In A Darkened Room
The convicted sockthief, slave Malcolm, had been handed down a very specific and individualistic punishment by the Female Courts – a punishment to fiendishly fit the crime.
The good lady judge, who was known for her wicked sense of humour as well as her wicked sense of justice, had gleefully passed down the following sentence upon him:
‘Convicted prisoner in the dock, I hereby sentence you to life in the socks! I order that you be incarcerated for the rest of your unnatural life in a darkened room, located in the prison-building next to the central town square, where you will be required to sniff, kiss and lick the dirty socks of your female superiors whilst they are still wearing them, and that you never be released from your stinky-sock bondage.’
The lady judge then went on to specifically stipulate that the room be kept darkened in order to encourage the convicted sock-miscreant’s numerous tormentresses to wear their stinkiest, dirtiest socks whilst sparing their blushes – for slave Malcolm would be quite unable to see the faces of the women whose dirty, stinky socks he was required to worship.
His personal prison was to be specifically designed so that only the padded, leather footrest at the bottom of the low-lying, leather recliner on which the female-customer rested her socked feet was to be lit up – by a highly directional spotlight – therefore meaning that the customer herself would be relaxing in complete darkness, able to observe the prisoner-slave at work as he sniffed and honoured her socks at the feet-end of the leather recliner with the reassuring knowledge that he, for his humble part, could never see her mocking face in the darkness.
Moreover, the lady-socktease would have complete privacy, as she could lock the cubicle door of the sock-punishment room behind her – like she were entering a toilet cubicle – and could therefore completely relax and humiliate the prisoner-slave to her heart’s content with her stinky, socked feet!
Prisoner-slave Malcolm had received his humiliating sentence over 10 years go – and by now, at the age of 55, was an experienced female sock kisser, licker and sniffer. He even had his regular tormentresses, whom he now recognised from the sight, texture and aroma of their respective socks, in addition to the familiar sound of their respective, female voices – for the ladies were perfectly at liberty to verbally specify their orders to him in order to ensue his complete and utter compliance with their sock-wishes; just as slave Malcolm was at ‘liberty’ to verbally praise and bless his tormentresses’ socks utilising the humblest of humble sockslave-speak.
The good lady judge had not struck him dumb, as such!
But if he didn’t speak in a suitably humble tone – and if as a consequence he was reported to the Female Authorities for impertinence – he was soundly whipped at the end of his long, working day by his female prison-guard, guard-mistress Amelia, whose face he had never seen but whose plain, black, uniform bootsocks he had frequently been obliged to pay his respects to.
Not that his miserable, female sock-dominated existence was without colour – for one of the glories of being a permanent female sock-servant was the sheer variety of sweet, feminine sockwear that he was constantly obliged to serve. Slave Malcolm serviced female socks of all different lengths (ankle, calf, knee, thigh); all different colours (black, white, red, green, striped, patterned, cartoon-print); all different textures (cotton, nylon, woollen, polyester); and all different styles (plain, lacy, frilly, ribbed, fancy).
Nor could his humble existence as a sockslave be in any way described as monotonous or routine – for although he never went anywhere, and never did anything other than serve supposedly anonymous ladies’ socks, he was nevertheless obliged to serve each individual lady’s socks according to her peculiar whims and fancies.
And young women – uninhibited due to their anonymity in the darkened room of his sock-sniffing booth – could be very inventive when it came to ways of humiliating and punishing the dirty, convicted sockthief with their sweet (and sometimes not-so-sweet) feminine socks!
Let’s just look at one measly little hour, for example, in prisoner-slave Malcolm’s lifelong sentence in the sock-booth:
It is early evening, and probably one of the best times for us to eavesdrop in on slave Malcolm, since many of his customers will be young women who are on their way home from work, and who fancy stopping off for a few minutes in order to torment and humiliate the convicted prisoner-slave with their now dirty, sweaty socks. After all, they have been on their pretty feet all day – either in the office or working on the shop floor – and their socks, inevitably, are beginning to pong as they have been enclosed deep inside their pretty, feminine shoes, boots or sneakers all day.
Black
The first young woman whom we see entering slave Malcolm’s sock-punishment booth this hour is one of his ‘regulars’, whom he knows to be mistress Cassandra.
Now I know what you’re thinking! Mistress Cassandra? How can she be ‘anonymous’ if the wretched slave-prisoner knows her name? However, you must understand that he does not know her name because she has formally introduced herself to him. Ha! Ha! Don’t be silly! Why would she feel the need to introduce herself to a loser sockslave-prisoner? Ha! Ha!
No, he only knows her name because, occasionally, as she is seated above him whilst he attends to her socks, her mobile phone rings and she answers it using her name. At such times she even forgets that he is there for, seated in the darkness, she is very much concentrating on her important telephone call – not on the pathetic moron kneeling at her feet!
So what else does slave Malcolm know about this particular regular? Well, she is black, and some sort of businesswoman.
He knows she is black not because he has ever seen her, presumably pretty, black face – but purely because the bright spotlight over the padded, leather footrest at the end of the recliner occasionally highlights a furtive glimpse of her soft, black ankle skin above the top of her ankle-length sock.
And he knows she is a businesswoman because he likes to earwig in on her private phone conversations, although, in his defence, he only does so out of respect and admiration for his superior, black mistress’s superior life – he likes to listen in as she closes some important business deal over the phone. Slave Malcolm, pathetically, feels that he is almost sharing in mistress Cassandra’s success by nosing her socks whilst she clinches some important deal!
The poor, deluded sockslave! Ha! Ha!
And how does he know that this is the same mistress Cassandra who is now settling herself down onto the low-lying recliner in front of him as he kneels before her – and not some other, young black businesswoman? He knows because as soon as she enters the booth and takes up her seat of power – even before she utters a single word of command to him – he recognises the tiny, familiar scuff-marks on the toe areas of her otherwise smart, black-leather, pointy-toed and spike-heeled, zip-up, black-businesswoman ankle boots.
He even recognises mistress Cassandra’s gait and posture as she climbs confidently in a businesswoman-like manner onto the recliner in front of his humbly kneeling, prisoner frame – as each and every customer-mistress has her own technique for positioning herself and making herself comfortable in the ‘recliner of power’.
If there were any lingering doubts in slave Malcolm’s mind as to the exact identity of the young woman now reclining in front of him – her booted feet stretched out comfortably in front of her and lit up by the bright spotlight above his prisoner-slave head – those doubts are dispelled by her now familiar, haughty, black voice:
‘Slave, take off my boots and smell my socks.’
Yes – this is most definitely mistress Cassandra’s voice, not that he is permitted to use her name in his obsequious response to her command since she has never, officially, divulged it to him. She thinks she is humiliating and degrading him with her bootsocks in complete anonymity, as she relaxes in the dark above him!
And it is not prisoner-slave Malcolm’s role to enlighten her. His place is merely to honour and worship her sweaty socks.
He therefore acknowledges mistress Cassandra’s brusquely-delivered orders with a respectful and discreet:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’
He then proceeds to gently pull up the hem of mistress Cassandra’s bootcut, pinstriped trouser leg on her outstretched, right foot in order to gain unimpeded access with his prisoner-fingers to the top of her metal bootzip.
