Behind Bars
I suppose I should consider myself lucky, really.
The good lady judge could have sentenced me to incarceration for life in one of the Gynarchy’s many foothole dungeons – deep underground; windowless; never to see the outside world again. But instead she had mercy on me, and ordered that I be incarcerated for life in a dingy, basement cell that looks out onto the town square.
It’s not much of a view that I have from my cell. Just the ground; and feet – mainly ladies’ feet – from behind bars. But as I kneel in the dirt and look out of my ground-level cell window at least I can see life going on around me. I can observe and admire the feet and footwear of my free betters as they go about their daily business.
And I not only get to admire them from afar. Many of the idle, and the not so idle, young women milling around in the town square outside choose to taunt me, and torment me, by resting their feet on the lowest bar of my ground-level cell window, and by using me as a kind of unofficial shoelick. I clean their dirty shoes and boots with my prisoner-slave tongue through the bars of my cell – to their great amusement, for they know this is the only physical contact I can ever have with them; with women; for the remainder of my life.
It is yet another day in my life sentence of incarceration in the 6 foot by 3 foot prison cell looking out onto the town square. It is a bright day. A sunny day. Not too hot, thankfully; for my tiny, cramped cell with its low ceiling does tend to get very hot and stuffy in extreme summer heat.
No, today is shaping up to be just nice. Bright and dry. I can expect a succession of young women from the outside wishing to avail themselves of my unofficial boot and shoe licking services in such clement weather, for it is only when it is raining heavily that my female ‘customers’ tend to shy away from my unofficial shoelick-stand – only because they will get soaked as they stand in the rain outside my prison-cell wall.
Everybody knows about me, even though there is no official sign above the bars of my cell window on the outside wall of the prison. Knowledge of my services has simply spread by word of mouth. You could say that my boot and shoe licking reputation precedes me, and I understand that I even get a mention in some tourist guidebooks, where I am described as the ‘bootlicking prisoner on the town square’.
How people must laugh at me, and revel in my humiliation at their dirty feet!
My first ‘customer’ of the day is one such typical laughing, mocking young woman. I believe she may have been up all night – out on the town – as she is quite drunk, even though it’s only 07:30 in the morning! She is also a little bit unsteady on her booted feet as she totters towards me.
And very nice, wobbly-booted feet they are too – dark brown, pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled, zip-up, ankle-length, leather boots, worn with what appears to be a fetching pair of bright yellow ankle socks just peeping out over the tops on her otherwise bare, pasty-white legs beneath her very short, matching yellow miniskirt.
As she teeters across the square towards me I can make out that she is a pretty blonde, with her long hair tied back in a rather severe-looking ponytail.
She still has a bottle in her hands – beer I think – as she stretches out her right, stiletto-booted foot in front of her and rests the leather sole on the lowest bar of my cell-window, meaning that the pointy toe of her boot is now half inside my cell and resting just an inch or so in front of my prisoner-lips:
‘Ha! Ha! Lick the crap off my boots, mate!’ is all she says as she merrily takes another swig from her beer bottle.
I find the superior, young blonde woman’s use of the word ‘mate’ somewhat disconcerting. I am not her ‘mate’ – not in any meaningful sense of the term, more’s the pity!
First of all, I am certainly not her ‘mate’ in the sense of being her ‘friend’. Quite apart from the fact that I have never had the honour of meeting this young woman before, she is self-evidently my better - being a superior young mistress, and me being nothing but a lowly, male footslave-prisoner. We could never be considered as ‘equals’ or ‘friends’. She is young, free and female; I am old, imprisoned and male. I am not worthy to be in her presence, let alone regard her as my friend. And I am about to demonstrate my inferiority towards her by humbly and obediently licking the dirt off her pointy-toed, brown leather, zip-up ankle boots as she stands above me, tall and proud, outside the bars of my ground-level cell window.
Secondly, I shall never ‘mate’ with her. How could I? I am incarcerated for life in this dank and dingy cell, whereas she is a free woman; free to sleep with any of the hundreds of thousands of free men she so chooses. She can barely even see my face behind the bars of my cell beneath her superior, ankle-booted foot, and besides, I’m just a male slave – incapable of sexual intercourse.
Thirdly, I am not even her ‘cell-mate’ – though I somehow think this young woman may well have had some experience of short-term incarceration herself in the past. It is rare, though not unheard of, for females to be locked up in the Gynarchy’s police cells – usually for short periods of no more than 12 hours or so; and usually just for their own protection whilst they sober up.
But such a delightful young woman would never be required to share a cell with a dirty, male slave like myself! Her cell would be a female one - furnished and comfortable – with all mod cons including satellite TV and a luxurious bed, as befits a female prisoner’s cell in the Gynarchy. It would not be the dark and dingy, cockroach-infested hole that I have had to become used to!
But I digress! My would-be ‘mate’ has ordered me to, as she so delicately put it, ‘lick the crap’ off her boots. The ‘crap’ she is referring to is, thankfully, nothing more nor less than good, honest earth from the nearby park, mixed in with slithers of dead grass, all stuck to the toe and sole of her boot. I wonder if she has been rolling around in the grass all night with some free man, making love to him?
She may even be a prostitute, celebrating the end of another night’s hard work?
Whatever, her stylish, brown leather ankleboots clearly do need a good tongue-cleaning, and my lips are every bit as eager to encircle the dirty, pointy toe of her proffered ankle-boot as the young woman’s own lips are to encircle the top of her brown beer bottle.
As I engorge her delicate and feminine pointy boot-toe with my mouth I am acutely conscious of the twisted and creased, exposed, elasticated top of her bright, yellow ankle-length bootsock, peeping out somewhat dishevelledly above the upper rim of her ultra-modern looking, brown leather boot. If ever a young woman’s bootsock needed straightening, this was it!
But, in my imprisoned position, I am forever frustrated in my sock-straightening urges – for my hands are cruelly manacled to the ground beneath me as I kneel behind the bars of my ground-level cell window.
I said the good lady judge had shown mercy on me when passing sentence, but her mercy had not extended to making me physically comfortable in my favourably-situated cell! I am being punished, after all! I am therefore kept permanently on my knees, my wrists chained to the ground, and my head also kept bowed down by chains; forced to continuously look out of my ground-level cell window, even if I don’t want to!
So anyway, the point is that I can look at young women’s shoes, boots and socks – but I can’t touch them. Not with my hands at any rate. Only with my mouth.
If I’m honest – it’s exactly as it should be – for my convicted-prisoner hands are not worthy to touch the superior footwear of free women.
The pointy toe of the drunken, young, blonde-ponytailed mistress’s brown, leather boot tastes strongly of fresh mud. The dark brown hue of the boot had obviously hidden from my still somewhat sleepy, early morning eyes the full extent of the dirt and filth stuck to the boots.
