Footslave Fables Volume 2

The second volume in a collection of humble fables on the subject of footslavery.

VOLUME 2 CONTENTS (scroll down for fables in reverse numerical order)

20. The Taste-Test

19. High-Flyer

18. The Neck-Me-Down

17. Supercilious vs. Sadistic

16. 3 Adults, and 1 Footrest

15. No Lo Entiendo, Señora

14. The Sock-Slug

13. Spats

12. Deep Joy

11. Out of my league

10. The Invisible Footslave

9. Waiting Hand & Foot

8. From Public to Private

7. Busy!

6. Smoker's Corner

5. Big, Bountiful Mistress

4. Oh ****!

3. Female Rules

2. Caught by the Fuzz

1. The Female Army of Barbaria
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Fable no. 20 – The Taste-Test

I provide all kinds of services for my female public, but the following encounter was one of the sweetest – or should I say bitterest.

She approached my public shoelick-stand with what can only be described as filthy-looking sneakers. They had once been pure white, I’m sure, but they were now only nominally white. Only the thick, frayed, greying laces – grubby with ground-in streetdirt and grime – made the actual leather of the low-cut sneakers look remotely white.

I could tell she was not a dirty person, however. For one thing her socks looked clean – even though they were black; short, black sneaker-socks which only just showed above the upper rims of her sneakers. That, in turn, meant that her clean, white, smooth legs were on full display, since they weren’t bothered by any further clothing right up as far as her thigh-hugging, ultra-short, black cotton miniskirt.

She looked the bomb! A blonde bombshell in her prime (late teens or early twenties I would say)

And she knew she looked good. The confident swagger in her black-miniskirted hips gave that away!

Her boyfriend, a much older white man in his late forties or possibly early fifties , knew it too, as he accompanied his good-looking, young girlfriend up to my ‘stand-up’, public shoelick-stand in the middle of the town square, his arm wrapped protectively around her swinging, miniskirted hips.

It soon became clear that the happy couple were approaching me for a very specific reason. The young lady had a problem with one of her sneakers, the nature of which her grinning, male partner graciously explained to me as his pretty girlfriend, gigglingly, stretched out her left foot first onto the vacant, wooden footblock beneath my humbly kneeling face:

‘You see that pretty sneaker, foot-queer?’ enquired the free man of me.

A bit of a stupid question, really! How could I possibly fail to see it –in all it’s feminine grubbiness and glory – since it was now so close to my face I could even smell it; a leathery, musty smell of well-worn girlsneaker! I could even see a tiny glimpse of black, cotton girlsock through a delightful little hole along the base of the tatty, sneaker-instep. Truly a well-worn and favourite pair of girl-sneakers!

But I must answer the free man’s question out of sheer slavish politeness and respect, if nothing else. For he is my better, being free:

‘Yes, master sir. I see it, master sir. Thank you, master sir.’

‘Good!’ responds the master sir.

The blonde wearer of the sneaker just continues to giggle, causing her ankle muscles to twitch and consequently the elasticated top of her short, black sneaker-sock to crease slightly beneath my humbly-bowed and appreciative face.

‘Now, look at the sneaker close up, foot-queer... that’s right…can you see that yellow stain near the back of my girlfriend’s heel?’

I move my head ever so slightly to the right in order to get a better view of the back of the female sneakered-foot. The young woman, obligingly, twists her foot to one side in order to facilitate me in this.

Still she giggles.

‘Erm…yes, master sir. I can see it, master sir.’

Indeed I can – a dried-on yellowy streak amidst the generally grey and black grubbiness of the rest of the cute sneaker-heel.

I wonder what it is? And that’s the problem! My free masters and betters are curious to know what it is too!

The master goes on to explain:

‘Ha! Ha! My girlfriend only noticed it on the back of her sneaker this morning, foot-faggot! She wants to know what it is, because it wasn’t there before! Ha! Ha! She must have stepped in something – something yellow, yeah?’

The master appears to be asking me a question, and seeking my conformation that his beautiful girlfriend must have inadvertently stepped in something yellow:

‘Yes, master sir. If it pleases you, master sir.’

I am genuinely just trying to be polite, but the master doesn’t seem to take too kindly to my last remark:

‘NO I’M NOT PLEASED ABOUT IT, DIRTY, IMPERTINENT SLAVE!’

‘Hit him, Paul! Kick him in the face!’

It’s the first time the young, blonde woman has spoken and they aren’t exactly what you might describe as ‘friendly’ words.

But then, she isn’t my friend – she’s my customer-mistress.

The man laughs, and gives his pretty, young girlfriend his manly permission to kick me in the face herself:

‘Ha! Ha! You do it, sweetheart – your foot is already closer to his ugly mug!’

She giggles and smiles at her boyfriend before suddenly filling my face full of dirty, white, sneaker leather – whilst her supportive boyfriend continues to hold her around her shapely waist in order to steady her.

The scuff-marked and flaky rounded toe of her grubby, white sneaker makes particularly effective contact with my jaw. I can almost feel her curled-up toes inside her shoe.

It hurts, and I let out an involuntary gasp of shock and pain!

The couple now both laugh out loud at me:

‘Ha! Ha! See what you get for disrespecting us, foot-faggot?’ enquires the man.

I am, of course, in no position to answer him back – to try to defend myself either physically or morally, and to seek to clarify that my words had in no way been intended as disrespectful! Protesting my slave-innocence, I know, would only make things worse – since the laws of the Gynarchy state that if my free betters perceive me to have been disrespectful towards my betters, then that’s what I have been.

All I can do, therefore, is apologise for my unacceptable behaviour, and thank the superior mistress for disciplining me:

‘Oh pray master! Oh pray mistress! Please forgive this dirty slave for his impertinence. Thank you for correcting me mistress. Please don’t hurt me any more, master and mistress!’

Satisfied that their natural power and authority over me has been fully restored, the young woman kisses her manly, supportive boyfriend softly on the lips, before inelegantly plonking her dirty, left, sneakered-foot, the one with the mysterious and incongruous yellow stain on the heel, back down onto my waiting, wooden footblock.

‘Well, let’s see how this pleases you, foot-faggot queer!’ continues the man. ‘You’re gonna find out what that stain is for us, by tasting it, yeah? Ha! Ha! You’re gonna lick it, and then tell my pretty girlfriend exactly what that yellow stuff is, yeah? Ha! Ha! Take a taste-test, boy!’

The young woman, now giggling with unadulterated glee, once again twists her sneaker-heel round on the footblock in order to afford my dirty slave-tongue uninterrupted access to the back of her even dirtier shoe! Her short, black sock is now well-creased below her anklebone, but she is selflessly prepared to disturb the aesthetics of her sock just in order to facilitate me in my humble and demeaning taste-test. Such kindness and thoughtfulness in one so young and impulsive!

I am genuinely appreciative.

Of course, you know what we’re all thinking! The stain on the back of the compassionate, young woman’s sneaker was clearly caused by something liquid. A yellow liquid, which she must have inadvertently stepped in on the street.

Now, what sort of yellow liquids do we encounter on the streets?

I brace myself for some bitter unpleasantness as my tongue obediently descends onto the yellowy, dried-on patch….

It does taste bitter – but not in the way I had expected.

The master and mistress are understandably in suspense;

‘Well, foot-licking queer? What is it? Tell us what that yellow gunk is that’s stuck to the back of my girl’s shoe!’

‘Oh pray master sir, oh pray mistress madam, it tastes like… lemon, most esteemed master and mistress!’

There is a moment’s pause…and then both the master and mistress burst out laughing!

The mistress, eventually, reveals what’s so funny:

‘Ha! Ha! Oh Paul...it must be from Sue’s party last night – you remember when Abby spilt her bitter lemon on the patio! Ha! Ha! I must have trodden in it, or something!...Though I can’t remember much about last night! Ha! Ha!’

The man too thinks it is funny that the stain turns out to be nothing more than bitter lemon:

‘Ha! Ha! Yeah – we both had a bit too much to drink last night! Maybe we should have stuck to bitter lemon ourselves, sweetheart? Ha! Ha!’

‘Ha! Ha! Looks like it stuck to me, honey!’

Honey and lemon. These two superior beings are such a sweet couple, even if they have filled my aching jaw with the bitter taste of the mistress’s grubby, white sneaker.

They both stroll off, arm in arm, apparently happy with the results of my humble taste-taste, and happy also to leave without thanking me. Which is fair enough – for I am, after all, only a down-in-the-dirt, queer, shoe-tasting foot-faggot.

I’m not bitter – unlike the lemon!



Fable no. 19 – High-Flyer

All my female customers, even those petite in stature, seem to tower above me like magnificent giantesses as they sit in luxury on my ‘sit down’ shoelick stall whilst I kneel on the dirty ground, my face level with the two metal footrests on which the ladies rest their feet for cleaning.

But when a female customer is already quite tall, and when she is wearing a short, above the knee skirt, with bare legs or stockings – then I feel truly small in her superior, feminine presence!

The young, black woman seated above me right now is a good example of what I mean. She is an air stewardess with Gynarchy Airlines. I know that because:

i) My shoelick stall is conveniently situated just outside a metro station with a direct link to the nearby International Airport;
ii) She had been pulling one of those ubiquitous cabin-sized suitcases on wheels behind her as she haughtily approached my shoelick-stand;
iii) I recognise her smart, feminine uniform consisting of a sky blue jacket; a crisp, white blouse with sky-blue and white neckscarf; and sky blue skirt – which, as I have already described, does not quite reach the superior young lady’s knees – not even when she is standing up straight; when she is seated as she is now it rides even further up her shapely, black thighs.

I say ‘black thighs’, but as part of her uniform the snooty, young stewardess-mistress is actually wearing flesh-toned tights – toned, that is, for a white lady’s skin. The end result is a delightfully duskish tinge to her nylon-stockinged legs as her black flesh darkens the overall hue of her sheer nylon stockings from within.

Not that her legs are any of my damn business! I am a public footslave, and so however much a mistress like this may be teasing me with her shapely legs, she knows that I am obliged by law to concentrate on her stockinged feet below her well-turned ankle bones. Her feet and her shoes are my only legitimate sphere of interest, and doesn’t the young madame delight in my utter powerlessness vis-à-vis her shapely legs!

Internally, she must be laughing at me, and at the heavy chain that keeps my slave-head humbly bowed over her nylon-covered feet clad in a pair of navy-blue, low-heeled, round-toed, leather court shoes.

Her shoes, I notice, are quite dusty and scuff-marked. They need a good lick and a shine. Her stockings too are showing some signs of repeated wear and tear – not ladders as such; but a few little areas of delicate, nylon stitching where there are the first signs of damage and thinning. Curiously one thin line of stitching directly below her left anklebone has even turned white! Rain damage, I wonder, or just an amalgamation of tiny stitch-tears?

As I contemplate this, the haughty, young, black mistress barks her no-nonsense, air-stewardess orders down at me in a thick, West African accent:

‘Clean the shoes, slave!’

She is also speaking with her mouth full, for she is simultaneously munching on a packet of strong-smelling crisps.

Normally, of course, it is considered rude to speak to another human being with your mouth full, but the black mistress can be excused on this occasion since she is merely delivering her orders to a humble, public shoelick. I don’t count as a proper human being since I am a submissive-human (or ‘sub-human’ for short).

The African air-stewardess is a noisy eater, but I am a well-trained public footslave and remember my manners as I dutifully acknowledge her orders, and ready myself to, quietly and unobtrusively, tongue-polish her dirty, airline-uniform shoes.

‘Yes, mistress air-stewardess. At once, mistress air-stewardess.’

I have to call her that since I don’t know the crisp-munching, African air-stewardess’s name.

She continues to shovel crisps into her mouth as she watches me begin my humiliating task of licking clean her humblest parts – her dirty, navy-blue, leather court shoes.

I begin with the well-creased, slightly scuff-marked, rounded toe area on her right shoe as her right foot rests nonchalantly on its metal footrest directly in front of my kneeling face.

I am a little bit miffed as I soon discover that I cannot fully taste the bitterness of her dark blue shoeleather. This is because the strong aroma emanating from her large bag of crisps is interfering with my sense of smell – and hence my sense of taste. It’s strange how those two senses are so closely allied!

It also means, of course, that my nose is denied the delights of her fresh, young –womanly nylon foot odour.

The noise of the African girl’s unladylike slurping and slapping on her calorific snack is also interrupting my footslave concentration. And as if all that wasn’t enough, the young woman seems incapable of keeping her foot perfectly still whilst I endeavour to lick it, as she is subconsciously flexing her pretty, African foot muscles and toes inside her shoes, causing her nylon stockings to crease and fold most provocatively in front of my downcast eyes.

I am, of course, sorely tempted to kiss and lick those inviting, tiny creases in the black African girl’s white-flesh-coloured nylons – out of my sheer, slavish admiration and respect for them. But I am experienced enough a public footslave to know that any such move would inevitably be misinterpreted by the mistress as impertinence and disrespect for her superior, female personage – since she has clearly given me orders to merely ‘clean her shoes’.

Her nylon stockings are, sadly, out of bounds!

My distraction and lack of concentration must nevertheless be obvious to her, for the next thing I know she is leaning down and pointing towards the lower instep of her right shoe with a greasy, crisp-stained, black finger:

‘Lick here, slave. Clean out all that muck!’

I can smell, and almost taste, the vinegary and spicy crisp-flavouring on her black-skinned, index finger - even though my dirty, slave-mouth would never be allowed to suck on a superior, young woman’s bare finger!

I can see that her fingernail is nominally painted with pink nail-varnish, but the varnish is now somewhat chipped – potato chipped!

The African air-stewardess mistress sounds impatient and angry. I pull myself together and assure her of my intention to fully concentrate on the task in mouth – despite the distractions of her long, shapely, nylon-stockinged legs towering above me; despite the sounds and smells of her self-indulgent crisp eating; and despite the perpetual little creases and folds in her stockings around her prominent, but shapely, African ankle bones:

‘Yes, air-stewardess mistress. As you command, most respected air-stewardess mistress. This slave obeys the mistress, and licks clean the side of her shoe!’

As I lick, I find it helpful to think of all the places this air-stewardess’s shoes may have been. Who knows where she may have just flown in from, and where that shoe-mud originated? It might be somewhere quite exotic – perhaps in Africa itself. I might be swallowing pure, African mud from this pure, African air-stewardess’s scuff-marked, navy-blue court shoes! What an honour and a privilege she is bestowing upon me!

I therefore lick hard, long and deep along the leather crevices of the lower instep on her right shoe, where she had pointed to. Meanwhile, the African air-stewardess goddess-mistress tilts back her pretty, African head, opens her pretty African mouth, and pours the remaining contents of the bag down into her throat so that she may swallow every last broken piece of crisp from the very bottom of the rustling packet.

When she has thoroughly, and selfishly, emptied the packet into her gullet, she scrunches up the empty bag, throws it thoughtlessly down on the ground beside me, audibly licks her lips, and gently belches. Her strongly-flavoured crisps are clearly repeating on her, and I can now smell them on her belched-out breath!

I too, meanwhile, am licking my lips - lips festooned with African street-mud direct from an African girl’s high-flying shoes! But I do so quietly, and without belching, for I am a polite footslave. And whilst a mistress is entitled to be rude and ill-mannered, a male slave must always mind his manners, especially when in the company of a superior female!

The now fully-sated African air-stewardess mistress, whilst she picks at her teeth with her greasy fingernails, suddenly kicks me in the face with the scuff-marked, rounded toe of her left, court shoe:

‘Now do the other one, slave.’

‘Yes, mistress. At once, air-stewardess mistress.’

I would have liked to have spent some more time on the black goddess’s right shoe - to really go to town with my tongue on those stubborn scuff marks on the toes and heels of her right, court shoe. But the young lady is clearly impatient for me to get on with her second shoe. Perhaps she has another flight to catch? Or perhaps she just wishes to go for a drink in order to wash down her recent snack of strongly-flavoured crisps?

She can do what she likes, for she is a free, young woman, and she next does what I can only dream of doing – she sucks the remaining crisp-grease and flavour off her black fingers. She is cleaning herself whilst I clean her shoeleather.

Again, she belches – only louder this time. Still a delicate, feminine belch, but I can most humiliatingly smell it on her breath. She runs her tongue over her teeth to remove some stubborn traces of wet crisps, whilst I run my tongue over the toe and instep of her left, court shoe in order to remove some stubborn traces of wet, African mud.

She seems more relaxed now – enjoying her public power over me. She knows that free, male passers-by are admiring her long legs below her uniform skirt. She knows she is a superior goddess who turns freemale heads, and that my humble licking of her dirty, airline-uniform shoes is only serving to enhance her goddesshood in the eyes of the world.

She is therefore content to give my tongue a full five minutes on her left, navy-blue shoe, before she leans down to inspect it, her breath still smelling of crisps, and then steps off my shoelick-stand in order to resume her journey.

She says nothing to me as she departs from my public shoelick-stand, pulling her wheeled crew-bag behind her, but I feel it is only right and proper that, for my humble part, I should wish her a safe onward journey:

‘Oh pray, mistress, thank you for your custom, mistress. God bless you air-stewardess mistress! Pray visit me again, most respected and superior mistress. It is truly an honour to serve the beautiful mistress and her shoes!’

The snooty, black, air-stewardess mistress doesn’t care. She’s taken off. Only her discarded crisp packet remains on the ground beside me as a reminder of her superior presence, but that too soon flies away with the wind.

Left kneeling on the ground, I must endeavour to retain the taste of her superior, African shoemud inside my mouth – at least I have that as a humble souvenir of her long-legged, high-flying presence!


Fable no. 18 – The Neck-Me-Down

I am kneeling on the floor at my feisty new mistress’s feet listening to the traditional mistress/slave introductory pep-talk as to her expectations and requirements of me.

I like to think that I am an experienced footslave, having been a slave all my adult life and now being in my mid fifties. However my new mistress, even though she is only in her early thirties, sounds like she is equally an experienced and self-confident mistress, despite being unemployed and having to use State vouchers to purchase me!

Poverty-stricken or not, she certainly knows her own mind, and that, combined with the fact that she is a pretty, petitely-built, brunette, has already enamoured me towards her. I think we are going to get along just fine.

Her name is Janette – mistress Janette to me. She hasn’t yet given me my new slave-name.

But for the moment she is focussed on explaining exactly how she expects me to behave in her superior, female presence:

‘Slave, I want you to kneel and stare at my socks all the time – unless my socks are hidden inside my boots or beneath my trouser-legs, in which case you may constantly stare at the sides of my boots or shoes instead.’

‘Yes, mistress Janette. As it pleases you, mistress Janette.’

This stipulation should be no problem for me; it’s standard stuff for a personal footslave since we are, in effect, nothing more than status symbols for our mistresses, humbly demonstrating to the rest of the female world around us our inferior-male respect and admiration for the superior-female by staring dutifully and respectfully at our owner-mistress’s feet and footwear.

And it will be a pleasure for me to do so, for my new mistress Janette has very pretty and shapely, socked anklebones. Today she is wearing a fetching pair of bright blue towelling socks which help to fill out her ankles in a most appealing way, and shiny, black plastic, flat-heeled, round-toed, slip-on shoes – shoes which allow for an unimpeded view of the uppers of her bright blue ankle socks, beneath the slightly frayed hems of her navy-blue denim jeans, as she is seated in her living-room chair above me.

‘Make sure that you focus in on the individual stitches of my socks, and any creases or wrinkles in the sock material, whilst you are staring at them and admiring them, and don’t forget to think about why you are having to kneel and stare at my socks – it’s because I am better than you and own you.’

‘Yes, mistress Janette. As it pleases you, mistress Janette.’

Again, I have no problem with this. I fully accept that I am fit only to look my new, female owner in the pretty, blue towelling-sock – even though the rest of her is equally pretty to look at.

‘Having said that, I don’t want you touching my socks with your mouth or lips whilst I am wearing them. My feet are incredibly sensitive and ticklish, so whenever I order you to kiss my feet I mean for you to kiss my shoes or boots on the toe-area. Comprenez?’

‘Yes, mistress. Of course, mistress. As it pleases the superior mistress.’

I am slightly disappointed by this latest stipulation since the soft, fluffy stitching of my new mistress’s rather ropey-looking towelling socks looks incredibly inviting. Still, the smooth, black shiny plastic of her shoes looks – and smells – equally inviting to the footslave-lip. I can’t wait to apply my first respectful kiss to the slightly scuff-marked, rounded toes of her cheap, black shoes.

‘Ha! Ha! I’ve got a present for you, slave, to help you concentrate obediently on my socks and shoes. Wait here!’

And with that my pretty, brunette mistress with her pretty, blue towelling socks and pretty, black slip-on shoes temporarily disappears from my kneeling, footslave-view as she exits the room in order to fetch my ‘present’.

This sounds ominous. I wonder what she could be referring to? A ‘concentrator’ device perhaps – which is a microchip that can be inserted into the footslave’s brain and enhances his senses of sight, taste, smell and touch, though only when he is close to a master-chip fitted into his mistress’s ankle (we slaves all dread these devices as, reportedly, when the slave isn’t near his mistress’s feet, or even if he just allows his mind to wander away from his mistress’s shoes and socks, the concentrator device is designed to punish him with a splitting headache strong enough to make him feel ill!).

Mercifully, I have never yet had a mistress who used one of these cruel concentrator-devices on me, and I somehow get the impression that my new mistress Janette could not afford one. We know she's on benefits, and even her shoes and socks look quite scruffy and cheap – the shoes and socks of a young woman reliant on Female-State handouts; not the shoes and socks of a wealthy businesswoman who could possibly afford a very expensive, state-of-the-art concentrator device!

So perhaps she is merely referring to her female whip – that would most certainly help me to ‘concentrate obediently on her socks and shoes’; and, being on benefits, my mistress Janette will have been sure to have received a State whip free of charge from the Female Authorities for the purposes of disciplining her newly-acquired personal footslave!

As I humbly kneel and stare at the floor recently vacated by my new mistress’s shoes and socks (missing them already), and try to imagine how adept or otherwise my petite and fragile-looking, new mistress might be at applying the female whip to a maleslave back, I am greeted by the sound of something heavy being wheeled into the room across the somewhat tatty, beige-brown carpet.

Soon all becomes clear – it is a massively heavy, wooden cangue, so heavy that it has two little wheels on castors at the bottom so that it can be pushed along the floor, rather than carried!

A cangue, in case you don’t know, is a heavy, wooden footslave-collar, a bit like a portable set of wooden stocks. It is locked around the kneeling footslave’s neck and forces him to permanently bow the neck over his mistress’s superior feet. I’ve worn cangues before, but never one this big and heavy-looking! It must have cost a fortune – God only knows how my seemingly impecunious new mistress could have afforded this!

I take a large gulp, as I know it may be the last time I can freely gulp without the constrictive, heavy wooden collar encircling my poor throat!

My new mistress laughs at my evident distress as she pushes the heavy cangue in beside my kneeling head with the scuff-marked, rounded toe of her right, plastic shoe:

‘Ha! Ha! What do you think, slave? Isn’t it brilliant?... My mum left it to me when she passed away last year, and she inherited it from her mum before that!’

Ah – it’s an ancient cangue! A hand-me-down!

More like a ‘neck-me-down’ – for there is no way I shall be able to lift my neck up off the ground with that thing attached to it!

‘Oh pray mistress!... Oh yes mistress!... It looks truly awesome, mistress!’

I didn’t know what else to say! My mistress is clearly very proud of her family heirloom!

‘Ha! Ha! Let’s put it on you, slave!’ screams my new mistress, excitedly. 'Move your head over here towards my feet.’

I am always happy to obey an order to move my head closer to a young woman’s feet, but it is with a sense of foreboding that I do so on this occasion. I realise that I may never be able to surreptitiously look up at my new mistress’s pretty face ever again!

In fact, even before it is on me, the heavy cangue is having it’s desired effect, since I am forced to position my neck in such a way that once again all I can see are my new mistress’s shiny, black plastic shoes and just a hint of her bright blue towelling socks as she manipulates the heavy, wooden collar around my neck and padlocks it.

It’s a tight fit. It’s meant to be. And immediately I can feel the whole weight of the world on my shoulders. Within seconds my shoulders are aching.

‘Ha! Ha! How does it feel on you, slave? Does it feel comfortable? Ha! Ha! Is it a nice fit? Ha! Ha!’

Of course, my mistress Janette is being sarcastic. She knows full well that such a heavy cangue-collar is far from being a comfortable fit! But that’s not to say it doesn’t fit – it is a slave-collar after all. It’s meant to be uncomfortable!

‘Oh pray mistress… gasp…gasp…if it pleases you mistress Janette… gasp…gasp… truly this slave feels humbled by the cangue…gasp…gasp... around his scrawny neck, mistress… if you would be so kind mistress... gasp...gasp…’

I am finding it hard to breathe properly with this heavy contraption around my neck – and I haven’t even tried to move it yet! It certainly is effective at doing its job of forcing me to look at my mistress’s shoes and socks, though. I must give credit where credit is due.

‘Ha! Ha!...You look funny, slave!... Ha! Ha!... Follow me to heel while I walk around the room!’

‘Yes mistress… gasp. At once mistress… gasp… gasp…’

It takes a Herculean effort for me to get the thing moving, even though it is on castors. And I’m no Hercules. More of a Spartacus. Or even a Patheticus!

The tiny wheels squeak as I push my neck along the living room carpet behind my new mistress’s cheap and shiny, black plasticky shoes.

Mistress Janette is not pleased:

‘Ha! Ha!... I’m afraid you’re going to have to be squeaky-clean if you want to serve as my personal footslave, slave-boy! Ha! Ha!…’

I don’t know which is the more humiliating – being called ‘boy’ even though I must be more than twenty years’ my mistress’s senior; or having an embarrassingly squeaky neck!

‘… Wait here again while I fetch my whip. I’ll soon whip that squeakiness out of you!’

Now my mistress’s squeaky-clean joke is not so funny! Her solution to my offensively squeaky neck appears not to be to apply some oil to the rusty castors of the ancient cangue, but to whip me across my prone and vulnerable, bare back! I won’t even be able to jerk up my poor neck in reaction to the painful blows!

I can only hope she is as rusty with the whip as the metal castors are on the bottom of my heavy cangue!



Fable no. 17 – Supercilious vs. Sadistic

Don’t get me wrong – I fully appreciate that it is an inestimable honour for me to serve at the feet and footwear of each and every superior customer-mistress who deigns to grace me with her presence by taking up her seat above me on my humble shoe-lick stall.

But as I humbly kneel and attend to the mistresses’ feet, I cannot help but compare and contrast the personalities, as well as the feet and footwear, of my various customers – and ruminate on which I prefer.

It's bad form for a slave, I know, but I’m afraid I just can’t help it – I am only sub-human after all!

Take the two mistresses whom I have just been serving one after the other – mistresses Nandita and Bernadette, two of my regulars.

Conventional footslave-wisdom would dictate that I should prefer to serve the former, mistress Nandita, for the following reasons:

1. She is beautiful and exotic – a beautiful, svelte, brown-eyed, dark-haired girl of Indian origins with a charming wheatish complexion to her soft, Asian skin. An ‘Asian babe’ is how free men might describe her – though a mere footslave like myself would, of course, have to describe her as an ‘Asian goddess’ – out of slavish respect for her superior female personage;

2. Her choice of footwear is truly mind-blowing – smart, stylish, pointy-toed, spike-heeled, black leather, zip up ankle boots with a bright pink lining inside; worn today with a breathtakingly beautiful pair of black, cotton, ankle socks, the elasticated tops of which are just visible beneath her smart, black, bootcut trouser hems as they hug the young Indian mistress’s soft, pale-brown legs just above her shapely anklebones. It is arguably the perfect boot/sock combination for a bright and intelligent, young, besuited Asian businesswoman, and I am truly mesmerized at the beautiful footwear-sights before my footslave eyes – such ultimate feminine-footwear beauty!

3. Her boots taste nice. As I dutifully tongue-shine the street grime off the mistress Nandita’s precious, spike-heeled boots I literally lap up the taste of her divine, young-womanly bootdirt. It tastes foul, of course – but in a nice way. For it is the humble fare from an Asian beauty’s officewear ankleboots – and therefore fit for a public footslave’s inferior palate. My tongue was made for these boots. Centuries of maleslave-evolution have prepared it for licking precisely this type of modern, feminine bootwear. It just feels right to be licking the dirt off such a pair of sweet, feminine boots whilst the beautiful, but delicate, Indian owner of the boots is still wearing them.

