Footslave Fables Volume 5

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

VOLUME 5 CONTENTS (scroll down for fables in reverse numerical order)

10. Goodbye to sock

9. What if...?

8. A Rare Treat

7. Canklesocks

6. Owned

5. The Social Outcast

4. Two Voyeurs

3. Bigging Him Up

2. The Four Types of Footkiss

1. Cold Feet

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Fable no. 10 – Goodbye to sock

For a lady’s personal footslave one of the most distressing parts of the day comes when it is time to zip up the mistress’s ankle boots onto her feet.

It is, of course, a great honour and a privilege to boot up a superior mistress, but zipping up boots inevitably means saying goodbye, for the rest of the working day, to the mistress’s socks – especially if she is prone to wearing short footie-style socks inside her boots.

Like my mistress Marcia, for example. Mistress Marcia is a thoroughly modern young black woman in her early twenties – tall and slim, with long, curly black hair framing her extraordinarily beautiful African-Caribbean features. She is an office-worker, and dresses smartly in accordance – with her ubiquitous black-pinstriped trouser suit consisting of a smart, black-pinstriped jacket over a plain, white blouse; matching black-pinstriped, bootcut trousers; and shiny, black spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up ankleboots.

Inside those boots, however, she typically wears black, sneaker-style, cotton socks – socks which are thoroughly modern, but ultra-short and hardly designed for bootwear! Sure, they will do their job of absorbing my mistress’s precious, workaday footsweat inside the confines of her hot leather ankleboots, but they do not protect her soft and delicate feminine anklebones from chafing against the inner lining of her boots!

But my black mistress doesn’t seem to care – to be perfectly honest I think she doesn’t give a moment’s thought to the type of socks she wears inside her boots since nobody of any importance will see them – apart from her personal footslave i.e. me; and I’m hardly what you would describe as ‘important’!

And even I, the custodian of her feet and footwear, only get to see the socks at the very beginning, and the very end, of the day – before her boots are zipped on, and after they are zipped off, her pretty Afro-Caribbean anklebones.

And that’s precisely why I dread that point in the morning, after my mistress has breakfasted, when I must convey her stylish, patent black leather, spike-heeled ankleboots onto her feet, and zip up the sides of the boots over her socks, for I know it will be many, long hours before I get to see those short, black socks again; and they are such sweet socks, especially the plain black, flowery-stitched, sneaker-style socks she has on today.

They barely cover the lower halves of her black anklebones, and leave much of her chapped heels exposed at the back – exposed to yet further rubbing and chafing from the back-insides of her highly fashionable, but uncomfortable-looking, high-heeled ankleboots!

I find it deeply humbling that I shall have to kneel all day beside those boots underneath my black mistress’s office desk, knowing that her short, black cotton socks are getting evermore moist and sweaty on her hard-working feet, and yet not being able to see them. Not being able to stare in wonderment at the greying and fading areas where repeated sweating and washing has dulled the otherwise rich, black cotton of the flowery-patterned stitching; not being able to observe that little hole along the lower instep of my mistress Marcia’s left sock; not being able to admire the various little creases and folds in her socks, and having to make do instead with the wrinkles in her shiny, black ankleboot-leather.

Therefore I am in the habit of begging my sweet and kind mistress Marcia for permission to pay homage to her socks one last time before I zip up her boots of a morning. I have to judge my moment carefully – make sure she is in a conciliatory frame of mind, and not bad-tempered or moody, as she so often can be in the mornings. For my mistress Marcia doesn’t suffer fools gladly – and I am very much a fool; her foot-fool!

Today, however, my mistress appears to be in a relatively good mood – laughing and joking with her live-in boyfriend over the breakfast table above me.

He has already left for work when my mistress summons me to the front door porch where she is now seated on a chair and waiting for her personal footslave to bring her officewear ankleboots from the shoe-cupboard under the stairs (which doubles up as my footslave-cell).

I kneel in front of my superior, black mistress keeping my neck suitably bowed, for a slave must never look his mistress in the eye; only in the foot – specifically, at this precise moment in time, in her right, socked foot which is now hovering in the air as she is seated dominantly above me with her right leg crossed imperiously over her left.