I hear the young woman laugh out loud at me as she finishes taking a drunken slug out of her beer bottle:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave-boyee, suck it all up. Ha! Ha! Suck up all that nice dirt from Vicky’s nice little bootie-wootie! Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Vicky, my new ‘mate’, is clearly having some trouble keeping the pointy toe of her ‘nice little bootie-wootie’ nice and still inside my mouth – mainly because she is having trouble maintaining her drunken balance with one of her booted feet resting on the lower bar of my cell-window. But the movement of her boot inside my mouth is actually helping to scrape the mud off her boot onto the roof of my mouth, so, actually, things are working out for the best!
If only her creased and twisted, yellow bootsock wasn’t such a distraction!
I feel I have nowhere near finished sucking the ingrained dirt and mud out of miss Vicky’s boot-toe, when her right ankleboot is suddenly and unceremoniously withdrawn from my mouth only to be replaced by the toe of her equal muddy left boot.
Now I am even more frustrated – for the top of the bright yellow bootsock on this left foot is well-nigh invisible unless I lean forward as far as I can and endeavour to look down inside the top of her ankle-boot. The yellow sock must have slipped down inside the warm and moist confines of the superior young, blonde woman’s boot during her drunken revelry in the park!
Not that she seems to care. I suspect she is too drunk to care; or even to notice the state of her socks:
‘Ha! Ha! Now suck on my other bootie, prisoner-creep. Ha! Ha! Suck off all the crap, creep! Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Vicky bursts out into a fit of seemingly uncontrollable laughter and giggling. She must obviously think she has made some sort of highly witty remark, but I’m afraid it went right over my stupid, slave head – whatever it was.
Just as her boot and sock is above my stupid head.
She is taking yet more swigs out of her beer bottle again, her pretty, lipstick-painted mouth full of the pleasant flavour of cool, refreshing alcohol whilst my own mouth tastes of blonde-girl bootdirt.
Suddenly I hear a man’s voice calling out mistress Vicky’s name:
‘Vicky, where the hell are you?’
He must be a free man to be addressing her like that. Such disrespect!
If my own mouth wasn’t full of her boot leather I would certainly be much more respectful in how I addressed mistress Vicky! But then, I have to be respectful of young women – for I am a male slave and they are my betters.
‘Over here, hon!...’ she shouts out in reply. ’…Over here by the dirty bootlicker-creep!’
A young black man wanders indolently over, also somewhat unsteady on his feet – presumably due also to an overindulgence of alcohol – and places his unsteady but manly right arm around mistress Vicky.
He kisses her – a long lingering kiss on her alcohol-breath filled mouth.
Now this free man clearly can claim to be miss Vicky’s ‘mate’!
‘Yo, what’s up? Where have you been, babe? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, innit?’ says the young black man after he finally manages to remove his tongue from deep inside mistress Vicky’s welcoming mouth.
Meanwhile the muddy toe of his blonde girlfriend’s left ankleboot is still deep inside my welcoming slave-mouth.
‘Ha! Ha! I just fancied having my boots cleaned, hon, innit? They’re covered in muck from the park! Ha! Ha!’
So I was right. This couple have been to the park that morning. Admiring the flowers in the carefully-cultivated flower beds, no doubt!
The man appears to notice my mouth on the toe of his girlfriend’s boot for the first time.
He laughs, as he lets go of his girlfriend and crouches down to stare into my cell:
‘Ha! Ha! What a dork! What a loser! Hey, you in there bro...make sure you get rid of all that filth on my bitch’s boot, yeah? Ha! Ha!’
His ‘bitch’! I can’t believe my ears! He actually called sweet and kind mistress Vicky a ‘bitch’!
Surely she’ll at least slap him across the face! She must surely find that word ‘bitch’ offensive – even coming from a free man, a man she clearly loves and adores!
But no, perhaps because she is such a sweet and loving young woman, mistress Vicky just laughs and kisses her black boyfriend passionately on the lips once again. The young, black master therefore once again tastes his blonde ‘bitch’s’ loving lips, whilst I taste her fresh bootmud. Moreover, the harder she kisses him, the harder her pointy, brown leather boot-toe subconsciously scrapes against the roof of my mouth.
At least miss Vicky is being worshipped by two men at once – each worshipping her in their own way and in their rightful place; the stud on her lips; the slave on her boots!
Suddenly, without so much as a by-your-leave, the drunken blonde girl’s left boot is withdrawn from my mouth and the couple walk off, arm in arm, but still both unsteady on their feet; both giggling; both merry; both having already forgotten about me – the incarcerated prisoner at their free feet.
However mistress Vicky has at least left me a present to remember her by. Some wet mud has scraped off the dirty sole of her brown leather ankle boot and onto the black, metal bar on which her left boot had just been resting in front of my incarcerated face.
This is good news – for I am still hungry. I rely on my female customers’ boot and shoe dirt to supplement my meagre prison rations of slave-gruel. And so to have such a particularly large globule of fresh, girlboot-flavoured park-muck to savour and consume is quite a treat!
Besides, I have no choice but to lick it off the metal bar beneath my face – for it must not sully the boot or shoe sole of my next customer, whosoever she may be.
I therefore eat up miss Vicky’s residual bootmud quickly, for my next customer, as I fully anticipate, is not long in coming over to avail herself of my underground footslave-services.
A fetching pair of cheap-looking, scuff-marked, round-toed, white plastic ballet flats and thick, black, woollen socks are soon standing side by side in the town square outside the bars of my ground-level cell. The ballet flats are being worn beneath a pair of black, denim jeans, but the hems of the jeans are, thankfully, fairly narrow meaning that I have a very pleasing, close-up view of the young woman’s black, woollen anklesocks above the toe area of her shoes– especially when she imperiously stretches forth her right foot and places the cheap, plastic sole of her white ballet flat onto the freshly licked-clean, lower bar of my cell window.
Now, whenever such delectable and lightweight, feminine footwear is placed inside my prison-cell window my heart starts to pound just that little bit harder – for I know that my mouth will almost certainly be permitted to touch sock at some point in the proceedings. There is just so much girlsock on display inside such a teasingly low-cut ballet flat! It would be difficult not to at least find my lips brushing against the soft, feminine, black woollen sock on the young lady’s foot whilst kissing the white, plastic toe of her cheap, scuff-marked ballet flat.
Unlike mistress Vicky before her, the owner of the black sock and white, plastic ballet flat now resting on the bar in front of my face is a dark-haired brunette. Also unlike mistress Vicky she is perfectly sober.
And also unlike mistress Vicky she appears to be completely alone. No boyfriend in tow!
I await my orders.
‘Slave kiss my sock!’
My heart actually skips a beat. This is even better than I had hoped for! A direct order to kiss sock, from the female wearer of the sock herself! No messing around, it seems. I am to get straight down to the sock-kissing!
I do like a young woman who likes to get straight down to things. No need for any foreplay prior to socks; no need to first kiss and honour her outer footwear – the scuff-marked toes of her cute, white ballet flats; wooing her shoes for permission to kiss her socks!