4. Mistress Nandita’s socks smell nice; somewhat tart and vinegary, but nevertheless a warm and welcoming smell. For yes – my regular Asian-goddess-visitor deigns to let me unzip her fashionable-young-businesswoman ankle boots, slide them gently and respectfully off her feet and ankles, and publicly sniff her socked feet. She does so for no other reason than to publicly demean and humiliate me – for merely sniffing her sweat-soaked, plain black bootsocks will not help to clean or freshen them up in any way. It’s a male-footslave myth that sniffing a girl’s socks helps to extract some of the sweaty aroma from them. The feminine foot-perspiration is still present in a young woman’s socks even after a slave has vigorously and enthusiastically sniffed them. However, it is such an honour to smell such an intimate female aroma – the very essence of the mistress’s biological foot-chemistry; her very exclusive and individual foot-smell, captured in the cotton fibres of her socks which have been absorbing her precious foot-perspiration inside her hot and stylish, successful-young-Asian-businesswoman ankle boots throughout the long, working day.

5. Above all, however, I should be admiring mistress Nandita the most because of her attitude towards me as I lick her boots and sniff her socks. She is supercilious and stand-offish in the extreme – the right attitude for a superior and successful, young Indian mistress to adopt towards a humble, public shoelick and sockslave who is kneeling at her feet on his low-ranking, public shoelick-stall. She is, after all, the highest of the high whilst I am the lowest of the low. She therefore does not say much to me – other than to bark down her terse orders at me in her sweet, Indian accent, and whilst I am fulfilling those orders she will be concentrating on reading her glossy fashion magazine; or checking her text messages on her mobile phone; or working on her laptop; or be engrossed in some telephone conversation with a business colleague, or even with her manly boyfriend. In short, she will be self-righteously ignoring me – and self-rightly so! For what am I? I am just a slimy slug, leaving a trail of inferior slave slime all over her nice, freshly-licked-clean, businesswoman ankle boots. I am less than the offending bootdirt I have just removed from her precious boots. Her boots are expensive, but I am worthless. Even her cheap, cotton bootsocks are worth more than me, for they cost 2 Fems a pair!

By the same token, conventional footslave-wisdom should dictate that I am much less enamoured by her successor on my footmistress-throne – mistress Bernadette from Ireland – for the following reasons:

1. She is much less ‘exotic’ and conventionally ‘beautiful’ than her Asian predecessor. She is a similar age to mistress Nandita – both superior young women are in their prime being in their early twenties – but mistress Bernadette is, I’m afraid to say, much less easy on the eye: greasy, mousy-coloured, straggly hair that looks totally unkempt; a pale, round, pockmarked face, framed with thick, round glasses; and thin, cruel lips which seem to display a permanent, cruel smile – rather like her unnaturally magnified eyes behind the thick lenses of her black-rimmed spectacles, which seem to emphasise her wide-eyed enjoyment of my degradation and humiliation at her superior, Irish feet.

2. Her choice of footwear is less appealing also – black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up, knee-high boots worn with flesh-coloured nylons beneath a somewhat frumpy-looking, knee-length, navy blue, office skirt. Sure the black leather boots look powerful and dominant on mistress Bernadette’s admittedly shapely legs as they tower above me – and there certainly is plenty of female bootleather to lick. But she loses points for wearing flesh-toned, nylon stockings inside her boots – a nice pair of black or navy-blue, knee-length, woollen bootsocks would be much better in my book, as I love to nose the top of a girl’s thick, woolly bootsocks below her bare, knobbly knees and above her upper bootrims!

3. Moreover, her boots do not taste as nice as mistress Nandita’s. The leather is noticeably rougher; courser. It’s a matter of quantity over quality. I suspect that mistress Bernadette’s knee-high boots probably cost less than mistress Nandita’s ankle-high boots. So, much as I enjoy licking all the creases and crevices in mistress Bernadette’s cheap, black bootleather – particularly around her ankles – the leather just tastes bitter. There are none of the exotic spices that I seem to be able to taste in mistress Nandita’s Indian-girl boots, or am I just imagining it?

4. Mistress Bernadette’s nylons just plain stink! The Irish mistress has incredibly sweaty feet – or perhaps it’s not so incredible when you look at her heavy, knee-length leather boots suffocating her lower legs! Whatever, when I am ordered to unzip mistress Bernadette’s boots and pull them off her feet, my kneeling nostrils are assaulted by an overpowering, pungent stink of warm, sweaty nylon that has been trapped for hours, with absolutely no means of escape, inside the superior, young Irish woman’s hot, leather boots. Even I, an experienced public footslave of many years’ servitude, am forced to baulk at the indelicate, ammonia-like stink of mistress Bernadette’s reinforced-nylon covered toes. Thank God we are out in the open, for I dread to think what it would be like to have to inhale this pungent, nylon-sweaty aroma inside an enclosed space! I can see mistress Bernadette’s purple-painted, but chipped, toenail varnish beneath the reinforced stitching of her flesh-coloured nylons. I feel a bit queasy, for you can have too much of a good thing – that good thing being a superior, young woman’s foot-stink and nylon-covered toejam.

5. And yet, despite all the above it is mistress Bernadette whom I admire and respect the most of the two mistresses! And why? Because she is a true sadist. Plain mistress Bernadette is far from being stand-offish and aloof – unlike her beauteous Asian predecessor. Mistress Bernadette palpably loves degrading and humiliating me with her boots and nylons. She is smiling evilly whilst I am grimacing helplessly at the taste of her cheap bootleather and the smell of her sweaty, nyloned toes. She has a cruel grin on her face as she leans down to observe my work at her feet through her thick, unflattering glasses. She must be immune to her own body-odour! Her breath also stinks, which makes me feel even more humble in her divine presence. But, above all, unlike her Asian-goddess antecedent, mistress Bernadette talks to me – or rather at me. She never stops talking. She directs my humble work in great detail in her thick, Irish accent – barely pausing for bad breath in between her orders! It goes something like this:

‘Ha! Ha! Lick my boots, slave; begin by sucking all the dirt and filth off the toe ends; then work your way slowly along the insteps and around the heels; make sure you lick underneath the heels as I stepped in some muck earlier on; I want to see that muck inside your mouth…now start your journey up the front and side of my boots; make sure you lick in between each crease in my bootleather... that’s it, lick out all the dirt and dust …now swallow it…now lick out the zipper; run your tongue up and down the entire zip area, and suck on the metal zip at the top; shine it up, slave…now lick beneath the rims of my boots; don’t touch my stockings; just clean my boot-rims…now work your way down the backs of my boots; make sure the backs of my boots are as shiny as the fronts; I want to be able to see them glistening in the sunlight, moron!...Ha! Ha!...How are you liking it, footslave? How do you like the flavour of my dirty boots?...Ha! Ha!...Now unzip my boots and smell my stockings; take my boots right off my feet and bury your nose in my nylon-covered toes…Ha! Ha!...That’s right, sniff up all my toe-stink; breathe it in; breathe in my stale foot-air, foot-flunkey…Ha! Ha!....Are you liking it, slave? Can you get enough of it? Would you like me to wriggle my toes to release more of my hot foot-stink up your pug-ugly nose?...Ha! Ha!...What a gobdaw! What a wooden-head!...Ha! Ha!...’

And then she spits on me – several times – her thick, salty, green mucus sliding down my face and into the corner of my mouth. I feel unworthy.

All the while she is mocking me and berating me, mistress Bernadette has a sadistic smile on her round, pockmarked, Irish face. She is enjoying every moment of my suffering and humiliation at her booted and nyloned feet. I feel used and abused – and that is precisely why I prefer serving mistress Bernadette to mistress Nandita.

I prefer the sadistic over the supercilious, for I am a submissive male, and I am programmed to enjoy being humiliated and degraded at the feet of a young woman who truly enjoys humiliating and degrading me – who, quite literally, revels in her absolute female power over me.

What the cruel and greasy mistress Bernadette lacks in physical beauty, she more than makes up for in personality. The sadist wins; the supercilious comes a close second; and the submissive slave is the only true loser – the loser at his superior young female customers’ feet!



Fable no. 16 – 3 Adults, and 1 Footrest

My Pakistani master, master Iqbal, is at the airline check-in desk checking himself and his family in for their internal flight between Barbaria, the capital of the Gynarchy, and Iris – the large, northern city named after the goddess by the same name.

They will be visiting relatives there.

The master’s family consists of his wife, madam Zaynab, and their 21 year old daughter, miss Sabah. I am currently kneeling amongst the hand luggage at miss Sabah’s feet, listening in to my superiors’ conversation at check-in above me:

‘And how many of you will be travelling today sir?’ the uniformed check-in girl is asking master Iqbal.

‘We will be being three adults and one footrest please,’ replies my master.

‘I see, and which seat will the footrest be under, sir?’

'He will be being underneath my daughter’s seat, please,’ replies the master.

Of course I will. I am, after all, miss Sabah’s personal footslave – a gift to her from her parents on the occasion of her 21st birthday some 6 months ago.

I can sense the red-uniformed, blonde-ponytailed, check-in girl leaning forwards over her desk to glance disparagingly down at me as I kneel on the floor humbly staring at the side of my young Pakistani mistress’s blue and white stripe, low-cut, lace up sneakers. The check-in girl is no doubt checking that I am not overweight, and that she does not need to charge me as excess baggage.

Fat chance – not on the meagre rations my owners feed me!

‘That’s fine, sir. Is your daughter happy to have an aisle seat in that case?’

Master Iqbal turns to his daughter:

‘Sabah darling, you will be having to have an aisle seat so that your footslave can be acting as a humble footrest beneath your feet on the plane. Is that being ok, my darling?’

My mistress Sabah’s right, sneakered foot moves ever so slightly in front of my kneeling and bowed-to-the-ground face, revealing the tiniest slither of her short, blue and white striped sneaker-sock beneath the elasticated hem of her delicate, pink silk, salwar kameez trouser leg as she responds to her father’s enquiry:

‘Yes, that will be fine thank you, father.’

She is always very respectful of her parents – my mistress Sabah – though I’m sure they’d be shocked to know that she smokes and drinks like a female trooper when she is out partying with her friends of an evening. Not that I would ever tell on her – not least because I would, no doubt, be the one to be punished in her stead! I am, effectively, miss Sabah’s personal footslave cum whipping-boy.

My mistress Sabah speaks much better English than her parents, having been born and brought up in the Gynarchy. But she still likes to display her Pakistani culture, of which she is justifiably proud, by wearing a traditional salwar kameez outfit, albeit without a headscarf, along with sneakers and socks on her pretty, westernised feet! A mixture of East and West, demonstrating both traditional respect for her elders – and a hard partying, fun-loving attitude when they aren’t around!

Needless to say, the delightful miss Sabah doesn’t respect me even though I too am her elder – by some twenty years. I don’t count, as I am just a slave – her personal, middle-aged manservant; indulging her every whim and waiting on her hand and foot.

Mainly foot!

I must admit to being quite excited today. I haven’t flown many times before – and this is my first time with my new owners – but I do know that most planes in the Gynarchy are adapted to allow human footrests on the aisle seats only. Hence the check-in girl’s polite question to my young mistress Sabah via her father.

‘OK – you are all seated in row 6,’ continues the uniformed check-in girl whose, presumably flesh-coloured, nylon-stockinged, feet and legs, sadly I cannot see as she is seated behind her high desk. ‘Your flight should be boarding at 11:55. Gate 4. Here are your boarding cards, sir. Have a pleasant flight!’

‘Thank you!’ respond my three, well-mannered Pakistani betters in unison.

And so we are off to security at the entrance to the Departure Lounge. I must crawl on my hands and knees behind my sweet mistress Sabah’s blue and white sneakers, my bare back acting as a personal ‘trolley’ for her hand luggage. It is secured to my back by means of a special strap, but my mistress must remove it from me when it is time for it to go through the X-ray machine.

Because my mistress Sabah must remove her sneakers also for the routine X-ray of passengers’ shoes, I get to see her pretty, blue and white striped ankle socks in all their glory as I crawl behind her through the passenger scanner.

As I do so, the humbling thought occurs to me that the bottom of her socks will be getting dirty and dusty on the airport floor – and contaminated by the dirt and bacteria from the soles of other peoples’ socks and bare feet.

I have no need to remove any footwear of my own since I am but a slave – and slaves only ever wear flimsy, white, slave shorts, and nothing else – other than chains and shackles on some occasions.

Today I am not shackled, but if I were, of course, my mistress would have to remove them from me before we passed through the security scanner. Mercifully, however, my sweet and kind Pakistani mistress Sabah does not tend to employ physical chains on me. She has no need to – for I am enchained to her through my respect for her superior personage and my constant fear of her leather whip.

The coiled-up whip is currently going through the baggage scanner as part of her hand luggage.

My mistress Sabah walks through, and I crawl through, the passenger scanner without it going off, so there is no need for my mistress to be frisked by the female security guards.

My mistress Sabah then retrieves her sneakers from the X-ray belt and slips them back onto her pretty, blue and white stripy, socked feet. She has no need to untie and retie the laces on her low-top sneakers in order to take them off or put them on her pretty, Pakistani feet for, like many, modern young mistresses, she likes to wear her sneakers loose. The laces, if anything, are just for show.

Pity really – for I would have liked to assist my Pakistani mistress with taking off her sneakers and then putting them back onto her dusty-socked feet again. I adore touching my mistress Sabah’s footwear with my hands, as well as respectfully kissing her shoes and socks with my lips.

Once she has reattached her hand luggage to my naked, kneeling back, she accompanies her parents into the Departure Lounge, where the whole family engage in an hour or two of some serious, duty-free shopping. Even though it’s an internal flight their boarding cards seem to entitle them to many tax-free bargains! My back is quite weighted down with extra hand luggage by the end of my Pakistani betters’ luxury shopping spree!

Furthermore, my mistress Sabah, to my enormous excitement, buys several new pairs of duty-free socks! She could do with some new pairs, if truth be told, for many of her existing socks, including the ones she has on today, are starting to look a bit worn and ropey. I happen to know, for example, that the blue and white ankle sock currently adorning her right, sneakered foot has a tiny hole on the sole – just beneath the ball of her foot. I know that because I put the socks onto her feet earlier this morning in my capacity as her personal foot-servant.

True, the holeyness of her socks matches the general tattiness of her loose-fitting sneakers – but that’s no excuse for a demure, young woman to have such holey socks, immensely exciting though holey socks can be since they reveal surreptitious little glimpses of a mistress’s bare, Pakistani footflesh!

But I digress. I kneel to heel and merely admire the backs of my mistress Sabah’s blue and white sneakers, and the tiniest glimpse of a single, blue stripe at the back of her white sock underneath the slightly twisted hem of her left, pink, semi-diaphanous, silken, salwar-kameez trouser leg as she goes about purchasing her new pairs of socks using her credit card.

I then kneel beside her feet in an airside café whilst she and her parents enjoy a well-earned, pre-flight coffee. I can only just smell the delicious, warming coffee over the pungent, musty aroma of my mistress Sabah’s blue and white leather sneakers. My face is so close to the scruffy sneakers that the smell of her well-worn sneaker-leather dominates my senses – which is exactly how it should be!

After some 90 minutes or so wandering around, and seated in, the airport departure lounge, my Pakistani superiors head down towards the departure gate.

Here too I must lie in wait for a few minutes on the floor beside my mistress Sabah’s exquisitely-tatty sneakered and socked feet before the passengers are invited by way of a tannoy announcement to board the plane.

Once on board, my mistress must detach her hand luggage from my aching back and place it into the overhead locker.

Over my head – throughout the flight – will be her feet; specifically her right foot which will be resting on my upturned, left cheek as I lie on my stomach underneath her aisle seat, with my eyes staring at her left foot as it rests directly in front of me on the floor of the plane. My mistress Sabah is seated on the right hand side of the aircraft facing the front, so my own face is looking out towards the aisle. There is nobody seated in the window seat next to her.

Just beyond my pretty Pakistani mistress’s left sneaked foot I can see her mother, Madam Zaynab’s feet, as she is seated in the other aisle seat in the same row beside her husband, my master, Iqbal, who has the window seat. It’s quite a small plane, with seemingly just 4 seats in each row. I suppose that’s because it is a relatively short, internal flight only, lasting some 2 hours or so - although my masters and betters shall be entertained with various movies of their choice showing on video screens situated in the seatbacks in front of them.

The only visual entertainment I shall be receiving during the flight is the close up view of my mistress Sabah’s left, sneakered and socked foot, with her mother’s bare, brown-sandaled foot beyond it in the distance, though I am hopeful that my mistress Sabah might possibly kick off her sneakers during the flight and reveal the whole of the side of her stripy, left sock to me.

They do say that people’s feet tend to swell inside their shoes at altitude, so my young mistress may well decide to remove her sneakers in order to make her feet more comfortable.

I live in hope!

The sneakers stay well and truly on, however, during take off. Sneakers on a plane!

I can sense from the various little movements in my mistress Sabah’s feet above and beside my face that she is adjusting herself in her seat as the plane climbs towards its cruising altitude, and is inserting her personal earphones in order to watch and listen to her chosen film.

As a result of her movement above me I get to see several tiny little creases and folds coming and going in the side of her left, blue and white striped, sneaker sock, beneath the flapping hem of her diaphanous, pink, salwar kameez trouser leg. Very exciting – for a footslave!

I do like my Pakistani mistress’s short, blue and white socks – holey or otherwise. They are very modern in style and just about cover the lower half of my mistress Sabah’s jutting, brown anklebone. As a result, the elasticated line of stitching at the top of the mainly white sock, which contains a fetching, thin blue stripe through the middle, is stretched out over her anklebone, thereby allowing me to observe, and even count, the individual little stitches in the soft material of the cotton sock.

I am particularly enamoured by a single, tiny, loose, white stitch at the very top of her sock which is jutting out against her bare, brown, Pakistani ankleflesh. I can also see, and admire, a tiny yellowish stain on the side of my mistress’s white sock which is partially hidden by the upper rim of her sneaker.

Speaking of which, below the sock line I can observe multitudinous little creases in the very texture of my mistress Sabah’s blue and white, leather sneaker, along with several areas of ingrained street-dirt. As I said before, my mistress’s blue and white sneakers are quite fashionably scruffy and flaky, being so well-worn, and they are her sneakers of choice (though she does have many other pairs). Even one of the thick blue stripes down the side of her sneaker has partially flaked off!

Such tiny little imperfections in my divine mistress Sabah’s shoes and socks help to personalize them for me. I would easily be able to pick them out in a line-up, thanks to those individualistic imperfections, just as I would recognise them from the unique and personal aroma of my young, Pakistani mistress’s feet.

Moreover, the close-up and intimate view of her sneakers and socks (or just her socks if she does decide to slip off her sneakers in flight) will provide me with more than enough footslave-entertainment throughout the journey!

Not that there isn’t plenty more I could look at if I wished to. There are Madam Zaynab’s strappy-brown-sandaled, Pakistani feet just a metre or so away on the other side of the aisle, for example; and the bright red court shoes and flesh-coloured nylons of the stewardesses as they walk up and down the aisle going about their business.

Madam Zaynab, like her daughter, has divine feet. I am often obliged to kiss them – out of respect for my mistress’s mother.

Madam Zaynab is in her mid forties, and slightly podgy, and so her feet are podgy to match. But they are very soft and lovely, and have their own distinctive odour linked to her personal body chemistry. I also like the way she paints her toenails bright purple. Madam Zaynab nearly always seems to wear open-toed sandals on bare feet – except in the winter time when she wears black ankle socks with her open-toed sandals! So her feet are normally pedicured – being on display to all and sundry for most of the year.

I’m delighted to say that it is one of my daily chores to paint Madam Zaynab’s toenails. Her daughter kindly loans me to her for this very purpose.

I only wish my own mistress Sabah was in the habit of painting her toenails, but being a sneakers and socks girl, she rarely bothers. I know for a fact, for example, that her Pakistani toenails are unpainted inside her blue and white stripy socks right now.

I know that because I had to suck clean my mistress Sabah’s toes first thing this morning, before I put her socks onto her precious, Pakistani feet. She didn’t have time to shower this morning.

Whilst I am ruminating on all this my mistress Sabah suddenly does slip off her loose-fitting, lace-up sneakers and rests her socked feet on my upturned cheek and in front of my face respectively. It is everything I had hoped for! Her feet are already starting to swell and she is making herself more comfortable!

She pushes her scruffy, blue and white sneakers underneath the seat in front of her, and settles back into her own seat. Now I can see the whole of her left, blue and white stripy sock! I can now see, for example, the whole of that ingrained, yellowy sweat stain on the side of her sock. I can also admire the way some of the thin, blue stripes on her otherwise white ankle sock are becoming smudged and worn away in places thanks to the feminine foot-perspiration generated by repeated wear.

The feel of a tiny part of my Pakistani mistress’s bare foot resting on my upturned cheek through the hole in the bottom of her right sock, meanwhile, reminds me that these are indeed a favourite and well-worn pair of young womanly socks.

I wonder if my mistress is by the same token conscious of the feel of my bare-faced cheek on the bottom of her right foot, or is she too engrossed in watching her movie to notice that?

The stewardesses are starting to serve the in-flight meals, and as the red-skirted stewardess halts the trolley next to my Pakistani masters’ row of seats I get a clear view of the pretty, brunette-haired stewardess’s flesh-toned nylon stockings inside her smart, shiny-red, leather, court shoes with one inch heels.

The nylon stockings are quite sheer, and I can only tell she is wearing nylon stockings thanks to the movement of one or two tiny little creases around the air-stewardess’s shapely anklebones as she reaches over to serve drinks to my Pakistani betters seated above me.

Also, I can observe a tiny ladder in the stocking over her left anklebone.

How I would love to respectfully kiss that tiny ladder in the pretty air-stewardess’s left stocking. To feel her prominent anklebone on my lips beneath the fine nylon mesh. My own mistress Sabah rarely wears nylons – and even then they tend to be dark-coloured nylon popsocks, to match her brown leg-skin.

White-flesh-coloured nylons are therefore something of a novelty for me, and I am pathetically transfixed by them as the stewardess serves my mistress Sabah sitting above me in her blue and white socks.

Needless to say, the stewardess offers me no refreshments. I am just a human footrest - a thing lying underneath her Pakistani customer’s feet that she must carefully manoeuvre her drinks trolley past – not because she is worried about damaging my face, but because she doesn’t want to damage the base of the trolley.

All too soon the brunette stewardess-mistress with the slightly laddered left stocking has moved on to the next row of seats, and her red, court, uniform shoes and flesh-coloured nylons have moved beyond my restricted field of vision.

My mistress Sabah’s socked left, foot brushes against my nose almost as if to remind me of my duty to focus on it, for it is the socked foot of the mistress to whom I am in personal bondage. I am her slave, not the stewardess’s!

The only other exciting event to take place during the flight is when my mistress Sabah slips her sneakers back onto her feet in order to visit the on board restroom . Normally I would expect to have to accompany my mistress into a restroom, but on a plane it just isn’t practical. And so, momentarily, I am left without the comforting sight and feel of my mistress Sabah’s socked feet, and must instead look directly at Madam Zaynab’s podgy, pedicured feet across the aisle.

I notice that she too has kicked off her sandals and is continuously flexing her plump, purple-painted toes - purple to match her sari. She appears to be reading a magazine rather than watching a movie. Her subconsciously flexing toes now dominate my consciousness for the next few minutes until her daughter, miss Sabah, returns and once again slides off her sneakers prior to settling down into her airline seat and plonking, rather heavily it must be said, her swollen-ankled, right, socked foot back onto my still dutifully upturned left cheek.

She chats in Urdu to her mother for a few minutes before putting her earphones back on.

You will have noticed that my mistress Sabah has not said a single word to me throughout the journey. She has no need to. For, as I indicated before, I am just a thing; an object. I am just her footrest.

As master Iqbal had so succinctly put it at check-in – three adults, and one footrest.



Fable no. 15 – No Lo Entiendo, Señora

Don’t get me wrong! I do love being a humble, public footslave in the central town square. I get to serve the feet and footwear of so many beautiful young women from all over the world – tourists; foreign students; refugees etc.

But it can be a bit of a pain if they don’t speak English – for I am so dumb I cannot speak anything other than English, or, at least, the slave-speak version of it!

Why is it a pain? Well, take this morning for example:

I recognized straightaway that the delightfully olive-skinned young woman who was heading towards my ‘sit-down’ shoelick stand was Hispanic from the moment I set eyes on her – or at least I knew that she was ‘Mediterranean’; dark, shoulder-length hair; dark eyes; slim and attractive figure.

She was wearing a pink, sleeveless blouse; stonewashed, blue denim jeans turned up at the calves; and a pair of black and white, low-cut, lace-up converse sneakers with short, below-the-ankle, plain white sneaker-socks.

Even from a distance, however, I detected a certain greyness and grubbiness about the nominally white socks – but that was okay, since the grubbiness of the socks matched the grubbiness of her well-worn, black and white canvas sneakers.

She looked confident in herself as she marched right up to my shoelick booth and took up her seat of female power in front of me – her sneakered, Spanish feet resting on the two metal footrests directly in front of my humbly kneeling face.

Yes – grubby is the best word I can think of to describe this particular pair of Latina sneakers and socks; grubby, but nice! Indeed, the greyish-white of her socks contrasted sweetly with the tanned flesh of her shapely, young-womanly, Hispanic anklebones.

I was looking forward to receiving my orders from the superior young tourist-woman – until, that is, she actually spoke:

- Besa mis calcetines, esclavo.

I remained staring at her socks and shoes – like a dumb animal. For I hadn’t a clue what the young woman was saying!

This made her visibly angry:

- ¡BESA MIS CALCETINES, ESCLAVO SUCIO!

She was shouting now, but there was little point in the mistress raising her sweet, feminine voice, for I still hadn’t got a clue what she was trying to say!

I was literally dumbfounded, and I’m afraid I just froze. I didn’t know what to do!

The impatient young woman now took full command of the situation and bent down in order to slap me hard across my right cheek with the olive-skinned palm of her right hand:

- ¡Dije, besa las copas de los calcetines, esclavo sucio! ¿Entiendo?

This was getting worse! She was using even more strange words now, and I still hadn’t a clue what she wanted me to do!

Even though I’m totally thick, I made an educated guess. She had, after all, chosen to sit down at a public shoelick-stand.

Spurred on by the stinging pain in my right cheek, I therefore began licking clean the grubby and weathered, white rubbery toe-end of her right, canvas sneaker.

The young woman nearly exploded with rage:

- ¡IDIOTO!.. ¡IMBECILO!

Even I knew what those two words meant, but just in case I was in any doubt the fiery-tempered, Latina mistress promptly grabbed me by the hair and gave me two more hard, stinging slaps across both sides of my gormless slave-face.

What’s the Spanish for ‘mercy, mistress’? ‘Pitio’?

I was actually about to scream for ‘pitio’ when the young woman roughly forced my lips onto the horizontal line of elasticated, ribbed stitching at the very top of her grubby, white ankle sock on her shapely right foot:

- ¡BESA... LAS... COPAS... DE... MIS... CALCETINES... ESCLAVO... ESTÚPIDO! - she barks down at me, speaking deliberately slowly in order to get her orders through to my thick slaveman-skull.

Oh – now I understand! The young Mediterranean mistress wishes me to kiss the tops of her socks! Well, why didn’t she say so in the first place?!

Of course, that’s precisely what she had been saying.

I really am an ‘idioto’ and deserve to be in pain as I am right now, my cheek still reeling from the sharp slaps the young, Hispanic lady has so deftly delivered to my rosy red cheeks.

At least she is now getting what she wants, even through she has had to beat it out of me. She is having her grubby, white sneaker socks kissed and worshipped by the public footslave, and all is now well with the world.

She sits back in the raised chair again and relaxes in the sunlight as the ‘ESCLAVO-ESTÚPIDO’ finally attends to her dirty, white ankle socks.

- Recuerden, yo soy tu mejor, esclavo. ¿Entendido?

Oh no – the mistress is still talking to me! What do I say?

From somewhere deep in my consciousness a phrase comes to my weak and feeble footslave mind:

- Sí señora.

