The Laundryman
Chelsea had a wry smile on her pretty face as she checked the contents of her smelly carrier bag before leaving home – dirty socks; dirty nylons; dirty shoes, along with some other items of dirty washing. She really enjoyed her regular trips to the local launderette!
She checked her beautiful, soft, feminine features in the mirror and brushed her long, blonde hair one last time, before checking the weather outside the window. Still raining! She had better wrap up well; hooded anorak and ankle boots. It was only a short walk to the launderette, but still with plenty of potential for getting soaked if the rain came on heavy.
Mind you, it would have to get ridiculously heavy before she would even contemplate cancelling her trip to the launderette, and just wash her dirty clothes at home.
And so she headed out. She had an appointment with the laundryman.
……………………………………………………………………………………
The ‘laundryman’, or more accurately the ‘male laundry-slave’, for no-one in their right mind could really regard him as a ‘man’ in any meaningful sense of the word, was feeling quite down in the dumps. He hadn’t had a female customer in over 6 hours! A very slow day – not helped by the wet weather, no doubt!
He remained on his own, therefore – staring at the floor of the launderette. He had no choice but to stare at the floor of the launderette, since he was confined in a hole in the stone wall with only his head and shoulders protruding.
He was confined at washing-machine level – literally - since his head was sticking out from the wall at the exact same level as the door to the automatic washing machine which was situated immediately to his right. The ‘laundryman’ was, in effect, just another piece of equipment in the launderette – another cleaning machine; a human cleaning-machine.
It was all he ever did – clean dirty clothes; with his mouth.
Dirty female clothes – for he was imprisoned in a launderette in the Gynarchy, and was therefore a women’s laundry-slave. Other men were even prohibited from entering the launderette.
And if you wish to be even more specific, he was responsible for mouth-washing dirty, feminine hosiery and footwear only, as other more lofty, or even more intimate, items of feminine attire were considered above him – hence the automatic washing machines by his side. His role was to perform a pre-wash only – a pre-wash of superior young women’s dirty socks, stockings, tights and shoes. Nothing more and nothing less.
He loved his job, humiliating and degrading though it was. But he hated the long periods of boredom – periods like now, when there were no female customers to serve. Periods spent studying the launderette floor on which his female masters and betters walked.
Suddenly the bell on the launderette door tinkled, and in walked a familiar pair of black, block-heeled, square-toed, zip-up ankle boots beneath the frayed and wet hems of a pair of dark blue, denim, boot-cut jeans. His heart leapt with slavish anticipation – for they were the instantly recognisable jeans and boots of one of his regulars, the divine mistress Chelsea.
‘Hi, slave!’ she chirped happily as she pulled down her hood and walked confidently over towards him, carrier bag in hand.
‘Good afternoon, mistress Chelsea. God bless you, mistress Chelsea!’ responded the laundry-slave, with genuine enthusiasm and respect. The laundry-slave loved the familiar aroma and taste of mistress Chelsea’s hosiery and footwear, and knew he was in for a treat. For she really knows how to treat a dirty-laundry slave!
Like now, for example, as she imperiously stretches forward her right, ankle-booted foot for him to respectfully kiss before she takes up her seat on the wooden bench opposite him.
He lowers his lips to the square-shaped toe of her musty-smelling and damp-with-rain, black, leather ankle-boot. He can clearly see little traces of mud on the top and the side of the street-dirty boot. But he does not hesitate to kiss the female boot on one of the dirtiest parts; for he is dirt – and dirt is attracted to dirt.
No sooner has he withdrawn his dirty slave-lips from the toe of blonde mistress Chelsea’s right, leather boot, than her left boot replaces it below his permanently bowed and kneeling face.
Again he pays his humble, footslavish respect to the toe of his superior female customer’s boot. Both mistress and slave know it is a ritual that must be performed before they can get down to business. It is one of society’s unspoken rules – a male slave must always kiss the feet of his female master as soon as she enters his presence. It is a societal ritual set in stone – rather like the laundry-slave himself.
Once her feet have been duly kissed, mistress Chelsea sits herself down on the wooden bench directly in front of the laundry slave, both her freshly-kissed, ankle-booted feet now resting in front of her on the cold linoleum of the launderette floor directly beneath the laundryman’s confined and gormless face.
