Peek-A-Boot

I am incarcerated for life in a small cell situated at ground level behind the inside wall of a busy restaurant.

I must lie permanently on my belly looking out through a small, iron grille at the feet of the female restaurant’s customers whilst they relax and enjoy their food and drink.

The cell is called a ‘Peek-A-Boot’, though it could equally be called a ‘Peek-A-Shoe’; or a ‘Peek-A-Sock’; or a ‘Peek-A-Heel’; or a ‘Peek-A-Sneak(er)’!

That’s because I now have to spend every waking hour of my life staring at and admiring the backs of ladies’ feet and footwear, through the tiny grille which provides the only light into my cell. It also provides the only air into my cell, so even the air that I breathe is fragranced by feminine footwear odours.

Most of the restaurant’s female customers are probably unaware of my male presence, lying behind their pretty feet under the table, as they enjoy their snacks and beverages. If they are aware, they are unconcerned – for they know that my life-sentence of incarceration in the ‘Peek-A-Boot’ cell must have been imposed upon me by the Female Courts because I am a rebellious slave who has disobeyed or displeased his mistress(es) in some way. In their eyes, therefore, I fully deserve my lifelong humiliation and punishment at their feet.

And they are right. I do not seek, or deserve, anyone’s sympathy.

The restaurant in which I am incarcerated opens early for breakfast. It is more of an all-day snack bar than a plush restaurant. But it is constantly busy, being situated near the central town square: lots of busy female commuters; and lots of female tourists.

I am, of course, not the only imprisoned slave in the restaurant. There are several ‘Peek-A-Boots’ – each incarcerated in the internal wall below and behind one of the restaurant tables. But I never get to meet or converse with my fellow prisoners. Each ‘Peek-A-Boot’ cell is effectively an isolation cell. My only connection to the world is what I can see through the iron grille in front of my prostrate face.

My own ‘table’ is a two-seater, situated in the far right-hand corner of the restaurant. I therefore tend to get single women or couples seated above me at my table – with just one pair of heels resting on the floor directly in front of my face, whilst the other occupier of the table sits on the opposite side.

If the couple are a man and a woman (for free men are permitted to eat in the female restaurant providing they are accompanied by their female partners) I always pray, of course, that it is the woman who will sit with her back to the wall, and her heels directly in front of my face. Most gentlemen, I’m relieved to say, do seem to organise the seating arrangements that way!

Right now, however, it is two black women who are carrying their self-service trays laden with hot breakfast food over towards my table. I can tell they are black only because I can just make out their smooth, bare black legs through the slender, iron bars on the grille covering my face as they approach my table.

They appear to be an older and a younger woman. Mother and daughter, perhaps? The older pair of, still-shapely, black legs are wearing a smart pair of plain, shiny black courts on slightly wrinkled, brown footskin. I would hazard a guess that these shapely legs belong to an attractive, middle-aged black woman in her mid to late forties. The middle-aged legs and shiny, black leather courts move to sit on the far side of the table.

That leaves the younger black woman’s legs free to move in and sit down directly in front of my face. Superb! I now have a close-up view, albeit through a grille in the wall, of a stylish pair of white leather, calf-length boots – belonging to a slim, young, black woman in her early twenties.

My close-up view is only, of course, of the backs of her white, leather boots – her booted heels – for the young woman is obliged to turn her back on me as she sits down at the table. Even if she were not obliged to do so, she would probably be the sort of snooty, black girl who would turn her back on a lowly, male footslave like me anyway. For she must surely be aware of her supreme feminine superiority over a pitiful, down-in-the-dirt, convicted male footslave such as me!

The white leather on the backs of her stylish, calf-length boots creases and folds in front of my eyes as the superior, young woman makes herself comfortable by taking off her jacket whilst she is seated at the table.

I can smell the aroma of her grilled breakfast in front of her face wafting down from the table above me and through the tiny little iron bars of the grille in front of my face. It is a particularly cruel experience – being a confined footslave in a ‘Peek-A-Boot’ which is located in a restaurant – for I am kept permanently hungry, and am never allowed to eat tasty, human food. I must survive on only one bowl of tasteless, cold, slave-mush per day, which I must consume through a straw through my grille last thing at night.

I am therefore surrounded all day long by the aroma of my female customers’ succulent and tasty food, but am denied any of it. I suppose it’s all just part of my just punishment.