- ¡Bah! - she responds, but I must have said something right, for she doesn’t beat me again.

I continue to kiss Spanish-girl white sock – the impure, white socks of my hispanic mistress and better.

I think that, at last, we are starting to understand one another!


Fable no. 14 – The Sock-Slug

The petite, Indian girl goddess-mistress Nusrat; the Goth-girl goddess-mistress Janine; the blonde, pregnant girl goddess-mistress Marion; and the tall, black girl goddess-mistress Sapphire – four of the office juniors – were all sitting around chit-chatting about their individual sockwear preferences.

Slave Slug – the office footslave – was kneeling amongst them with his head humbly bowed, as was his wont, earwigging in on their superior, female conversation.

‘Oh I am very much liking your socks, Janine!’ exclaimed the Indian-girl goddess-mistress, miss Nusrat.

She took the words right out of slave Slug’s slimy mouth, for he too was very much enamoured by Goth goddess-mistress Janine’s beautiful socks, though he was attracted by them from a lowly, insectoid point of view rather than the high-fashion viewpoint that goddess-mistress Nusrat was approaching them from.

Whichever way you looked at them, however, goddess-mistress Janine’s socks were truly magnificent – basically pink, ankle-length socks but covered in a distinctive and classy, white flower motif that just set them apart from all other girly-pink socks you may have seen. Moreover, the sweet, feminine anklesocks sat nicely on the brunette and nose-pierced goddess-mistress Janine’s slightly podgy feet and ankles inside her black leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up, up-to-the-ankle-length booties, and beneath the hems of her plain black, officewear, bootcut slacks.

All four girls were seated on their office swivel chairs, and all four had one foot resting on the metal base of their respective chair whilst their right leg was crossed over their left, leaving their right feet hovering tantalisingly in the air beside the kneeling footslug’s humbly-bowed face.

Slave Slug was glad that each of the superior office goddess-mistress juniors was so seated, as it meant he could get a good view of their respective socks inside their outer footwear as they girlishly discussed them.

And, like the observant goddess-mistress Nusrat, slave Slug had instantly clocked goddess-mistress Janine’s attractively patterned pink and white flowery socks on her chubby, white anklebones inside her pretty, black leather ankle-booties.

He wanted to smell the white lilies that adorned goddess-mistress Janine’s otherwise pink anklesocks – even though, or perhaps precisely because, he knew they would not smell as sweet and as fresh as the lilies of the field, but would instead contain the intimate fragrance of goddess-mistress Janine’s warm, young-womanly footflesh.

Not that goddess-mistress Janine had particularly smelly feet, as far as he knew. And he would know, since he spent several minutes every day attending to goddess-mistress Janine’s Gothic feet and footwear every day in his capacity as the humble office-footslug. But they were, when all is said and done, socks on a Goth girl’s living, breathing feet inside her hot, leather booties. They must, therefore, have a fragrance of sweet, feminine foot odour to some extent, surely?

Sadly however, slave Slug could not get close enough to sniff them properly. He had not been given permission to sniff goddess-mistress Janine’s decorative socks today – at least, not yet. He would have to live in hope that the superior, female wearer of the pretty, pink and white socks would require him to attend to them later whilst she eventually did some work – perhaps ordering him to straighten them with his slug-like mouth, or to nuzzle them like an affectionate pet-slug, for only then would he get the opportunity to sniff dainty, pink and white, flowery girlsock!

Meanwhile, the female conversation continued above him, quite literally going over his stupid, sluggish head. Miss Janine was thanking her friend Nusrat for the sock-compliment:

‘Oh, thanks Nusrat! I’m not sure that Danielle would approve of them, though! Ha! Ha! I had no choice but to wear them today since they were the only clean pair I had left in my sock-drawer! Ha! Ha!’

Danielle – or ‘Supreme Goddess-Mistress Danielle’ as slave Slug was obliged to address her – was the four office-girls’ immediate superior. She might not ‘approve’ of junior goddess-mistress Janine’s delightful pink and white flowery socks because the office dress code stipulates that only plain, dark coloured socks or tights should be worn by the ladies to work. Light-hearted, pink and white, flowery socks didn’t really fit in with the company’s more serious, corporate image!

But, what the heck! They didn’t exactly chime all that well with mistress Janine’s Goth image either! And besides, Janine had reckoned that 99.9% of the time her unconventional, pink and white office socks would be safely hidden inside her black booties beneath the hems of her black, bootcut slacks – so, quite frankly, my dear, she didn’t give a damn!

All slave Slug could think about was how much he would love to volunteer to mouth and then hand-wash all of goddess-mistress Janine’s dirty socks if only she would take him home with her! He would willingly be her permanent, personal sockslave, and would ensure his sockmistress’s sock-drawer never again ran out of clean, fresh socks for her to wear!

‘Well, I think they look cool, man!’ opined the tall, African-Caribbean goddess-mistress, goddess-mistress Sapphire, sitting immediately to his right.

‘Me too!’ chirped in the pregnant, blonde goddess-mistress, goddess-mistress Marion, sitting immediately to his left.

Slave Slug was kneeling in boot, shoe and sock heaven and hardly knew where to look as his four female superiors engaged in their girly conversation above him about the subject that interested him most in life also - their sweet socks. But he hardly knew where to turn his slug-like tentacles!

He decided, therefore, that from now on he would simply concentrate on the feet and footwear of whichever goddess-mistress was currently speaking.

‘Aw, thanks girls! I’m glad you all like them. I picked them up in the 1 Fem shop a couple of weeks ago – two pairs for one Fem! Can you believe it?’

‘Bargain!’ exclaimed goddess-mistress Marion. 'I might have to go and get a couple of pairs myself!...’

Slave Slug was just as surprised at how cheap goddess-mistress Janine’s pink and white flowery ankle socks were. They looked so classy! It must be the wearer who makes them look classy!

Equally, he couldn’t imagine the much less ‘classy’, fat, pregnant, blonde-haired goddess-mistress Marion in such brightly coloured socks. She may have been blonde, but she was far from being bubbly. Thick – yes; morose – yes; but classy – no!

In fact, he had only ever seen goddess-mistress Marion wearing boring, regulation, black, office ankle-socks – but then, he had only ever encountered goddess-mistress Marion in the office; who knows what she gets up to in her free time? Maybe there is a fancy-sock-loving girl just bursting to get out of that rather staid, and now pregnant, exterior! Come to think of it, he didn’t really know goddess-mistress Marion – or any of her co-workers – at all. He was just their office sock-slug!

Since goddess-mistress Marion had been the last to speak slave Slug put his pathetic plan of action into effect, and dutifully concentrated his slavish attention on her feet and footwear. As per usual, she was indeed wearing her black, office ballet flats with the little black leather bows on the fronts, and her equally predictable black ankle socks covering her fat, swollen ankles.

This particular pair of blonde-girl, black ankle socks looked thick (to match her personality) – like thick, fuzzy, towelling socks. But it wasn’t until goddess-mistress Marion partially slid off the back of her right ballet flat, so that the soft, leather shoe was dangling on her chubby, socked toes, that he got his biggest sock-surprise of the day:

‘…Ha! Ha! And don’t worry about the colours in your socks, Janine! Look at my sock-heels – they’re definitely non-regulation! Ha! Ha! Can you see?’

Slave Slug wasn’t sure if goddess-mistress Janine could see the now exposed heel area on the back of her colleague Marion’s black, fuzzy ankle sock – but he certainly could! And there it was in all its glory – a funky, jazzy, bright yellow zigzagged pattern around the reinforced heel area of the blonde, pregnant girl’s ostensibly plain, thick, black towelling sock!

Slave Slug was aghast! He would never have guessed it! He had always assumed up until now, whenever he had been kissing and licking superior goddess-mistress Marion’s black leather ballet flats to order – that her ankle socks, towelling or otherwise, were boring old, regulation plain-black! But no – the seemingly shallow goddess-mistress Marion was indeed a young woman with hidden depths! Her office socks contained bright yellow zigzags around the chubby and unnaturally-stretched heel-areas!

Slave Slug’s highly fickle opinions about the superior blonde goddess-mistress had to change again. She was now, in his tentacles, a beautiful ‘classy’ blonde after all – thanks to her unexpectedly jazzy socks! Pathetically, he tried to slither his slugly face over closer to the seated goddess-mistress Marion’s now exposed sock-heel so that he could, if at all possible, not just see the funky, yellow-zigzagged sockheel, but also smell it! Nose it even! He was hoping that none of the four goddess-mistresses seated around him would notice his slimy activity, since he was just an insignificant male slug beneath their superior, female feet!

And he was right! None of the girls had noticed his pathetic, sluggish attempts to sniff and nuzzle a blonde, pregnant girl’s stretched and misshapen, yellow-zigzagged sockheel.

‘Ha! Ha! Do not be letting miss Danielle see you doing that, Marion!’ laughed goddess-mistress Nusrat.

Damn! According to his own rules slave Slug now had to tear himself away from beautiful goddess-mistress Marion’s striking black and yellow socks and focus his slavish attention on the gobby, goddess-mistress Nusrat’s feet – for she was now the one who had spoken last!

Reluctantly, and somewhat sulkily, he therefore pulled his mesmerized sluggy-eyes away from goddess-mistress Marion’s sock-exhibitionism and focussed in on the admittedly delightful, black calf-length leather boots and cream-coloured, calf-length bootsocks of the petite Indian-girl, goddess-mistress Nusrat.

Slave Slug was already very familiar with goddess-mistress Nusrat’s boots and socks. Unlike the seemingly plain black socks of goddess-mistress Marion, goddess-mistress Nusrat’s familiar cream-coloured bootsocks would hold no hidden surprises for slave Slug – for his upturned, spongiform face spent literally hours every working day acting as a footrest for goddess-mistress Nusrat’s cream-socked feet.

The petite, Indian office-girl liked nothing more than to kick off her heavy, biker-style, calf length boots, which she wore in a deliberate attempt to make her fragile and skinny legs and ankles look more strong and powerful, and to rest her weary (and invariably sweaty) cream-bootsocked feet on slave Slug’s upturned and helpless face. Slave Slug therefore knew each and every nook and cranny of the Indian girl’s cream-coloured bootsocks – or at least every nook and cranny on the bottoms of her socks!

He knew, for example, exactly where the ingrained, yellowy-brown, sweat stains on the soles of the Indian girl’s socks were located; where the cotton material of the socks was beginning to wear away and thin; where the creamy socks would be most likely to crease and fold whilst the Indian goddess-mistress subconsciously rubbed her sweaty-socked feet all over his sluggish, upturned face whilst she was nattering away to her boyfriend on the telephone above him.

But until now there was one thing slave Slug had not remarked about sweet and kind, Indian goddess-mistress Nusrat’s socks. It was actually goddess-mistress Marion who inadvertently drew his attention to the matter:

‘Ha! Ha! You can talk, Nusrat. Your socks are hardly regulation black or navy blue! Ha! Ha! What do you think Danielle would have to say about your cream-coloured socks!’

Slave Slug was glad of the opportunity to study goddess-mistress Marion’s ballet-flated and socked feet once more –although sadly she had by now slipped her right ballet flat back onto her black towelling-socked foot, hiding once again the rebellious and non-conformist streak of bright yellow, zig-zaggy heel!

All four girls laughed as Nusrat tried to defend her choice of sockwear!

‘Ha! Ha! Well, miss Danielle has never been saying anything to me – and besides, if the office is being wanting me to be wearing dark-coloured socks they will be having to supply me with them, isn’t it? I am only having cream and white coloured socks at home!’

‘Aw! Shame! Poor Nusrat!’ exclaimed goddess-mistress Sapphire in playful sympathy.

Goddess-mistress Sapphire was a stunningly attractive, leggy black girl. She certainly would have plenty of pairs of socks in her wardrobe to choose from, thought slave Slug to himself as he once again switched his attention to the feet and footwear of the last, female speaker.

This time his tentacle-like eyes were regaled by the sight of a stylish pair of spike-heeled, pointy-toed, black patent leather, zip-up, knee high boots, with the fetchingly scrunched-up tops of a pair of dark grey, knee-length, woolly bootsocks just covering the tops of the black goddess’s shapely shins and calf muscles below her pretty, black kneecaps. Goddess-mistress Sapphire was the only office girl wearing a skirt today – and a very pretty, dark navy blue, knee length skirt it was too!

How slave Slug longed to slime his nose down one of the thick tracks of stitching on the front of goddess-mistress Sapphire’s knee-high bootsock – all the way down the dark grey sock inside the boot; whilst she was still wearing it. For slave Slug simply adored the smell of goddess-mistress Sapphire’s knee-length bootleather – and the thought of being able to smell her expensive bootleather on the warm, cotton material of her thick, grey, woolly bootsock filled him with a sense of sock and awe!

Oh if only he was a real slug – small enough to slither down the stitching of the young black woman’s sock inside her stylish, high-heeled boot! It wouldn’t matter if her woolly-socked calf-muscle eventually crushed him like an insect inside her boot. He would die a happy slug – on her sock!

But, yet again, it wasn’t to be. None of the four goddess-mistresses who surrounded him was seemingly inclined to make use of his slug-like services at the moment. Indeed, they were barely aware of his presence in their superior, female midst. Nor should anyone labour under the illusion that their sexy sock-talk was in any way for slave Slug’s benefit – designed to arouse him; or tease him!

They were just four, everyday office girls discussing their various tastes in socks – and fortunately for him slave Slug had now acquired a footslavish taste for them all; be they pink and white; cream coloured; black and yellow surprise; dark grey; cotton or wool; ankle, calf or knee-length.

He respected and admired them all! For he was nothing but an invertebrate sock-slug; humbly kneeling and admiring the socks of his female betters whilst they chatted happily to one another above him – the spineless, bug-eyed, earwigging, socksniffing slimeball!



Fable no. 13 – Spats

One of the things I love about being a public footslave in the busy, town square is that, no matter how long you have been engaged in such humble, public servitude (and I have been deployed as a public footslave in this very same spot for over 25 years) you can always guarantee that each and every day – indeed each and every customer-mistress – will bring new experiences into your humble public life.

Take this morning, for example. This morning I had the honour and privilege of serving a trendy, young, arrogant, blonde-haired woman of about 20 who was wearing old-fashioned spats! Or – more accurately– highly-fashionable-looking, black, felt spats with a cute row of round, pink buttons running down the sides, over an equally fashion-conscious pair of grey and black patterned, woolly tights and expensive-looking round-toed, black patent leather court shoes.

I can honestly say that I have never served a girl wearing spats before – legwarmers, yes! But never spats! I had thought they went out of fashion many years ago, but evidently not – for this fashionable, young lady was certainly very ‘modern’ both in her demeanour and in her young-womanly arrogance towards her dirty, public foot-servant:

‘Lick all that muck off the side of my spats, footlick, and be quick about it, yeah? I has got an appointment wit' my hairdresser in 15 minutes, innit?’ she spat down at me as she took up her seat above my kneeling frame and rested her feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my curious face.

My stupid slave-face was curious because, firstly, she sounded like an African-Caribbean girl, even though she was white; and secondly because I had never tasted felt spat-material before. I was therefore curious to know whether it would taste, or feel, any different on my tongue to a pair of ladies’ felt boots – of which I have tasted quite a few delicious pairs in my time.

The street-wise, young woman therefore had no need to shout down at me, as my tongue was eager to make contact with her dirty and unusual spats:

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress! This public slave obeys the mistress!’

I got straight down to work on her right spat. It ‘felt’ ticklish on the tongue! But the mud, disappointingly, tasted just as ladies’ boot and shoe mud always tastes – bitter and foul. Still, better that the offending mud is in my mouth than sullying a style-conscious and impatient, young blonde woman’s felt spats as she prepares for her all-important hairdressing appointment!

I suppose the spats had done their job of protecting the young woman’s woolly-tighted ankles and insteps from whatever mud and dirt she had been walking through. In a way I was quite frustrated by this, for I would have dearly loved to suck the street-mud out of her black-and-grey-patterned, woolly tights as well! The tights looked so stylish and individualistic, rather like the spats, and the ankle-length, felt foot-coverings could not hide the attractiveness of the young, blonde woman’s delightfully-shaped anklebones and lower calf muscles.

But her woolly tights, sadly, did not need tongue-cleaning – just her spats. So I dutifully, and respectfully, applied my spit to her spats by licking away the muddy traces which were clearly occupying the perfect, young, blonde woman’s perfectionist mind!

The only really tricky bits were the pale pink buttons down the sides of the spats. I had to be careful not to inadvertently undo the buttons with my tongue as it delved beneath them in order to seek out any hidden splashes of offending mud. But I was helped by the fact that the young customer-mistress kept her feet perfectly still on the footrests, and graciously avoided any disruptive flexing of her sweet, feminine foot-muscles.

The thought occurred to me that even if she had, subconsciously, flexed her foot-muscles I wouldn’t have been able to observe any fetching little creases and folds in her patterned, black and grey, woolly tights around her anklebones because of these damned spats!

I was beginning to develop a love/hate relationship with spats. What if they caught on? Would I never get to see young women’s ankle socks or tights-covered anklebones ever again? What a tragedy that would be!

But, as I licked underneath pink button, I decided to pull myself together and button my lip – for these spats were the chosen, outer footwear of a superior, young woman, and were therefore worthy of my sincere, footslavish admiration and respect, however much they hid other intriguing aspects of this dominant, young woman’s superior feet and footwear!

Speaking of which – her shoes! Her black patent leather court shoes, I now noticed, could do with a good lick and a shine! The spats had not protected them (especially the lower parts) from being spattered with shine-inhibiting mud! But I had not yet been given the young woman’s permission to lick-shine her black, patent leather, court shoes!

I was, therefore, in a bit of a quandary – a muddy quandary. Should I say something once I had cleaned up the young lady’s spats? Offer to quickly shine-up the seemingly petulant young woman’s court shoes as well? Or would that only lead to an unfortunate spat between mistress and footslave, since she is clearly in a hurry to get to the hairdressers?

In the end, my footslave-conscience just would not permit me to let a young lady walk away from my public shoelick-stand with dirty shoes. I therefore felt compelled to speak up:

‘Oh pray, sweet and kind young mistress, if it pleases you most beautiful and respected young mistress, would the mistress like the slave to remove the mud from her pretty, black shoes also, if you will forgive this humble slave’s impertinence all-powerful young mistress?’

Big mistake! The blonde customer-mistress was in no mood either to have her footwear criticised, or to be dictated to by a down-in-the-dirt, muddy-mouthed footslave:

‘Tch! Is you 'fick, or somefing, slave? Didn’t you hear what I said? I is in a hurry! I has got a hairdressing appointment, innit? God, you slaves are such cretins, innit?'

And with that – you’ve guessed it – she spat on me, clearly disgusted at my inability to understand where her priorities lay. Nice hair, or clean shoes? I was clearly no competition for her beloved hairdresser!

On reflection, I don’t even think she was truly all that bothered about her muddy spats! She had just wanted an excuse to show them off; to be seen having her fashion-statement spats attended to in public. For she clearly likes to be the centre of attention, and regards herself as being at the cutting edge of things, judging by her cutting remarks.

The white, 20-somefing, black girl therefore climbed down from the shoelick-chair and rushed off, leaving the taste of her black, felt spats in my mouth and the feel of her white spit running down my suitably chided cheekbone.

I suppose you could say I had been well and truly spat upon!


Fable no. 12 – Deep Joy

My mistress Joy is a somewhat joyless mistress.

At 27 years old, she is an unusually sullen young woman. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that her only pleasure in life is dominating, humiliating and degrading her personal footslave – me.

Mistress Joy is a black woman of Caribbean origins. She still speaks with a Caribbean twang, even though she has lived in the Gynarchy all her adult life. She is physically attractive – quite short in stature, but slim, with short black, shoulder-length hair framing her pretty Caribbean face; and, more importantly from my point of view, she has a pair of shapely legs and ankles.

However, mistress Joy hides her best assets – her legs and ankles – under a bushel, so to speak. For she always wears slacks; never dresses or skirts. And underneath her flared slacks she always wears dark, nylon, knee-high trouser socks – nylons which make her pretty, Caribbean feet sweat a lot inside her equally ubiquitous and perspiratory, unflattering, flat-heeled, round-toed, black leather, slip-on shoes.

The shoes used to be glossy-black, but are now, through repeated wear and tear, matt-black, despite my very best tongue-shining efforts. However, at least the shoes hold in the piquant, sweaty aroma which they help to generate on my joyless mistress’s pretty, black-nylon-trousersocked feet throughout the working day.

It is actually only at the end of the day that I get to inhale the insides of my mistress Joy’s shoes on her sweaty and moist, nylon-popsocked feet. In fact, my humble day at her feet can be divided into three main parts: morning, noon and night.

In the morning I must dress my mistress’s relatively fresh-smelling feet. Mistress takes care of the rest of her clothing, but I must put her dark nylon trouser-socks onto her black feet and legs by carefully rolling them up in my hands, and then respectfully stretching them over her joyless, unpainted and unpedicured toenails, prior to pulling them up her shapely, brown-skinned, shin and calf muscles beneath her black, bell-bottom slacks.

Although I must pull them up as far as mistress Joy’s shapely, Caribbean knee-caps, I am not permitted to look her in the knee – or even in the shin. I must keep my slave-head low and bowed, looking only at the top of her feet as I raise the knee-high nylons above my head – a symbol of my inferiority vis-à-vis my mistress’s superior, nylon footwear.

In particular, I must focus in on, and admire, the extra-dark, reinforced nylon areas covering my mistress’s toes, heels and soles – for, as my mistress is frequently wont to remind me, it is the lower, reinforced areas of her nylons which capture most of her divine, Caribbean footsweat.

This is also the reason why, as soon as I have smoothed out any creases or folds in my mistress Joy’s now fully pulled-up nylon popsocks, I must respectfully kiss the black, reinforced toe areas of her dark nylon knee-highs, whilst only thinking about the dark, black, reinforced cuffs at the top of her popsocks, just below her kneecaps. Looking at the tops of her nylon popsocks is totally forbidden to me, as they are literally higher than me, and I am therefore unworthy to look at them – even from below.

I then must slip my mistress’s flat-heeled, slip-on, black leather shoes onto her freshly-nyloned feet. It is, sadly, the last I shall see of her dark-nyloned toes until supper time.

Throughout the day I must then follow my mistress Joy to heel – all the while admiring her joyless feet and footwear. My instructions are to admire her black shoe-leather unless a slither of dark, nylon stocking is visible beneath the bell-bottom hems of her black, office slacks – in which case I must focus in on the thin, narrow stitching of her finest-denier nylon popsocks.

I must look – but not touch, for my mistress does not deem me worthy to nose or nuzzle her nylons in public. I take great slavish pride, however, in the fact that only two people in the world, myself and my divine mistress, know for sure that she is wearing knee-highs beneath her black slacks. Others can only speculate, for she might, for all they know, be wearing full-length, nylon stockings or tights.

It is, therefore, highly privileged information – knee-highly privileged!

As the day progresses I can increasingly observe little creases and folds developing in the stitching on my mistress’s nylon popsocks beneath the flared hems of her black, office slacks, and these little signs of continuous wear remind me that her nylon-covered feet will be building up a sticky sweat inside the hot and confined space of her enclosed, black leather shoes. I am suitably humbled by that thought, for I know that, come the evening, I shall be required to act as my mistress Joy’s nylon-footsweat absorber.

I shall be required to remove her shoes from her feet, breathing in the ‘whoosh’ of warm, young-Caribbean-woman footair as the slip-on leather shoes slip and slide off her now moisturized knee-high, nylon stockings.

I shall then be ordered to lie on my back beneath her living-room sofa, face upwards. My face will then become a place of rest for my young, Caribbean mistress’s dark, reinforced-nylon soles, as it absorbs the sweet, feminine perspiration from the heavy-duty bottoms of her nylon trouser-socks. Stink will now be the order of the day, as the stink of her sweaty nylon soles is transferred onto my odour-eater face.

Soon my face will stink of Caribbean-girl sweaty nylons, as my joyless mistress joylessly rubs her moist and warm nyloned-feet up and down my footwipe-face whilst she glumly watches television.

It is an honour, of course, to have a sullen, young black woman’s nylon footsmell all over one’s footslave-face – a stinky honour!

But the greatest honour of all is reserved for the very end of the day, when I must divest my mistress of her stinky, worn nylons – rolling them gently back down her shapely, Caribbean lower legs beneath her temporarily rolled up, black, bell-bottom slacks – prior to placing them, stinky toe-ends first, into my washing-machine mouth. I must then bury my nose deep inside one of her still warm and moist, discarded leather shoes whilst I mouth-wash her sweaty, knee-high nylons.

I can now taste and breathe in the very essence of my beautiful, Caribbean mistress – her spicy, intimate footsweat, fermented by her sweet, feminine, dark-coloured nylons.

Deep Joy!



Fable no. 11 – Out of my league

There is, perhaps, nothing more humiliating – nothing more degrading – for a public footslave than having to tongue-shine the dirty boots or shoes of a regular female-customer with whom one is very much enamoured, but who only has eyes for another man – a free man. Having to listen, day after day to her spouting on about how wonderful her man is, whilst you are dutifully kneeling at her feet and tongue-shining her dirty shoes or boots!

Here is one such example of what I mean:

28 year old Mistress Diwata is a truly delightful young Filipina woman, and she has been visiting my ‘sit-down’ shoelick-stand on an almost daily basis for some 8 months now.

Like many Asian women she is petite and comely, with long, dark hair – though she often likes to tie her hair back in a fetching ponytail. She has previously informed me that she and her husband both work as cleaners – he at the airport; she in one of the local offices in the city centre near my shoelick-stand, and by all accounts (or at least by customer-mistress Diwata’s account) they both have to work very hard for a living.

But mistress Diwata always seems to manage to find the time to visit my ‘sit-down’ public shoelick-stand every morning after she finishes her nightshift. She can relax in the raised chair above me and, by way of a change, feel tall and proud, whilst I kneel humbly at her feet and tongue-shine the dirt which she has missed from the office floors off the soles and uppers of her cheap, shiny black, flat-heeled, plastic, slip-on shoes.

I also get to admire and, if appropriate, suck the dirt and dust out of the tops and the sides of her cotton socks whilst she is wearing them inside her cheap, plastic shoes – shoes which, I have no doubt, must cause her pretty, socked feet to sweat a lot, as plastic shoe tends not to allow a young woman’s feet to breathe!

Not that mistress Diwata has ever gone so far as to permit me to slip off her shoes and actually sniff the toe areas of her pretty socks.

I live in hope!

Once cleaning-mistress Diwata has settled down into the seat of power above me, her pretty, Filipina socks and shoes resting imperiously on their two respective metal footrests directly level with my kneeling face, our mistress/slave conversation of unequals will go something like this:

‘Ha! Ha! Diwata tired. Work hard all night cleaning office. Very busy. Now she relax while you clean Diwata dirty shoes. You lick dirt off superior, Filipina mistress shoes. You a slave! You clean now! Begin!’

‘Yes, mistress Diwata. At once, mistress Diwata!’

True to my word, I immediately start to lick along the lower side of mistress Diwata’s right shoe, where there are distinct traces of residual office and street dust.

She gaily mocks me from on high:

‘Ha! Ha! You like Diwata black shoe? Shoe nice?’

‘Oh yes mistress Diwata… lick…lick…. if it pleases you mistress Diwata…lick…lick… this slave does indeed admire the superior mistress’s black shoe… lick…lick… if you would be so kind mistress Diwata…lick…lick…’

I mustn’t stop licking the Filipina mistress’s plastic, slip-on shoe whilst I am answering her rhetorical questions, for there is nothing calculated to annoy a mistress more than a footslave gabbling away to her, when he should be gobbling away on her nasty shoe-dirt.

Incidentally, I do genuinely admire mistress Diwata’s cheap, black plastic shoes, and precisely because of what they must do to her pretty, socked, Filipina feet – make them all hot and sweaty!

A gleeful mistress Diwata, flattered by my slavish admiration for her shoes, kindly explains their provenance:

‘Ha! Ha! Shoe bought for Diwata by Filipino husband. He better than you. He a free man. He your master. Ha! Ha! You just a dirty, women footslave. Ha! Ha! You clean dirty shoes of women all day. Ha! Ha! You a nothing!’

