The Master Mockers
The Master Mockers (i)
I was on my hands and knees, minding my own business, as I dutifully tongue-shined the black leather, pointy-toed, stiletto heeled shoes of my latest female customer at my ‘stand-up’, public shoelick booth in the centre of town.
This particular female customer was a very beautiful, petite blonde girl - early to mid twenties - with sheer, flesh-coloured ‘nude’ stockings on her shapely feet and legs inside her plain, black stilettos. Thus it was something of a privilege for a humble public-shoelick such as myself to lick the dirt off the shoes of someone so young and beautiful, as she stood towering above me with her right leg arrogantly outstretched before her, her stiletto-shod foot resting on the well-worn, wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling face.
Fortunately, the young woman was able to keep her balance, and consequently to keep her pretty foot perfectly still on the footblock, whilst I licked the accumulated street dirt and filth off her black shoe leather. Unfortunately this was because her equally young boyfriend was gallantly helping her to balance by keeping his manly arm round her as she stood having her shoes licked at the public shoelick-stand.
Even whilst he was audibly kissing her on the lips as they both loomed above me, the young woman’s foot barely moved – just a twitch of finest denier, flesh coloured, nylon stocking around her shapely outer anklebone.
The superior-to-me, free man was clearly enjoying my humiliation at his girlfriend’s feet for, just as soon as he had finished snogging her, he began to mock me from on high, as free men are wont to do:
‘Ha! Ha! You down there – the dirty slave at my girlfriend’s feet! How are you liking it – having to lick clean my girlfriend’s dirty, leather shoe? Ha! Ha! How does it taste, slave-boy?’
I must be at least twenty years’ this arrogant, young man’s senior, and yet he is perfectly right to call me a ‘boy’. For unlike him, I shall never be a man.
I therefore answer the young master with the proper respect and humility due from an inferior, male slave to a superior, free man:
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this dirty slave is truly honoured and blessed to be licking clean the dirty shoe of the superior and most beautiful, young mistress, if it is so pleasing to you master, for the mistress’s shoe tastes bittersweet, most respected master.’
I hear the mistress giggle above me. The master laughs too at my obsequious, slave-speak response – only much more loudly and indiscreetly:
‘Ha! Ha! Bittersweet, is it slave? Ha! Ha! And just what do you mean by that, boy?’
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this slave means to say that the black leather of the superior mistress’s high-heeled shoe tastes bitter, but the dirt on the mistress’s shoe tastes sweet, because it is the superior dirt from a mistress’s superior shoe, master, if you would be so kind.’
The mistress now joins her beloved boyfriend in laughing out loud at me. But she still says nothing. She appears to want to leave it to her macho boyfriend to verbally mock me whilst I continue to tongue-shine the curved instep of her black, high-heeled shoe, admiring yet another faint crease in the thin material of her flesh-coloured nylon stocking around her prominent and shapely inner ankle bone as I do so.
Perhaps she gets a kick out of hearing her manly young boyfriend mocking and berating the much older, and uglier, manslave at her feet. Perhaps she is just too timid and shy a creature to verbally berate me herself. She certainly gives the impression of being a somewhat delicate flower – slightly built, and no more than about 5 foot tall – even though she seems like a veritable giantess to me as my bowed and confined head is forced to hover humbly over her shapely, nylon-stockinged ankle bone.
When the happy, young couple have both finished laughing at me, the master, as is his perfect right, mocks me some more:
‘Ha! Ha! So you accept that my girlfriend’s shoes are your superiors then, do you slave? Ha! Ha! You’re quite right! Ha! Ha! My girlfriend’s pretty, black stilettos are worth more than your miserable life, aren’t they slave? Ha! Ha! If you were our personal, household-slave, and our house was on fire, we’d do better by rescuing her pretty shoes from the fire than worrying about rescuing you, wouldn’t we slave-boy? Ha! Ha!’
The master is indeed very astute. In such an extreme scenario it would be much more important to save the mistress’s shoes from the fire, for they would undoubtedly be much more precious to her than a two-a-penny footslave like me.
I humbly confirm as much to the master, keeping my head bowed over his girlfriend’s superior, female shoe:
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, the mistress’s shoes would indeed take priority in such circumstances, since the mistress’s shoes are more important and better than me as they protect the superior mistress’s beautiful feet and keep them comfortable, if it is so pleasing to you most respected master and mistress.’
I allow my nose to surreptitiously brush against the stretched, flesh-toned, nylon material covering the blonde mistress’s outer ankle at this point - just so that I can feel as well as see the tiny crease in her nylon stocking. It somehow seems appropriate that I should feel her feminine-stockinged superiority whilst I verbally acknowledge that the well-being of the mistress’s feet and footwear is more important than my own wretched, slave-life.
Perhaps prompted by her boyfriend, perhaps in startled reaction to my gentle nosing of her shapely, nylon-stockinged anklebone, the young blonde woman suddenly withdraws her right, stiletto-shod instep from my footslave lips, and replaces it with her imperiously outstretched left foot.
Whatever may have prompted her to change feet on the wooden footblock at that particular moment, her boyfriend clearly approves:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right honey! Make him pay his respects to your other shoe! Give him a taste of yet more of your “sweet” shoe-dirt! Ha! Ha!’
The girl just giggles, and snuggles even more closely into his supportive, manly arms.
Meanwhile, the master just will not desist from mocking me:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave-boy. Licky-licky. Lap up all the filth from my girlfriend’s shoes. Make them shine. I wanna see my face in them! Ha! Ha!’
His mocking wish is a bit of a cliché, of course, but it still seems to tickle the fancy of his besotted, blonde girlfriend. Her left foot now wobbles slightly on the footblock an inch or so from my face as she chortles to herself.