I have actually trained my nose over my many tears of incarceration in this place to block out the tempting aromas of the food – and to filter only the smell of my various mistress-customers’ footwear up my prisoner-slave nostrils.

Right now, therefore, I try to concentrate on the musty aroma of the backs of the young black lady’s stylish, white, calf-length, leather boots.

I keep describing them as ‘stylish’ and here is why: not only do they have fetching, white leather tassels hanging down the sides - tassels which swing enticingly to and fro in the air every time the young black woman subconsciously moves her booted feet; not only do they have quite pointy toes at the front, and yet blocky, brown, wooden heels at the back; but the upper backs of the boots also contain several black scuff-marks which seem to criss cross each other on the otherwise white leather.

Now that’s class! That’s stylish! Scuff-marked, white leather boots! A prisoner-slave in the aptly-named ‘Peek-A-Boot’ could quite happily spend all day studying those black scuff marks on the backs of those white leather boots, all whilst admiring the constantly moving tassels and appreciating the strong, musty, leathery aroma of the young black woman’s white boot material!

My only regret is that I cannot possibly see whether or not the beautiful, young female wearer of the boots is wearing any socks inside her boots. The only way I could determine that would be to move my head over to the tops of her calf-length boots and to look down inside them, but the metal grille in front of my face, of course, prevents me from doing so.

And herein lies the true punishment of the ‘Peek-A-Boot’ prison cell – being so near to superior women’s beautiful feet and footwear – and yet so far. You can look; you can even smell; but you cannot touch; you cannot kiss; you cannot lick; you cannot tongue-shine; and you cannot see what type of hosiery, if any, a young black woman may be wearing inside her inviting, calf-length boots!

I speculate that she might be wearing matching white, ankle-length bootsocks inside her white, calf-length boots. But the not knowing for certain is truly frustrating!

I am always frustrated by my enforced denial of access to female boots and shoes. There are even, pathetically, teeth marks on some of the little iron bars on the grille in front of my face, where I have tried to gnaw through them – just to make enough space for my footslave-tongue to protrude through in order to lick clean a dirty and scuff-marked female boot or shoe.

But it is to no avail. The little bars of the grille are stubbornly strong, and the nearest I can ever get to touching my mistress-customers’ footwear is with the very tip of my nose – should she inadvertently cross over her ankles behind her whilst she is seated above me at the restaurant table, thereby pushing her shoe or bootsoles to within a centimetre or so of my metal grille.

This particular pair of fetching, white leather boots, however, do not appear to be for crossing, for they both remain firmly fixed on the ground, side by side, in front of my face – close, but not close enough for my nose-tip to brush against them through the tiny, iron bars.

Beyond the white, leather boots I can still see the bare, slightly wrinkled, black footflesh and smart, shiny black leather courts of the older black woman who is seated opposite her white-booted ‘daughter’ (if that is indeed who she is), but the focus of my attention is, quite naturally under the circumstances, on the scuff-marked backs of the younger woman’s boots.

I lower my gaze still further to the blocky, wooden heels at the bottoms of her boots, and observe a pleasing little chip in the slightly worn-away wood at the base of the heel on her left boot.

These are evidently a frequently-worn and favourite pair of boots!

The two women are talking animatedly now – in some African language, with what appear to be strong west-African accents. They are definitely not regulars to this restaurant. Tourists perhaps?

Whatever, they, and their footwear, are very welcome to this restaurant – especially the younger, African woman’s white leather boots!

The younger African goddess laughs at something funny said by her mother, and as she does so her right boot temporarily leaves the ground causing its white tassels, hanging from the top and down the side, to swing enticingly to and fro above my helplessly confined head.

I start to salivate. Oh if only I were not incarcerated behind this unforgiving, metal foot-grille! I would surely suck clean those dirty and dusty, white leather boot-tassels for the young, black owner of the boots. Indeed there is so much that I could do for her boots – lick away those dirty, black scuff-marks; remove any dust that has accumulated in the tiny creases and folds in the well-worn, white leather with my tongue; varnish the wood on the blocky, brown heels with my humble, slave-saliva; and then plane and smooth away that tiny chip on the bottom of her left boot-heel with my slave-teeth.

But I am prevented from doing so! That is my just and proper punishment, handed down by the female courts :

‘I hereby sentence you to incarceration for life in a ‘Peek-A-Boot’ footslave-cell, that you may learn to better appreciate and admire the feet and footwear of your female superiors...’ the good Lady-Judge had gleefully declared at my sentencing.

