A Sense of Direction

As a lowly public footslave working on a humble, ‘stand-up’ public shoelick-stall, I am, of course, at the very bottom of the ladder when it comes to intelligence. I have no mind of my own, and certainly no free will of my own, and consequently I need to be told what to do by my free superiors and betters.

I am, therefore, at my happiest, and always feel safest, when my superior, female customers take an active interest in my humble work at their feet, and issue me with clear and specific orders, directing me in my humble work as I lick clean their dirty feet and footwear.

The most disconcerting thing of all is when a customer-mistress takes no interest in my work, and merely plonks her foot down onto my wooden footblock, with absolutely no words of direction or encouragement as to precisely what she wants me to do. For I so much wish to please the mistress, in order to avoid being beaten with the public-use cane which hangs on the wall behind my kneeling head, and the one thing I can always be assured of is that, if I fail to please my footmistress-customer, I shall undoubtedly feel the stinging bite of that terrible cane across my bare back and shoulders!

You might be thinking that it is obvious what a mistress wishes me to do when she positions her pretty, feminine foot onto my humble, wooden footblock – she wishes her superior-female shoe or boot to be licked clean! But the problem is that there are so many permutations as to what exactly that may involve:

• She may wish the whole of her shoe or boot to be tongue-shined, or just one particularly dirty part;
• There may be a very specific trace of street-dirt or mud which is irritating her and which she requires me to remove with my footslave-mouth, but unless she tells me so there is a very real danger I may miss it, for a mistress is, naturally, brighter and more intelligent than me and may well spot flaws in her footwear which I cannot see, even close-up, due to my maleslave dumbness and stupidity;
• She may be expecting me to attend to her hosiery as well – to her socks or nylon stockings; some mistresses do; some mistresses don’t. How can I possibly tell, unless the mistress is a regular customer or she specifically orders me to either attend to, or ignore, her stockings or socks?
• If she is barefoot inside her shoes or sandals, she may even require me to respectfully kiss her bare footflesh before I begin my work of tongue-polishing her outer footwear, and feel insulted if I don’t first pay my respects to her superior, bare footskin; she may even require me to freshen up her bare feet by licking away her stale footsweat; and yet, other mistresses would regard it as an act of outrageous presumptuousness on my part if my dirty, slave lips so much as brushed against their bare footflesh, and would instantly reach for the punishment cane! How can I possibly tell, unless they give me clear directions?

I most definitely need a sense of footslave direction!

Danger Zone

Which is why I am so frightened when my next customer-mistress approaches the shoelick-stand and arrogantly stretches forward her right foot until it is resting on the wooden footblock beneath my humbly-bowed face. This has all the danger signs:

1) The customer-mistress – a young, black woman in her mid to late twenties – is a uniformed air-stewardess. She looks very pretty, of course – air-stewardess mistresses always are; but they can also, in my humble experience, be amongst the most demanding and arrogant of mistresses. They brook no nonsense from a slave, and expect high standards of service. I suppose they have to, really, given that they must always look smart in their uniforms – with nice, clean shoes – as they are the public face of their airline. So a slight tremor of trepidation always runs down my prone and vulnerable spine (insofar as I have a spine – being nothing but a spineless footslave) whenever an air-stewardess mistress approaches my footlick-stand;

2) She is a stranger to me; I do not believe I have ever had the honour of foot-servicing this particular air-stewardess mistress before. But that also spells danger, for it means I have no prior knowledge as to how I might please her – her likes and dislikes when it comes to having her feet and footwear attended to;

3) She is jabbering away on her mobile phone in some foreign language – Lingala, I think. This is bad news on two counts; firstly, she is distracted by her phone call, and may not, therefore, take the time to give me clear and concise instructions – worst case scenario, she may not even bother to speak to me at all, and expect me just to get on with it, whatever ‘it’ is; and secondly, even if she does graciously deign to interrupt her animated conversation with her African-male partner on the phone, there may be a language problem if she is a foreign mistress flying with a foreign airline (her uniform certainly isn’t the familiar, sky-blue shade of Gynarchy Airlines; it’s a much darker blue). Yes, the overseas mistress may be distracted, but that is never a good thing for a public footslave, for she can still inspect her footwear whilst speaking on the phone, and beat me with one hand whilst her other pretty hand holds the phone!

I am most definitely, therefore, in a footslave danger-zone when I am about to have to deal with a foreign, stranger, arrogant and haughty air-stewardess mistress who is having a heated conversation with another, free man on the phone!