I dignify mistress Diwata’s cheap jibes with a reply, whilst continuing to assiduously lick clean her cheap shoes, only because I have to, by law, acknowledge the veracity of her mistressly statements:

‘Yes mistress Diwata…lick…lick… God bless you mistress Diwata…lick…lick… and God bless your husband, mistress…lick…lick…. for he is indeed my superior and better, mistress…lick…lick… being a free man…lick…lick… if it is so pleasing to you, mistress Diwata…lick..lick…’

‘Ha! Ha! You clean Diwata shoe well. Make shoe nice and shine for husband. Husband like see face in Diwata shoe – not like Diwata walk around in dirty shoe. You get dirt off Diwata shoe and swallow in slave-mouth so that Diwata husband not have to see wife shoe-dirt!’

‘Yes mistress Diwata…lick…lick… This slave obeys you mistress Diwata…lick…lick… and will indeed endeavour to remove all the dirt from your shoe mistress Diwata ...lick...lick… so that your husband – my master – will not be offended by the sight of your shoe dirt ...lick…lick…if it is so pleasing to the master, mistress Diwata…lick...lick…’

I am actually seething with jealousy inside – for I would much prefer to be tongue-shining miss Diwata’s shoes for my own benefit, or even just to please her, rather than having to do so in order to satisfy her beloved husband (whom, I’m pleased to say, I have never had the displeasure of actually meeting). But it is ultra-important that I ‘suck up’ to the master even though he is not present, for he is clearly ever-present in my customer-mistress’s loving thoughts, and I must therefore be seen to admire and respect him almost as much as she does – for he is my superior mistress’s chosen man.

Besides, If I don’t establish my admiration and respect for her main man she will undoubtedly beat that respect into me, and I very much fear the female whip!

Mistress Diwata continues to eulogise her faceless and nameless husband:

‘Ha! Ha! Husband better looking than you. Husband strong and handsome Filipino man – you a ugly fool. Ha! Ha! You look like fat pig. You a fat pig with big nose. Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress Diwata…lick…lick… Thank you mistress Diwata…lick…lick… God bless you mistress Diwata…lick…lick…’

The more she extols the manly virtues of her beloved husband, and the more she simultaneously berates me, the harder I lick her cheap, plastic shoe, for I must make up for my offensive ugliness by at least doing a good-job in tongue-shining all the dirt off her precious, cheap shoes.

‘Ha! Ha! Husband cleverer than you. He have proper job. He not like you – you stay on knees all time; lick women feet. Ha! Ha! You a moron. Husband say you fit only clean Filipina cleaning-woman dirty shoe with tongue. Ha! Ha! He say that though we poor, we better than you. I sit above you now while you lick dirty shoe. Ha! Ha! Husband say that mean I your master; you my slave. Ha! Ha! Husband right. He say I beat you with stick if you not clean shoe well, because I better than you. Ha! Ha! You in my power! You at my mercy. You a imbecile. Ha! Ha!’

This is what I find so truly grating – it is clearly mistress Diwata’s faceless and absent husband who is filling her pretty, Filipina head with all these disparaging thoughts about me. I am grateful to him, of course, for encouraging her to visit my humble shoelick-stand every morning after she finishes work, and for demanding that she gets her shoes shined by me before she makes her way home to him, but I do wish I could get mistress Diwata to at least desire me as a slave – for I would dearly love her to employ me as her personal foot-servant!

I am, if truth be told, besotted by her – every bit as much as she is clearly besotted by her husband!

It can happen – female customers do, occasionally, purchase a public footslave from the Female State and make him their own. But what are the chances of that happening when mistress Diwata, inspired by her husband, has such a low opinion of me?

She continues with her besotted eulogising about her superior and seemingly perfect husband:

‘Ha! Ha! Husband strong. He not like you – you a weakling. Ha! Ha! Husband have strong back and shoulders – he walk tall and proud like real man. You in dirt on knees all time. Your back bent over. You bow neck to women feet! Ha! Ha! Your back and shoulders covered in whip marks – many pain. Ha! Ha! Husband back never get marked. He have smooth back. No sores. He never feel whip. He free! Ha! Ha!’

It’s true. Free men are immune from being whipped in the Gynarchy, even though they are very much second class citizens below women. It’s the law. Only third class citizens (we male slaves) are subject to corporal punishment under the female law!

I therefore praise the absentee-master for being strong and healthy, and for not being subject to the whip, and I apologise for my maleslave weakness, and the offensive whip-marks on my bare back:

‘Yes mistress Diwata…lick…lick… Pray forgive me for my male-slave feebleness mistress…lick...lick… and for the offensive marks on my whipped back mistress…if you would be so kind mistress Diwata… lick..lick… This slave humbly apologises to the mistress for the state of his back…lick...lick… and hopes that it does not upset the sweet, feminine sensibilities of the superior mistress… lick…lick…’

‘Ha! Ha! Diwata not upset by sores on slave back. Diwata like see sores! Ha! Ha! Diwata like see slave pain! Ha! Ha! Pain of whip keep slave humble!’

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress…lick…lick.’

Whenever there is talk of whipping and whip-marks I always redouble my efforts on a lady’s footwear – for I am acutely conscious that the public-use punishment-whip (or ‘stick’ as mistress Diwata referred to it earlier) is hanging out of sight behind me on the wall.

Out of my sight, but not out of my mind – and clearly not out of the mistress’s sight or mind!

Not that mistress Diwata is a particularly cruel customer, I hasten to add. In fact, I don’t think she has ever had occasion to raise the whip to me. She is, fortunately, all talk and no action in that regard!

I finish tongue-cleaning her right shoe, and move my face over to her left foot which is resting on the adjacent, metal footrest. This shoe is, for some reason, considerably dirtier than the right one – it contains traces of mud, not just dirt – and so I brace myself for the bitter taste of Filipina cleaning-girl, fresh shoe-mud.

It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it!

Meanwhile my mocking customer-mistress, whom I very much admire and deem it an honour to serve, continues to belittle me, if such a thing is possible when I already feel so small kneeling as I am at her petite and shapely Filipina feet:

‘Ha! Ha! Husband say we save up and go away on holiday to Manila soon. Ha! Ha! We go and have nice holiday with my parents. Relax. Ha! Ha! You not go anywhere. You never have holiday. You work all time. That because you a slave! Ha! Ha! I and husband not slaves. We free. Ha! Ha! We better than you – we have holiday like proper human-being!’

‘Yes mistress Diwata…lick…lick… God bless you mistress ...lick...lick… This slave hopes the mistress and master have a nice time as you both deserve a well-earned rest…lick…lick… if it is so pleasing to you master and mistress …lick…lick…’

‘Ha! Ha! That right slave – you not deserve rest. You a lazy, good-for-nothing slave. You get whip – not rest! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress…lick…lick…As you say mistress…lick…lick…. This slave must work harder mistress… lick…lick… Please don’t beat me mistress.’

I do start to lick harder, for the mud stuck to the side of mistress Diwata’s left shoe is proving to be quite stubborn.

However mistress Diwata is clearly anxious to get off home to the loving arms of a real man – her beloved husband. She orders me to stop licking, and then crouches down from he seated position above me in order to inspect my tongue-work on her shiny, black plastic shoes.

Apart from a few remaining faint traces of mud along the very bottom of her left shoe – traces which are almost impossible to see with the naked eye – I have, as always, done a reasonably good job of tongue-shining the Filipina cleaning-girl’s cheap, black plastic shoes and both her shoes are now glistening with my footslave-saliva in the early morning sunshine.

Only the inside of my mouth is now covered in mud and dirt – Filipina-girl shoedirt.

But the demanding and pernickety mistress Diwata has now spotted a problem with her left sock:

‘Ha! Ha! Diwata sock all twisted on left foot. You straighten sock! You the slave!’

‘Yes mistress Diwata. At once mistress Diwata.’

Mistress Diwata happens to be wearing a pair of short, low-cut, navy-blue, sneaker-style socks inside her ubiquitous, cheap-looking, low-cut, black plastic, slip-on shoes today. They could equally have been a similar style of short, white sneaker-socks; or her cartoon-print, red and yellow ankle-socks; or her black ankle-socks with the fetching, lacy-red trim; or her grey sports-socks with the sports-shoe logo on the sides.

I have admired them all over the months that mistress Diwata has kindly been utilising my shoe-cleaning and sock-straightening services.

Sock-straightening, of course necessitates my touching her sock with my unworthy and dirty slave-fingers, and so mistress Diwata is understandably keen to remind me not to touch her superior, bare feminine skin:

‘Ha! Ha! You not touch Diwata bare ankle while straighten sock. Only Diwata husband worthy touch Diwata bare skin. You not worthy. You a slave, not a man! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes, mistress Diwata. Of course, mistress Diwata!’

Needless to say, if mistress Diwata is really that worried about her public footslave’s unclean hands inadvertently touching her bare ankle she could always just reach down a few inches and straighten her own sock. But she clearly regards such things as being beneath her, and certainly, I would imagine, beneath her beloved husband.

She would never expect any free man to bow down and straighten her sock. That is very much a slave’s job!

It does, however, require a certain degree of slavish skill, for there isn’t a whole lot of Filipina-girl short, navy-blue sock to work with. Nevertheless I successfully untwist and re-straighten the thin, elasticised top of the slightly creased, Filipina cleaning-girl, navy-blue sock above the upper rim of her plastic shoe.

She inspects the sock by twisting her pretty, Filipina foot from side to side and, mercifully, appears satisfied with my humble efforts:

‘Ha! Ha! Now you kiss top of sock. You praise and worship sock for protect Diwata foot inside shoe. Ha! Ha! Diwata better than you. Diwata husband better than you. Diwata sock better than you! Ha! Ha!’

It’s actually not that difficult for me to eulogise and praise the mistress’s short, navy-blue sneaker-sock, for it is female, and I am in love with the sock every bit as much as my mistress Diwata is in love with her manly husband:

‘Oh pray mistress Diwata’s sock…kiss…kiss… truly this slave praises and blesses the sock…kiss…kiss…for absorbing the precious feminine moisture from the mistress’s beautiful foot…kiss…kiss… thereby protecting the inner lining of the mistress’s shoe…kiss…kiss... and insulating the mistress’s precious foot from the elements... kiss…kiss... if you would be so kind, mistress Diwata’s navy-blue sock…kiss…kiss… Truly this slave is in awe of you…kiss…kiss... mistress Diwata’s superior sock…kiss…kiss…’

So there you have it – in mistress Diwata’s pretty, Filipina eyes I am just a worthless footslave; worth less than not only her, and her beloved husband, but even worth less than her short, plain blue, unremarkable sneaker-sock – so much so that I must verbally eulogise the sock, and express my undying admiration for its skill in protecting the mistress’s foot and absorbing her sweet foot perspiration inside her cheap and equally unremarkable, black plastic shoe!

I am truly pathetic, and realise that no mistress in her right mind could ever find me attractive or appealing to own. So, as mistress Diwata gloatingly climbs down from my public shoelick-stand and walks off home into the loving arms of her manly husband, I have to make do with a tiny piece of her navy-blue sock-lint which I surreptitiously managed to extract off the side of her sock with my footslave-lips. For I know that savouring her sock-lint in my slave-mouth is the closest I will ever get to some form of private intimacy with such a superior and beautiful young Filipina woman.

She is truly a goddess – and well out of my league!


Fable no. 10 – The Invisible Footslave

I am invisible.

It gives me the opportunity to live my humble life as a footslave to the max, for I can dutifully serve my mistress Fiona without drawing any attention to myself whatsoever. She cannot see, hear or feel my presence. It’s as if I am living in another dimension in time and space from her – leading a parallel life in a parallel universe, with our two universes only colliding at her feet.

It means that I can spend my nights with my head lying unobtrusively and undetected at her bare, white feet underneath her duvet covers. She is lying, of course, beside her manly husband in their matrimonial bed. But even when my master and mistress are making love I can still kiss her feet unnoticed, for I am completely invisible to them, and my mistress feels nothing on her feet.

It’s truly as if I am not there!

My mistress Fiona is 27 years old, and blonde. She always wears her hair tied back in a fetching ponytail, and is a very feisty and flirtatious young woman. She is ever so slightly overweight, but has a very pretty face with intelligent, piercing eyes. Unlike me, she is certainly not invisible and, married though she may be, she still turns male heads wherever she goes.

I don’t need to describe what I look like, of course – precisely because I am invisible!

When my mistress rises in the morning I first watch her get dressed. In particular, I observe her feet at close quarters as she pulls on her short, black ankle socks with the gold trim. They are truly classy-looking socks on a classy-looking mistress. That touch of gold just sets my mistress Fiona apart from all the other mistresses! I therefore kiss her socks at every opportunity throughout the day - especially any little creases and folds in the black cotton material below the gold trim that I can manage to get my invisible slave-lips onto. I do so out of pure respect – respect for my superior mistress and her classy feet and socks.

She pays no attention to me as I pay unsolicited homage to her socks, for I am nothing to her. I am, after all, invisible, and she feels nothing for me. She does not even feel me.

So I can have free rein on her socks, until such time as she dons her outer footwear – her beloved, black ballet-flats with the single strap across the top of the toe cleavage area. If my blonde mistress wasn’t wearing her socks I would be able to see her bare, white toe cleavage, but even though I am invisible I do not yet have the supernatural power to see through black sock!

I therefore concentrate on watching my mistress Fiona’s socks inside her ballet-flat shoes, and beneath the hems of her black, boot-cut, polyester slacks, throughout the rest of her working day.

I first accompany her shoes and socks to the breakfast table where I kneel, invisibly, on the kitchen floor beneath the table and observe her precious ballet-flated and besocked feet whilst she eats. I consume nothing myself – apart from the truly awesome sight of my superior mistress’s beautiful shoes and socks – as I have no need of food. I’m just an invisible footslave.

My mistress is in a good mood and is laughing and joking with her manly husband who is seated opposite her at the breakfast table. She even plays footsie with him under the table. I follow her playful foot with my face, so that I may observe her sweet, feminine shoe and sock close up as they lovingly stroke her husband’s masculine leg.

He is far from being invisible to her. In fact she only has eyes for him!

I, of course, am completely invisible to my master also. Indeed I am invisible to everyone. I therefore feel that I am not intruding on this happy couple’s privacy. I can kiss, nose and sniff my mistress’s socks and shoes throughout the day with a totally clear footslave-conscience!

The couple temporarily split up when they leave for work. My mistress Fiona puts on her overcoat and heads out of the house for the short walk to the local train station. I crawl invisibly after her on my hands and knees. I could, of course, just walk along behind her, or even beside her or in front of her – and she wouldn’t notice me. For I am invisible to her. But I prefer to crawl after her on my hands and knees – so that I can maintain eye contact with the backs of her pretty shoes and socks.

My mistress Fiona always commutes into her place of work – an insurance company’s call-centre - by train, and because I am invisible I am able to lie at her feet on the floor of the train and stare at them. Already her black shoes and socks are picking up dirt and dust – street and train dust and dirt. I can observe, for example, a tiny piece of white fluff attached to one of the even tinier stitches in my mistress’s black sock on her right foot – just above the thin, single strap that divides her socked toe cleavage from the rest of her socked foot.

I believe the tiny piece of white fluff may be a piece of lint from another mistress’s white socks, and so I suck it off my mistress Fiona’s black sock and take it into my mouth. I cannot permit a foreign object to sully my mistress’s black socks, and besides I want to taste the other girl’s white sock lint.

I an not being disloyal to my own mistress in hankering after another young woman’s sock lint in this way – for, as far as my mistress Fiona is concerned, I don’t even exist. I can, therefore, with impunity, admire, kiss, nose and sniff the socks, boots and shoes of any other mistress throughout the day – even those of my mistress’s female work-colleagues – and she, and they, will be none the wiser. For although I can feel them and their shoes and socks, they cannot feel me, as I am invisible to them. You could say that the world of women’s shoes, boots and socks is my oyster!

Having said that, I do nonetheless like to concentrate on my own mistress’s shoes and socks – for, as I stated before, they are just so classy and nice. The prettiest black, gold-trimmed ankle socks and plain black ballet flats in the universe – the parallel universe of my mistress Fiona!

We reach my mistress’s workplace in the centre of town. My mistress Fiona may have bright, piercing eyes that can see right through me (well, they would since I am invisible!) but she left school with no formal, academic qualifications, thus her job is relatively low-paid and boring. She merely sits on a swivel chair, swivelling her blonde ponytail, and answering the phone all day long. It is not a particularly high-paid job either, but it keeps my mistress in classy shoes and socks!

She has a footrest under her swivel chair – my face! Sometimes I like to lie on my back on the floor, with my face pointing upwards, so that my mistress can rest the well-worn and dirty soles of her black, leather ballet flats on my upturned face. This affords me the opportunity to properly smell the ground my mistress has been walking on, whilst observing at ultra-close quarters the dirt she has been walking in.

I also like the way the dirt comes off the soles of my mistress Fiona’s black ballet flats and onto my face. I feel my unworthy and invisible slave-face is being of humble service to her.

My mistress’s feet are quite broad, and so even when only one of her feet is resting on my upturned face my whole, lowly field of vision is dominated by the sole of her flat, leather shoe. I search the sole of the shoe for dirt and grime and lick it off.

However, glorious and awesome though such a humble vantage point is, I don’t like to spend the whole of my mistress’s working day lying on my back beneath her shoes, for even though I’m invisible I can’t achieve the physically impossible – I can’t see her sweet, black and gold socks from beneath her shoes!

I therefore – completely unobtrusively since my mistress can neither see nor feel me – slip my face out from underneath her black ballet flats after an hour or so of sole-searching, and place myself in a kneeling position under her workstation so that I may observe her socks from above. From close above, mind you – I make sure my face is just inches from the tops of my mistress’s socks; a dirty, low-down slave, be he invisible or not, should never raise his ugly head above a superior mistress’s ankle – especially not a gold-trimmed, black-socked ankle!

Now I can observe all the individual stitches in my mistress Fiona’s soft, black cotton, ankle socks, and in particular I can admire how those stitches crease and fold as my mistress subconsciously flexes her pretty, if slightly podgy, white foot muscles inside her black socks.

Just as well I too am in her subconscious, really – otherwise she might be tempted to flex her foot muscles and crease her socks specifically for my entertainment and benefit. And I wouldn’t want that. I like being a nothing. A nobody. I like the fact that my mistress is blissfully unaware of my presence and that her socks are creasing and folding quite naturally beneath my mesmerized and awe-struck face.

Pathetic – I know! But as an invisible footslave I am easily pleased by a mistress’s unintentional sock-show!

The absolute highlight of my pitiable day comes when my mistress Fiona unexpectedly reaches down to undo the button-strap on her left ballet flat and takes off her shoe in order to remove a small, irritating stone.

If I were a visible, personal footslave, I would undoubtedly be whipped for this! For I have allowed a small stone to enter my mistress’s shoe and cause her poor, socked foot discomfort! But happily I shall not be punished for this act of neglect on my part – for I am invisible!

Instead I must punish myself – and so I seek out the offending stone which is now cast out onto the office floor, and swallow it. I comfort myself with the thought that the tiny stone must be soiled with my mistress’s personal, black-sock sweat, and that this is therefore a suitably humiliating punishment for me – having to swallow her sweaty shoe-stone!

Before my mistress Fiona fastens her ballet-flat shoe back onto her foot I avidly observe how there are several little damp patches developing on the reinforced toe area of her black ankle-sock. Her feet are truly starting to perspire after several hours confined in her black, leather ballet flats! I surreptitiously and unobtrusively sniff the sweaty, toe area of my mistress’s temporarily exposed left sock and revel in the pungent aroma.

It is a smell of hitherto hidden, feminine foot fit for an invisible, male footslave!

I may be invisible and undetectable but, of course, I don’t have complete control over my footslave-environment. Only in fantasy can we have that, and this is not fantasy; this is reality– a parallel reality. And so, all too soon for my liking, my mistress has clipped her left ballet-flat back onto her glorious, black-socked foot.

Still, at least as I observe the upper part of her black and gold sock once again, I now know that the lower part is becoming increasingly moist and tart inside her precious, soft shoe-leather.

Lunch time is similar to breakfast time – only this time my mistress is sitting on a high, metallic stool in a sandwich bar, her feet resting on a circular footrest at the base of the stool. The feet resting on the stool opposite my mistress Fiona’s this lunch time are not those of her husband, but of one of her female work-colleagues – a young, sassy, black woman who is wearing black, pointy-toed, spike-heeled, zip-up ankle boots.

Unfortunately, because I cannot control my parallel universe, I cannot see the black girl’s socks beneath the hems of her navy-blue, boot-cut trouser legs, but I do, nevertheless, move my face over towards the opposite bar-stool in order to better observe and admire the fetching little creases and folds in the black mistress’s black ankle-boot leather. I also look favourably on the fetching scuff-marks on the black mistress’s pointy boot-toes, for the rounded toes of my own mistress’s ballet flats are disappointingly smooth and unscuffed!

In general, scuff-marks are good - for they indicate regular wear, and a certain disregard on the part of the wearer for the state of her footwear. I like the thought that the black girl doesn’t much care that her boot-toes are scuff-marked, for it suggests that if I were her personal footslave she would not care much for me either!

And, of course, I like to think that I could make myself her personal footslave at any time – follow her home and see what type of socks, if any, she is wearing inside her pretty boots, for I would be invisible to her also; and, being invisible my current mistress Fiona would not miss me!

However, my current mistress’s pretty, black ballet-flats and socks soon draw me back to her – back to the base of her sandwich-bar stool. For, invisible or not, I am literally enthralled by my mistress Fiona’s shoes and socks. They are my favourite type of feminine footwear. I mean, how frustrating would it be to have to follow that black girl’s booted feet all day long without being able to observe her socks inside them? Missing all those creases and folds in her sock material?

At least with my current mistress I can see the uppers of her socks whilst she is wearing them inside her low-cut ballet flats!

The afternoon is spent much the same as the morning – footrest duties underneath my beloved mistress’s work desk, and yet more humble sock-gazing.

The commute home too is much the same as the journey into work, although this evening the train is packed with weary commuters making their way home, and my poor mistress Fiona has to stand! Outrageous – a superior, young woman should not have to stand on a train! If I were a free man I would get up and give her my seat, like a gentleman!

But there are no gentlemen on this train. At least my pretty mistress is standing beside a fellow, seatless young-woman – a red-head who is wearing black woolly tights and a somewhat scruffy pair of red, canvas, lace up sneakers underneath an incongruously smart, grey pinstriped, knee-length skirt. As I kneel invisibly beside my mistress Fiona’s ballet-flats, I can therefore simultaneously admire the sneakered girl’s thick, black woolly tights – all the way up to her thighs if I should wish too, for nobody can accuse me of being a peeping Tom.

I am invisible!

I don’t allow my eyes to stray above the beautiful redhead’s knees, however, because I actually like the way the young sneaker-woman’s black woolly tights are darker in hue below her shapely, tights-covered knees, reaching their darkest just above the upper rims of her red, canvas sneakers. It’s a phenomenon caused by the increased stretching of the woollen stitching the higher up the young woman’s shapely legs the tights go. But the less-stretched, and therefore darker, stitching on her lower legs appeals to me more because I know that the tighter the stitching, the more likely it is that the tights will be absorbing her precious foot and leg perspiration.

I only wish I could observe the ultra-dark reinforced toe area of the mistress’s plain black, woolly tights inside her scruffy, red sneakers. They must be very sweaty on this hot and crowded, commuter train!

Meanwhile my mistress Fiona, who now towers above me like a swaying goddess-colossus, is managing to block out the world around her by reading a novel as she stands above me holding on with one hand to a leather strap hanging from the train ceiling. She is lost in her book. It’s as if the whole world is invisible to her – not just me!

The rocking movement of the speeding commuter train is causing her feet to sway, and consequently her black socks to crease inside her now considerably dusty, black ballet flats. But I am particularly gratified to note that the top of my mistress Fiona’s left sock, just below the golden trim, now contains a dusty, grey stain all of its own!

My mistress is not having much luck today with her left-sided footwear! First a stone-intruder in her shoe, and now a dust-stain on the side of her sock! Once again, if I were a visible footslave I would be in line for some serious punishment for this act of wanton neglect in allowing my mistress’s precious, black sock to become sullied with train-floor dust whilst I was distracted by the neighbouring commuter’s thick, black woolly tights!

But all I can do, as my mistress Fiona’s invisible footslave, is attempt to suck the offending dust off the side of her sock. It won’t work – of course – for I am sucking it in a parallel dimension. But even trying to suck off my blonde-ponytailed mistress’s sock-dust is a highly pleasurable, lowly act of self-abasement for me. I am her not-so-public, public sock-sucker – ignored and despised by all as I vainly attempt to spruce up my mistress’s tired and sweaty, workaday socks with my invisible slave-mouth.

A soon as we arrive home my mistress Fiona is embraced by her husband who has managed to get home before her. I am still kneeling imperceptibly at her feet. She kicks off her sweaty, black ballet-flats, and wanders into the kitchen in her socks in order to start preparing dinner.

I linger for a while in the hallway with my mistress’s discarded ballet flats. I don’t need my mistress’s permission to do so – for I am, of course, invisible to her!

The insides of my mistress’s sweet ballet-flats are still warm, and I bask in the warm foot-air as I breathe in the stinky aroma of my mistress Fiona’s residual footsweat. It is a deliciously pungent mixture of musty shoe-leather and sweaty sock. I can also observe some tiny pieces of black sock lint stuck to the stale sweat on the pale grey inner linings of my mistress’s discarded shoes.

I sniff, and then eat, the sweaty little pieces of black, feminine sock-lint – for, being invisible, I shall not be invited to partake of my mistress and master’s evening meal. Not even their half-chewed leftovers.

Instead I shall, no doubt, spend their evening meal kneeling once again at my mistress’s feet under the kitchen table – this time at her bare-socked feet. Her socks are now completely unencumbered as she happily consumes her evening meal, so I can now concentrate on the sweatier toe and sole areas which were previously hidden to me throughout the day whilst she was wearing her sweaty, leather ballet-flats (apart from that one delirious moment when my mistress took off her left shoe to remove the tiny stone!)

I truly admire the dark, damp patches on my blonde mistress’s moist, black socks, and ensure that my nose and face are close enough to them to be enveloped in the sweaty aroma emanating from those delightful and intriguing little damp patches.

I am gratified to note also that my mistress Fiona’s now sticky socks have picked up some stray hairs and other almost imperceptible detritus from the kitchen floor. I very much like the fact that her socks are becoming progressively dirty as the day goes on. They will need a good soaking in my mouth throughout the night by way of a humble pre-wash, before my mistress chucks them nonchalantly into her weekly wash-basket.

After dinner, my mistress relaxes in her socked feet on the living room sofa in front of the television. She is cuddled up on the sofa in the arms of her manly husband, her feet tucked behind her and resting on the edge of the sofa. I, therefore, am also positioned, unnoticed, at the edge of the sofa where I belong – beside my mistress’s damp-socked feet.

I now proceed to admire the contrast between my mistress’s pale, white ankleskin and the gold-trimmed, elasticated tops of her otherwise plain, black ankle-socks beneath her black, boot-cut trouser hems. Such a stark contrast! I cannot resist nosing the tops of my mistress Fiona’s socks, ensuring that the tip of my nose simultaneously touches both the golden trim of her sock and her pale, bare ankle-flesh.

Both feel deliciously soft to the nose! Very feminine! Although probably not as soft and feminine as her red-painted lips – warm, giving lips which my master, her husband, is now avidly consuming!

But I am not jealous. I know my invisible place – and it is at my mistress’s equally warm and giving, sweaty-socked feet whilst she canoodles with her handsome husband – the only man she currently has eyes for!

I mean, she can hardly have eyes for me, since I am invisible!

The irony is, of course, that in the Gynarchy of Barbaria every personal footslave is, to all intents and purposes, invisible. Despised, ignored and invisible.

What you now need to work out, dear reader, is whether or not I am literally invisible, or just another footslave-nonentity!


Fable no. 9 – Waiting Hand & Foot

Here are just twenty ways to wait hand and foot on various types of mistresses – all of whom are your betters, for they are free and female and you are enslaved and male:

1. Your indolent mistress’s navy-blue ankle sock is twisted and creased on her ankle. You must respectfully straighten it for her.

