The Ornamental Foot-kisser
I am an ornamental foot-kisser in the lobby of a plush hotel.
I am confined in a hole in the wall, with only my shoulders, neck and face protruding about 6 inches or so off the ground.
My face, neck and shoulders have been sprayed with indelible gold paint to match the décor of the opulent hotel around me, and, of course, in order to make me look ridiculous. To add to my humiliation, a gold-coloured, rubber bathing cap covers the top of my head, and a gold-plated metal footblock lies immediately beneath my protruding, golden face.
Female guests and staff in the hotel are welcome to place their foot on the gold-plated footblock at any time in order for the 'ornamental foot-kisser' to pay homage to their feet by respectfully kissing them.
Kissing female feet is all I am permitted to do: I may not lick female feet or shoes; I may not sniff female feet or shoes; I may not nuzzle female socks or stockings. I may only kiss female feet and shoes, and even then I must do so with the utmost of slavish respect for my female betters as they stand in front of me.
Thus I may not kiss female feet or shoes lasciviously, as a male lover might do, but courteously, with my lips having only fleeting contact with the feet or footwear of my superior, female ‘customers’ – my head repeatedly bobbing up and down in a respectful series of foot-kisses until such time as I have fulfilled the requisite number of slavish kisses, that number being pre-announced by the mistress concerned, or until such time as I am ordered to stop by the mistress, or the mistress simply withdraws her divine, feminine foot from the golden footblock beneath my face and nonchalantly walks away.
Amongst the female hotel staff I have been given the nickname of ‘The Golden Footboy’, but the official plaque on the wall above my head merely describes me, in big, gold-coloured lettering, as:
'The Ornamental foot-kisser',
and it cordially invites ‘all ladies to kindly present their feet for most humble and respectful kissing.’
I am, technically, on duty as a foot-kisser in the hotel lobby 24 hours a day, in the sense that throughout the night I can be awoken by any female, guest or staff member, who fancies having her feet kissed.
My first ‘customer’ of the day, however, is invariably miss Tatiana, one of the hotel receptionists, who clearly likes early shifts as she invariably starts work at 05:00 a.m.
Which means, effectively, that I do too – for it is miss Tatiana who must wake me each morning with a prod to my golden face from the toe of her shoe (assuming I have actually managed to get to sleep) in order to first have her East European feet kissed, and then to feed me my one meal a day of foul-tasting, but nutritional, slave gruel.
My humble respects to miss Tatiana’s feet, you will note, must always come first – before I am fed. That is the proper order of things.
Miss Tatiana is a beautiful, Russian girl, 23 years old, with long, blonde hair and a shapely figure. She is always dressed in her smart, hotel uniform consisting of a smart, navy blue trouser suit, complete with her name badge on her navy blue jacket, crisp, white blouse, black ballet flats and black ankle socks.
Her soft, black leather, ballet flats are therefore, ordinarily, the first thing I see every morning, as she kicks my sleepy, golden head off my gold-plated, metal pillow (which doubles up as the footblock), and then imperiously positions her right foot onto the block, hands on hips, arrogantly waiting for me to pay my footslavish respects to her corporate footwear.
Miss Tatiana is now so arrogant, she does not even need to verbally order me to kiss her foot in her cute, Russian accent. This is a daily morning routine we are now both completely familiar with: she places her right foot onto the footblock beneath my kneeling face, and I must kiss the toe of her soft, black leather ballet flat 20 times, my golden-bathing-cap-covered, rubbery head bobbing pathetically up and down each time I kiss her ballet-flat covered toes as she cocks her pretty, blonde head to one side in order to afford herself a better view of my lip marks on the toe of her soft, leather shoe.
She counts my humble foot-kisses silently to herself, and after the 20th kiss, withdraws her right foot from the gold-plated block beneath my face only to replace it with her equally shapely left foot.
I must then repeat the humble process of kissing the toe of her soft, black ballet flat 20 times.
I have to confess that I do like the feel of miss Tatiana’s soft, leather ballet-flats on my lips first thing in the morning. It is a gentle start to my foot-kissing day. And the sight of her nice and short, black ankle socks inside her ballet flats only adds to my pleasure. Sometimes the outstretched positioning of her foot even permits me to view the elasticated top of her short, black, sneaker-style ankle sock beneath the hem of her navy-blue trouser leg. I then have a clear and close-up view of the delicious contrast between the rich black of mistress Tatiana’s sock and the pale white of her ankle-bone skin. My only regret - the first of the day - is that I am not permitted to kiss miss Tatiana’s socks as well as her shoes.