No – this young woman wants full and immediate socks, and I am only too happy to oblige her!
I think I may have detected an East European accent in her voice as she barked down her order at me. Polish, perhaps? Certainly her shoes and socks could be East European. The black, woollen socks have quite a distinctive circular pattern in their stitching, a pattern which it is now the utter privilege of my prisoner slave-mouth to feel on my unworthy lips as I humbly and respectfully kiss the exposed, plain black sock on the young brunette-woman’s arrogantly outstretched right foot resting on the lower bar of my cell window.
The black ankle-sock appears to be well-worn, judging by the little balls of black, woolly, sock lint I can feel on the sock-sensitive tips of my lips. The lint balls feel ticklish.
I appear to be tickling the brunette mistress’s foot as well, as I can feel her soft, white, feminine foot muscles flexing underneath the cotton material of the black sock in reaction to my slave-lips humbly touching her socked foot.
I just hope and pray I am also tickling this young woman’s fancy, for I really would like her to remain here all day – having me kiss her socks. This is so deliciously humiliating – having to kiss a complete stranger’s socks; the socks of some unknown East European girl whom I have never met before, but who has already asserted her absolute girl-power and authority over me just by the simple action of positioning her dainty foot in through my cell window and ordering me to kiss her sock.
I can smell the cheap plastic of her white, East European, ballet-flat shoe as I savour the delights of her East European sock. It’s a nice combination for my footslave senses; the musty smell of cheap, plastic shoe in my nose; the feel of soft, woollen sock on my lips; and the sight of contrasting black and white inner and outer footwear on the superior young, twenty-something mistress’s shapely East European foot and ankle, beneath the narrow hem of her stylish, black denim jean leg.
‘Kiss each groove in the stitching of my sock 20 times, slave!’
Definitely a Slavonic accent – probably Polish, but impeccable English nonetheless! This clever and well-educated young Polish woman certainly knows her English grammar, as well as her own mind! I love it when a superior young woman knows exactly what she wants from me – it makes my humble ‘job’ so much easier!
So, this Polish miss wishes me to kiss each of the thick grooves in the distinctive, circular pattern of her sock-stitching 20 times? Then so shall it be! It may take me some time, for there are a lot of circular shaped grooves, all in concentric circles, visible in the exposed area of sock between the rounded toe area of her white, plastic shoe and the hem of her black denim jean-leg covering her shapely, Polish anklebone. A most unusual knitted-sock pattern, and one I don’t recollect ever seeing before.
These socks must surely have been hand-knitted for her. Or even by her?
It is only right and proper, therefore, that I should spend some time examining and worshipping such an unusual and very personal sock-pattern in slavish detail – with the young Polish lady’s sweet, feminine indulgence of course.
Unlike my previous customer this young dark-haired woman is not laughing at me. She seems much more serious. And she is certainly paying much more attention to my footslavish efforts on her footwear. I can sense how she is cocking her pretty, brunette head to one side as she stands over me, in order to get a better view of my humble sock-kissing activity.
‘Keep your dirty lips inside each groove, slave. Do not touch more than one groove of my sock at a time!’
To hear this young East European woman is to obey her. I must keep my lips tightly pursed as I repeatedly kiss sock, lest one of my lips should stray onto a neighbouring groove in her sock-stitching. Thank goodness this young woman is able to stand still – unlike my previous customer – whilst I attend to her footwear. I would never have been able to keep my lips inside the individual grooves at the tops of mistress Vicky’s yellow, cotton bootsocks, even if they hadn’t been so creased and twisted, given her drunken unsteadiness on her feet.
It takes me some 20 minutes to kiss each individual groove in the stitching on miss Poland’s black, woollen sock 20 times - one whole minute per groove – before she withdraws her right foot from my cage, and stretches out her left foot onto the black metal bar in front of me:
‘Now the other one!’ is all she says.
Curt, concise and to the point. She is clearly enjoying a power trip at my expense. But that’s fine by me. For I am enjoying a sock-trip at her expense. It is mutually assured satisfaction.
My selfish, slavish satisfaction increases even further when I manage to detect the pale whiteness of the Polish mistress’s soft, feminine footskin beneath a worn and thinning area of sock near her shapely, left instep.
This is footslave-nirvana! So, thus far this morning, I have sucked on muddy, brown leather boot-toe and kissed well-worn, black woollen anklesock – and it’s still only 08:30 a.m.!
As it is a workday, the office ladies and business ladies are now beginning to mill around the town square – on their way into work. This is my rush hour. I can expect to perform lots of boot-shining with my slave-tongue over the next hour or so – mainly black leather, zip-up ankle boots beneath smart, pinstriped bootcut trouser legs; the trouser legs of sharp-suited and successful businesswomen.
I love the way they arrogantly hitch up the boot-cut hems of their pinstriped trouser legs as they rest their booted feet on the metal bar of my cell window directly in front of my confined face. I love it because often (though not always) it means that I get to see the elasticated top of a superior businesswoman’s, black, cotton bootsock; or even the very unbusinesswoman-like top of a brightly-coloured pink sock; or of a multicoloured stripy sock; or even of a ridiculously inappropriate cartoon-print sock!
I just love it when that happens, for it’s almost as if, whilst I am dutifully tongue-shining my female better’s office boot, she is sharing her innermost secret with me – she is allowing me a furtive glimpse of her fun, and highly inappropriate, non-corporate socks inside her smart, business-attire ankle boots; socks which nobody else will see that day as they will remain tucked inside her smart-looking office boots and underneath her bootcut trouser legs. It will be our little secret - a secret between the mistress and her prisoner-footslave; not that he is any position to betray her sock-confidences.
Not all mistresses, however, are successful businesswomen; and not all women are bashful about hiding their cheap, cartoon-print socks inside boots. After the female business-boot rush hour is over, a very pretty, but also incredibly haughty, young black woman in her late teens or early twenties - wearing black, high-top, canvas sneakers with thick, black laces and black, scrunched-up ankle socks with a multicoloured cartoon-print on the sides - steps up to the bar!
She haughtily extends her right foot through the metal bars in front of my bowed face and then equally haughtily delights in showing me how the toe of her black, high-top canvas sneaker is covered in dust. She then explains to me in a gleeful voice that she has just been kicking dust in some dirty footslave’s eyes on the ‘tortoiseshell’ punishment circuit.
I have heard of this ‘tortoiseshell’. It is some sort of public punishment whereby a male slave has to crawl along a winding, cobblestone pathway with a heavy load of concrete on his back in the shape of a tortoise’s shell.
Miss ‘Whitney’, as she graciously introduces herself to me, has apparently been following one such hapless footslave along the start of his punishment-circuit, kicking dust in his face along the way – and now, of course, her dusty, black sneakers need a good clean. She can’t afford the money to have a professional, public sneaker-shiner do the job for her, so I am just the slave for the job – being a free and unofficial sneaker-shiner!
