The Nylon Express

I am an onboard, portable shoeshine-slave on Gynarchy Railways. My job is to lickshine lady-passengers’ shoes and boots under the supervision and direction of my taskmistress – mistress Florica.

Miss Florica is a beautiful, petite, 22 year old, dark-haired and swarthy skinned Romanian girl who has come to the Gynarchy to study English. She supplements her income through my humble labour – for, although the onboard shoeshining service is free for the customers, Gynarchy Railways pays my taskmistress a small salary. And, of course, if I do a good job, my taskmistress may well pick up a few Fems in tips.

I am secured, face down, in a long, narrow, shoeshine trolley which my taskmistress must push down the train. I am lying facedown and backwards on the trolley – so my face is projecting at the back end right above my taskmistress Florica’s Romanian feet.

This evening, as always, she is wearing her flat, black leather, slip-on shoes with the scuff-marked, rounded toes. I always think it is somewhat ironic that the ‘shoeshine trolley-girl’s’ own shoes are so scruffy-looking and unkempt – hardly a good advertisement for her services!

But I won’t hear a bad word said against sweet and kind mistress Florica. She is much less cruel than some of the other taskmistresses I could mention. She rarely punishes me with electrical shocks, for example!

I should explain at this point that, whilst I am secured to the trolley, electrodes are attached to my temples, nipples, and private parts. Should I fail to satisfy any of my female customers with my onboard shoeshining efforts, or should the taskmistress simply be in a bad mood, I can therefore be punished with a painful electrical shock to whichever of those weak, male body parts the shoeshine-trolley taskmistress deems appropriate.

It sounds cruel, but to be fair it’s the only practical way of disciplining me in the restricted confines of a busy commuter train. There is, literally, no room to swing a cat o’ nine tails and, besides, my bare back is covered by the metal trolley. Only my head and face are protruding – for the trolley has to carry all the various shoe polishes above me.

I like young taskmistress Florica – however – because she rarely shocks me; only when I truly deserve it through some shoddy workmanship on a lady’s superior shoes, or when a disgruntled lady-customer specifically requests that I be given a shock.

And besides, my Romanian taskmistress wears sweet, white socks inside her shoes – and as she walks along the corridor of the train, pushing her slave-bearing trolley in front of her, I get to see flashes of those white socks beneath the hems of her plain, black trouser legs (part of her Gynarchy Railways’ uniform). The seeming cleanliness and purity of her white, feminine ankle socks – such a contrast to the obvious scruffiness of her scuff-marked, black leather, slip-on shoes – reminds me that she is my Romanian-female better.

Of course she is better than me – after all, she is the superior female pushing the trolley, and I am the inferior male lying on my stomach inside the trolley, tongue-shining ladies’ dirty shoes and boots.

We call the particular train we are working this evening the ‘nylon express’ – not because it runs between New York and London, Ontario (that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it?); but because it is full of commuting businesswomen and office-workers heading home from the capital city of the Gynarchy, Barbaria, to the second city of Femina – an hour’s journey or so on this high-speed, express train.

Specifically, it is called the ‘nylon express’ because of the preponderance of nylon tights and stockings to be seen on it – businesswoman attire! Other trains during the day – even on the same route – will have a much greater mix of feminine footwear-styles, as they will include students, tourists, day-trippers etc.

But this early-evening train is almost exclusively commuters.

It is also the most difficult train to work – not just because it is normally packed full, but because its female clientele are amongst the most demanding. These office and business ladies are hot and tired after a long, hard day’s work – and their shoes or boots are often looking somewhat jaded and dirty also. They demand a good shine on their feet – and woe betide me if I fail to deliver for, sweet and kind though she may be, my black-shoed and white-socked Romanian taskmistress will not hesitate to shock me if there is any hint of complaint from a customer. Indeed, she is even likely to shock me if her customer merely fails to give her a tip!

Our modus operandi is that miss Florica will push the narrow trolley – with me lying on it facedown at ground level – down the corridor of the train, politely offering my services to the lady customers. Free men are allowed to use the train – if accompanied by a female – but, if there are any spare seats on the train, they must sit in the window seats lest the lady sitting next to them requires a shoeshine.

For it would obviously not be possible for me to lick-shine the dirty shoes or boots of any customers seated in the inner, window seats. Only the aisle seats are accessible to me.

It’s all a little bit awkward, for not only does my Romanian taskmistress have to cope with people (usually men) blocking the aisles on busy services like this one, she must also manoeuvre the shoeshine-trolley so that my face and mouth have access to the feet and footwear of whichever seated customer-mistress I am required to serve.