Thanks to her seated position, he can now catch just a glimpse of the tops of her red, cotton ankle socks inside her boots – red ankle socks with a fetching thin, white stripe dividing the elasticated top from the main body of the sock. He also observes some mud stains on the frayed hems of her dark blue, denim jeans. It really must be quite wet and muddy out on the suburban streets this afternoon.
He waits for the mistress to speak. A slave must never initiate conversation – only respond, respectfully and humbly, as and when appropriate, to the words of his female better.
And Chelsea was very much aware of her superiority over the dirty, male laundry-slave. After all, she was not the one imprisoned in a wall with her head sticking out just a few inches off the floor; she was not the one having to stare humbly and respectfully at the dirty boots of another human being - dirty, wet boots which only a few moments earlier she had been obliged to kiss; and she was not the one who was about to have to suck clean sweaty, dirty socks and nylons!
Ha! Ha! No wonder she despised him, and laughed at him, as she quite literally looked down on him:
‘Ha! Ha! How have you been today, slave? Have you had lots of nice dirty socks and tights to suck on?’ she asked him sarcastically.
Chelsea was being sarcastic because she could think of nothing worse than having to suck on lots of pairs of dirty, sweaty socks all day long. Surely his mouth must taste rotten inside!
His slave breath certainly stinks!
The laundryman-slave answered the blonde mistress’s kind and intelligent question:
‘Oh pray mistress Chelsea, if it pleases you mistress Chelsea, this slave regrets that he has not been blessed with many female customers today, if it so pleases you most kind and beautiful mistress Chelsea. Truly this slave is honoured and blessed that the mistress has chosen to visit him on such an inclement day! God bless you mistress Chelsea. Praise be to you mistress Chelsea.’
Goddess-mistress Chelsea (for that was how she now felt thanks to the sycophantic and gushing words of slave-speak praise and gratitude from the about-to-be-humiliated dork of a laundry-slave), partially unzipped her dark brown anorak, straightened her hood-tousled, blonde hair, and then snapped a pair of thin, white, rubbery surgical gloves onto her pretty, white hands :
‘Ha! Ha! Oh well, never mind slave! Let’s see what goodies I’ve brought for you to clean today, shall we?’
Chelsea already knew exactly what was in her carrier bag, of course. But she didn’t want to spoil the surprise for the humble laundry-slave. She was obviously, yet again, going to be the highlight of his miserable day – of his week, even.
And that gave her a terrific sense of power – of power over another, totally helpless, human-being who was kneeling expectantly at her feet, aching to serve her pretty, feminine feet and footwear.
That pathetic, male individual was indeed listening expectantly as he heard his blonde, female superior fumbling in the carrier bag above him. He truly hoped she had brought some stinky, dirty socks for him to suck clean as he preferred dirty socks to dirty nylons. He liked the way he could get a whole sock inside his mouth, and really savour the flavour of the whole sock at once – from top to toe!
The pathetic laundryman was not to be disappointed, for mistress Chelsea produced first a pair of dirty, pink and white, sports-style ankle socks from her carrier bag of footslave-goodies.
She laughed at the stink emanating from the socks – her socks; her stink:
‘Ha! Ha! Phew – I hope you have a strong stomach, slave – these pink and white sports socks are truly rancid! Ha! Ha! I wore them for two days in a row earlier this week when I was doing my early-morning jogs in the park! I’m afraid they need a really good wash – Ha! Ha!’
The laundryman-slave could smell the socks too – even before he could properly see them, for mistress Chelsea, the proud owner of the sweaty, pink and white sports socks, had not yet lowered them to his face. She was first straightening them in her rubber-gloved hands, in order to find the sweatiest, dirtiest parts - the parts she would soon place directly over his nose.
The laundryman sighed and took a deep, anticipatory breath:
‘Oh pray mistress. God bless you mistress Chelsea. This slave is truly honoured to be in the presence of your sweaty jogging-socks, if it so pleases you Goddess-mistress Chelsea.’
Goddess-mistress Chelsea laughs again, and then bends down to stretch the yellowy-brown, sweat-stained toe area of one of the crusty, pink and white sports-socks directly over the pathetic laundry-slave’s ugly, male nose:
‘Ha! Ha! Get a whiff of that, slave! Breathe it in! Hoover up the stink into your ugly, male nose! Ha! Ha!’
She stretches the stitching of the sock between her rubber-gloved fingers as she places it over his nostrils, in order to release even more of the ingrained stink.