I had already smoothed her soft, black sneaker-socks onto her feet before breakfast, and I am pleased to observe that the right sock is still straight on my mistress’s black foot, despite having picked up some dust and debris from the kitchen floor.

Mistress attends to her makeup using a compact mirror whilst I attend to her bootwear. I pull the top of her right boot open, ensuring the zip is fully undone, before gently and respectfully sliding it over my mistress’s obligingly, but haughtily, outstretched-in-the-air foot.

Already, even though the zipper has not been pulled up, a large part of my mistress’s black-socked foot is hidden from view – the reinforced toe area; the sole area; the outer side of her socked foot; the base of the heel. All that remains visible is the somewhat worn and greying, socked instep, and the elasticated top of the short sock stretching over the middle of my mistress’s rather prominent, black-skinned anklebone.

I must speak now, or forever hold my peace – for my mistress’s right sock will soon disappear completely from view, confined in her fully zipped-up boot:

‘Oh pray, mistress Marcia, I beseech you, mistress Marcia, pray permit this dirty, unworthy slave the honour of kissing the side of the mistress’s black sock one last time before he dutifully zips up the mistress’s boot over her precious, black anklebone, if you would be so kind to a dirty slave, most respected mistress Marcia. Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray! Your sock, mistress!’

Mistress Marcia giggles and flexes her right foot muscles, thereby causing her short, black sock to crease and fold momentarily in front of my mesmerised eyes, as if to sock-tease me even further. She knows that she has all the power, and that I may not touch her sock with my lips without her express permission, since it is superior to me.

But my mistress Marcia is nothing if not a kind and giving mistress, and she disdainfully grants me my pathetic and humble wish:

‘Very well, filth. But don’t touch my skin!’

Filth is her slave-nickname for me. All her friends call me ‘filth’ as well.

‘Oh no mistress. I mean, yes mistress. God bless you mistress Marcia!’

I have my mistress’s gracious permission to kiss sock! Without further ado, in case she changes her mind, I lower my grateful lips to the soft and greying instep of my mistress’s right sock, and gently kiss it – savouring the precious moment when white maleslave-lip meets black female sock. I can barely bear to pull my lips away from the soft and comforting material of the girlfoot-warmed sock, so much do I love and admire it!

But all good things must come to an end, and my mistress has a bus to catch! I therefore tear my lips away; praise and bless my mistress for the honour she has just bestowed on me; and mentally say my goodbyes to the sock – until later this evening when I shall get to serve it again by sucking the mistress’s day-old footsweat out of its soft, flowery-patterned, cotton fibres.

Regretfully, I zip up the boot – and the sock is gone!

I then repeat the whole sorry process with mistress Marcia’s left sock – the one with the tiny hole in it, before imprisoning it too inside the confines of my black mistress’s zipped-up ankleboot.

It’s me I feel sorry for – not the socks. They will be in constant contact with my mistress Marcia’s warm and moist, bare foot throughout the day; not for them the cold exteriors of her boots. But at least I shall get to share in the socks’ moistness this evening, and get to taste what they have dutifully absorbed during the course of the day from my mistress’s precious, black footpores.

Yes, it’s not so much a case of ‘goodbye’ to sock, as ‘au revoir’. For, mercifully, we shall meet again later this very same day!

 

Fable no. 9 – What if…?

What if…

Instead of the freeman courting the woman, the mistress purchased the maleslave at auction?

Instead of getting down on one knee, the male got down on both knees – and stayed down?

Instead of mutual respect and equality, there was female power and male submission?

What if…

Instead of affectionately kissing each other on the lips, the slave devotedly kissed the mistress on the foot?

Instead of making mad, passionate love, the mistress caressed the slave’s back with her whip?

Instead of raising a family, the slave cared for his mistress’s footwear?

What if…

Instead of romance and love, there was domination and humiliation?

It would still be love…of sorts.

 

Fable no. 8 – A Rare Treat

Yesterday afternoon I experienced a bit of a rare treat whilst I was tongue-shining ladies’ dirty shoes and sandals at my ‘sit down’ public shoelick stand in the busy railway station concourse.

It was a hot day – the first really hot day of the summer - and there weren’t so many closed-in shoes about; there were far more open-toed sandals, elegantly displaying superior ladies’ pasty-white, bare feet freshly liberated from the confines of their more protective winter and spring footwear. It was a nice change for me too – having to carefully lick along delicate, feminine sandal straps and peep-toe openings, taking great care not to allow my slave-tongue to stray onto bare, womanly footflesh – for that would always be sure to earn me a severe whipping.