Some mistresses like to lie back with their outstretched feet crossed over at the ankles in front of prisoner-slave Malcolm’s humbly-bowed face. But most – like mistress Cassandra – prefer to rest their feet side by side in front of him, their socked heels resting on the cushioned pad of the black leather footrest whilst their socked feet point straight upwards.
They, presumably, prefer that particular foot position as it gives the sockslave-prisoner’s nose, mouth and face greater access to the dirty undersides of their sweaty socks.
As he unzips the sides of business-mistress Cassandra’s stylish, modern, black leather ankle boots whilst he kneels at the business-end of the recliner, slave Malcolm is pleased to observe that, as per usual, mistress Cassandra is wearing plain, black cotton, anklesocks inside her stylish boots.
But they are socks with a twist – literally with a twist – as they are both fetchingly twisted and wonky at the top, having been on her black-businesswoman feet all day inside her hot and sweaty boots. This is the first time that her socks have been able to breathe since she zipped on her boots that morning – so inevitably there will have been some sock-slippage inside her boots during the course of her busy day.
Slave Malcolm is gratified to also observe little dark patches of sweet, feminine foot-perspiration on the soles and the sides of mistress Cassandra’s plain, black socks. It gratifies him because it will make it easier for him to locate the damp, sweaty patches on the mistress’s socks – something which will be important for him as he knows only too well what is coming next.
Sure enough the delightful, but predictable, mistress Cassandra specifies her orders even further (she always does at this point – at the point where slave Malcolm places her now fully-unzipped, black leather, businesswoman ankle-boots onto the floor directly beneath the spotlighted footrest).
She is clearly a young woman who means business!
‘Sniff the sweatiest parts of my socks slave. Place your nose on any damp areas and breathe in deeply through your nose. I want to hear you inhaling my sweaty sock-stink!’
‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress. This slave obeys the mistress.’
It is considered good manners for a slave to thank his mistress for the privilege of smelling the sweatiest areas of her socks.
Mistress Cassandra is just so predictable, however - she always adds this particular stipulation just before slave Malcolm lowers his prisoner-slave nose to her recently liberated, black cotton bootsocks! And, as you can see, she is quite unabashed about pointing out to the prisoner that her socks contain damp and sweat patches. That’s because she is completely anonymous – or she thinks she is – as she reclines in the darkened footbooth with only her feet and socks lit up.
Much as it had pained him to do so, sockslave Malcolm had already straightened down mistress Cassandra’s black-pinstriped trouser-hems over her shapely, black anklebones, thereby selflessly denying himself a furtive glimpse of her soft, black ankleskin. He had done so out of respect for her socks as he did not wish to have any distractions whilst sniffing on her even softer-looking, black cotton socks.
All he can see, therefore, is black girl’s black sock – and the various hues in the blackness of the cotton sock-material caused by the patchy dampness of her businesswoman-footsweat.
Full of humble obedience, his nose makes straight for a darkened, damp patch on her right sock covering the ball of her foot – just below the reinforced toe-area. It smells tart as he places his nose directly onto and into the moist cotton sock, and audibly sniffs it – but he reminds himself that mistress Cassandra herself is no tart. She is his businesswoman-better – more intelligent, more important, and more high-class than he is. If anything he is the lowly tart – the sock-sniffing tart; the black girl’s humble sock-sniffer.
And so he concentrates on doing what he does best – he sniffs female sock.
The stink is familiar. Slave Malcolm can actually recognise his regular mistresses’ feet just from the distinctive, individual aroma of their socks – so finely tuned has his sock-fixated nose become over the many years of his incarceration to the delicate nuances in the fragrance of sweaty, feminine socks.
Even if he didn’t know mistress Cassandra’s name, even if he hadn’t recognised her familiar, black leather, zip-up ankle boots and her twisted black bootsocks by sight; even if he hadn’t recognised her disdainful voice barking her customary orders down at him from inside the darkened booth – slave Malcolm would still have recognised the distinctive aroma of mistress Cassandra’s black bootsocks.
And although it was an acquired taste, he did very much admire mistress Cassandra’s very individual, sweaty sock-stink!
Indeed, he positively revelled in smelling her socks, just as she secretly revelled in having her socks smelt. It made him feel good about himself, as he was sharing in the sock-smell of a successful, young businesswoman. And it made Cassandra feel good because it made her feel superior to have such a lowly, male underling sniffing aloud on her sweaty bootsocks!
That was precisely why she kept on coming back to his booth – for she wasn’t obliged to do so! She was a free, young woman – perfectly at liberty to pass by the sock-prisoner’s booth on her way home from work every night should she so wish to! Unlike the prisoner-slave himself, of course, who had no choice but to kneel there and sniff the socks of whichever female superiors deigned to drop in on him.
But he was gratified that mistress Cassandra regularly dropped by – for she certainly knew how to humble a sockslave, gleefully rubbing the damp areas of her socks all over his nose and face whilst he sniffed, thereby deliberately leaving traces of her sock-moisture on his face so that it reeked of her stinky-sock even after she had left the booth.
Something for him to remember her by – until the next working day!
Sadly, however, mistress Cassandra’s sockbooth-prison visits never seemed to last long. Believe it or not miss Cassandra had better and more important things to do in her free time – such as hitching up with her boyfriend and going out clubbing of an evening. Ha! Ha! She liked the thought that whilst she was out enjoying herself on the town, kissing and canoodling with her manly boyfriend Leroy, the dirty sockslave-prisoner, confined to his cramped and dingy sockslave-booth, would be doing nothing else but kissing, licking and sniffing other women’s dirty socks whilst her own residual socksweat seeped ever deeper into his facial pores!
Ha! Ha! That pleasing thought tickled Cassandra!
Asian
Needless to say, not all of the pathetic sock-prisoner’s exclusively female clients are regulars, and mistress Cassandra’s successor into the booth this hour is one such ‘stranger’.
Prisoner-slave Malcolm, even from his humble, permanent, kneeling position over the footrest can always get a ‘sense’ for his female customers as they enter his booth – even if it’s for the very first time, and even though he cannot see their faces.
This particular young stranger-woman, he ‘senses’, is Asian; oriental in fact. He deduces that because of her rather petite, far-eastern frame, and a flash of dark, shiny shoulder-length hair as she climbs onto the recliner in front of him.
The young woman even has to adjust the recliner at the back, pulling it forward a few notches, so that her dainty, oriental, sneakered feet can reach the footrest-area of the recliner. (To be fair, mistress Cassandra – the previous customer – is quite a tall girl, with much bigger feet!).
But slave Malcolm immediately takes a shine to the Asian girl, and her sneakers. For very nice-looking sneakered feet they are - sneakered and socked, of course!
Slave Malcolm had grown to very much admire girls’ sneakered feet over the years of his bondage. They always seemed to create particularly strong and sweaty-smelling socks. The average sneaker, it seemed, just did not let a young woman’s feet breathe, and slave Malcolm blessed the sneakers for that. For his miserable life would have been incredibly dull and boring if he were forced to smell only fresh-smelling girlsocks all day long!
The young oriental woman, whom he ‘senses’ to be in her early to mid twenties – certainly in the prime of life – stretches out her petite, sneakered feet, side by side, in front of his kneeling face. He can now study them in detail, under the bright spotlight.