The laundryman is now heady with young, blonde-woman sock-stink. He breathes in, audibly, through his nose, deliberately closing his mouth in order to ensure that his only intake of air is sock-contaminated.
It is truly a tart, rancid smell; a smell fit for a footslave.
Miss Chelsea laughs at the experienced laundry-slave’s involuntary, but instinctive, grimace and sigh of despondency. For she knows that, even though he likes it – he doesn’t like it all that much! No human-being possibly could!
Yet his likes or dislikes are neither here nor there. He is a slave – and has no choice. If mistress Chelsea wants him to sniff sock, then sniff sock he will!
‘Ha! Ha! Come on, slave - breathe in more deeply! I want to hear you gagging on the smell! Smell my dirty sock! Breathe it in! Don’t you like the smell of my dirty sock?’
He had to answer the mistress, of course:
‘Oh..p…pray…m…mistress…if it p…pleases you mistress…this slave is truly honoured and enamoured by the aroma of the m…mistress’ dirty, white sock…if it s…so...pleases you s...sweet and kind…m…mistress Chelsea…’ he spluttered and stammered in between inhaling the stinky sports-sock.
‘Pink and white!’ exclaimed mistress Chelsea, emphasising to the slave the delicious femininity of her sock.
Her laundryman-slave apologised immediately for his oversight. The sock was predominately white (and yellowy-brown in places – like the place that was now being stretched over his nose!), but it did indeed contain two fetching pink stripes along the cuff – so it was, as the female owner of the sock was quite correct to point out, a pink and white sock; not just a white sock!
‘Oh p…pray mistress…p…please forgive this insolent and ignorant slave,…m…mistress Ch…Chelsea! P...pink and white s…sock, mistress…if it pleases you..m…mistress Chelsea.’
‘That’s better, slave – always look at what you are sniffing, and concentrate on it!’
‘Y…yes m…mistress.’
M…m…mistress Chelsea was not a cruel girl, even if she had temporarily reduced the laundry-slave to a gibbering wreck through the sheer power of her female sock! She would forgive the slave his slip-up in describing her sock as pure white. But she would punish him if he made any more such mistakes.
Satisfied that he had suffered enough under the stench of her first pink and white sock, she placed it to one side on the floor beneath his face and held up her other, sweat-stained sweat-sock to his nose and face. This time she actually rubbed the yellowy, sweat-stained instep across his nostrils, again ordering him to breathe in, which he duly did through his now stinky nose.
The stink from the second, pink and white, sports sock was just as unpleasant as the stink from the first sock had been. He was aware that his whole face was beginning to smell of girl-sock, which somewhat embarrassed him. For he didn’t want his face to stink as well as his breath. Not in front of such a beautiful young, blonde woman.
One thing he did enjoy, however, was the sight of the sock as it was so graciously pulled across his face. The different hues in the brown and yellow sweat stains; the different sizes in the individual stitches of the sock – some being stretched by mistress Chelsea’s delicate, feminine fingers as she held it in her thin-rubber-gloved hands; others scrunched up together causing creases and folds in the material of the dirty, pink and white sock. And the flash of those two pink stripes on the cuff of the sock themselves added enormously to his pathetic, footslavish-pleasure, for they did remind him that mistress Chelsea was at heart a very girly-girl, despite her somewhat tomboyish attire today – jeans and an anorak!
The sock-sniffing laundryman just bet she would have been wearing matching pink and white jogging bottoms with sweet, feminine pink and white sports socks. He only wished he could sniff the hems of her dirty jogging bottoms too – although he recognised that such lofty attire was quite literally above him. He was a mere sock and shoe slave.
If he was very lucky, however, mistress Chelsea might just have brought her jogging sneakers with her in her carrier bag – the sneakers she would have been wearing with these stinky, pink and white sports socks. And what’s the betting they too would be pink and white?!
For now, however, he had to concentrate on the task in nose – that of humbly inhaling the aroma of mistress Chelsea’s dirty, stale inner footwear; her two day old, jogging socks!
She made him sniff the instep of her second sock for a further 15 minutes, so much was she enjoying his distress and discomfort. It was her prerogative – as a free woman in the Gynarchy.
And it was equally his duty, as an enslaved male in the Gynarchy.
