Footslave Accounts Volume 3
Suitably obsequious accounts of humble foot-servitude, from those who claim to have experienced it!
VOLUME 3 CONTENTS (scroll down for accounts in reverse numerical order)
10. Two-Faced Chambermaid
9. Praise, where praise is due
8. Gynarchy Lay-Preacher Girl
7. The Clapped-Out, Hand-Me-Down Footslave
6. Most Respected & Admired, Big, Black Momma
5. 50/50
4. Bible-Bashed & Weather-Beaten
3. The Fancy Footslave
2. The Footface
1. Getting Her Kicks on Brute 66
The normally surly and sour-faced, regular footcustomer-mistress Deepta seems unusually carefree and happy today as she climbs up onto the shoeshine-seat of power in front of me.
She may be pint-sized, but she still towers over me as she sits regally above me – her white-sneakered feet resting on the metal footplates at my kneeling-face level, waiting to be tongueshined. But today – instead of her normal scowl – she actually looks quite friendly; and instead of her usual curtness and abruptness, she sounds quite civil and polite towards to me:
‘How are you today, slave? It is being a lovely day, isn’t it?’
I should explain that goddess-mistress Deepta is a 45 year-old Indian lady who works as a chambermaid in a nearby, plush hotel. She normally stops by me on her way home from work to have her tired, low-top, lace up sneakers and feet refreshed, so, given the hardworking nature of her job, she can be forgiven for her customary curtness and tetchiness towards me! I mean, she is probably having to be polite and respectful towards all those arrogant and demanding, hotel guests with whom she comes into contact during the course of the day – so it’s only natural that as soon as she is ‘off duty’ she would want to take out all her pent-up, middle-aged, Indian-female aggression on someone like me; someone lower down the social scale than her; a nobody – like me, the local, public shoelicker!
She looks her usual somewhat dishevelled herself with her, greying-black hair tied back in an untidy ponytail, and clothed in her hotel chambermaid’s uniform consisting of a navy-blue fleece and matching navy-blue trousers (sorry, no sexy French Maid’s outfit in this story, chambermaid-mistress Deepta is an Indian maid – not a French maid!)
The fleece and trousers are supplied as uniform by her hotel employers – but her white sneakers and grey and blue, striped socks are all her own; plain, white, but somewhat grubby, lace-up sneakers with delightfully scuffmarked toes; and thick-striped, blue and grey cotton anklesocks – socks which look suitably dishevelled along with the rest of her; somewhat wrinkly and folded!
But I digress! I have an unusually friendly question to answer from the unusually polite customer-mistress Deepta, and a slave must always respond respectfully and humbly to a superior, female mistress’s question:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you goddess customer-mistress Deepta, truly this slave is feeling well today, mistress, and ready to serve his superior mistress’s feet and footwear on this fine day, if it would be so pleasing to the mistress?’
She laughs, of course, at my cringing obsequiousness – but I would rather that, than feel the customary, harsh lash of her Indian-lady tongue:
‘Ha! Ha! You lick clean Deepta dirty, white sneaker, please? Be making the sneaker nice and shine, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes mistress! If it would be so pleasing to you, mistress Deepta?’
This really is most unusual – and quite unsettling! Mistress Deepta is never normally this civil towards me. Her normal orders would be a curt ‘Slave, be lickshining my sneakers!’; or ‘Dirty slave, be licking the filth off my dirty , white sneaker, isn’t it?’, if she was feeling a bit more verbose! But effectively inviting me to lickshine her sneaker-leather – that is truly unprecedented in all the years she’s been coming to my shoelick-stall!
Suspicious slave that I am, I sense a trap, but nonetheless dutifully lower my lips to the heavily scuffmarked, creased and well-worn, sneaker leather of the middle-aged and greying, Indian chambermaid’s right sneaker-toe, and start to lickshine it as best one can lickshine a dirty, old sneaker.
I lickshine all along the inner side of her right sneaker, studiously avoiding any facial contact with her creased and wrinkled, blue and grey striped anklesock above the sneaker-line – not because I am frightened of my face touching her female sock; quite the opposite – it’s because I don’t have her female permission to brush my unclean, slave face against her lower-caste sock, and know from previous bitter experience that, pint-sized or not, and naturally submissive or not, chambermaid-mistress Deepta will think nothing of grabbing hold of the nearby, public-use whip and cutting a red swathe across my bare, kneeling back and shoulders with it!
Therefore I always proceed with caution when serving chambermaid-mistress Deepta!
She again laughs at me as I tongue-attend to her dirty sneaker-leather, before revealing the reason for her unusually good humour:
‘Ha! Ha! That is right, slave – you work; you lick! Ha! Ha! I am being finishing my work today, and will be having a nice holiday with my husband for one whole month, isn’t it? I will be going to India with my husband and family; I will be being relaxing in the sun! You are just being a dirty slave – you will never be getting a holiday like me, isn’t it? Always you will be working; always you will be licking lady dirty shoe! Ha! Ha! Looking at lady dirty sock! Ha! Ha! You are being nothing but a damned, inadequate loser, isn’t it?’
I don’t resent her for her cruel mockery of me; nor for her undisguised Schadenfreude! In fact, I admire and respect the dishevelled, middle-aged, Indian-lady chambermaid all the more for her gloating over me, and therefore lickshine the side of her grubby-white sneaker all the more humbly and vigorously.
I still answer her rhetorical question – the one about me being an inadequate loser – but only briefly, since it is rude for a slave to talk with his mouth full of a lady’s shoeleather, even if he is required by law to answer the superior lady:
‘Yes, mistress Deepta…lick…lick…lick…lick..’
She suddenly pushes my face away with the side of her right sneaker-toe, directing it over towards her left. Now I do get to feel her skinny, blue-and-grey-stripy-socked anklebone on the side of my face!
‘Now the other one, slave!’
I dutifully start to lickshine the side and toe area of her equally scuffmarked and worn-looking left sneaker. Her blue and grey anklesock, I notice, is slightly more creased and slipped-down inside her left sneaker-heel, revealing a fetching slither of bare, brown, Indian-lady heel-tendon at the back of her foot beneath her navy-blue, chambermaid’s uniform, trouser hem.
Meanwhile, she continues to mock me:
‘Ha! Ha! You are wanting that I am bringing you back a present from India, slave? You are wishing that I am walking around in Chennai mud and bringing back Indian dirt on my shoe for you to be lickshining away the next time I am seeing you? Ha! Ha!’
Of course, this would be a very nice present for a public footslave to have – a genuine taste of India; or, at least, of rich, Indian mud, seasoned by Indian-lady shoeleather!
Temporarily forgetting all the usual footslave-protocols of not talking with one’s mouth full of lady sneaker, I enthusiastically thank Indian mistress Deepta for her kind offer to bring me back some of her foreign shoemud, without a hint of irony or sarcasm:
‘Oh pray, mistress Deepta …lick…lick… Truly this slave would be honoured, mistress-madam… lick…lick...lick…to taste some genuine Chennai street-mud…lick...lick…from the soles of the mistress’s pretty shoes, mistress…lick...lick...lick…if you would be so kind and gracious to a humble shoelicker, Indian mistress-madam…lick… lick…lick…lick…’
To be honest, even common-or-garden Gynarchy mud tastes great on a cheap pair of plain white leather, scuffmarked sneakers such as these – so how much more flavoursome would imported Indian mud be; imported on the soles of an Indian lady’s dirty sneakers, that is?
I’m not sure I can wait a whole month for that!
Goddess-chambermaid mistress Deepta, meanwhile, laps up my pathetic humility at her feet, and kindly promises to bring me back a humble mud-souvenir of India:
‘Ha! Ha! OK, slave – I am bringing you back some mud for you to be licking, isn’t it? Meanwhile you must be carrying on working! All the time you must work! You must be licking lady shoes all day long while Deepta is relaxing with her husband in Chennai! Ha! Ha! You are being a slave – you will never be free, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress Deepta…lick…lick…lick...lick…’
Mmm! Like I said before, nice though her Gynarchy sneaker-mud is, I’m not sure I can wait a whole month for my dollop of genuine, Chennai, ladyshoe mud!
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Of course, I had no choice but to wait – that was clever goddess-mistress Deepta’s whole point!
But, to give her her due, she did keep her promise to bring me back some Indian shoe-mud, and she did serve it up to me on her cheap, white, lace-up sneakers on her very first day back at work, albeit somewhat begrudgingly, and with that more usual sour and sulky expression on her otherwise pretty, middle-aged, Indian-chambermaid face.
I suppose she has every right to be sullen again – since her well-earned holiday is now over!
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I am kneeling over my blonde-haired, but not very bright, chav-footmistress’s black shoes and socks, blubbering like a baby.
That’s because I have just been whipped by her, and my back feels like it is on fire! Oh the pain! The pain!
My beloved mistress is seated in a comfortable armchair, catching her breath after her recent exertions with the whip. It’s not that she isn’t fit, or anything – constantly whipping me keeps her suitably slim and fit! I think she is as much breathless with excitement as she is from physical exhaustion.
She gleefully stretches forth her right foot on her living room carpet beneath my kneeling, contrite face:
‘Kiss my shoe, slave – and praise and bless me, an’ that, for whippin’ you so hard, yeah? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, m…m…mistress Courtney…sob…sob…’ I blubber, lowering my trembling upper lip towards the shiny surface of her black, patent leather, single-strapped, low-heeled and round-toed, mary-jane-style, right shoe – an excellent shoe for whipping a man in, since the low heel gives a young woman’s foot good purchase on the carpeted floor whilst she applies the whip to his kneeling back.
Thank God that shiny black, mary-jane shoe is at rest on the ground right now, and no longer in the process of whipping me!
As commanded by my breathless, blonde-haired mistress, I praise and bless her while I kiss the shiny, rounded toe-area of her outstretched shoe:
‘Oh p…pray mistress…kiss…kiss…sob…sob…God bless you, b…blonde m…mistress Courtney, miss…kiss…kiss…sob…sob… and praise be unto you for whipping me so n…nicely, blonde m…mistress C…Courtney…sob…sob…kiss…kiss…’
I can’t help but admiring the creases in her exposed area of black sock between the toe and strap area of her shoe (the rest of her sock, covering her shapely, young-womanly anklebone, is hidden beneath her black cotton trouser-hem) as those creases are yet another reminder of the enormous, physical effort she has just put into whipping my smarting back!