She is wearing blue, denim jeans, girlishly turned up at the hems so that her shapely sneakered and socked ankles are framed fetchingly by her light-grey, inner jean linings each with a distinctive, purple line of stitching at the bottom.
Slave Malcolm always appreciates mistresses who turn up their jean-hems – as such young women are clearly intent on displaying their socks to all and sundry. Such uninhibited girls were proud of their socks – wearing them as an integral part of their outfits - and not just as items of underwear designed to be hidden away beneath the turned-down hems of their jeans!
And this young, dark-haired, Asian woman - whoever she was - had every right to be proud of her socks. For they were pure white, ankle-length, sports socks with a famous logo on the sides. Designer-brand socks! Why wouldn’t she be proud of them?
Her pale, yellow ankleskin above the elasticated tops of her white socks confirmed her far-eastern ethnicity, not that slave Malcolm made a point of staring at the mistress’s bare leg-flesh. That was not his place – his place was to observe, honour and worship her socks and sneakers.
Speaking of which the sneakers girlishly matched the turned-up hems of her jeans, being light grey in colour with two fetching, thick purple stripes down the sides.
This was obviously a young woman who took great pride in her casual-footwear appearance – even to the extent of making sure that her sneakers matched the inner lining of her blue, denim jeans!
Having said that, the sneakers appeared somewhat scruffy and well-worn. There were definite scuff marks on the light-grey, rounded toe areas, and the laces – always a good indicator of the true state of a young woman’s footwear in prisoner-slave Malcolm’s estimation – were grey to match the sneaker leather – even though slave Malcolm strongly suspected the laces had originally been white!
The young woman’s oriental status was finally confirmed when she opened her mouth to speak down to him from the darkness:
‘Ha! Ha! You a dirty prisoner-slave! I read about you in tourist brochure. You a male pig! You a thief! You steal superior women socks! Ha! Ha! I make you pay. I make you suffer for crime. You take off Mee-Yon sneakers and smell Mee-Yon stinky socks. You obey or I have you whip!’
So, slave Malcolm, ever quick on the uptake, now knew that this young woman was a foreign (Korean?) tourist to the Gynarchy; that her name was mistress Mee-Yon; and that she despised him and held him in utter young-womanly contempt because she had read all about his despicable crimes against femininity in her tourist guide-book.
He turned crimson with shame, but the darkness of the sockslave-booth was not there to hide his shame and embarrassment. Indeed, the bright spotlight over his head at the foot-end of the recliner only served to highlight it!
He humbly acknowledged the Korean girl’s orders, as it was the only way he could do anything to indicate his penitence for his former life of crime:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’
Miss Mee-Yon seemed to positively revel in making the dirty prisoner-slave blush and squirm, as he began to undo her dirty-grey sneaker-laces:
‘Ha! Ha! You get ready for strong smell. I not wash feet or change socks for two days! Ha! Ha! You about to get Mee-Yon dirty sock-stink up nose! Ha! Ha! You a loser! I better than you! You my prisoner! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress Mee-Yon. Thank you mistress Mee-Yon. God bless you mistress Mee-Yon.’
Mistress Mee-Yon wasn’t lying! The moment her first scruffy grey and purple sneaker came off in his hands his entire face was suddenly enveloped by sweet Korean-girl sock stink.
The removal of her second sneaker only doubled slave Malcolm’s distress – for, whilst the sockslave-prisoner had, naturally, become accustomed to the smell of sweaty, female socks over the years – there was no doubt that some girls’ socks just smelt stronger than others!
And miss Mee-Yon’s socks were a case in point. Such an almighty stink from such a delicate pair of oriental feet!
Looking at the state of the ‘white’ socks it soon became apparent why the odour emanating from miss Mee-Yon’s socked feet was so strong. The upper parts of her sports anklesocks may have looked ‘pure’ white, but the truth was they were decidedly grubby down below – especially on the soles; they contained grey sweat-stains from the inner lining of miss Mee-Yon’s sneakers, mixed in with what appeared to be older, yellowy-brown stains from previous footwear – brown leather, Korean-girl ankle boots or such like!
Miss Mee-Yon, who could clearly see slave Malcolm’s face even though he, of course, could not see hers – laughed out loud at the pained expression on her prisoner’s face.
In fact, somewhat paradoxically, you could say that her darkened face lit up:
‘Ha! Ha! What the matter, prisoner? You not like Mee-Yon stinky sock? Ha! Ha! You not like smell of Korean girl dirty, white sock? Ha! Ha!’
Slave Malcolm, of course, was obliged to provide a respectful answer to his Korean guest’s perfectly legitimate, if rhetorical, question:
‘Oh pray mistress Mee-Yon, if it pleases you mistress Mee-Yon, this dirty prisoner-slave is truly honoured to be in the presence of your sweet and powerful sock-aroma, if it is so pleasing to you most sweet and kind Korean mistress.’
Mistress Mee-Yon was, indeed, evidently a sweet and kind Korean mistress:
‘Ha! Ha! I wiggle my toes for dirty prisoner – make you smell more of Korean girl stinky sock! Ha! Ha!’
And with that she duly wriggled her dainty, Asian toes inside her dirty-white cotton sports socks in order to release yet more of her precious, oriental stinky-foot odour up the kneeling prisoner’s nostrils.
Prisoner-slave Malcolm was actually by now becoming accustomed to the smell, something which seemed to pique mistress Mee-Yon:
‘Dirty slave, you now honour Mee-Yon stinky sock! Kiss bottom of sock. Kiss dirty part. I want feel slave-mouth on bottom of sock! You obey now, or I whip!’
Miss Mee-Yon had clearly read about the whip hanging inside the door of the sockslave-cubicle for the use of the customers on the prisoner’s prone and vulnerable bare back should he fail to please. Prisoner-slave Malcolm was determined to please miss Mee-Yon, as he did not wish to be whipped!
He therefore immediately obeyed the superior and dominant young Korean woman by moving his pathetic and gormless prisoner-face forwards until his lips made respectful contact with a dirty, grey stain on the lower left-hand side of mistress Mee-Yon’s stinky right sock.
He could actually feel the dirty, grey stain on his lips as it was damper and moister than the surrounding area of white girlsock:
Miss Mee-Yon appeared happy again, although somewhat incredulous at the prisoner-slave’s passive submissiveness:
‘Ha! Ha! You like kiss Korean girl stinky, white sock? Ha! Ha! You a sock-whore? You worship girl sock?’
In actual fact she was only pretending to sound incredulous for, having read up on him in her tourist brochure, she knew full well that prisoner-slave Malcolm worshipped and adored young women’s socks!
Nevertheless he had to dignify her silly question with a suitably slavish response:
‘Oh pray mistress Mee-Yon, if it pleases you mistress Mee-Yon, this dirty , pathetic slave does indeed worship girls’ socks, if you would be so kind mistress!’
Miss Mee-Yon clapped her pretty, oriental hands with undisguised delight:
‘Ha! Ha! You queer! You a queer sock-kisser! Ha! Ha! You kiss Mee-Yon sock all over – not just dirty part. I want feel prisoner-man lips on every part of sock. Ha! Ha! You worship Mee-Yon sock! Sock better than you! You just a slave. You slave of Korean-girl dirty sock! Ha! Ha!’