It has to be said, mistress Chelsea was really being very kind to the laundryman – she was being cruel to be kind! For she didn’t have to let him smell that which he was about to suck clean. She was just a very sweet and kind-hearted young woman, who was prepared to take the time to ensure her laundry-slave experienced the full horror of her dirty hosiery – its smell as well as its taste. Not all mistresses would have been that considerate.
That was precisely why the laundryman liked and admired her so much!
But all good stinks must come to an end, and mistress Chelsea had not come to the launderette purely to indulge the laundryman with the stink of her dirty socks. She had come to have her dirty socks cleaned – cleaned inside his footslave-mouth, and so she proceeded to the next phase of his degradation and humiliation:
‘Ha! Ha! Open wide slave – it’s time for your mouth to taste female sock!’, and with that she shoved her right sock, toe-end first, into his gaping and expectant mouth.
The immediate sensation on his tongue was, not surprisingly, of salty, vinegary sweat – sweat from another human-being’s foot that was now trickling down his footslave-throat.
Where it belonged.
His automatic mouth-wash reflexes got to work, and he sucked assiduously on the sweet and sour, feminine sock, savouring its exotic, spicy juices and relishing the little balls of flavoursome, worn sock-lint as they came off the main body of the sock and rolled along the top of his footslave-tongue.
Truly there can be no greater honour for a slave than to feel his mistress’s sock lint coming off in his mouth. Bits of her dirty, worn sock will be going down into his very stomach! He is literally having to eat and swallow tiny, little bits of a superior, young, blonde woman’s dirty, pink and white sports sock!
It was a truly humbling thought!
And an amusing thought! Miss Chelsea laughed at him and mocked him :
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, sock-mouth! Suck on my nasty sock! Make it all nice and clean. Ha! Ha! Suck harder! Suck louder!’
Given that his mouth was now full of feminine sock he, of course, could not answer the mistress – other than to mumble his desire to obey. In such circumstances he would not be punished for mumbling, though in any other circumstances…
‘Ha! Ha! That’s enough, slave! Open up!’
Mistress Chelsea was a realist. She knew that no amount of sock-sucking could possibly hope to cleanse such a dirty sock of all its sweat and dirt stains. The laundryman was just meant to be the pre-wash!
She therefore extracted the now sodden-with-slave-saliva sock from the slave’s mouth with her rubber-gloved hands (she had donned the thin, rubber gloves to protect her superior fingers from his dirty saliva, not from her dirty socks), and shoved it unceremoniously into the drum of the neighbouring washing machine.
It as, after all, at the end of the day, only a humble foot-garment – a girl’s sock; hardly worthy of the slavish adulation afforded to it by the humble laundry-slave!
The mistress and the slave then repeated the pre-wash of her other equally dirty and stinky, pink and white sock. Same tastes; same sensations on the tongue. Same mocking laughter.
Then came the moment the slave had been hoping for. Mistress Chelsea teased him again as she extracted the second sock from his pre-wash mouth and chucked it into the adjacent washing-machine:
‘Mmm…I wonder whether I brought my sneakers with me for cleaning along with my sports socks? What do you think, slave? Did I remember to bring them? And, if so, would you like to give them a quick lick and a wipe with your tongue as well?’
It is, of course, a rhetorical question for a down-in-the-dirt, humble footslave, but even a mistress’s rhetorical questions require to be submissively and respectfully answered.
He did so more confidently now, having successfully sucked sock:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave would indeed be honoured to lick the dirt off the superior and most beautiful mistress’s dirty sneakers, should the mistress have brought along her dirty sneakers for such a purpose, if it so pleases you most sweet and kind mistress Chelsea.’
Sweet and kind mistress Chelsea smilingly pulls out a rather scruffy-looking, lace-up, pink and white sneaker from her carrier bag of delights – a sneaker to match the pink and white sports socks! Her following words of explanation hardly require to be uttered:
‘Ha! Ha! Lookie here, slaveboy – I have indeed brought my sneakers with me! The very same sneakers I was wearing with my pink and white jogging socks earlier in the week! How exciting for you! Would you truly like to give them a quick lick and a shine? Would you? Would you?’
She mockingly feigns the pathetic laundry-slave’s mounting excitement – his chance to lick the dirt from the treads in her jogging-sneakers! Chelsea really does know how to treat a slave!
