The Beast of Burden

I work as a footslave-cart in the capital city of the glorious Gynarchy, Barbaria. I have done so for twenty odd years – ever since I became a slave.

I am owned by the Female State and available for hire both by female tourists in our fair capital, and by locals alike. It is hard, strenuous work – with little or no reward other than that of being close to superior, young women’s heels and ankles all day long.

I suppose that should be reward enough for a dirty, male footslave such as me.

My female ‘riders’ or ‘customers’ never really get to see much of me. I am secured on my hands and knees beneath the wooden cart on which they sit – rather like the engine hidden underneath the bonnet of a car. I use my humble slave-energy to push the superior, female cart-driver along whilst her pretty heels rest in front of me on a wooden footplate. The mistress is responsible for giving me directions – telling me when to stop and start, what speed I should crawl at etcetera - and she also has the ability to steer the cart by means of a steering wheel, although I can also steer the cart through brute force should the mistress be unsure of the way to her destination.

It should be pointed out that I have to steer the way from memory as, aside from the backs of the female-driver’s heels and ankles, I am effectively unsighted. I cannot see the road or the pavements around me – which is, of course, exactly how it should be. A footslave should only have sight of his mistress’s shoes and socks whilst he is working.

I am therefore quite reliant on my mistress-driver to be my eyes and ears as we move along, and must listen intently to her verbal instructions – those instructions being my only real form of interaction with the superior mistress, apart from my initial greeting of the mistress when I must kiss her feet before she takes up her seat above me on the wooden, slave-powered cart.

My employers, the Female Municipal Council of Barbaria, demand that I welcome each and every mistress-customer with one respectful footkiss to each of her feet, and with a little slave-speak eulogy to the mistress during which I must make it perfectly clear to her that she is my female better, and that I exist only to serve her as a humble slave-cart.

I can demonstrate to you exactly how I am required to operate right now, as my first customer of the morning appears to be approaching.

I recognise her from her criminally short, black leather miniskirt, her bleached-blonde, curly hair, and her somewhat spindly appearance – it is mistress Angel, a twenty-something, local streetwalker. She often uses me in the morning when she has finished plying her trade with the free men of the Gynarchy, and male tourists from overseas, during the night. She uses some of her hard earned cash to get me to take her home to her nearby apartment in the town centre (there is a small, nominal fee of 1 fem for my customers to pay – although all the money goes to the Female Municipality; not to me personally, of course!)

Mistress Angel places the 1 fem coin into the honesty box on the wall next to which I am chained, before walking directly up to my cart and imperiously stretching forward her right-booted foot onto the wooden footplate directly in front of my humbly kneeling and bowed face for my slavish greeting and kissing.

I know the taste of miss Angel’s black, leather boots quite well, for I have been obliged to pay homage to them many times before. They are nice boots, if always somewhat dusty and dirty – hardly surprising given that superior mistress Angel will have been walking the dusty streets and alleyways of our great, feminine capital all night long!

The dusty boot now positioned underneath my kneeling face is a round-toed, block-heeled, zip-up, black leather ankle boot – almost calf-length in fact – but it hugs mistress Angel’s somewhat scrawny, pasty-white shin and calf muscles very elegantly. What I particularly admire about the boot, however, is that it is also covering mistress Angel’s white, calf-length bootsock. I can clearly see the fetching little creases and folds in the scrunched-up top of her white bootsock on her long, bare leg just above the upper rim of the ankle-boot.

The sock, it has to be said, is more dirty-white in colour than pure-white, but then it is mistress Angel’s sock – very individual to her, and an honour for me to look at atop her black, leather boot. I only wish I was permitted to kiss her sock – but my employers have made it quite clear to me that I must only kiss the toes of my superiors’ shoes or boots – unless, of course the superior, female wearer of the socks specifically orders me to kiss them.

Mistress Angel, however, as always is in a bit of a rush to get home to bed for some well-earned sleep, and is not in any mood this morning for indulging her footslave-cart’s sock-kissing fantasies.

I therefore lower my mouth to the scuff-marked and dusty, rounded toecap of her outstretched, black leather boot and place my lips respectfully onto it.

I notice how the moisture on my lips leaves a clear mark in the otherwise dusty, black boot-leather.