Some mistresses do like to have their intimate, inner footwear kissed by the ornamental foot-kisser. They like the feel of a slave’s humble lips through the cotton material of their sock or the thin nylon of their stocking. They like the thought that the slave is having to kiss the bacteria from their feet which is on their hosiery, as well as the dirt on their outer footwear - be it shoe, sandal or boot leather.
But miss Tatiana is, regrettably, not one of those ladies – and the wishes and likes of the superior mistress must always be paramount. Woe betide me if I were ever to inadvertently allow my lips to stray onto a female sock or stocking without the express permission of the superior young woman who towers above me! The presumption must always be that I kiss shoe, sandal or boot – and only kiss sock, stocking or bare female foot with the explicit permission of the female owner of the sock, stocking or bare foot!
And so, I confine myself to just admiring close-up the elasticated top of mistress Tatiana’s black, below-the-ankle sock as I repeatedly kiss the soft, leather toe of her matching, black ballet-flat. I can feel her toes wriggling with pleasure underneath the soft, black leather and the soft, black sock in reaction to my humble foot-ministrations.
After 40 kisses in total to miss Tatiana’s early morning feet– and only after the full complement of 40 kisses – she withdraws her foot from the gold-plated footblock, and places my meagre, plastic bowl of slave-gruel where the dirty, dusty sole of her shoe has just been.
Even though it is foul-tasting and unappetising, I know I must endeavour to eat it all up – for I shall have nothing else to eat today. Unlike a public footslave out on the streets I cannot supplement my slave-gruel diet by licking and swallowing the mud off my female customer’s dirty shoes and boots. I can kiss their shoe and boot mud – yes; but not lick it. Taste it on my lips, but not savour it in my mouth. My job is not to clean or to tongue-polish ladies’ shoes. I am but an ornamental foot-kisser. I am merely trained to kiss feet!
‘Hurry up, you slave!
Mistress Tatiana is impatient. She has work to do. She wants me to eat up my humble breakfast quickly, so that she can take away the empty bowl and get to her main job on the hotel reception desk. I observe her right, ballet-flatted foot tapping impatiently on the floor in front of me, causing the material of her short, black, cotton sock inside her shoe to temporarily crease and fold in front of my still sleepy eyes, as I desperately try to swallow the foul-tasting and bitter mush that is my nutritional slave-gruel.
I don’t wish to sound ungrateful for my gruel, but already I can smell the aroma of cooked breakfasts being prepared by the chef in the nearby dining room. I often wish that miss Tatiana or one of he colleagues would, just occasionally, give me some leftovers from the restaurant. Even food that had been half-chewed and then spat out by a superior female guest would be nice just once – just as a special treat for my footslave-palate!
I do also envy those footslaves who do get to properly savour and swallow their mistresses’ shoe and boot dirt. Even street-dirt must surely taste better than this bitterly foul slave-gruel!
But mistress Tatiana doesn’t give a fig for my culinary tastes! As far as she is concerned I am just the hotel ornamental foot-kisser, who must be fed merely in order to sustain enough energy to kiss feminine feet. I can hear her tutting as she sees that I have still not finished my gruel.
She suddenly kicks the plastic bowl away anyway with the toe of her right ballet-flat. She thinks I must have had enough. My rumbling tummy suggests otherwise.
I only hope miss Tatiana has not hurt her dainty, feminine toes inside her soft-toed ballet-flat whilst kicking away my plastic bowl with her right foot. She appears to be okay, however, as she immediately picks up the half-finished bowl and turns swiftly on her shapely, socked heels towards the kitchen.
I am momentarily left alone with only the lingering, bitterly unpleasant taste of slave gruel in my slave mouth, and the lingering memory of miss Tatiana’s black shoes and black socks in my slave mind.
But not for long! Some hotel guests are already starting to check out, and one young lady in her mid to late twenties is gaily sauntering towards my golden footblock whilst her husband settles the bill at the hotel reception desk on the opposite side of the lobby.