For all that, I must say again that she is an extremely pretty mistress – even by the high-flying standards of air-stewardesses! Her jet-black hair (no pun intended!) is cut into a most attractive, shoulder-length bob, and she has long, shapely, African-girl legs. Her uniform – consisting of a smart, navy-blue jacket; a red and blue neck-scarf; navy blue knee-length skirt; and dark, nylon stockings with low-heeled, navy blue, court shoes – only serves to enhance her natural, African beauty. I notice too that her right foot is quite veiny beneath the dark, nylon stocking as it now rests on the wooden footblock directly beneath my face, for I can see the little ridges in the sheer stocking material caused by her prominent foot-veins.

Already I am in a quandary – should I respectfully kiss those nylon-stockinged foot veins before I begin my work of, presumably, tongue-shining her air-stewardess, navy blue, court shoes. Is the black mistress proud of her foot veins, and does she like the feel of a public footslave’s respectful lips on her stockinged feet?

And what about her immodestly outstretched, right shoe on her right, nylon-stockinged leg? Is there any particular area of air-stewardess, uniform court-shoe that she requires me to lick? Has she spotted a dirty mark somewhere that requires removal-by-tongue, or does she just wish for an all-over shine?

Oh pray, pretty mistress! Oh pray! Please interrupt your superior telephone conversation above me in order to specify your mistressly orders to me!

But this is the worst case scenario; the mistress is too preoccupied with her conversation to be bothered to bark down her orders at me – not even in Lingala! To her it must be obvious what needs doing. But that’s because the mistress is cleverer than me. She has a superior female brain, and my male brain is vastly inferior to hers. The Gynarchy’s female scientists have proved that for a fact!

I am therefore left rudderless, and directionless. But I have to do something, for doing nothing would be the ultimate insult to a mistress!

I decide not to kiss her nylon-stockinged foot-veins, much as I would like to, for the mistress, for all I know, may not be so enamoured by her foot imperfections as I am. I therefore respectfully kiss the pointy toe of her navy-blue, air-stewardess shoe, before starting to lick it. I can’t see any particular area of mud or dirt that needs immediate attention, and so I’m guessing that the mistress merely requires an all-over shine.

There is perhaps the faintest hint of African-girl, sweaty nylon foot in my kneeling nostrils as I lick court shoe – but nothing to blog home about!

The mistress is still talking on the phone above me in Lingala, so I can only assume that what I am doing at her feet is reasonably pleasing to her; even a distracted mistress would waste little time in reaching for the cane if I was displeasing her in any way – if, for example, she had indeed wished me to pay homage to her foot-veins through her dark, nylon stocking.

She semi-consciously twists her foot slightly to one side in order to give my tongue easier access to the instep along the side of her shoe, causing the thin, nylon material in her stocking to crease in several places around her shapely, African-girl anklebone. It is a most fetching sight, and I start to relax a bit more; the air-stewardess mistress’s subliminal foot-adjustment means my mouth is clearly on the right track – the right shoe-dirt track.

I can now feel little bits of Central African dust and detritus coming off the shoe and into my mouth, so the mistress, as always, was right to stop by me and have her shoes licked. They were indeed dirty, and in need of a quick polish. Like I said – high standards for a high-flying air stewardess!

Two licked shoes later she leaves me as she had arrived, still jabbering away animatedly in Lingala on her mobile phone. But I can relax. I have not been caned. I must have pleased her with my efforts.

Not being caned is the only thanks I need.

Comfort Zone

I relax even more when my next customer-mistress approaches for this is one of my regulars, the petite and svelte, bleached blonde, 20 year old, office-intern mistress Sarah, and she ticks all the right boxes when it comes to giving me a footslave sense of direction:

1) She is a regular customer, gracing my humble shoelick stand at least four or five times a week, usually on her way home from work, meaning that I already know her foot-service preferences by heart. I know, for example, that she likes me to kiss her socks – though not until she has given me her verbal permission to do so. And I know too that she will inevitably be wearing her ubiquitous, plain black leather ballet-flats with dark socks – though the socks, naturally, vary from day to day. Mistress Sarah always has relatively clean and odour-free feet, and mercifully changes her socks every day;

2) Even though she is a regular customer, with regular requirements, she will not fail to spell those out for me again in explicit and unambiguous terms, for she knows I am thick and need to be directed in my humble, unskilled work;

3) She is not only a very beautiful, young woman, she is very kind. I don’t believe she has ever whipped me with the cane, not even when she has needed to order me to lick a part of her ballet-flat shoe again because I may have missed a bit of dirt or dust.