And so it went on. Slave Malcolm worshipped the dirty, sweat-stained, white socks of his Asian female better, miss Mee-Yon, including the ‘clean’ parts, and in so doing acknowledged the veracity of her mocking statements to the effect that her socks were his betters, worthy of his admiration and respect, since he was just their queer slave.
It amounted to quite a touching scene – if you like that sort of thing!
White
It was a busy evening for tourists, for the next young woman to enter his booth had a very definite American accent.
She was white, platinum blonde, early to mid thirties, somewhat plump, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and noisily chewing on some mint-flavoured gum. Prisoner-slave Malcolm could smell it on her breath. It took quite an effort for her to drag her somewhat overweight frame up onto the recliner, and the obese young woman let out a sigh of relief as she plonked herself down onto the low-lying seat.
She also had to adjust it in order to make it a bit longer after its use by her much more petite, South Korean predecessor.
The American mistress’s socks and keds-sneakers looked exceptionally nice, however, on her plump legs and feet – fetching, knee-high, white tube socks with two pink stripes at the tops; socks that were clearly stretched over her plump calf muscles, but it gave them a nice shape. They also looked perfectly clean, white socks – unlike their predecessors.
As did her plain, white keds. It was actually, in slave Malcolm’s experience, quite rare for young women’s keds to be quite so clean and fresh-looking. They must be a relatively new pair! Or perhaps, like her predecessor’s white anklesocks, they were suitably stained and tarnished inside her shoes.
The young, American mistress differed dramatically from her South Korean predecessor, however, and not just in her physical stature and appearance – she also did not appear to be anything like as well clued up. As you will soon see, she clearly had not read up in advance about the prisoner-sockslave’s services, and had dropped in on him purely on a whim.
But that was okay.
Having at last settled herself into the recliner she stretched out her plump, tube-socked legs in front of the kneeling slave Malcolm and, in between chewing noisily on her spearmint-flavoured gum, asked him a question:
‘Erm…like, aren’t you supposed to kiss my shoes and socks, or something?’
Slave Malcolm moved to reassure the American mistress that that was exactly what he was supposed to do – if it so pleased her:
‘Oh pray mistress. God bless you mistress. This slave will indeed kiss the mistress’s pretty shoes and socks, should it be so pleasing to the superior, and most beautiful mistress?’
The girl seemed to continue to act dumb for a few seconds, before realising that she had to confirm her orders to the prisoner-footslave:
‘Erm…OK...well…why don’t you just, like, start by kissing my tube socks, or something?’
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’
It had been a painful and awkward process, but they had eventually got there!
Slave Malcolm lowered his spotlighted face onto the area of the young woman’s right sock immediately above the upper rim of her low-cut, white, canvas and rubber-smelling ked. He went straight for that area of sock because
A) It was the lowest, and therefore the humblest, part of the fat, American girl’s sock that he could get to without actually removing her shoe, and she had not given him permission to remove her shoe; and
B) It was an area of sock that was fetchingly creased, thanks to the positioning of her chubby foot that was now resting upright on its keds-sneakered heel on the padded footrest at the business end of the recliner.
Slave Malcolm always preferred to kiss creased sock as opposed to smooth sock. The creases and folds in the soft, creased sock material tickled his lips. And he could trace the individual creases with his mouth.
He therefore concentrated on that lower part of the young white woman’s white tube sock for several minutes, whilst she chewed nonchalantly and noisily on her gum, apparently dumbfounded at his dumb-ass slavishness and sock-servility.
She was also, however, clearly becoming more self-confident in her dealings with the prisoner-sockslave:
‘Don’t just kiss the bottom of my tube sock, slave! Kiss the whole of my sock! Make your way up towards the top!’ she snapped impatiently down at him, managing to keep her minty chewing gum inside her fat mouth.
Prisoner-slave Malcolm even sensed her cocking her head in the darkness of the booth above him in order to afford herself a better view of his sock-kissing efforts as he obediently made his way up the lower half of her chubby, right leg with his lips following the curved, ribbed lines in the stitching of her unnaturally stretched, white tube sock.
The ribbed pattern of the stitching was pleasingly thick, so that her tube sock felt nice and soft and bouncy on his sock-worshipping lips. Indeed, there were absolutely no signs of any wear and tear on the sock, and he realised that the fresh, white tube socks, like the fresh, white, lace-up keds, must indeed be very new. He even doubted now whether the socks would smell at all inside the obese, young woman’s canvas sneakers, and so he reckoned that he hadn’t particularly lost out on anything, even though the pleasant, young, fat, North American mistress had not ordered him to take off her sneakers prior to ordering him to kiss her socks.
As his face approached the two, delightfully feminine, pink stripes near the elasticated top of her right sock, the fat American girl, who was clearly growing in young-mistressly confidence the higher he paid slavish homage to her tube socks, became yet more specific in her requirements – as was her perfect right to do so.
Only convicted prisoner-sockslave Malcolm had no rights.
‘Kiss right around each pink stripe in turn as far as your mouth will go, slave! And then, like, kiss the white area in between the two stripes 500 times, or something? And don’t touch the pink stripes with your dirty lips again at that point, or I’ll, like, report you, or something?’
The ill-prepared, American visitor clearly wasn’t quite sure what sanctions she had available to her should the sockslave fail to obey her – again, unlike her Korean predecessor, miss Mee-Yon who, having read up on the slave beforehand, knew that the female whip was hanging up on the door and available for use on his bare, disobedient back!
Indeed, the American mistress hadn’t even noticed the whip - even though it was now staring her in the face, so captivated was she by the feel of the sock-prisoner’s obedient lips tracing the lower pink stripe on the back of her right, tube sock – just as she had commanded him to do.
She liked the unfamiliar sense of absolute power that gave her!
‘Ha! Ha! This is, like, totally awesome! Ha! Ha! You’re like, totally in my power, or something? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress. As it pleases you mistress,’ Malcolm managed to respond in between kissing the back of the fat girl’s seriously stretched tube sock.
He was only too happy to be in this plump, young American woman’s power, for he was a good and diligent sockslave, who had learnt the error of his ways after his many years’ of incarceration in this darkened room, and who now very much respected all his superior mistresses, whatever their race, creed or body shape!
As he turned his slavish attention to the upper, pink stripe near the very top of the American girl’s knee-high tube sock, he admired just how well the sock coped with the plumpness of her leg. Sure, the stitching was strained to the limit, but the white sock almost seemed to fit snugly around the obese, young, gum-chewing woman’s knobbly knee. The only disappointment was that his own, fat head was casting something of a shadow over the top of the young woman’s knee-length sock, since the spotlight was directly above him, thereby denying him an even clearer view of the individual, pink sock-stitches he was so eagerly and affectionately kissing.
The only sounds in the booth were now of the young American woman masticating arrogantly on her chewing gum amidst the gloom, and of the quiet, respectful kisses to her upper tube-socks, delivered by prisoner-slave Malcolm under the spotlight.
So you see, his job doesn’t always involve sweat and stink. It does have its more pleasant moments - moments of quiet contemplation as he worships a pair of non-stinky, brand new, pink and white tube socks.
We could go on and on with this account, for, as promised, we have only spent one hour in convicted prisoner-slave Malcolm’s sock-booth, whereas he will go on and on sniffing, and kissing and worshipping girls’ socks – hour after hour, day after day, year after year.