Respect!
Meanwhile miss Courtney continues to disrespect me, and mock me – as well she might! She mimics my pathetic, whining, whipped-maleslave voice:
‘Ha! Ha!... Praise be unto you for whipping me so nicely, mistress Courtney….Ha! Ha! You’re like, pafetic, innit though slave? Ha! Ha!’
I continue to blubber and fawn over her shiny, black, buckle-strapped shoe. What else can I do? She has well and truly whipped me:
‘Y…Yes…m…mistress Courtney …sob...sob…kiss…kiss…’
Her shoeleather feels nice and warm, even if her words are cold and harsh.
‘Ha! Ha! Now unbuckle my shoe, slave, and sniff my sock! Ha! Ha! Sniff it out loud, an’ that, an’ beg me not to whip you any more!’
I really do have to admire this cruel, young, blonde-haired woman sitting above me! She may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but she sure knows how to whip and then humiliate a manservant – making me sniff her sweaty, black whipping-sock out loud, even though there is nobody else around to enjoy the spectacle! Now that’s ingenious, for it means she is taking self-pleasure in my sweaty-sock humiliation at her feet! My degradation is for her eyes and ears only – talk about being triumphant over another, lesser human-being; my blonde mistress Courtney reigns supreme over me!
I fumblingly and falteringly start to unbuckle the broad, leather strap crossing the crown of her dainty, black-socked foot. My ineptitude angers her:
‘Get a move on wiv it, slave! Remember, I still have the whip in my hands, yeah?’
The mere mention of the, no doubt still warm, whip spurs me to greater effort in the unbuckling of her shoe. It’s not reluctance to take off her shoe and sniff her sweaty, black sock that’s preventing me from unbuckling the young woman’s shoe in a timely and efficient manner – it’s a mixture of pain and nervousness, for I am frightened of her blonde, 23 year old presence, even though I am twice her age and physical strength! Morally, and spiritually, I am weak and feeble – being a mere slave!
At last the buckle is undone, and I grab hold of the back of my blonde mistress’s shiny, black low-heeled shoe and gently pull it off her black-socked foot.
It comes off with a whoosh of warm, sweaty, feminine foot-air which assails my nostrils with its great beauty and fortitude, for this is foot-air fragranced by the exertions of the whip! I revel in it, and utilise its anaesthetic properties to help dull the pain in my freshly-whipped back.
My sweet and kind, blonde mistress graciously wriggles her newly-liberated, black-socked toes beneath my kneeling face in order to release yet more of her anaesthetising sock-stink up my bowed nostrils. In so doing, she causes her sweaty, black girlsock to crease and fold even more beneath me – hypnotising me as well as anaesthetising me!
She laughs at the gormless and drooling expression on my pained face:
‘Ha! Ha! Come on, slave – stop dawdling! Get your nose onto my stinky sock an’ start sniffing, an’ that, yeah? Sniff the stinkiest part – around my toes, an’ that!’
‘Y…Yes…m...mistress!’
I’ve stopped sobbing now – the prospect of sniffing a beautiful, young, blonde woman’s stinky, black sock has indeed helped to take my mind off the stinging pain in my back!
I duly lower my nose onto the moist underside of my blonde whipmistress’s nominally black, but well-worn, and therefore greying in places, anklesock and, keeping my mouth firmly shut, breathe in her personal and unique, individual, female socksweat through my male nose.
It smells rough, but I don’t baulk at it, or flinch; for this is what I need in order to put me in my rightful place – the sheer stink of my superior, blonde mistress’s sweaty, black, cotton sock, whilst she is still wearing it on her pretty, blonde foot!
She laughs at my nose-to-sock contact:
‘Ha! Ha! That tickles, slave!... Breathe in deeper frew your nose, an’ that! I wanna feel you sniffing away all the sweat from the bottom of my sock, an’ that!’
‘Yes, blonde mistress. At once, blonde mistress!’
Far from anaesthetising me, the pungent staleness of her sock is now actually reviving my senses. It’s doing me good!
I therefore sniff out loud on her sock with renewed, footslavish vigour and abandonment:
‘Sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff...sniff...sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff… Sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff...sniff...sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff… Sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff...sniff...sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff… Sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff...sniff...sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…sniff…’
I sniff sock until my mistress can take no more, so ticklish is my sock-sniffing nose on her sensitive, young-womanly, socked foot!
But she hasn’t finished with my post-whipping denigration quite yet. As she withdraws the bottom of her socked foot from my face, she issues yet another demeaning command to me:
‘Ha! Ha! Now take off my sock, slavey, and suck all the sweat, an’ gunk, an’ that from out between my toes an’ that, yeah? Ha! Ha! You’re gonna swallow my toejam, slaveboy! Ha! Ha!... First I whip you; then I make you kiss my shoe; then I make you sniff my stinky, black sock; then I make you suck on my sweaty toes! Ha! Ha! Who’s the winner, slave? And who’s the loser?’
It’s an entirely rhetorical question, of course, for it must be patently obvious to anyone who may be watching (that would be you) who is the master (winner) and who is the slave (loser) in this humbling situation! Nevertheless, I am obliged to dignify my gloating, blonde-haired mistress’s mocking question with a respectful response:
‘You are the winner, mistress…and I am the loser, if it would be so pleasing to you most beautiful and respected, blonde mistress?’
Unlike her rhetorical question, mine does not require a response, for she is a superior, young woman with a whip, and does not need to humour her slave!
She jubilantly stretches forth her sweaty, black-socked foot into the air beneath my kneeling and bowed face that I may take hold of its moistness with my fingers and respectfully pull it off her foot. I immediately notice the tank-tracks around her pasty-white, upper anklebone left by the stretched elastic at the top of her sock, and my salivating mouth yearns to lick them away; for I would dearly love to feel those little dimples in her bare, white ankleflesh beneath my sensitive tongue-tip!
But I must aim lower – for I have been ordered to suck on her toes; between her red-painted toenails, in fact – although some of the toenail-varnish is starting to chip and flake due to the build up of sweat on her cuticles. Again – thanks to her exertions with the whip!
‘Ha! Ha! Make sure you get it all out, slavey-boy, yeah?’ instructs my blonde mistress, referring, I presume, to her sweaty toe-gunk. If so, I can see the little black balls of sweat-dampened sock lint stuck to the inner sides of her toes, and therefore get straight down to my humble, toe-cleaning work:
‘Yes, pretty mistress! At once, pretty mistress!’
I suck on her dainty, feminine toes each in turn, feeling them wriggle with delight like little, live shrimps inside my mouth as the tiny, vinegary, black balls of sweaty girlsock-lint, footdirt and solidified foot-moisture roll down the back of my unworthy, male throat.
Yes – praise where praise is due; my blonde chav-mistress has me well and truly whipped!
And toejam where toejam is due; down the back of my throat and inside my freshly-whipped torso!
She’s a nice, respectable-looking, Gynarchy girl – black; bespectacled; early twenties; modestly dressed in a beige T shirt; frayed, blue denim hotpants; red canvas, low-top, lace up sneakers; and full-length, white, scrunched-up anklesocks. And, to top it all, she is carrying a Gynarchy bible – ready to preach the word of the Goddess to me!
Yet, she has not come to offer me succour – quite the opposite; she has come to add to my maleslave torment, and gloat over me, as I languish and cringe in the heavy, wooden kneeling stocks. For this is the Gynarchy – where only the Female can be saved!
She begins by laughing at me – and forcing me to kiss her socks. She raises her pure-white-socked, right anklebone up to my confined-in-wood face:
‘Ha! Ha! Kiss me on the side of my sock, vile and dirty sinner! Kiss my sock, and make me even better than I already am! Ha! Ha!’
She is wise – this young, religious woman! She knows that the more she is worshipped by a male slave in public, the greater her standing in Female Society. Al her female friends and relatives, and even her freemale friends and relatives, will admire and respect her all the more, as they see her growing in young-womanly self-confidence and esteem vis-Ã -vis the enslaved male.
I am, therefore, privileged to play a part in her feminine growth and development – even though I don’t know this Gynarchy black girl from Eve, and have never laid eyes on her shoes and socks before! And so I obediently stretch forth my neck and lips to touch her pure, white sock above her street-dustied, red canvas sneakers (if truth be told I also happen to like kissing young women’s scrunched-up socks on their shapely ankles – so soft and malleable!).
She laughs down at me, contemptuously, as well she might! And so does the uniformed, secular, Female Police guard standing over me in the Town Square stocks – though her socks are not visible inside her knee-high, black leather, chunky-heeled and reinforced-toed, Police officer uniform boots; and I’ll bet even if they were accessible to my prisoner-face they’d be cold and harsh – not warm and forgiving like this civilian girl’s socks!
Meanwhile that superior-righteous, civilian girl continues with her kind and gentle denigration of me. She switches shapely-socked ankles below me:
‘And the other one, dirty sinner-slave!’
I kiss the proffered side of her left sock – a dustier, dirtier, even more sinister, scrunched-up (or should that be scrunched-down?) white sock, with a pleasingly grubby dust-stain right over her outer, black-girl anklebone!
She laughs out loud at me again, and orders me to next kiss the rubbery-white, scuffmarked toe areas of her otherwise red canvas sneakers whilst she quotes female scriptures to me from her Gynarchy bible:
‘Ha! Ha! Cursed be the slave who disobeyeth or displeaseth his mistress; and blessed be the mistress who correcteth him. Angelica; Chapter 3, verse 4, slave. What do you think of that?’