As I explained earlier, now I must eulogise and praise the mistress in humble, male slave-speak for choosing to ride on me this morning:

‘Oh pray, mistress Angel. God bless you, mistress Angel, for choosing this dirty footslave’s cart for your transport home this morning. Oh pray, sweet mistress, please permit this dirty slave to pay homage to the toe of your other boot before you take up your seat above him, if you would be so kind and generous to a lowly footslave, most sweet and powerful, feminine mistress Angel.’

It might sound a bit cheeky – a public footslave addressing a superior mistress-customer by her first name, but I know that I can get away with it with mistress Angel as she is truly a kind and generous mistress by nature. I have never known her to shout at me or berate me, or to even report me for poor performance – even though on one horrendous occasion we nearly toppled over when I took a tight corner on a slippery pavement during a heavy rainstorm. Mercifully, I think she realised at the time that I had been hurrying out of concern for her well-being since the slave-carts don’t offer the female driver much protection from the elements; unlike, ironically, the cart ‘engine’ – the dirty slave who is securely ensconced in wood beneath the mistress’ driving seat!

Besides, no real harm had been done on that occasion – we hadn’t actually toppled over, and I think that mistress Angel had found the whole incident rather amusing, if truth be told.

Angel by name, angelic by nature – albeit fallen.

But fallen angel or not, mistress Angel is still very much my better and is entitled to my full, male-slavish respect as she condescends to present her other booted and socked foot for kissing. Once again my lips leave a moist mark on her dusty, black-leather toecap, as, once again, the scrunched up top of her dirty-white bootsock looms agonisingly out of my slave-mouth’s reach.

Mistress Angel knows the form by now, and no sooner have I paid my humble respects to her second boot than she unties me from the wall, turns round and then mounts up into the comfortable padded-leather seat above me. It is the unkissed backs of her black leather ankle boots that are now resting on the wooden footplate directly in front of my gormless, footslave-face.

There are no pedals for mistress Angel to push. She steers the cart by means of a steering wheel in front of her and, as I have already explained, powers the cart through the power of her voice – barking down her commands to me, the cart-engine.

As she settles down into the cart I admire the dirty scuff marks on the backs of her black, leather ankle-boots – scuff marks that would have been too tiny to be noticed by her clients as she had sex with them, but which loom large in my consciousness as they are the scuff marks on the boot-heels of an attractive, bleached-blonde, young woman.

Yet again, however, in conjunction with my joy and pleasure at having such a close up view of the backs of miss Angel’s dirty boots, I simultaneously experience footslave-frustration at being so near to, and yet so far from, her dirty-white, calf-length bootsocks. I can just see the scrunched-up tops of her precious, white socks on her bare legs out of the corner of my eye, but the socks are, quite literally, above me as I prepare to move off.

I know, because I am an experienced and diligent footslave-cart, that I must concentrate on the lower heels of my mistress-driver’s black leather boots as I power her along. I must not allow myself to be distracted by her tarty-looking, white bootsocks on her long, scrawny and pasty-white legs, for I have work to do! I am about to transport this gloriously superior young woman home, and I must humbly focus on the backs of her scuff-marked boots and listen intently for her verbal directions. I am simply not good enough to just kneel here and admire the backs of her socks all day long – like some exalted, personal footslave might be privileged enough to do. I am merely a ‘carthorse’, designed to take mistress Angel safely home.

She knows it and I know it. That’s why, I guess, she doesn’t have any interest in knowing my name, even though I know her name (or at least her street-name). She is, after all, an important human being – whereas I am just a beast of burden; a thing beneath the bonnet of the hired slave-cart that takes her home.

Mistress Angel curtly and abruptly gives me the command to start moving forwards.

‘Move off, slave!’

It is the customary command for a driver-mistress to utter to her slave-cart, although some foreign-tourist mistresses don’t know that! Some of them even click their tongues like they were giddying up a horse in order to make me start moving! Ha! Ha! I find that quite sweet!

But mistress Angel is an experienced slave-cart driver, and I can smell that she even has the self-confidence to nonchalantly (and illegally) light up a joint whilst she is riding me.

I gird my loins and slowly start to crawl forwards on my hands and knees. This is always the most difficult part of the journey – getting started! Getting the momentum going. Fortunately, mistress Angel is quite tall and skinny in stature. I’ve heard on the footslave-grapevine that she does drugs more than she eats food, so that could account for her somewhat pale and wan complexion beneath her bleached-blonde, curly hair, as well as her somewhat skinny frame.