It’s not too difficult with those customer-mistresses who are seated in the direction of travel. My taskmistress Florica can simply stop the trolley at the appropriate juncture, manoeuvre it slightly to the left or the right as appropriate until my face which is protruding downwards from the base of the trolley is confined directly above the seated lady-customer’s feet as they rest on the floor of the train. Mistress Florica can then use her own pretty, right foot - in its tatty, black leather, slip-on shoe - to secure the trolley’s break-mechanism directly beneath my confined face.

I always get a nice, close-up flash of miss Florica’s pure, white anklesock when she does that!

For lady-customers seated with their backs to the direction of travel the manoeuvring of the trolley is somewhat more difficult – and I’m afraid the lady herself may be required to twist round in her seat a bit so that my slave-tongue can properly access her footwear. But hey – no system is perfect! And the main thing is that the lady’s shoes should be properly cleaned, even if she is slightly inconvenienced in the process.

My taskmistress Florica offers my humble services in her cute, Romanian accent as she pushes the trolley down the busy, speeding train:

‘Shoeshine? Shine your shoes, ladies?’

It isn’t long before a lady-customer stops her. Fortunately, she is facing the direction of travel.

She is what I would describe as a fairly typical customer on the ‘nylon express’ – slim; mid to late thirties; straight, mousy-blonde hair tied back in a businesslike ponytail; wearing a smart, businesswoman suit consisting of a dark-grey, pinstriped jacket over a crisp, white blouse, and a matching, dark-grey pinstriped,, knee-length skirt. On her businesswoman feet she is wearing a smart, though slightly scuff-marked, pair of navy blue courts with one inch heels. And, of course, nylons – since this is the nylon express! Dark-coloured nylons to go with her navy-blue shoes.

I’m guessing they are tights rather than stockings – but I will never know, for my only area of jurisdiction will be her feet below her shapely, nylon-covered ankle bones. I am not some lofty, free man who can lust after her nylon-covered thighs and her upper body parts! I am but the lowest of the low – a down-in-the-dirt, complimentary shoeshine-slave, fit only to lick clean ladies’ dirty, court shoes and attend to them below their shapely ankles!

Or, at least, I’m sure that’s how this stuck-up, lady-customer will see me!

She sounds quite ‘plummy’ as she delivers her orders to my Romanian student-girl taskmistress:

‘Have him shine them up, would you please dear? And make sure he gets rid of all those scuff-marks at the back!’

‘Yes madam. Most certainly madam.’

My taskmistress Florica is always most polite to our often snooty customers. She’s paid to be!

I hear her opening a hatch in the trolley above me in order to extract a tin of navy-blue shoe-polish. I try to ignore my taskmistress’s scruffy, black leather, Romanian shoes and the repeated flashes of her soft, white, Romanian socks as she does so, for I must now be concentrating on the navy-blue courts and dark nylon-covered ankles of the blonde, businesswoman customer-mistress. I can see what she means about scuff-marks at the backs of her courts – mainly on the backs of her one-inch heels – although I have also spotted one or two scratches on the pointy toe-areas.

Just because the customer-mistress hasn’t mentioned the scratch marks on the toe areas, it doesn’t mean I can ignore them. I am now responsible for sprucing up the whole of her footwear. After all, I am closer to her shoes than any other living thing right now. Her shoes are almost literally in my face, and it’s inevitable that my footslave eyes will therefore be able to detect more areas of dirt than the pretty, feminine eyes of even the wearer of the shoes herself!

My trolley-mistress Florica places the open tin of navy-blue shoe polish on the floor of the train directly next to my protruding face. I have no need to await any verbal orders from my taskmistress herself – for I have already been paying attention and have heard and understood the requirements of the superior customer-mistress who is seated above me.

I therefore waste no time in dipping my slave-tongue into the navy-blue shoe polish, thereby coating it in the familiar, but bitter-tasting, tool of my trade.

It is most definitely an acquired taste – shoe polish – but one which my shoeshine-slave tongue is now well accustomed to after many years of tongue-shining ladies’ shoes and boots. It tastes foul, of course. Acerbic and poisonous. But nobody cares about my culinary tastes. They only care about the state of the lady’s shoes. And quite right too – for the state of a lady’s shoes is much more important than the state of my tongue.

At least, that’s very much the case here in the Female State!

And so I just have to grimace and bear it!