I have no choice but to acknowledge the veracity of the female scripture, particularly since I am confined in the wooden stocks and at the young, black woman’s tender mercies:
‘Oh pray, mistress…kiss to grubby white sneaker toe…kiss to grubby white sneaker toe… if it pleases you black mistress…kiss to grubby white sneaker toe…kiss to grubby white sneaker toe… blessed be the young mistress for showing me the error of my ways, mistress!...kiss to grubby white sneaker toe…kiss to grubby white sneaker toe…kiss to grubby white sneaker toe…kiss to grubby white sneaker toe…’
This black girl is not actually responsible for my being in the punishment stocks today – that’s down to my own white mistress Heather, whom I offended by laddering her tights! But this pleasant and easy-on-the-eye, Gynarchy preacher-girl is now making herself a willing participant in my public punishment and humiliation, and so she deserves praise and thanksgiving if only for that!
I witness her already scrunched-up, white anklesocks creasing and folding with sweet feminine pleasure and delight at my male-servile, verbal response as my lips continue to pay homage to the grubby and dusty, white rubber of her superior, female sneaker-toe.
I know my Gynarchy scriptures as well – despite being an illiterate, male slave; I was taught them at Footslave Training-College:
Truly there is more joy amongst women over one male sinner-slave that repenteth, than over ninety-nine others who never end up kissing female feet in the stocks! Julia; Chapter 11, verse 8.
But that’s not the next female scripture that the young, black woman quotes to me. Instead she quotes from Venus, Chapter 7, verse 9:
‘Dust thou art, male slave, and to dust thy vile mouth shall return – the dust on thy mistress’s shoe! Ha! Ha!’
The beautiful, black mistress almost sounds like one of the cult of the ‘Righteous’ – though she’s not dressed like one! She is, however, undeniably demure and righteous. Not exactly virginal, I would suggest – judging by her unashamedly bare-thigh-revealing hotpants – but upright and morally superior, nevertheless.
She is certainly my moral superior – being free and female!
I acknowledge that superiority by humbly kissing the dust again on the white-rubbery front of her red canvas sneaker-toe:
‘May the Goddess bless you, sweet mistress…kiss…kiss… and all who enter you, mistress…kiss…kiss…’
Don’t be shocked – I’m not suggesting that I would ever be in a position to ‘enter’ this beautiful, young woman! Ha! Ha! I mean, as we’ve already established, I’m just an accursed, impotent, male slave. No – I’m referring to those lucky, free men who will undoubtedly know the pleasures of this beautiful and pert, young woman’s black flesh, or who have already done so. It’s a common enough blessing in the Gynarchy for a humble maleslave to wish upon a superior mistress, and is no way considered rude or offensive.
What red-blooded Gynarchy girl doesn’t want to be thought of as sexually active and attractive?! I’ll bet she’ll be getting some tonight from some handsome, free man; teasing me is probably only her foreplay!
And this young, scripture-quoting woman is clearly not offended by my innuendous comment – indeed she is, rightfully, flattered. Flattered and fawned over by a lowly, male, public slave – the way she should be! For she is from the seed of the Goddess, and I am but the male dirt that she and her sistas walk on.
As it is written in the very first chapter of the Gynarchy bible (‘The Birth of the Gynarchy’):
‘Let woman have dominion over the dirt. Let the male crawl and slither on its belly beneath the feet of womankind!’
Like I said, I know my female scripture – and my place! And, right now, it’s at this demure, and yet red hot, Gynarchy lay-preacher girl’s dusty old, red canvas sneakers and white socks; shortly before she gets laid!
I am distraught!
My mistress of 27 years – mistress Germaine – is trading me in for a younger model! She says that she can’t stand the sight of my wrinkly, old face near her pretty, white feet anymore!
The ‘good’ news, if you can call it that, is that she is not selling me on to the slave-traders, who would inevitably, given my age, sell me at a meagre profit to one of the Gynarchy State slave-mines (since I would be considered too old and decrepit to remain in private, personal foot-servitude to beautiful, young women). No – my mistress Germaine has come to a private arrangement with the daughter of one of her work colleagues, a young woman who goes by the name of ‘Brook’ (that will be ‘miss Brook’ or ‘goddess-mistress Brook’ to me, no doubt!), and who is apparently in the market for a cheap, second-hand footservant, since she is an impecunious student with little or no cash of her own with which to purchase a personal footslave!
I understand I shall be 22 year old miss Brook’s first ever personal-footservant, and that her mother has decided I will good for her to practise her young-mistressly skills on, before she can scrape the money together for a ‘proper’ personal footslave who is a bit less decrepit than I am.
Indeed, I understand that my mistress Germaine is even ‘gifting’ me to young mistress Brook – free of charge – so embarrassed would she be to have to ask for money in exchange for such a clapped-out old footservant!
My beloved mistress Germaine may be intending to cast me aside like an old toe-rag, but, after 27 years of devoted servitude to her feet and footwear, I shall surely miss her! Unlike me, she still looks good for her age – though she has, admittedly, had the advantage of eating proper food and having proper healthcare over the years, whereas I have had to survive on my meagre rations of tasteless slave-mush, and fall ill and age as nature intended, since my mistress Germaine has always been a stickler for not spending any money on my upkeep; all her money has always gone on her stylish new boots and shoes!
And rightly so.
But, as I said, I shall nonetheless miss serving my beautiful, middle-aged mistress Germaine. I shall miss the familiarity of her footwear; of her favourite pair of beat-up, old, cheesy-smelling, pink-and-white-striped, jogging sneakers; her favourite, well-worn, musty-smelling, chunky-heeled and scuffmarked, black leather, zip-up ankleboots which she regularly wears to work; her equally tatty, black, or sometimes white, cotton bootsocks inside those chunky, black leather ankleboots (not to mention her stylishly modern, ultra-short, pink and white sneaker-socks inside her pink and white, jogging sneakers!); and, last but not least, her many pairs of patent leather, black, red, yellow or silvery, high-heeled pumps – worn in the evenings with darkest, finest-denier nylons as she eats out in fancy restaurants with her manly husband.
I never get to share in their aphrodisiac meal, of course, since I am sexless, and obliged to kneel unobtrusively beside my mistress Germaine’s nylon-stockinged and high-heeled feet beneath the restaurant table she shares with her husband – as befits a well-behaved, personal footslave in public; and my master and mistress are not ones for slave doggy-bags! But I do have the compensation of sucking the sweat out of her reinforced, nylon toes later in the evening when she returns home and kicks off her shoes prior to making love with the master-sir!
Above all, of course, I shall miss the taste and smell of my mistress Germaine’s very personal foot-sweat and foot-odour, be it raw or through her nylons or socks – for you come to appreciate such vinegary delicacies after a lifetime of servitude towards the same pair of delicious, female feet!
I shall even, I’m ashamed to say, miss the sting of my mistress Germaine’s black leather, single-tailed whip as it wraps itself expertly around my lower ribs – the tenderest part of my torso, which my clever mistress Germaine understands is where I suffer the most! You have to admire her whip-skills, developed over many years of beating and correcting me. I do have to wonder whether this new, young whippersnapper – mistress Brook – will be anything like as adept at wielding the female whip across my back?
I very much doubt it!
But, beggars can’t be choosers – and nor can clapped-out old footservants! So off I go to my new mistress, without a single tear being shed by my ‘old’ mistress; she’ll be alright – she can afford a top-of-the-range, newer model to match her classy, designer shoes!
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
And so to mistress Brook – my new owner.
What can I tell you?
First the good news:
· She turns out to be an incredibly pretty girl – white, like my former mistress Germaine; as I said before, 22 years young; with shoulder length dark hair; and a penchant for wearing a pair of heavily-buckled and strapped, calf-length, clunky-heeled and steel-toecapped, black leather, biker boots – with black socks underneath! Always with trousers; she’s not a particularly girly girl – despite her natural, feminine beauty – but she still manages to look, and sound, sweet, young and feminine – a privilege to serve. And those clunky, biker boots do remind me of my mistress Germaine’s beloved, chunky, black ankleboots; as do her black bootsocks!
· Her 22 year old, soft, bare feet tend to sweat and smell a lot inside her ubiquitous, heavy boots. It is mid-summer, but still the boots seem to stay on! My mistress Germaine used to switch to lightweight, ballet flats and sandals in the summer months, but goddess-mistress Brook appears to prefer style over practicality when it comes to her seasonal footwear! Still, if it means I have a perennially sweaty and smelly pair of soft young-womanly socked or bare feet to serve in the evenings, I’m not exactly complaining!
· She carries a whip everywhere with her – a beautiful, brown leather, single-tailed whip which she keeps attached to her trouser-belt – and she is surprisingly adept in its use, for one so young! I think my mistress Germaine must have given her some whipping-tips, for miss Brook has already opened up several, deep gashes on my tender ribcage with it; very impressive, I must say!
· She has a steady boyfriend – a free man by the name of master Robert sir – so no need for me to satisfy my new mistress sexually, thank goodness! I was, initially, concerned that a libidinous, younger mistress might require her old footslave to satisfy her orally – apparently lots of young women demand that of their personal ‘foot’ slaves nowadays, but mistress Brook – thank heavens – has all her intimate needs in that unseemly department taken care of by her boyfriend, so I’m off the hook on that one! Phew!
· The bulk of my footslave-duties mirror those demanded of me by my erstwhile mistress Germaine:
Ø Cleaning my new mistress’s feet by mouth and/or handwashing them, making sure to extract every last vestige of sticky, black toejam from between my mistress Brook’s pinky-white toes, for she is proving to be a stickler for bare-foot hygiene – largely so that her feet are clean and presentable to her aforementioned boyfriend when they make love to one another!
Ø Mouth and handwashing her stinky, dirty socks and tights. Mistress Brook sometimes wears full-length, woollen tights inside her boots and beneath her trousers, instead of her socks; she must feel the cold easily – though even she doesn’t wear woolly tights inside her biker boots during the summertime; only during the cold, winter months! Her winter, woolly tights still sweat a lot in my mouth, though!
Ø Lickshining her heavily-buckled biker-boots, and her only other regular pair of shoes – her tatty, pink and white, low-cut, lace-up sneakers (every girl, it seems, has to have a pair of beat-up, pink and white sneakers in her wardrobe, even though – unlike my mistress Germaine – miss Brook only ever wears them to social events, and can’t be assed to actually go running or jogging in them. Then again, she doesn’t need to – she’s already young and fit!)