My God, her dark, cartoon-print sock is deliciously creased and folded around her shapely, black ankle and lower calf-muscle as she rests her canvas-sneakered, right foot onto the lower bar of my cell-window - her makeshift, metal footrest!
Her thick sneaker and sock almost block out the light into my cell as the sun is now directly behind her, but that same sun is also throwing each and every stitch in her scrunched-up, calf length sock into sharp relief – an eclipse of the sun fit only for a humble footslave.
I only wish I had time to study the now highlighted cartoon print on the side of her sock in more detail – not that I would be likely to recognise the contemporary cartoon character portrayed after my decade or so behind bars. It is some sort of duck, I think!
But, in any case, I have been ordered to concentrate on removing miss Whitney’s sneaker dust; not her sock dust. And so my mouth and tongue obediently turn their attention to the street dust she has kicked up onto the lower toe and instep areas of her right, high-top sneaker as she so magnanimously kicked dust into the fully deserving eyes of the tortoiseshell-footslave, whosoever he is.
The taste of Mistress Whitney’s dry sneaker-dust nicely complements the taste of mistress Vicky’s wet park-mud that still lingers in my mouth from earlier on. I’m pleased to say that the tiny, sock-lint balls from the surface of miss Poland’s black, woollen socks, and the streetdirt from the multitudinous businessladies’ office boots, had not completely removed the taste of the drunken mistress Vicky’s early-morning bootmud from my mouth. Indeed, I’m sure one or two pieces of her bootmud are still firmly lodged on the roof of my slave-mouth, so deeply did she unthinkingly scrape her mud into my mouth during her swooning kiss with her freeman-boyfriend!
Getting back to mistress Whitney, however, the multicoloured cartoon ‘duck’ on the side of her sock creases and folds in front of my eyes as the wearer of the sock helpfully and graciously twists her high-top-sneakered foot around in order to afford my tongue greater purchase on the dusty inner side of her shoe. Miss Whitney is absolutely determined that every last speck of street dust shall be removed from the hallowed canvas of her black sneakers into my sinful cesspit of a mouth.
As am I!
Of course, kissing, and licking, and sucking the dirt and dust off superior young women’s boots, shoes and socks is all very well, but it has to be said that nothing quite beats the feel and taste of a young woman’s soft, bare footflesh directly on one’s lips. And it is later that morning that I get to feel just that – the bare feet of a supremely superior young woman.
She is Asian, mid to late twenties, with long, dark, straight shoulder-length hair, and a real attitude problem.
Or rather, other people – free people – would probably describe her as having an ‘attitude problem’. To me her attitude is just right - for she is supercilious, arrogant and proud, as well she might be. For the most obvious thing about this young, oriental woman is that she is heavily pregnant.
If ever there was a symbol of a young woman’s superiority over a male slave it must be her state of pregnancy. I mean, it clearly demonstrates that she is a real woman – a woman who has had sexual intercourse, something which the male slave will never do; a woman blessed by nature with the uplifting task of nurturing the next generation of free human being; for her offspring will, like her, be born free. It will only become slave if it is male and if it chooses the path of slavery at the age of 21.
Such is the enlightened law of the Gynarchy.
I am, if truth be told, mortified that this young, oriental, pregnant woman has nowhere to sit whilst I humbly tend to her outstretched foot. She should not have to stand over me in her condition – but should be seated on a comfortable chair; on a throne of female power and authority over me.
She is wearing pale-pink flip flops on her bare, oriental feet. Her toenails are painted pale pink to match her flip flops. Her ankles look slightly swollen and puffed up – the result, no doubt, of her somewhat advanced state of pregnancy.
From above her bump, covered only by a lightweight, summer, maternity dress, she barks down her orders at me in a harsh, oriental accent, utter contempt palpable in her sharp, female voice:
‘Dirty slave kiss Wei-Yang toes. Worship foot. Kiss foot on big toenail. Not touch Wei-Yang skin – only toenail. You a slave. You work! You obey! You start now!’
She is right. I am a slave – a prisoner-slave; the lowest of the low. And I am being granted the honour of kissing the big toenail of the highest of the high – a beautiful young pregnant woman. So much my better in nature. Indeed, the very pinnacle of nature! A fertile goddess – at whose flip-flopped, oriental feet and swollen, oriental ankles I am unworthy to grovel.
And yet she is graciously permitting me to do so!
The flower-motifed hem of her light, white, summery, maternity dress flutters in the breeze above the window of my ground-level cell as I pay my humble respects to her feminine fecundity by kissing the hard, pink painted toenail on her imperiously outstretched, right foot – taking great care not to touch the young woman’s bare footskin, just as she has ordered.
I worship the goddess by kissing her feet. She continues to berate me as I do so:
‘Ha! Ha! You in my power! I better than you! Ha! Ha! You look like stupid ass – stupid donkey locked in cage! Ha! Ha! You make sound like donkey – make sound of donkey for Wei-Yang while kiss Wei-Yang big toe. Ha! Ha! You obey. You a slave! Wei-Yang your master. Obey now!’
Miss Wei-Yang is my master – my female, pregnant master; I am her slave; and I do obey her. I make the sound of a donkey:
‘Eee-Aww! Eee-Aww!’
Miss Wei-Yang bursts out laughing, whilst cradling her bump.
She then switches her pink-flip-flopped feet beneath my humbly kneeling, caged face:
‘Ha! Ha! You an ass in the zoo! Ha! Ha! I feed you. I feed you with my toejam! Ha! Ha! You eat Wei-Yang stinky toejam. You lick out dirty jam with teeth. You still make sound of donkey while swallow master Wei-Yang stinky toejam! Ha! Ha! You obey now!’
It is so sweet and magnanimous of miss Wei-Yang, what with everything else that must be on her mind at the moment given her condition, to think of feeding the chained-up ‘donkey’ in his ‘cage’ at the ‘zoo’.
That is clearly all I am to her – a caged animal. A caged and impotent animal, kneeling at her fertile-goddess feet.
But even an infertile and impotent ass like me has to eat, and so I obey the pretty, young, mother-to-be superior and gently scrape the dark layer of toejam from underneath the pink-painted toenail on her outstretched, flip-flopped foot, continuing to make ‘Eee-Aww’ noises as I do so by way of expressing my gratitude to miss Wei-Yang the only way a dumb-ass footslave knows how.
Yes, my life as a footslave-prisoner has never before felt quite so complete – the flavoursome taste of pregnant, oriental girl toejam mixed in with haughty, black girl sneaker-dust and drunken, white girl bootmud inside my dirty slave-mouth, all seasoned with a sprinkling of East European girl sock lint and smart businessladies’ office-boot dirt.
My erstwhile half empty, prisoner-slave stomach is now full to overflowing, and it’s not even lunchtime yet.