But I think you are no longer in the dark? Unlike prisoner-slave Malcolm!
The End
The good lady judge, who was known for her wicked sense of humour as well as her wicked sense of justice, had gleefully passed down the following sentence upon him:
‘Convicted prisoner in the dock, I hereby sentence you to life in the socks! I order that you be incarcerated for the rest of your unnatural life in a darkened room, located in the prison-building next to the central town square, where you will be required to sniff, kiss and lick the dirty socks of your female superiors whilst they are still wearing them, and that you never be released from your stinky-sock bondage.’
The lady judge then went on to specifically stipulate that the room be kept darkened in order to encourage the convicted sock-miscreant’s numerous tormentresses to wear their stinkiest, dirtiest socks whilst sparing their blushes – for slave Malcolm would be quite unable to see the faces of the women whose dirty, stinky socks he was required to worship.
His personal prison was to be specifically designed so that only the padded, leather footrest at the bottom of the low-lying, leather recliner on which the female-customer rested her socked feet was to be lit up – by a highly directional spotlight – therefore meaning that the customer herself would be relaxing in complete darkness, able to observe the prisoner-slave at work as he sniffed and honoured her socks at the feet-end of the leather recliner with the reassuring knowledge that he, for his humble part, could never see her mocking face in the darkness.
Moreover, the lady-socktease would have complete privacy, as she could lock the cubicle door of the sock-punishment room behind her – like she were entering a toilet cubicle – and could therefore completely relax and humiliate the prisoner-slave to her heart’s content with her stinky, socked feet!
Prisoner-slave Malcolm had received his humiliating sentence over 10 years go – and by now, at the age of 55, was an experienced female sock kisser, licker and sniffer. He even had his regular tormentresses, whom he now recognised from the sight, texture and aroma of their respective socks, in addition to the familiar sound of their respective, female voices – for the ladies were perfectly at liberty to verbally specify their orders to him in order to ensue his complete and utter compliance with their sock-wishes; just as slave Malcolm was at ‘liberty’ to verbally praise and bless his tormentresses’ socks utilising the humblest of humble sockslave-speak.
The good lady judge had not struck him dumb, as such!
But if he didn’t speak in a suitably humble tone – and if as a consequence he was reported to the Female Authorities for impertinence – he was soundly whipped at the end of his long, working day by his female prison-guard, guard-mistress Amelia, whose face he had never seen but whose plain, black, uniform bootsocks he had frequently been obliged to pay his respects to.
Not that his miserable, female sock-dominated existence was without colour – for one of the glories of being a permanent female sock-servant was the sheer variety of sweet, feminine sockwear that he was constantly obliged to serve. Slave Malcolm serviced female socks of all different lengths (ankle, calf, knee, thigh); all different colours (black, white, red, green, striped, patterned, cartoon-print); all different textures (cotton, nylon, woollen, polyester); and all different styles (plain, lacy, frilly, ribbed, fancy).
Nor could his humble existence as a sockslave be in any way described as monotonous or routine – for although he never went anywhere, and never did anything other than serve supposedly anonymous ladies’ socks, he was nevertheless obliged to serve each individual lady’s socks according to her peculiar whims and fancies.
And young women – uninhibited due to their anonymity in the darkened room of his sock-sniffing booth – could be very inventive when it came to ways of humiliating and punishing the dirty, convicted sockthief with their sweet (and sometimes not-so-sweet) feminine socks!
Let’s just look at one measly little hour, for example, in prisoner-slave Malcolm’s lifelong sentence in the sock-booth:
It is early evening, and probably one of the best times for us to eavesdrop in on slave Malcolm, since many of his customers will be young women who are on their way home from work, and who fancy stopping off for a few minutes in order to torment and humiliate the convicted prisoner-slave with their now dirty, sweaty socks. After all, they have been on their pretty feet all day – either in the office or working on the shop floor – and their socks, inevitably, are beginning to pong as they have been enclosed deep inside their pretty, feminine shoes, boots or sneakers all day.
Black
The first young woman whom we see entering slave Malcolm’s sock-punishment booth this hour is one of his ‘regulars’, whom he knows to be mistress Cassandra.
Now I know what you’re thinking! Mistress Cassandra? How can she be ‘anonymous’ if the wretched slave-prisoner knows her name? However, you must understand that he does not know her name because she has formally introduced herself to him. Ha! Ha! Don’t be silly! Why would she feel the need to introduce herself to a loser sockslave-prisoner? Ha! Ha!
No, he only knows her name because, occasionally, as she is seated above him whilst he attends to her socks, her mobile phone rings and she answers it using her name. At such times she even forgets that he is there for, seated in the darkness, she is very much concentrating on her important telephone call – not on the pathetic moron kneeling at her feet!
So what else does slave Malcolm know about this particular regular? Well, she is black, and some sort of businesswoman.
He knows she is black not because he has ever seen her, presumably pretty, black face – but purely because the bright spotlight over the padded, leather footrest at the end of the recliner occasionally highlights a furtive glimpse of her soft, black ankle skin above the top of her ankle-length sock.
And he knows she is a businesswoman because he likes to earwig in on her private phone conversations, although, in his defence, he only does so out of respect and admiration for his superior, black mistress’s superior life – he likes to listen in as she closes some important business deal over the phone. Slave Malcolm, pathetically, feels that he is almost sharing in mistress Cassandra’s success by nosing her socks whilst she clinches some important deal!
The poor, deluded sockslave! Ha! Ha!
And how does he know that this is the same mistress Cassandra who is now settling herself down onto the low-lying recliner in front of him as he kneels before her – and not some other, young black businesswoman? He knows because as soon as she enters the booth and takes up her seat of power – even before she utters a single word of command to him – he recognises the tiny, familiar scuff-marks on the toe areas of her otherwise smart, black-leather, pointy-toed and spike-heeled, zip-up, black-businesswoman ankle boots.
He even recognises mistress Cassandra’s gait and posture as she climbs confidently in a businesswoman-like manner onto the recliner in front of his humbly kneeling, prisoner frame – as each and every customer-mistress has her own technique for positioning herself and making herself comfortable in the ‘recliner of power’.
If there were any lingering doubts in slave Malcolm’s mind as to the exact identity of the young woman now reclining in front of him – her booted feet stretched out comfortably in front of her and lit up by the bright spotlight above his prisoner-slave head – those doubts are dispelled by her now familiar, haughty, black voice:
‘Slave, take off my boots and smell my socks.’
Yes – this is most definitely mistress Cassandra’s voice, not that he is permitted to use her name in his obsequious response to her command since she has never, officially, divulged it to him. She thinks she is humiliating and degrading him with her bootsocks in complete anonymity, as she relaxes in the dark above him!
And it is not prisoner-slave Malcolm’s role to enlighten her. His place is merely to honour and worship her sweaty socks.
He therefore acknowledges mistress Cassandra’s brusquely-delivered orders with a respectful and discreet:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’
He then proceeds to gently pull up the hem of mistress Cassandra’s bootcut, pinstriped trouser leg on her outstretched, right foot in order to gain unimpeded access with his prisoner-fingers to the top of her metal bootzip.
Some mistresses like to lie back with their outstretched feet crossed over at the ankles in front of prisoner-slave Malcolm’s humbly-bowed face. But most – like mistress Cassandra – prefer to rest their feet side by side in front of him, their socked heels resting on the cushioned pad of the black leather footrest whilst their socked feet point straight upwards.