She is petite, dark-skinned and dark-haired. Pakistani or Indian, I would say. Very pretty. She is wearing a smart, pinstriped trouser suit.
Her footwear is smart too. She walks up to my footblock and arrogantly places a shapely, black leather, block-heeled, zip-up ankle boot onto my gold-plated footblock. Simultaneously she raises up the hem of her pinstriped, boot-cut trouser leg – no doubt in order to show me the elasticated top of her bright, pink ankle length bootsock, just peeping over the top of her black, leather boot:
‘Be kissing the toe of my boot 25 times, dirty slave!’
She sounds more Pakistani than Indian.
I am not allowed to speak to my customers – not even in the most humble of humble slave-speak. That’s because I am but an ornament – a piece of the hotel furniture. A thing. A footkissing thing.
‘Silence is The Golden Footboy’, as the hotel receptionists sometimes like to quip!
I must let my kissing do the talking. And so I immediately, and obediently, lower my lips to the square-shaped toe of this young Pakistani woman’s stylish black, zip-up ankle boot. I kiss a crease in the leather directly over the toe area of her outstretched, black ankle boot, prior to raising my head up again as far as it will go – to her sock level – and then lowering my lips again for the second respectful kiss.
And so I repeat the process – 25 times.
So what do I know about this delightful and attractive young Pakistani woman whose boot leather I am now repeatedly kissing, apart from the fact that she is with her husband and is checking out of the hotel?
Well, I know that I have not had the privilege of serving her before now. It’s funny how some female guests will almost immediately avail themselves of the humble services of the ornamental foot-kisser just as soon as they have checked in, whilst others seem to wait until the very last moment of their stay. Some take photographs of my humiliation at their feet to show to their friends. Others ignore me completely and never use me, even though my foot-kissing services are completely free of charge! If my customers want to leave a tip, they give it to the charming female receptionists like miss Tatiana – for it is the receptionists who maintain the ornamental foot-kisser, feeding him his slave-gruel every morning.
What else do I know about my new Pakistani mistress? I know that she is my better, for she is female. And her husband too, is my better, for he is a free man. Maybe he isn’t even her husband; maybe he is her illicit lover; or even just a work colleague. But whatever their relationship may be, this Pakistani girl and her male companion are both my undoubted betters, for they are both free - free to walk around and go wherever they please. Whereas I am imprisoned in the hotel wall and obliged to kiss the free, walking feet of my female betters.
Indeed, the mistress’s boot itself, and her pink bootsock, are also my betters – for they too are not confined in the hotel lobby. They go wherever the Pakistani mistress goes. It is only right and proper, therefore, that I should pay my respects to the young Pakistani businesswoman’s footwear – by kissing her boot and, quite literally, looking up to her sock.
I do not have permission, of course, to kiss her sock – otherwise I would certainly kiss the top of her pink sock. It is creased slightly at the elasticated top – put on in a hurry perhaps? Pulled on over an unwashed and unshowered feminine Pakistani foot, given the young woman’s very early morning departure from the hotel? She surely cannot have had time to bathe her feet this morning – the feet I am now kissing?
But I am speculating now. I will never get to know the state of this smartly-dressed young Pakistani woman’s bare feet – for I am but her ornamental boot-kisser.
After 25 crisp, clean kisses to the toe of her right boot, she replaces it with her left on my golden footblock. Again – a flash of pink sock as she kindly hitches up her left trouser leg in order to afford my slave lips unencumbered access to her boot leather:
‘And the other one, dirty foot-pig!’
I suppose I must look like a pig to her – a golden pig. I can sense her utter contempt and disdain for me as I pay homage to her outer foot-garment.
I have only managed 15 kisses to the square toe of her left boot when her ‘husband’ calls over to her from the reception desk:
‘Mina darling, come along! We must hurry!’
My Pakistani goddess, whom I now know to be called ‘mistress Mina’, tuts down at me, clearly annoyed that I have failed to kiss her left boot the requisite number of times before she must leave:
‘Tch! Dirty, useless pig!’
She kicks me in the face with the square-shaped toe cap of her left, black leather boot – the boot I have slighted by not kissing it the full quota of 25 times - and storms off in righteous, feminine indignation into the loving arms of her male partner – a real man, whom she would never dream of requiring to kiss her boots. For she admires and respects her husband, every bit as much as I admire and respect mistress Mina’s boots and socks.