Yes, I am in my comfort zone whenever I am serving the delightful office-girl mistress, mistress Sarah, on her way home from work.

I think she is too!

‘Hi, slave! How are you today?’

She greets me cheerily as she stretches forth her right, ballet-flated and besocked foot onto my wooden footblock. As always, mistress Sarah is wearing plain, black office slacks to match her black ballet flats, and today she has opted for a matching pair of black cotton sneaker-socks, though she sometimes wears dark navy-blue socks to work. I am pleased to observe that today she is wearing her black sneaker-socks with the little red logos on the insteps. I’m not quite sure what the logo is, but I believe it is some sort of cartoon animal – a bird of some sort, perhaps?

Whatever, it always adds a splash of colour to miss Sarah’s socks and the short black and red sock, which barely covers the lower half of her pasty-white, but shapely, right anklebone, fills me with a sense of true sock and awe! What’s more, having had the honour of serving this particular pair of office-girl socks before, I know what’s coming!

First, however, I must humbly respond to my superior, regular mistress’s kind words of greeting, in suitably humble slave-speak of course:

‘Oh pray mistress Sarah. Welcome mistress Sarah. God bless you for visiting my humble shoelick-stand once again, most beautiful and respected blonde mistress Sarah. Truly this slave is feeling all the better for having the mistress grace him with her divine presence, mistress.’

As you know, I am not lying. I would never lie to a mistress, and I do feel all the better for seeing her familiar black socks and ballet-flats!

She laughs at my obsequiousness. It never fails to tickle her fancy:

‘Ha! Ha! You may begin by licking the toe of my ballet-flat, slave. Clean off all the filth – especially that muddy stain along my big-toe area. Can you see it?’

Now, this is exactly what I like, you see! Clear and concise, female instructions. The mistress knows exactly what she wants, and spells out to me precisely, and in unambiguous terms, what I must do to please her. There is no possibility of any misunderstanding, and therefore little likelihood of a beating with the cane!

I gush forth my gratitude to the sweet and kind, blonde mistress Sarah, a girl who knows her own office-junior mind:

‘Yes mistress Sarah. This slave can indeed observe the offending mud-stain to which you refer. This slave will immediately attend to it, most respected and revered mistress.’

And to her continued laughter I duly lower my lips onto her ballet-shoe mud.

She clearly enjoys watching my tongue at work on her dirty, office-footwear as she stands, hands on hips, above me:

‘Ha! Ha! Do you like the taste of my dirty shoe, slave? Is it pleasing to your taste-buds?’

‘Oh yes mistress …lick…lick…this slave is truly honoured…lick…lick…to be tasting the mud…lick…lick… from the toe of the mistress’s shoe…lick…lick…if it is so pleasing to you...lick…lick…most respected mistress Sarah…lick…lick.’

Miss Sarah caries on laughing at me. She never seems to stop laughing – at me. But I am happy to be laughed at – for it means I am pleasing the mistress.

This is where I know what’s coming next, for my mistress Sarah is nothing if not predictable:

‘Ha! Ha! And do you like my sock, slave? Do you like the sight of my black sneaker-sock inside my shoe? Does it make you feel humble, being so close to a superior, young woman’s sock while you are having to lick her shoe clean? Ha! Ha!’

Mistress Sarah knows me well. She knows that I find her dainty, black girlsock both humbling and intriguing since, even though it is saturated with the bacteria and sweat from her equally dainty, feminine foot after her long, hard day working at her office desk, it barely reeks of her – not even close up! I sometimes wish that it did, for smelling delicate, feminine foot-odour is the closest, and most intimate, a public footslave can ever get with a customer-mistress:

‘Oh pray mistress Sarah…lick…lick... if it pleases you mistress Sarah… lick…lick...truly this slave is humbled and put in his place by the sight of your glorious sock, mistress Sarah…lick...lick…if you would be so kind mistress Sarah…lick…lick…’

I may be dutifully licking soft, feminine shoe, but I’m now longing to kiss and sniff soft, feminine sock – and mistress Sarah knows it. She’s sock-teasing me. She always does:

‘Ha! Ha! Would you like to kiss my sock, slave? Ha! Ha! Would it make your day if I let you touch the side of my pretty sock with your dirty, slave-lips? Ha! Ha! That way you could also get a good sniff at it, couldn’t you? Ha! Ha!’