They, presumably, prefer that particular foot position as it gives the sockslave-prisoner’s nose, mouth and face greater access to the dirty undersides of their sweaty socks.
As he unzips the sides of business-mistress Cassandra’s stylish, modern, black leather ankle boots whilst he kneels at the business-end of the recliner, slave Malcolm is pleased to observe that, as per usual, mistress Cassandra is wearing plain, black cotton, anklesocks inside her stylish boots.
But they are socks with a twist – literally with a twist – as they are both fetchingly twisted and wonky at the top, having been on her black-businesswoman feet all day inside her hot and sweaty boots. This is the first time that her socks have been able to breathe since she zipped on her boots that morning – so inevitably there will have been some sock-slippage inside her boots during the course of her busy day.
Slave Malcolm is gratified to also observe little dark patches of sweet, feminine foot-perspiration on the soles and the sides of mistress Cassandra’s plain, black socks. It gratifies him because it will make it easier for him to locate the damp, sweaty patches on the mistress’s socks – something which will be important for him as he knows only too well what is coming next.
Sure enough the delightful, but predictable, mistress Cassandra specifies her orders even further (she always does at this point – at the point where slave Malcolm places her now fully-unzipped, black leather, businesswoman ankle-boots onto the floor directly beneath the spotlighted footrest).
She is clearly a young woman who means business!
‘Sniff the sweatiest parts of my socks slave. Place your nose on any damp areas and breathe in deeply through your nose. I want to hear you inhaling my sweaty sock-stink!’
‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress. This slave obeys the mistress.’
It is considered good manners for a slave to thank his mistress for the privilege of smelling the sweatiest areas of her socks.
Mistress Cassandra is just so predictable, however - she always adds this particular stipulation just before slave Malcolm lowers his prisoner-slave nose to her recently liberated, black cotton bootsocks! And, as you can see, she is quite unabashed about pointing out to the prisoner that her socks contain damp and sweat patches. That’s because she is completely anonymous – or she thinks she is – as she reclines in the darkened footbooth with only her feet and socks lit up.
Much as it had pained him to do so, sockslave Malcolm had already straightened down mistress Cassandra’s black-pinstriped trouser-hems over her shapely, black anklebones, thereby selflessly denying himself a furtive glimpse of her soft, black ankleskin. He had done so out of respect for her socks as he did not wish to have any distractions whilst sniffing on her even softer-looking, black cotton socks.
All he can see, therefore, is black girl’s black sock – and the various hues in the blackness of the cotton sock-material caused by the patchy dampness of her businesswoman-footsweat.
Full of humble obedience, his nose makes straight for a darkened, damp patch on her right sock covering the ball of her foot – just below the reinforced toe-area. It smells tart as he places his nose directly onto and into the moist cotton sock, and audibly sniffs it – but he reminds himself that mistress Cassandra herself is no tart. She is his businesswoman-better – more intelligent, more important, and more high-class than he is. If anything he is the lowly tart – the sock-sniffing tart; the black girl’s humble sock-sniffer.
And so he concentrates on doing what he does best – he sniffs female sock.
The stink is familiar. Slave Malcolm can actually recognise his regular mistresses’ feet just from the distinctive, individual aroma of their socks – so finely tuned has his sock-fixated nose become over the many years of his incarceration to the delicate nuances in the fragrance of sweaty, feminine socks.
Even if he didn’t know mistress Cassandra’s name, even if he hadn’t recognised her familiar, black leather, zip-up ankle boots and her twisted black bootsocks by sight; even if he hadn’t recognised her disdainful voice barking her customary orders down at him from inside the darkened booth – slave Malcolm would still have recognised the distinctive aroma of mistress Cassandra’s black bootsocks.
And although it was an acquired taste, he did very much admire mistress Cassandra’s very individual, sweaty sock-stink!
Indeed, he positively revelled in smelling her socks, just as she secretly revelled in having her socks smelt. It made him feel good about himself, as he was sharing in the sock-smell of a successful, young businesswoman. And it made Cassandra feel good because it made her feel superior to have such a lowly, male underling sniffing aloud on her sweaty bootsocks!
That was precisely why she kept on coming back to his booth – for she wasn’t obliged to do so! She was a free, young woman – perfectly at liberty to pass by the sock-prisoner’s booth on her way home from work every night should she so wish to! Unlike the prisoner-slave himself, of course, who had no choice but to kneel there and sniff the socks of whichever female superiors deigned to drop in on him.
But he was gratified that mistress Cassandra regularly dropped by – for she certainly knew how to humble a sockslave, gleefully rubbing the damp areas of her socks all over his nose and face whilst he sniffed, thereby deliberately leaving traces of her sock-moisture on his face so that it reeked of her stinky-sock even after she had left the booth.
Something for him to remember her by – until the next working day!
Sadly, however, mistress Cassandra’s sockbooth-prison visits never seemed to last long. Believe it or not miss Cassandra had better and more important things to do in her free time – such as hitching up with her boyfriend and going out clubbing of an evening. Ha! Ha! She liked the thought that whilst she was out enjoying herself on the town, kissing and canoodling with her manly boyfriend Leroy, the dirty sockslave-prisoner, confined to his cramped and dingy sockslave-booth, would be doing nothing else but kissing, licking and sniffing other women’s dirty socks whilst her own residual socksweat seeped ever deeper into his facial pores!
Ha! Ha! That pleasing thought tickled Cassandra!
Asian
Needless to say, not all of the pathetic sock-prisoner’s exclusively female clients are regulars, and mistress Cassandra’s successor into the booth this hour is one such ‘stranger’.
Prisoner-slave Malcolm, even from his humble, permanent, kneeling position over the footrest can always get a ‘sense’ for his female customers as they enter his booth – even if it’s for the very first time, and even though he cannot see their faces.
This particular young stranger-woman, he ‘senses’, is Asian; oriental in fact. He deduces that because of her rather petite, far-eastern frame, and a flash of dark, shiny shoulder-length hair as she climbs onto the recliner in front of him.
The young woman even has to adjust the recliner at the back, pulling it forward a few notches, so that her dainty, oriental, sneakered feet can reach the footrest-area of the recliner. (To be fair, mistress Cassandra – the previous customer – is quite a tall girl, with much bigger feet!).
But slave Malcolm immediately takes a shine to the Asian girl, and her sneakers. For very nice-looking sneakered feet they are - sneakered and socked, of course!
Slave Malcolm had grown to very much admire girls’ sneakered feet over the years of his bondage. They always seemed to create particularly strong and sweaty-smelling socks. The average sneaker, it seemed, just did not let a young woman’s feet breathe, and slave Malcolm blessed the sneakers for that. For his miserable life would have been incredibly dull and boring if he were forced to smell only fresh-smelling girlsocks all day long!
The young oriental woman, whom he ‘senses’ to be in her early to mid twenties – certainly in the prime of life – stretches out her petite, sneakered feet, side by side, in front of his kneeling face. He can now study them in detail, under the bright spotlight.
She is wearing blue, denim jeans, girlishly turned up at the hems so that her shapely sneakered and socked ankles are framed fetchingly by her light-grey, inner jean linings each with a distinctive, purple line of stitching at the bottom.