Ø And just generally following my young college-mistress to biker-booted or sneakered heel – kneeling humbly beside her boots during her tutorials and workshops as she goes about her daily business (mistress Brook is studying fashion design in an all-female college – not that there are any male colleges in the Gynarchy, of course!)
· The one thing I particularly like about serving my new mistress Brook is her insistence that I regularly kiss her female friends’ and acquaintances’ feet, just as I do her own. This is giving me a much wider flavour of female feet and footwear than I ever got whilst serving my somewhat possessive mistress Germaine, who virtually never encouraged me to kiss the feet of other women! I think it’s a generational thing – modern, young women are quite relaxed about sharing their footslaves, just as they happily share all the details of their personal lives online.
My mistress Brook has even unashamedly posted footage online of me sniffing and sucking on her dirty, black socks, and being whipped by her! She doesn’t give a damn what others think – whereas my mistress Germaine tended to keep me very much to herself. Still, kissing the feet of lots of other young women – especially the scruffy and unkempt footwear of miss Brook’s student girlfriends (ugg boots; ballet-flats; sneakers and the like) – only helps to keep me on her toes, since I am so full of gratitude to her for sharing me about!
And now the bad news:
· Mistress Brook’s socks are practically invisible to me throughout the daytime! Because of her preference for wearing her favourite pair of calf-length, black leather, biker boots to college every day, whatever the weather, but always beneath her equally ubiquitous, black polyester trouser hems, I virtually never get to see her black, hot and sweaty, ankle-length bootsocks inside her delicious boots as I crawl to heel, or kneel to instep, beside her biker-booted feet throughout the student-girl day!
My former mistress Germaine, as I think I may have mentioned before, preferred to wear black leather ankleboots to work, and so a glimpse of elasticated socktop was not a total rarity whenever, for example she was seated at her office desk – especially if she was seated cross-legged with one anklebooted foot hovering dominantly in the air; on such happy occasions, even though my mistress Germaine, like my younger mistress Brook, also preferred to wear trousers rather than skirts, I could be more or less guaranteed a furtive glimpse of twisted, black or white socktop inside her exposed boot-top.
But, I regret to say, I have only once seen my mistress Brook’s sexy socktops inside her boots during the working day – and that was only because she had needed to unzip the side of her left boot in order to straighten her left sock due to some unfortunate sock-slippage inside her sweaty boot whilst she was attending one of her fashion tutorials. Boy was I ever made to suffer under the whip for that incident of sock-neglect on my part! Miss Brook sure brooks no sloppy work or poor sockmanship on the part of her, supposedly experienced, second-hand, personal footslave!
The irony is that I almost felt my footslavish-carelessness in not putting my mistress Brook’s left sock on her foot properly that morning had been worth the subsequent, painful whipping – if only because it meant I caught a glimpse of young-white-woman, black bootsock during the daytime, for a pleasant change!
But that’s an incredibly selfish way of looking at things! I should have ensured, by law, that my young mistress’s left sock was properly pulled up over her shapely, white anklebone when I had been socking her up first thing in the morning; and forcing her to stop what she is doing throughout the day to open her boot and angrily straighten her own sock in front of my kneeling face is totally unforgiveable! Which is why I wasn’t forgiven – and had to suffer the whip!
To be honest, being an old slave-man, I doubt I could survive many more severe whippings like the one I so justly received on that occasion, and so I shall have to ensure there is no repeat of the incident; my life could be dependent on the state of her sock!
At least I get to sniff and fondle my student-mistress’s stinky, black-socked feet of an evening, whilst she is relaxing on the sofa in the arms of her manly student-boyfriend, master Robert sir. And, of course, I get to see her pink and white socks of a weekend too, when she is more likely to wear her sneakers (though even then the ultra-short style of sneaker-sock that she wears means they are often practically invisible inside her sneaker-rims, apart from the merest slither of elasticated, pink and white socktop!)
· Miss Brook has a verruca on the base of her right foot which requires constant sucking and softening.
Erm…I suppose, on reflection, those are the only two bad things about serving young mistress Brook – the lack of daytime sock-views, and an unfortunate verruca! In every other respect I’m a very lucky, elderly footslave. I have landed on a beautiful and feisty, young woman’s feet – and must enjoy it whilst it lasts. For she says she is avidly saving up for a ‘proper’ footslave, even taking a part-time waitressing job in the evenings – so that she can purchase a more attractive, young hunk of a footslave to rival her boyfriend in status symbol. I’m just her raggedy-assed, temporary, hand-me-down, embarrassingly-elderly footslave until she can get a healthy, young-buck footslave fit for her fashionable, black leather biker-boots!
Who knows what will happen to me then? I suppose we clapped-out, old footslaves all end up in the underground slave-mines eventually!
She has gotten fatter over the years – my regular, black, shoeshine customer-mistress, madame Priscilla.
As she sits on the local sink-estate, customer shoeshine-chair of power high above me, blocking out whatever meagre sunlight comes my kneeling way, I feel like I hardly know her, even though it has been my privilege and honour to serve her outer footwear for over 25 years now. That’s because she never deigns to speak to me – except to bark down her orders at me; or to criticise me; or to reprimand me, in her cute African-Caribbean accent.
I know her boots and shoes well enough by now though, and have many happy memories of serving her stylish, young-black-womanly footwear of days gone by. She used to be so sexy – miss Priscilla; and still is – albeit in a middle-aged, African-headscarfed, overweight, black-womanly sort of way nowadays. It’s her standoffishness, haughtiness, and self-righteousness which make her so enduringly appealing to a humble and loathsome, public footservant like me!
And madame Priscilla loathes me in bucketloads!
As she climbs precariously up onto the high-chair in front of me for her regular, afternoon bootshine, I see that today she is wearing her usual pair of low-heeled, round-toed, black leather, lace-up ankleboots – no more stiletto-heeled boots or shoes for the once fit and feisty miss Priscilla! She now dresses appropriately for a fat and middle-aged, beautiful, big black momma!
She still likes to wear socks though – plain grey, anklelength cotton bootsocks which are all scrunched up over her fat, black cotton leggings. I say ‘plain’ grey – but that’s just the colour! The socks have nice flowery-patterned stitching – not that I shall get to feel that black-woman sock-stitching against my puny lips or nose! Black goddess-madame Priscilla has never once permitted me to have subhuman contact with her socks – not in the whole twenty years I have been lickshining her boots and shoes; not even when she used to wear brighter, more vivacious socks in her younger, slimmer days.
Not once has my face been permitted to even brush against her soft sock material; she has always been a frustratingly sock-offish kind of customer-madame – and because I am nothing but an obedient and respectful, public footslave, I would never dream of taking advantage of my beloved, black customer-madame’s socks without her explicit permission (well, perhaps I might dream about it – but I would never act on those dreams!)
And so, as her glamorous-granny boots and socks come to rest on the two metal footrests in front of my kneeling face, I humbly admire the scrunched-up, grey socks of the forty-something, fat black woman from a respectful, facial distance as I await my orders:
‘Shine mah boots, slave-bwoy.’
A simple enough command to understand – for a simple enough footslave:
‘Yes, goddess-madame Priscilla, ma’am. At once, customer goddess-madame Priscilla, ma’am!’
Madame Priscilla, as I have already intimated, likes to keep things strictly formal and professional between us – no small-talk or levity; just commandments and work.
I therefore get to work – with my tongue applied promptly to her outer boot-surface.
Her black leather, flat-heeled, laced up ‘granny’ boot (and I understand she is a glamorous grandmother in real life) tastes completely familiar, as does the dirt and grime on the boot from the surrounding, sink-estate streets. These boots were made not just for walking in the dirty streets, but for licking by the dirty, local, public footservant; and I am well used to them.
Having set me to work, madame Priscilla is content to isolate me even further from her superior, female consciousness by inserting her earphones from her MP3 player, and turning on her black music.
I can’t hear that music, but it must be remarkably upbeat for such a morose, middle-aged, black woman, for her boots and socks start to tap on the metal footrests to the beat. She may look and dress somewhat haggard and middle-aged, but goddess-madame Priscilla is clearly still a young, black woman at heart!
But is she happy?
She certainly seems to be contented enough as I dutifully lickshine her dirty, jiggling, black leather ankleboots, studiously ignoring the creases and folds coming and going in her already scrunched-up, plain grey but flowery-stitched bootsocks as I do so, for fear of offending her by not concentrating on the female-boot task in mouth!
As if to remind me of my enslavement, her jiggling bootlaces gently lash my cheeks as I lick, like little whips.
She sits up there above me for some 15 leisurely minutes, the big, black momma having her boots toungeshined in public by the scrawny, white, public footslave whilst enjoying her private, black music. When I say ‘enjoying’, she doesn’t actually go so far as to crack a smile in my presence, but the mere fact that she is not cracking the proper-sized, public-use whip over my prone and vulnerable, bare back is enough to tell me that she is inwardly happy, and in a relatively good mood for a surly, middle-aged black woman.
I too am not smiling, even though I am likewise in a relatively good mood – but that’s because, being a mere slave, I am forbidden to smile. It’s the law – a smiling slave is a soon-to-be-whipped slave, as the Gynarchy saying goes. And you can understand the justice of such a law – for a slave exists only to serve his mistresses, and must concentrate all the time on his humble work; it is not a slave’s place to laugh or smile!
My outwardly surly, regular customer-madame of many years’ sitting eventually decides that her boots have ben lickshined thoroughly enough. She switches off her MP3 player, extracts the now waxy earphones, ostentatiously inspects her freshly-slavelicked granny-boots from on high, and then climbs down from the footlick-chair without so much as a word of gratitude, or even a flicker of thanks etched onto her permanently scowling and now jowly, black face.
I relax – job done, for another day! If it hadn’t been done to her complete satisfaction she would have unsmilingly applied the whip to my back. I have many previous stripes on my bare back and shoulders thanks to a dissatisfied customer-madame Priscilla.