Good bye, mistress Mina. God bless you, mistress Mina. Thank you, goddess-mistress Mina! Pray forgive my foot-kissing tardiness, mistress Mina!
Oh if only I could speak to her – implore her forgiveness!
I am so fickle, however. Mistress Mina is soon a distant footkiss-memory as a cream-coloured, patent leather, low-heeled pump on white nylon stocking is suddenly placed beneath my kneeling nose onto the golden footblock.
I can tell instantly it is the, still shapely, foot and ankle of a slightly older woman than 20-something miss Mina – I would say this new shoe belongs to an attractive businesswoman in her mid to late thirties. I can tell that by the fetching blue veins just visible beneath the woman’s white, nylon stocking on the arch of her foot. Also by the fact that she is wearing a cream-coloured, knee-length skirt to match her smart pumps.
Definitely a middle-aged businesswoman!
As soon as she gives me her orders I realise also that she is oriental, probably Japanese:
‘Ha! Ha! Srave-o kiss-o shoe 50 times…kiss-o top and side of shoe…not touch stocking-o…Srave-o obey, or feerl whip-o!’
This is no idle threat from the esteemed Japanese mistress-guest. Guests can have me whipped at any time, by merely reporting me to Reception for inadequate service, impertinence or disobedience. (That’s why I was quite lucky that mistress Mina was having to leave in a hurry!)
I will, then, be taken temporarily out of my hole in the wall by one of the female receptionists, whipped, and placed back in the hole again.
But I am a good ornamental foot-kisser, as well as a lucky one. I haven’t needed to be whipped for over 5 years now – touch shoe!
And so I obediently lower my lips to duly touch the Japanese business-lady’s smart, low-heeled, cream-coloured, pump shoe.
She laughs at me, and mocks me, as well she might:
‘Ha! Ha! You a queer…Ha! Ha!...You kiss-o women-o feet!...Ha! Ha! You a Japanese-woman queer foot-kisser…Ha! Ha!’
I wish I could acknowledge the patent truth of the astute Japanese mistress’s words – but, as I indicated before, I am forbidden to speak. I therefore continue to kiss the lady’s low-heeled pump shoe, alternating as instructed by her between the toe area (or ‘the top’) and the sides of her shoe. The lady-guest even kindly twists her foot slightly to one side so that my lips may gain greater purchase on the inner side of her shiny, cream-coloured pump. As she does so, I observe the beginnings of a tiny ladder in her white, nylon stocking covering her shapely, outer ankle bone.
It’s just a small, but humiliating detail, that I thought was worth mentioning – for it indicates her nylon stockings are not brand new, and have been worn by her several times before.
As is her perfect right, the Japanese mistress decides when I reach my 50th kiss to her business-shoe that 50 humble kisses is not enough:
‘Ha! Ha! Srave-o not stop!...You kiss-o shoe more…50 times more! Srave obey!’
50 times more it is, for the whim of the mistress, especially a mistress who is not averse to having me whipped, is everything.
I end up kissing her left shoe 100 times also, before the smartly-dressed Japanese lady leaves me in a fit of mocking laughter – supremely pleased with herself at her skilful humiliation of the ornamental foot-kisser, and wishing that they had hotels like this in Japan!
By way of complete contrast my next mistress-customer is casually, almost scruffily dressed. She is also hot and tired, for she has evidently been travelling all night and is hoping to check into her room early. She has only come over to me because there is a bit of a queue at Reception where several people are now waiting to check out.
She is a young, brunette woman in her early twenties – a backpacker by the looks of it. We do sometimes get them in this posh hotel! I understand the hotel do special deals for members of various, female youth-hostelling associations.
This particular young mistress has quite scruffy footwear – plain, dirty-white, lace-up keds and matching plain, white ankle socks beneath the mud-stained hems of a pair of thick, black corduroy jeans.
I say ‘matching’ white socks, but the socks are actually much cleaner and whiter looking than the dirty, well-worn keds. There is even a small hole developing over the left hand corner of the toe area on her right ked-shoe – a small, frayed hole beneath which I can see a tiny expanse of crisp, white sock.
This backpacker-mistress says nothing as she plonks her heavy backpack down onto the ground beside me, and then plonks her dirty, scruffy sneakered foot down onto my nice, shiny, gold-plated footblock underneath my face.