And she had been full of superior, feminine wisdom – for if my wretched existence in the ‘Peek-A-Boot’ cell has taught me anything over the years, it is humble appreciation of the sight and smell of sweet, feminine footwear. Indeed, without the sight and smell of female footwear, my life would be totally meaningless and empty.

Whilst I have been drooling over the young black woman’s boots, she and her ‘mother’ have been drooling over their cooked breakfasts – and they are now fully sated. The white leather tassels once again flap against the sides of the younger woman’s white leather, calf-length boots as she stands up from the table.

Leaving so soon mistress? Oh pray, pretty, black mistress, please stay a while longer – that I may admire your pretty, white boots in more detail. Oh pray, young black mistress! Oh pray!

That’s what I would say if I were permitted to speak to my customers without first being spoken to. But I am not allowed to disturb my female betters in any way. It might frighten or upset them, and besides, precisely because they are my female betters, they have much better things to do than engage in conversation with an incarcerated footslave. I mean, I’m just a grille in the wall behind their feet whilst they are seated down at table. And who ever heard of a talking grille?

After the white leather, calf-length boots and smart, shiny black court shoes have moved away from the table with their empty trays I don’t have to wait long for my next customers – a young white woman with dyed-red hair who looks to be in her mid to late twenties, accompanied by her similarly-aged, white boyfriend.

Fortunately for the ‘Peek-A-Boot’ footslave the young man sits on the opposite side of the table, so I can disregard his footwear, just as I neglected the shiny, black footwear of my previous mistress’s mother. Instead, my eyes are regaled by the pleasing sight of a sweet pair of pinky-white, bare heels - with areas of rough, chapped skin - inside the flat-heeled backs of a pair of soft, red leather, ballet flats.

This young, red-haired woman is wearing a pair of black, denim jeans above her bright red ballet flats, but fortunately for me the jean-hems are quite narrow and only just cover her shapely, white ankle bones. Therefore I have an unimpeded view of the backs of her bare heels – unimpeded apart from, that is, the thin bars of the metal grille in front of my face.

The lines of the bars almost seem to complement the lines in the young lady’s bare, pinky-white, heel skin, as she sits with the toes of both her red ballet-flated feet coquettishly pointing inwards towards one another.

Oh if only my footslave-tongue were permitted to soothe away the red areas of dry, chapped skin on the backs of this young redhead’s soft, bare-heels!

I am fairly certain that this particular young woman is not wearing any socks inside her red ballet-flats – although one can never be totally certain since some makes of ultra-short, ‘no show’ socks do indeed seem to make a ‘no show’ whilst on a lady’s feet inside her shoes. Again I speculate that if she were to be wearing socks inside her bright, red ballet flats they would probably be black – to match her black, denim jeans.

But I’m sure such socks would be at least partially visible on the tops of her feet above the rounded toe areas of her flat, red shoes – or at least a thin slither of black, cotton sock would be discernible running along the pretty, young white woman’s shapely insteps.

No – she is almost certainly sockless inside her sweet, red leather ballet-flats – which may go some way to explaining why the young woman’s heels are so rough-looking and chapped. Perhaps this particular young mistress never wears socks – not even with her sneakers or boots. Perhaps her bare heels are forever rubbing against the inside of her spike-heeled, black, leather, zip-up ankle boots (for a young woman of this age is sure to own such a pair of boots).

Girls should always wear socks inside their boots – in my humble opinion! Not just to protect the soft, vulnerable skin at the backs of their pretty heels, but also in order to capture the sweaty aroma of their warm, booted feet on their socks for their personal footslaves to sniff at the end of the day.

I wonder if the young woman’s boyfriend is even vaguely aware of his pretty, red-haired girlfriend’s dry and chapped heels. He probably concerns himself with other ‘smoother’ parts of his girlfriend’s beautiful, soft body! But the backs of her heels are mine – at least mine to look at; if only for the next few minutes – whilst she drinks her coffee and eats her toast.

I would toast her beautiful heels if I were permitted to drink!

The young man and woman – both my social superiors – appear to be whispering sweet nothings to each other as they consume their breakfast. It sounds like they may be speaking German, or possibly Dutch? I’m afraid I’m not very good at identifying foreign languages, being an uneducated and ignorant footslave.