My eyes manage to focus on the individual stitches in the material of her nylon stocking as her foot wobbles on its stiletto-heel. The denier material of her flesh-coloured, nylon stocking is so fine that, from a normal distance, it would be impossible to tell whether or not this delightful, young woman was wearing stockings or was bare-legged.
But I am in the so-called ‘slave-zone’ – so close to another human being’s feet and footwear that I can see the most infinitesimally small details in the material of her stocking; the tell-tale mesh of finest denier, criss-crossed, nylon stitching that confirms this young woman is indeed wearing flesh-toned stockings on her pretty legs and feet.
Or possibly tights – of course. I have no way of knowing how the nylons end beneath the blonde mistress’s navy-blue, above the knee skirt. That area is none of my business. In fact, none of the mistress’s clothing and body is any of my business, apart from her feet and footwear.
They say that great minds think alike, and the master, whose mind must certainly be greater than mine - since he is a free man and I am nothing but a dumb-ass, public footslave - appears to be thinking along similar lines as his mocking continues:
‘Ha! Ha! Tell me, dirty slave, wouldn’t you rather be kissing my beautiful girlfriend on the lips? Ha! Ha! Wouldn’t you rather be fondling her soft, bare breasts with your mouth, rather than having to lick clean her dirty shoeleather? Ha! Ha!’
I always find such questions from my female customers’ male partners quite disconcerting. It is entirely inappropriate for a down-in-the-dirt, public-sector footslave such as myself to imagine a female superior and better in such a sexualized way! I am my female customers’ slave – not their lover! I have absolutely no business even thinking above their sweet, stocking-clad ankles!
I move to reassure the master that I am most definitely not lusting over his girlfriend – extremely soft and beautiful though she is:
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this dirty slave would never dare to think of touching the superior mistress’s lips or breasts, for he is not worthy to raise his head above the beautiful mistress’s knees, if it is so pleasing to you most respected and superior master and mistress.’
The dominant couple now burst out into raucous laughter – or at least, what passes for raucous laughter on the part of the self-effacing young mistress. More of a ‘titter’ on her part, if you’ll forgive the pun!
My humble reward for making them both laugh is yet more intriguing little creases and folds in the side of the blonde mistress’s nylon stocking around her shapely, outer ankle bone, as her whole body shakes with a fit of the giggles.
The master wants more, however:
‘Ha! Ha! Oh come on, slave! What about my girl’s legs? Surely you must be yearning to at least lick her legs? Ha! Ha! I’ll bet you wish she wasn’t wearing any stockings, don’t you, so that you could run your tongue up her soft, bare skin at least as high as her bare knee, don’t you slave-boy?’
Ah, so the mistress is wearing stockings – and not tights! Only the master (and the mistress herself) could have known that – up until now.
Now I share in that intimate knowledge, not that it makes any odds to me. My only concern is with the area of nylon material covering the mistress’s shapely, white feet and ankles – not with the area underneath her navy-blue skirt!
As to respectfully answering the master’s question, I have to be ultra-careful. Of course, a part of me does indeed wish that I could lick the mistress’s shapely lower shin and calf muscles; and I certainly don’t wish to give the superior master or mistress the impression that I don’t find the mistress’s legs to be highly attractive and pleasing to the eye.
But on the other hand what he is suggesting is a physical impossibility for me – given that my public-footslave neck is weighed down by heavy chains. And, in any case, I have to admit that I don’t particularly relish the idea of the mistress’s legs and feet being totally naked inside her black leather stiletto shoes, for then I would not have the slavish pleasure of feeling the tiny, almost imperceptible to the naked eye, creases and folds in her finest denier, flesh-coloured, nylon stockings with the sensitive tip of my footslave-nose.
I explain all this to the master, as humbly and obsequiously as possible, for fear of invoking his anger and wrath:
‘Oh pray master, If it pleases you most merciful master, this slave regrets that he is unable to raise his head high enough to honour the mistress’s lower legs, as his head and neck are cruelly confined by these heavy chains which prevent the stupid slave from raising his head above the mistress’s shapely ankles, if it is so pleasing to you most respected master and mistress. Moreover, this slave truly admires the mistress’s delicately flesh-toned, nylon stockings, master, as in this humble footslave’s opinion they beautify and glorify the mistress’s legs even further, most respected master and mistress, and the mistress’s nylon stockings not only remind the slave that the comfort and beauty of the mistress’s feet and ankles are of paramount importance; they also serve to protect the mistress’s superior, feminine footflesh from this slave’s dirty breath and saliva whilst he attends to her footwear, if it is so pleasing to you master and mistress.’
The couple whoop with mocking laughter, and the mistress’s foot even, momentarily, raises up off the wooden footblock as she kisses her boyfriend fully on the lips – no doubt delighted by the cringingly sycophantic response that his masterful and astute questioning has elicited from me.
It is only a momentary interruption, however, as the young blonde woman’s shoe is soon back on the footblock - her curvaceous, black leather, stiletto-heeled instep once again touching my unworthy lips.
The master speaks for both himself and his beautiful, female partner:
Ha! Ha! That’s right slave – I was just testing you! Ha! Ha! If I thought for one moment that you were getting ideas above your footslave-station I’d whip you red raw! Do you understand me, dirty slave?’
‘Yes master. Please don’t beat me master. This slave fears the master and mistress.’
The couple, no doubt smug in their absolute physical and verbal victory over me, embrace yet again above me as I continue to pay my humble, slavish respects to the black leather instep of the young blonde woman’s high-heeled shoe by licking off the street dirt and filth - her superior and out-of-bounds, shapely lower leg towering above me as I do so; the nylon covered leg of my unattainable female superior and better.