I am not employed to lick clean ladies’ soft, bare feet, you see; I am specifically a public shoelick!

Nevertheless, it was nice, after such a long and miserable winter, to be able to see and smell ladies’ soft, though in some cases partially calloused, bare footskin in close proximity for a change as I went about my humble, unpaid business of licking clean dirty and street-soiled, female footwear – and to admire the creases and folds in my female customers’ bare heelskin as opposed to the creases and folds in their shoe and boot leather.

It was with something of an initial sense of disappointment, therefore, that I lowered my face towards the dominant feet of a large, black lady late in the afternoon.

I was not disappointed because she was big and black, of course! Far from it – I adore tongue-polishing the footwear of beautiful, big black ladies! And she was incredibly big and heavy-looking, as she plonked herself down onto the seat of power above me, resting her broad feet on the two, metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face.

She looked like a businesswoman of some sort; early to mid thirties; an executive or manager perhaps; smartly, but unseasonably, dressed in her brown-woollen, pinstriped trouser suit, and carrying a black leather briefcase. She gave the impression of being a somewhat hot and flustered, black businesswoman, who simply had a few minutes to spare at the public shoelick stand before catching her train home to the suburbs.

So what’s disappointing about any of that? Should I not feel honoured to be of humble, footwear-cleaning service to such a superior, ample, female being?

Well, of course! But my black customer-mistress was also wearing an equally unseasonable pair of chunky-heeled, dark purple, zip-up ankleboots, and thick black bootsocks, on her large, black feet – and, inspired by the more summery footwear of most of my other customers that afternoon, I was so much wishing I could have seen the fat, black businesswoman-mistress’s bare, black footskin inside a pretty pair of strappy, peep-toe slingback sandals, for black women’s feet are always so deliciously appealing, in my humble footslave-experience!

I just love the way their feet have different shades of brown and black in them, from the pale brown of their soles and insteps, to the richer, deeper brown of their upper feet and ankles, and, of course, the often chapped and scarred, deep black of their bounteous heels – just like the differing shades of pink, white and sore red on Caucasian ladies’ summer feet!

But, it seemed, I was to be denied my late-afternoon treat of bare, black, female footflesh by the young(ish) businesswoman’s unseasonal black socks and purple ankleboots! At least I had the honour of knowing the black mistress’s feet must be hot and perspiring inside those heavy boots and socks on such a warm, summery day like this. Those were my selfish, footslave thoughts as I placed a respectful introductory kiss onto the rounded toe-area of each purple-leather ankleboot.

The fat, black customer-mistress barked her orders down at me in a suitably perfunctory manner, as she simultaneously unzipped her leather briefcase and took out some, no doubt, important business papers:

‘Slave, shine my boots.’

Switching my footslave-mind back into winter mode, I could now see that the boots could indeed do with a lick and a shine. They were actually quite scuff-marked around the toe-areas which I had just kissed, and there were several traces of inground streetdirt along the lower insteps.

I also admired the thick, black-felt, zipper areas down the inner sides of each boot; the black of the felt, together with the scrunched-up black of her ankle-length, cotton bootsocks beneath the now raised hems of her brown-pinstriped trouser legs, contrasted nicely with the purple leather of the boots and, whilst I would clearly be unable to ‘shine’ the felt zipper-area, I could see definite traces of dirt and dust stuck to the felt which my tongue would, hopefully, be able to successfully extract.

Yes, the more I studied it, the more I admired the black lady’s choice of footwear; I only wished I could undo the zippers on the sides of her boots, just as she had unzipped her leather briefcase above me, in order to pay oral homage to her socks underneath and, who knows, perhaps even pull down the top of one of her black bootsocks with my teeth in order to get a glimpse of her hot and sweaty, bare, brown ankle-flesh beneath.

What a summer treat that would be!

But, of course, it wasn’t to be. The young, black businesswoman had made it clear I was merely to shine her boots, and so I quickly set to work:

‘Yes, black mistress; at once, black mistress.’

It’s a good job our superior mistress-customers can’t read our lecherous footslave minds, isn’t it?