The latter noticed how the elasticated tops of mistress Chelsea’s red and white ankle socks creased and folded ever so slightly beneath his protruding face inside the tops of her black, leather, zip-up ankle-boots as she again leaned forward in order, this time, to place the sole of her dirty pink and white sneaker just inches away from his lips and tongue.
However, the sole of the shoe was hovering tantalisingly just out of his tongue’s reach, for he, as yet, had not answered mistress Chelsea’s question. He had to beg for the dirty sneaker.
Fortunately, the experienced laundryman was good at begging:
‘Oh pray mistress Chelsea, if it pleases you most sweet and magnanimous mistress Chelsea, this slave would indeed be honoured to lick the dirt and debris from the sole of your dirty sneaker, if it would be so pleasing to you mistress Chelsea, and will do so with all the male humility and vigour he can muster, given the knowledge that this selfsame, feminine sneaker has graced one of the dirty, pink and white sports socks that has just been soaking inside his male-slave mouth, if you would be so kind all-powerful mistress Chelsea.’
Chelsea laughed. She hardly ever stopped laughing at the pathetic laundryman-slave during her trips to the launderette. That was why she enjoyed coming here so much!
‘Ha! Ha! Very well, slave…since you’ve asked me so nicely – eat my shoe dirt!’, and with that the beige, treaded sole of the dirty sneaker was shoved arrogantly onto his slave-lips, and his slave-tongue got to work.
Mistress Chelsea’s wont was always to direct the cleaning of her shoe-soles, and so her delicate, rubber-gloved index-finger was soon pointing impatiently to a particularly stubborn piece of dirt in one of the thick, beige treads of her pink and white sneaker:
‘Concentrate on this bit here, slave! Get that muddy stone out and swallow it! I want to see the bottom of that tread all nice and shiny and clean. You don’t expect me to have to jog with dirt stuck to my sneaker-treads, do you?’
The laundry-slave interrupted his furious sneaker-sole licking to respond to the mistress:
‘No, mistress Chelsea. Of course not, mistress Chelsea. God forbid such a thing, mistress Chelsea!’
He meant it. It would not be proper for a superior young woman to have to run with an irritating stone stuck in the tread of her running-sneaker. She might damage her precious foot and tear a ligament! And so he tongued frenziedly at the offending stone, even at the risk of tearing his own tongue – for that would be the lesser of two evils, just as he was the lesser of the two human-beings in the launderette, being male.
Thankfully the stone became loosened and, to mistress Chelsea’s whoops of delight, fell onto the launderette floor. She still picked it up and made him swallow it, however- for she firmly believed that any debris from the sole of her dirty sneaker belonged in the laundry-slave’s intestines.
The pink and white upper of the sneaker also, of course, required tongue-shining. Miss Chelsea wanted every last trace of dirt removed by tongue. And the same went for her other sneaker.
She could, of course, have placed both machine-washable, pink and white sneakers into the automatic washing-machine along with her dirty pink and white socks, after the slave had finished tongue-shining them. But she decided against it, as it would take them too long to dry, and she wanted to go jogging again later this evening – if the rain stopped!
And so she instead made the laundryman-slave not only lick the soles and uppers of her sneakers clean – but also suck the dirty, grey-white laces clean.
The whole jaw-aching process took about half an hour – which is why she enjoyed a bar of chocolate and a can of soda from the launderette’s snack machine whilst the slave relished the rubbery taste of her dirty sneakers and the salty flavour of her dirty, white shoelaces.
Chelsea wasn’t finished yet, however. He may have finished cleaning her jogging footwear, but he still had her work shoes and hosiery to attend to.
Chelsea worked as an air-stewardess for a major international airline, and her uniform consisted off a smart, navy blue jacket and skirt, white blouse, dark-coloured, sheer nylon, cuban-heeled, seamed stockings, and navy-blue court shoes with a two-inch heel.
She now produced from her carrier bag the dark nylon, seamed stockings with the reinforced heels, soles and toe areas – areas all riddled with stale, air-hostess footsweat!
Although his pathetic preference was ordinarily for socks, the laundry-slave did love to suck the sweat out of mistress Chelsea’s dark-coloured, uniform stockings. He knew what she did for a living, and the very thought that those sheer, nylon stockings had been protecting her soft, pale-white footflesh and swollen ankles at 30,000 feet filled him with a pathetic sense of footslavish pride as the crusty toe-ends soaked inside his footslave mouth.