‘Come on, honey; let’s leave this filthy dork kneeling in the dirt where he belongs, with the taste of your shoedirt in his fat, ugly mouth! Ha! Ha! I fancy a shag!’
The young woman obeys her eloquent boyfriend, withdraws the side of her erstwhile dirty, black leather, stiletto-heeled shoe from my lips, and wanders off with my master, arm in arm, back towards their apartment, leaving me masterfully mocked – and with nothing but the taste of sweet, feminine shoe-mud in my filthy mouth.
The Master Mockers (ii)
Not two minutes later and another man – a much older man whom I would guess to be in his late fifties and who appears to be on his own – walks up to my public shoelick-stand and crouches down in order to laugh into my lawfully confined face:
‘Ha! Ha! I heard that young lad taking the mickey out of you just now, slave. Ha! Ha! How did you like it? How did you like being spoken to in that way by a much younger man! Ha! Ha! If he’d spoken to me like that I’d have knocked his block off! Ha! Ha! But there was nothing you could do about it, was there slave? Ha! Ha! Look at you - all trussed up with your neck bowed down by those heavy chains! Ha! Ha! You’re a kneeling duck for anyone who wants to slag you off! Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a dunderhead! Ha! Ha!’
The man’s breath stinks as he chortles into my face. But I can’t answer him back – for he is a free man and I am a slave. I must therefore be respectful towards him at all times – as befits a slave.
Besides, what would be the point in answering him back when he is speaking the truth? I am indeed a ‘kneeling duck’ – trussed up and at the mercy of all and sundry, including him!
And everyone knows it.
I therefore bite my tongue and acknowledge the veracity of the master’s statement:
'Yes master. As you say, master. Thank you master, if it pleases you master.’
The man guffaws into my face. He looks decidedly ugly with his screwed up features contorted by mocking laughter. Even uglier than me:
‘Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what though, boy – that young man’s girlfriend, that blonde bint; she was a bit of alright, wasn’t she, eh? Phwoor – I’d like to give her one! Ha! Ha!’
He then made an obscene gesture in front of me with his elbow.
I really didn’t know what to say:
‘Yes master.’
'Ha! Ha! Yeah – did you see her tits, boy? Ha! Ha! Really firm and juicy! Ha! Ha!...Oh! No – then again, I suppose you couldn’t see her tits, since you are forced to look only at women’s smelly feet all day long! Ha! Ha!...Still, I’ll bet you got a good look at her legs while you were licking the crud and stuff off her high-heeled shoes, eh boy? Ha! Ha!’
I really don’t like this man, but, by law, I am not allowed to display any dislike or disrespect for a superior, free human being. I therefore am obliged to enter into a conversation of unequals with him:
‘Erm…yes master, if it pleases you master, this slave did appreciate the mistress’s well turned ankles and shapely calf muscles whilst he attended to her feminine shoes with his tongue, if it is so pleasing to you most respected master.’
‘Ha! Ha! I’ll bet you did, boy! And tell me – I couldn’t make out whether she was wearing any stockings on those shapely pins of hers! Was she wearing nylons, boy, or was she bare-legged?’
I really don’t see that any of this is this strange man’s business, but I am obliged to answer him because he is free and I am just a slave, and he is therefore considered my better:
'Yes master, I can confirm that the young mistress was wearing flesh-coloured nylon stockings on her pretty feet and legs, if it is so pleasing to you master.’
‘Ha! Ha! So you know they were stockings, do you boy? Ha! Ha! Dirty old man! Took a sneaky peak up her skirt, did you? Ha! Ha!’
I am quite outraged by this man’s lewd suggestion that I would actually peek up a female customer’s skirt! Quite apart from the fact that it would be a physical impossibility for me to do so, given the heavy, metal chains weighing down my neck which keep my head suitably low and bowed at all times over the wooden footblock on the ground beneath my face – I just would never behave in such a disrespectful manner towards a superior customer-mistress!
Peeking up her skirt, indeed! I’m not a dirty old man – unlike my current tormentor! He should not be imputing his perverted desires and sexist attitudes onto me!
But of course, being a superior free man he has a perfect right to accuse me of whatever he wants. Indeed, he could, if he was so inclined, even ‘report’ me to the Female Police for such a lascivious act, and have me arrested and punished. His word would be law against the word of a slave!
I therefore decide to play along with this vile man, and try to ingratiate myself with him, so that he will not feel disposed to falsely accuse me of peeking up my customer’s skirt to the Female Authorities:
‘Yes master. Whatever you say master. The master is very astute and clever, master.’
He seems pleased with himself that he has ‘caught me out’.
‘Ha! Ha! I knew it, boy! I knew you were peeking up that blonde bimbo’s skirt! Ha! Ha! Tell me, what colour were her knickers, boy?’
What a truly despicable man! Wanting to know what colour that superior, young, blonde woman’s undergarments were!
Of course, I can’t answer his question – because I genuinely don’t know. Or care.
But I have to pretend I care:
‘Oh pray, master, if it pleases you master, this stupid slave regrets that he can’t remember, master, if you would be so kind and forgiving master.’
Whatever else you might say about him, this obnoxious, middle-aged master is genuinely not stupid. He is totally unconvinced by my feigned memory lapse.
Whack!
He slaps me hard across my humbly bowed, right cheek.
‘LIAR!’ he screams into my face. ‘TELL ME THIS INSTANT WHAT COLOUR THAT BLONDE BINT’S KNICKERS WERE UNDERNEATH HER SKIRT OR I’LL CALL THE FEMALE POLICE AND TELL THEM WHAT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO!’
I panic – and lie to the angry master, as I know I must humour him and keep him on my side if I am to avoid the sting of the Female Police’s whip:
‘Oh pray master, God bless you master. I have now remembered master. They were navy blue knickers, master, to match the mistress’s navy blue skirt, if you would be so kind master!’