As I diligently tongue-shined the scuff-marks and street-dirt off her purple ankleboots the youngish, black businesswoman became equally engrossed in her paperwork. All I could hear was the sound of important business papers being rustled above me – that and the general, background din of the busy, station concourse around me. But I have always been very adept at shutting out all the surrounding distractions of the railway station and concentrating on the task in mouth – on my customer’s footwear – mainly because I love my job.

Suddenly however, mistress and slave were rudely interrupted by the voice of a young, female, ice-cream saleswoman. I could only see her pink-flip-flopped, bare feet, but from those alone I could tell that she was oriental; such delicate, oriental toenails, painted bright red – the colour of the Orient. I’d say she was Chinese, or possibly Japanese, and in her early twenties:

‘Madam like ice-cream? Lots of nice flavours for Madam – strawberry; vanilla; chocolate?...’

I chuckled to myself as I continued to lick purple leather boot; the mistress isn’t going to want an ice-cream this close to teatime! Ha! Ha! It would ruin her appetite!

I was wrong! The fat, black woman seated imperiously above me instantly fumbled in her brown trouser pocket for some change and replied to the girl:

‘Give me a chocolate one please.’

The transaction was completed; the oriental, ice-cream girl with the bare feet and pink flip-flops moved happily off (without, of course, offering to sell me any ice-cream; an astute business-move since I don’t have any money, and am only permitted to eat flavourless slave-gruel); and the next thing I heard being rustled above me was the paper-wrapping of the newly-purchased, chocolate-flavoured ice-cream on a stick – wrapping which the black mistress promptly chucked carelessly down onto the dirty ground beneath my kneeling face.

She knows she can’t be accused of littering the station concourse; she can’t be accused of anything because she is a superior female. I shall be blamed for her litter-buggery, for her litter is on my public shoelick-stand.

We continued licking, the two of us; the mistress licking her no doubt deliciously refreshing, chocolate ice-cream; I licking her somewhat less-refreshing, but nonetheless flavoursome, purple leather ankleboot.

Then my unexpected summer treat fell from the sky – a dollop of melting chocolate ice-cream fell onto the outer side of my lady’s left ankleboot!

I don’t think she even noticed, since she appeared to be engrossed in her business papers once again.

My heart raced – chocolate ice cream! I hadn’t tasted ice-cream – or any free-human food for that matter – in over 30 years, since my enslavement at the age of 21. State-supplied slave-gruel had been my only sustenance since then, as decreed by the Female Law. Oh, it was nourishing yes – but totally tasteless; and never a treat!

Not like chocolate ice-cream!

And yet, here I was with my humble mouth just inches away from a dollop of real, albeit second-hand, chocolate ice-cream!

And what’s more – I had to lick it off, by law; for it was sullying the side of a superior mistress’s boot! It therefore came under my public-footslave jurisdiction, and the Female Law actually demanded that I remove it from the side of my mistress’s boot! After all, she had not come here to have her boots stained with ice-cream; she had sat down above me in order to have her boots cleaned of all detritus and debris!

For some reason I still had a somewhat guilty footslave-conscience as I lowered my lips to the chocolate ice-cream stain and lapped it up; for in my heart of hearts I knew I was unworthy to taste free-persons’ food like this, even free-persons’ food that was sullied by a superior free personage’s bootleather.

But for a few precious seconds my humble, male slave-mouth got to taste a soupcon of that which was now filling my black mistress’s superior, free, female mouth – smooth, rich, chocolate ice-cream!

Yes – it was a rare, summer treat indeed for a down-in-the-dirt public footslave like me. I may have been denied the sight and smell of my superior, black mistress’s chocolate-coloured, bare foot, but the taste of a tiny dollop of smooth, chocolatey ice-cream from the side of her dirty, purple-leather ankleboot more than made up for that!

 

Fable no. 7 – Canklesocks

My 23 year old mistress - mistress Damaris - is a truly beautiful young woman in her physical prime. Of average build – though somewhat on the plump side; long, black hair which she usually wears tied back in a severe ponytail; pretty features with piercing, dark eyes. My mistress turns freemale heads wherever she goes.

I believe she is of Greek ethnic origins, though she was born and brought up in the Gynarchy of Barbaria.

