The Scratching-Post
Not all public footslaves need to be proficient in the delicate art of tongue-shining a lady’s shoes or boots.
Some substandard footslaves, like me, are deemed to be incapable of such privileged and highly-skilled work, and are relegated to much simpler tasks. We sometimes like to fool ourselves that we are more ‘specialist’ footslaves – but we are, in reality, just unskilled, dumb-ass footslaves who are simply too stupid to serve a lady’s feet or footwear with any degree of competence.
Therefore we tend to be employed as ladies’ public sock-sniffers; or as public doormats on which ladies can simply wipe their dirty feet; or as bootscrapers in the countryside; or even as ornamental foot-kissers in plush hotel foyers.
Or, like me, as public ‘scratching-posts’!
Yes, I am nothing but a humble scratching-post for ladies with itchy feet. Literally itchy, that is – not figuratively itchy!
Although I am designated for the use of the female public, I am confined in an unmarked, private cubicle discreetly situated just off the town square. I suppose my cubicle has to be private and unmarked, as it might otherwise be somewhat embarrassing for a female customer to admit to having itchy feet in public. After all, the causes of itchy feet can be many and varied, but could indicate an embarrassing underlying, medical problem for the lady – such as unsightly, varicose veins; or dry skin; or a foot-rash of some kind; or even a fungal, foot infection. I can fully understand, therefore, why a lady would want some privacy when making use of a ‘public’ footslave-scratching-post.
Be that as it may, I must provide a useful service for the female citizens of the Gynarchy, for they all make use of me from time to time!
I am kept permanently confined on my back beneath the floor of the cubicle, with only my face visible. My face and head are tilted slightly upwards at an angle from the floor of the cubicle, so that my face becomes, in effect, an angled resting block for the lady’s feet as she sits on a chair in front of me. My footslave-mouth is permanently blocked by a wooden gag which has lots of little wooden studs on it – and this is what my superior, female customers use to scratch their feet or ankles on.
Typically, therefore, a lady’s heel will be resting on my chin, whilst she runs the sole or perhaps the ball of her pretty, soft, feminine foot up and down the tiny wooden studs on my mouth-gag, thereby relieving her itch. Or, if her annoying itch is on the side of her ankle she will twist her foot around so that she can rub her ankle-bone up and down my studded, wooden ball-gag, affording me a delightfully close up and personal view of her shapely ankle and lower calf muscles as she does so.
Of course, being gagged, I have to breathe through my nose, meaning that the air I breathe in is often somewhat stinky - given that my face is so intimately close to my female customers’ itchy feet. Furthermore, if the lady is scratching her bare foot on my face it is likely that some of the dead, dry skin from her foot will fall onto my upturned face.
Even if she is keeping her socks or nylon stockings on whilst she scratches her foot-itch, I can expect little bits of fluff and lint to fall from her hosiery onto my upturned, facial features whilst she scratches. I regard this as no less of an honour than receiving her dead foot-skin on my face, for both the lady’s foot and her footwear are my superiors and betters.
I deal with a wide variety of customers during the average day. Take my customers this morning, for example:
The black businesswoman with bare feet in high heels
My first customer of the day was a busy, commuting businesswoman of Afro-Caribbean origins. She was smartly dressed in a black, pinstriped trouser suit and white, frilly blouse, with high-heeled, pointy-toed, shiny, black leather pumps on her stunningly beautiful, bare, black feet.
It was obvious to me as soon as she entered my cubicle and plonked her black, leather briefcase down on the floor beside the chair that she was in a bit of a hurry – probably on her way to some important business meeting or other.
But when a girl’s gotta scratch, a girl’s gotta scratch!
The black mistress, whom I noticed was wearing spectacles and looked very imposing and intelligent – a company director of some sort I would venture to suggest, even though she can’t be any more than about 30 years old – quickly, and rather unceremoniously, kicked off her right shoe and sat down in the chair above my reclining, wooden-ball-gagged face.
She kept her left shoe on – so clearly her itchy discomfort was only affecting her right foot.
She then promptly placed her bare, black, right foot down on top of my face, resting the ball of her heel on my chin.
I should explain that I am shaved everyday, first thing in the morning, by my female minder, miss Angelica (who also feeds me first thing every morning) so that my customers’ soft and delicate, female feet are not tickled by an ugly, male beard – something which would obviously irritate their already itchy feet even further!
One equally happy consequence for me of the smoothness of my freshly-shaved face is that I can feel the texture of a lady’s foot in intimate detail when it is resting on my face. The first thing I noticed about this particular black businesswoman’s foot was the flaky, dry skin on the base of her heel. Indeed, I wondered, initially, if it was the dry and chapped skin on the back of her pretty heel that was causing her problems. But as she began rubbing the wrinkly, soft sole of her black foot up and down my face it soon became apparent that it was the ball of her delicate, feminine foot that was itching.
Few of my female customers ever bother to speak to me, of course. Why would they? I am, after all, incapable of responding - thanks to my wooden ball-gag - and there is nothing I could do in any case to assist them with their foot-scratching. My head and face are completely immobilized, and, I’m afraid, the lady herself must do all the work. There is no point, even, in the lady barking down her commands at me. There is nothing I can do except lie there!
I’m sure that’s why we human scratching-posts are regarded with such justifiable contempt by womankind – we are completely without talent or skill; just objects confined in the ground for them to scratch their superior, feminine feet on.
