to be of humble footrest-service to them!

Anyway, you can get back to watching your football now, whilst I concentrate on watching my Malaysian mistress’s bright blue towelling sock! 

The End