2. Your scruffy mistress’s black leather ankle-boot zipper is coming loose, exposing part of her precious, black bootsock. You must do up the zip with your slave teeth.

3. Your fat mistress wishes to have a snack in front of the television. You must fetch her favourite, high-calorie biscuits and sugary cola drink for her to voraciously consume.

4. Your clever mistress is seated in the college lecture hall listening to a talk on politics and history. You must kneel silently at her feet and concentrate on her boots and socks because, unlike her, you are thick and stupid, and that’s all you are good for.

5. Your supercilious mistress has an itch on her outer ankle bone. You must pull down her sock and scratch it, before replacing her sock as you found it. Scratching her own itch is beneath her.

6. Your petulant mistress is frustrated and annoyed at being late home from work, and wishes to take out her mistressly frustration on you. You must fetch the slave-whip and humbly bare your back to her.

7. Your observant mistress notices a tiny, foreign hair stuck to the side of her sock. You must lick it off and swallow it, whatever its provenance – and you must feel honoured to do so, for if it was good enough for your mistress’s sock it is good enough for you.

8. Your somnolent mistress requires a foot massage. You must gently massage her sweaty, socked feet without disturbing or upsetting her.

9. Your horny mistress is entertaining her manly, freemale boyfriend. You must enhance his manliness in her eyes by cringing and fawning to him.

10. Your selfish and fully sated mistress has left some food on her plate. You are hungry, but must dispose of her leftovers in the kitchen bin, for she has not given you permission to eat her precious, half-chewed, leftover food.

11. Your demanding mistress requires a full pedicure. You must soften her delicate toenail-cuticles with your mouth; file her toenail-rims with your teeth; and paint her dainty toenails with a mouth-brush.

12. Your careless mistress has stepped on some dirty chewing gum in the street. You must remove the offending gum with your lips and mouth, depositing it inside your otherwise empty, slave stomach – for that is where street and shoe-soiled chewing gum belongs.

13. Your work-shy mistress despises and berates you for not working hard enough. You must praise and bless her for taking the time and energy to berate you, and must undertake to work harder and do better.

14. Your freshly-whipped back is offensive to your sensitive mistress. You must meekly apologise to her, and cover it up.

15. Your ugly, maleslave face offends your timid mistress’s feminine sensibilities. You must hide your face by burying it in her boots and socks.

16. Your sicknote-mistress is unwell. You must care for her and treat her, seeking to transfer her alleged illness to yourself, so that she may make a speedier recovery.

17. You are genuinely unwell. You must confine yourself to your healthy mistress’s boot and shoe cupboard until you are no longer contagious, and then submit to your mistress’s righteous punishment for not being at her beck and call during your inconvenient and selfish illness.

18. Your exhausted mistress is sleeping soundly. You too are exhausted, but must sleep fitfully, lest your mistress requires your services at any time during the night.

19. Your unfortunate mistress suffers a set-back in life. You must remind her that she is always better off than you; and that she is better than you.

20. A mistress’s – any mistress’s – superior life is in danger. You must lay down your inferior slave-life to save hers.




Fable no. 8 – From Public to Private

Mistress Shamila had been one of my regular customers to my public shoe and bootlick booth for over a year.

I knew that she must like me, and my humble foot-services, by virtue of the fact that she availed herself of me virtually every day on her way home from work. I have to say I always liked serving her too – and not just because I very much admired her ubiquitous, well-worn, wedge-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankle boots, which always seemed to need a good hard tongue-shining at the end of each working day, but also because I sensed that there was some sort of spark between us; a spark between lofty mistress and lowly slave – or at least between the lowly slave and the mistress’s lofty footwear.

It’s almost as if mistress Shamila and I were just right for each other – insofar as mistress Shamila had a very high opinion of herself; thought she was the bee's-knees so to speak – and that it was an honour and a privilege for a down-in-the-dirt, public footslave like me to serve her by licking clean her dirty, dusty boots every evening.

And I agreed with her; that was the ‘spark’.

I didn’t know much about my perfect mistress – other than that she was an immigrant from India; she still spoke with a strong Indian accent, and in particular I always noticed that she could not pronounce her ‘W’s – so that she always pronounced the fearful word ‘whip’ as ‘vhip’, for example.

I’ve chosen that particular example because mistress Shamila was constantly in the habit of reminding me that if I failed to tongue-shine her delightful, wedge-heeled ankle boots to her complete satisfaction she could have me ‘vhipped’!

Aside from that, I knew that she worked in an office as an administrator, but other than that I knew relatively little about my regular mistress – she struck me as being quite a private female individual.

With regard to her physical appearance I have to say that she was, from my humble perspective, a very beautiful mistress – dark-haired and dark skinned (obviously – being an Indian girl); late twenties or early thirties perhaps; slightly overweight, but with shapely calves and ankles – not that I ever got to see much of her lower legs since mistress Shamila always wore black, boot-cut slacks over her black ankle boots. Nevertheless, because my public bootlick-stand was of the ‘sit-down’ variety, I did occasionally catch an exciting glimpse of the tops of her black ankle socks inside her boots, and on even rarer occasions I could observe her soft, bare, Indian skin above the tops of her socks.

Yes, in my humble opinion mistress Shamila had every right to be full of herself – for she was my type of mistress – young, proud, arrogant. My total better. It was indeed an honour for me to taste the street-dirt on her boots every evening.

Then one day, whilst I was desperately licking some street-mud out of the thick grooves in her clumpy, wedged boot-heels, she hit me with the most amazing news. She explained that she needed a personal foot-servant, and that she wanted me to be that servant. She had therefore contacted my official owners –the ‘Department of State-Owned Public Bootlickers’ – and had purchased me from them!

She didn’t say how much she had paid for me.

Mistress Shamila then showed me the keys to my public shoelick-booth and to the chains that kept me secured to the booth. She explained that she would close up my public shoelick-booth right away and be back to collect me the following evening after she had finished work. She explained that as she now owned me she didn’t want any other women using me – that I was all hers now and that if I even so much as looked at another woman’s shoes or boots without her express permission she would have me soundly ‘vhipped!’

I could hardly believe what was happening to me – sold by my employers, just like that, to one of their customers! My whole life changed in an instant, with absolutely no say in the matter on my part!

Still, that’s what being a slave is all about – being at the mercy and whim of others! But I do have to say that, if any customer-mistress was ever going to purchase me, I would have wanted it to be mistress Shamila!

So, having worked in the public slave-sector all my adult life, I was now going to be entering the private sector. As mistress Shamila left my booth, locking me in for the final time and putting a ‘closed’ sign up on the door outside, a million thoughts were racing through my pitiful, footslave mind.

What would it be like to serve only one mistress from now on, as opposed to dozens of customers every day? I suddenly realised that I had no idea what miss Shamila’s bare feet were like inside her black, wedge-heeled ankle boots and black bootsocks. I had never seen her feet naked! I began to speculate as to what her bare feet might be like – brown, obviously. But would they be slightly podgy, given that she was slightly overweight, or did the shapeliness of her lower calves and ankles indicate that her sweet Indian feet too would be well-formed and shapely?

And what about her Indian toes? Would they be fat and stumpy – or slender and shapely? Was she in the habit of pedicuring her feet – of painting her sweet, feminine toenails – inside her boots and socks? If so, what colour? Such agonizing questions were important to me as it would doubtless be one of my main duties from now on – as her personal foot-servant – to pedicure and care for the divine mistress Shamila’s hitherto mysterious, bare, brown Indian feet!

Above all I was wondering what her feet might smell like. As a public boot and shoe licker I was well accustomed to the musty, bitter aroma of female boot and shoe leather. But women’s foot odour was, I’m ashamed to say, for the most part hidden from me inside their pretty boots and shoes. Sure I got to inhale boot-free and unperfumed feet in the summer – during the so-called ‘sandal months’ – but having said that I cannot recollect a single occasion on which mistress Shamila was not wearing her black, wedged boots and ankle socks. I had certainly, therefore, never had the honour of smelling my future mistress’s personal foot odour!

Just why was that, I wondered? Why was mistress Shamila so keen to always wear boots? Were her feet deformed in some way? Or did they just smell bad? Did she suffer from excessive foot perspiration? If so, surely her feet must perspire all the more inside such heavy ankle boots and socks – especially during the warmer days?

It was now winter, however. So maybe her feet – the part of her beautiful, Indian body that would dominate my life from now on - didn’t perspire so much during the wintertime?

I didn’t know the answer to any of these pathetic questions – of course. This was all footslave-speculation on my part. But the exciting thought that tomorrow evening I would doubtless find out at least some of the answers thrilled me to my footslave-core!

The hours truly seemed to drag until the following evening when I at last heard my new owner, mistress Shamila, unlocking the door to my erstwhile public bootlick booth. She was dressed as she usually is, except that she was wearing a pair of dark blue denim jeans, as opposed to the plain, black cotton officewear-slacks I was accustomed to seeing her in.

Still the same old wedge-heeled ankle-boots, however, and just as soon as she had unchained me from the position I had been kneeling in for the past twenty years, I lowered my face to the familiar, scuff-marked, rounded toe areas of her well-worn, black ankle boots and kissed them like never before.

It was like never before because for the first time I was kissing the boots of my new owner – my personal mistress. This young and attractive Indian woman now owned me, body and soul. I therefore kissed her boots fervently as I wanted her to know that I was truly honoured to be her personal footslave, and that I fully respected her female power and authority over me.

Mistress Shamila just laughed down at me and ordered me to follow her to heel as she led me on my hands and knees by means of a chain around my neck towards her car.

It felt strange to be crawling along the pavement again on all fours after so many years cooped up in my fully nationalized, public bootlick-booth. I hadn’t been able to move in over twenty years. Even being outside in the fresh air seemed strange – though I realised my outdoor ‘freedom’ might be short-lived, as mistress Shamila would probably want to keep me chained up inside her house from now on.

Her house – my new home! I wondered what it would be like?

My new mistress positioned me on the floor of her car on the passenger side, so that I was obliged to stare at her booted feet as she drove us home. I admired the power in her pedal-pumping, wedge-heeled, booted feet as she confidently controlled the vehicle – especially whenever she pressed down on the accelerator. I liked the way that caused her black bootleather to crease and fold around her ankle beneath the heavily-stitched hems of her blue denim jeans. I resolved in my own mind that I, like the car, would submit to the power of mistress Shamila’s booted feet and do whatever they commanded.

Her home – it turned out – was a modestly sized terraced house. My home, within her home, was to be in her shoe-cupboard. She allowed me to crawl inside it. It smelt strongly of leather – the leather of her many pairs of boots and shoes.

I was actually quite relieved to see that she had lots of other pairs of boots and shoes – for, as I said before, I had never actually seen her wearing anything other than the black wedgies she had on now!

In fact, mistress Shamila, I was gratified to see in the relative gloom of her shoe-cupboard, had several other pairs of boots - including a very fetching pair of calf-length, brown leather, chunky heeled, zipper boots, and an eye-catching pair of spike-heeled, black suede, knee-length, stretch boots with a shiny, black patent leather strip down the sides. They must hug her lower legs very well, I observed to myself.

I also noted several pairs of young-woman sneakers, including a pair of pink and white lace-up, leather sneakers and a pair of dirty white, lace-up keds with holes in them. They smelt particularly strongly of mistress Shamila – my first real hint as to her individual foot-odour.

And then there were sandals – strappy, high-heeled sandals; white, silver and gold-coloured pairs. The somewhat selfish thought occurred to me that her feet can’t be all that bad if mistress Shamila feels confident enough to wear such revealing, open-toed sandals in her spare time!

Next, having shown me where I would be sleeping amongst her boots, sneakers and sandals – mistress Shamila took me up to her bedroom where she introduced me to her sock-drawer directly next to her double-bed. The drawer didn’t just contain socks – there were feminine tights as well; everything from thick, opaque, woolly red tights to stylish, finest-denier, dark-coloured nylons. I didn’t see any stockings, as such, but then I already knew that mistress Shamila was a modest Indian girl who, if anything, prefers jeans or slacks to fishnet stockings – and I fully respect that.

Above all though, I was just pleased to observe so many pairs of socks in her exciting sock-drawer! She was clearly very much a ‘sock-girl ‘ – fond of wearing socks, and they weren’t just the plain, black officewear bootsocks that I was privileged to glimpse on occasion inside her black, ankle-booted feet. These were all different kinds and colours of sweet, feminine socks – all neatly rolled up into pairs (that would doubtless be my job in future!) – from brightly coloured, stripy socks, to patterned socks, to plain white and plain navy blue socks.

Some of the rolled up socks even appeared to have cartoon prints on them, although I couldn’t identify the individual logos and prints precisely because the socks were rolled up into pairs. I suspected, however, that they weren’t just ankle-length socks in this Indian sock-drawer of delights – some of the balls of socks looked thick enough to be calf or knee-length!

Mind-blowingly, I also observed some shoe and boot stains on the exposed, reinforced toe areas of some of the lighter coloured socks – even though they all appeared to be freshly washed and laundered.

I was gratified by the thought that I would be getting to know my mistress Shamila’s socks very well – just one advantage of being a private footslave as opposed to a public footslave; my mistress’s inner footwear would soon be as familiar to me as her outer footwear!

Imagine my excitement, therefore, when mistress Shamila next introduced me to her dirty, unwashed-sock smell by pushing my face down into her dirty laundry basket in the far corner of her bedroom. Inside it were several pairs of dirty black ankle socks – presumably the very pairs of socks she had been wearing inside her office boots throughout the week, and whose elasticated tops I had been admiring all week inside her boots.

Now I could actually smell their aroma – the aroma of stale, feminine, Indian-girl footsweat – a proper introduction to the individual aroma of my new mistress Shamila’s divine feet. It would be a smell I would doubtless have to become accustomed to, since I would be spending so much of my time at her socks and feet from now on.

Indeed mistress Shamila kindly explained to me, as my head was buried deep inside her dirty-sock basket – surrounded by her sweaty-sock stink - that one of my chores would be to mouth-wash her dirty socks and tights at the end of each week. Therefore I would become equally familiar with the taste of her soiled hosiery as I would with its smell!

For my part, I verbally praised and blessed mistress Shamila, assuring her that I would endeavour to do a good job in sucking the dirt, sweat and dead footskin out of her precious socks. She just laughed and reminded me that if I didn’t do a good job on them I would be ‘vhipped’.

Speaking of which she then led me on my hands and knees behind her black-wedged bootheels out into her back yard. Although it was now pitch dark outside she switched on a bright spotlight to illuminate a solitary, wooden punishment trestle. Mistress Shamila explained that this was where I would be punished, and then she drew my attention to a thin, brown, whippy-looking cane hanging on a metal hook next to the punishment trestle. She explained that this was what I would be ‘vhipped’ with.

I kissed the scuff-marked toes of both my mistress’s ankle boots and assured her of my desire to serve her well and avoid the sting of the cane. I then shivered - in part from the cold in the back yard; in part from the sound of the practice swing mistress Shamila gave her ‘vooden vhip’ through the frosty, winter-evening air!

We went back inside the house and into my new mistress’s modestly-sized living room, where she sat down on a comfortable sofa and ordered me to kneel down in front of her. She then gave me the order I was longing to hear – and arguably had been longing to hear for over a year; the year it had been my privilege and honour to serve her on my public bootlick-booth. She ordered me to take off her boots and socks!

I, of course, remembered my footslave-manners at every stage of the process – respectfully kissing her boots, and then her socks, before I removed them from my new mistress’s precious, brown, Indian feet. But I don’t mind admitting that my hands were trembling with excitement!

As soon as I had unzipped and gently slipped off my Indian mistress’s ankle boots I detected a faint, but very gratifying, aroma of mildly sweaty feet emanating from her nice, black ankle-length bootsocks. The socks, like the boots, appeared to be well-worn, with little grey patches where the combination of sweat and repeated washing had conspired to fade the original black dye of the socks.

I was particularly humbled to observe one or two areas where the Indian-girlsocks were even beginning to thin and wear away, though there were no holes as such in miss Shamila’s socks.

What an honour and a privilege this is – I thought to myself as I finally got to see the lower, normally hidden parts of mistress Shamila’s salivatingly delicious, black bootsocks and found myself enveloped in the aroma of her sweaty-socked, Indian feet. I kissed the black socks with genuine respect and vigour as they were the sweaty, worn bootsocks of my fat, Indian mistress and female better.

But the real prize came, of course, when I peeled off her sweaty, sticky bootsocks to reveal, for the first time, miss Shamila’s soft, bare, brown Indian feet. My God, her feet looked wonderful! Podgy, fat toes with unpainted toenails, and little traces of black toejam clearly visible underneath the upper rims of those sweet feminine, Indian toenails.

The effect of the toejam was that her feet stank – but in a delicate and feminine way. The smell was not overpowering, unpleasant though it was. I must have grimaced involuntarily at the stink of her recently liberated, bare feet, for mistress Shamila laughed out loud at me and gleefully informed me that I would have to get used to the smell of her warm feet since I was now their personal servant.

She then ordered me to kiss her fat feet and to suck all the sticky perspiration and little black balls of toejam out from between her delicate, feminine toes. She counselled me that this would be the quickest way to get rid of the smell – to swallow its source; to swallow her black toejam and sweaty, black sock-lint.

I, of course, complied with my Indian mistress’s wishes – and avidly consumed her foot-bacteria.

Whilst I was licking her left foot I could not fail to notice a little pink plaster on the ball of miss Shamila’s soft, brown foot. Miss Shamila ordered me to kiss the plaster 20 times. She then asked me if I knew what the plaster was for.

Of course, I had to confess to my new mistress that I was just a stupid slave, and therefore had no idea why the mistress was wearing a plaster on her bare foot.

Mistress Shamila therefore laughed, and kindly and graciously enlightened me. She patiently explained to her ignorant slave that she had a verruca on the ball of her left foot, and that one of my daily tasks would be to worship her verruca before treating it. She further explained to me that if the verruca had not fully disappeared within 3 months I would be ‘vhipped’ for failing to cure her of her unsightly and uncomfortable verruca.

She then produced a little bottle of strong smelling verruca ointment and a box of plasters, and guided me through the process of carefully removing her old plaster; of chewing and swallowing it; of then kissing her verruca 100 times; of then applying the ointment by placing the tiny brush into my slave-mouth and spreading the medication over the verruca, taking great care not to touch the surrounding footskin with the ointment; and finally of placing a fresh plaster over the freshly-treated foot-wart.

I felt so proud when mistress Shamila told me that I had done a good job on worshipping and treating her verruca - for a first effort.

She then ordered me to put her socks and boots back on her feet, as she wished to go into the kitchen to make some supper for herself and her husband.

Her husband! I had no idea mistress Shamila was married! Her husband!

She observed my surprise and consternation, and laughed. She advised me not to worry as her husband was expecting me and knew all about her decision to purchase me as her personal footslave. She further advised me that her husband’s name was Kaushal, and that I was to address him at all times as ‘master Kaushal’. She also reassured me that, in keeping with the laws of the Gynarchy, I would not be required to kiss her beloved husband’s feet, but that I had to treat him with respect and kiss the ground in front of his feet. For I was, in effect, his slave too as he was better than me, being a free man.

Later that evening I was kneeling under the kitchen table beside my mistress Shamila’s still booted and socked feet, as she sat opposite her husband – my new master Kaushal – eating her supper. I noted several things during supper:

1. I was not, it seemed, permitted to share in the meal, though my mistress had intimated that I could eat her and her husband’s leftovers, if there were any;

2. My perfect mistress Shamila appears to like wearing her boots and socks about the house. No house-slippers, it seems, for mistress Shamila;

3. At least, as I stared humbly at the outside of my new mistress’s familiar, black leather, wedge-heeled ankle boots, I now knew what her socks smelled like inside her boots and, most importantly of all, I now knew that she had a verruca on the ball of her left foot.

For I was now the intimate, private footslave of a superior, young Indian woman. I was no longer just her ignorant, public bootlicker!



Fable no. 7 – Busy!

Miss Chantou is one of the station cleaners at the local railway station where I have my ‘sit-down’ public-shoelick stand.

I don’t know terribly much about her except that she is in her late twenties, originates from Cambodia, used to be a street-prostitute, but now works full-time as a cleaner – working long, hard, 12 hour shifts every day to keep the station clean and tidy.

Of course, she doesn’t have to work as hard as me – for she is not a slave. She is a free and happy young woman. But she is a very hard-working and diligent young cleaning-woman nevertheless, and therefore totally deserving of my slavish admiration and respect.

After her long day cleaning the station miss Chantou likes to relax and unwind by availing herself of my shoelicking services, which are, of course, totally free of charge for female members of the public and female station staff alike. She also likes to mock and tease me whilst I am attending to her dirty, Cambodian cleaning-girl footwear – as is her perfect right.

Today is one such encounter with miss Chantou on my public shoelick stand. She climbs up onto the shoeshine stand – all smiles (miss Chantou is always smiling) – and makes herself comfortable, resting her familiar flat, black, shiny-plastic shoes and cute, pale pink, ankle-length, cotton socks directly on the metal footrests in front of my humbly kneeling and bowed face.

I humbly greet her shoes and socks as I recognise them beneath the hems of her equally familiar scruffy, blue, denim jeans:

‘Good evening, miss Chantou. Thank you for visiting my humble shoelick-stand once again, miss Chantou. How may I be of service to you this evening, miss Chantou?’

This may seem like a daft question, but not all mistresses simply wish their shoes or boots to be licked clean. Many prefer just to have me respectfully kiss their outer footwear; others may require me to just respectfully nose the elasticated tops of their socks whilst they keep their shoes or boots on; whilst still others may desire me to remove their outer footwear and to kiss or smell their stinky socks or tights, or even to take their socks off and pay homage to their bare feet and toes!

There could, therefore, be any number of demeaning little feet and footwear-services that I am asked to perform above and beyond mere ‘shoelicking’, so I am legally bound always to enquire of a mistress as to her exact foot-service requirements.

The smiling miss Chantou replies in her incredibly cute, but strong, Cambodian accent:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave clean shoes. You lick clean dirt from side and bottom of Chantou shoe. You look only at Chantou pink sock while lick shoe. You a damn slave!’

‘Yes miss Chantou. At once miss Chantou.’

I am always-ultra respectful of miss Chantou, whatever the time of the month – and not just because she is a female cleaner, and therefore my superior and better; but also because I know from bitter experience that she will not hesitate to apply the public-use punishment whip to my bare, kneeling back if she perceives even the slightest disrespect in my demeanour towards her or her footwear.

I immediately, therefore, lower my lips to the cheap, black, plastic on the scuff-marked and dusty, rounded toe-area of miss Chantou’s right shoe, and dutifully start to lick it clean, focussing my eyes on the creases and folds in the side of her pink ankle-sock above the side of her shoe, as I have been ordered to do.

The pale pink of the sock looks nice set against miss Chantou’s pale brown, Cambodian skin.

She laughs at me:

‘Ha! Ha! That right – you lick Cambodian girl, dirty shoe! Ha! Ha! I better than you. You a dirty shoelick. I your master! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes, miss Chantou. As it pleases you, miss Chantou.’

No point in arguing about it. The Cambodian street-prostitute turned cleaning-girl is self evidently speaking the truth. She may be smaller, younger and physically less powerful than me – but she is clearly my female better and master, as everyone around can see. For I am the one on my hands and knees beneath her, obediently licking clean her dirty, black plastic shoe and pathetically admiring the side of her girly-pink anklesock.

Miss Chantou is something of a female creature of habit, so I know what is coming next:

‘Slave busy?’

Miss Chantou always likes to know if I am being kept busy on my public shoelick-stand, even though she knows full well that the answer will always be ‘yes’ – for the women of the Gynarchy are very good at making sure that male slaves are kept permanently busy. Thanks to the magnanimity of the female public I am never left to vegetate on my shoelick-stand, and I have a more or less constant flow of female boots and shoes to lick clean throughout the day and night – perhaps because, ultimately, it is their female taxes that are paying for my upkeep, and they, understandably, want to make sure they are getting their money’s worth!

I therefore temporarily interrupt my humble shoe-licking in order to thank miss Chantou for her question to which she already knows the answer, and to assure her, yet again, that I am being kept very busy:

‘Oh pray, miss Chantou, if it pleases you miss Chantou, this slave is indeed being kept very busy today, if it is so pleasing to you miss Chantou.’

It clearly is pleasing to the hard-working, Cambodian cleaning-girl to hear this again – to know that, whilst her 12 hour shift has now ended and she can go home and relax (after her dirty shoes have been tongue-shined) there is someone lower than her who cannot go home; whose home, indeed, is his work-station, for he is chained up to it 24 hours a day, 365 days a year; someone who is never off duty and can never relax; someone like me – the public shoelick!

Yes, the pleasant thought that there is someone worse off than herself clearly tickles the smiling miss Chantou’s fancy:

‘Ha! Ha! Good. I glad slave busy! You like whore – you work long time or get beat! Ha! Ha! I whore once – but now I free. Ha! Ha! Now you the whore! Ha! Ha! You a nothing! You just a thing that clean women shoes! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes miss Chantou. Thank you miss Chantou. God bless you miss Chantou.’

I am glad miss Chantou is now free of prostitution, for it is an evil trade which no woman should ever be subjected to. Women are not put on this planet to please men. It should be the other way around, in my humble opinion!

That’s why I am glad to be her whore – her shoe-whore! I move, humbly, onto the superior, Cambodian girl’s left shoe – which appears even dirtier and dustier than her right – and begin licking up all the dirt she has been walking in throughout the day around the station. Once again, I stare dutifully at the slightly twisted side of her pale, pink anklesock inside her flat, black, plasticky shoe, as that is what she wants me to do.

Miss Chantou also, it seems, wishes to continue with her insightful observations about me:

‘Ha! Ha! I watch you earlier while you clean blonde businesslady boots! Ha! Ha! I see how she make you take down zip on side of boots with dirty, slave mouth, and kiss black sock! Ha! Ha! Blonde businesslady make you kiss side of black sock! Ha! Ha! I laugh at you. Everyone in station laugh at you. Ha! Ha! You nothing but a blonde lady sock-kisser! Ha! Ha!’

Miss Chantou, I believe, often interrupts her mopping and sweeping in order to observe me whilst I am hard at work. I suspect she is a bit of a ‘slave-spotter’ on the quiet. She must certainly have been watching me today, for I too remember the no-nonsense, blonde-ponytailed businesswoman in the dark, pinstriped trouser suit with the black leather, chunky heeled and square-toed ankle boots.

The young, blonde businesswoman’s particular ‘whim’, as miss Chantou has so eloquently pointed out, was to make me unzip the sides of her black leather ankle boots with my mouth (after I had tongue-shone her boots from top to bottom) and, keeping the boots on her feet, to then humbly and respectfully kiss the sides of her black, ankle-length bootsocks 100 times on each sock – just as a way of publicly demonstrating her female power and authority over me.

Her demonstration seems to have worked, as miss Chantou has just assured me that everyone in the station was laughing at my female bootsock-kissing humiliation. Moreover, it has clearly put ideas into miss Chantou’s own pretty, Cambodian head:

‘Ha! Ha! You like kiss miss Chantou dirty sock? You like take off miss Chantou shoe and kiss side of miss Chantou smelly, pink sock? Ha! Ha!’

I confirm to miss Chantou, in no uncertain terms, that I would indeed like to take off her shoes and kiss the sides of her sweaty, smelly socks, for over the many years of my public servitude I have acquired a pathetic taste for the sight and smell of sweaty, feminine socks:

‘Oh pray, mistress Chantou, if it is pleasing to you mistress Chantou, this slave would indeed be honoured to kiss the side of the mistress’s pink socks, if it would be so pleasing to you mistress Chantou.’

‘Ha! Ha! You beg – you beg take off Chantou shoe and kiss side of Chantou stinky sock!’

I thought I already had, but I am happy to beg again for such an honour and a privilege:

‘Oh pray mistress Chantou, if it pleases you mistress Chantou, please be a sweet and kind mistress to this dirty footslave and permit him to remove the mistress’s shoes and to kiss the sides of the mistress’s dirty, pink socks, all along the insteps, if it would be so pleasing to you most superior and beautiful mistress Chantou.’