Again, it is the perfect right of a mistress to say nothing to me. If she remains silent for 3 seconds, I must merely assume that I am to kiss the toe of her shoe, and to keep on kissing it until she either tells me to stop, or simply withdraws her superior, feminine foot from the footblock.
And so, I start to kiss.
I, of course, concentrate on kissing the area of ked with the hole in it – in the somewhat forlorn hope of surreptitiously feeling the white, cotton sock material underneath. But all I can feel is canvas ked – and the strong smell of musty, well-worn, rubbery-canvas shoe.
I have a pleasingly good view of the mistress’s upper sock too. It is full ankle-length, and somewhat creased and folded beneath the mud-splattered hem of her black corduroy trouser leg. The white ankle-sock, if truth be told, needs straightening inside the young woman’s shoe. But I am sadly not imbued with the requisite authority to straighten superior young women’s socks – nor do I have the skills to do so.
I am just an ornamental foot-kisser.
I am surprised that there are no traces of mud on the pure, white sock itself. The hem of her black corduroy jeans-leg obviously protected the sock from the dirt. I feel like kissing the muddy hem of her corduroy jean by way of thanking it for protecting the mistress’s precious and pure white sock – but, of course, I am not permitted to kiss trouser hems; not without the express permission of the mistress.
After some 5 kisses to her right, holey sneaker, the young, backpacker-mistress withdraws her right foot from the golden block under my nose and replaces it with her left, equally scruffy, but not yet holey, grey-white keds-style sneaker.
This time I concentrate on kissing a brownish-green, ingrained dirt stain on the rubbery front of the toe area. Definitely an old grass stain. I only wish it tasted of grass, for my mouth still contains the bitter aftertaste of my humble slave-gruel, and I would dearly love to have some greens to eat for a change!
The young lady, whose backpack is still resting on the floor beside my ornamental foot-kissing stand and whose contents I am beginning to smell (the smell of stale, sweaty clothes), suddenly deigns to speak to me:
‘Kiss the sock also?’
She has an Australian accent, her intonation characteristically rising at the end of her short sentence, making it sound like a question.
But I know it is a command. A command from a supremely self-confident young woman; self-confident enough to walk into a posh hotel with dirty scruffy sneakers and a smelly backpack!
I am, of course, overjoyed at her order. I always enjoy kissing soft, feminine sock. Such a contrast to the often harsh and tough leather I must feel under my lips – the leather of boot and shoe. Even soft, canvas keds, such as those being worn by this young Antipodean mistress, feel harsh on the lips compare to her creased, cotton sock.
I kiss the side of her sock – just above the ankle bone. Again - repeated, abrupt, respectful kisses. There must be no nosing or nuzzling of the sock. Such behaviour would be unbecoming in an ornamental foot-kisser, and punishable by the female whip!
The more I kiss the sock, the more convinced I am that the sock is clean on this young woman’s foot this morning, even if she has been travelling all night and her soft, bare foot underneath may be dirty, sweaty and unwashed. Perhaps her black corduroys didn’t protect her white socks from the mud after all? Perhaps she had to change into fresh socks when her old socks became just too muddy and dirty to wear with any degree of comfort inside her keds? Perhaps its her dirty old socks that I can smell inside her backpack?
If so, the hotel laundry-footslave is in for a treat, for he will doubtless have to mouthwash clean this Australian female-backpacker’s dirty, stinky white socks!
I’m just a little jealous!
The young woman’s left sock is suddenly, and without warning, withdrawn from my lips, as she replaces her left foot with her right once again on the gold-plated footblock beneath my gold-painted, ornamental face.
Really getting into my worship of her shoes and socks now, the Australian miss clarifies her orders in some detail this time:
‘Now kiss the side of my right sock? Kiss it 20 times? Kiss it 10 times on each side?’
I like that – clear, specific instructions, delivered in a no-nonsense manner.
I do like to know exactly where I kneel!
And so I obey the young backpacker-mistress, kissing her nice, fresh, clean white sock 10 times on each side of her shapely, right ankle, all the while admiring the aesthetic contrast between the snowy white of the fresh, cotton sock and the grey-white of her scruffy, keds sneaker with the hole in it.