I can feel some delicate, feminine foot-moisture coming off the black business-manageress’s foot and onto my face, and an accompanying, cheesy aroma is yet another tell-tale sign that this particular lady’s feet are already beginning to sweat inside her posh, business-lady’s high-heels – even this early in the morning.
I’m no medical expert or podiatrist, but I do wonder whether it is quite simply the fact that her feet are sweating inside her uncomfortable, if stylish, shoes that is making her foot itch?
Then again, she doesn’t seem to have a problem with her left foot. That particular high-heeled shoe appears to be staying well and truly on!
I can hear and see the black lady closing her eyes beneath her glasses and sighing contentedly as the short wooden studs on the top of my ball-gag are clearly relieving the itch on the ball of her soft, black foot. It is, I have to say, quite a large, broad foot – but then she is quite a tall lady. All my customers seem to tower above me as they sit on the chair above me, but this black lady is very tall and athletic-looking.
It is nonetheless a very shapely, feminine foot, and it is at times like this that I only wish my mouth was free of my wooden ball-gag so that I could invite the superior, black mistress to insert her pretty, red-painted toenails into my slave-mouth for some additional cleaning and soothing. What an honour that would be – to actually taste and swallow this strong and powerful, black businesswoman’s sweaty toe jam from underneath her red-painted toenails!
But I shall never be given such an inestimable honour. A human scratching-post has no prospects of any career development! I am not in a position to develop any toe-sucking skills even if I wanted to – for my slave-mouth is permanently gagged (I am fed through my nose!)
The black business lady only stays for about 2 minutes or so, and then, as quickly as she had entered my public, foot-scratching booth, she slips her right shoe back on and exits the cubicle – leaving my face faintly tainted with the aroma of her delicate, early-morning foot odour, and one or two flakes of her dead heel-skin resting in the dimple of my chin.
Glad to have been of service, ma’am!
The traditional Pakistani wife with flesh-coloured nylons
Next up is a young Pakistani woman, in her mid twenties, accompanied by her Pakistani husband who looks to be of a similar age. Although my services – like all footslave-services in the Gynarchy – are strictly for women only, it is not unusual for free men to accompany their female partners into the cubicle – just so that they can enjoy seeing a humble slave-man humiliated and degraded at their girlfriends’ or wives’ feet!
The men normally just stand to one side of the cubicle and laugh at me.
The beautiful and svelte young Pakistani woman has long, straight, dark hair and is dressed in a colourful, traditional ‘salwar kameez’ outfit consisting of a gold-embroidered, bright red top and matching red and gold coloured trousers, the elasticated hems of which come down just as far as the tops of her shapely, Pakistani ankle bones. On her pretty, Pakistani feet she is wearing a pair of flat, brown, open-toed, strappy sandals.
The open-toed sandals also enable me to quickly establish that the young Pakistani woman is wearing nylon stockings of some description underneath her salwar kameez trousers - for her pretty, unvarnished toenails are just visible beneath the reinforced stitching of some flesh-coloured nylon.
Now, obviously, I have no way of knowing whether the young woman is wearing full-length tights, thigh-length stockings, or knee-length nylon pop-socks underneath her exotic, elasticated, salwar kameez trousers – but I do know that it is unlikely the young woman will be divesting herself of her nylon hosiery whilst in my booth. Ladies often remove their thick cotton or woollen, ankle length socks when having their itchy feet scratched, but for the most part a lady has no need to denude her feet of thin, nylon stockings in order to reap the full, palliative benefits of the little wooden studs on my wooden mouth-gag.
Sure enough, the cruelly-smiling, young Pakistani woman, now seated in the chair above and in front of me, leans down to unbuckle the straps on her sandals – both of them - and her nylon-stockinged right foot is soon resting on my upturned face.
A much smaller foot than that of my previous female customer, but it nonetheless still dominates my footslave-senses, as the underside of her nylon-reinforced toes rest directly over my eyes whilst her reinforced nylon heel rests on my chin, no doubt pushing the tiny flakes of dead heel-skin from my previous customer’s feet even deeper into my own, living and breathing skin-pores.
There is a very definite whiff of sweet, feminine foot-odour this time. It is, I believe, quite a warm day outside, and I do wonder why this young Pakistani woman is bothering to wear any nylons on her pretty feet today. Perhaps it is still cold compared to the heat she is accustomed to in Pakistan?
Not that it’s any of my business. If the superior young woman chooses to wear nylon stockings on her pretty feet – then so be it! I must respect and admire her feet whatever they are clad in. That’s the law!
Her husband is speaking to his pretty young wife in Urdu, and laughing excitedly. It sounds like they are both laughing at me, and the husband is directing his lovely young wife in what to do! Is he aware of her intimate foot-itch problem? Has she confided in him exactly where her foot is itching?
Or have this couple just entered my cubicle with the sole (if you’ll forgive the pun) intention of humiliating me beneath the young woman’s stinky, sweaty, nylon-covered feet?
Actually, the young Pakistani woman appears to be concentrating on rubbing her nylon-stockinged instep up and down my ball-gag, and she does appear to be finding the whole experience quite pleasurable – given her sighing and cooing to her husband in Urdu.
It is certainly a not unpleasurable experience for me too – despite the smell – for my eyes are now regaled by the sight of lots of tiny creases and folds in the flesh-coloured, nylon material of the young Pakistani woman’s stocking, all along her instep and the arch of her pretty foot.