Most superior and beautiful mistress Chantou claps her pretty, Cambodian hands with delight and graciously accedes to her public footslave’s humble begging:

‘Ha! Ha! I a kind and merciful mistress. I let slave kiss sock. You take off Chantou shoe. Kiss shoe first - then take shoe off Chantou foot and kiss side of sock. Ha! Ha! You obey! You a slave!’

‘Yes mistress Chantou. Oh thank you, mistress Chantou! God bless you, mistress Chantou!’

The merciful and kind mistress Chantou then smilingly extends her right shoe towards me – the rounded toe of the cheap, scuff-marked, but otherwise shiny, black shoe pointing directly in the air in front of my kneeling nose. I humbly reach up in order to respectfully grab hold of the back of her plastic heel and pull off the cheap, black, laceless shoe.

It comes off with a whoosh – a whoosh of warm, Cambodian cleaning-girl foot-air which is deliciously contaminated by the smell of sweet, feminine foot odour; the foot odour of a young woman who has been working hard on her feet all day.

I revel in the smell, for the very fact that I am obliged by law to dwell in the air which is contaminated by her foot-stink reminds me that miss Chantou, the Cambodian street-prostitute turned cleaning-girl, is my better. She must be – for here I am on my hands and knees, obliged to inhale her sweaty foot and sock odour.

She laughs out loud again as my face and nose now lower themselves directly over the creased and crumpled, lower side of her ankle-length, pink cotton sock:

‘Ha! Ha! You make sure kiss only side of sock – below ankle, where shoe was. You not touch bottom of sock. You only look at bottom of sock. Chantou not want you touch stinkiest part of dirty sock with slave-lips! Ha! Ha!’

Her mistressly orders are clear enough, but seem somewhat bizarre. I am, it seems, slave enough to kiss the relatively clean side of the Cambodian cleaning-girl’s pink ankle-sock, the part below her shoe-line, but not the dirtiest, smelliest, black-stained parts on the soles of her socks?

Very strange! But, as they constantly drummed into us at footslave-training college, a mistress always knows best – and if she says my lips are not worthy enough to touch the very bottom of her sock, them so be it. I must only look at the sweat-stained bottom of the Cambodian girl’s dirty sock – and not touch it.

I must say, though, the warm, lower side of her sock just below her shapely, outer ankle bone does feel good on my lips as I respectfully kiss it - very soft; very pink; very feminine. The pale pink cuff brushes against my nose as I kiss, and the smell emanating from the rest of her sock only serves to enhance my feelings of humility and wonderment as I kiss the creased and crumpled side of her pink, working-girl sock.

Miss Chantou, meanwhile, is in hysterics:

‘Ha! Ha! You a Cambodian-girl dirty sock-kisser! Ha! Ha! I make you kiss sock in public! Ha! Ha! You a whore! You a fool! Ha! Ha! I laugh at you!’

Her mocking words somehow make me just want to kiss her sock all the more vigorously.

After some 10 minutes I take off her proffered left shoe and repeat the sock-worshipping process on her equally warm and sweaty left sock.

I would happily kiss the sides of miss Chantou’s pink anklesocks for 10 hours, let alone 10 minutes, but the inventive miss Chantou hasn’t finished sock-tormenting me yet:

‘Ha! Ha! Now I rub bottom of stinky socks on slave face! Ha! Ha! I make slave ugly face stink of Cambodian-girl stinky sock! Ha! Ha! I make everyone laugh at you!’

Ah, so that’s why she had denied me the privilege of kissing the bottoms of her sweaty, pink socks - lest I inadvertently remove any of her sock-sweat from the socks before she has the opportunity to deposit it all over my ugly, maleslave-face!

Fair enough! I bow to your superior wisdom, mistress Chantou!

The eminently wise and cleverer-than-me miss Chantou joyfully proceeds to rub the soles of her sweaty, pink-socked feet all over my prone and vulnerable face. I can see occasional glimpses of black sweat-stains on the otherwise pink soles of the young woman’s soft, cotton socks.

After several minutes of gleeful and vigorous sock-rubbing, miss Chantou eventually stops in order to verbally mock me some more:

‘Ha! Ha! Now you stink! Ha! Ha! Slave face stink of Cambodian-girl stinky sock! Ha! Ha! Everyone laugh at you. You a stink-face! Ha! Ha!’

She is, of course, perfectly correct. Thanks to her beneficence my face does now stink of Cambodian-girl stinky sock, and everyone in the vicinity of my shoelick-stand is, quite rightly, laughing at me. I am a stink-face.

But the delectable miss Chantou hasn’t finished with me yet:

‘Ha! Ha! Now you kiss Chantou sweaty ankle. You pull down side of sock and kiss Chantou bare ankle. You worship Chantou bare ankle-bone. Ha! Ha! You a slave! You a Cambodian-girl ankle slave!’

Obeying miss Chantou’s words of sweet, feminine wisdom, I duly pull down the side of her warm, pale pink cotton, ankle sock on her right foot and - keeping the rest of her stinky sock on her pretty, Cambodian foot - start kissing her soft, bare ankle skin.

I bless and honour both her shapely anklebones in this humble way, for they are the tired ankle bones of a beautiful, Cambodian cleaning-girl who has been busy on her feet all day, sweeping and mopping the dirty floor of the busy railway station.

But I am the one who is busy now – busy worshipping a superior, Cambodian cleaning-girl’s black shoes, pink socks and bare ankles. I am fulfilled, for I do like to keep myself busy!



Fable no. 6 – Smokers’ Corner

Smoking is banned throughout the Gynarchy – apart from for women, of course!

The Female State could never ban smoking, or any other activity for that matter, for its female citizens – since, for women, the Gynarchy is a totally free country.

And rightly so – for they are the superior sex.

But that’s not to say that the Female Authorities in the Gynarchy positively approve of smoking – therefore they tend to set aside designated areas for those rebellious mistresses who wish to partake of the evil weed despite all the well-publicised health warnings.

In the big cities, for example, the Female Municipal Authorities have set up street-corner smoking booths – known colloquially as ‘Smokers’ Corners’ – in which a free woman is free to smoke should she so wish (though she may, on occasions, have to queue up as each booth only sits one mistress at a time!)

A typical smoker’s booth will consist of a raised chair – rather like a shoeshine chair – in which the lady can relax whilst she is enjoying her cigarette; a tarpaulin-covering over the chair to protect her from the elements in case it is raining or snowing; and a male footslave, like me, kneeling in the base of the booth at the mistress’s feet, ready to clear up the mess after her.

Please allow me to make one thing clear from the outset – although the smoker’s booth may resemble a shoeshine-stand, I am neither a shoeshine nor a shoelick slave.

I think the best way I can explain my role is to let you observe me as I serve my next, female client (we call them clients rather than customers precisely because our role in servicing their footwear is quite limited – as you will soon see).

She is approaching the smoking booth right now….

Miss Manassian is a quite tall and slim, twenty-something girl from one of the nearby insurance offices. She has a beautiful, dark complexion, with beautiful, long, eyelashes and shoulder-length, straight, black hair (though her hair is always covered in a pale yellow, silken headscarf), and she always looks quite serious and studious in her black spectacles.

A very pretty young woman indeed – and always smartly dressed. Today she has on a modest, pale yellow, frilly blouse (presumably to match her pale yellow headscarf) and a pinstriped, dark grey, office trouser-suit – often worn with shiny black, peep-toe stilettos on her pedicured, bare, brown feet and shapely ankles – although today I notice that, perhaps because of the cold, winter weather, she has chosen to wear instead a closed-in pair of black, patent leather, flat-heeled, shoes with decorative, gold coloured, heart-shaped buckles over each of the square-shaped, toe areas.

As the delectable miss Manassian climbs up onto the smokers’ corner chair and makes herself comfortable above me, her feet come to rest on a narrow, metal footrest above a hollow directly in front of my kneeling, and humbly-bowed face. Now that her feet are much closer to me I can see she is wearing thick, black, ankle length towelling socks inside her shiny, black, slip-on shoes – so I’m guessing I was right about the poor girl’s feet being cold during a somewhat bracing today like today!

I believe miss Manassian may originate from Iran, for she does still have a strong ‘foreign’ accent, and I have overheard her speaking what I believe to be Farsi (I used to be a student of Asian languages before I became a slave – and I’m fairly sure it was Farsi she was speaking!).

However I’m speculating about all this. To be honest, I don’t really know all that much about my regular client, miss Manassian, as she never deigns to speak to me as such – in Farsi, or in any other language for that matter!

But I quite understand her stony-faced silence. Indeed, quite apart from the fact that she would probably be in too much of a hurry to finish her cigarette and return to her office desk to ever engage in polite conversation with a mere smokers’ corner footslave like myself, there would be no point in her attempting to engage me in conversation as, by law, I am required to remain dumb.

The Female Municipal Authorities in their superior, feminine wisdom, have decided that my role is so straightforward and undemanding, that there is no point either in my mistress-clients giving me orders – or in my soliciting orders from them. Every superior female-smoker who uses me knows exactly what I am supposed to do, and so I am required just to get on with it. I really am regarded by my female betters as nothing more than a thing and an object, rather than as a human-being.

Which is fair enough, really, for I can’t imagine I could ever have anything to say to the likes of a successful and superior, young, Iranian career-woman like miss Manassian that would be of any possible interest to her superior mind.

I only know her name because she sometimes engages in conversations on her mobile phone whilst she is having a fag above me – and I must have picked up her name whilst inadvertently eavesdropping on her conversation from below.

And it would have been genuinely ‘inadvertent’ eavesdropping; because my first and primary duty as a public footslave in a ‘smokers’ corner’ booth is to admire and concentrate on the superior mistress-client’s feet and footwear whilst she is seated imperiously above me enjoying her cigarette.

As miss Manassian lights up her cigarette above me and settles back into the smoker’s chair, I therefore focus my eyes on the fluffy, black stitching of her thick, black, towelling socks.

I notice almost immediately a loose stitch on the Iranian mistress’s left sock – just above the black, leather shoe line. The loose stitch in the thick towelling sock is actually long enough (about two millimetres or so) to blow about in the stiff, winter breeze that is whistling around my smokers’ booth. I’m afraid, you see, that my humble booth is not completely enclosed and shielded from the elements, and my female clients are not, therefore, I’m ashamed to say, completely protected from the cold and the wind!

Perhaps it’s simply designed to discourage them from smoking, but the ‘official’ reason for the smoking booths not being completely enclosed is that the smoke needs to be able to escape into the fresh air – otherwise such a small booth would quickly become uninhabitable even for a dirty footslave like me (not that the Female Authorities are likely to be overly-concerned about my well-being or working conditions; after all, I’m just a dirty, male slave!)

But the air in an enclosed smoking booth would soon become intolerably stale and choking – unpleasant even for a smoking mistress to have to sit in!

So that’s why the booth is open.

And so I fear that sweet, and intellectual-looking, bespectacled mistress Manassian will just have to wrap herself up well in her yellow headscarf and dark grey, pinstriped suit jacket if she wishes to shield herself from the worst ravages of this admittedly very cold, stiff winter breeze we are experiencing this afternoon.

I only hope that loose stitch on her black, towelling sock doesn’t get any worse – otherwise she might develop a hole in her sock leaving part of her precious, Iranian footflesh exposed to the elements!

At least mistress Manassian will be protected from any rain that might fall by the tarpaulin-cover over her pretty, yellow-headscarfed head. In fact, the tarpaulin even extends out far enough to protect her outstretched legs and feet, and by default my kneeling, bald head which is humbly bowed over her feet. The rest of my feeble, middle-aged, male body is, however, fully exposed to the rain and the wind – and, like all slaves in the glorious Gynarchy I must be kept naked at all times apart from my flimsy, white slave-shorts.

I have to be kept naked in case any mistress wishes to whip me across the bare back – not necessarily one of my client-mistresses, but any passing mistress with a whip who just fancies a bit of a laugh at my expense, or some arm exercise.

Mistress Manassian unfolds some sort of glossy, fashion magazine whilst she takes a drag on her cigarette above me, and she studies the magazine assiduously whilst I dutifully study her shoes and socks.

I must stress again that I am not permitted to touch my mistress-client’s shoes or socks with my slave-mouth – not even if I spot temptingly dirty or muddy patches on her shoes or socks.

Female shoe and sock cleaning is considered a skilled task in the Gynarchy, and we have specially trained public footslaves to carry out such work on a lady’s footwear. I am just a dumb-ass, smokers’ corner footslave, so I have not had any such training. I therefore don’t have a slave-license to lick away ladies’ shoemud or to suck dust and dirt out of a lady’s socks, tights, or nylon-stockings, and must merely content myself with humbly staring at and admiring my Iranian female client’s feet and footwear as she relaxes in the smoker’s chair above me (and perhaps also with imagining how her socks might smell inside her black, leather shoes).

Of course, this is a cause of considerable frustration on my part – for all my natural, footslave-instincts compel me to want to lick dirty, female shoe and clean dirty female sock!

Admittedly, there probably isn’t much that any public footslave, however highly trained, could do to fix that loose stitch on superior mistress Manassian’s left, black, towelling sock – not even a fully qualified sockslave of several years’ experience in the field. The tiny, loose stitch will just have to run its course!

But I can now also observe some tiny little, muddy streaks along the sides of miss Manassian’s flat, black, shiny leather shoes – probably just common or garden streetmud that any young woman will inevitably pick up on her shoes during her routine, daily commute into work. But precisely because it is common muck I feel in my own mind that I probably could wipe off that offending shoedirt for her – just by carefully licking the side of her shoe. I am confident, at least in my own pathetic slave-mind, that I would be capable of doing do without damaging the mistress’s shoe, or disturbing her precious, black sock!

But such a well-intentioned action would be completely out of the question for me! Miss Manassian would no doubt immediately call the Female Police, and I would be arrested and locked away in a foothole dungeon for good if I even so much as breathed my frozen breath-moisture over her superior, upper shoeleather.

It’s just not my public role! My role, whilst the young, dark-haired and yellow head-scarfed, Iranian mistress is seated above me – looking sophisticated, beautiful and proud as she smokes her cigarette and reads her glossy magazine – is merely to kneel in humble silence at her feet and to admire her shoes and socks; to hold them in awe (figuratively speaking, for I certainly mustn’t touch them with my dirty, slave hands!); to humbly observe all the little creases and folds in her thick, black towelling socks as she subconsciously flexes her sweet, feminine foot muscles; and – yes – I can admire the dirty mud-tracks along the sides of her pretty, black shoes.

I just can’t lick or touch her socks, or the sides of her shoes, because, as I’ve already explained, I am, sadly, just a sucker for socks – not a sucker of socks. They are just too good for me. As are the mud-tracks soiling the uppers of my beautiful, young, headscarfed, Iranian mistress’s shoes!

Miss Manassian is now fully relaxed above me. From time to time she casually expels her stale cigarette smoke down around my kneeling face from behind her glossy magazine, or even flicks some cigarette ash unthinkingly down onto the top of my bald ashtray-head. Truly I am not worthy to have her expelled cigarette smoke polluting my unworthy slave-lungs, and her hot cigarette ash burning the top of my head! She is using me in ways that I just don’t deserve, for she is my female master and better!

‘So is that really all you do all day long?’ I hear you ask. ‘Do you just stare at and admire superior, young women’s socks and shoes from anear whilst they arrogantly smoke their cigarettes all over you and flick their ash down onto you?’

Actually – no! I have several other important roles on smokers’ corner!

The first comes when the mistress finishes her cigarette. I mentioned earlier that below the narrow, metal footrest which is at my face-level there is a small hollow. This is because the mistress-smoker is required to stub out her cigarette-butt in this hollow before leaving the smoking booth – using the sole of her pretty shoe or boot, of course. The Female Municipal Authorities, quite rightly, don’t want their fair city’s streets strewn with discarded cigarette-butts!

The first additional role I have, therefore, is to humbly admire the movement in the mistress’s foot as she twists it over the cigarette butt on the floor of the hollow directly below my kneeling face.

I do have to admit that I always find this bit of my humble job one of the most interesting and exciting bits - especially when the mistress, like miss Manassian today for example, is wearing shoes and socks. For, as she nonchalantly stubs out the discarded cigarette-end using the sole of her right shoe, all whilst continuing to observe her stony silence, I get to observe close up and personal the multitudinous creases and folds coming and going in the material of her thick, black, towelling sock beneath her grey-pinstriped trouser leg – all caused by the twisting motion of her pretty, Iranian-girl foot.

Even the leather in her shiny black, flat shoe creases and folds most attractively beneath my face at this exciting point in the proceedings!

Perhaps you really have to see it from my humble, close-up position to fully appreciate it!

But this is also where things start to become even more interesting – for after the mistress has stubbed out her cigarette in the hollow beneath the footrest, she places her right foot back beside her left on the narrow, metal footrest and presses down on it with both her pretty feet so that it tilts upwards right in front of my face.

The dirty soles of the Iranian mistress’s leather shoes are now directly in front of my kneeling face! And my role now is to humbly lick off any mark left by the extinguished cigarette-butt on the sole of miss Manassian’s right shoe (or her left if she had happened to use her left shoe instead to extinguish the cigarette!)

Before you start getting too excited, I must emphasise again that this is the only part of my female client’s footwear that I am licensed to lick – her cigarette stain on the leather sole of her right shoe.

It doesn’t matter, I’m afraid, how dirty the rest of the mistress’s shoesoles may be. The only part I am permitted by female law to tongue-clean is the residual mark left by the cigarette-butt – for a superior, young, Iranian woman can’t be expected to walk the streets with a dirty mark from her discarded cigarette-end soiling the bottom of her pretty, feminine shoe!

If she needs the rest of her shoesole or soles to be cleaned she will just have to seek out the services of a properly qualified public shoelick or shoewipe; there are plenty of them about. My mistress-clients know full well that, by law, I can only lick away their cigarette stains, and that’s why they don’t expect anything more of me!

Still, at least the mistress can walk away from the smoker’s booth with the sure and certain knowledge that she won’t be walking off the remains of her discarded cigarette-butt onto the nice, clean office carpet when she goes back to work!

She knows she has left any such residual cigarette-dirt behind – behind in my public footslave-stomach, for I am obliged, naturally, to swallow whatever I lick off the bottom of the mistress’s shoe.

However, as you’ve probably guessed, that’s not all I have to consume!

After the mistress has departed from the smoker’s booth, I must avidly consume the remaining, squashed cigarette-butt itself – even if the mistress has omitted to fully extinguish it. This is my third and final additional task in my humble smokers’ corner booth.

And I don’t mind doing it – for several reasons:

1) It helps to keep my hunger pangs at bay, for we smokers’ corner slaves, being at the very bottom of the food-chain, aren’t fed much by our owners - the Female Municipal Authorities; at least the dirty cigarette-butts fill up my empty stomach;

2) I have the satisfaction of knowing that some of the smell and taste of the mistress’s shoe-leather will inevitably have remained on her cigarette-butt, and that shoe-leathery butt is now residing inside my footslave-stomach, where it belongs;

3) My Iranian mistress-client’s pretty lips will have been on that cigarette-butt and her saliva, and any mistressly germs and bacteria from her superior mouth, are now a part of me;

4) I am helping to keep the Gynarchy’s streets free of litter and detritus. I am therefore providing a useful public service, in every sense of the expression, for all those pretty mistresses who walk the streets, in every sense of that expression.

The only thing is, I have to be quick in eating and swallowing mistress Manassian’s discarded cigarette-butt, for I know that my next mistress-client won’t be long in coming, and I’d hate for her to have to enter a dirty smokers’ corner-booth with cigarette-butts strewn all over the floor!

I take a pathetic, slavish pride in my booth and my work, as you can probably tell!



Fable no. 5 – Big, Bountiful Mistress

Plump mistresses are, of course, every bit as much deserving of my slavish admiration and respect as their more conventionally pretty, slim counterparts – especially when they indulge me with their bounteousness on my public shoelick stand.

Take mistress Amanda, for example. She is undeniably plump – a fat, white girl with fat thighs, calves and ankles. But, at 23, she is nevertheless a young woman in her physical prime - very sexy and pretty, with brown, shoulder length hair; a beautiful, round, intelligent face; and piercing, intuitive brown eyes.

She dresses prettily too – today she is wearing a white, frilly blouse underneath a loose-fitting, brown woollen, hand-knit cardigan; a navy blue, above-the-knee skirt which shows off her fat, cellulosed thighs and thick, knobbly knees; and flat heeled, round toed, brown leather, pull-on, knee high stretch-boots – boots which are fetchingly crumpled around her, presumably fat, ankles.

But what really appeals to me about mistress Amanda – and this is where she truly indulges me – is that she always wears knee-high socks inside her fat boots, and she deliberately ensures that the elasticated tops of her socks are just visible over the tops of her leg-hugging boots. Today she is wearing attractive, woollen, navy-blue kneesocks with thick, ribbed stitching inside her brown, leather kneeboots – navy-blue socks to match her navy-blue skirt.

Mistress Amanda knows full well that I like this particular boot-sock combination, and skilfully uses it to her mistressly advantage. As she walks up to my humble, ‘stand-up’ shoelick stand she has a warm, yet incredibly smug, smile on her chubby, white face. For she knows that – thanks to the glimpse of knee-high, woolly sock inside her boots, I am already hers for the taking!

She stands imperiously over me and stretches forward her right boot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face, resting her fat hands on her fat hips above me. Thanks to the outstretched positioning of her leg, the top of her navy-blue sock now seems even more stretched and misshapen above the rim of her brown leather stretch-boot:

‘Hi, slave, how’s it hangin'?’

Mistress Amanda likes to come across as all friendly towards me, though, as I must do with all mistresses, I treat her apparent friendship with extreme caution. For we both know – fat, young mistress and scrawny, middle-aged slave – that she is not really my friend. She is my superior and better, with absolute female power over me, who could legally crush me under her brown leather boots at any time should she take a notion for it.

I am, therefore, perpetually at mistress Amanda’s mercy, and I never forget that.

Still, there is nothing wrong with a superior mistress-customer and an inferior male shoelick-slave being civil towards one another!

I therefore greet and praise mistress Amanda, in a manner befitting a humble slave who is graced with the presence of a female better:

‘Oh pray mistress Amanda. God bless you mistress Amanda. This slave is honoured and blessed by the mistress’s presence again today, if you would be so kind mistress Amanda.’

She chuckles to herself – flattered, yet conscious of the fact that, by law, I have no choice but to fawn and toady to her.

She adjusts her brown, woollen cardigan around her shoulders in order to make herself a bit more comfortable as she stands over me. It’s a nice, bright sunny day, but there is a chilly autumnal breeze in the air.

No doubt she doesn’t care one jot that I am shivering and naked apart from my flimsy, white slave-shorts! She won’t care about that because I am just a slave. She doesn’t really care how it’s ‘hangin’ with me. She was just making polite conversation.

Overweight mistress Amanda then pushes all my footslave-buttons as she alone seems to know how:

‘Can you see my socks, slave? I’ve worn my navy blue kneesocks especially for you today!’

Mistress Amanda is totally teasing me with such remarks. Of course I can see her socks – my face is hovering just inches away from them as I kneel before her booted feet – although her socks are very much above me and I can only see them by raising up my eyeballs (by law, I am not allowed to raise my head above a mistress’s knee).

And mistress Amanda also knows full well that I very much like what I see – unnaturally stretched, navy blue, woollen sock-top below fat-girl, white kneecap – not that I could ever say it like that in front of the mistress! But she is a very clever and astute young woman who just knows that I like fat, young women’s socks – and the more sock the merrier. That is precisely why she is pretending to have chosen the socks just for me – her humble, public, shoelick.

It would be quite flattering for a humble slave were it at all true! But, of course, mistress Amanda is just toying with my sockslave-emotions. She has much more selfish reasons for wearing her navy-blue kneesocks inside her brown, leather stretch-boots:

Firstly, they keep her fat feet and legs warm inside her boots on such a bright but chilly day;

Secondly, they protect the precious, inner lining of her expensive, brown leather knee-boots from her leg and foot perspiration for - being a fat girl - she must surely sweat a lot inside her boots?

And thirdly, and most importantly, the divine and lovely mistress Amanda knows that the more enamoured I am with the sight of her socks, and with the knowledge that she is wearing such attractive socks inside her boots, the better service I will provide to the outsides of her pretty boots.

For she does genuinely require her superior boots to be cleaned. That is, perhaps, the only genuine thing about her! And it’s not just me saying that - she practically admits as much herself:

‘Ha! Ha! I might even let you nose the top of my woolly socks if you make a good job of tongue-shining my boots, slave! Would you like that, sockboy? Would you like to nose the tops of my navy blue kneesocks? Would you? Would you?’

Mistress Amanda mocks my slavish enthusiasm for nosing her socks, for she has witnessed me doing it many times before – the only ‘reward’ she ever needs to grant me at the end of one of our regular, boot-licking sessions in order to ensure my undying loyalty to her superior feet and footwear!

Nevertheless I am happy to indulge my beautiful, fat mistress in her superior teasing and mockery of me, just as she is indulging my pathetic, slavish lust for her thick, blue bootsocks:

‘Oh pray, mistress Amanda! Oh yes, mistress Amanda! This slave would be truly honoured to have the inestimable privilege of nosing the tops of the mistress’s socks, if it would be so pleasing to you most high and mighty mistress Amanda!’

Mistress Amanda does indeed seem high and mighty as she towers above me. As we’ve already established – she is a big girl!

She laughs down at me:

‘Ha! Ha! Well – we’ll see, slave. First of all let’s see how you get on with tongue-shining my boots. Shine them up!’

‘Yes mistress Amanda. At once mistress Amanda!’

I drag my eyes away from the fully-stretched, ribbed, woollen stitching and elasticated tops of her navy-blue socks just below her knobbly and misshapen knees, and bury my tongue in the creases and folds of the brown leather around the ankle area of her arrogantly proffered, right boot.

‘Make sure you lick out all the filth!’ counsels mistress Amanda, as my tongue enters one of the deepest folds in the leather covering her outer ankle bone.

‘Yeth mithtreth’ I confirm, speaking with my mouth full of fat-girl, brown leather boot.

As I’ve already indicated, mistress Amanda is genuinely concerned to have her boots properly tongue-polished by the humble, public bootlick, and so she kindly facilitates me in my humble task by occasionally twisting her booted foot round on its flat heel, so that my slave-tongue can have easier access to the less accessible areas of her boot – particularly at the back.

Her problem is, of course, that, although she does require the whole of her brown leather, knee-high stretch-boot to be tongue-polished, the higher up the boot I start to lick, the more distracted I am prone to become by the intriguing sight of her stretched-woollen, navy-blue sock-tops.

I do try not to look at them, for I really don’t want to risk losing my forthcoming treat of nosing her socks – a treat which I might not even receive if I don’t tongue-polish the whole of mistress Amanda’s boots, lowers and uppers, to her complete satisfaction.

Mistress Amanda knows, however, that this is the very ace up her sleeve. She reminds me of my duty towards her upper boot as my forehead approaches dangerously close to her navy-blue sock:

‘Concentrate on licking my boot, slave. Remember, you don’t have my permission to touch my sock yet!’

‘Yes, mistress Amanda. I obey you, mistress Amanda.’

It is a timely reminder to me that the mistress is in charge, and I am but a prisoner of her whims. She is under absolutely no obligation whatsoever to reward her slave for tongue-polishing her knee-high boots – despite all her hints and promises!

Indeed, mistress Amanda can - if she feels so inclined - just walk away after I have successfully tongue-shone her boots, without so much as a by-your-leave. And I could have no cause for complaint – for I am just a slave. I have no right to nose a superior young woman’s socks! It’s a concession – entirely at the discretion of the mistress.

We both know, however, that mistress Amanda won’t just walk away – for she is a woman of her word, and we have a mutual understanding, the mistress and the slave: I will do a good job on her boots because I know she will reward me by letting me nose the tops of her socks. She’s done it many times before, and it is a mutually beneficial arrangement!

I spend some 15 minutes on each boot, for fat and lazy mistress Amanda never seems to be in all that much of a hurry to get anywhere. The scariest part of the bootlicking process for me, is when the mistress reaches down to pull up each boot in order to smooth out all the natural creases in the stretch-boot leather. She does it in order to facilitate my final, all-over licking of each boot – just to make sure that not a single crease or crevice in the brown leather has been untouched by human tongue.