But, be all that as it may, the important thing from my point of view is that she is not heavy to push. Some of my female customers are enormously heavy by comparison! It may be just my imagination, but I can’t help feeling that young women are just getting bigger these days!

I am grateful to mistress Angel for remaining tall and slim!

As the cart moves forward I notice how mistress Angel’s boots vibrate slightly on the wooden footplate in reaction to the vibrations caused by the wheels of the cart running over the sometimes bumpy and uneven pavements of the Gynarchy’s fair capital.

The Female Municipal Authorities really should do something about the state of the pavements in this city! They can be very potholed and uneven in places – and that doesn’t just make for a bumpy ride for the mistresses – it also tears strips off my bare footslave-knees as I crawl along with the weight of the mistress on top of me!

Not that the municipal authorities would be in the least bit worried about that!

Footslave-carts are permitted to go on the roads of the capital, but most mistresses, mistress Angel included, prefer to stick to the pavements. Speed is not usually the essence in a journey by slave-cart – even when you are a tired and weary lady of the night who just wants to get home for a shower and some sleep!

I, of course, would like to see a dedicated lane in every road for footslave-carts. But thus far the Gynarchial authorities have declined to provide them. And they know best - for they are all women.

And so I slowly and gently push mistress Angel, and her boots and socks, along the wide pavement leading from the town square towards the area of the city centre where her run-down apartment is located.

‘Faster, slave!’

Mistress Angel has obviously spotted the potential for me to notch things up a gear. The pavement ahead must be relatively clear. I am completely in her hands and at her mercy in this regard, for I can see nothing other than the backs of her boots and the grey pavement seemingly moving beneath me.

The Female Law states that if we were to have an accident, if I were to steer the cart into the backs of another pedestrian-mistress’s heels for example, then I am to be held responsible and punished – not the driver. So mistress Angel can relax to that extent.

I tauten my arm muscles and endeavour to crawl forward more quickly in response to my mistress’s command. I actually know the route to mistress Angel’s apartment very well by now. It’s only about a mile away – down two major thoroughfares. I could, dare I say it, almost crawl my way there without mistress Angel’s guidance and assistance.

Sure enough after some 3 or 4 minutes we get to the one, familiar major corner which I have to negotiate as we head into the second of the major roads that leads to mistress Angel’s apartment. This is the very same corner where we almost came a cropper before – but today it is, thankfully, dry – though quite breezy - and I manage to make the turn smoothly and without any mishaps.

As I do so, a pleasing gust of wind blows the smell of miss Angel’s boot leather up my footslave-nostrils, and I remind myself of what a truly great honour it is to be crawling behind this beautiful, pasty-skinned, bleached-blonde streetwalker’s dirty, black ankle boots . If only I could smell her soft, white bootsocks on her soft, white legs as well!

Mistress Angel might be looking a bit tired and knackered after her long night’s work, but I have to say she does a damn good job of steering the cart along the pavements. We soon arrive at her apartment block without any major incidents.

She dismounts and ties the cart to a chain in the outer wall of her apartment block, a chain which is there for that very purpose. A sign above the wall-chain reads:

‘Footslave-cart for female, public hire.’

There are many such footslave-cart parking stations dotted throughout the capital. Virtually every building has one – together with an honesty box for the next female-customer’s payment. As I said before it’s only a nominal fee of 1 fem, and it just helps towards the State’s upkeep of the slave-carts.

Mistress Angel says nothing as she disposes of her spliff and then climbs up the stairs towards the rickety front door of her inner-city apartment block. The only thing I don’t like about transporting mistress Angel home is that I must now remain tied up outside her flat until another female deigns to use me – and this is a notoriously rough area with rough females living in it. Nasty, loud-mouthed girls – not at all like the sweet and kind mistress Angel who is the exception to the rule!

I therefore brace myself for a rather ‘rough’ customer to ‘pick me up’. I never seem to have to wait long – hardly surprising given that I am so cheap to use!