He seems to like that thought, and calms down.
But I can tell that he is still somewhat suspicious of me:
'Hah! Navy blue, eh? I’ll bet anyway that, being a pathetic public footslave and all that, you actually prefer girls’ socks to girls’ knickers, don’t you boy? Ha! Ha! I’ll bet you like sniffing girls’ stinky socks while you’re licking their boots and shoes, don’t you boy? I’ll bet you never forget the colour of their socks, eh?’
At last the master has hit the nail on the head! He is perfectly correct. I do admire, and always remember, my female customers’ socks – they bring so much variety and colour into my otherwise drab existence.
I have to genuinely praise the master for his astute observation as to my utterly pathetic footslave-character:
'Oh yes master, if it pleases you master, this pathetic slave does indeed like girls’ socks, master.’
‘Ha! Ha! I knew it, boy! I could just tell by the way you kept rubbing your nose against that other ginger-haired girl’s white socks inside her sneakers – you know, that girl you were serving earlier; the one with the sparkly-pink sneakers? Ha! Ha!’
I am somewhat disconcerted by the master’s latest observation! Just how long has this strange man been watching me at work? The girl he is referring to with the red hair, the sparkly-pink sneakers and the soft, white sneaker socks had been several customers ago!
The astute and erudite, free man was, yet again however, perfectly correct. I had indeed taken the liberty of nosing the elasticated tops of the young, twenty-something, red-headed, student girl’s plain, white sneaker socks whilst I had been tongue-cleaning the sides of her sparkly-pink sneakers. I had thought nobody would notice – not even the wearer of the socks, so discreet was I in my act of nuzzling the tops of her short anklesocks. But this spookily observant man had evidently noticed my selfish act – and from a distance too (for I already knew from his previous questions that he hadn’t been close enough to determine whether or not my previous, blonde customer had been wearing flesh-toned, nylon stockings on her legs or not!)
Anyway, be all that as it may, this scary man once again has me over a barrel, so to speak – for he had spotted my impertinent act of nosing a female customer’s socks purely for my own slavish gratification. This is dangerous territory! I must congratulate him on his powers of observation, and beg him not to report me to the Female Authorities – something he has already threatened to do on entirely spurious charges!
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this dirty slave did indeed have the temerity to nose the red-headed mistress’s soft, white anklesocks – if it is so pleasing to you, master. Oh pray master, please have mercy on me, master! Please don’t report me to the Female Authorities, master! Please don’t have me arrested and whipped! This slave fears the female whip!’
Fortunately for me the man with the bad breath just continues to laugh into my confined face:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry boy – I won’t report you, just as long as you tell me straight what it is you like about young women’s stinky, dirty socks? Ha! Ha! Explain yourself, boy! Explain your pathetic desires to a real man!’
'Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this dirty, public footslave just enjoys the feel of a superior mistress’s soft, cotton sock on his nose, and finds it a comfort whilst he must lick clean the harsh, bitter-tasting leather of her dirty shoe or boot, if you would be so kind and understanding, most merciful and respected master.’
The man claims that he doesn’t understand:
‘Ha! Ha! You’re pathetic, slave! Ha! Ha! What a dweeb! What a dumb-ass! Ha! Ha! Rubbing your nose on big girls’ stinky socks just in order to comfort yourself while you clean their dirty shoes and boots! Ha! Ha! What a sock-sniffing moron! What a loser!’
I lower my head in shame over the empty surface of the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face. I know that the master speaks the truth. I am truly a pathetic loser – a pathetic, sock-nuzzling loser, and a slave to boot!
I sense that the master would have enjoyed quizzing me even more on my pathetic, sock-nuzzling lifestyle, were he not interrupted by the arrival of another female customer – a tall, slim black woman in her early thirties, wearing a dark grey, pinstriped trouser suit with black, leather, high-heeled, pointy toed, zip-up ankle boots beneath the hems of her stylish, bootcut trouser legs.
The old man suddenly scurries off with a:
‘Sorry miss! He’s all yours miss!’
I can sense that my female saviour has sent him packing with a withering, female look of disdain – for even free men are subject to the authority of females here in the Gynarchy (even if, like the blonde girl before her, they sometimes derogate from that power out of sheer love for their husbands or boyfriends!)
My new black-female customer confidently stretches forward her right leg and - black hands placed arrogantly on pinstriped-trousered hips - places her right ankle-booted foot onto the ever-present, wooden footblock beneath my well and truly mocked face.
I am instantly revitalised. Not only has the smell of the middle-aged man’s bad breath been replaced by the sweet aroma of young, black-woman bootleather – the young businesswoman has also obligingly hitched up the hem of her pinstriped, bootcut trouser leg in order to afford my slave tongue easier access to the whole of her stylish, black, zip-up ankleboot, and in so doing she has exposed the elasticated top of her plain, black businesswoman-bootsock!
‘Shine it up, dirty footpig,’ she barks down at me in a Jamaican accent, referring, of course, to her stylish ankleboot-leather.
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress,’ I respond – already surreptitiously eyeing up the top of her black, cotton sock on her smooth, black skin. I am confident I shall be able to rub my nose up against the sock when I eventually reach the upper rim of her ankle-length boot – without her noticing (and even if the strange man is still watching me!)
Yes, I may have been mercilessly ridiculed and mocked by two superior, free men this afternoon – but I fancy that I shall be the one having the last laugh today.
For I am about to sneakily nose the top of a beautiful and arrogant, Afro-Caribbean businesswoman’s plain, black, cotton bootsock whilst she is still wearing it inside her high-heeled, pointy-toed, black leather ankle-boot! Ha! Ha!