Truly I am lucky to live my life behind bars!
The End
The good lady judge could have sentenced me to incarceration for life in one of the Gynarchy’s many foothole dungeons – deep underground; windowless; never to see the outside world again. But instead she had mercy on me, and ordered that I be incarcerated for life in a dingy, basement cell that looks out onto the town square.
It’s not much of a view that I have from my cell. Just the ground; and feet – mainly ladies’ feet – from behind bars. But as I kneel in the dirt and look out of my ground-level cell window at least I can see life going on around me. I can observe and admire the feet and footwear of my free betters as they go about their daily business.
And I not only get to admire them from afar. Many of the idle, and the not so idle, young women milling around in the town square outside choose to taunt me, and torment me, by resting their feet on the lowest bar of my ground-level cell window, and by using me as a kind of unofficial shoelick. I clean their dirty shoes and boots with my prisoner-slave tongue through the bars of my cell – to their great amusement, for they know this is the only physical contact I can ever have with them; with women; for the remainder of my life.
It is yet another day in my life sentence of incarceration in the 6 foot by 3 foot prison cell looking out onto the town square. It is a bright day. A sunny day. Not too hot, thankfully; for my tiny, cramped cell with its low ceiling does tend to get very hot and stuffy in extreme summer heat.
No, today is shaping up to be just nice. Bright and dry. I can expect a succession of young women from the outside wishing to avail themselves of my unofficial boot and shoe licking services in such clement weather, for it is only when it is raining heavily that my female ‘customers’ tend to shy away from my unofficial shoelick-stand – only because they will get soaked as they stand in the rain outside my prison-cell wall.
Everybody knows about me, even though there is no official sign above the bars of my cell window on the outside wall of the prison. Knowledge of my services has simply spread by word of mouth. You could say that my boot and shoe licking reputation precedes me, and I understand that I even get a mention in some tourist guidebooks, where I am described as the ‘bootlicking prisoner on the town square’.
How people must laugh at me, and revel in my humiliation at their dirty feet!
My first ‘customer’ of the day is one such typical laughing, mocking young woman. I believe she may have been up all night – out on the town – as she is quite drunk, even though it’s only 07:30 in the morning! She is also a little bit unsteady on her booted feet as she totters towards me.
And very nice, wobbly-booted feet they are too – dark brown, pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled, zip-up, ankle-length, leather boots, worn with what appears to be a fetching pair of bright yellow ankle socks just peeping out over the tops on her otherwise bare, pasty-white legs beneath her very short, matching yellow miniskirt.
As she teeters across the square towards me I can make out that she is a pretty blonde, with her long hair tied back in a rather severe-looking ponytail.
She still has a bottle in her hands – beer I think – as she stretches out her right, stiletto-booted foot in front of her and rests the leather sole on the lowest bar of my cell-window, meaning that the pointy toe of her boot is now half inside my cell and resting just an inch or so in front of my prisoner-lips:
‘Ha! Ha! Lick the crap off my boots, mate!’ is all she says as she merrily takes another swig from her beer bottle.
I find the superior, young blonde woman’s use of the word ‘mate’ somewhat disconcerting. I am not her ‘mate’ – not in any meaningful sense of the term, more’s the pity!
First of all, I am certainly not her ‘mate’ in the sense of being her ‘friend’. Quite apart from the fact that I have never had the honour of meeting this young woman before, she is self-evidently my better - being a superior young mistress, and me being nothing but a lowly, male footslave-prisoner. We could never be considered as ‘equals’ or ‘friends’. She is young, free and female; I am old, imprisoned and male. I am not worthy to be in her presence, let alone regard her as my friend. And I am about to demonstrate my inferiority towards her by humbly and obediently licking the dirt off her pointy-toed, brown leather, zip-up ankle boots as she stands above me, tall and proud, outside the bars of my ground-level cell window.
Secondly, I shall never ‘mate’ with her. How could I? I am incarcerated for life in this dank and dingy cell, whereas she is a free woman; free to sleep with any of the hundreds of thousands of free men she so chooses. She can barely even see my face behind the bars of my cell beneath her superior, ankle-booted foot, and besides, I’m just a male slave – incapable of sexual intercourse.
Thirdly, I am not even her ‘cell-mate’ – though I somehow think this young woman may well have had some experience of short-term incarceration herself in the past. It is rare, though not unheard of, for females to be locked up in the Gynarchy’s police cells – usually for short periods of no more than 12 hours or so; and usually just for their own protection whilst they sober up.
But such a delightful young woman would never be required to share a cell with a dirty, male slave like myself! Her cell would be a female one - furnished and comfortable – with all mod cons including satellite TV and a luxurious bed, as befits a female prisoner’s cell in the Gynarchy. It would not be the dark and dingy, cockroach-infested hole that I have had to become used to!
But I digress! My would-be ‘mate’ has ordered me to, as she so delicately put it, ‘lick the crap’ off her boots. The ‘crap’ she is referring to is, thankfully, nothing more nor less than good, honest earth from the nearby park, mixed in with slithers of dead grass, all stuck to the toe and sole of her boot. I wonder if she has been rolling around in the grass all night with some free man, making love to him?
She may even be a prostitute, celebrating the end of another night’s hard work?
Whatever, her stylish, brown leather ankleboots clearly do need a good tongue-cleaning, and my lips are every bit as eager to encircle the dirty, pointy toe of her proffered ankle-boot as the young woman’s own lips are to encircle the top of her brown beer bottle.
As I engorge her delicate and feminine pointy boot-toe with my mouth I am acutely conscious of the twisted and creased, exposed, elasticated top of her bright, yellow ankle-length bootsock, peeping out somewhat dishevelledly above the upper rim of her ultra-modern looking, brown leather boot. If ever a young woman’s bootsock needed straightening, this was it!
But, in my imprisoned position, I am forever frustrated in my sock-straightening urges – for my hands are cruelly manacled to the ground beneath me as I kneel behind the bars of my ground-level cell window.
I said the good lady judge had shown mercy on me when passing sentence, but her mercy had not extended to making me physically comfortable in my favourably-situated cell! I am being punished, after all! I am therefore kept permanently on my knees, my wrists chained to the ground, and my head also kept bowed down by chains; forced to continuously look out of my ground-level cell window, even if I don’t want to!
So anyway, the point is that I can look at young women’s shoes, boots and socks – but I can’t touch them. Not with my hands at any rate. Only with my mouth.
If I’m honest – it’s exactly as it should be – for my convicted-prisoner hands are not worthy to touch the superior footwear of free women.
The pointy toe of the drunken, young, blonde-ponytailed mistress’s brown, leather boot tastes strongly of fresh mud. The dark brown hue of the boot had obviously hidden from my still somewhat sleepy, early morning eyes the full extent of the dirt and filth stuck to the boots.