I fully understand why mistress Amanda does it – it gives the whole of her boot a nice shimmering glow as my saliva glistens in the bright sunlight, and she can rest assured that every last morsel of dirt and dust has been removed from the surface of her boot before she once again lets go of the top of the boot and allows the natural creases and folds to return to the stretch-leather around her fat, socked, calves and ankles.

The reason why I always find this stage in the proceedings so ‘scary’ is that there is always the risk that mistress Amanda will inadvertently disturb her socks at the tops of her boots at this point, or that the boots might not settle back as far down her fat legs as they had been before – thereby hiding the exquisitely delightful tops of her woolly, navy-blue socks from me – after all that bootlicking effort!

Mistress Amanda, it has to be said, does like to ensure that only the very tops of her woolly socks – the elasticated rims – are visible over the tops of her kneeboots; just enough sock to tease a pathetic, girlsock-obsessed, public footslave with the knowledge that she is, in fact, wearing smelly, stinky socks inside her warm boots!

But the danger is that because by this stage, from her point of view, the socks have already achieved their purpose in eliciting a good quality boot-shining performance from the humble, public bootlicker, she could, in theory, no longer care if the tops of her socks have now disappeared down inside her pulled-up boots – leaving me with nothing to nose!

But, as I have indicated from the very outset, mistress Amanda is not like that. She is a big, bountiful mistress. She is also very clever, and knows it is in her own best interests to indulge my pathetic sockslavish-fancies and to honour her commitment to let me nose the tops of her navy blue socks – for she knows that it is this sweet and kind mistressly indulgence on her part that guarantees my ongoing slavish devotion in tongue-shining her dirty boots.

I need not worry therefore – mistress Amanda will readjust the tops of her navy blue socks if necessary following my all-over bootlicking in order to ensure that her socks are still accessible to my nose above the upper rims of her stretch-boots.

She still makes a play of inspecting her boots, though, before finally uttering the words that I, and you, have been longing to hear:

‘Ha! Ha! Very well, slave… since you’ve done a reasonable job on my boots you may now nose the tops of my socks. But don’t touch my bare knees!’

My heart leaps:

‘Oh pray mistress Amanda. God bless you mistress Amanda. Oh thank you, thank you most sweet and kind mistress Amanda!’

I strain up my neck as far as the heavy chains will let it go, as mistress Amanda once again positions her fat, right, booted leg onto my wooden footblock, this time leaning forward a bit more so that my nose can reach the top of her soft, woolly, navy-blue bootsock.

The sock is slightly twisted along the elasticated top, but that only heightens my pathetic sockslave pleasure as the more it tickles the sensitive tip of my sockslave-nose, the more excited I become!

I run said nose along the stretched and twisted elastic at the top of the fat mistress’s sock as far round the back of her leg as it will go and breathe in deeply. All I can smell is fresh wool and musty, freshly-licked bootleather – but I just know that the distant toe-end of this pretty sock – deep down and unattainable inside the mistress’s boot – must be moist and stinky.

That is the joy of nosing the top of a fat mistress’s, knee-length bootsock – the utter joy of knowing that I am nosing a stinky sock, and that everyone holds me in fully-justifiable contempt for being a fat girl’s enthusiastic sock-nuzzler!

Everyone - including the wearer of the socks herself, as she changes legs on the footblock after just a few seconds.

Now mistress Amanda is in a hurry, for her mission has been accomplished: her boots have been shined and she just wants to go shopping for some more socks and boots for me to admire and worship.



Fable no. 4 - Oh ****!

We all know that swearing and foul language is prohibited for male slaves. We are obliged, by law, to use the humble and respectful language of slave-speak with all those mistresses whom we come into contact with.

And rightly so, for profanity is totally inappropriate in a humble, oppressed slave.

It is also, however, in my humble slave-opinion, equally unbecoming in a mistress – yet there are no sanctions in law against a mistress who wishes to swear in public.

Unbecoming or not, we slaves must just put up with it if confronted by it, for a superior mistress can do whatever, and speak however, she damn well pleases to a slave! If she wishes to verbally abuse him, rather than just physically abuse him, then so be it!

That is her right.

I was reminded of this humbling fact just a few hours ago whilst I was tongue-shining ladies’ boots and shoes as usual at my 24/7 public footslave stand.

My stand is nothing special - just a common or garden ‘stand up’ shoelick-stand for a common or garden shoelick-slave, situated near the entrance to a large shopping mall. We are two-a-penny. But I do try to take great pride in my humble shoelicking work – despite being, by all accounts, very average at it.

Anyway, I had just finished tongue-shining the black, patent leather, one-inch-heeled, court shoes of a delightfully demure, young Japanese businesswoman when I observed my next customer approaching.

I could sense right from the start that she meant trouble – just from the way she was dressed. She was wearing a rather scruffy-looking, light grey, hoodie top (though the hood was down to reveal her dirty-looking, greasy-blonde hair tied back in a severe ponytail); and equally scruffy, black denim jeans tucked into the tops of a cheap-looking pair of flat-heeled, fur and felt, calf-length boots.

As the boots came ominously closer I could see that they had some criss-crossed black laces on the light-grey furry uppers, although I think the laces were purely decorative. The rest of the boots, below the ankle, were made of plain, black felt material – with obvious scuff marks and dirt stains on the rounded, felt toes.

The female wearer of the boots was talking loudly on her phone – swearing, in fact. She sounded quite angry although, as she finished her noisy conversation, I noticed that she ended it with the words ‘OK, love you babe!’

Those are just about the only words I feel comfortable repeating from her angry phone conversation.

For a moment I thought the angry young woman might be about to walk on past my public shoelick-stand, but no such luck. The young, twenty-something, greasy-haired woman marched straight up to me (having put her phone back inside her grey, hoodie-jacket pocket), unceremoniously plonked her right, furry-booted foot down onto the recently vacated, wooden footblock beneath my humbly kneeling face, and gave me her clear and concise female orders:

‘Alright mate? Clean the filth off my ******* boots man, yeah?’

I must say, I didn’t think the superior young woman’s boots were at all *******. I actually admired the young, blonde woman’s boots, for it is not often one sees such boots being worn on such a hot and sunny day like today.

Then again this young mistress evidently must feel the cold, for she is, after all, wearing her hoodie top as well!

I hear her light up a cigarette above me as I acknowledge the superior mistress’s clear command:

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’

Because her right foot is now resting on the wooden footblock literally only inches away from my humbly-bowed face, I take a few seconds both to admire the furry boot and to seek out the ‘filth’ she is talking about.

On closer inspection the young woman’s boots could indeed do with a good clean. It’s actually quite difficult to tell just how dirty and dusty the grey furry uppers of the boots might be, as any dirt is presumably well-hidden deep inside the fur. However, if the lower, black felty part of the proffered boot is anything to go by these are a well-worn pair of young woman’s boots, soiled by several months’ worth of street dirt and grime. Indeed, judging by the grey scuff marks on the rounded toe area of the outstretched boot in front of me, I doubt whether this particular pair of calf-length furry boots has ever been cleaned!

I must admit I am more than a little bit anxious because I suspect that the fur could be quite difficult to clean. I can only ever recollect having to mouth-clean a very few pairs of furry boots in the past and, unlike these ones, I seem to recall that all the previous pairs I tongue-serviced had real fur. These boots now in front of me, I strongly suspect, are fake fur boots, for the rest of the young mistress’s attire suggests she could not possibly afford a pair of real, fur boots.

I decide, therefore, to start with the easiest part of the boot – the scuff-marked, felty toe – as I feel confident that my mouth can make a visible difference on that part of the superior young woman’s boot.

Down I go, therefore, below the fur and onto the felt.

I can hear the young woman taking a drag on her freshly-lit cigarette above me, and then smell her exhaled smoke as she looks down at me disparagingly resting her right smoking arm on her outstretched, jean-covered knee above me.

As my tongue makes humble contact with the toe of her boot the young mistress wishes to clarify something for me:

‘Make sure you get off all the **** and stuff, mate, or I’ll ******* whip you, yeah? I’ll ******* do you, yeah?’

The young lady sounds quite agitated and aggressive, so I immediately seek to reassure her as to my absolute determination to tongue-clean her boots to her complete, mistressly satisfaction, whilst at the same begging her not to do me any harm:

‘Oh pray mistress, this slave hears and obeys you, most beautiful and respected mistress. This slave will truly do his best to clean the mistress’s boots to her complete satisfaction. Please don’t beat me mistress.’

My whining doesn’t seem to be helping matters much, however, as it merely earns me a sharp kick in the face from the rounded toe of the young woman’s boot, and yet more verbal abuse:

‘Shut the **** up, slave! Just ******* get on with it, yeah? For ****’s sake, you’re doin’ my ******* head in, you are!... ******* moron!’

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress’

Without any further ado I vigorously lick the rounded toe of her proffered, felt boot – the very part of the boot that has just assaulted me. In my feeble and weak slavish mind I praise and bless the boot, for it has clearly protected the superior mistress’s dainty, feminine toes from getting hurt whilst she was kicking me.

Secretly, I pray to the female boot to help me in my dealings with her mistress, for the boot is clearly much cleverer and better than I am. She must be - as she is free to kick me, whereas I am only at liberty to be kicked and sworn at by her magnificent, female owner.

The compassionate boot helps me by giving up her dirt quite readily into my mouth, but the young, blonde-ponytailed mistress who is wearing the boot still appears to be somewhat dissatisfied with my, admittedly feeble, boot-cleaning efforts.

She clicks her tongue in annoyance and, leaning down with her burning cigarette sticking out between the fore and middle fingers of her right hand, points to the furry, grey upper of her delightful, outstretched, feminine boot:

‘Tch! Don’t just clean the lower parts, ******* moron! ******* get your *******, ugly mouth into this furry part too. Can’t you ******* see all the ******* **** in it? You ******* useless ******! If you don’t start doing a ******* better job I’m gonna call my boyfriend Darren who’ll ******* do you, yeah? ******* idiot!’

It is just as I feared. This clever and eloquent young woman is not going to be fobbed of with some freshly-licked felt. She desperately wants clean fur on her boots – and she isn’t faking it!

I now have no choice but to delve into the fake fur with my tongue and just hope that any dirt comes off into my filthy slave-mouth without the fur coming off with it – for I somehow think this young woman wouldn’t very much appreciate her nice, furry boots being denuded of fake fur!

I humbly acknowledge the mistress’s perfectly legitimate concerns as to my weak performance thus far, and promise to do better:

‘Oh pray mistress. Please forgive me mistress. I will obey you at once, mistress!’

The first mouthful of furry boot I taste gives me some hope. The mistress is, of course, correct – there is a considerable amount of street-dust and dirt trapped in the fake fur. She must spend a lot of time walking the streets. But, mercifully, it is only the dirt and the dust that seems to be coming off the girly boot and into my mouth. There are no fake fur balls sticking in my slave-throat!

Thank goodness!

I start to suck on the furry upper with more confidence and more vigour.

I can sense, meanwhile, that the young woman is looking down on me intently from above her arrogantly outstretched boot – obligingly twisting her foot around in order to afford my dirty footslave-mouth easier access to the fur at the back of the boot. Such magnanimity on her part just reinforces the point that she is actually a kind-hearted and gentle young woman, even though my now swollen jaw might disagree (the result of her earlier boot-kick to my gormless face!).

At that moment we are both, mistress and public slave, distracted by a passing female police officer – I by the policewoman’s smart, knee-length, black leather, zip-up, police-uniform boots; my customer by the police officer herself, for the two young women appear to know each other!

‘Hi, Kerry! When did you get out?’ asks the policewoman.

‘Oh hi, miss! I got out two days ago.’

‘Good. Are you back with Darren, then?’

‘Yeah - he even came and picked me up outside the prison! Ha! Ha!’

‘Oh, isn’t he lovely?’ exclaims the lady police officer.

‘Yeah, he’s a diamond bloke really, miss!’

‘Yeah, just don’t let him get you back on the drugs, Kerry, yeah? You know they’re no good for you!’

‘Yeah miss, I’m clean now, honest – thanks to the prison doctor. She’s got me on some amphetamine.’

‘That’s really cool, Kerry! Take care now! See ya!’

And with that the navy-blue uniformed, girl police officer walks off, and miss Kerry’s language immediately starts to turn the air blue again:

‘******* bitch!’ she mutters to herself under her breath, before focussing her ire on me again:

‘You down there, the ******* moron! Were you listening in to my conversation just now, you dumb ******?’

A slave must never tell a lie, but you’ll understand that I had little choice but to lie, under the circumstances:

‘Oh pray mistress. Oh no mistress! If it pleases you mistress, this dirty slave has been concentrating on sucking clean the mistress’s beautiful furry boot, if it is so pleasing to you mistress Kerry.’

Mistress Kerry may be a rude and loutish ladette, but she is not stupid like me. I had inadvertently just given the game away by addressing her as ‘mistress Kerry’ thereby revealing that I had, indeed, been earwigging in on her polite conversation with the uniformed police officer-mistress.

She screams blue murder at me:

‘****** ***** liar! You ****** creep! I’m gonna call my boyfriend Darren and get him to kick the ******* **** out of you! ****** dirty slave! Just you ****** wait!’

Suddenly mistress Kerry’s furry right boot is withdrawn from my mouth, and she storms off without even thinking about having me suck on her still dirty left boot!

My heart sinks. I am in deep trouble, and there will be no-one to protect me from the fury of the furry-booted mistress’s boyfriend. Certainly not the female police officer whose private conversation I had so rudely listened in on whilst my mouth was full of furry boot – she’s not likely to want to protect me from the ‘lovely’ master Darren!

Nor can I run and hide – for I am permanently chained up to my footslave-stand!

I shall just have to take whatever is coming to me – suck it up like I have just sucked up the dirt from mistress Kerry’s furry, grey and black boot!

Serves me right for being such a snob; for insulting the superior mistress’s intelligence; and for not serving her right!



Fable no. 3 – Female Rules

I am a personal footslave who is ‘under new management’.

I was purchased this very morning by my brand new mistress at a car boot sale. I am, therefore, unlike my mistress, second-hand goods - and I believe I went for a very cheap price.

All I know about my new mistress is that she is of Pakistani origins, and is in her mid thirties. She is a little bit overweight, but struck me as being a fundamentally very pretty Pakistani woman with dark, brown eyes and rich, black, shoulder length, curly hair.

At the time she purchased me she was wearing western clothing, and I could hear that she spoke very good English, albeit with quite a strong Pakistani accent – so I am guessing that she has lived here in the Gynarchy for several years.

She appears to live alone as I have now been kneeling in her modestly-sized, one-bedroom apartment – my new home – for several hours and, even though I have been confined to my new mistress’s bedroom, I have managed to have a good look around and can see no signs of anyone else living here.

Certainly no signs of a husband or a male partner. Eve the bed is a single-sized bed.

I am still awaiting formal confirmation of my mistress’s marital status, however (should she deign to give it to me) as my new mistress has ordered me to kneel by the side of her bed and await her instructions.

She does not strike me as the kind of woman who would not strike me, should I displease or disrespect her in any way. Therefore I am doing exactly what I have been told – I am kneeling contritely by the side of her single-sized bed, my head humbly bowed, awaiting her presence in the bedroom after she has made herself a cup of tea in her nearby kitchenette.

I am presuming that she is not making me a cup of tea!

It turns out that I presume correctly, for my new mistress arrives back in her bedroom with only a single mug of tea for herself. I am not a guest in her house. I am a slave – and shall be treated accordingly.

She sits down on the bed directly in front of my nervous, kneeling face.

My new, Pakistani mistress is wearing the same clothes she had on just a few hours ago at the car boot sale: a bright, red and white T shirt; white, cotton leggings which come down to the tops of her still-shapely, if slightly podgy, bare, brown-skinned anklebones; plain, black, cotton anklesocks with a fetching, lacy trim; and black leather, zip-up, ankle boots with somewhat scuff-marked, rounded toes and big, chunky-sized heels. Her boots are still quite dirty and muddy from the grassy parkland where the car boot sale had taken place.

My new mistress slurps on her warming cup of tea and then imperiously extends her right foot slightly forwards on the bedroom carpet, barking her latest order down at me in her beautiful, Pakistani accent:

‘Slave, be kissing my boot. Be kissing it 5 times on the toe.’

I do not know yet whether or not I have permission to speak in my new mistress’s household. Some mistresses do allow their slaves to speak (in the humblest of slave-speak of course); whilst others prefer their slaves to remain dumb – dumb and obedient.

I therefore err on the side of dumbness – since speaking is a privilege for a slave – and merely lower my lips to my new Pakistani mistress’s muddy, black boot-toe.

The boot smells nice close-up. It smells, unsurprisingly, of a mixture of black boot polish, musty leather, and wet mud. It also looks nice – with lots of tiny creases in the leather. This is, evidently, a well-worn pair of my new mistress’s favourite ankle boots.

I kiss the arrogantly outstretched ankle boot five times on the muddy, rounded toe area – as directed.

I sense my new mistress momentarily cocking her pretty, Pakistani head to one side as she sits above me in order to get a better view of her new footslave’s boot-kissing abilities – before she takes another sip of her warm, refreshing mug of tea.

I could do with some refreshing tea myself as my mouth feels very dry and parched. It must be my nerves! However, I suspect I shall just have to make do with some wet boot-mud to flavour the inside of my slave-mouth. After all, whoever heard of a mistress making tea for her lowly, down-in-the-dirt footslave!

I myself haven’t tasted tea in over 30 years – since my initial enslavement!

After 5 respectful kisses, my new mistress withdraws her right booted foot from underneath my face and lazily replaces it with her left.

The toe of the left boot is, I happen to notice, even muddier.

‘And now be doing the same with the other one,’ chirps my new mistress happily above me.

I repeat the humiliating process of kissing her dirty, Pakistani boot-leather.

Having taken several more sips of her refreshing, warm tea whilst I sup on her boot-mud, my new mistress then launches into her introductory monologue whilst I continue to kneel in front of her with my head bowed, staring avidly at her now slightly less muddy, black leather, Pakistani boot-toes.

‘My name is being mistress Shazia, slave, and I shall be calling you my dirty feetpig – because you are being looking like an ugly pig, isn’t it?’

In future you shall be automatically kissing my feet whenever I am being entering or leaving the room, without being waiting for me to be ordering you. I shall not be punishing you this time for your insolence in not being automatically kissing my boots, but if you are failing again whenever I am entering your presence I shall be having you whipped, isn’t it?

You shall also be automatically kissing the boots and shoes of my female friends and acquaintances whenever they are being entering or leaving your presence, and if you are being in the presence of one of my free male friends you will be instantly kissing the ground in front of his feet, isn’t it?

As far as I am being concerned you are not being just my slave – you are being everyone’s slave, for you are being the lowest of the low – nothing but a dirty, ugly old feetpig. Ha! Ha! I am just looking at you – you are being all wrinkly and whip-marked! Ha! Ha! My God, I must be being mad to having been purchasing you at that price! Such an old feetpig! But, my God, I will be making damn well sure I will be getting my money’s worth out of you, isn’t it?...’

Just to explain – I am 53 years old and, as the mistress has so eloquently pointed out, I am quite wrinkly and whip-scarred. I’ve had a hard slave-life!

My new mistress, mistress Shazia, who is neither old nor ugly and hopefully has enjoyed a charmed life as she is young, free and single woman, continues:

‘…Your official role is now being that of my personal feetslave, and I am wishing to make it clear that I am not being giving a damn about you, or your previous history, or your previous mistresses and how you were being treated by them.

You are being my slave now and that means you will be damn well living by my rules!

The first thing you must be realising is that I am requiring you to be continuously concentrating on my feet. You will never be looking away from my feet whilst I am being in your presence, and when I am being absent from you, you will be thinking about my feet and staring at whatever shoes, boots or socks I have been leaving behind with you, isn’t it?

Always remember that I am being better than you, and you are being nothing more than my damned feet-slave, and must therefore be thinking about nothing else other than how you may be better serving my feet! Unless you are being told otherwise you must be constantly following at my feet wherever I am going. You will be crawling on your hands and knees behind my heels and humbly staring at my feet as you are doing so. If necessary I will be fitting you with a pair of permanent blinkers over your ugly pig-head so that you can only be seeing my feet in front of you without any distractions, isn’t it, you damned, dirty slave?...’

You will note, as I have noted, that my loquacious, new mistress does not give me any time to respond to her many rhetorical questions. She takes my agreement as being read, isn’t it?

‘…When I am being stationary, or I am being seated like I am now, you will be kneeling beside or in front of my feet and will be staring at them and worshipping them in your pathetic ,little slave mind, isn’t it? That means you will be studying my boots or shoes for any signs of dirt that you can be removing with your tongue later in the day when I am giving you the order to be cleaning my boots.

You will never be raising your ugly, feetpig-head above the level of my knees, and your slave-piggy eyes must always be being downcast. If I am ever catching you looking at me, or any other human being, in the eye I shall be having you soundly whipped!

Normally, you will be being required to look only at my boots or shoes – but if my socks or tights are being visible you may be studying them also. You will be humbly study the patterns in my socks; you will be counting the stitches and so on, and be turning them into the objects of your desire, so that when I am letting you worship my socks you will be feeling joy and pride in your heart at having the honour of worshipping my smelly socks and tights…’

At this point I duly make sure to raise my eyes ever so slightly in order to study the lacy, elasticated top of my new mistress Shazia’s plain, black bootsock on her right foot. I’m glad I do so, as I now notice for the first time that the black sock is not solely black in its colour! I can just make out the top of some red-coloured, cartoon character’s spiky head on the side of the sock – although most of the cartoon-print is well hidden inside the body of my mistress Shazia’s ankle-high boot.

It is a timely reminder to me, however, in just how important it is to study a mistress’s socks properly, and not to make assumptions about them. Who knows what other secrets my mistress’s socks might contain deep inside her boots?

I look forward to seeing the rest of the cartoon print on my Pakistani mistress’s sweet, feminine sock when I am obliged to remove her boots from her socked feet later on and, no doubt, pay my slavish homage to her sweet, Pakistani-girl socks.

But for now I must just admire how the lacy top of her black, cotton sock protrudes out over the upper rim of her chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboot, and continue to be lectured by her:

‘…At night-time you will be sleeping here on the floor by the side of my bed in case I am needing to be using you during the night. You will be sleeping with my dirty socks inside your pig mouth in order to prevent you from being grunting and snoring, and you will be rising at 5 o’clock every morning, without being disturbing me, in order to be going to the bathroom and hand-washing my dirty socks properly in the sink...’

My mistress takes some more, rather noisy, sips of her tea at this moment in order to let the full force of her words sink in. I am to be her early-morning, human sockwasher!

She then resumes her ‘victory’ speech over her feetslave-loser:

‘...You will be being responsible for washing all my dirty socks and tights by hand, and you will be polishing and cleaning all my dirty shoes and boots by mouth. If they are not being cleaned to my satisfaction you will be being severely whipped!...’

My Pakistani mistress’s ankle-booted, right foot moves slightly at this point, meaning that her upper boot-rim temporarily hides the top of the cartoon character on the side of her sock from view again. I am therefore left with just the tiniest slither of plain, black, lacy sock-top to look at once again, and already I am feeling somewhat bereft.

'…You will also be being responsible for washing and pedicuring my bare feet, isn’t it? You will be scraping out the stinky toejam from underneath my toenails every morning before you are being painting them with a tiny mouth-brush. Also you will be removing any dead footskin by licking my bare feet clean first thing in the morning when I am waking up before you are then washing them properly in a bowl of warm water which you will be fetching from the bathroom.

I am not being able to afford to be feeding you proper food, but as you are just being a dirty pig you can damn well be making do with a mixture of slave-swill and my occasional leftovers. I am really not caring if you are going hungry, isn’t it? You can always be supplementing your diet with my toejam, and my, and my friends’, boot mud, isn’t it?…’

I have to say, mistress Shazia’s boot mud has already impressed me with its leathery and flavoursome texture, so having to survive on her boot dirt shouldn’t be particularly burdensome.

I say ‘have to say ’, but what I mean, of course, is that I would ‘like to say’ – but I daren’t say it because I don’t yet know whether I am permitted to speak to my new mistress!

My sweet and kind mistress Shazia must be able to read my feeble slave-mind, however, as somewhat spookily it is at precisely that point in the slave-induction proceedings that she chooses to put me out of my dumb misery:

‘…You may be speaking in this household, slave, but only when you are being spoken to by your betters, and you may only be speaking using humble slave-speak. If I am catching you speaking like an equal I shall be again having you whipped, isn’t it?...ANSWER ME, YOU DIRTY FEETPIG!’

At last! My chance to answer back:

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress. God bless you most sweet and kind mistress Shazia.’

My new mistress, despite feeling the need to raise her voice to me, nevertheless appears to be reasonably satisfied with me – even if she finds me physically repulsive, for which I humbly apologise to her. I can only make up for my ugliness by obeying her female rules, by kissing her boots, and by admiring her socks.

For, as luck would have it, at that very moment my mistress Shazia subconsciously twists her right foot to one side again - just enough to afford me another restricted view of the top of that intriguing, red cartoon character on the side of her cheap, cartoon-print ankle sock inside her chunky-heeled, black leather, zip-up, Pakistani ankle boot.

Already, you see, I am becoming a good sockslave, as well as a feetslave, to my new Pakistani mistress – obsessed by her young-womanly socks!

But there is one thing still preying on our minds – both on her superior, mistressly mind and on my inferior, maleslave mind.

The whip!

My mistress has made several references to having me whipped, but she has not yet produced the whip in question. That’s a bit odd, for it is customary for a new mistress to show her new slave the whip, partly as a warning and a deterrent to errant behaviour, and partly to reinforce the message that she is the one in charge; that it is the mistress who, quite literally, holds the whip-hand!

My mistress Shazia can evidently once again detect my concern and curiosity written on my wrinkly old pigslave-face, for she once again kindly puts me out of my misery:

‘I shall not be whipping you myself, slave. There just isn’t being enough room inside this tiny flat to be swinging a whip. But fortunately I am still being on good terms with my ex-husband, Iqbal, and he has being offering to whip you on my behalf at any time should I be wishing for you to be whipped.

I am hoping, for your damned sake, that it will never be being necessary for you to be being whipped, dirty feetpig-slave, for my ex-husband is being something of an expert with the whip. I will kindly be showing you a video later of him whipping my former slave, as I used to be enjoying filming my husband whenever he was applying the whip to our slaves!’

Spontaneously I lower my lips to mistress Shazia’s still dirty boot-toes:

‘Oh pray mistress Shazia! Please don’t have me beaten, mistress! I will be a good feetslave to you mistress Shazia. God bless you mistress!’’

Yes, I know – I’m taking a hell of a risk in blubbering for mercy, not least because my new mistress has just made it clear to me that I am only to speak to my masters and betters – and she is now most assuredly my ultimate female master and better – when I am spoken to; and I am also fully aware that my mistress was not asking me how I felt about being whipped. She was merely telling me how it would be!

But a slave quickly develops not just a thick skin on his back, but also a sixth sense about his mistress – her whims and fancies; her likes and dislikes. And I somehow just know that my spontaneous verbal and physical grovelling over my new mistress Shazia’s dirty, black ankleboots, inspired as it is by a genuine fear of the whip, will be pleasing to her.

And you can tell from all her kind words of welcome to me above that my mistress Shazia is clearly not a cruel and vindictive slave-mistress. She may have beautiful, dark skin and equally beautiful, dark, permed hair, but she can simultaneously be described as a ‘fair’ young woman.

I am actually feeling quite relieved, for I sense that my new, Pakistani mistress’s bark is going to prove to be somewhat worse than her bite. She and I are going to get along just fine – providing, of course, that I show her proper, male-slavish respect by kissing her feet, studying her boots and socks, and obeying all her female rules.

For a superior female’s rules, unlike other rules, can only ever be broken under pain of the whip!



Fable no. 2 – Caught by the Fuzz

It began routinely enough.

The superior, free couple approached my public ‘stand-up’ shoelick booth, arm in arm, and the young, white woman stretched forward her right foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face for cleaning.

She was wearing a tweed, knee-length skirt along with a fetching pair of dark brown, thick woollen, knee-high socks and a pair of pale blue, leather flats with a single, ultra-thin, metal-buckled strap across the crown of her socked foot. The female wearer of the flats and kneesocks looked quite intellectual, as I had noticed on her approach towards my footblock that she was also wearing a pair of heavy, black-rimmed glasses on her pretty, if podgy, white face beneath her curly, black, shoulder length hair.