I catch the scrunched-up and somewhat slovenly-looking backs of her satisfied grey socks as she waddles off into the surrounding street-dirt again, her newly-dustied boots as if mocking me for all the strenuous, yet ultimately nugatory, tonguework I have just publicly performed on them.
Oh pray come back, madame Priscilla’s black ankleboots; pray come back, madame Priscilla’s grey anklesocks! For I glory in your superior presence, and yearn to serve and admire you even more! Even if – or, indeed, precisely because – you are the stuck-up boots and socks of a surly, self-righteous, and fat, middle-aged, black woman; a glum-looking, black momma who may have seen better days, but who is still, nonetheless, my infinite superior and better.
There is now, quite simply, more of her to admire than in days gone by; and don’t she just know it!
My new master and mistress are toying with me.
As I kneel for the first time before them in front of their living room sofa, positioning myself in front of the mistress’s booted feet as I am to be her personal footwear-slave, the master-sir explains their game:
‘Ha! Ha! Welcome to your new life as my pretty wife’s new, personal footwear-slave, footpig! Ha! Ha! That’ll be your name from now on – ‘footpig’! Ha! Ha! Say “oink! oink”, slave!’
I duly grunt like a pig, to humour the all-powerful master-sir:
‘Oink! Oink!’
The couple are in hysterics. The master-sir is a white man – late thirties or early forties, I would say. The mistress is an Indian girl, who goes by the name of miss Shakti. She looks quite a bit younger than her white husband – maybe mid twenties? She has a delightfully angular face and nose, despite being slightly podgy and overweight, but the master-sir is right – she is pretty with it, and I do like the sight of her boots on the carpet beneath my humbly bowed and kneeling face; black leather, round-toed, wedge-heeled, zip up ankleboots beneath the hems of a pair of scruffy and frayed, navy-blue, bell-bottom, denim jeans.
Once they have stopped laughing and guffawing at my pathetic footpig impression, the master-sir continues with his induction of the household footslave:
‘Listen up, footpig – normally we give all our new slaves 50 lashes of the whip, just to welcome them properly into their new home! Ha! Ha! But we’ve kindly decided to give you a 50/50 chance of avoiding an introductory whipping! If you can guess correctly what colour of socks my wife, your new mistress, is wearing inside her pretty boots – white or black – we’ll let you off your induction-whipping for being such a good and intelligent footpig! Ha! Ha! However, if you guess wrong – it’ll be ten times worse for you, for we’ll whip you every night for the next 10 nights with a total of 50 harsh lashes each night! Ha! Ha! What do you say to that, footpig?’
I am having to think on my mistress Shakti’s booted feet, and so I realise that I have probably just been set a trap; I presume that, being their new ‘footpig’, I must reply like a pig, rather than speak like a human slave, but at the same time convey my ‘gratitude’ to the white master-sir and Indian mistress-madam for my whipping get-out clause through the use of an overtly excitable tone of ‘oinking’:
‘Oink! Oink! Oink! Oink!’
Once again the happy, dominant couple are in hysterics, and I know I’ve done the right thing. I am a clever footpig!
The Indian mistress now speaks for the first time:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t be too excited, footpig, innit though? Ha! Ha! Remember, you is gonna be whipped 50 times every night for 10 nights if you gets it wrong, yeah? Ha! Ha! Ha!’
She doesn’t talk like an Indian girl. No hint of an Indian accent. She sounds much more common, and less well educated, than her erudite husband – like she’s from the streets; but that doesn’t diminish her in any way in my humble, footpig eyes – any beautiful, dark-haired and podgy, young, Asian woman with an angular nose like hers, and black leather ankleboots on her feet, will always be assured of my undying footslave-devotion and attention. She is my common-as-muck, Indian-girl, street goddess!
And besides – I’m one not to talk; I can only grunt like a pig!
I oink my fear and understanding of the gamble I am about to take:
‘Oink! Oink!’
The master-sir of ceremonies continues my humiliation:
‘OK then, footpig – get your snout on the side of my wife’s black leather boot and sniff out the colour of her socks! Ha! Ha! Pigs are supposed to have a great sense of smell, aren’t they! So do your best piggy-wiggy, and tell us what colour of socks my wife is wearing inside her boots – plain black or plain white? Ha! Ha!’
Now, I have no idea whether or not real-life pigs have a highly developed sense of smell! What I do know is that there is no way this particular footpig would be able to ‘sniff’ whether or not his chubby, Indian mistress is wearing black or white socks inside her fully zipped-up ankleboots! I mean, apart from anything else, don’t all socks smell the same – regardless of their colour – distinguishable only by the individualistic and unique, personal foot odour of their wearers?
Sniffing out the colour is surely an impossibility?
But, that’s not to say I can’t increase my chances of getting the sock-colour-guessing-game right by using a bit of footslave-thinking.
In the meantime, however, I obediently obey the master-sir’s command to nose the outside of his Indian wife’s now stretched forth right boot, and make it look as though I am endeavouring to sniff out the colour of her bootsock inside.
I even sniff audibly – just to amuse the master and mistress – but what I am actually doing is trying to buy myself some time, in order to use my powers of footpig-deduction. I mean:
· The mistress’s ankleboots are quite scruffy and well-worn; even scuffmarked in places around the rounded toe areas and at the base of the wedged heels. So what does that tell me? That she is actually quite casual and nonchalant about the state of her footwear? If so, that would suggest to me that my Indian mistress is wearing black socks inside her boots – possibly even ropey looking and bobbled, black socks, to match her scruffy black boots. She wouldn’t care about the state of her socks as most people never see them, and besides, the black would hide the worst excesses of her inground footsweat-stains in her well-worn socks!
· Oh, but then, on the other hand, perhaps unkempt and uncared-for boots actually suggest white socks underneath – for if my new mistress really doesn’t care about the state of her boot and sockwear, why would she give a dominant damn about a few grubby, yellow and brown, sweat stains on the outsides of her white socks – again, especially as those socks are, for the greater part of the day, and certainly when she is in public, hidden deep inside her boots?
· Likewise, if she doesn’t care about the state of her boots and socks, wouldn’t she be just as likely to wear colour-clashing white socks, rather than boot-matching black socks? She would, basically, grab whichever pair of socks came to hand (especially as, this morning, before she owned me, she didn’t have a personal footwear-slave to select her socks for her!)
· But am I jumping to conclusions about her lack of feelings for her boots? Perhaps the boots are designer scruffy; like her jeans? Perhaps that is the deliberately engineered, street-fashion effect she’s going for – to literally throw me off the scent?! In which case I am veering back towards black socks; designer grubby black to match her designer grubby, black boots?
· And yet, she also strikes me, on initial impressions, as being a rather ‘girly’ sort of girl! Sure, she may be wearing navy blue jeans with her ankleboots, rather than a dress or a skirt, but they are girly, flared, ‘bootcut’ jeans, and the rest of her attire – including her revealing, white frilly blouse and bright red lipstick, suggest a very feminine nature! So, by that reasoning, white would again seem the more likely colour of sock – girly white, rather than manly black?
All of these pathetic thoughts, and more, are racing through my feverish, pig-like mind as I snort and snuffle on the outside of her zipped-up ankleboot in a desperate attempt to guess the colour of bootsock!
The master-sir appears to take pity on me as I wallow in my miserable quandary:
‘Ha! Ha! I think he’s floundering a bit, Shakti darling! Ha! Ha! Let’s give him a clue – hitch up the hem of your jean-leg and show him the top of your sock!’
My heart leaps with joy! I can’t believe the generosity of the master-sir in suggesting this to his beloved wife! After all, if I can see the elasticated top of her sock I’ll know for sure what colour of socks she has on! The master-sir specifically told me earlier that his wife was wearing either plain black or plain white socks – so it shouldn’t be a trick question, with, for example, two-tone socks on his wife’s feet and ankles!
I could praise and bless the master-sir right now – if I were permitted to speak!
The equally kind and generous mistress-madam Shakti smilingly complies with her husband’s request, and slowly hitches up the hem of her right, navy-blue, bell-bottom, jean hem to reveal…nothing!
Well, nothing in the way of sock-top, anyway! Just smooth, brown, Indian-girl legflesh – beautiful to behold; but not a sign of sock!
The master-sir laughs at my dashed hopes and foot-piggish consternation:
‘Ha! Ha! You didn’t really think that we would let you see the tops of my wife’s socks, did you footpig! Ha! Ha! That would be much too easy! And, by the way, don’t you dare try to look down inside the tops of my wife’s ankleboots! No cheating, pig! You keep your head low and to the side of her boot – where it belongs! You dig, pig?’
‘Oink! Oink!’ I reply, disappointedly.
The mistress-madam is apparently becoming impatient, eager, no doubt, to see me fail and get whipped:
‘Ha! Ha! Get on with it, footpig – make your guess, innit? Ha! Ha! And remember, you’d better guess right, an’ that, or you’ll be for the whip every night for the nex’ 10 nights, innit though? Ha! Ha! Come on, then – say one oink for white socks, an’ two oinks for black socks!’
Obviously a Gynarchy-Indian girl born and bred – judging by her accent; and her attitude!
I have no choice now but to make a decision, based on my earlier reasoning. I seem to be veering towards the socks being white. I bite my lip and go for it:
‘Oink!’
The master-sir once again takes charge of the degrading (for me) proceedings:
‘Ha! Ha! One oink – that means he’s guessing ‘white’, Shakti honey! Ha! Ha! Even I don’t know what colour of socks you have on today! Ha! Ha! Go on – love; make him unzip the side of your boot and put us all out of our misery! Ha! Ha!’
The winsome, overweight, Indian-girl mistress sits herself up straight on the couch, and this time places her left, booted foot slightly forwards, again hitching up her navy-blue denim, jean hem to reveal the full extent of her boot – but no sock!
‘Ha! Ha! Go on then, footpig – unzip the side of my boot wiv your mouth, innit though?’