The End
I was on my hands and knees, minding my own business, as I dutifully tongue-shined the black leather, pointy-toed, stiletto heeled shoes of my latest female customer at my ‘stand-up’, public shoelick booth in the centre of town.
This particular female customer was a very beautiful, petite blonde girl - early to mid twenties - with sheer, flesh-coloured ‘nude’ stockings on her shapely feet and legs inside her plain, black stilettos. Thus it was something of a privilege for a humble public-shoelick such as myself to lick the dirt off the shoes of someone so young and beautiful, as she stood towering above me with her right leg arrogantly outstretched before her, her stiletto-shod foot resting on the well-worn, wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling face.
Fortunately, the young woman was able to keep her balance, and consequently to keep her pretty foot perfectly still on the footblock, whilst I licked the accumulated street dirt and filth off her black shoe leather. Unfortunately this was because her equally young boyfriend was gallantly helping her to balance by keeping his manly arm round her as she stood having her shoes licked at the public shoelick-stand.
Even whilst he was audibly kissing her on the lips as they both loomed above me, the young woman’s foot barely moved – just a twitch of finest denier, flesh coloured, nylon stocking around her shapely outer anklebone.
The superior-to-me, free man was clearly enjoying my humiliation at his girlfriend’s feet for, just as soon as he had finished snogging her, he began to mock me from on high, as free men are wont to do:
‘Ha! Ha! You down there – the dirty slave at my girlfriend’s feet! How are you liking it – having to lick clean my girlfriend’s dirty, leather shoe? Ha! Ha! How does it taste, slave-boy?’
I must be at least twenty years’ this arrogant, young man’s senior, and yet he is perfectly right to call me a ‘boy’. For unlike him, I shall never be a man.
I therefore answer the young master with the proper respect and humility due from an inferior, male slave to a superior, free man:
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this dirty slave is truly honoured and blessed to be licking clean the dirty shoe of the superior and most beautiful, young mistress, if it is so pleasing to you master, for the mistress’s shoe tastes bittersweet, most respected master.’
I hear the mistress giggle above me. The master laughs too at my obsequious, slave-speak response – only much more loudly and indiscreetly:
‘Ha! Ha! Bittersweet, is it slave? Ha! Ha! And just what do you mean by that, boy?’
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this slave means to say that the black leather of the superior mistress’s high-heeled shoe tastes bitter, but the dirt on the mistress’s shoe tastes sweet, because it is the superior dirt from a mistress’s superior shoe, master, if you would be so kind.’
The mistress now joins her beloved boyfriend in laughing out loud at me. But she still says nothing. She appears to want to leave it to her macho boyfriend to verbally mock me whilst I continue to tongue-shine the curved instep of her black, high-heeled shoe, admiring yet another faint crease in the thin material of her flesh-coloured nylon stocking around her prominent and shapely inner ankle bone as I do so.
Perhaps she gets a kick out of hearing her manly young boyfriend mocking and berating the much older, and uglier, manslave at her feet. Perhaps she is just too timid and shy a creature to verbally berate me herself. She certainly gives the impression of being a somewhat delicate flower – slightly built, and no more than about 5 foot tall – even though she seems like a veritable giantess to me as my bowed and confined head is forced to hover humbly over her shapely, nylon-stockinged ankle bone.
When the happy, young couple have both finished laughing at me, the master, as is his perfect right, mocks me some more:
‘Ha! Ha! So you accept that my girlfriend’s shoes are your superiors then, do you slave? Ha! Ha! You’re quite right! Ha! Ha! My girlfriend’s pretty, black stilettos are worth more than your miserable life, aren’t they slave? Ha! Ha! If you were our personal, household-slave, and our house was on fire, we’d do better by rescuing her pretty shoes from the fire than worrying about rescuing you, wouldn’t we slave-boy? Ha! Ha!’
The master is indeed very astute. In such an extreme scenario it would be much more important to save the mistress’s shoes from the fire, for they would undoubtedly be much more precious to her than a two-a-penny footslave like me.
I humbly confirm as much to the master, keeping my head bowed over his girlfriend’s superior, female shoe:
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, the mistress’s shoes would indeed take priority in such circumstances, since the mistress’s shoes are more important and better than me as they protect the superior mistress’s beautiful feet and keep them comfortable, if it is so pleasing to you most respected master and mistress.’
I allow my nose to surreptitiously brush against the stretched, flesh-toned, nylon material covering the blonde mistress’s outer ankle at this point - just so that I can feel as well as see the tiny crease in her nylon stocking. It somehow seems appropriate that I should feel her feminine-stockinged superiority whilst I verbally acknowledge that the well-being of the mistress’s feet and footwear is more important than my own wretched, slave-life.
Perhaps prompted by her boyfriend, perhaps in startled reaction to my gentle nosing of her shapely, nylon-stockinged anklebone, the young blonde woman suddenly withdraws her right, stiletto-shod instep from my footslave lips, and replaces it with her imperiously outstretched left foot.
Whatever may have prompted her to change feet on the wooden footblock at that particular moment, her boyfriend clearly approves:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right honey! Make him pay his respects to your other shoe! Give him a taste of yet more of your “sweet” shoe-dirt! Ha! Ha!’
The girl just giggles, and snuggles even more closely into his supportive, manly arms.
Meanwhile, the master just will not desist from mocking me:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave-boy. Licky-licky. Lap up all the filth from my girlfriend’s shoes. Make them shine. I wanna see my face in them! Ha! Ha!’
His mocking wish is a bit of a cliché, of course, but it still seems to tickle the fancy of his besotted, blonde girlfriend. Her left foot now wobbles slightly on the footblock an inch or so from my face as she chortles to herself.