Of course, seeing the wrinkles in the bare skin of a lady’s foot – such as those in my previous, black customer’s right foot – is even more exciting than seeing the wrinkles and creases in a fine-denier nylon stocking! But the mere fact that this young, Pakistani woman’s sweaty, creased, nylon-stockinged foot is actually resting imperiously on my gormless, upturned face whilst she derives pleasure from rubbing her foot up and down my mouth, fills me with a pathetic sense of footslavish pride!
It’s perhaps just as well I am gagged, for if I were not I might be tempted to enquire of the young man who is standing watching his wife as she scratches her stockinged instep on my face , wether he is not, in fact, jealous of my proximity to his darling wife’s pretty, nylon-covered foot? Does he too not yearn to observe the tiny creases and folds in her nylon-stockinged ankle, and does he not wish that his own, male nostrils were filled with the scent of her warm, feminine footsweat?
Apparently he does not – for, even though I can’t speak a word of Urdu – it is clear from the mocking tone of his laughter that he despises me every bit as much as his young wife with the itchy instep does!
Or should that be insteps – for the young woman is soon replacing the sole of her right, stockinged foot with her left on top of my pathetic, footslave face. This time I can actually see the beginnings of a small ladder in the sole of her left, flesh-coloured stocking. I feel honoured and privileged to see such a thing – for not only does the stretched and thinning stitching of the small ladder afford me the tiniest glimpse of the young Pakistani woman’s bare, brown footflesh underneath; I am also aware that I am observing something no other human being in the world is even aware of at the present time, not even the wearer of the nylon stocking herself – a tiny ladder in the stitching on the sole of a beautiful, young Pakistani woman’s nylon-stockinged foot!
What a sight for a humble footslave’s sore eyes!
The gold-embroidered, elasticated hem of her bright red salwar kameez trouser leg flaps and moves around the top of her shapely, nylon-stockinged ankle as the young woman once again rubs her pretty, Pakistani instep over my wooden-studded ball-gag.
I find myself wishing I could warn her not to rub the area of stocking containing the ladder over the wooden studs, lest they tear her delicate, nylon stocking even further. But, of course, as you already know, I can’t speak. I can only observe, feel and smell the underside of the young Pakistani woman’s glorious, nylon-stockinged foot. I am not at liberty even to kiss it.
When she has finally finished rubbing her feet on me, she (encouraged, I’m guessing, by her husband) leans over my face, purses up her pretty, Pakistani lips, and spits on me.
Always a blessing – though it is probably not meant to be – as it helps to wash my face of the customer’s stale footsweat, meaning that my face is relatively clean for my next female customer’s foot (once the spit has dried into my face, of course!)
The blonde with black ankle boots and stripy-coloured sneaker socks
Speaking of which, my face is next regaled by the heavy, thick-treaded, muddy sole of a block-heeled, square-toed, black leather, zip-up ankle boot belonging to a young blonde woman in her early twenties with a severe ponytail. She is wearing dark blue denim jeans and a light grey hoodie along with her black ankle boots, and has some books tucked under her arm. She looks to be a scruffy student of some sort.
She is resting her right boot on my face in order to reach down and undo the zipper on the side of her boot. Many women do this before they take off their footwear as my upturned face is tilted at just the right angle to act as a footrest whilst one is divesting oneself of one’s outer footwear.
I do wish, however, that my previous Pakistani customer had visited me after, rather than before, this blonde-ponytailed girl, as her Pakistani spit could have then been put to even better use wiping the blonde girl’s filthy boot mud off my face!
The soles of this girl’s boots are truly filthy! She must have been walking around the gardens of her college campus, or something, for I have rarely seen such a muddy and unkempt pair of ankle boots.
However, the state of her boots is no business of mine. This young woman has not entered my cubicle in order to have her boots licked clean. There is a skilled public bootlick outside in the town square to take care of her boots, free of charge – should she so desire it!
No, this young woman must have an itch that needs scratching – a foot itch. All I am waiting for now is to see whether she takes off her sock.
And what a sock it is! A beautiful, brightly-coloured, rainbow-striped, sneaker-style sock – much too short, in my humble, footslavish opinion, to be worn inside an ankle boot – but truly delightful to look at nonetheless as it shows off and accentuates the sheer shapeliness of the blonde-ponytailed student-girl’s fully exposed ankle bone.
To my delight the sock stays on – and almost as soon as her socked foot is out of her hot, warm ankle boot I can see why she has no need to remove her deliciously short sock: the poor girl has an itchy, red sore on the side of her right ankle bone. That is what my mouth shall be scratching!
Sure enough, the young woman twists her outer ankle bone around so that it is directly over my face. She even stands up slightly out of her chair to ensure that her itchy ankle bone gets good purchase on my wooden-studded ball-gag. I watch enthralled as the pretty, young, blonde-ponytailed woman screws up her face in relief as she then rubs her sore and itchy, bare, white ankle bone up and down my ball-gagged mouth.
Meanwhile her multicoloured, stripy sock is, of course, dominating the rest of my face. I can see little black balls of cotton sock lint, white pieces of fluff, and even one or two tiny, blonde hairs stuck to the bottom of her well-worn, stripy sock. I try my best not to be too distracted by all this detritus, and to concentrate on the stripy, rainbow pattern in her brightly coloured, if fading in places, cotton sock - red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. However it is difficult to keep track of the colour sequences in her stripy sock as her socked foot keeps moving backwards and forwards across my scratching-post face.
I soon find myself being distracted by her socked heel as it has a small hole in the back of her sock, giving me a surreptitious glimpse of her bare, pale-pink heel-flesh underneath.