I begin by smearing the dark blue polish with my tongue all over the heel of the lady’s left, court shoe. I begin with her left shoe because it is the one closest to me. No point in making things even more difficult for myself – remember, I am having to lick shoe on a speeding train, and woe betide me if I should accidentally smear any of the polish onto the lady’s nylon-stockinged ankles.

That really would be ‘shocking’!

So I must be ultra-careful as I tongue-polish the heel of the lady-customer’s shoe. She may not be paying me much attention – she is reading her newspaper – but my ever vigilant, Romanian taskmistress is watching me like a hawk! One false move and I’m in pain – probably in the temples (my sweet and kind mistress Florica rarely shocks me on the nipples or in the genitals).

One way or another, it’s a headache – shining shoes with one’s tongue on a moving train! But there are compensations. I get to see, for example, the many fine creases and folds in the dark, nylon stitching of my arrogant, female customer’s tights around her still-shapely, thirty-something anklebones as the mistress subconsciously flexes her foot muscles whilst digesting the contents of her newspaper article.

At one point her shoe even dangles off the end of her toes releasing just a tiny whiff of her inner foot-odour up my shoe-shining nostrils. I also get to admire a tiny ladder on the base of her heel. It will be our little secret, assuming the customer-mistress is even aware of it!

For she undoubtedly has much higher things on her superior, feminine mind than tiny ladders in the heels, or infinitesimally small, almost undetectable, creases and folds along the insteps, of her dark, nylon tights. But they all loom large in my feeble, maleslave mind. For right now I am her personal footslave, and nothing else matters to me other than doing a good job in sprucing up her navy-blue courts, and licking away the scuff and scratch marks with my tongue, whilst discreetly breathing in the aroma of the blonde business-lady’s workaday, nylon foot-odour.

The supercilious and condescending customer-mistress does nothing to help me when it comes to shining her right shoe. Not only does she callously let her left shoe dangle off the edge of her reinforced-nylon-covered toes, making it much more difficult for my slave-mouth to gain purchase on the side of her navy-blue shoeleather; a more considerate customer would eventually cross over her feet in order to move her right shoe much closer to my face. But, as I said, this particular businesswoman-mistress has much more important things on her mind – such as the article on fashion which she is currently reading – and she simply expects me to get on with my humble shoe-cleaning task beneath her.

As does my Romanian taskmistress.

And so, having applied more shoe-polish onto my tongue, I strain my neck forwards as far as it will go, and just manage to reach the back of her right heel. I lick; and lick; and lick.

Fortunately the lady’s right, court shoe is, at least, resting stationary on the floor of the speeding train, but I must say the dark nylon material over her shapely, right anklebone is even more creased than that on her left ankle.

Furthermore, I’m afraid there is just no way my tongue can reach the pointy toe of the lady’s right shoe, and so the tiny scratch marks must remain there – unless, of course, the customer-mistress deigns to shove her right shoe inside my mouth. But she clearly can’t be bothered.

She must, nevertheless, be satisfied with my efforts, for I hear her thanking my taskmistress Florica and handing her a 1 Fem tip!

Then my mistress Florica’s scruffy, black, round-toed, Romanian-girl shoe is once again directly beneath my face, pushing up the metal break-mechanism of the shoeshine-trolley, as she moves me on to the next customer.

We don’t have far to go – just 3 rows – where we happen upon a young man seated beside his girlfriend.

They are both in their early twenties – and both, fairly self-evidently, office-juniors. The young man, however, must be more than just a work colleague, for he is seated with his arm lovingly wrapped around the young woman’s shoulders.

The free man is, naturally, seated beside the window – but although he may occupy the submissive seat, he clearly likes to do all the talking on behalf of his pretty girlfriend.

And she is indeed pretty – somewhat plump; and spotty; but nevertheless pretty. She has curly, red hair framing her round face, and is wearing a smart, grey trouser suit over a frilly, white blouse. On her feet – which are stretched languorously out in front of her and folded over one another at the, rather plump, ankles – she is wearing a fetching, but somewhat dusty, pair of flat, mary-jane style, double-strapped, black leather shoes on white-flesh coloured stockings.

I say ‘stockings’, but these will almost certainly be knee-high, nylon popsocks, for in my humble, footslave experience young women rarely wear full-length tights or stockings beneath trousers. All I can tell for sure, however, thanks to the outstretched positioning of her feet, is that they are not ankle-length hosiery – for I cannot see the tops of her nylons below her grey trouser hems.

Like the dark-coloured nylons of the previous customer-mistress, however, the plump office-junior’s pale-flesh-coloured, nylon popsocks are equally creased – most pleasingly so!