My eyes manage to focus on the individual stitches in the material of her nylon stocking as her foot wobbles on its stiletto-heel. The denier material of her flesh-coloured, nylon stocking is so fine that, from a normal distance, it would be impossible to tell whether or not this delightful, young woman was wearing stockings or was bare-legged.
But I am in the so-called ‘slave-zone’ – so close to another human being’s feet and footwear that I can see the most infinitesimally small details in the material of her stocking; the tell-tale mesh of finest denier, criss-crossed, nylon stitching that confirms this young woman is indeed wearing flesh-toned stockings on her pretty legs and feet.
Or possibly tights – of course. I have no way of knowing how the nylons end beneath the blonde mistress’s navy-blue, above the knee skirt. That area is none of my business. In fact, none of the mistress’s clothing and body is any of my business, apart from her feet and footwear.
They say that great minds think alike, and the master, whose mind must certainly be greater than mine - since he is a free man and I am nothing but a dumb-ass, public footslave - appears to be thinking along similar lines as his mocking continues:
‘Ha! Ha! Tell me, dirty slave, wouldn’t you rather be kissing my beautiful girlfriend on the lips? Ha! Ha! Wouldn’t you rather be fondling her soft, bare breasts with your mouth, rather than having to lick clean her dirty shoeleather? Ha! Ha!’
I always find such questions from my female customers’ male partners quite disconcerting. It is entirely inappropriate for a down-in-the-dirt, public-sector footslave such as myself to imagine a female superior and better in such a sexualized way! I am my female customers’ slave – not their lover! I have absolutely no business even thinking above their sweet, stocking-clad ankles!
I move to reassure the master that I am most definitely not lusting over his girlfriend – extremely soft and beautiful though she is:
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this dirty slave would never dare to think of touching the superior mistress’s lips or breasts, for he is not worthy to raise his head above the beautiful mistress’s knees, if it is so pleasing to you most respected and superior master and mistress.’
The dominant couple now burst out into raucous laughter – or at least, what passes for raucous laughter on the part of the self-effacing young mistress. More of a ‘titter’ on her part, if you’ll forgive the pun!
My humble reward for making them both laugh is yet more intriguing little creases and folds in the side of the blonde mistress’s nylon stocking around her shapely, outer ankle bone, as her whole body shakes with a fit of the giggles.
The master wants more, however:
‘Ha! Ha! Oh come on, slave! What about my girl’s legs? Surely you must be yearning to at least lick her legs? Ha! Ha! I’ll bet you wish she wasn’t wearing any stockings, don’t you, so that you could run your tongue up her soft, bare skin at least as high as her bare knee, don’t you slave-boy?’
Ah, so the mistress is wearing stockings – and not tights! Only the master (and the mistress herself) could have known that – up until now.
Now I share in that intimate knowledge, not that it makes any odds to me. My only concern is with the area of nylon material covering the mistress’s shapely, white feet and ankles – not with the area underneath her navy-blue skirt!
As to respectfully answering the master’s question, I have to be ultra-careful. Of course, a part of me does indeed wish that I could lick the mistress’s shapely lower shin and calf muscles; and I certainly don’t wish to give the superior master or mistress the impression that I don’t find the mistress’s legs to be highly attractive and pleasing to the eye.
But on the other hand what he is suggesting is a physical impossibility for me – given that my public-footslave neck is weighed down by heavy chains. And, in any case, I have to admit that I don’t particularly relish the idea of the mistress’s legs and feet being totally naked inside her black leather stiletto shoes, for then I would not have the slavish pleasure of feeling the tiny, almost imperceptible to the naked eye, creases and folds in her finest denier, flesh-coloured, nylon stockings with the sensitive tip of my footslave-nose.
I explain all this to the master, as humbly and obsequiously as possible, for fear of invoking his anger and wrath:
‘Oh pray master, If it pleases you most merciful master, this slave regrets that he is unable to raise his head high enough to honour the mistress’s lower legs, as his head and neck are cruelly confined by these heavy chains which prevent the stupid slave from raising his head above the mistress’s shapely ankles, if it is so pleasing to you most respected master and mistress. Moreover, this slave truly admires the mistress’s delicately flesh-toned, nylon stockings, master, as in this humble footslave’s opinion they beautify and glorify the mistress’s legs even further, most respected master and mistress, and the mistress’s nylon stockings not only remind the slave that the comfort and beauty of the mistress’s feet and ankles are of paramount importance; they also serve to protect the mistress’s superior, feminine footflesh from this slave’s dirty breath and saliva whilst he attends to her footwear, if it is so pleasing to you master and mistress.’
The couple whoop with mocking laughter, and the mistress’s foot even, momentarily, raises up off the wooden footblock as she kisses her boyfriend fully on the lips – no doubt delighted by the cringingly sycophantic response that his masterful and astute questioning has elicited from me.
It is only a momentary interruption, however, as the young blonde woman’s shoe is soon back on the footblock - her curvaceous, black leather, stiletto-heeled instep once again touching my unworthy lips.
The master speaks for both himself and his beautiful, female partner:
Ha! Ha! That’s right slave – I was just testing you! Ha! Ha! If I thought for one moment that you were getting ideas above your footslave-station I’d whip you red raw! Do you understand me, dirty slave?’
‘Yes master. Please don’t beat me master. This slave fears the master and mistress.’
The couple, no doubt smug in their absolute physical and verbal victory over me, embrace yet again above me as I continue to pay my humble, slavish respects to the black leather instep of the young blonde woman’s high-heeled shoe by licking off the street dirt and filth - her superior and out-of-bounds, shapely lower leg towering above me as I do so; the nylon covered leg of my unattainable female superior and better.