I hear the young woman laugh out loud at me as she finishes taking a drunken slug out of her beer bottle:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave-boyee, suck it all up. Ha! Ha! Suck up all that nice dirt from Vicky’s nice little bootie-wootie! Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Vicky, my new ‘mate’, is clearly having some trouble keeping the pointy toe of her ‘nice little bootie-wootie’ nice and still inside my mouth – mainly because she is having trouble maintaining her drunken balance with one of her booted feet resting on the lower bar of my cell-window. But the movement of her boot inside my mouth is actually helping to scrape the mud off her boot onto the roof of my mouth, so, actually, things are working out for the best!
If only her creased and twisted, yellow bootsock wasn’t such a distraction!
I feel I have nowhere near finished sucking the ingrained dirt and mud out of miss Vicky’s boot-toe, when her right ankleboot is suddenly and unceremoniously withdrawn from my mouth only to be replaced by the toe of her equal muddy left boot.
Now I am even more frustrated – for the top of the bright yellow bootsock on this left foot is well-nigh invisible unless I lean forward as far as I can and endeavour to look down inside the top of her ankle-boot. The yellow sock must have slipped down inside the warm and moist confines of the superior young, blonde woman’s boot during her drunken revelry in the park!
Not that she seems to care. I suspect she is too drunk to care; or even to notice the state of her socks:
‘Ha! Ha! Now suck on my other bootie, prisoner-creep. Ha! Ha! Suck off all the crap, creep! Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Vicky bursts out into a fit of seemingly uncontrollable laughter and giggling. She must obviously think she has made some sort of highly witty remark, but I’m afraid it went right over my stupid, slave head – whatever it was.
Just as her boot and sock is above my stupid head.
She is taking yet more swigs out of her beer bottle again, her pretty, lipstick-painted mouth full of the pleasant flavour of cool, refreshing alcohol whilst my own mouth tastes of blonde-girl bootdirt.
Suddenly I hear a man’s voice calling out mistress Vicky’s name:
‘Vicky, where the hell are you?’
He must be a free man to be addressing her like that. Such disrespect!
If my own mouth wasn’t full of her boot leather I would certainly be much more respectful in how I addressed mistress Vicky! But then, I have to be respectful of young women – for I am a male slave and they are my betters.
‘Over here, hon!...’ she shouts out in reply. ’…Over here by the dirty bootlicker-creep!’
A young black man wanders indolently over, also somewhat unsteady on his feet – presumably due also to an overindulgence of alcohol – and places his unsteady but manly right arm around mistress Vicky.
He kisses her – a long lingering kiss on her alcohol-breath filled mouth.
Now this free man clearly can claim to be miss Vicky’s ‘mate’!
‘Yo, what’s up? Where have you been, babe? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, innit?’ says the young black man after he finally manages to remove his tongue from deep inside mistress Vicky’s welcoming mouth.
Meanwhile the muddy toe of his blonde girlfriend’s left ankleboot is still deep inside my welcoming slave-mouth.
‘Ha! Ha! I just fancied having my boots cleaned, hon, innit? They’re covered in muck from the park! Ha! Ha!’
So I was right. This couple have been to the park that morning. Admiring the flowers in the carefully-cultivated flower beds, no doubt!
The man appears to notice my mouth on the toe of his girlfriend’s boot for the first time.
He laughs, as he lets go of his girlfriend and crouches down to stare into my cell:
‘Ha! Ha! What a dork! What a loser! Hey, you in there bro...make sure you get rid of all that filth on my bitch’s boot, yeah? Ha! Ha!’
His ‘bitch’! I can’t believe my ears! He actually called sweet and kind mistress Vicky a ‘bitch’!
Surely she’ll at least slap him across the face! She must surely find that word ‘bitch’ offensive – even coming from a free man, a man she clearly loves and adores!
But no, perhaps because she is such a sweet and loving young woman, mistress Vicky just laughs and kisses her black boyfriend passionately on the lips once again. The young, black master therefore once again tastes his blonde ‘bitch’s’ loving lips, whilst I taste her fresh bootmud. Moreover, the harder she kisses him, the harder her pointy, brown leather boot-toe subconsciously scrapes against the roof of my mouth.
At least miss Vicky is being worshipped by two men at once – each worshipping her in their own way and in their rightful place; the stud on her lips; the slave on her boots!
Suddenly, without so much as a by-your-leave, the drunken blonde girl’s left boot is withdrawn from my mouth and the couple walk off, arm in arm, but still both unsteady on their feet; both giggling; both merry; both having already forgotten about me – the incarcerated prisoner at their free feet.
However mistress Vicky has at least left me a present to remember her by. Some wet mud has scraped off the dirty sole of her brown leather ankle boot and onto the black, metal bar on which her left boot had just been resting in front of my incarcerated face.
This is good news – for I am still hungry. I rely on my female customers’ boot and shoe dirt to supplement my meagre prison rations of slave-gruel. And so to have such a particularly large globule of fresh, girlboot-flavoured park-muck to savour and consume is quite a treat!
Besides, I have no choice but to lick it off the metal bar beneath my face – for it must not sully the boot or shoe sole of my next customer, whosoever she may be.
I therefore eat up miss Vicky’s residual bootmud quickly, for my next customer, as I fully anticipate, is not long in coming over to avail herself of my underground footslave-services.
A fetching pair of cheap-looking, scuff-marked, round-toed, white plastic ballet flats and thick, black, woollen socks are soon standing side by side in the town square outside the bars of my ground-level cell. The ballet flats are being worn beneath a pair of black, denim jeans, but the hems of the jeans are, thankfully, fairly narrow meaning that I have a very pleasing, close-up view of the young woman’s black, woollen anklesocks above the toe area of her shoes– especially when she imperiously stretches forth her right foot and places the cheap, plastic sole of her white ballet flat onto the freshly licked-clean, lower bar of my cell window.
Now, whenever such delectable and lightweight, feminine footwear is placed inside my prison-cell window my heart starts to pound just that little bit harder – for I know that my mouth will almost certainly be permitted to touch sock at some point in the proceedings. There is just so much girlsock on display inside such a teasingly low-cut ballet flat! It would be difficult not to at least find my lips brushing against the soft, feminine, black woollen sock on the young lady’s foot whilst kissing the white, plastic toe of her cheap, scuff-marked ballet flat.
Unlike mistress Vicky before her, the owner of the black sock and white, plastic ballet flat now resting on the bar in front of my face is a dark-haired brunette. Also unlike mistress Vicky she is perfectly sober.
And also unlike mistress Vicky she appears to be completely alone. No boyfriend in tow!
I await my orders.
‘Slave kiss my sock!’
My heart actually skips a beat. This is even better than I had hoped for! A direct order to kiss sock, from the female wearer of the sock herself! No messing around, it seems. I am to get straight down to the sock-kissing!
I do like a young woman who likes to get straight down to things. No need for any foreplay prior to socks; no need to first kiss and honour her outer footwear – the scuff-marked toes of her cute, white ballet flats; wooing her shoes for permission to kiss her socks!