Once again, of course, the owner of the dirty hosiery made him sniff and smell it before he was permitted to taste it – an even more pungent and sharp smell and taste than that of the dirty sports socks. For an air hostess, as we all know, is often on her feet for hours on end – walking up and down the aisle of the plane as she serves drinks and attends to the needs of her passengers. Her nylon stockings are bound to build up a sweat inside her petty, uniform shoes!
And so the laundryman was obliged to sniff and then suck on miss Chelsea’s nylon stockings – only the foot-ends of them, of course! It would be totally inappropriate for a mere footslave to get his nose or mouth on the upper parts of a young woman’s stockings! The upper parts of her nylon stockings beautify the parts of her upper legs, such as her calves and thighs, that are for the attentions of real men – of free men. Slave-men like him must concentrate on the mistress’s lower legs – strictly below her ankles. Her feet.
For that is where male slaves belong – at women’s feet.
And so he rolled the sweat-dampened, reinforced black, nylon soles of her dark, nylon stockings over his tongue, replacing the dampness of the stale sweat with the dampness of his stale saliva, and once again enjoying the feel of little, loose balls of nylon fluff coming off onto his slave tongue – though he was careful not to snag or ladder the delicate, feminine nylons on his teeth. Such wanton vandalism to a young woman’s stockings would be sure to earn a laundry-slave severe punishment!
Eventually, the dark-coloured, cuban-heeled, nylon stockings were removed from his mouth and placed alongside the dirty pink and white sports socks in the drum of the adjacent washing-machine. She then added her other dirty clothes, before slamming closed the door of the machine, adding some soap, and inserting some coins.
The automatic washing-machine started to whirr.
Meanwhile, next out of the carrier bag, came the two-inch heeled, navy blue courts – the air hostess’s uniform-shoes which had boldly gone were no laundry-slave’s mouth had ever been. He was always acutely conscious of the fact that as he licked the smooth, leather soles of miss Chelsea’s smart air-hostess shoes he was tasting something of the exotic places she had been to. Those shoes had walked down streets in faraway Australia; in the Indian subcontinent; in South America – for he knew that miss Chelsea worked on long haul flights.
She often boasted about the exotic destinations she had been to, and delighted in informing him exactly where he was tasting.
Today was to be no exception:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s Brazilian dirt on my soles today, slave. I just got back from Rio de Janeiro yesterday evening. Can you taste the Brazilian street-dirt, slave? Ha! Ha! Tell me, slave, does it taste any different from the Gynarchy-dirt on the soles of my sneakers?’
In the laundry-slave’s humble experience street-dirt tasted pretty much the same wherever it came from, but it was just thrilling to know that the dirt on the soles of miss Chelsea’s air-hostess, uniform-courts came from such exotic, faraway places. It was, after all, the closest he would ever get to them – since he would likely as not be imprisoned for life in this suburban launderette in the cold, northern Gynarchy.
He must answer the mistress’s polite question concerning the flavour of her shoe-dirt:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress Chelsea, this useless slave regrets that he is unable to detect any distinctive qualities in the flavour of the mistress’s shoe dust and dirt, if it so pleases you mistress. However he is truly honoured that the mistress has seen fit to carry such dust and dirt on the soles of her pretty, court shoes all the way from Brazil, just so that he may taste where the mistress has been, if it is so pleasing to you most sweet and generous mistress Chelsea.’
Sweet and generous miss Chelsea is moved by the slave’s humble acknowledgement of her generosity:
‘Ha! Ha!..Aww, you’re so cute, slave…here have another lick!’ and with that she holds the leather sole of her right shoe up close to his slave lips once again, this time making sure his tongue has unhindered access to the area around the two-inch heel at the back of the shoe as she knows full well that that is often where street dirt and dust can accumulate.
The navy blue, court shoes where then placed alongside the pink and white sneakers back inside her carrier bag, after, of course, they had been brought to a nice shine – both the soles and the uppers – by the laundryman’s ‘cute’ tongue.
Which only left the socks and boots she was currently wearing.
Not all mistresses who visit the launderette bother to remove the shoes and socks they are wearing for cleaning; but mistress Chelsea usually likes to do so. It seems such a waste of a laundry-footslave’s tongue and mouth not to have the socks you are wearing attended to!