Sure enough, my next customer is soon happily approaching me. Or should I say customers! For there are two of them – two young, black women, both in their early twenties, both chewing gum, and both, seemingly, unemployed - as it is now gone past 10:00 A.M and judging by their languid gait they clearly have no urgent work or studies to attend. Indeed, from their rather loud conversation with one another I surmise that they are merely planning to ride into town in order to loaf around the city centre shopping arcade with their respective boyfriends:

‘What time did you say we’d be there, Tayshia?’ one of the girls asks her companion, in between slapping noisily and inelegantly on her chewing-gum.

‘Oh my God I don’t know, Bertrice, innit? Like it was a quarter past ten, or something?’ responds the other black girl.

Both have their hair tied back in ponytails, and both are wearing almost identical pairs of beige-brown, sheepskin Ugg-style boots, although the first one who spoke (miss Bertrice) has her calf-length boots turned over at the cuffs making them look more ankle-length. Also, inside her boots, she is wearing black, calf-length socks with thin, multicoloured stripes, into which socks are tucked the hems of her dark blue denim jeans. The other girl, miss Tayshia, merely has her black, denim jeans tucked directly into the unfolded tops of her calf-length, brown, sheepskin boots.

These are the main ways I can initially tell them apart as these two young women are definitely like two peas in a pod! Or should that be like two peas in an ipod – since they appear to be sharing one such device with an earpiece each?

The even chew their gum in the same, noisy way.

‘Ha! Ha! We’d better use this slave-cart then, innit? I’ll ring Lloyd an’ tell him we might be late, yeah?’ says the girl with the stripy socks and the folded down Ugg boots, miss Bertrice.

‘Cool!’ agrees her travelling companion - the girl with the unfolded Ugg boots, miss Tayshia.

Miss Bertrice then hands back her earpiece from the ipod to her friend - who appears to have overall custody of the device - and fiddles instead with her own designer mobile-phone. She is also the first to automatically present her Ugg-booted right foot for me to kiss. She does so just as she gets through to her friend ‘Lloyd’ – presumably her boyfriend – on her phone:

‘Hi, baby…..love you… me and Tayshia are just pickin’ up a slave-cart, innit?...We’ll be there in about 10 minutes, hon… yeah?’

As I lower my lips to the musty-smelling, and in places black-stained, thick, rounded toe of miss Bertrice’s right Ugg-boot I am vaguely aware of a young man’s voice emanating from inside her mobile phone. I am much more aware of the many fetching creases and folds in her dark, stripy, calf-length socks – creases and folds made all the more pronounced and alluring by the fact that her socks are covering the outside of her blue denim jeans.

Miss Bertrice laughs as I kiss the dirty, musty, rounded toe of her outstretched, folded-down, sheepskin boot. Of course, she isn’t laughing at me - she is barely aware of me; she is laughing at her boyfriend’s funny joke on the other end of the phone.

‘Ha! Ha!...Shut up, honey! …No way!...Ha! Ha!...Okay…Love you babe…See you soon… Bye!’

Miss Bertrice then subconsciously presents the toe of her left, sheepskin boot for me to kiss as she excitedly tells her friend Tayshia what master Lloyd has just said over the phone:

‘Ha! Ha! He says I is like gonna pay for his new sneakers today, and I’m like – no way, man! I ‘aint payin’!..Ha! Ha!... He’s the one who owes me money, innit? Ha! Ha!’

Her friend Tayshia seems to concur:

‘Ha! Ha! Innit though? No way you’re payin’, sista! He’s havin’ a laugh, innit?’

‘Ha! Ha! Yeah – but he’s really fly though. He’s the bomb, innit Tayshia?’

The two girls giggle as miss Tayshia, the girl with the unfolded sheepskin-boots, nonchalantly presents her right foot for me to kiss.

She might well agree with her friend Bertrice about master Lloyd being ‘fly’ and the ‘bomb’, but I am clearly nothing more to her than an anonymous, foot-kissing automaton. She says nothing and merely continues to slap noisily on her chewing-gum, her slaps drowning out the sounds of both the music from her ipod and of my respectful kisses to her Ugg boots, as she looks down uncaringly at me as I pay humble homage to her superior feet.

But even if miss Tayshia is not disposed to verbally acknowledge me, I must verbally acknowledge her, and her friend, miss Bertrice, for they are both my female betters and, as far as I am concerned, the ‘bomb’:

‘Oh pray, mistresses, God bless you both, most sweet and beautiful mistresses. Pray use this slave to transport you wherever you see fit, if it would be so pleasing to you sweet and kind young mistresses.’