I kneel forwards and duly grab hold of the metal zipper-top with my footslave-teeth, and slowly start to pull down the zip on the side of my mistress Shakti’s left ankleboot to reveal… a black sock!
The master and mistress are ecstatic with sadistic glee:
‘Ha! Ha! It’s black! It’s black! Ha! Ha! You guessed wrong, footpig!’ exclaims the free man with undisguised joy. ‘Ha! Ha! Kiss my wife’s black sock 100 times while I go and fetch the whip!’
‘Ha! Ha! Innit though? Ha! Ha! You is gonna be well whipped, slave, innit? Ha! Ha! Ha!’ chortles the young, dark-haired, Indian woman as I fearfully kiss her now partially exposed, warm, incriminating, black sock.
The happy couple may be full of glee, but woe is me! 50 lashes – every night; for the next 10 nights! That’s 500 lashes across my bare, piggy back!
And all because I guessed wrong on a 50/50 choice! How unlucky is that?
Well, it’s 50% unlucky, I suppose! Unless, of course, miss Shakti is deviously wearing one black sock and one white sock? Then the odds would have been truly stacked against me!
And, suspiciously, did you notice that she had revealed only her left bootsock to me? But why the left – when I was ‘sniffing’ the right? Mmm… yes, the more I think about it, that’s odd.
Odd socks, I’ll wager!
![clip_image002[1]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiuRV3CsILtyXF8TVKOhZR3J9FuOSJSAXyD8Y_-Nx46ItxgkxQuzlGQNPENnpTYHmwsz0uJrb_4lWae5QXFkOZNVsfHhW5rjodC06dO0vrcZjbfzKn3fFcXrrEWzE8XTIKUS3fgjCsAE5/s1600-h/clip_image002%25255B1%25255D%25255B3%25255D.png "clip_image002[1]")
She is a nice, wholesome Gynarchy-Religious girl – black; early twenties; fresh-faced, albeit with a somewhat smug, holier than thou expression etched into her pretty, African-Caribbean features; slim, and modestly dressed in a knee length, blue woollen overcoat with a white, furry trim, and opaque purple, thick woolly tights. No sluttily short, bare-leg-exposing socks for her – but wholly upright tights, as befits a practising-religious girl.
It is Sunday morning, and she is carrying her leather-bound Gynarchy-bible, as per usual, on her way to Female Church.
Never one to just walk on by, however, she stops, as usual, to greet me – the male, public footslave on her local sink estate – and to utilise my services, for her black and white, two-tone, low-heeled, Sunday best, court shoes could do with a quick lick and a shine. After all, it’s only right and proper that such a demure and chaste, young black woman should look her very best when worshipping in female church.
To my eternal shame I am unable to offer her a pew, as my humble, sink-estate, shoelick stand is just that – a ‘stand-up’ facility consisting of nothing more than a weather-beaten, wooden footblock for the young black lady to stretch her foot out onto beneath my equally weather-beaten face, but she doesn’t hold it against me (only her fully shod foot is held against my face!)
‘Hi, slave! It’s shoeshining time again, I’m afraid!’
Such a bright and cheerful sounding, young woman – and why wouldn’t she be? Is she not one of the female elect? Saved for all eternity – and about to have her sole freshly cleansed?
I praise and bless her for gracing me with her angelic-goddess presence:
‘Oh pray, mistress Righteous (that is her real name!), may the Goddess bless you, mistress Righteous, and praise be to you for honouring me with your divine, female presence, mistress! You are better than me, mistress Righteous. Pray don’t hit me today, mistress!’
That last prayer is necessary, I’m afraid, for past experience has taught me that miss Righteous is not averse to a spot of slave bible-bashing – literally so, as she has browbeaten me many times across the face with her thick, leather-bound Gynarchy-bible! She is, after all, only human – and therefore flawed, her greatest flaw being a tendency to lose her temper with slaves very easily.
Just as her seemingly pristine, opaque, purple tights can now also be seen to contain flaws this close-up and personal, even though they looked completely pure from a distance! Those flaws include:
· One or two little creases in the purple, woolly-tight material around her shapely, young-womanly, outstretched, right anklebone as she patiently awaits her the shining of her first shoe;
· An element of bobbling in the purple wool at the back of the heel;
· Some tiny pieces of almost imperceptible, foreign debris stuck to the surface stitching of her tight – pieces of white fluff, and the like (probably some cross-contamination from her intimate sock-drawer, though that is one holy place, I shall, sadly, never get to see!)
· And, speaking of holy places, the makings of a tiny hole right in the middle of her purple instep, just above the shiny, white leather shoeline (I should explain that the two-tone, low-heeled, court shoes, whilst they are fetchingly black and white checked around the toe and heel areas, are purely white along the upper rims).
But, despite these tiny tight-flaws, the overall impression is of purity and cleanliness when it comes to miss Righteous’s Sunday best hosiery, and the purpose of my lickshining her equally smart, Sunday best shoes is clearly more about humiliating and denigrating me in public, rather than actually sprucing up the churchy, young black woman’s, black and white footwear!
She laughs at my obsequiousness and craven fear of her as, despite her relatively petite stature, she towers over me like a dark shadow, blocking out my meagre, Sunday morning sunlight:
‘Ha! Ha! Shut up slave, and obey your female master! Do as I say! Shine my shoes!’
Miss Righteous knows her Gynarchy scriptures inside out, and that male slaves are obliged, by law, to obey their mistresses – or their ‘female masters’ as the Gynarchy bible puts it! Otherwise they shall be whipped (I think that’s what the Gynarchy bible goes on to say; it’s certainly what always happens in practice whenever a male slave fails to obey his female master in the Gynarchy!)
‘Yes, female master. At once female master, miss Righteous ma’am!’
She leans down and whacks me hard across the right cheek with the outside of her leathery bible. It sends my head spinning:
‘I SAID, SHUT UP, DIRTY SLAVE! ARE YOU FICK, OR SOMEFING? NO TALKING; JUST LICKING!’
As I regain my senses I wonder how I could possibly have been so stupid! Had mistress Righteous not explicitly ordered me to shut up? So why, then, had I persisted in replying to her?
I deserved that stinging bible blow across the face!
I know the routine well enough by now. I humbly turn the other cheek, and she duly bible whacks me across it as well, before standing upright again and looking concernedly towards the heavens whilst I silently begin lickshining the outer area of her proffered, court shoe – focussing my tongue initially on the chequered black and white area covering her dainty, feminine toes.
She is looking concernedly towards the heavens not because she is ashamed of her cruel use of the Gynarchy bible, but because it is suddenly turning very dark, and looks like thundery rain. The young mistress does not appear to have a hood on her woolly overcoat, or an umbrella with her, and she won’t want her precious bible-thump getting wet. So I must get a move on, before the heavenly floodgates open.
When my tongue reaches the back of her shoe, miss Righteous kindly facilitates me in my humble tongue-labour by twisting her dainty, purple-woollen heel to one side so that first the black area of her outer shoe-heel is more readily accessible to my unworthy, sinner tongue, and then twisting her heel in the opposite direction on the footblock that I may diligently toungeshine the adjacent white area. Needless to say, the concomitant creases and folds in the back of her woolly-tighted heel send me into a footslave rapture, for they remind me that I am the male, public footservant of a flawed, but much holier than me, female human being!
I lick the remaining sides of black and white, two-tone shoe, tasting little flecks of female street dust and grime.
Having inspected both sides of her freshly cleansed, right shoe, the virtuous, young, black mistress withdraws it from beneath my, still throbbing, face, in order to replace it with her left shoe – but, disaster strikes; or rather, lightning strikes, and the heavens do suddenly open!
She lets out a girlish squeal, pulls up her furry, white collar, and runs off for shelter beneath a nearby tree before I even have time to look for flaws on her left, purple-woolly, tight leg. I am mortified at the thought that I have left her with one fully cleansed, and one as yet uncleansed sole – and yet, does that not sum up miss Righteous to a tee? Holier than thou on the one hand; flawed on the other; sweet and kind – yet quick to wrath and prone to violence?
Whatever, even with one dirty shoe and one clean one, she is still better than me – as evidenced by the shelter mother nature is now kindly providing for her, whilst I am left exposed and vulnerable to the elements. The best I can hope for is that the dirty rain will wash away my sins, and the lingering pain in my shamefaced cheeks!
Bible-bashed and weather-beaten – that just about sums me up!
I am what’s known as a ‘footslave-fancy’ (or a ‘fancy footslave’ in common parlance). I differ from other, more common, footslaves in the following ways:
· I am a eunuch – not by male choice, but by female design, as it was my stern mistress Fiona’s will that I be made such.
· I must look, sound and act highly effeminate and fanciful, even though I am, or was, quite a masculine being before my unfortunate downfall and enslavement.
· I am made to look queerish by having a somewhat askew, pink silken top-hat glued to my bald head with a whole series of derogatory words written on it which nicely sum up my truly pitiful existence; words such as ‘whipped’; ‘foot-faggot’; ‘pain’; ‘foot-queer’; ‘fanciful’; ‘smelly socks’; ‘toejam’; ‘foot-fop’; ‘sock lint liker’. Furthermore, I must wear a fancy, heavy wooden collar around my nimble neck – much more fanciful and exotic in design than an ordinary footslave-collar (or ‘cangue’) in that it has many wooden protuberances jutting outwards from the neck area, on the spiked ends of which there are little tinkle-bells – to warn everyone that I am coming. To have such fruity words of disparagement constantly displayed above me on my wonky top-hat, and constantly jingling-jangling tinkle-bells on the ignominious ends of my wooden-collar protuberances, is a truly demeaning experience for an ex-man like me!
· I am made to look even further deviant and fanciful by virtue of having my lips painted with indelible, red lipstick, and deep blue shadows festooned around my plucked eyebrows, making me look almost male-whorish. And two small tattoos of my mistress’s sweaty, pink, bare feet on my pasty-white cheeks (known as ‘ugly spots’) make my footslave-fancy face look even more bizarre and ridiculous, if that’s humanly possible?