‘Come on, honey; let’s leave this filthy dork kneeling in the dirt where he belongs, with the taste of your shoedirt in his fat, ugly mouth! Ha! Ha! I fancy a shag!’
The young woman obeys her eloquent boyfriend, withdraws the side of her erstwhile dirty, black leather, stiletto-heeled shoe from my lips, and wanders off with my master, arm in arm, back towards their apartment, leaving me masterfully mocked – and with nothing but the taste of sweet, feminine shoe-mud in my filthy mouth.
The Master Mockers (ii)
Not two minutes later and another man – a much older man whom I would guess to be in his late fifties and who appears to be on his own – walks up to my public shoelick-stand and crouches down in order to laugh into my lawfully confined face:
‘Ha! Ha! I heard that young lad taking the mickey out of you just now, slave. Ha! Ha! How did you like it? How did you like being spoken to in that way by a much younger man! Ha! Ha! If he’d spoken to me like that I’d have knocked his block off! Ha! Ha! But there was nothing you could do about it, was there slave? Ha! Ha! Look at you - all trussed up with your neck bowed down by those heavy chains! Ha! Ha! You’re a kneeling duck for anyone who wants to slag you off! Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a dunderhead! Ha! Ha!’
The man’s breath stinks as he chortles into my face. But I can’t answer him back – for he is a free man and I am a slave. I must therefore be respectful towards him at all times – as befits a slave.
Besides, what would be the point in answering him back when he is speaking the truth? I am indeed a ‘kneeling duck’ – trussed up and at the mercy of all and sundry, including him!
And everyone knows it.
I therefore bite my tongue and acknowledge the veracity of the master’s statement:
'Yes master. As you say, master. Thank you master, if it pleases you master.’
The man guffaws into my face. He looks decidedly ugly with his screwed up features contorted by mocking laughter. Even uglier than me:
‘Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what though, boy – that young man’s girlfriend, that blonde bint; she was a bit of alright, wasn’t she, eh? Phwoor – I’d like to give her one! Ha! Ha!’
He then made an obscene gesture in front of me with his elbow.
I really didn’t know what to say:
‘Yes master.’
'Ha! Ha! Yeah – did you see her tits, boy? Ha! Ha! Really firm and juicy! Ha! Ha!...Oh! No – then again, I suppose you couldn’t see her tits, since you are forced to look only at women’s smelly feet all day long! Ha! Ha!...Still, I’ll bet you got a good look at her legs while you were licking the crud and stuff off her high-heeled shoes, eh boy? Ha! Ha!’
I really don’t like this man, but, by law, I am not allowed to display any dislike or disrespect for a superior, free human being. I therefore am obliged to enter into a conversation of unequals with him:
‘Erm…yes master, if it pleases you master, this slave did appreciate the mistress’s well turned ankles and shapely calf muscles whilst he attended to her feminine shoes with his tongue, if it is so pleasing to you most respected master.’
‘Ha! Ha! I’ll bet you did, boy! And tell me – I couldn’t make out whether she was wearing any stockings on those shapely pins of hers! Was she wearing nylons, boy, or was she bare-legged?’
I really don’t see that any of this is this strange man’s business, but I am obliged to answer him because he is free and I am just a slave, and he is therefore considered my better:
'Yes master, I can confirm that the young mistress was wearing flesh-coloured nylon stockings on her pretty feet and legs, if it is so pleasing to you master.’
‘Ha! Ha! So you know they were stockings, do you boy? Ha! Ha! Dirty old man! Took a sneaky peak up her skirt, did you? Ha! Ha!’
I am quite outraged by this man’s lewd suggestion that I would actually peek up a female customer’s skirt! Quite apart from the fact that it would be a physical impossibility for me to do so, given the heavy, metal chains weighing down my neck which keep my head suitably low and bowed at all times over the wooden footblock on the ground beneath my face – I just would never behave in such a disrespectful manner towards a superior customer-mistress!
Peeking up her skirt, indeed! I’m not a dirty old man – unlike my current tormentor! He should not be imputing his perverted desires and sexist attitudes onto me!
But of course, being a superior free man he has a perfect right to accuse me of whatever he wants. Indeed, he could, if he was so inclined, even ‘report’ me to the Female Police for such a lascivious act, and have me arrested and punished. His word would be law against the word of a slave!
I therefore decide to play along with this vile man, and try to ingratiate myself with him, so that he will not feel disposed to falsely accuse me of peeking up my customer’s skirt to the Female Authorities:
‘Yes master. Whatever you say master. The master is very astute and clever, master.’
He seems pleased with himself that he has ‘caught me out’.
‘Ha! Ha! I knew it, boy! I knew you were peeking up that blonde bimbo’s skirt! Ha! Ha! Tell me, what colour were her knickers, boy?’
What a truly despicable man! Wanting to know what colour that superior, young, blonde woman’s undergarments were!
Of course, I can’t answer his question – because I genuinely don’t know. Or care.
But I have to pretend I care:
‘Oh pray, master, if it pleases you master, this stupid slave regrets that he can’t remember, master, if you would be so kind and forgiving master.’
Whatever else you might say about him, this obnoxious, middle-aged master is genuinely not stupid. He is totally unconvinced by my feigned memory lapse.
Whack!
He slaps me hard across my humbly bowed, right cheek.
‘LIAR!’ he screams into my face. ‘TELL ME THIS INSTANT WHAT COLOUR THAT BLONDE BINT’S KNICKERS WERE UNDERNEATH HER SKIRT OR I’LL CALL THE FEMALE POLICE AND TELL THEM WHAT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO!’
I panic – and lie to the angry master, as I know I must humour him and keep him on my side if I am to avoid the sting of the Female Police’s whip:
‘Oh pray master, God bless you master. I have now remembered master. They were navy blue knickers, master, to match the mistress’s navy blue skirt, if you would be so kind master!’