I’m not really a two-seater cart. I’m designed for one mistress to use at a time. But these two young women are clearly happy to squeeze into the driving seat beside one another – so who am I to object?

I am, after all, nothing but an object - the cart’s engine! And they both know it:

‘Ha! Ha! Take us to the main shopping mall slave, yeah?’ orders miss Tayshia, and the two young, ponytailed, black women are soon plonking themselves down in the seat above me, with miss Tayshia apparently grabbing hold of the steering wheel whilst miss Bertrice squeezes in beside her, meaning that the backs of two pairs of rather dirty and street-stained Ugg boots are now resting just inches away from my face.

‘Yeah, and be quick about it, slave-bwoy, yeah? We is in a 'urry, yeah?’ clarifies miss Tayshia’s passenger, miss Bertrice with the stripy, dark socks.

My field of vision is now totally dominated by the outsides of the two pairs of round-heeled, beige-coloured Ugg boots, and by the fluffy, grey wool of the inside of miss Bertrice’s folded-down boots and her dark-coloured, stripy calf-length socks. I can now see the details in the pattern of the thin colours of her stripy, dark socks – red, green, purple, black, grey – stripy socks which are all lumpy and creased over the thick, denim material of her dark blue jean legs.

I can tell already that these socks and folded down boots are going to be a bit of a dangerous distraction for me, for if miss Tayshia is the driver I should, by rights, be concentrating on the misshapen backs of her plain, beige-brown Ugg boots, and should not be allowing my footslave-eyes to stray towards her passenger’s boots and socks. Fortunately I espy a large black stain on the back of miss Tayshia’s misshapen left Ugg-boot heel, so that should give me something to concentrate on as I endeavour to ignore miss Bertrice’s beautiful and tempting multicoloured socks.

Less easy to ignore will be miss Bertrice’s weight. I hadn’t really noticed it until now, because my initial impressions had been that both girls were quite small and petite. But actually mistress Bertrice is considerably heavier than her friend , miss Tayshia, and I can now feel the difference in weight pressing down on my right shoulder (above which miss Bertrice is seated) as opposed to that on my left shoulder (where the more delicate miss Tayshia is seated).

I should have explained earlier that all slave-carts are left-hand drive in the Gynarchy.

All of the above thoughts and impressions race through my slave-head in a split second, as I have yet to answer miss Bertrice’s command that I should be ‘quick about it’. Presumably the only ‘hurry’ is that her boyfriend, master Lloyd, is idly kicking his heels at the shopping centre where they two girls will, it seems, be helping him to chose a new pair of sneakers.

I wonder whether miss Tayshia’s boyfriend will be there too – not that it’s any of my slave-business!

I give miss Bertrice my humble assurances as to my desire to serve her and her friend with the alacrity they demand:

‘Yes mistress. This slave hears and obeys you mistress and will endeavour to please the mistresses by working hard, if you would be so kind most powerful mistress.’

I am not yet familiar enough with the two superior girls to start addressing them by their first names. I don’t believe it has been my privilege to ever transport them before.

Miss Bertrice clearly enjoyed my obsequious response to her rudely snapped demand, and her power over me:

‘Ha! Ha! This is wicked man! He has to, like, do everyting we say, innit?’

Being the temptress that she is, she then reaches down to adjust her left sock which had fallen somewhat below her right sock.

Oh if only I could straighten miss Bertrice’s socks for her! I would do anything to get on the right side of this young black woman in whose power and at whose mercy I now find myself!

‘Move, slave!’ barks the driver, miss Tayshia, abruptly, apparently not bothering to respond to her friend’s observations, but instead just putting their female power into effect .

She got the initial command almost right! I suspect she has driven a slave-cart before – though not mine! I would definitely have remembered mistress Tayshia, and that black stain on the back of her left Ugg boot, if she had ridden me before!

It takes twice the effort for me to get the cart started this time, but then I am carrying twice the load of mistress Angel – three times if one takes into account miss Bertrice’s relative corpulence!

As we start to head off I find myself wondering whether either of the two girls had actually put a 1 fem coin into the honesty box? Although that too is none of my damn business.

Miss Tayshia helpfully steers me back towards the town centre. Again, as you might expect of a full-time footslave-cart, I do know the way to the central shopping arcade, but I am still, of course reliant on miss Tayshia in getting us all there safely, avoiding any unwitting pedestrians etc!