I could have happily kissed that sock for the remainder of the day, but the queue for reception has evidently dissipated, and the young Aussie mistress suddenly withdraws her foot? Without so much as a by-your-leave? In order to check herself in?
I manage to have a bit of a break after this. I do get occasional breaks, of course – when there are no mistresses requiring my services. I am always on duty, but not always on active duty.
I tend to spend my downtime, however, thinking about the shoes and socks I have been kissing hitherto that day. Wondering where they are now. Are miss Tatiana’s black ballet flats and black, low-cut, sneaker style socks standing behind the Reception desk, dealing with the scruffy white keds and snowy white ankle socks of miss Australia? Sadly I can’t see that far.
And what about the Japanese businesswoman’s cream-coloured, low-heeled pumps and white, laddered stockings? Are they currently seated in the boardroom, making important investment decisions that could affect the financial well-being of thousands of free people?
And what about miss Mina’s black, zip-up, ankle boots and pink bootsocks? Are they already on the plane on their way back to Pakistan, her pretty, Asian feet swelling inside her equally pretty boots and socks?
My break from my foot-labour is short-lived as my next customer approaches my golden footblock. I immediately feel a sense of overwhelming frustration, for I have been caught somewhat unawares and have not had the opportunity to ‘size-up’ my new customer in the way that I would normally like to. All I can see is brown leather, zip up, pointy-toed and spike heeled, knee-length leather boot.
The boot is placed on my footblock with one, curt female word:
‘Sixty!’
The owner of the boot means ‘kiss my boot sixty times, slave!’ of course, but she can’t be bothered to say the whole sentence to me. And why should she? I mean, it’s not as if she can be expected to engage in a conversation with an ornament!
But my failure to observe her properly on her approach to my stand, and her curtness, are not the only causes of my frustration. No, the primary frustration is that the gold-plated chains around my neck which prevent me from raising up my ornamental footslave-head more than a few inches above the matching, gold-plated footblock, mean that I am unable to observe the top of her brown, leather boot. This, in turn, means that I am unable to see whether the mistress is wearing any hosiery inside her boots, nor can I see the colour of her skin.
She is obviously very tall, and, difficult though it is to tell from just a one-word utterance, I somehow sense that she is black. There was an ever so slight Caribbean twang to her accent. Her voice also sounded fairly young – as in late twenties or early thirties.
But, of course, her racial origins, and her age, are not particularly important. All grown-up women - of all races, creeds and colours - are my superiors. What’s really frustrating me is that, whilst I know it is more than likely that the mistress is wearing either dark nylon tights or dark nylon stockings inside her boots, there is just a slither of a chance that she may be wearing knee-length socks inside her boots, with the merest slither of knee length bootsock just visible at the tops of her boots!
For me, there is no nicer sight on earth than the elasticated top of a knee-length bootsock inside a feminine, knee-length boot. I like to imagine that this particular, young black mistress may be wearing dark, navy-blue bootsocks insider her dark brown knee-length boots, for I find such a combination truly exciting!
But, frustratingly, due to my daydreaming as the Caribbean mistress approached my ornamental foot-kissing stand, I shall never know – not unless the tall, black mistress suddenly orders me to pull down the zip on the side of her brown, leather boot with my teeth and then to kiss the entire length of her sock inside her boot.
Such a glorious thing actually happened to me, you see, on this very spot many years ago! I still dream about that moment, and the Korean mistress who bestowed such an unbelievable privilege upon me – that of kissing her dark blue, knee-length bootsock inside her dark brown, knee-length boot! Whenever I see a similar pair of brown, zip-up, knee length boots, the footslave-memories come flooding back and my imagination runs riot again!
But I must control my emotions! This is not the same mistress as the indulgent Korean mistress; she has not ordered me to unzip the side of her boot; and for all I know she is not wearing any hosiery at all inside her boots. She could be barefoot inside them!
I must just concentrate on the task in mouth – and kiss the outside of her brown, leather knee-length boot 60 times, as I have been commanded to do.
Generally, when a mistress gives you license to kiss her boot that many times, she expects you to kiss the boot all over – not just on the toe area, but the heel, the side, the arch, the instep, the upper (as far as my lips can stretch) - even the sole.