· And then my bare, white back is tastefully decorated with carefully interlaced whip-stripes, causing a painful, red-latticed effect on my naked back for everyone to mock and laugh at as they, literally, look down on me (I must be kept permanently kneeling, of course, in order to better serve my mistress’s feet, and I am consequently never permitted to stand on my own two feet!). Some free people even like to finger my sore weals as I kneel before them, tracing them with their dirty fingernails, and digging into them in order to hear me wince at their not so delicate touch. My mistress Fiona always heartily approves of my rough treatment by her friends and acquaintances in her foot-presence, and likes to make sure they are satisfied with my suffering, so I don’t stifle my winces; indeed, I often cry out loud and beg for mercy before my cruel betters, whatever their sex.
· Moreover, I am made to sound queer and foppish whenever I beg, by virtue of my artificially-induced lisp (again, arranged by my mistress Fiona) which is, if anything, exacerbated by the flowery and fanciful footslave-fancy language I must use, by law, when addressing a superior mistress or a proper, free man. For example, if a master-sir cruelly compliments me on my striped back I must lispingly respond as follows:
“Why thank you kindly, motht generouth mathter-thir! Oooh, truly thith fanthy foot-thlave ith honoured to be apprethiated by thuch a kind and mathterful man, if it pleatheth you, motht rethpected mathter-thir! Oooh mathter-thir! Oooh pray run your fingerth through my whip-woundth, if it would pleath you kind thir?”
· I must also deport myself in a strange and unusual manner by ostentatiously ‘mincing’ whilst I crawl along on my hands and knees behind my mistress Fiona’s flat, black leather mules. To ‘mince-crawl’ means to jut one’s bare butt (into which one’s mistress has inserted an artificial, black rubber tail – get it? Top hat & tail?) high up into the air as one crawls with one’s nose to the ground behind one’s mistress’s sensible, flat leather shoe-heels, and to simultaneously swing one’s naked buttocks from side to side like they were anybody’s to blister or enjoy! It causes much amusement and merriment amongst passers-by as I mince-crawl to flat-heel down the city streets behind my ever so straight-laced and upright mistress Fiona, with my artificial tail between my legs.
In fact, my mistress Fiona ordinarily looks much more masculine and businesslike than I do, with her studious lack of make-up; her short, dark, bob-cut hair; her dark-coloured, no-nonsense trouser-suits; her ubiquitous, plain black anklesocks; and her equally ubiquitous, aforementioned, black leather, flat-heeled mules. And yet – she is most definitely heterosexual, and evidently very feminine and attractive to the opposite sex, for she has had lots of freemale suitors and lovers in her bed whilst I kneel, ponce-like, in the corner of her mistress-bedroom sniffing the moist, beige-coloured insides of her still sweat-warmed, hastily discarded, black loafer-shoes!
I would even fancy her myself, if I were anything more than just a pathetic, lisping, mincing and wincing, emasculated, stiff-collared, top-hatted and tailed, girlshoe-sniffing, fancy footslave!
Fancy that! Huzzah!
I am a fully-fledged footface.
A footface is a type of human footrest – unsurprisingly – and specifically one on which a lady can rest her dainty feet on an upturned, male face. I have been trained diligently for my role over the past two years, and I am now in the footslave-shop – ready and waiting to be purchased as an item of lowly, human furniture.
Even though I am not yet in use, I remember my footface-training and behave in the shop-showroom exactly as though my servitude was already live. To wit:
· I lie still on my back on the shop floor, with a suitably servile and docile expression on my upturned face. A footface must never exhibit any emotion, other than that of studied and pained devotion. He must appear dull and subdued, so as to not intrude on his mistress’s superior psyche.
· I lie on my back because the majority of footmistresses like to rest their feet on an upturned, male face, as opposed to a downturned face – some with the footrest-face totally upturned; some with the right (or left) cheek resting on the floor. Only a small minority of Gynarchy footmistresses opt for a prostrate footrest i.e. lying on his stomach and with one cheek uppermost – it’s just considered so passé these days! (And as for a mistress resting her feet on the back of a prostrate footrest’s head – well, that’s a whole different style of human footrest; it certainly doesn’t come under the heading of a ‘footface’, like me; more a footneck!)
· I remain totally silent – as befits a well-trained item of human furniture. I mean, you wouldn’t expect your pouffe to speak to you, so why would anyone want a talking footface?!
I have to admit, though, I am getting increasingly bored and desperate lying here on the dusty shop floor, waiting to woo a would-be female purchaser! I can’t wait to serve a mistress as her full-time footrest! I only hope she’s moderately pretty, and appropriately cruel towards me – for, after my months of oppressive and deliberately soul-destroying training, I yearn to be mistreated and abused beneath a sadistic mistress’s feet!
I hope, for example, that my new mistress, whosoever she may be, will have a penchant for wearing spike-heeled boots or shoes, and will dig them mercilessly into my face – twisting and grinding her metal-tipped heels into my facial flesh in order to deliberately cause me pain and suffering, whilst she knows all the while I am forbidden to cry out or even grimace, since I am merely, as I explained earlier, a human object and a piece of lowly, living furniture.
I hope my cruel, female owner will try to catch my eye, knowing that I cannot look her back in the eye – only in the sole; be it the thick, wedged sole of her harsh, towering, black leather kneeboot; the malleable and flaky, beige-coloured sole of her soft, pink leather ballet flat; the bobbled cotton sole of a short, greyish-white anklesock; or the soft, brown soleskin of her bare, black foot! (I do hope my mistress is black, for brown skin is so beautiful, especially on a young woman, don’t you think?)
I further hope that my mistress will enjoy insulting me, and mocking me, and rebuking me, in the full knowledge that I cannot answer her back, since I am nothing but her dumb footface, scarred for life by the marks from the dirty soles of her superior boots and shoes; and, ultimately, scared of her!
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Well-trained as I am, not a flicker of emotion appears on my humbly-upturned face as I espy the male shop-assistant steering a potential female buyer, who looks as though she might tick nearly all of the above boxes, over towards me!
She is stunningly beautiful – black(!); with long, dark, curly-permed hair; sultry and dark, African features; and pleasingly dressed in a dark blue bomber jacket over a bright yellow T shirt; beige-coloured, ankle-length, cotton leggings; scruffy, pink and white, high-top sneakers with thick, pink, loose laces and correspondingly thick, wedged soles; and just a hint of bright yellow anklesock peeking out from the tops of her, only partially laced-up, sneakers – socks clearly designed to complement her yellow, African T shirt.
I like a girl who colour-coordinates right down to her socks!
She looks down on me with a suitably contemptuous expression on her yet-to-be-convinced face, and I avert my gaze to her loose sneaker-tops – lest she mistake my admiration for her great, black-girl beauty as footslavish impertinence.
I hear her ask the smarmy, freemale shop-assistant lots of questions – questions which I myself could answer, were I not a thing; a thing to be talked about, and not talked to.
‘How old is it?’
My potential purchaser has a thick, West African accent; that’s good. I’ve heard tell that native-born African girls can be very cruel towards their male property!
‘Oh, it’s brand new, madam! We only deal in brand new footrests in this establishment!’
Madam! I’d have said more of a ‘miss’; early to mid twenties at the most! And, unless I am very much mistaken, the male sales assistant has just misunderstood the African miss’s question (I may be dumb, and he may be my freemale better, but, unlike him, I’m not stupid!)
‘No, I mean how old is the slave-face? When was it born, stupid fool?’
If I wasn’t so well trained I’d probably snigger at this point, or, at least, look suitably smug. But I remain dull and expressionless – like the piece of dullard furniture that I am!
‘Oh I see…forgive me madam! Erm…I think it must be about 45 years old?’
Nothing like an informed sales-assistant when you’re desperate to be sold – and this is nothing like an informed salesman; I’m 50!
The young black woman sneaker-circles around me, like an African eagle eyeing its prey. I make sure not to follow her sneaker-steps with my own eyes – even though it pains me not to look at her beautiful, scruffy and dirt-stained, pink and white, high-top sneakers and yellow socks – for any eye movement on my part would imply spirit; and that’s the last thing a lady wants – a spirited footrest!
‘Mmm…what was it before it became a footface?’
‘Erm…I believe it was in personal foot-servitude to a household mistress for many years, madam.’
The free man is making it up now – I was actually a public foot-servant, owned by the Female State; I was an ornamental footkisser in the lobby of a female university library, and I am therefore well used to respecting young women’s dirty sneakers! Why isn’t he telling her any of this?!
Because he’s no good at his job, and doesn’t know; or care!
Still, he does want to make that sale:
‘Please, madam, take a seat over him and try it out!’
The sales assistant gallantly pulls over a comfortable, leather chair and smilingly gestures to the sullen, young African woman to take a seat above me, so that she can try out the footrest on the wedged, rubbery soles of her sneakered feet.
She takes the salesman up on his kind offer, and somewhat inelegantly plonks herself down onto the proffered chair, before almost immediately, and without standing on ceremony, plonking her dirty great sneakered feet down onto my fragile, upturned face with equal, African forthrightness!
I studiously remain expressionless and dumb, even though her thick, wedged sneakersoles are heavy and hurting. I can smell rubber, and feel, and see, globules of sticky street-mud clinging between the rubbery treads of the pure, black African girl’s, dirty-white sneakersoles, but I do not turn up my nose or avert my gaze. On the contrary, this is what I’ve been longing for – and how I hope to spend the rest of my humble life; as a haughty and arrogant African girl’s personal, seemingly inanimate, but very much alive, human footrest!
Granted, she may not be wearing spiked heels, but I’ll just bet there are several pairs of high-heeled shoes or boots in her shoe cupboard at home! She’s such a stylishly dressed young woman! And even if there aren’t, is it not still my inestimable privilege to lie motionless and in pain beneath the soft, yellow socks, the thick, pink and white high-top sneakers, and the pinky-brown footskin of such a beautiful and sullen, African goddess-mistress?
None of this joy and respect shows on my gormless footrest-face, however, for I must remain dispassionate and objectified – since, in her pretty, African eyes (with which I must still strive to avoid inappropriate contact) I am nothing but a thing for her to rest her dirty feet on.