Oh how I yearn to kiss that exposed heel flesh – and, indeed to soothe the sore on her itchy, outer ankle bone, with my slave saliva. But it can never be! I am just a humble scratching-post for this blonde girl’s infected ankle, and I should count myself lucky that I am privileged to be anywhere near her pretty, warm, stripy-socked foot.
She gives me a look of utter disgust and contempt as she puts her boot back onto her foot again after some 5 minutes of scratching, once again resting the muddy sole of her right boot on my tilted face.
Why wouldn’t she look down on me with disgust and contempt? Is my face not filthy dirty, and covered in her lowly boot mud?
The Japanese girl with dirty-white plimsolls and black knee-socks
Yes, being in the centre of the Gynarchy’s capital, I get all races of women in my centrally-located, scratching-post footslave-cubicle. So far this morning I have served, or rather my wooden ball-gag has served, a smartly-suited, Afro-Caribbean businesswoman; a young, traditionally-dressed, Pakistani wife; a scruffy, blonde-ponytailed, White-European female student; and now it is the turn of a sweet, feminine, oriental mistress.
Or rather mistresses – for there are two of them, both, again, in their early twenties, although only one of them, sadly, avails herself of my humble services. She is the one with the very short skirt, and the fetching, plain black kneesocks on dirty-white, lace-up plimsolls. Her compatriot is wearing shorts, and a pair of black, converse-style, hi-top sneakers with fetching white ankle socks on her pretty Japanese feet.
They are clearly both visitors to the Gynarchy – tourists – for the girl with the converse sneakers seems to feel the need to explain to me what her friend’s problem is, and what they are going to do to me as a consequence (something my regular, native-born customers would never bother to do!)
She speaks with an incredibly cute Japanese accent:
‘Ha! Ha! My fliend, Mitsuko, have itchy legs! Ha! Ha! Mitsuko socks make Mitsuko legs hot and itchy. She want rub legs on side of srave face! Ha! Ha! She rub socks on side of your face! Ha! Ha!’
The owner of the itchy legs and socks now places her hand up to her mouth in a vain attempt to try and stifle a girlish, Japanese giggle.
She then moves over to sit on the chair above me, and places both her white-plimsolled feet on either side of my upturned face, prior to digging her black-socked, oriental ankle bones into my prone and vulnerable temples.
All I can now see is soft, bare, Japanese leg and black, knee-length sock, as the Japanese girl crouches forward in a most unladylike manner in order to start rubbing her socked calf-muscles up and down the sides of my face.
My wooden ball-gag, it seems, will be of no use to her whatsoever. She merely wishes to envelop the sides of my face in her soft, black kneesocks, and ease the ‘itch’ in her legs that way.
Of course – I may be a dumb footslave – literally dumb thanks to my gag– but I’m not totally stupid! I fully realise that this Japanese tourist-mistress does not have itchy legs caused by her thick, cotton kneesocks! If she did, merely rubbing her socked legs up and down the sides of my face would presumably only make matters worse!
No – this is purely a photo opportunity; an opportunity for a visitor to the Gynarchy to humiliate a public footslave with her socks, and to photograph it, and then post it on her social-networking webpage for all her friends to see.
Sure enough, my Japanese tormentress’s giggling friend with the black converse sneakers and fetching, white ankle socks is soon taking a photograph of her equally giggling friend with the dirty-white plimsolls and black kneesocks, as the latter continues to crouch forward without any inhibitions, and rub the sides of my trapped face with her socked calf-muscles – a face which is still covered with the muddy imprints from the sole of my previous, blonde-ponytailed mistress’s dirty, right ankle boot.
What a sight I must make – my gormless, ball-gagged face covered in white girl’s boot mud and entrapped in Japanese girl’s black kneesocks! No wonder these two giggling tourists wanted such a picture to post on the web!
The english-speaking girl with the black, hi-tops kindly checks that I am alright trapped inside her friend’s squeezing, socked calf-muscles:
‘Ha! Ha! How you feel, srave? You ok? You look like fool! Ha! Ha! You like feel of Mitsuko socks on side of face? Ha! Ha! You like Japanese girl itchy socks? Ha! Ha!’
Of course, I can’t answer the mistress’s perfectly legitimate questions. For I am just a dumb scratching-post.
But if I could speak, I would confirm to the young Japanese woman that I do indeed like the feel of her friend’s ‘itchy’ socks on the side of my face. I am very content in my humiliation at her friend’s socks, for the feel of the uninhibited Japanese girl’s shapely, soft, feminine calf-muscles beneath her black, cotton socks rubbing up and down on either side of my footslave face is an incredibly wonderful experience. I almost wish it didn’t have to end, and that I could turn my nose to one side just so that I might be able to sniff one of those beautiful, black socks as it moves up and down the side of my face.
But of course my head remains immobile. It cannot move. For it is, in reality, just a scratching-post; a scratching-post for ladies’ feet, ankles and calves. And these two young, Japanese women will have forgotten about me in a few minutes’ time when they have moved on to the public shoelick on the town square, and are each having their dirty sneakers or plimsolls licked clean. He will be able to respond to their mocking questions in humble slave-speak, for his mouth is not gagged – and his pathetic, cringing responses to their cruel, verbal mockery will only serve to enhance their enjoyment of the public footslave.
That lucky shoelick-slave will doubtless, therefore, be making much more of a lasting impression on them – or at any rate on their pretty footwear - and will certainly make an even more impressive photograph, or even video-recording, for them to upload to their personal webpages!