No – this young woman wants full and immediate socks, and I am only too happy to oblige her!
I think I may have detected an East European accent in her voice as she barked down her order at me. Polish, perhaps? Certainly her shoes and socks could be East European. The black, woollen socks have quite a distinctive circular pattern in their stitching, a pattern which it is now the utter privilege of my prisoner slave-mouth to feel on my unworthy lips as I humbly and respectfully kiss the exposed, plain black sock on the young brunette-woman’s arrogantly outstretched right foot resting on the lower bar of my cell window.
The black ankle-sock appears to be well-worn, judging by the little balls of black, woolly, sock lint I can feel on the sock-sensitive tips of my lips. The lint balls feel ticklish.
I appear to be tickling the brunette mistress’s foot as well, as I can feel her soft, white, feminine foot muscles flexing underneath the cotton material of the black sock in reaction to my slave-lips humbly touching her socked foot.
I just hope and pray I am also tickling this young woman’s fancy, for I really would like her to remain here all day – having me kiss her socks. This is so deliciously humiliating – having to kiss a complete stranger’s socks; the socks of some unknown East European girl whom I have never met before, but who has already asserted her absolute girl-power and authority over me just by the simple action of positioning her dainty foot in through my cell window and ordering me to kiss her sock.
I can smell the cheap plastic of her white, East European, ballet-flat shoe as I savour the delights of her East European sock. It’s a nice combination for my footslave senses; the musty smell of cheap, plastic shoe in my nose; the feel of soft, woollen sock on my lips; and the sight of contrasting black and white inner and outer footwear on the superior young, twenty-something mistress’s shapely East European foot and ankle, beneath the narrow hem of her stylish, black denim jean leg.
‘Kiss each groove in the stitching of my sock 20 times, slave!’
Definitely a Slavonic accent – probably Polish, but impeccable English nonetheless! This clever and well-educated young Polish woman certainly knows her English grammar, as well as her own mind! I love it when a superior young woman knows exactly what she wants from me – it makes my humble ‘job’ so much easier!
So, this Polish miss wishes me to kiss each of the thick grooves in the distinctive, circular pattern of her sock-stitching 20 times? Then so shall it be! It may take me some time, for there are a lot of circular shaped grooves, all in concentric circles, visible in the exposed area of sock between the rounded toe area of her white, plastic shoe and the hem of her black denim jean-leg covering her shapely, Polish anklebone. A most unusual knitted-sock pattern, and one I don’t recollect ever seeing before.
These socks must surely have been hand-knitted for her. Or even by her?
It is only right and proper, therefore, that I should spend some time examining and worshipping such an unusual and very personal sock-pattern in slavish detail – with the young Polish lady’s sweet, feminine indulgence of course.
Unlike my previous customer this young dark-haired woman is not laughing at me. She seems much more serious. And she is certainly paying much more attention to my footslavish efforts on her footwear. I can sense how she is cocking her pretty, brunette head to one side as she stands over me, in order to get a better view of my humble sock-kissing activity.
‘Keep your dirty lips inside each groove, slave. Do not touch more than one groove of my sock at a time!’
To hear this young East European woman is to obey her. I must keep my lips tightly pursed as I repeatedly kiss sock, lest one of my lips should stray onto a neighbouring groove in her sock-stitching. Thank goodness this young woman is able to stand still – unlike my previous customer – whilst I attend to her footwear. I would never have been able to keep my lips inside the individual grooves at the tops of mistress Vicky’s yellow, cotton bootsocks, even if they hadn’t been so creased and twisted, given her drunken unsteadiness on her feet.
It takes me some 20 minutes to kiss each individual groove in the stitching on miss Poland’s black, woollen sock 20 times - one whole minute per groove – before she withdraws her right foot from my cage, and stretches out her left foot onto the black metal bar in front of me:
‘Now the other one!’ is all she says.
Curt, concise and to the point. She is clearly enjoying a power trip at my expense. But that’s fine by me. For I am enjoying a sock-trip at her expense. It is mutually assured satisfaction.
My selfish, slavish satisfaction increases even further when I manage to detect the pale whiteness of the Polish mistress’s soft, feminine footskin beneath a worn and thinning area of sock near her shapely, left instep.
This is footslave-nirvana! So, thus far this morning, I have sucked on muddy, brown leather boot-toe and kissed well-worn, black woollen anklesock – and it’s still only 08:30 a.m.!
As it is a workday, the office ladies and business ladies are now beginning to mill around the town square – on their way into work. This is my rush hour. I can expect to perform lots of boot-shining with my slave-tongue over the next hour or so – mainly black leather, zip-up ankle boots beneath smart, pinstriped bootcut trouser legs; the trouser legs of sharp-suited and successful businesswomen.
I love the way they arrogantly hitch up the boot-cut hems of their pinstriped trouser legs as they rest their booted feet on the metal bar of my cell window directly in front of my confined face. I love it because often (though not always) it means that I get to see the elasticated top of a superior businesswoman’s, black, cotton bootsock; or even the very unbusinesswoman-like top of a brightly-coloured pink sock; or of a multicoloured stripy sock; or even of a ridiculously inappropriate cartoon-print sock!
I just love it when that happens, for it’s almost as if, whilst I am dutifully tongue-shining my female better’s office boot, she is sharing her innermost secret with me – she is allowing me a furtive glimpse of her fun, and highly inappropriate, non-corporate socks inside her smart, business-attire ankle boots; socks which nobody else will see that day as they will remain tucked inside her smart-looking office boots and underneath her bootcut trouser legs. It will be our little secret - a secret between the mistress and her prisoner-footslave; not that he is any position to betray her sock-confidences.
Not all mistresses, however, are successful businesswomen; and not all women are bashful about hiding their cheap, cartoon-print socks inside boots. After the female business-boot rush hour is over, a very pretty, but also incredibly haughty, young black woman in her late teens or early twenties - wearing black, high-top, canvas sneakers with thick, black laces and black, scrunched-up ankle socks with a multicoloured cartoon-print on the sides - steps up to the bar!
She haughtily extends her right foot through the metal bars in front of my bowed face and then equally haughtily delights in showing me how the toe of her black, high-top canvas sneaker is covered in dust. She then explains to me in a gleeful voice that she has just been kicking dust in some dirty footslave’s eyes on the ‘tortoiseshell’ punishment circuit.
I have heard of this ‘tortoiseshell’. It is some sort of public punishment whereby a male slave has to crawl along a winding, cobblestone pathway with a heavy load of concrete on his back in the shape of a tortoise’s shell.
Miss ‘Whitney’, as she graciously introduces herself to me, has apparently been following one such hapless footslave along the start of his punishment-circuit, kicking dust in his face along the way – and now, of course, her dusty, black sneakers need a good clean. She can’t afford the money to have a professional, public sneaker-shiner do the job for her, so I am just the slave for the job – being a free and unofficial sneaker-shiner!