Slave Malcolm always appreciates mistresses who turn up their jean-hems – as such young women are clearly intent on displaying their socks to all and sundry. Such uninhibited girls were proud of their socks – wearing them as an integral part of their outfits - and not just as items of underwear designed to be hidden away beneath the turned-down hems of their jeans!
And this young, dark-haired, Asian woman - whoever she was - had every right to be proud of her socks. For they were pure white, ankle-length, sports socks with a famous logo on the sides. Designer-brand socks! Why wouldn’t she be proud of them?
Her pale, yellow ankleskin above the elasticated tops of her white socks confirmed her far-eastern ethnicity, not that slave Malcolm made a point of staring at the mistress’s bare leg-flesh. That was not his place – his place was to observe, honour and worship her socks and sneakers.
Speaking of which the sneakers girlishly matched the turned-up hems of her jeans, being light grey in colour with two fetching, thick purple stripes down the sides.
This was obviously a young woman who took great pride in her casual-footwear appearance – even to the extent of making sure that her sneakers matched the inner lining of her blue, denim jeans!
Having said that, the sneakers appeared somewhat scruffy and well-worn. There were definite scuff marks on the light-grey, rounded toe areas, and the laces – always a good indicator of the true state of a young woman’s footwear in prisoner-slave Malcolm’s estimation – were grey to match the sneaker leather – even though slave Malcolm strongly suspected the laces had originally been white!
The young woman’s oriental status was finally confirmed when she opened her mouth to speak down to him from the darkness:
‘Ha! Ha! You a dirty prisoner-slave! I read about you in tourist brochure. You a male pig! You a thief! You steal superior women socks! Ha! Ha! I make you pay. I make you suffer for crime. You take off Mee-Yon sneakers and smell Mee-Yon stinky socks. You obey or I have you whip!’
So, slave Malcolm, ever quick on the uptake, now knew that this young woman was a foreign (Korean?) tourist to the Gynarchy; that her name was mistress Mee-Yon; and that she despised him and held him in utter young-womanly contempt because she had read all about his despicable crimes against femininity in her tourist guide-book.
He turned crimson with shame, but the darkness of the sockslave-booth was not there to hide his shame and embarrassment. Indeed, the bright spotlight over his head at the foot-end of the recliner only served to highlight it!
He humbly acknowledged the Korean girl’s orders, as it was the only way he could do anything to indicate his penitence for his former life of crime:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’
Miss Mee-Yon seemed to positively revel in making the dirty prisoner-slave blush and squirm, as he began to undo her dirty-grey sneaker-laces:
‘Ha! Ha! You get ready for strong smell. I not wash feet or change socks for two days! Ha! Ha! You about to get Mee-Yon dirty sock-stink up nose! Ha! Ha! You a loser! I better than you! You my prisoner! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress Mee-Yon. Thank you mistress Mee-Yon. God bless you mistress Mee-Yon.’
Mistress Mee-Yon wasn’t lying! The moment her first scruffy grey and purple sneaker came off in his hands his entire face was suddenly enveloped by sweet Korean-girl sock stink.
The removal of her second sneaker only doubled slave Malcolm’s distress – for, whilst the sockslave-prisoner had, naturally, become accustomed to the smell of sweaty, female socks over the years – there was no doubt that some girls’ socks just smelt stronger than others!
And miss Mee-Yon’s socks were a case in point. Such an almighty stink from such a delicate pair of oriental feet!
Looking at the state of the ‘white’ socks it soon became apparent why the odour emanating from miss Mee-Yon’s socked feet was so strong. The upper parts of her sports anklesocks may have looked ‘pure’ white, but the truth was they were decidedly grubby down below – especially on the soles; they contained grey sweat-stains from the inner lining of miss Mee-Yon’s sneakers, mixed in with what appeared to be older, yellowy-brown stains from previous footwear – brown leather, Korean-girl ankle boots or such like!
Miss Mee-Yon, who could clearly see slave Malcolm’s face even though he, of course, could not see hers – laughed out loud at the pained expression on her prisoner’s face.
In fact, somewhat paradoxically, you could say that her darkened face lit up:
‘Ha! Ha! What the matter, prisoner? You not like Mee-Yon stinky sock? Ha! Ha! You not like smell of Korean girl dirty, white sock? Ha! Ha!’
Slave Malcolm, of course, was obliged to provide a respectful answer to his Korean guest’s perfectly legitimate, if rhetorical, question:
‘Oh pray mistress Mee-Yon, if it pleases you mistress Mee-Yon, this dirty prisoner-slave is truly honoured to be in the presence of your sweet and powerful sock-aroma, if it is so pleasing to you most sweet and kind Korean mistress.’
Mistress Mee-Yon was, indeed, evidently a sweet and kind Korean mistress:
‘Ha! Ha! I wiggle my toes for dirty prisoner – make you smell more of Korean girl stinky sock! Ha! Ha!’
And with that she duly wriggled her dainty, Asian toes inside her dirty-white cotton sports socks in order to release yet more of her precious, oriental stinky-foot odour up the kneeling prisoner’s nostrils.
Prisoner-slave Malcolm was actually by now becoming accustomed to the smell, something which seemed to pique mistress Mee-Yon:
‘Dirty slave, you now honour Mee-Yon stinky sock! Kiss bottom of sock. Kiss dirty part. I want feel slave-mouth on bottom of sock! You obey now, or I whip!’
Miss Mee-Yon had clearly read about the whip hanging inside the door of the sockslave-cubicle for the use of the customers on the prisoner’s prone and vulnerable bare back should he fail to please. Prisoner-slave Malcolm was determined to please miss Mee-Yon, as he did not wish to be whipped!
He therefore immediately obeyed the superior and dominant young Korean woman by moving his pathetic and gormless prisoner-face forwards until his lips made respectful contact with a dirty, grey stain on the lower left-hand side of mistress Mee-Yon’s stinky right sock.
He could actually feel the dirty, grey stain on his lips as it was damper and moister than the surrounding area of white girlsock:
Miss Mee-Yon appeared happy again, although somewhat incredulous at the prisoner-slave’s passive submissiveness:
‘Ha! Ha! You like kiss Korean girl stinky, white sock? Ha! Ha! You a sock-whore? You worship girl sock?’
In actual fact she was only pretending to sound incredulous for, having read up on him in her tourist brochure, she knew full well that prisoner-slave Malcolm worshipped and adored young women’s socks!
Nevertheless he had to dignify her silly question with a suitably slavish response:
‘Oh pray mistress Mee-Yon, if it pleases you mistress Mee-Yon, this dirty , pathetic slave does indeed worship girls’ socks, if you would be so kind mistress!’
Miss Mee-Yon clapped her pretty, oriental hands with undisguised delight:
‘Ha! Ha! You queer! You a queer sock-kisser! Ha! Ha! You kiss Mee-Yon sock all over – not just dirty part. I want feel prisoner-man lips on every part of sock. Ha! Ha! You worship Mee-Yon sock! Sock better than you! You just a slave. You slave of Korean-girl dirty sock! Ha! Ha!’
And so it went on. Slave Malcolm worshipped the dirty, sweat-stained, white socks of his Asian female better, miss Mee-Yon, including the ‘clean’ parts, and in so doing acknowledged the veracity of her mocking statements to the effect that her socks were his betters, worthy of his admiration and respect, since he was just their queer slave.