He seems to like that thought, and calms down.
But I can tell that he is still somewhat suspicious of me:
'Hah! Navy blue, eh? I’ll bet anyway that, being a pathetic public footslave and all that, you actually prefer girls’ socks to girls’ knickers, don’t you boy? Ha! Ha! I’ll bet you like sniffing girls’ stinky socks while you’re licking their boots and shoes, don’t you boy? I’ll bet you never forget the colour of their socks, eh?’
At last the master has hit the nail on the head! He is perfectly correct. I do admire, and always remember, my female customers’ socks – they bring so much variety and colour into my otherwise drab existence.
I have to genuinely praise the master for his astute observation as to my utterly pathetic footslave-character:
'Oh yes master, if it pleases you master, this pathetic slave does indeed like girls’ socks, master.’
‘Ha! Ha! I knew it, boy! I could just tell by the way you kept rubbing your nose against that other ginger-haired girl’s white socks inside her sneakers – you know, that girl you were serving earlier; the one with the sparkly-pink sneakers? Ha! Ha!’
I am somewhat disconcerted by the master’s latest observation! Just how long has this strange man been watching me at work? The girl he is referring to with the red hair, the sparkly-pink sneakers and the soft, white sneaker socks had been several customers ago!
The astute and erudite, free man was, yet again however, perfectly correct. I had indeed taken the liberty of nosing the elasticated tops of the young, twenty-something, red-headed, student girl’s plain, white sneaker socks whilst I had been tongue-cleaning the sides of her sparkly-pink sneakers. I had thought nobody would notice – not even the wearer of the socks, so discreet was I in my act of nuzzling the tops of her short anklesocks. But this spookily observant man had evidently noticed my selfish act – and from a distance too (for I already knew from his previous questions that he hadn’t been close enough to determine whether or not my previous, blonde customer had been wearing flesh-toned, nylon stockings on her legs or not!)
Anyway, be all that as it may, this scary man once again has me over a barrel, so to speak – for he had spotted my impertinent act of nosing a female customer’s socks purely for my own slavish gratification. This is dangerous territory! I must congratulate him on his powers of observation, and beg him not to report me to the Female Authorities – something he has already threatened to do on entirely spurious charges!
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this dirty slave did indeed have the temerity to nose the red-headed mistress’s soft, white anklesocks – if it is so pleasing to you, master. Oh pray master, please have mercy on me, master! Please don’t report me to the Female Authorities, master! Please don’t have me arrested and whipped! This slave fears the female whip!’
Fortunately for me the man with the bad breath just continues to laugh into my confined face:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry boy – I won’t report you, just as long as you tell me straight what it is you like about young women’s stinky, dirty socks? Ha! Ha! Explain yourself, boy! Explain your pathetic desires to a real man!’
'Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this dirty, public footslave just enjoys the feel of a superior mistress’s soft, cotton sock on his nose, and finds it a comfort whilst he must lick clean the harsh, bitter-tasting leather of her dirty shoe or boot, if you would be so kind and understanding, most merciful and respected master.’
The man claims that he doesn’t understand:
‘Ha! Ha! You’re pathetic, slave! Ha! Ha! What a dweeb! What a dumb-ass! Ha! Ha! Rubbing your nose on big girls’ stinky socks just in order to comfort yourself while you clean their dirty shoes and boots! Ha! Ha! What a sock-sniffing moron! What a loser!’
I lower my head in shame over the empty surface of the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face. I know that the master speaks the truth. I am truly a pathetic loser – a pathetic, sock-nuzzling loser, and a slave to boot!
I sense that the master would have enjoyed quizzing me even more on my pathetic, sock-nuzzling lifestyle, were he not interrupted by the arrival of another female customer – a tall, slim black woman in her early thirties, wearing a dark grey, pinstriped trouser suit with black, leather, high-heeled, pointy toed, zip-up ankle boots beneath the hems of her stylish, bootcut trouser legs.
The old man suddenly scurries off with a:
‘Sorry miss! He’s all yours miss!’
I can sense that my female saviour has sent him packing with a withering, female look of disdain – for even free men are subject to the authority of females here in the Gynarchy (even if, like the blonde girl before her, they sometimes derogate from that power out of sheer love for their husbands or boyfriends!)
My new black-female customer confidently stretches forward her right leg and - black hands placed arrogantly on pinstriped-trousered hips - places her right ankle-booted foot onto the ever-present, wooden footblock beneath my well and truly mocked face.
I am instantly revitalised. Not only has the smell of the middle-aged man’s bad breath been replaced by the sweet aroma of young, black-woman bootleather – the young businesswoman has also obligingly hitched up the hem of her pinstriped, bootcut trouser leg in order to afford my slave tongue easier access to the whole of her stylish, black, zip-up ankleboot, and in so doing she has exposed the elasticated top of her plain, black businesswoman-bootsock!
‘Shine it up, dirty footpig,’ she barks down at me in a Jamaican accent, referring, of course, to her stylish ankleboot-leather.
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress,’ I respond – already surreptitiously eyeing up the top of her black, cotton sock on her smooth, black skin. I am confident I shall be able to rub my nose up against the sock when I eventually reach the upper rim of her ankle-length boot – without her noticing (and even if the strange man is still watching me!)
Yes, I may have been mercilessly ridiculed and mocked by two superior, free men this afternoon – but I fancy that I shall be the one having the last laugh today.
For I am about to sneakily nose the top of a beautiful and arrogant, Afro-Caribbean businesswoman’s plain, black, cotton bootsock whilst she is still wearing it inside her high-heeled, pointy-toed, black leather ankle-boot! Ha! Ha!
The End