But even if I could understand what they are saying, I could barely hear them above the noise and bustle of the increasingly busy restaurant.

Suddenly the bottoms of both the young mistress’s bare, round heels pop out of the backs of her bright red ballet flats as she leans forward across the table to kiss her beloved, male partner – revealing yet more of the young, (German?) goddess’s pinky-white heels, and some orangey discolouration caused by layers of dead skin on the very bottoms of her hardened heels.

I offer up a silent prayer to those hard-skinned heels in lieu of toasting them, for they are truly deserving of a footslave’s humble worship and adulation. Oh if only I could lick away and soften that orangey, hard heelskin!

But no. Before my tongue has time to whittle down the obstructive, iron bars in front of my face – aeons before it has time to do so – the young, white woman callously slips her calloused, orangey heels back into her soft, red ballet flats, and stands up to leave the table, hand in hand with her doting boyfriend.

Her red heels disappear out of my miserable life forever.

Only to be replaced by a wonderful sight for sore footslave-eyes – a pair of fetching, multicoloured, lace-up, canvas, ‘converse-style’ low-top, sneakers, worn with blue denim jeans and – once she has sat down – a pleasingly visible little slither of plain, white sneaker sock.

Only the elasticated top of the white, cotton, female sock is visible – and then only in places on her sneakered feet: for example, along the insteps; and, crucially for me, at the backs of her rounded, flat sneaker-heels.

Even better, the blonde female owner of the bright, multicoloured, canvas sneakers and white socks is not alone – she too has a breakfast-partner, though this time it is another blonde female. The accompanying feminine feet seated beyond the multicoloured sneakers and white socks are clad in pink and white striped, velcro-fastened, high-top sneakers, and creased, black ankle socks – also worn beneath a pair of blue, denim jeans, although these jeans are obligingly cut-off at the calf.

At last! Some female sock to admire from my ‘Peek-A-Boot’ cell! And I am spoilt for choice – creased, black ankle sock or short, white sneaker sock, both worn by pretty blondes inside their hot, but equally contrasting, sneakers! Although I am effectively compelled to focus my attention on the slithers of white sock, since the white socks are so much closer to my imprisoned face - being the ones directly in front of the grille.

That means, of course, that I can see very close-up, and therefore fully appreciate, each individual stitch in the elasticated tops of the young, white woman’s plain, white sneaker socks; whilst her breakfast-companion’s plain, black socks must remain something of a mystery, at least as far as the details in the pattern of the stitching are concerned.

Suddenly, however, my sock-gazing is rudely interrupted by the female owner of the close-up, white socks carelessly and unthinkingly repositioning her feet so that they are crossed over at the ankles – thereby hiding the tops of her delicious, white socks from my view and presenting me instead with a close-up view of the thick treads in the bottoms of her beige-coloured sneaker soles.

Whilst I am slave enough to be able to appreciate the sight, and indeed the smell, of the young, blonde woman’s dirty, beige-coloured sneaker-soles, infuriatingly they are still too far away from the grille for the tip of my nose to be able to make physical contact with them through the tiny bars of my ‘Peek-A-Boot’ cage!

My initial disappointment at having my visual sock-worshipping so rudely and needlessly interrupted soon dissipates, however, when I see just how filthy dirty the young blonde lady’s sneaker-soles truly are. Thick street mud and dirt is well and truly trapped in several of the treads – even a few tiny stones and twigs are evident!

And on the sole of her right sneaker – near the middle – I do believe I can even see the dirty-grey remains of some walked-over chewing gum!

The only way to be sure it is chewing gum would be to reach out through the metal grille with my tongue and taste the shoe-soles. But my tongue is not long enough, and the iron bars on the grille are not spaced apart widely enough, to allow my incarcerated tongue access to the young, blonde woman’s dirty sneaker-soles!

Again – how frustrating! Not only am I prevented from providing a shoe-cleaning service for this superior, young, blonde woman; I am also denied the special treat of the minty taste of some girl’s carelessly-discarded chewing gum on my footslave-tastebuds (the gum may not have been inside this particular blonde mistress’s pretty mouth, but it must have come out of some female’s mouth since only females are allowed to chew gum in the Gynarchy!)

Meanwhile, the two young, blonde women – the one with the dirty , beige sneaker-soles and the one with the pink and white striped high-tops - are happily conversing with one another above me as they tuck into their breakfasts.