The End
Some substandard footslaves, like me, are deemed to be incapable of such privileged and highly-skilled work, and are relegated to much simpler tasks. We sometimes like to fool ourselves that we are more ‘specialist’ footslaves – but we are, in reality, just unskilled, dumb-ass footslaves who are simply too stupid to serve a lady’s feet or footwear with any degree of competence.
Therefore we tend to be employed as ladies’ public sock-sniffers; or as public doormats on which ladies can simply wipe their dirty feet; or as bootscrapers in the countryside; or even as ornamental foot-kissers in plush hotel foyers.
Or, like me, as public ‘scratching-posts’!
Yes, I am nothing but a humble scratching-post for ladies with itchy feet. Literally itchy, that is – not figuratively itchy!
Although I am designated for the use of the female public, I am confined in an unmarked, private cubicle discreetly situated just off the town square. I suppose my cubicle has to be private and unmarked, as it might otherwise be somewhat embarrassing for a female customer to admit to having itchy feet in public. After all, the causes of itchy feet can be many and varied, but could indicate an embarrassing underlying, medical problem for the lady – such as unsightly, varicose veins; or dry skin; or a foot-rash of some kind; or even a fungal, foot infection. I can fully understand, therefore, why a lady would want some privacy when making use of a ‘public’ footslave-scratching-post.
Be that as it may, I must provide a useful service for the female citizens of the Gynarchy, for they all make use of me from time to time!
I am kept permanently confined on my back beneath the floor of the cubicle, with only my face visible. My face and head are tilted slightly upwards at an angle from the floor of the cubicle, so that my face becomes, in effect, an angled resting block for the lady’s feet as she sits on a chair in front of me. My footslave-mouth is permanently blocked by a wooden gag which has lots of little wooden studs on it – and this is what my superior, female customers use to scratch their feet or ankles on.
Typically, therefore, a lady’s heel will be resting on my chin, whilst she runs the sole or perhaps the ball of her pretty, soft, feminine foot up and down the tiny wooden studs on my mouth-gag, thereby relieving her itch. Or, if her annoying itch is on the side of her ankle she will twist her foot around so that she can rub her ankle-bone up and down my studded, wooden ball-gag, affording me a delightfully close up and personal view of her shapely ankle and lower calf muscles as she does so.
Of course, being gagged, I have to breathe through my nose, meaning that the air I breathe in is often somewhat stinky - given that my face is so intimately close to my female customers’ itchy feet. Furthermore, if the lady is scratching her bare foot on my face it is likely that some of the dead, dry skin from her foot will fall onto my upturned face.
Even if she is keeping her socks or nylon stockings on whilst she scratches her foot-itch, I can expect little bits of fluff and lint to fall from her hosiery onto my upturned, facial features whilst she scratches. I regard this as no less of an honour than receiving her dead foot-skin on my face, for both the lady’s foot and her footwear are my superiors and betters.
I deal with a wide variety of customers during the average day. Take my customers this morning, for example:
The black businesswoman with bare feet in high heels
My first customer of the day was a busy, commuting businesswoman of Afro-Caribbean origins. She was smartly dressed in a black, pinstriped trouser suit and white, frilly blouse, with high-heeled, pointy-toed, shiny, black leather pumps on her stunningly beautiful, bare, black feet.
It was obvious to me as soon as she entered my cubicle and plonked her black, leather briefcase down on the floor beside the chair that she was in a bit of a hurry – probably on her way to some important business meeting or other.
But when a girl’s gotta scratch, a girl’s gotta scratch!
The black mistress, whom I noticed was wearing spectacles and looked very imposing and intelligent – a company director of some sort I would venture to suggest, even though she can’t be any more than about 30 years old – quickly, and rather unceremoniously, kicked off her right shoe and sat down in the chair above my reclining, wooden-ball-gagged face.
She kept her left shoe on – so clearly her itchy discomfort was only affecting her right foot.
She then promptly placed her bare, black, right foot down on top of my face, resting the ball of her heel on my chin.
I should explain that I am shaved everyday, first thing in the morning, by my female minder, miss Angelica (who also feeds me first thing every morning) so that my customers’ soft and delicate, female feet are not tickled by an ugly, male beard – something which would obviously irritate their already itchy feet even further!
One equally happy consequence for me of the smoothness of my freshly-shaved face is that I can feel the texture of a lady’s foot in intimate detail when it is resting on my face. The first thing I noticed about this particular black businesswoman’s foot was the flaky, dry skin on the base of her heel. Indeed, I wondered, initially, if it was the dry and chapped skin on the back of her pretty heel that was causing her problems. But as she began rubbing the wrinkly, soft sole of her black foot up and down my face it soon became apparent that it was the ball of her delicate, feminine foot that was itching.
Few of my female customers ever bother to speak to me, of course. Why would they? I am, after all, incapable of responding - thanks to my wooden ball-gag - and there is nothing I could do in any case to assist them with their foot-scratching. My head and face are completely immobilized, and, I’m afraid, the lady herself must do all the work. There is no point, even, in the lady barking down her commands at me. There is nothing I can do except lie there!
I’m sure that’s why we human scratching-posts are regarded with such justifiable contempt by womankind – we are completely without talent or skill; just objects confined in the ground for them to scratch their superior, feminine feet on.
I can feel some delicate, feminine foot-moisture coming off the black business-manageress’s foot and onto my face, and an accompanying, cheesy aroma is yet another tell-tale sign that this particular lady’s feet are already beginning to sweat inside her posh, business-lady’s high-heels – even this early in the morning.