There is only one truthful answer I can give to such a blatantly rhetorical question from a superior, office-girl mistress:

‘Oh pray mistress Sarah…lick…lick… oh pray…lick…lick…truly this slave is indeed most enamoured by the mistress’s beautiful sock…lick...lick…and wishes for nothing more than to pay…lick…lick... his humble respects to the superior sock with his dirty, slave-mouth and nose…lick…lick... just as he now pays his respects to the mistress’s superior shoe with his tongue…lick...lick... if it would be so pleasing to you mistress Sarah …lick…lick…’

Mistress Sarah’s short, cotton sneaker-sock creases and folds in delight on her pretty, white foot in reaction to my humble confirmation of my fervent desire to kiss it:

‘Ha! Ha! Very well, slave! You may kiss the side of my sock thirteen times – but only kiss the red logo on the side; don’t touch any of the black area of my sock; and DON’T you dare touch my bare skin!’

‘Yes pretty mistress. At once pretty mistress. Thank you pretty mistress. God bless you pretty mistress!’

‘After that, if I’m satisfied with your sock-kisses, I may let you sniff it – all along the instep! Won’t that be a nice treat for you, slave? Ha! Ha! Yummy yummy, blonde-girl sockie-wockie to sniff! Mmm…nice! Ha! Ha! You’re pathetic, slave, you know that?’

‘Yes mistress Sarah. Thank you mistress Sarah. God bless you mistress Sarah!’

Mistress Sarah is mocking me now. But, you see, this is what I crave! Clear, concise and unambiguous instructions – however restrictive; however humiliating. It means we both know where we stand – or rather, the mistress knows where she stands; and I know where I kneel.

I knew this was coming – the kissing, and hopefully sniffing, of blonde mistress Sarah’s sock. It always does. It was only the precise detail that was missing. And now I have it. I am to kiss the red, bird-shaped logo on the instep of her short, black sneaker-sock thirteen times, and then await the order to run my sniffing nose al along her black-socked instep!

Who knows what the significance of thirteen sock-kisses is? Only mistress Sarah knows. It is not my place to try to work out the intricacies of her superior feminine logic. My place is merely to obey and kiss sock.

And so that’s what I do – I kiss an office-girl’s red sock-logo thirteen, respectful times.

As always, my slave-mouth passes muster, and I am granted my ‘reward’ of sniffing blonde office-girl black sock, even though it doesn’t stink that much.

It’s still reward enough for me!

Back in the Danger Zone

I could have happily spent all evening kissing and sniffing the soft, cotton side of that sweet sock – thirteen thousand times if mistress Sarah had so desired it. For it was the sock of my female master and better.

But mistress Sarah has better things to do with her time than have her socks kissed all day. She has a home to go to, and a boyfriend to meet up with.

And speaking of boyfriends, my next customer-mistress is accompanied by hers – always a dangerous situation for a public footslave, and particularly when that boyfriend has some very fixed and macho ideas as to how I should attend to his girlfriend’s footwear.

They are both strangers to me – another danger factor, as mentioned before. But, ironically, it is probably the one time when I dread receiving clear and concise directions, for I know that the master will never be pleased with my humble efforts on his girlfriend’s shoes or boots, however hard I try. In his masterful eyes I can never be good enough to attend to his beloved girlfriend’s feet. And besides, the master will always be looking for an excuse to demonstrate his free-manly machismo in front of his girlfriend – by punishing me; by beating me with the public-use cane, if he gets the chance.

The current young master, who like his girlfriend is white European, is clearly going to be no exception to the rule as he reaches instantly for the cane hanging on the wall behind me as his girlfriend simultaneously stretches out her right leg and positions her foot onto the wooden footblock directly beneath my face.

They are both in their early twenties – much younger than me. But in the Gynarchy youth means strength and power. There is nothing weaker and more vulnerable than an aging male slave in the Gynarchy of Barbaria!

And don’t this dominant, young couple just know it!

The girl is very pretty. I am very lucky today – only exceptionally pretty young women appear to be utilising my humble, foot-cleaning services today! She is slightly more overweight than her two predecessors – the Central African air-stewardess and the bleached blonde office-girl – but she nevertheless has very pretty, facial features (including a prominent nose-piercing) framed by distinctive, bright pink, shoulder length hair. Moreover, her plump and curvaceous body only seems to make her tower even more mightily above me as she stands with her right foot outstretched onto my wooden footblock, even though she is actually not that tall.