Miss Bertrice’s phone rings almost as soon as we head off. The ring-tone is some sort of rap song. It appears from her reply to be master Lloyd – impatient, no doubt, for news on their progress:

‘Oh my God, babe… I just told you, innit?... about 10 minutes or so…it all depends on this dumb-ass beast and how fast he can go, innit? ...Ha! Ha!...Yeah, honey…OK…love you…bye babe!’

Miss Bertrice then deigns to talk down to me again through her chewing-gum slaps as I push her and her Ugg-booted driver along:

‘Listen up, slave-bwoy, that was my man, yeah? And he says he’s gonna whip your sorry ass if you don’t get a move on, yeah? So you’d better step on it though, innit slave-bwoy?’

Her friend miss Tayshia just laughs as I assure miss Bertrice yet again, albeit somewhat breathlessly now due to my physical exertions, that I shall seek to do my best to speed her, and her socks, and her friend to their rendezvous.

The trouble is that a slave’s best sometime just isn’t good enough for two demanding young women such as these:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this dirty slave fears the master’s whip and shall do his utmost to comply with the mistress’s demands, if it so pleases you sweet and kind feminine mistress.’

‘Keep movin’ though, slave!’ instructs miss Tayshia through her chewing gum, as if reminding me that I should be concentrating on the road - and indeed on the back of her Ugg boots – rather than letting myself be distracted by her friend’s threatening words and pretty, feminine socks.

As I breathe more and more heavily thanks to my strenuous efforts to propel the cart forward along the pavements, I can smell all the more strongly the musty, sheepskin material of the two girl’s beige-coloured Ugg boots directly in front of my sweating face. Oh what I would give to feel miss Tayshia’s and miss Bertrice’s personal footsweat on my face! Their pretty, black feet must surely be sweating inside those heavy, sheepskin boots?

But perspiring feet are, sadly, not the domain of the footslave-cart. My role is merely to look at the backs of my female masters’ shoes and boots whilst I transport them from A to B; or from a run-down inner city area to their impatiently waiting boyfriend(s) in the central shopping mall – as on this occasion.

When we did arrive at the mall - some 10 minutes or so later – master Lloyd, I’m relieved to say, did not feel the need to ‘whip my sorry ass’. He was too preoccupied in snogging his girlfriend, the delightfully chubby miss Bertrice. And miss Tayshia’s boyfriend was also there, tasting her pretty gum-flavoured mouth and lips as the happy foursome headed off to the shoe-store, not even bothering to chain me up properly to the slave-cart station at the entrance to the shopping mall!

Honestly – anyone could just walk up and steal me right now! I am totally unsecured! Then again, who in their right mind would want to steal a slave-cart? We are notoriously high-maintenance - requiring frequent medical treatment to our torn and chapped knees. And in any case we are indelibly marked on our thighs as being the property of the Female State, so the Female Police could easily identify us as stolen goods!

You probably won’t be surprised to hear that the entrance to the busy shopping mall is a prime location for footslave-carts, and I only have some 5 minutes or so to catch my breath back before my next beautiful customer approaches me.

She appears to be a visitor from India, judging by her cute, Indian accent when she speaks to me:

‘Are you being free to be taking me to the Art Museum, slave-coolie?’ she politely asks me.

Yes – she politely asks me! Clearly an out-of-towner and a visitor from abroad. I mean, actually asking a slave if he’s free to do something! Ha! Ha! How sweet!

And that’s not all that is sweet about this dark-haired, young Indian woman who looks to be in her late twenties or possibly early thirties. She is dressed in a white T shirt, light-grey leggings which hug her shapely Indian legs and shins down as far as the tops of her well-turned ankles, and a pair of matching light-grey ankle socks turned over at the cuffs, with a fetching pink, frilly trim on the bottom of the cuffs. A pair of plain white, lace-up sneakers with thick, white tongues finish off the ensemble, those thick, padded tongues making her petite and shapely Indian feet look somewhat bigger than they actually are – but still very sweet and feminine.

I can tell you now there is absolutely no way I shall be able to take my eyes off the pink, frilly trims on her sweet, light-grey, cotton ankle socks!

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave is indeed available for hire, if the mistress would be so kind, mistress.’