Her work-colleague cum boyfriend, the young man, calls out to the Romanian trolley-girl:

‘Excuse me miss! Could you have your slave shine up my girlfriend’s shoes please?’

He may like to play the macho role in having his girlfriend’s shoes cleaned for her by another, much lowlier, and older, man (me!), but he still has to be polite to my Romanian taskmistress. For she is his better too, being female – even though he is a free man and probably earns more money than her.

Nevertheless, I can tell from my taskmistress’s response that she likes him – and not just because he is, unlike me, young and handsome, but because he has referred to me as ‘her’ slave.

Taskmistress Florica will indeed like that – for she dreams of owning a personal footslave. She finds it such a struggle keeping her socks fresh and white without having a personal footslave of her own to constantly attend to them! Even I have noticed a fresh dust stain on the instep of my taskmistress’s right sock.

‘Yes certainly, sir. Just one moment please.’

My skilled, Romanian taskmistress then manoeuvres her trolley over towards the fat, young, curly-haired redhead’s crossed-over feet whilst the latter giggles and embraces her manly young boyfriend, seated beside her, in a loving kiss.

The foot-break is applied to the trolley, and a tin of black shoe-polish is placed on the dirty floor of the train next to my face.

The plump owner and wearer of the flat, black, strappy shoes that I am about to tongue-shine is now too busy kissing her manly boyfriend and co-worker on the lips to be bothered to unfurl her nylon-covered ankles, and so I must carefully apply the shoe-polish to two somewhat twisted shoes.

This time I can begin with the right shoe, as it is now closest to my face thanks to its being crossed over her left foot.

I must be ultra-careful this time – for the two, thin, black leather straps which cross the top of the young, ginger-haired woman’s foot will require to be tongue-polished as well as the main body of her shoe – and that poses a great risk of black polish inadvertently being applied to white-flesh-coloured nylon! Just one jolt of the train as it passes over a junction could spell disaster for my temples!

Or even worse – for my private parts!

I therefore lick the young lady’s black shoeleather slowly and carefully - using only the very tip of my black-shoepolish-covered tongue when I reach the upper straps. The young woman, rather unhelpfully but I suspect not deliberately, is constantly flexing her pretty, feminine foot muscles in a pleasurable reaction to the feel of her boyfriend’s manly tongue inside her mouth. I’m assuming it isn’t in a pleasurable reaction to the feel of my unmanly slave-tongue on the outside of her dirty and dusty footwear!

But, whatever the cause of her subconscious foot-flexing, the end result is the same – thick creases coming and going in her pale nylon popsocks around the ankle areas directly in front of my mesmerized, girlshoe-licking face. I can even see a slight tear in one of the fine, flesh-coloured nylon stitches just below the plump girl’s fat, outer, right anklebone.

This is such an honour – to pay slavish homage to the footwear of a bright, young, curly-haired woman whilst her boyfriend pays homage to her loving mouth! Neither of them is aware of, or cares about, that single, loose stitch in the superior, young woman’s nylons – but I must be aware of it. For I am her dirty, shameful footslave and it is my humble business to be wholly enraptured by the young woman’s feet and footwear as she casually snogs her boyfriend above me.

Fortunately, these fast, modern express trains glide relatively smoothly over the railway tracks, and I manage to tongue-shine even the narrow, leather straps on each of the young lady’s shoes without touching her soft, flesh-coloured nylons.

When I have finished my humble tongue-work, the free man asks his plump, besotted girlfriend if she is happy with my work. For the first time the girl can be bothered to unfurl her ankles and inspect her erstwhile dusty shoes. She thanks her boyfriend and says she is satisfied, and he, in turn, thanks my taskmistress Florica – giving her a 2 Fem tip!

Nobody thanks me. Nor should they. I am just doing my humble slave-job!

The tin of black shoe-polish is put back inside a compartment in the shoe-shine trolley, and the sight of flesh-coloured, white-girl nylons is replaced by white Romanian-girl dusty, white sock as the break mechanism is once again released beneath my face and we move on down the train.

‘Shoeshine? Shine your shoes, ladies?’ repeats my taskmistress as she slowly pushes me – and the trolley – further down the corridor of the train.

Frustratingly, we pass by several pairs of inviting, feminine ankleboots and socks – for not all the businesswomen on the ‘nylon express’ are always wearing nylons! It is frustrating for me, however, because none of the besocked mistresses appears to wish to avail herself of my services this evening – and I do like a nice bit of young-businesswoman sock in my face!