I can detect Australian accents, and at least I can understand what they are saying as, unlike all my previous customers this morning, they are speaking a language I understand – English! (English is not my native tongue, of course; my native tongue is humble slave-speak, but I can understand English).

It is the blonde, Australian mistress with the pink and white high-tops and black ankle socks seated on the far side of the table who speaks first:

‘Did you see the public slave-whipping on TV last night, Jodie? It was ripper? I thought the slave was going to pass out, or something, but he, like, just took it?’

My own mistress, if I may call her that – the one with the multicoloured, low-top sneakers and white socks, whom I now know to be called mistress Jodie – responds chirpily to her breakfast-partner's observations:

‘Ha! Ha! Like the fool had any choice, Beth? He was tied up to the whipping post? And besides they don’t allow them to pass out? They use smelling salts on them, or something?’

Just as my surprisingly well informed Aussie mistress is explaining some of the niceties of public slave-floggings to her less informed colleague, mistress ‘Beth’, a piece of dirty, mud-encrusted twig falls out of one of the thick, beige treads on the upturned sole of her right, canvas sneaker and onto the floor directly beneath my metal face-grille.

Now I can’t take my eyes off that muddy twig! Just think where it’s been! It has been stuck to the sole of this beautiful and enlightened Antipodean mistress’s lace-up, canvas sneaker, below her white sock. She has been walking around on that tiny piece of twig for God knows how long! It must surely taste of her beige sneaker soles!

It may even have been stuck to her dirty sneaker-soles whilst she was apparently watching the recording of the public slave-whipping late last night on TV in her hotel bedroom!

I’m assuming these two Aussie girls, who are clearly tourists in our fair capital, can afford to stay in a hotel!

Oh I must – I simply must – get hold of that discarded sneaker-twig and taste where it has been! But there is just no way my useless tongue could possibly reach it through the metal grille!

Oh but it’s lying on the floor so tantalizingly close to my gormless, cooped-up face! Perhaps I could breathe it in closer to the grille, and then lick it up off the ground?

I simply have to try – for it is the precious twig from the dirty, muddy sole of a superior young, blonde, Australian woman’s shoe!

I desperately attempt to suck over the twig with my footslave-breath.

‘What’s that funny noise?...’ asks the wearer of the pink and white, velcro-fastened high-tops seated opposite my mistress Jodie. ’...It appears to be coming from behind your feet, Jodie?’

Suddenly the beige-soled sneakers in front of my face are unfurled, and I sense the Aussie mistress who is seated above me, mistress Jodie, twisting herself round to look down behind her feet. More of the elasticated top of the very feminine, plain white sneaker sock on her left foot now becomes visible along her shapely, white instep as she does so.

She is looking suspiciously down at my grille – and can now just make out my pathetic, gormless, incarcerated features imprisoned behind it.

She suddenly recoils:

‘Strewth! There’s someone in there – behind that grille at my feet? Must be some sort of footslave, or something? Ha! Ha!’

Her friend, mistress Beth, comes round to our side of the table to have a closer look for herself – affording me, at long last, a much closer look at her sweet, plain black ankle-socks inside her pink and white high-top sneakers, as her cut-off, calf-length, blue denim, jean-hems only reach down to about one inch above the tops of her sneakers, even whilst she is standing up:

‘Ha! Ha! So there is? Ha! Ha! But why was he making that stupid noise?’

I am now surrounded by two delightful pairs of female sneakers and socks as their beauteous owners laugh at me and mock me in my predicament:

‘I dunno, Beth? I suppose we could ask him?’

The girl with the velcro-fastened pink and white high-tops continues to laugh as she now squats down on her haunches beside her still-seated friend, and stares curiously into my grille – her pretty, freckled, free face now just inches away from my own ugly, pockmarked, confined, footslave face.

She grins evilly as she then asks me her perfectly legitimate question:

‘Hey you in there – the queer footslave? Peek-a-boo! Ha! Ha! Tell us why are you making that stupid sucking noise at my friend Jodie’s feet?’

I turn crimson with embarrassment - not that the Australian mistress would be able to see my embarrassment in the relative darkness of my hole through the metal grille.