It amounted to quite a touching scene – if you like that sort of thing!
White
It was a busy evening for tourists, for the next young woman to enter his booth had a very definite American accent.
She was white, platinum blonde, early to mid thirties, somewhat plump, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and noisily chewing on some mint-flavoured gum. Prisoner-slave Malcolm could smell it on her breath. It took quite an effort for her to drag her somewhat overweight frame up onto the recliner, and the obese young woman let out a sigh of relief as she plonked herself down onto the low-lying seat.
She also had to adjust it in order to make it a bit longer after its use by her much more petite, South Korean predecessor.
The American mistress’s socks and keds-sneakers looked exceptionally nice, however, on her plump legs and feet – fetching, knee-high, white tube socks with two pink stripes at the tops; socks that were clearly stretched over her plump calf muscles, but it gave them a nice shape. They also looked perfectly clean, white socks – unlike their predecessors.
As did her plain, white keds. It was actually, in slave Malcolm’s experience, quite rare for young women’s keds to be quite so clean and fresh-looking. They must be a relatively new pair! Or perhaps, like her predecessor’s white anklesocks, they were suitably stained and tarnished inside her shoes.
The young, American mistress differed dramatically from her South Korean predecessor, however, and not just in her physical stature and appearance – she also did not appear to be anything like as well clued up. As you will soon see, she clearly had not read up in advance about the prisoner-sockslave’s services, and had dropped in on him purely on a whim.
But that was okay.
Having at last settled herself into the recliner she stretched out her plump, tube-socked legs in front of the kneeling slave Malcolm and, in between chewing noisily on her spearmint-flavoured gum, asked him a question:
‘Erm…like, aren’t you supposed to kiss my shoes and socks, or something?’
Slave Malcolm moved to reassure the American mistress that that was exactly what he was supposed to do – if it so pleased her:
‘Oh pray mistress. God bless you mistress. This slave will indeed kiss the mistress’s pretty shoes and socks, should it be so pleasing to the superior, and most beautiful mistress?’
The girl seemed to continue to act dumb for a few seconds, before realising that she had to confirm her orders to the prisoner-footslave:
‘Erm…OK...well…why don’t you just, like, start by kissing my tube socks, or something?’
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’
It had been a painful and awkward process, but they had eventually got there!
Slave Malcolm lowered his spotlighted face onto the area of the young woman’s right sock immediately above the upper rim of her low-cut, white, canvas and rubber-smelling ked. He went straight for that area of sock because
A) It was the lowest, and therefore the humblest, part of the fat, American girl’s sock that he could get to without actually removing her shoe, and she had not given him permission to remove her shoe; and
B) It was an area of sock that was fetchingly creased, thanks to the positioning of her chubby foot that was now resting upright on its keds-sneakered heel on the padded footrest at the business end of the recliner.
Slave Malcolm always preferred to kiss creased sock as opposed to smooth sock. The creases and folds in the soft, creased sock material tickled his lips. And he could trace the individual creases with his mouth.
He therefore concentrated on that lower part of the young white woman’s white tube sock for several minutes, whilst she chewed nonchalantly and noisily on her gum, apparently dumbfounded at his dumb-ass slavishness and sock-servility.
She was also, however, clearly becoming more self-confident in her dealings with the prisoner-sockslave:
‘Don’t just kiss the bottom of my tube sock, slave! Kiss the whole of my sock! Make your way up towards the top!’ she snapped impatiently down at him, managing to keep her minty chewing gum inside her fat mouth.
Prisoner-slave Malcolm even sensed her cocking her head in the darkness of the booth above him in order to afford herself a better view of his sock-kissing efforts as he obediently made his way up the lower half of her chubby, right leg with his lips following the curved, ribbed lines in the stitching of her unnaturally stretched, white tube sock.
The ribbed pattern of the stitching was pleasingly thick, so that her tube sock felt nice and soft and bouncy on his sock-worshipping lips. Indeed, there were absolutely no signs of any wear and tear on the sock, and he realised that the fresh, white tube socks, like the fresh, white, lace-up keds, must indeed be very new. He even doubted now whether the socks would smell at all inside the obese, young woman’s canvas sneakers, and so he reckoned that he hadn’t particularly lost out on anything, even though the pleasant, young, fat, North American mistress had not ordered him to take off her sneakers prior to ordering him to kiss her socks.
As his face approached the two, delightfully feminine, pink stripes near the elasticated top of her right sock, the fat American girl, who was clearly growing in young-mistressly confidence the higher he paid slavish homage to her tube socks, became yet more specific in her requirements – as was her perfect right to do so.
Only convicted prisoner-sockslave Malcolm had no rights.
‘Kiss right around each pink stripe in turn as far as your mouth will go, slave! And then, like, kiss the white area in between the two stripes 500 times, or something? And don’t touch the pink stripes with your dirty lips again at that point, or I’ll, like, report you, or something?’
The ill-prepared, American visitor clearly wasn’t quite sure what sanctions she had available to her should the sockslave fail to obey her – again, unlike her Korean predecessor, miss Mee-Yon who, having read up on the slave beforehand, knew that the female whip was hanging up on the door and available for use on his bare, disobedient back!
Indeed, the American mistress hadn’t even noticed the whip - even though it was now staring her in the face, so captivated was she by the feel of the sock-prisoner’s obedient lips tracing the lower pink stripe on the back of her right, tube sock – just as she had commanded him to do.
She liked the unfamiliar sense of absolute power that gave her!
‘Ha! Ha! This is, like, totally awesome! Ha! Ha! You’re like, totally in my power, or something? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress. As it pleases you mistress,’ Malcolm managed to respond in between kissing the back of the fat girl’s seriously stretched tube sock.
He was only too happy to be in this plump, young American woman’s power, for he was a good and diligent sockslave, who had learnt the error of his ways after his many years’ of incarceration in this darkened room, and who now very much respected all his superior mistresses, whatever their race, creed or body shape!
As he turned his slavish attention to the upper, pink stripe near the very top of the American girl’s knee-high tube sock, he admired just how well the sock coped with the plumpness of her leg. Sure, the stitching was strained to the limit, but the white sock almost seemed to fit snugly around the obese, young, gum-chewing woman’s knobbly knee. The only disappointment was that his own, fat head was casting something of a shadow over the top of the young woman’s knee-length sock, since the spotlight was directly above him, thereby denying him an even clearer view of the individual, pink sock-stitches he was so eagerly and affectionately kissing.
The only sounds in the booth were now of the young American woman masticating arrogantly on her chewing gum amidst the gloom, and of the quiet, respectful kisses to her upper tube-socks, delivered by prisoner-slave Malcolm under the spotlight.
So you see, his job doesn’t always involve sweat and stink. It does have its more pleasant moments - moments of quiet contemplation as he worships a pair of non-stinky, brand new, pink and white tube socks.
We could go on and on with this account, for, as promised, we have only spent one hour in convicted prisoner-slave Malcolm’s sock-booth, whereas he will go on and on sniffing, and kissing and worshipping girls’ socks – hour after hour, day after day, year after year.
But I think you are no longer in the dark? Unlike prisoner-slave Malcolm!
The End