My God, her dark, cartoon-print sock is deliciously creased and folded around her shapely, black ankle and lower calf-muscle as she rests her canvas-sneakered, right foot onto the lower bar of my cell-window - her makeshift, metal footrest!
Her thick sneaker and sock almost block out the light into my cell as the sun is now directly behind her, but that same sun is also throwing each and every stitch in her scrunched-up, calf length sock into sharp relief – an eclipse of the sun fit only for a humble footslave.
I only wish I had time to study the now highlighted cartoon print on the side of her sock in more detail – not that I would be likely to recognise the contemporary cartoon character portrayed after my decade or so behind bars. It is some sort of duck, I think!
But, in any case, I have been ordered to concentrate on removing miss Whitney’s sneaker dust; not her sock dust. And so my mouth and tongue obediently turn their attention to the street dust she has kicked up onto the lower toe and instep areas of her right, high-top sneaker as she so magnanimously kicked dust into the fully deserving eyes of the tortoiseshell-footslave, whosoever he is.
The taste of Mistress Whitney’s dry sneaker-dust nicely complements the taste of mistress Vicky’s wet park-mud that still lingers in my mouth from earlier on. I’m pleased to say that the tiny, sock-lint balls from the surface of miss Poland’s black, woollen socks, and the streetdirt from the multitudinous businessladies’ office boots, had not completely removed the taste of the drunken mistress Vicky’s early-morning bootmud from my mouth. Indeed, I’m sure one or two pieces of her bootmud are still firmly lodged on the roof of my slave-mouth, so deeply did she unthinkingly scrape her mud into my mouth during her swooning kiss with her freeman-boyfriend!
Getting back to mistress Whitney, however, the multicoloured cartoon ‘duck’ on the side of her sock creases and folds in front of my eyes as the wearer of the sock helpfully and graciously twists her high-top-sneakered foot around in order to afford my tongue greater purchase on the dusty inner side of her shoe. Miss Whitney is absolutely determined that every last speck of street dust shall be removed from the hallowed canvas of her black sneakers into my sinful cesspit of a mouth.
As am I!
Of course, kissing, and licking, and sucking the dirt and dust off superior young women’s boots, shoes and socks is all very well, but it has to be said that nothing quite beats the feel and taste of a young woman’s soft, bare footflesh directly on one’s lips. And it is later that morning that I get to feel just that – the bare feet of a supremely superior young woman.
She is Asian, mid to late twenties, with long, dark, straight shoulder-length hair, and a real attitude problem.
Or rather, other people – free people – would probably describe her as having an ‘attitude problem’. To me her attitude is just right - for she is supercilious, arrogant and proud, as well she might be. For the most obvious thing about this young, oriental woman is that she is heavily pregnant.
If ever there was a symbol of a young woman’s superiority over a male slave it must be her state of pregnancy. I mean, it clearly demonstrates that she is a real woman – a woman who has had sexual intercourse, something which the male slave will never do; a woman blessed by nature with the uplifting task of nurturing the next generation of free human being; for her offspring will, like her, be born free. It will only become slave if it is male and if it chooses the path of slavery at the age of 21.
Such is the enlightened law of the Gynarchy.
I am, if truth be told, mortified that this young, oriental, pregnant woman has nowhere to sit whilst I humbly tend to her outstretched foot. She should not have to stand over me in her condition – but should be seated on a comfortable chair; on a throne of female power and authority over me.
She is wearing pale-pink flip flops on her bare, oriental feet. Her toenails are painted pale pink to match her flip flops. Her ankles look slightly swollen and puffed up – the result, no doubt, of her somewhat advanced state of pregnancy.
From above her bump, covered only by a lightweight, summer, maternity dress, she barks down her orders at me in a harsh, oriental accent, utter contempt palpable in her sharp, female voice:
‘Dirty slave kiss Wei-Yang toes. Worship foot. Kiss foot on big toenail. Not touch Wei-Yang skin – only toenail. You a slave. You work! You obey! You start now!’
She is right. I am a slave – a prisoner-slave; the lowest of the low. And I am being granted the honour of kissing the big toenail of the highest of the high – a beautiful young pregnant woman. So much my better in nature. Indeed, the very pinnacle of nature! A fertile goddess – at whose flip-flopped, oriental feet and swollen, oriental ankles I am unworthy to grovel.
And yet she is graciously permitting me to do so!
The flower-motifed hem of her light, white, summery, maternity dress flutters in the breeze above the window of my ground-level cell as I pay my humble respects to her feminine fecundity by kissing the hard, pink painted toenail on her imperiously outstretched, right foot – taking great care not to touch the young woman’s bare footskin, just as she has ordered.
I worship the goddess by kissing her feet. She continues to berate me as I do so:
‘Ha! Ha! You in my power! I better than you! Ha! Ha! You look like stupid ass – stupid donkey locked in cage! Ha! Ha! You make sound like donkey – make sound of donkey for Wei-Yang while kiss Wei-Yang big toe. Ha! Ha! You obey. You a slave! Wei-Yang your master. Obey now!’
Miss Wei-Yang is my master – my female, pregnant master; I am her slave; and I do obey her. I make the sound of a donkey:
‘Eee-Aww! Eee-Aww!’
Miss Wei-Yang bursts out laughing, whilst cradling her bump.
She then switches her pink-flip-flopped feet beneath my humbly kneeling, caged face:
‘Ha! Ha! You an ass in the zoo! Ha! Ha! I feed you. I feed you with my toejam! Ha! Ha! You eat Wei-Yang stinky toejam. You lick out dirty jam with teeth. You still make sound of donkey while swallow master Wei-Yang stinky toejam! Ha! Ha! You obey now!’
It is so sweet and magnanimous of miss Wei-Yang, what with everything else that must be on her mind at the moment given her condition, to think of feeding the chained-up ‘donkey’ in his ‘cage’ at the ‘zoo’.
That is clearly all I am to her – a caged animal. A caged and impotent animal, kneeling at her fertile-goddess feet.
But even an infertile and impotent ass like me has to eat, and so I obey the pretty, young, mother-to-be superior and gently scrape the dark layer of toejam from underneath the pink-painted toenail on her outstretched, flip-flopped foot, continuing to make ‘Eee-Aww’ noises as I do so by way of expressing my gratitude to miss Wei-Yang the only way a dumb-ass footslave knows how.
Yes, my life as a footslave-prisoner has never before felt quite so complete – the flavoursome taste of pregnant, oriental girl toejam mixed in with haughty, black girl sneaker-dust and drunken, white girl bootmud inside my dirty slave-mouth, all seasoned with a sprinkling of East European girl sock lint and smart businessladies’ office-boot dirt.
My erstwhile half empty, prisoner-slave stomach is now full to overflowing, and it’s not even lunchtime yet.
Truly I am lucky to live my life behind bars!
The End