It is only now that she has established that I am ‘free’ that the inexperienced young Indian mistress stretches forward her shapely, right, sneakered foot onto my wooden footplate for respectful kissing.

I deliberately allow my nose to brush against the pink, frilly trim of her turned-down, light grey ankle sock as I lower my lips to the toe of her, remarkably clean-looking, bright, white sneaker.

Well, you have to get your kicks any way you can when you are a full-time slave-cart!

The frilly sock feels nice and soft on the tip of my nose, but my momentary reverie is soon interrupted:

‘Kindly do not be touching my clean sock with your dirty face, slave-coolie!’

Oops! I’ve been rumbled! This young woman is not the naïve mistress I had presumed her to be! I must be more careful.

I immediately and unreservedly apologise to the superior, young woman for my selfish indiscretion:

‘Oh pray mistress! Please forgive this dirty slave, mistress. This slave admires the mistress’s sock and could not help himself, sweet and forgiving mistress. Please don’t have me beaten, mistress.’

Astute as she clearly is, this young Indian woman probably knows that all she has to do to have me punished is to report me to one of many, black leather booted, female police officers in the vicinity, and I shall immediately be extracted from the cart and soundly whipped in her presence for my crime of unauthorised sock-nuzzling!

My grovelling apology, however, appears to have been graciously accepted as the young, Indian woman merely withdraws her right foot from beneath my offending nose and replaces it with her left.

If she hadn’t just warned me off ‘nuzzling’ her socks I would most definitely have nuzzled this one also on the way down to her sneaker – for not only is there that same fetching pink, frilly trim on the bottom of the turned-down cuff, but the frilly pink lace is twisted! Oh my God, how I yearn to straighten that sock for her with my slave-nose!

But I cannot – for I am required merely to kiss sneaker!

I therefore perform my sneaker-kissing duty, immediately following which the young Indian mistress inserts a 1 fem coin into the honesty box, and then turns and sits herself down in the driving seat above me resting her feet on the same wooden footplate in front of my suitably downcast and scolded face.

The backs of her frilly, grey and pink socks and smart, white sneakers below her matching, light-grey leggings really are a sight for sore footslave-eyes – as are the glimpses of brown, Indian skin above her pretty ankle bones. Oh how I wish we could just stay here forever – my Indian goddess-mistress seated above me, and me on my hands and knees staring besottedly at the backs of her pretty shoes and socks!

But, of course, reality has to set in, and soon - all too soon – she gives me her command to start:

‘Now be moving forwards, coolie-slave, and be taking me by the quickest route to the Art Gallery.’

When a visiting mistress doesn’t know the way somewhere I am, of course, expected to effectively take over the steering of the cart through my sheer muscle power. I often think it’s a shame these young female-customers of mine never get to see my slave-muscles, as I think they’d be quite impressed. Years of arduous footslave-carting have built them up. I’ll bet, for example, that I could match up to master Lloyd in the muscle department – even if he is regarded as ‘the bomb’, and I am merely a down-in-the-dirt footslave.

It’s that lowly social-status – or complete lack of it – which makes we male slaves so deeply unattractive to superior, young women in the Gynarchy!

Fortunately the route to the Art Gallery – or ‘The Gallery of Superior Feminine Art and Sculpture’ to give it its full title – is very straightforward; literally straightforward, as it is just down one street leading directly from the shopping mall.

I therefore head off in the right direction, relieved to be conveying just one female passenger this time - and a delightful and charming one at that, who is wearing equally delightful and charming pink and grey socks.

The Indian mistress even subconsciously tucks her ankles around each other on the footplate in front of my admiring face as she relaxes and takes in the sights whilst I do all the driving from beneath her. In so doing, she affords me the luxury of having a close-up view of the thick treads in the soles of her white sneakers. There is some good Barbarian mud and street-dirt in those treads. Oh if only I had the time to lick out that mud for the young, Indian lady! I could make those white sneaker-soles shine, if I was a public sneaker-shiner!

Which, sadly, I am not.

For I am nothing more than a beast of burden, transporting his educated and enlightened young Indian mistress to a place of high, feminine culture. My female customer is above me and better than me in every sense of those words, and I should just count myself honoured to be in the very presence of her dirty sneaker soles, and her pink and grey, twisted, frilly ankle socks.


The End