They are about to hear my shame and embarrassment, however:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistresses, this slave was foolishly attempting to draw forward with his breath a dirty twig that fell off the sole of mistress Jodie’s sneaker, if it is so pleasing to you most respected mistresses. Oh pray mistresses, please forgive this dirty slave for disturbing the mistresses’ breakfast with his loud breathing, if you would be so merciful most sweet and kind mistresses!’

The two girls crease up with raucous laughter.

‘Ha! Ha! Strewth, did you hear that, Jodie? Ha! Ha! The dipstick wants to suck up a dirty twig that fell off the bottom of your shoe? Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a yellow-belly!’

The former owner of the twig laughs out loud too, still seated - but with the fronts of her multicoloured, canvas sneakers now turned round fully towards me:

‘Ha! Ha! He must be really hungry, or something, Beth? Ha! Ha! Let’s find the dirty twig and give him his tucker? Ha! Ha!’ suggests mistress Jodie, the erstwhile owner of the hapless twig.

Miss pink and white high-tops then feels on the ground with her pretty, white hands until she locates the shoe-soiled twig. She then kindly, but still chortling with mocking, female laughter, shoves it through one of the bars in my grille and into my gaping and expectant, male mouth.

It tastes wonderful – truly wonderful. To the two Antipodean girls’ enormous amusement I suck eagerly on the twig, and savour its rubbery-sole taste, before placing it securely in the inside of my right cheek. This item of dirty-sneaker detritus is much too precious to just swallow straightaway!

Even though my mouth is now full of dirty, shoe-soiled twig, I must humbly thank the two kind-hearted, blonde, Australian mistresses for my unexpected and undeserved treat of mud encrusted shoe-tucker:

‘Oh pray, sweet mistresses. God bless you, sweet mistresses, for feeding this humble and undeserving prisoner-slave with the detritus from your soiled footwear, most kind and generous mistresses!’

The two Aussie girls are now too sore with laughter to be able to eat anything more themselves.

A petite, dark-haired and dark-skinned waitress of Asian origins, who is wearing a uniform consisting of a red T shirt, a white apron, red corduroy trousers and plain, white keds, comes over to the table. I can just catch a glimpse of her short, white socks beneath the hems of her red corduroys as she enquires as to the well-being of the two paying customers:

‘Is everything being okay, misses? Is this footslave-prisoner bothering you?’

My heart sinks! Please don’t squeal on me, esteemed mistresses Jodie and Beth! If the cute, Asian waitress-mistress twigs that you have been feeding me dirty twiglets from the soles of your shoes, she will be sure to confiscate the muddy shoe-twig from my mouth – and there is still so much residue and bacteria from the sole of miss Jodie’s sneaker for me to suck off it. That’s why I want to keep the dirty twig inside my mouth for a while longer, if you would both be so kind as to cover up for me, sweet and kind Australian mistresses!

My co-conspirators in crime (for it is a crime to feed a public footslave – albeit a crime for which the slave alone will always be punished) just laugh, and mistress Beth valiantly rushes to my defence in her heavy, Australian accent:

‘Ha! Ha! No worries, waitress? We were just laughing at him and teasing him? Ha! Ha! What a drongo!’

The dark-haired, Asian waitress-mistress seems reassured:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes! Just think ladies – that dunderhead is already being confined in that dirty, peek-a-boot hole for more than 20 years; since before I was even being born, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’

The thought of my long-term and unending incarceration in the wall of the restaurant at floor level clearly tickles the three young women from two faraway continents, and they all laugh with undisguised pleasure at the stark contrast between their sweet, feminine state of freedom and my eternal state of male incarceration at their feet.

But, thanks to the generosity and magnanimity of my two Australasian, female customer-mistresses, I am perhaps having the last laugh. For I shall be tasting that mud-encrusted twig – and by extension the muddy sole of mistress Jodie’s canvas sneaker – for days to come. For the first time in over twenty years my mouth is experiencing the taste of a young woman’s footwear – albeit only a soupcon!

I therefore owe my mocking, Australian mistresses a great debt of gratitude, and humbly praise and bless them both in my meek and feeble slave-mind, as they victoriously leave the restaurant in order to collect yet more street dirt and detritus on their respective, and highly-respected, Australian sneaker-soles.

I can only hope they will do me the honour of furtively feeding me again with their sneaker-dirt before they head back ‘down under’.

I, of course, am going nowhere as I, somewhat paradoxically, must remain ‘down under’ – down under the feet of my superior female customers in the cramped confines of my ‘Peek-A-Boot’ cell!

The End