I’m no medical expert or podiatrist, but I do wonder whether it is quite simply the fact that her feet are sweating inside her uncomfortable, if stylish, shoes that is making her foot itch?
Then again, she doesn’t seem to have a problem with her left foot. That particular high-heeled shoe appears to be staying well and truly on!
I can hear and see the black lady closing her eyes beneath her glasses and sighing contentedly as the short wooden studs on the top of my ball-gag are clearly relieving the itch on the ball of her soft, black foot. It is, I have to say, quite a large, broad foot – but then she is quite a tall lady. All my customers seem to tower above me as they sit on the chair above me, but this black lady is very tall and athletic-looking.
It is nonetheless a very shapely, feminine foot, and it is at times like this that I only wish my mouth was free of my wooden ball-gag so that I could invite the superior, black mistress to insert her pretty, red-painted toenails into my slave-mouth for some additional cleaning and soothing. What an honour that would be – to actually taste and swallow this strong and powerful, black businesswoman’s sweaty toe jam from underneath her red-painted toenails!
But I shall never be given such an inestimable honour. A human scratching-post has no prospects of any career development! I am not in a position to develop any toe-sucking skills even if I wanted to – for my slave-mouth is permanently gagged (I am fed through my nose!)
The black business lady only stays for about 2 minutes or so, and then, as quickly as she had entered my public, foot-scratching booth, she slips her right shoe back on and exits the cubicle – leaving my face faintly tainted with the aroma of her delicate, early-morning foot odour, and one or two flakes of her dead heel-skin resting in the dimple of my chin.
Glad to have been of service, ma’am!
The traditional Pakistani wife with flesh-coloured nylons
Next up is a young Pakistani woman, in her mid twenties, accompanied by her Pakistani husband who looks to be of a similar age. Although my services – like all footslave-services in the Gynarchy – are strictly for women only, it is not unusual for free men to accompany their female partners into the cubicle – just so that they can enjoy seeing a humble slave-man humiliated and degraded at their girlfriends’ or wives’ feet!
The men normally just stand to one side of the cubicle and laugh at me.
The beautiful and svelte young Pakistani woman has long, straight, dark hair and is dressed in a colourful, traditional ‘salwar kameez’ outfit consisting of a gold-embroidered, bright red top and matching red and gold coloured trousers, the elasticated hems of which come down just as far as the tops of her shapely, Pakistani ankle bones. On her pretty, Pakistani feet she is wearing a pair of flat, brown, open-toed, strappy sandals.
The open-toed sandals also enable me to quickly establish that the young Pakistani woman is wearing nylon stockings of some description underneath her salwar kameez trousers - for her pretty, unvarnished toenails are just visible beneath the reinforced stitching of some flesh-coloured nylon.
Now, obviously, I have no way of knowing whether the young woman is wearing full-length tights, thigh-length stockings, or knee-length nylon pop-socks underneath her exotic, elasticated, salwar kameez trousers – but I do know that it is unlikely the young woman will be divesting herself of her nylon hosiery whilst in my booth. Ladies often remove their thick cotton or woollen, ankle length socks when having their itchy feet scratched, but for the most part a lady has no need to denude her feet of thin, nylon stockings in order to reap the full, palliative benefits of the little wooden studs on my wooden mouth-gag.
Sure enough, the cruelly-smiling, young Pakistani woman, now seated in the chair above and in front of me, leans down to unbuckle the straps on her sandals – both of them - and her nylon-stockinged right foot is soon resting on my upturned face.
A much smaller foot than that of my previous female customer, but it nonetheless still dominates my footslave-senses, as the underside of her nylon-reinforced toes rest directly over my eyes whilst her reinforced nylon heel rests on my chin, no doubt pushing the tiny flakes of dead heel-skin from my previous customer’s feet even deeper into my own, living and breathing skin-pores.
There is a very definite whiff of sweet, feminine foot-odour this time. It is, I believe, quite a warm day outside, and I do wonder why this young Pakistani woman is bothering to wear any nylons on her pretty feet today. Perhaps it is still cold compared to the heat she is accustomed to in Pakistan?
Not that it’s any of my business. If the superior young woman chooses to wear nylon stockings on her pretty feet – then so be it! I must respect and admire her feet whatever they are clad in. That’s the law!
Her husband is speaking to his pretty young wife in Urdu, and laughing excitedly. It sounds like they are both laughing at me, and the husband is directing his lovely young wife in what to do! Is he aware of her intimate foot-itch problem? Has she confided in him exactly where her foot is itching?
Or have this couple just entered my cubicle with the sole (if you’ll forgive the pun) intention of humiliating me beneath the young woman’s stinky, sweaty, nylon-covered feet?
Actually, the young Pakistani woman appears to be concentrating on rubbing her nylon-stockinged instep up and down my ball-gag, and she does appear to be finding the whole experience quite pleasurable – given her sighing and cooing to her husband in Urdu.
It is certainly a not unpleasurable experience for me too – despite the smell – for my eyes are now regaled by the sight of lots of tiny creases and folds in the flesh-coloured, nylon material of the young Pakistani woman’s stocking, all along her instep and the arch of her pretty foot.