My lips, therefore, are soon experiencing several different textures of black-female brown boot-leather – from the ribbed stitching of the sole to the creases and folds in the leather of the upper; even the felt and plastic track of the zip area, although the metal of the dangling zip at the top of the mistress’s boot is beyond the reach of my humble mouth.
Besides, she is wearing a demure and modest calf-length, grey-tweed skirt, which covers the top of her knee-length boot. Absolutely no chance of seeing her leg above the top of her boot – bare or otherwise.
How utterly frustrating! I could kick myself, rather like misses Tatiana and Mina have already kicked me this morning.
Still, at least I am getting to spend plenty of time kissing the superior, and demurely dressed, black mistress’s expensive-looking boots, for she repeats her curt, Caribbean command of ‘sixty’ just as soon as she replaces her right foot with her left atop my golden footblock.
These are recently polished boots. I can smell the fresh, brown boot polish and even feel it coming off on my lips. I wonder who polished them for her? A public shoeshine-slave? Or her personal slave?
I wish I could finish them off with a quick lick-polish!
But…you know the score by now: I am but a humble ornamental foot-kisser! I can kiss, but not lick.
And so I continue to kiss female feet, many female feet – clad in all kinds of feminine footwear - throughout the day.
At about 6:00 pm I am once again confronted by the Russian receptionist miss Tatiana’s soft, black ballet flats and short, black cotton socks. She is finishing her long shift, and always stops to have me pay my respects to her shoes at the end of a hard day’s work standing behind the hotel reception desk.
This time, I notice, as I kiss the toe of her left ballet flat 20 times, a thin, white piece of fluff stuck to the top of her left sock – just above the rounded toe area of her pretty, black ballet flat. I’m sure that piece of white fluff wasn’t there this morning, so where has it come from?
I suppose it is just part of the detritus of the day. Mistress Tatiana’s socks will inevitably be a bit dirtier, and dustier, and sweatier than they were first thing this morning – for she has been working on her feet all day! That tiny, white foreign object stuck to the top of her sock just serves to remind me what a privilege it is for me to kiss miss Tatiana’s feet at the beginning and end of her working day. To compare and contrast the state of her superior footwear before she starts work and after she finishes work.
I only wish I was permitted to sniff her socks inside her shoes, to compare and contrast the smells as well as the sight of her socked feet. But alas, when it comes to mistress Tatiana’s short, black sneaker-socks, I can look and admire, but never touch, kiss, lick or smell.
She regards me as unworthy to kiss her socks.
And correctly so. I really am lucky that I get to serve the socks of so many indulgent mistresses, like the Australian backpacker-mistress earlier today who gave me express permission to kiss the sides of her white ankle socks; or, indeed, the Korean mistress all those years ago whose name, I must confess, I have forgotten, but whose knee-length navy blue bootsocks I shall never forget as she too honoured me with the feel of her socks on my slave-lips. For it is such sweet and kind indulgent young women who make my pathetic existence worth while. I do not deserve them or their socks, just as I do not deserve mistress Tatiana and even the mere close-up view of her short, black ankle-socks.
Having said that, following miss Tatiana’s departure, I don’t get to observe, let alone kiss, any more female socks until just before midnight, when a ‘lady of the night’ arrives in the hotel along with her much older ‘boyfriend’
The couple are evidently quite drunk. Even from my lowly, floor-level position I can smell the drink on their breath.
Having checked into the hotel, the man and the woman both come over to my ornamental foot-kisser stand. The woman, whom I would guess to be in her mid thirties, is wearing a short, white, furry thigh-length coat; a short, white leather miniskirt; and plain, white ankle socks, turned over at the cuffs, with a pair of strappy, high-heeled, shiny blue, plasticky-looking sandals. Her white legs look quite skinny and pale, and I notice that she has one or two red scabs on her calves just above the tops of her ankle socks.
She looks the business, given the business that she is in!
The drunken prostitute and her elderly, male client are clearly both highly amused at the sight of me.
The elderly man is the first to comment:
‘Ha! Ha! Look over here honey – look at the gold-coloured foot-kisser! Ha! Ha! Look at his rubbery, gold head, and his goldy-looking face! Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a cretin! What a numbskull!’
The lady of the night is just giggling and laughing, whilst cuddling up to her elderly client. He must have booked her as his escort for the entire night. I notice how her right, socked and sandalled foot rises up coquettishly behind her in the air as she kisses her client on the side of his cheek.