She cares not if she is hurting me – and rightly so!
The salesman now demonstrates that he is not a total waste of space, by extoling the virtues of having a personal, human footrest to the young, black customer-mistress:
‘Ha! Ha! See how it doesn’t move, madam – even if you wriggle your feet over it! It will remain perfectly still and motionless, as it only exists to provide support for your pretty feet!’
The young black woman tests the salesman’s theory by vigorously rubbing her dirty, rubber sneakersoles all over my face, sullying it with fresh street-mud and distorting it with her female shoerubber, but nevertheless failing to break my stony-faced and respectful silence.
I think she’s actually quite impressed!
‘I like the way my shoes are making his face look even uglier, but what if I don’t want to see his ugly, male slaveface staring up at me all the time?’
I yearn to reassure the superior, young black woman that I would never dream of ‘staring up at her’, and would only ever stare her in the shoe, sock, or foot sole as she towers goddess-like over me! But the salesman has another solution to her sweet-feminine sensitivities:
‘Well, madam, that’s precisely why many young ladies prefer to rest their feet on the side of their footrest’s face – either both feet simultaneously, or just one, with the other foot resting on the floor in front of the footrest’s face. Please feel free to try it out that way, madam, if you so wish!’
The young African lady does so wish, and the next thing I know her heavy, right sneaker is forcing my left cheek down onto the ground for a very close up and personal view of her dirty, left sneaker-instep – a view so close you can smell it.
Again, it’s the aroma of steaming hot rubber. Those yellow socks must be broiling deep down inside those rubbery, high-top, overseas student-girl sneakers!
I admire the many traces of dirt stuck to the tiny ridges on the side of the nominally white, left sneakersole now dominating my field of vision, and relish the feel of cold, thick, gooey mud on the side of my upturned cheek – mud which is being ground into my unworthy, facial pores by the weight of the African girl’s sista sneakersole.
It feels right – this is where, and what, I am meant to be; a downtrodden, human footrest for a besneakered and besocked, African student girl, his barefaced cheek covered in her rubbery sneakersole-mud!
The all-important question is, of course…does it feel right to her?
They are both a bit squiffy – the short and stocky white man and his ‘Asian-babe’ girlfriend.
She looks nice – slim and svelte, with long, black, flowing hair; a pleasingly dark complexion that makes her white teeth shine all the more brightly; dressed in a revealing, white, ‘businesswoman-like’ blouse, black trousers, and black leather ballet-flats with black and pink-patterned anklesocks; and with a half-empty beer bottle in her right hand.
Her white boyfriend appears to be gallantly carrying all her late-night shopping – carrier bags full of new, female clothes and shoes, judging by the designer labels on the outsides of the bags. I’ll bet his credit card has just taken a hammering, but he seems too drunk to even care!
And why would he – with a beautiful, Asian ‘babe’ like this on his arm?
It is getting quite late – about 11 o’clock P.M – and it’s drizzling. But that doesn’t stop the alcohol-happy couple from stopping by my ‘stand-up’, public shoelick-stand whilst they wait for their late night bus home.
The Asian girl (who appears to be Indian in origin) seems to think it would be funny to have me ‘dry’ her rain-dampened, black leather, ballet shoes for her. So, she somewhat unsteadily plonks her right, ballet-flated foot down onto the wet, wooden footblock beneath my permanently kneeling face, and drunkenly barks her orders down at me in a mixture of Indian-English and Alcoholese:
‘Ha! Ha! Brute number 66, be licking the dampness off my shoe this instant with your ugly slave mouth, isn’t it?’
I should explain that 66 is my official public-footslave, identification number, emblazoned above my public shoelick-stand for all to take note of in case of complaint. I’m actually quite proud of my low number – since it indicates just how long I’ve been in the job (new public footslaves nowadays are allocated 7 figure numbers!)
The arrogant, unsteady Indian girl then takes another swig out of her beer bottle, as she hitches up the black hem of her business trouser-suit in order to expose yet more of her pink and black, business-girl sock to me.
The main body of the Indian-girl sock is black, but it contains a delicious little row of pretty, pink flower motifs all along the instep, which, thanks to the low-cut sides of her soft, black leather ballet-flats, are almost entirely on view to any pathetic person who would care to admire them – a pathetic, perma-kneeling individual like me, for example.
Sadly, however, I am not permitted to admire the sock flowers for too long – for I have rain-dampened, heavily creased, soft leather shoe to lick dry:
‘Yes goddess-mistress. At once, most beautiful and divine Indian goddess-mistress!’
The free man laughs at my cringingly awful slavespeak-obsequiousness towards his, admittedly rather beautiful, Indian girlfriend – a contemptuous, drunken laugh.
I respond to his arrogant laughter by sticking my tongue out – not at him, of course, but towards his drunken, Asian girlfriend’s proffered rounded, and somewhat scuffmarked, black leathery shoe-toe.
The trouble with attempting to ‘lick-dry’ a wet, lady’s shoe, of course, is that in order to remove the offending rainwater-droplets you have to first apply your own footslave-saliva. Only then can you attempt to blow-dry properly the musty, black, feminine-sized shoe. But this particular young mistress does not appear to understand that two stage process.
She suddenly withdraws her wrinkly shoe from my footblock and feigns young-womanly distress and dismay:
‘Eew!...The filthy slave is being making my shoe even worse with his dirty saliva, isn’t it Samuel?’
Her podgy, white-male escort, whom I now know to be called master Samuel sir, appears to find his Indian girlfriend’s distress somewhat amusing:
‘Ha! Ha! Kick his face in, Sangita darling, if he’s upsetting you!’
The young woman sounds quite angry with him now:
‘How the bloody hell can I be kicking him in the face with these soft leather ballet flats, you ignoramus, isn’t it? Are you wanting me to be hurting my toes on the brute’s face?’
The man-sir does not appear to take offence at his girlfriend’s public scolding (probably because he knows he is, by law, immune from the sting of the female whip – however angry his girlfriend may get), and instead comes up with a more helpful solution to her predicament:
‘Ha! Ha! Tell you what, darling, in that case why don’t you change into those new stiletto boots I’ve just bought you? They’re in here somewhere!’, and with that I hear him rustling through the many designer carrier-bags he is carrying for her.
The girl is clearly impressed with her handsome boyfriend’s clever suggestion (I say ‘handsome’, but that, of course, is through her pretty ‘beer-goggle’ eyes!):
‘Ha! Ha! Great idea, my darling! Help me be putting them on my feet this instant!’ and she drunkenly kicks off her right ballet flat and extends her shapely, pink and black-socked, right foot and ankle towards him whilst still balancing on her left, fully-shod foot!
‘I’m not putting your boots on for you, sweetheart! That’s his job!’ retorts the macho-man, who would never dream of stooping before his girlfriend in order to help her on with her boots. He’s not a slave, like me!
The girl stands corrected (albeit somewhat wobbly), and pirouettes around on her remaining, left ballet-flated foot in order to extend her bare-socked foot back towards my kneeling face, where it belongs. Meanwhile her boyfriend helpfully places the first of her newly-purchased, shiny patent black leather, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, zip up kneeboots in front of me, whilst gallantly putting his other, carrier-bag laden, arm around her in order to help her balance with her pink and black-socked foot still extended in the night-time air directly in front of my face.
Her socked foot is so close to me now I can see the bobbling in the cotton stitching of the, short, pink and black sock – and I’m pleased to report that the reinforced toe and heel areas of the predominantly black sock are bright pink to match the flowery logos around the insteps:
‘Ha! Ha! You heard my boyfriend, disrespectful, old male-slavey! Be putting my boot onto my foot, that I may be kicking you hard in the face with it. Isn't it, you impudent brute?’
So, I am to have the indignity of having to place the very same pointy-toed boot onto the dissatisfied customer-mistress’s foot that she is going to kick me with. Such is the miserable lot of a helpless, and hapless, public footservant!
I obey the pretty, Indian mistress, of course, since I have no choice but to prepare her leg for my own punishment – being nothing but a humble, inefficient footslave:
‘Yes mistress; at once Indian mistress!’
I pick up the shiny, black leather kneeboot. It feels nice and smooth to the touch – unsullied; as a brand new designer boot should be! I somehow don’t think it will feel quite so smooth when it is propelled into my face at breakneck speed (hopefully not literally breakneck!).
The tipsy, Indian girl giggles as I deftly do up the zipper on the side with my footslave-teeth, and I am then forced to watch in fear and trepidation as she swivels the pointy boot-toe in front of my face, as if sizing me up for her first kick!
All I can think about, though, is her pink and black sock creasing and folding in tandem with her teasing foot-movements inside the pointy, black, knee-length leather boot.
The short and stocky man seems impatient to see me punished for sullying his Indian girlfriend’s ballet-flat with my dirty, maleslave saliva:
‘Ha! Ha! Kick him now, Sangita love! Kick him hard in the face! Ha! Ha! Kick him right in the conk! How dare he sully your shoe with his filthy saliva!’
His drunken girlfriend is happy to oblige him:
‘Ha! Ha! Be holding me tightly, darling!’
And with that she swings her spike-heeled boot sharply backwards, before bringing its punishing, pointy toe-end swiftly forwards until it makes crushing contact with my prone and vulnerable face!
Her toe digs painfully into my nose, and is swiftly followed by another bruising kick to my upper lip. I feel my ugly, maleslave-face swelling up, to look even uglier than normal (if that’s possible?)
The free man and woman laugh at me, as the girl admires her bootwork on my face without even bothering to change into her other, shiny black kneeboot.
In fact, she then walks off – lopsidedly – with one high-heeled boot on her right foot, and one ballet-flat shoe on her left. The couple find it all highly amusing as the gentleman tries to steady her on her mismatched feet!
As for me – I ponder my newly thickened lip, and resolve to practise my dry-licking skills so that I don’t make the same mistake again of upsetting a mistress by making her rain-dampened shoes even wetter than they were before she approached me for help!
I have been justly punished – and duly lower my boot-bruised face to my sodden, wooden footblock in abject slave-failure and shame.