Of course, seeing the wrinkles in the bare skin of a lady’s foot – such as those in my previous, black customer’s right foot – is even more exciting than seeing the wrinkles and creases in a fine-denier nylon stocking! But the mere fact that this young, Pakistani woman’s sweaty, creased, nylon-stockinged foot is actually resting imperiously on my gormless, upturned face whilst she derives pleasure from rubbing her foot up and down my mouth, fills me with a pathetic sense of footslavish pride!
It’s perhaps just as well I am gagged, for if I were not I might be tempted to enquire of the young man who is standing watching his wife as she scratches her stockinged instep on my face , wether he is not, in fact, jealous of my proximity to his darling wife’s pretty, nylon-covered foot? Does he too not yearn to observe the tiny creases and folds in her nylon-stockinged ankle, and does he not wish that his own, male nostrils were filled with the scent of her warm, feminine footsweat?
Apparently he does not – for, even though I can’t speak a word of Urdu – it is clear from the mocking tone of his laughter that he despises me every bit as much as his young wife with the itchy instep does!
Or should that be insteps – for the young woman is soon replacing the sole of her right, stockinged foot with her left on top of my pathetic, footslave face. This time I can actually see the beginnings of a small ladder in the sole of her left, flesh-coloured stocking. I feel honoured and privileged to see such a thing – for not only does the stretched and thinning stitching of the small ladder afford me the tiniest glimpse of the young Pakistani woman’s bare, brown footflesh underneath; I am also aware that I am observing something no other human being in the world is even aware of at the present time, not even the wearer of the nylon stocking herself – a tiny ladder in the stitching on the sole of a beautiful, young Pakistani woman’s nylon-stockinged foot!
What a sight for a humble footslave’s sore eyes!
The gold-embroidered, elasticated hem of her bright red salwar kameez trouser leg flaps and moves around the top of her shapely, nylon-stockinged ankle as the young woman once again rubs her pretty, Pakistani instep over my wooden-studded ball-gag.
I find myself wishing I could warn her not to rub the area of stocking containing the ladder over the wooden studs, lest they tear her delicate, nylon stocking even further. But, of course, as you already know, I can’t speak. I can only observe, feel and smell the underside of the young Pakistani woman’s glorious, nylon-stockinged foot. I am not at liberty even to kiss it.
When she has finally finished rubbing her feet on me, she (encouraged, I’m guessing, by her husband) leans over my face, purses up her pretty, Pakistani lips, and spits on me.
Always a blessing – though it is probably not meant to be – as it helps to wash my face of the customer’s stale footsweat, meaning that my face is relatively clean for my next female customer’s foot (once the spit has dried into my face, of course!)
The blonde with black ankle boots and stripy-coloured sneaker socks
Speaking of which, my face is next regaled by the heavy, thick-treaded, muddy sole of a block-heeled, square-toed, black leather, zip-up ankle boot belonging to a young blonde woman in her early twenties with a severe ponytail. She is wearing dark blue denim jeans and a light grey hoodie along with her black ankle boots, and has some books tucked under her arm. She looks to be a scruffy student of some sort.
She is resting her right boot on my face in order to reach down and undo the zipper on the side of her boot. Many women do this before they take off their footwear as my upturned face is tilted at just the right angle to act as a footrest whilst one is divesting oneself of one’s outer footwear.
I do wish, however, that my previous Pakistani customer had visited me after, rather than before, this blonde-ponytailed girl, as her Pakistani spit could have then been put to even better use wiping the blonde girl’s filthy boot mud off my face!
The soles of this girl’s boots are truly filthy! She must have been walking around the gardens of her college campus, or something, for I have rarely seen such a muddy and unkempt pair of ankle boots.
However, the state of her boots is no business of mine. This young woman has not entered my cubicle in order to have her boots licked clean. There is a skilled public bootlick outside in the town square to take care of her boots, free of charge – should she so desire it!
No, this young woman must have an itch that needs scratching – a foot itch. All I am waiting for now is to see whether she takes off her sock.
And what a sock it is! A beautiful, brightly-coloured, rainbow-striped, sneaker-style sock – much too short, in my humble, footslavish opinion, to be worn inside an ankle boot – but truly delightful to look at nonetheless as it shows off and accentuates the sheer shapeliness of the blonde-ponytailed student-girl’s fully exposed ankle bone.
To my delight the sock stays on – and almost as soon as her socked foot is out of her hot, warm ankle boot I can see why she has no need to remove her deliciously short sock: the poor girl has an itchy, red sore on the side of her right ankle bone. That is what my mouth shall be scratching!
Sure enough, the young woman twists her outer ankle bone around so that it is directly over my face. She even stands up slightly out of her chair to ensure that her itchy ankle bone gets good purchase on my wooden-studded ball-gag. I watch enthralled as the pretty, young, blonde-ponytailed woman screws up her face in relief as she then rubs her sore and itchy, bare, white ankle bone up and down my ball-gagged mouth.
Meanwhile her multicoloured, stripy sock is, of course, dominating the rest of my face. I can see little black balls of cotton sock lint, white pieces of fluff, and even one or two tiny, blonde hairs stuck to the bottom of her well-worn, stripy sock. I try my best not to be too distracted by all this detritus, and to concentrate on the stripy, rainbow pattern in her brightly coloured, if fading in places, cotton sock - red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. However it is difficult to keep track of the colour sequences in her stripy sock as her socked foot keeps moving backwards and forwards across my scratching-post face.
I soon find myself being distracted by her socked heel as it has a small hole in the back of her sock, giving me a surreptitious glimpse of her bare, pale-pink heel-flesh underneath.