Emboldened by his beloved’s approval of his mocking words, he continues to demonstrate his elderly machismo to his sweet, much younger, female companion:
‘Ha! Ha! Why don’t you make him kiss your feet, honey?…Ha! Ha! Make him kiss your pretty, white socks and your blue sandals!’
The elderly man then belches.
The prostitute giggles and responds to her paying client’s wishes:
‘Ha! Ha! Okay, sweetheart…whatever you say!’
She then somewhat unsteadily steps up to my footblock, pushes her short, fur coat back and places both her hands imperiously on the side of her scrawny, white-miniskirted hips, before extending her long, pasty-white and pock-marked, right leg onto my golden footblock - her white, ankle length cuff-sock and sparkly- blue, strappy, high-heeled sandal now resting just inches from my face.
I immediately notice that, this close-up, the white ankle sock, in complete and obvious contrast to the white ankle sock of the Australian backpacker mistress this morning, is not as pure and white as it perhaps should be. It is dusty and grey in parts – no doubt from walking the streets all evening before she was picked up by her elderly, male client.
Nevertheless, I am overwhelmed with a sense of awe and respect for this superior young woman and her white ankle sock – for she is my undeniable better, being female. And her white sock, dirty though it may be, is the very essence of femininity. Even the stitching follows a flowery, feminine pattern.
Her right foot wobbles on its strappy, blue high heel for a few seconds before the superior female-of-the-night slurs her orders down at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Kissh my white sock, golden-boy!...kissh it 100 times!...kissh it on the toe. Ha! Ha!’
I look at the reinforced stitching of the toe area. I’m sure I can detect scarlet-painted toenails underneath the white sock, although I can’t be sure.
The man chips in with his words of drunken encouragement:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, honey…(belch)… make him kiss your dirty, white sock ! Ha! Ha! Make him kiss it all over…make him kiss the top of your sock as well as the toe…Ha! Ha! We can make him do anything we like…He’s just our gold-faced, sock-kissing slaveboy! Ha! Ha!’
If truth be told, I would dearly love to kiss the folded-over cuff at the top of the superior, young woman’s dirty-white ankle sock. It is somewhat creased on the cuff, and I’m sure it would feel nice and soft on my lips. But the mistress of the sock has only ordered me to kiss the toe area of her sock, whatever her ‘boyfriend’ may desire, and so I must start there, at least until the lady herself orders me to kiss her elsewhere on her dirty, white sock.
And so it is her hard, painted toenails, rather than her soft, white, pockmarked footskin, that I can feel on my lips through her sock as I begin to kiss her white-socked toes.
She giggles at the feel of my repeated kisses to her toes. I wonder if she is particularly ticklish.
Or just pickled!
‘Ha! Ha! Good boy…Ha! Ha! That’s right…kissh my little sockie-wockie, slaveboy!’ she exhorts.
I am, of course, not a ‘boy’. I am 40 years old - older than her, though much younger than her ‘boyfriend’!
The latter seems to be quickly getting bored now with the sight of ‘golden-boy’ kissing his female companion’s feet:
‘Ha! Ha!... C’mon honey…let’s go up to our room…I’m feelin’ hungry now, if you know what I mean?’
I think I know what the man means. He is hungry for sex! And so, it seems, is his female partner, for, after I have managed to kiss her foot just 12 times out of the 100 she originally ordered, her right foot is unceremoniously withdrawn from my golden footblock as she staggers off, arm in arm with her elderly male friend, leaving only the memory of the reinforced toe area of her dirty white sock on my lips.
I never did get to pay my respects to the cuffed top of her sock!
I am left feeling very bereft and lonely. If only I could afford a mistress like that! Still, at least I have plenty to fantasise about as I start to drift off to sleep, my head resting once again on my gold-plated pillow-cum-footblock – the footblock where so many precious, female feet have once again been placed, including the socked and sandalled feet of the superior female prostitute it has just been my privilege to serve.
I wonder where her white socks are now? Lying on the floor in the corner of the hotel bedroom, no doubt, all crumpled up whilst she and her partner make love in the comfortable, warm bed…..
I drift off to sleep dreaming not about making love, but about sniffing dirty, white, discarded ankle-socks.
The End
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