She is wearing dark grey, bootcut slacks with flesh-toned nylons inside a pair of chunky-heeled, round-toed, single-strapped, black leather, mary-jane style shoes. The nylon on her right foot has clearly seen better days since it is laddered in one or two places above the shoeline. The mistress has helpfully pulled up the hem of her right trouser leg to give my face and mouth unimpeded access to her footwear.

Podgy or not; pink-haired or not; wearing laddered stockings or not – the master, her boyfriend, is clearly very proud of his girlfriend, as well he might be. For she is a superior, young woman in her prime who is about to have her shoes licked in public by a pathetic, middle-aged, male public footslave.

The young man uses the tip of the punishment cane to point to the somewhat scuff-marked, rounded toe-end of his girlfriend’s outstretched shoe:

‘Slave, shine up my girlfriend’s shoe with your tongue. Lick away all these scuff marks…here…and here…I want her to be able to see her face in them!’

The young woman herself is clearly not mute, for she speaks to her boyfriend. She evidently just takes pleasure from hearing her man boss about a much older man at her feet:

‘Ha! Ha! Make him clean my shoe-strap also, Ben. It’s looking all dusty and dirty!’

Master Benjamin moves the tip of the stick up to the broad, single strap that buckles over the top of the young, pink-haired woman’s broad, nylon-covered foot:

‘You heard my girlfriend, slave! Lick the strap too – and make damn sure your dirty lips don’t touch my girlfriend’s nylons, or you’ll feel the sharp end of this stick across your bare back and shoulders! Do I make myself clear, foot-flunkey?’

‘Y…yes m...master sir. This slave hears and obeys the m…mistress and m…master. Please don’t beat me m…master sir.’

I am genuinely nervous now, for I know the master will, inevitably, find fault with my work, and I shall be beaten. It’s just a question of when, and how hard.

Trying not to shake, I lower my lips to the scuffmarked toe of the young woman’s, Mary-Jane style shoe first – not just because the master-sir had pointed to the toe-end first, but also because there is much less danger of my mouth inadvertently straying onto the young woman’s exposed, nylon-stockinged foot on this relatively safe and chunky area of her shoe.

I still get beaten, though; almost instantly. Three strokes – for not licking away the scuffmarks to the master’s complete satisfaction.

The pink-haired girl laughs at me and eggs her boyfriend on. But the sting of the cane has its desired effect of making me concentrate all the harder on the task in mouth, and I’m pleased to say that, when it comes to licking clean the broad leather strap, my lips manage to avoid straying onto flesh-coloured, laddered girlfoot-nylon.

Not even a hint of girlfoot-sweat this time; just the strong, musty smell of young woman shoeleather.

I’m relieved to say that, with the master’s cane hovering ominously above me, except when it is deftly pointing towards the various areas of his girlfriend’s shoes which he requires me to lick, I somehow manage to avoid any more stinging cuts to my bare back and shoulders.

I suppose that’s all thanks to the master’s expert direction of my humble work!

Before the couple leave, the girl’s shoes now glistening with my saliva in the early evening sunshine, the master asks the mistress if she is satisfied with my work. My shoulder blades flinch, for I know that she only has to say one small word – ‘no’ – and my back shall experience yet more pain courtesy of the whippy punishment stick.

To my relief, however, the fat, young, pink-haired, woman does seem satisfied, as she makes a show of inspecting her freshly-licked shoes on her feet:

‘Erm…yes thank you, honey…but you couldn’t have him straighten my popsocks, could you?...They’re all twisted on my legs!’

I had relaxed too soon – for this is precisely the excuse the master needs to rain down a whole series of stinging blows on my back with the swishy, stinging cane. How dare I? I had left his girlfriend’s flesh-toned, nylon popsocks all twisted on her lower legs! I should have known – without being told – that they were knee-high, nylon trouser-socks on her fleshy, white calves and not full-length, nylon tights or stockings; and that it was my duty to straighten them for her – to reach up inside the hems of her bootcut trouser legs and straighten her knee-high, nylon popsocks! Do I have to be told everything?!

Well, yes I do! I’m just a stupid footslave. I need a sense of direction. Please forgive me, master and mistress; I am such a footslave cluck!

The End