She appeared to be considerably younger than her male companion, being no more than 24 or 25 years old, whereas the man looked to be about my age – in his late forties or possibly early fifties.

Nevertheless, they were clearly boyfriend and girlfriend, and blissfully happy with each other too, having approached my public shoelick stand arm in arm! If I had been in any position to do so, I would have congratulated the middle-aged master on ‘pulling’ such a bookish-looking, but attractive, young woman.

For, although she was perhaps a bit on the plump side, and rather dowdily dressed for a young woman in her prime, she still exuded bucket loads of young-womanly charm. In particular, from my lowly vantage point kneeling at her feet, I had to admire the way her plump lower legs and calf muscles caused her dark, brown, thick, woollen kneesocks to stretch out wide above my face – giving me an overwhelming sense of being completely at the mercy of her powerful, brown-socked calf and shin muscles.

Pleasingly, her fat legs were also causing some of the individual lines of thick, ribbed, vertical stitching in the woollen material of her knee-high socks to stretch unnaturally, thereby affording me a surreptitious glimpse into the wonders of the fat, curly-haired, bespectacled, young white woman’s pure, soft leg-skin beneath some of those stretched-open stitches.

All in all, I felt honoured to be about-to-be-used by such a dowdy, but dominant looking, young woman, and I promptly lowered my dirty footslave-lips to the somewhat scuff-marked, rounded toe area of her outstretched, pale blue leather, flat shoe in order to pay my initial, footslavish respects to her unglamorous footwear before, presumably, being ordered to shine up her dirty shoe with my public footslave tongue.

It was the man - now lovingly clutching his girlfriend around her fat waist as she stood over me with one foot and leg presented to my kneeling face – who spoke first, in between laughing down at me:

‘Ha! Ha! How do you like my girlfriend’s shoes and socks, boy? ‘Aint they pretty?’

He sounded American:

‘Yes master, if it pleases you master, this slave truly admires and honours the beautiful young mistress’s shoes and socks, if it is so pleasing to you both most esteemed master and mistress.’

The middle-aged man continues to laugh at me, this time accompanied by his fat girlfriend:

‘Ha! Ha! Yeah – I can see you like them, boy! Just look at you – you’re practically drooling all over them! Ha! Ha! You’re pathetic! What a loser! What a sock-dork! Ha! Ha!’

The young woman now spoke for the first time:

‘Ha! Ha! Make him clean my shoes and socks for me, Harry!’ she pouted – clearly happy to give master ‘Harry’ all the power in this situation.

The latter just could not seem to stop laughing at me – clearly pleased with himself and his innate superiority over me in his ‘pretty’ girlfriend’s eyes:

‘Ha! Ha! You heard my girl, slave-boy – do as she says! Clean her dirty shoes and socks! Start with her right leg!’

The fat, young, bespectacled, woman then whined further at her boyfriend:

‘Make him straighten my sock first, Harry. It’s gone all wonky!’

Master Harry, whom we have already established is easily amused, seemed to find this particular request by his fat and lazy young girlfriend hilarious:

‘Ha! Ha! What’s up, sweetheart? Can’t you be bothered to pull your own socks up? Ha! Ha!’

The young woman smiles lovingly at him, and kisses him:

‘Ha! Ha! Why should I, honey, when I’ve got this piece of filth to do it for me?’

She then sneers down at me through her thick-rimmed glasses in equal measure to the loving look she has just been directing towards her wealthy, middle-aged boyfriend.

'Ha! Ha! Too true honey! Ha! Ha! ...Hey, you down there - piece of filth - you heard my girlfriend! Straighten her pretty sock – pull it up nice and tight on her pretty leg so that all the creases and wrinkles in the sock are smoothed away!’

‘Yes master. At once master.’

‘And don’t you dare touch my bare skin, dirty slave,’ counselled the mistress.

‘No mistress. Of course not, mistress.’

Master Harry intercedes further on behalf of his beloved girlfriend at this point in order to draw my attention to the dire consequences there will be for me should I inadvertently disobey his fat, female partner and touch her precious, bare leg-flesh whilst I am attempting to straighten her dark brown, woollen kneesock with my slave hands:

‘You’d better not touch my girlfriend’s skin or I’ll personally skin you alive! Do you hear me, boy?’

‘Yes master. God bless you master. Thank you, master sir.’

The young fat woman laughs out loud at my obsequiousness vis-à-vis her good self and her masterful boyfriend, and she then once again embraces and kisses her manly boyfriend above me, momentarily causing her outstretched, right foot and socked leg to wobble directly in front of my humbly bowed face on the wooden footblock.

I decide to wait until the sweet, young woman’s right leg has once again settled prior to touching her kneesock – lest I end up doing the very thing I have been warned about and transgress with my slave-fingers onto her bare skin!

I only have to wait a few seconds as the couple promptly cease snogging, and then glare down at me intently in anticipation of my humiliating girlsock-straightening efforts.

Somewhat gingerly, I gently pinch the delightfully stretched, elasticated top of the fat, young white woman’s dark-brown kneesock and respectfully pull it up her leg a further inch or so to just blow her extremely podgy and knobbly kneecap.

For the first time I can sense also the cellulose on the young woman’s fat, wobbly thighs above me. It’s almost as if her thick thighs could do with being ‘straightened out’ themselves!

I’m pleased to note, however, that at least many of the offending creases and folds in the bespectacled and curly-haired mistress’s ‘wonky’ kneesock have now disappeared thanks to my humble efforts in gently pulling up her sock, and with just one further, short twist to the right of the elasticated top of the female sock the ‘wonkiness’ has indeed all but gone.

The dominant couple certainly seem to be impressed by my efforts, for although neither of them verbally congratulates me or thanks me, I am entitled to deduce from the fact that they don’t actively criticise me that they are, indeed, well satisfied with the results of my humble sock-straightening on this fat girl’s leg.

The man simply urges me to proceed immediately with my further, equally-humbling, footwear-chores:

‘Ha! Ha! Now start cleaning my girl’s shoes and socks, slave. Start with her right foot, and lick all the dust and gunk off her pretty, mary-jane shoe.’

‘Yes master.’

‘Oh Harry – you’re so masterful towards him!’ swoons the young woman, evidently falling even deeper in love with master Harry the more he talks down to me and treats me like the dirt beneath her feet.

I am pleased to be of service to the master.

And to his besotted young mistress, of course! I put my tongue to work on the scuff-marked, plain rounded toe area of her pale blue, single-strapped, flat shoe – admiring the way the young woman’s sock flexes in tandem with her pretty, feminine footmuscles inside her shoe in what is, hopefully, a pleasurable, instinctive reaction to my deeply humble shoeshining efforts.

Her dark brown, overly-stretched, knee-high sock now seems to truly tower above me as I minister to the dusty toe of her pale blue shoe with my experienced public-footslave tongue.

Meanwhile the master continues to mock me and laugh at me:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, shoelick-boy! Lick away all the crud from my girlfriend’s dirty shoe! Ha! Ha! Taste where she has been walking! Ha! Ha! Lick the bottom of her shoe! Shine it! Clean it! Ha! Ha!’

The young woman, presumably prompted by her boyfriend Harold’s stipulation that I should ‘taste where she has been walking’, obligingly lifts up the front of her flat, leather shoe by resting her heel on the wooden footblock – thereby affording my slave-tongue greater access to her dirty shoesole.

I take my cue, lick the dirt-stained, beige coloured underside of her otherwise, pale blue shoe, and taste where she has been walking thus far that day.

It tastes bitter and dirty – as one might expect.

I must have involuntarily screwed up my face in disgust at the foul-tasting shoesole as the young woman herself now laughs down at me again:

‘Ha! Ha! What’s the matter slave? Don’t you like the taste of my shoedirt? Ha! Ha!’

The master, ever protective of his girlfriend’s honour, once again offers to intervene on her behalf, eyeing up the public-use punishment whip that hangs on the wall next to my footslave-stand:

‘Do you want me to whup him, honey? I’ll soon teach this ingrate proper respect for your dirty shoe-mud!’

Fortunately for me the young woman, who is evidently full to overflowing with the milk of sweet, womanly mercy (as well as full to overflowing with chocolate, biscuits and cakes!) saves me from an immediate punishment-whipping:

‘Ha! Ha! No, honey – it’s OK. Just so long as he swallows all the dirt he licks off the bottom of my shoe!’

The master relents:

‘Ha! Ha! You hear that boy? Lick and swallow, and then praise and bless my pretty girlfriend for not having you whupped!’

‘Yes master. At once master.’

I obey master Harold as I do know what’s good for me. I ostentatiously lick and swallow the blackened dirt from the sole of the fat, but merciful, bookish mistress’s dirty shoe.

For her part she relaxes once again and rests her foot back down flat on the wooden footblock, just as I further obey the master by eulogising the mistress and praising her for her goodness and mercy towards me:

‘Oh pray mistress, God bless you mistress, and thank you for not having me whipped, mistress. Truly this slave apologises to the mistress for his disrespectful demeanour, and assures the mistress of his total and unconditional admiration for the taste of the mistress’s precious, feminine shoedirt, if you would be so sweet and kind to a humble slave who throws himself on your mercy, most superior young mistress.’

Master Harold bursts out laughing again:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s enough of my girlfriend’s shoedirt for now, slave-boy! Now start to clean her sock!’

I have to confess to being a bit perturbed by the master’s latest command. Just what exactly does he mean by ‘clean her sock’? The dark brown kneesock already looks and smells perfectly clean to me – and it is very close to my face. I just cannot see any dust or dirt stains anywhere on the dark brown sock – and I do carefully examine the entire length of the sock close-up as I kneel in front of it.

Perhaps the master and mistress wish me to remove the mistress’s pretty, pale blue shoe in order to freshen up the sweaty toe end of her sock with my footslave-mouth? For there must surely be at least some sweaty marks on the foot-end of such a fat, young woman’s thick woollen sock inside her closed-in shoe – especially when she has chosen to wear such unflattering, thick, warm woollen socks on a relatively hot, summer’s day such as today!

But I’m equally sure that the master or mistress would have specifically ordered me to remove this young woman’s shoe, and to sniff or suck her inner sock - if that was indeed what they had in mind. Instead, I am simply being ordered to clean the outer parts of an already clean sock – as far as I can tell!

One thing you learn above all else, as a prone and vulnerable public footslave, is that a master and mistress are always right. If they deem sock to need cleaning – than cleaned it must need to be, and cleaned it damn well will be!

It is not for me to query my betters’ orders!

And so I simply start to lick and kiss the fat, young, bespectacled, tweed-skirted white woman’s dark brown, knee-length sock – starting with the area of thick, woolly sock between the toe of her shoe and the thin, pale blue, leather shoe-strap that crosses her socked foot just below her podgy anklebone.

I dutifully run my slave-tongue up the (thanks to my earlier efforts) perfectly straight line of one of the thick, ribbed stitches of the woollen sock – up as far as the narrow shoe-strap, desperately seeking out invisible dirt and dust on the lower part of the young woman’s sock.

The happy couple laugh at me again as I then proceed with my slave-tongue to the area of her sock above the leather shoe-strap:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave, run your tongue up and down my girlfriend’s dirty, brown kneesock! Ha! Ha! Lick off all the filth!’

I deduce from this that I must, literally, be on the right lines as my tongue obediently traces the lined stitching of the thick, brown, woollen girlsock!

And it gets progressively easier to keep my tongue within the confines of each individual line of vertical, ribbed stitching the higher up on the sock my face goes – for the stitching is more and more stretched as I approach the elasticated top of the kneesock, thanks to the young woman’s fat lower legs.

I therefore happily continue to lick sock - until the mood suddenly and unexpectedly changes for the worse as the female wearer of the brown sock starts to complain to her boyfriend:

‘Harry –look! He’s not getting any of it off!’

She pouts disappointedly and disapprovingly at her boyfriend.

Master Harold is no longer laughing, and instead crouches down beside me (and his girlfriend’s outstretched leg), grabs me by the hair, and unceremoniously pushes my face directly onto the middle part of his girlfriend’s soft, woollen sock:

He shakes my head to and fro, and literally rubs my face deep into his girlfriend’s thick, woollen sock over her besocked, fleshy shinbone:

‘Did you hear that, boy? Did you hear what my pretty girlfriend just said? What are you gonna do about it, boy? How are you gonna fix it?’

I am confused and perplexed – and not just because of the fuzziness inside my footslave-brain caused by the shaking of my worthless head by the supremely important master. I really don’t know what the young mistress is talking about!

Exactly what have I failed to remove from her socks? Like I said before, I can see absolutely nothing wrong with the dark brown knee-sock, not now that I have straightened and licked it for her!

I decide that my only hope is to plead dumb, footslavish ignorance and to pray the master and mistress for enlightenment:

‘Oh pray master! Oh pray mistress! This stupid slave is dumb and thick, master and mistress. Pray enlighten me as to the nature of my failings, that I may repent and make them right, if you would be so kind to a lowly, dumb-ass foot and sock slave, most kind and generous master and mistress?’

‘Hah!’ shouts the master down at me, incredulously. ‘You mean you really can’t see what’s wrong with my girlfriend’s sock, slave boy?! Hah! Call yourself a footslave?! Hah!’

The young woman appears to be equally incredulous, and impatient:

‘Tch! Hit him Harry! Make him wake up! Knock some sense into him!’

Master Harry tries his best to do just that, by slapping me hard across both cheeks several, stinging times.

But it’s no use – I still can’t see what the problem is with the mistress’s sock!

Fortunately, master Harry eventually takes pity on me, and once again positions my face directly over the shin area of his girlfriend’s knee-length sock:

‘Look, boy – can’t you see them? Can’t you see all those fuzzy bits of brown sock-lint stuck to my girlfriend’s pretty sock?’

He slaps me hard again!

At last I see what the dominant couple are concerned about – sock fuzz! Of course! The fat, young woman wants me to lick away her unsightly sock fuzz - those scrunched up little balls of woollen sock lint that tend to gather in places on a well worn and favourite pair of socks!

The mistress wants her socks to look smooth and new again – free of sock fuzz!

How stupid can I have been not to notice it!

I apologise immediately to the master and mistress for failing to notice such an obvious flaw in the mistress’s otherwise pristine kneesock as it was literally staring me in the face:

‘Oh pray master, oh pray mistress! Please forgive this stupid, ignorant slave, master and mistress. This slave will immediately seek to make amends by obeying the superior master and mistress, and will endeavour to remove the little balls of sock lint from the outside of the superior mistress’s sock with his mouth – if it would be so pleasing to you both, master and mistress.’

The young woman appears, however, to be inconsolable with frustration and impatience at my moronic, footslave stupidity:

‘Tch! Make him shut up, Harry! Just make him get on with it! Make him suck off all the little bits of sock-fuzz from the outside of my sock! Tch! He’s such a dumb-ass!’

Master Harry gallantly tries to calm her down:

‘Relax, honey. I’ll make sure he gets all that fuzz off the side of your pretty kneesock if it’s the last thing I do! Dammit, you just see if I don’t!’

And with that angry master Harry personally takes charge of my head, guiding my face and tongue by means of his sheer brute force over the little clusters of brown sock lint that are clinging to the stretched stitching on the outside of his overweight and petulant girlfriend’s sock, forcing me to suck sock until all the offending little fur balls have disappeared deep down inside my footslave-throat!

It takes me about half an hour to de-fuzz both the young woman’s dark brown kneesocks to the dominant couple’s complete satisfaction – but even then my run in with the fuzz is far from over!

For the young woman duly summons over a nearby, patrolling Female Police officer, and reports me to her for the crime of failing to clean her socks properly when ordered to do so.

The female police officer apologises to the young, fat, bespectacled, dowdily-dressed woman on behalf of the Female Authorities, and assures both her and her much older boyfriend that I shall be properly punished with the full force of the Law.

The happy couple then stand back, arm in arm, and laugh heartily as they watch the woman officer formally arrest me for neglect of public duty, slap the handcuffs on to my wrists, and drag me on my hands and knees by means of a heavy chain attached around my scrawny footslave-neck towards a waiting Female-Police car.

Caught by the Female Fuzz for neglecting a superior young woman’s sock fuzz!

There’s a kind of natural justice in that, don’t you think?



Fable no. 1 – The Female Army of Barbaria

Today we are celebrating Female Army Day. The city is decked with the blue and white flags of the Gynarchy, and the streets are lined with cheering citizens as our smartly-uniformed female soldiers march through the central town square.

The Female Army of Barbaria (or FAB for short) have a very fetching, ceremonial uniform consisting of white leather berets; pink leather jackets with matching pink leather miniskirts; and low-heeled, calf-length, white leather go-go boots.

They also carry whips instead of guns, as the whip is the only weapon they need to beat their male enemies – literally beat them! For the female whip is mightier than the male sword.

Their white go-go boots are made for marching, and today that’s just what they’ll do. Moreover, today they will be marching all over my maleslave-face, for I too have a humble role to play in the Army Day celebrations – that of being a male footwipe for the lady soldiers to ceremoniously wipe their feet on as they march over me.

Specifically, they will be wiping the dirty soles of their pretty, white, calf-length boots on my upturned and confined face, for I am well and truly buried, face upwards, in a hole in the dirty parade-ground, with only my ugly, male face exposed to the elements – and more particularly to the elements stuck to the soles of the superior, female soldiers’ feminine go-go boots.

Each lady soldier takes it in turn to march up to my face, glance down at me with a look of utter, female disdain (which, although staged, is invariably also quite genuine) and then wipe her feet clean on me, prior to shouting the words ‘Female Power’ at the top of her sweet, feminine voice.

The symbolism is quite clear – I am a representative of all mankind; of our weakness and powerlessness in the face of female superiority; and of our complete and utter subjugation by, and submission to, the superior sex.

I am actually quite proud to have been chosen for this high-profile, low-profile role!

As the parade progresses my upturned face is rubbed suitably sore and dirty by a constant stream of white, calf-length, female army, go-go boots being wiped clean on it. Despite my pain and humiliation, however, I am pleased to observe how many different ethnic backgrounds the female soldiers of our great Gynarchy’s Army come from.

Truly the glorious and victorious Gynarchy of Barbaria is a magnificent multiracial, superior-female melting pot!

As I look up, I am looked down upon by pretty (but universally contorted with disdain) white, black, brown, Caucasian, Asian, Latina, Arabic and Oriental female faces. I can tell from their smug and contemptuous expressions that all of them, to a woman, are thinking exactly the same thing – that they are my female betters, whatever their racial background or ethnic origin – and that I, like all men, am not worthy to lick the white uppers of their go-go bootleather; I am fit only to taste where they have been marching on the soiled soles of their pretty boots.

To comfort myself during my ignominious role as a pathetic representative of the weaker, male sex, I – pathetically - like to imagine what type of hosiery, if any, each individual soldier-girl is wearing as she wipes the soles of her dirty boots on my upturned face.

In the case of some of the female soldiers, of course, I don’t have to guess – for I can clearly see that they are wearing either tan or dark coloured nylon tights or stockings on their shapely legs and thighs above the tops of their ceremonial, white go-go boots. Still others are wearing knee-high or calf-length socks inside their boots, for I can see the scrunched-up tops of their bootsocks peeking out over the tops of their white boots.

The exciting thing is, however, that – judging by these nylon tights and/or knee and calf length socks – there is no formal stipulation in the uniform regulations as to exactly what colour and style of hosiery the female soldiers are required to wear. I observe, for example, knee-length socks that are pink to match their pink leather jackets and miniskirts; or some that are plain white to match their boots; and yet others that are purple, or red, or yellow or just a whole mixture of different colours.

Moreover, some of the sweet, feminine knee-socks are made of wool, with thick, ribbed stitching, whilst others appear to be made of cotton, and have either plain or patterned stitching.

In short – the choice of hosiery is entirely down to the choice and footwear-preferences of each, individual female soldier.

And why, you ask, does all this matter so much? Because it is an indication that those soldier-girls who are wearing shorter, unseen ankle socks inside their pretty, white, ceremonial marching boots must be wearing all different kinds and varieties of short socks on their hot and sweaty, goose-stepping feet!

Pathetically, I find that sleazy thought immensely exhilarating, and I do my best to make an intelligent, slavish guess as to the exact style, colour and material of each and every soldier-girl’s hidden socks inside her boots whilst she ceremoniously wipes her dirty boots on my face.

As a rule, the prettier the girl, the more manky I like to imagine her socks to be. There is something intoxicating for a pathetic maleslave-brain in the thought that an otherwise ultra-pretty and attractive young woman - who takes great care in her personal appearance and great pride in her young-womanly beauty - might hold her footslave in such utter contempt that she deliberately chooses to wear grubby, dirty, sweaty and well-worn socks purely in order to reinforce her natural feminine disdain and opprobrium for him.

My only regret is that none of the manky pairs of feminine socks that I like to envisage on the prettiest soldier-girls’ feet are ever presented to my face – for the public spectacle is strictly confined to the female-soldiers wiping clean their dirty boots on me. Sock sniffing or kissing or worship is not an integral part of the ceremony – more’s the pity!

Of course, I could be wrong about those soldier-mistresses whose socks I must imagine in my febrile footslave-mind. The girls – even the most beautiful ones - may well be wearing nice clean, white socks inside their boots; socks fresh on them that very morning and never worn before on their pretty black, white, brown or yellow feet before! Or, indeed, they might not be wearing any socks at all! They might actually be barefoot inside their white, go-go marching boots – although I think that unlikely given the sweat that all that marching must be generating on their soft and delicate feet!

Surely they would wish to protect the lining on the insides of their pretty boots from their natural footsweat by wearing some form of sweet, feminine hosiery?

To be honest – it doesn’t really matter what the reality is, for I shall never get to know what type of ankle sock each soldier-girl is wearing, if any, inside her boots. It is pure, pathetic, footslave fantasy on my impure part – comfort fantasy – and therefore I can imagine whatever I like as I lie prone and vulnerable in the female dirt.

Take the young Oriental soldier-woman who is marching up to my face right now. She is most definitely one of the pretty ones – petite, and yet somehow all-powerful as she seems to tower above me whilst I lie, effectively, below ground level underneath her booted feet.

She looks to be Japanese or possibly Korean in origin but, unlike many of her soldier-girl compatriots of far-eastern ethnic origins, she is not wearing knee or calf-length socks on her pretty, oriental legs. She is therefore one of the soldier-girl sock-teases – forcing me to imagine what type of socks she may be wearing inside her smart, white go-go boots!

As she raises the sole of her right boot and ceremoniously brings the rounded toe end down onto my forehead in order to wipe her dirty bootsole down across my upturned nose, mouth and chin, I speculate that she must be wearing short, white ankle socks inside her boots.

She looks severe and stern, but then it is a serious business wiping your feet across a footslave’s face in front of multitudinous, female dignitaries – the great and good of the Gynarchy. It is important to clean your marching boots properly along the public footslave’s face so that all the traces of female boot dirt and mud are deposited where they belong – inside the male footslave’s mouth.

I imagine that a strict, no-nonsense, oriental young woman such as this would wear white socks in order to match her white boots (even though nobody will see them), but I imagine also that they will actually be a pair of plain, white sneaker socks – not really designed for bootwear as such, but enough to garnish the perspiration from her pretty, oriental toes and insteps as she marches along with her female comrades-in-whips in celebration of Female Army Day.

Because she is ultra-pretty, I imagine too that her short, white socks are quite grubby, with black boot stains on the bottoms where the inner lining of her boots has reacted with the natural chemicals in her foot-perspiration thereby sullying her once fresh-white sneaker socks.

The dirty, white socks symbolize yet further her female contempt for me.

The beautiful, Oriental soldier-girl mistress removes the sole of her right boot from my face, having dragged it roughly and uncaringly over my footwipe nose and mouth, only to repeat the boot-wiping process with her left boot, prior to shouting the formulaic words in her cute, oriental accent:

‘Female Power!’

Her feminine words of victory echo around the square, and are greeted by a loud round of female cheering and applause – as happens after each and every soldier-girl boot-wiping on my gormless, upturned male face.

Needless to say, my role in the ceremony is a non-speaking part, but if I were permitted to speak my chosen words would be as follows:

‘God bless you goddess soldier-mistress, and thank you for wiping your dirty boots on my face. Pray march on, all-powerful mistress, and leave me behind, lying in the dirt where I belong, my face covered in the dirt from the soles of your precious boots and those of your female comrades. Truly you are all my betters, and I am but the male dirt crushed beneath your superior, feminine feet!’

I imagine such pathetic words would elicit another cheer from the female crowd of onlookers - a victorious cheer as I surrender to Female Power on behalf of all my fellow men!

The next young military-woman to wipe her feet on me is black – West African I would have said – and she too is bare-legged inside her boots. I notice some dirt marks on the white, leather uppers of her calf-length boots, and this predisposes me to assume that she would be even less fastidious about the cleanliness of her socks inside her boots than her oriental predecessor.

Plus she is a very beautiful African girl – maybe a little on the plump side, and with a double chin – but nevertheless with a beautiful, bright-red-lipstick-painted mouth and round, shapely cheekbones. In my mind I match her socks to her lipstick, and so the image of her socks that I conjure up is of bright red, but dirt stained and holey, crumpled up and uneven ankle socks on her presumably somewhat podgy, black feet.

Don’t get me wrong – I may well be wrong! But the simple fact is that I am fervently hoping that this superior, West African, soldier-girl mistress may be wearing manky, red socks inside her white go-go boots because those are the type of socks I would dearly love to worship on her superior, West African feet, if I were in any position to worship her socks!

How degrading and humiliating it would be to have to sniff and smell the stinky, red, crumpled up and holey, red socks of an African soldier-girl at the end of a long day marching in her ceremonial, white go-go boots – particularly whilst she is still wearing the grubby, sweat-stained, footslave-insulting socks on her sweaty feet!

Of course, it is not just black girls who can have stinky feet and socks! The next soldier-girl to avail herself of my ceremonial footwipe-face is a tall, thin, gum-chewing blonde girl with a fetching, soldier-girl ponytail peeking out at the back of her white leather, beret. She really is a girl with supermodel looks, and thankfully she too is not wearing stockings or tights on her shapely, long legs above the upper rims of her white leather, calf-length boots.

My mind is therefore yet again free (unlike my confined face) to fantasise about her socks inside her boots, and I choose to imagine that she is wearing a fun pair of cheap, multicoloured, cartoon-print socks on her supermodel-soldier feet. Socks she would never dream of wearing on the catwalk inside her sparkly-silver stilettos – for they are just too unsophisticated for such high fashion. But socks she deems entirely appropriate to wear inside her soldier-girl marching boots, as the cartoon on the side of the socks depicts a cringing, male slave being whipped by his superior mistress at her whipping post. A pleasing and amusing cartoon for any lady to have imprinted on the side of her ankle socks!

‘Female Power!’ she declares to all and sundry (expertly managing to keep her chewing gum inside her mouth whilst verbalising her young-womanly contempt for me). Like her female comrades-in-whips before her she deftly deposits her outer footwear dirt onto my bootwipe-face, whilst I frantically imagine her rubbing her inner footwear dirt – the sweat and lint from the soles of her stinky, multicoloured, cartoon print socks – onto my sockwipe-face!

And so it goes on. The Army-Day ceremony lasts a full 4 hours, for the Female Army of Barbaria is a large and powerful army – undefeated by any male army in its long and glorious history!

My face truly reeks of female-soldier bootdirt and mud by the end of the day. Many of the soldier-girls’ white go-go boots seem inordinately dirty on the soles, and leave truly severe mud stains on my upturned face. I understand, however, that this is because the female foot-soldiers are encouraged by their superior officers to deliberately ‘dirty up’ their boots (or at least the soles of their boots) by walking on mud and grass just before the march, in order to provide more spectacle for the female onlookers.

For we all know that young women like to see a male-slave’s face covered in female boot-mud!

I imagine this must be the only army in the world that is encouraged to dirty its boots prior to marching on parade!

But then the Female Army of Barbaria is a very special Army – you have to admire them, even from below in a hole in the ground.

They are FAB by name and fab my nature!

You can perhaps understand, therefore, why they do not call themselves the Female Army of the Gynarchy!

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