She makes him begin by tongue-shining her boots first – while she is still wearing them. She likes the feel of a footslave’s tongue on her boots, and it gives her an even greater sense of female power and authority to have a manslave humbly lick her dirty boots whilst she is still wearing them, seated in front of him with her pretty, ankle-booted feet imperiously stretched out before her.
As he dutifully tongue-lathers her right ankle boot, the laundry slave can now see close up once more ,and in greater detail than before, the red and white elasticated top of her pretty, feminine ankle sock. The mainly red top of the brightly-coloured sock contrasts so sweetly with the soft, smooth whiteness of miss Chelsea’s bare leg. He even notices a loose, red stitch sticking up at the very top of her red sock, and starts to salivate at the thought of sucking on that loose stitch.
But the sock is a prize that must wait!
For now he must concentrate all his efforts on licking clean the air-stewardess’s off-duty ankle boots, and they do need a good lick – for the muddy rainwater has by now dried onto the soft, black leather of the boots, and, even though it is only local, Gynarchy mud (as opposed to Brazilian mud), it is nevertheless precious - for it is mud from the sides of a superior young woman’s boots; fit for a footslave!
Miss Chelsea kindly twists her booted foot around to enable the laundry-slave’s tongue to gain good purchase on each and every nook and cranny of her right, block-heeled, ankle boot, before repeating the process with her left boot. Even the zip-track must be licked out, for miss Chelsea likes no part of her boots to be left untouched by slave-tongue.
As she twists her boots around the laundry slave’s attentive face, he is now aching to get his lips on her red and white, ankle-length bootsocks, as they are creasing and folding enticingly inside her boots in reaction to her foot movements.
At last the order comes, though it is not quite what he had been expecting:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave, you may unzip my boots now and kiss the sides of my socks! But I don’t want you to take off my boots and socks today! My feet are too cold! Just respectfully kiss the sides of my socks. And straighten out any creases in my socks with your pointy nose!’
This is a new departure for the laundry slave. He had fully expected to be allowed to take off miss Chelsea’s boots, remove her socks with his teeth, and then have her shove her red and white bootsocks inside his mouth for washing just as he had already mouth-washed her pink and white sports socks and dark, cuban-heeled nylons.
But the weather had beaten him today – it was not to be. The mistress did not want to bare her feet on the cold floor of the launderette. No matter! The mistress’s decision is final, and at least the sweet and kind, high-flying, air-stewardess mistress was permitting the lowly, permanently-grounded laundry-slave to kiss the sides of her pretty, red and white bootsocks. A true honour and a privilege!
‘Yes mistress…As you wish mistress Chelsea. God bless you mistress Chelsea, this slave will be honoured to humbly kiss the sides of your socks, mistress Chelsea.’
He had to pull down the boot-zips with his teeth, of course, as his hands were confined in the hole in the wall along with the rest of his body. Only his face protruded.
But his face was all he needed to unzip female boot and kiss female sock. He moved his lips towards her right foot first, and skilfully pulled down the zip on the side of the stylish block-heeled, black leather ankle boot with his slave teeth.
‘Kiss each side of my sock 500 times, slave!’ demanded mistress Chelsea.
If there was one thing she liked more than the feel of a slave’s lips on her boots, it was the feel of a slave’s lips on her socks!
‘Yes mistress… at once mistress!’
The laundryman began by kissing the socked, inner anklebone of mistress Chelsea’s right foot, since she had kindly twisted her right foot outwards to give his lips easy access to her socked anklebone.
‘Make sure your lips don’t stray above the white stripe near the top of my sock, dirty slave!’
‘Yes mistress Chelsea. This slave obeys you mistress Chelsea.’
She sounded serious now. She was no longer playing the part of the bubbly, blonde girl. This was much too intimate a moment for jollity and laughter. She was having her socks kissed by a dirty, lowlife slave – whilst she was still wearing them!
The rain started to fall even more heavily outside, rattling against the large, front window of the launderette. Miss Chelsea decided, therefore, to stay a bit longer with the laundry-footslave, even after the automatic washing-machine had finished washing and spin-drying her pink and white sports socks and cuban-heeled nylons. With a wry smile still on her pretty face, she made the imprisoned laundryman kiss both sides of each of her red and white ankle socks a further 500 times, before finally allowing him to straighten the creases in her socks with his ‘pointy’ nose.
Just to kill time until the weather cleared!
The End