Take the young, dark-haired woman we have just passed who is seated on the left of the train, for example. She looks tall and athletic, and is wearing a stylish pair of black leather, high-heeled, pointy-toed, zip up ankle-boots beneath her designer-label, blue denim jeans. What really catches my eye, however, is the top of her right ankle-sock, for she is also wearing a fetching and intriguing pair of dark blue cotton anklesocks with multicoloured heart-shaped logos on the sides. Very sexy! Very feminine! And very worthy of close-up examination by a humble railway-footslave!

Yet very out of reach – it seems; for the beautiful, dark-haired wearer of the heart-motifed socks does not seem to require her pretty, black ankleboots to be tongue-shone this evening. Shame – since I still have some residual black shoe-polish stuck to the surface of my tongue, and could do a nice job buffing up the tall and athletic-looking young woman’s ankleboot leather.

I would simultaneously, of course, be able to admire – and who knows, possibly even surreptitiously stroke with the tip of my nose – some of those sweet little heart-shaped logos on the tops of her socks; feel their softness; their femininity through the sensitive tip of my nose; and possibly even get a whiff of her athleticy, inner foot-smell as I licked the very top of her ankleboot!

But it must all remain a footslave’s dream – as must the numerous other pairs of sweet, feminine sneakers, ballet flats and socks which I am unceremoniously pushed past by my Romanian task-mistress – for none of the wearers of the sneakers and socks wishes to have their footwear attended to this evening.

No, the next customer mistress I must serve is another nylon-clad lady – mistress Rachael; a regular customer; a season-ticket holder. Always on this train – and always seated in first class.

I like serving the ladies who are seated in first-class – firstly because there are no free men to make me jealous (the first-class accommodation is reserved exclusively for females since all free males are considered second-class citizens in the Gynarchy); and secondly because there is more room for my sweet Romanian taskmistress to manoeuvre her sweet, shoeshine trolley. There is, therefore, more room for me to gain easier access to the first-class ladies’ feet and footwear with my face and tongue.

Mind you, these demanding ladies seated in first-class, quite rightly, demand a first-class service on their footwear – and are forever finding fault. Mistress Rachael is no exception. She will demand that I not only tongue-shine her bright red, patent leather, high-heeled pumps, but also that I nose and smell her inner nylons. She will even slip her red pumps completely off her feet to afford my nose access to the sweaty, black, reinforced toe-area of her finest denier, dark-coloured, nylon stockings.

And yes – I do suspect these are actual stockings, as opposed to tights. For mistress Rachael – an office manageress in her early forties – likes to dress up as lamb, even though an unkind freeman might be at liberty to describe her as mutton.

Don’t get me wrong – that’s not my view. I myself hold mistress Rachael – with her bleached-blonde hair and her choice of short, red skirts, dark nylon stockings and bright, red, high-heeled shoes – in total awe and esteem. For I am just a humble, male slave and she is better than me. She is a rich lady, and I am less than the bacteria in her superior, upper middle class, feminine footsweat.

I particularly like the sight, and the feel, of her rather prominent foot veins beneath her fine denier nylon stockings. It is an honour for me to be able to run my nose along those blue-blood veins as I sniff her nylon-covered feet to order. I know she likes it too, for I often hear her sigh with womanly relaxation and pleasure as she wipes dry the moist and sweaty, reinforced soles of her dark-coloured nylons on my gormless and ugly footslave-face.

And thus the office-manageress’s daily foot-stink seeps into my facial pores and travels deep up inside my nostrils each day as she relaxes on the nylon express.

But, however diligent and gentle I am in absorbing and sniffing up her nylon footsweat, she will have me shocked – by way of a demonstration of her absolute power and authority over me. And my merciful and kind-hearted Romanian taskmistress, miss Florica, would never dream of denying a first-class passenger her wish to see the humble shoeshine-and-nylon-stocking-slave suffer a salutary jolt of pain to the temples as the train glides smoothly along the tracks, not least because mistress Rachael is an extremely good tipper!

And so, having serviced mistress Rachael’s dark nylon stockings and bright red stiletto-shoes, I continue on my unmerry way through the first-class carriage; my head pounding with pain; forced to observe the occasional flash of Romanian-girl, dusty white sock as she applies the break to my trolley in order to make me stop and lick yet more smart-businesswoman shoes, and sniff rich-businesswoman nylons, until we eventually emerge into the next standard-class carriage – where I must still provide a first-class service to my many nylon-clad, customer-mistresses on the infamous nylon express!

The End