Oh how I yearn to kiss that exposed heel flesh – and, indeed to soothe the sore on her itchy, outer ankle bone, with my slave saliva. But it can never be! I am just a humble scratching-post for this blonde girl’s infected ankle, and I should count myself lucky that I am privileged to be anywhere near her pretty, warm, stripy-socked foot.
She gives me a look of utter disgust and contempt as she puts her boot back onto her foot again after some 5 minutes of scratching, once again resting the muddy sole of her right boot on my tilted face.
Why wouldn’t she look down on me with disgust and contempt? Is my face not filthy dirty, and covered in her lowly boot mud?
The Japanese girl with dirty-white plimsolls and black knee-socks
Yes, being in the centre of the Gynarchy’s capital, I get all races of women in my centrally-located, scratching-post footslave-cubicle. So far this morning I have served, or rather my wooden ball-gag has served, a smartly-suited, Afro-Caribbean businesswoman; a young, traditionally-dressed, Pakistani wife; a scruffy, blonde-ponytailed, White-European female student; and now it is the turn of a sweet, feminine, oriental mistress.
Or rather mistresses – for there are two of them, both, again, in their early twenties, although only one of them, sadly, avails herself of my humble services. She is the one with the very short skirt, and the fetching, plain black kneesocks on dirty-white, lace-up plimsolls. Her compatriot is wearing shorts, and a pair of black, converse-style, hi-top sneakers with fetching white ankle socks on her pretty Japanese feet.
They are clearly both visitors to the Gynarchy – tourists – for the girl with the converse sneakers seems to feel the need to explain to me what her friend’s problem is, and what they are going to do to me as a consequence (something my regular, native-born customers would never bother to do!)
She speaks with an incredibly cute Japanese accent:
‘Ha! Ha! My fliend, Mitsuko, have itchy legs! Ha! Ha! Mitsuko socks make Mitsuko legs hot and itchy. She want rub legs on side of srave face! Ha! Ha! She rub socks on side of your face! Ha! Ha!’
The owner of the itchy legs and socks now places her hand up to her mouth in a vain attempt to try and stifle a girlish, Japanese giggle.
She then moves over to sit on the chair above me, and places both her white-plimsolled feet on either side of my upturned face, prior to digging her black-socked, oriental ankle bones into my prone and vulnerable temples.
All I can now see is soft, bare, Japanese leg and black, knee-length sock, as the Japanese girl crouches forward in a most unladylike manner in order to start rubbing her socked calf-muscles up and down the sides of my face.
My wooden ball-gag, it seems, will be of no use to her whatsoever. She merely wishes to envelop the sides of my face in her soft, black kneesocks, and ease the ‘itch’ in her legs that way.
Of course – I may be a dumb footslave – literally dumb thanks to my gag– but I’m not totally stupid! I fully realise that this Japanese tourist-mistress does not have itchy legs caused by her thick, cotton kneesocks! If she did, merely rubbing her socked legs up and down the sides of my face would presumably only make matters worse!
No – this is purely a photo opportunity; an opportunity for a visitor to the Gynarchy to humiliate a public footslave with her socks, and to photograph it, and then post it on her social-networking webpage for all her friends to see.
Sure enough, my Japanese tormentress’s giggling friend with the black converse sneakers and fetching, white ankle socks is soon taking a photograph of her equally giggling friend with the dirty-white plimsolls and black kneesocks, as the latter continues to crouch forward without any inhibitions, and rub the sides of my trapped face with her socked calf-muscles – a face which is still covered with the muddy imprints from the sole of my previous, blonde-ponytailed mistress’s dirty, right ankle boot.
What a sight I must make – my gormless, ball-gagged face covered in white girl’s boot mud and entrapped in Japanese girl’s black kneesocks! No wonder these two giggling tourists wanted such a picture to post on the web!
The english-speaking girl with the black, hi-tops kindly checks that I am alright trapped inside her friend’s squeezing, socked calf-muscles:
‘Ha! Ha! How you feel, srave? You ok? You look like fool! Ha! Ha! You like feel of Mitsuko socks on side of face? Ha! Ha! You like Japanese girl itchy socks? Ha! Ha!’
Of course, I can’t answer the mistress’s perfectly legitimate questions. For I am just a dumb scratching-post.
But if I could speak, I would confirm to the young Japanese woman that I do indeed like the feel of her friend’s ‘itchy’ socks on the side of my face. I am very content in my humiliation at her friend’s socks, for the feel of the uninhibited Japanese girl’s shapely, soft, feminine calf-muscles beneath her black, cotton socks rubbing up and down on either side of my footslave face is an incredibly wonderful experience. I almost wish it didn’t have to end, and that I could turn my nose to one side just so that I might be able to sniff one of those beautiful, black socks as it moves up and down the side of my face.
But of course my head remains immobile. It cannot move. For it is, in reality, just a scratching-post; a scratching-post for ladies’ feet, ankles and calves. And these two young, Japanese women will have forgotten about me in a few minutes’ time when they have moved on to the public shoelick on the town square, and are each having their dirty sneakers or plimsolls licked clean. He will be able to respond to their mocking questions in humble slave-speak, for his mouth is not gagged – and his pathetic, cringing responses to their cruel, verbal mockery will only serve to enhance their enjoyment of the public footslave.
That lucky shoelick-slave will doubtless, therefore, be making much more of a lasting impression on them – or at any rate on their pretty footwear - and will certainly make an even more impressive photograph, or even video-recording, for them to upload to their personal webpages!
The End