However, she has one physical feature of which she is most self-conscious – my pretty, Greek mistress has rather fat, unshapely ankles and lower calve muscles; so-called ‘cankles’.

I like them – for I am her personal footslave and it is my job to like and admire my mistress’s fat ankles. But mistress Damaris herself is embarrassed by her cankles, and seeks to hide them inside calf-length boots and beneath trousers. She never wears skirts.

Furthermore, she likes to wear heavy, thick socks in a further attempt to conceal her fat and unshapely ankles from the rest of the world. She has a tendency to wear thick, black woollen or cotton socks inside her black leather, calf-length boots – socks which disguise the natural thickness of her pasty-white anklebones.

Again – I like her socks; for although her choice of bootwear means that I spend most of my working day staring at the outside of her black, leather zip-up boots, the thought of so much sock being inside my mistress’s boots thrills me to my footslave core. I can slavishly look forward to burying my nose in her thick, black bootsocks when my sweet and kind mistress is relaxing with her feet up on the sofa at the end of a busy day, immersing myself in the gentle aroma of young woman black-bootsock and losing myself in amidst all the thick creases and folds of her socks.

For if my mistress Damaris were to wear her socks fully pulled-up they would be virtually knee-length. Instead, however, she likes to wear them scrunched down – so that they hide the fact that it is her bare ankles that are fat, and instead give the impression that it is merely her socks which are filling out her soft, feminine anklebones.

My mistress’s sock-deception works extremely well throughout most of the day, of course. Thanks to her stylish, block-heeled and round-toed, calf-length boots the world merely sees a humble, raggedy-assed footslave kneeling dutifully beside his pretty, dark-haired mistress’s shapely, black boots and thick, black bootsocks.

If, for example, my mistress Damaris is seated at a table with her right leg crossed over her left, they may observe me – her personal footslave – kneeling underneath the table beside her boots staring at, and admiring, the scrunched-up tops of her thick, black socks just above her bootline. But they will have no idea as to the natural podginess of my mistress’s anklebones within those boots and socks – not even if they catch a fleeting glimpse of her soft, white, Greek calf-muscles atop my mistress’s scrunched-up, black cotton bootsocks.

Indeed, the rest of the world won’t be in the least bit concerned about my mistress’s heavy boots, fat ankles and thick socks. They are my concern, and mine alone, since I am her loyal, pathetic, personal footslave. The rest of the world – the free world – if they are judging my mistress Damaris on her physical appearance at all, will be much more focussed on her pretty, Hellenic face, her dark eyes, her tied back hair, and her shapely, curvaceous body.

Sometimes, when my mistress Damaris is feeling particularly self-confident, she will wear her thick, black socks with ballet flats – again, always with slacks. I love it when my mistress discards her boots in favour of her plain, black ballet flats – for then I get to see much more Greek-girl sock throughout the day.

I can study the socks whilst she is wearing them on her fat feet – count the creases and folds; count the individual stitches; admire the little pieces of foreign, white fluff and other daily detritus which inevitably will become attached to my mistress’s socks throughout the working day.

And her socks will constantly be changing throughout the day – not that my mistress will change her socks! What I mean is that there will be constant movement in her socks – all the fetching creases and folds will be coming and going in reaction to her foot movements as she walks along the street with me crawling behind her to heel; or as she subconsciously flexes her fat foot muscles whilst she is seated; or as she reaches up on tiptoe to kiss her manly boyfriend on the lips.

All such sock-activity would normally be hidden from my mesmerized, sock-worshipping view were my mistress to be wearing her black leather, calf-length boots – but not when she chooses to wear her plain, black ballet-flats!

I live for such days!

But the true highlight of my existence comes when my mistress Damaris throws one of her infamous ‘black sock’ parties – when she invites other young women with similar fat ankles and thick, black socks round to her place for a special sock-smothering party, when all of the obese, young women will simultaneously cover my face with their hot and sweaty, black-socked feet.

They play all kinds of games with me at such parties. I must lie on my back on the living room floor with my face turned upwards whilst my superior, besocked mistresses first take it in turns to rub the soles of their black-socked feet all over my gormless, upturned features. The object of the exercise is to leave traces of their foot and sock sweat all over my face so that I become a ‘stink-face’ – stinking of girls’ dirty socks.

Because they are all wearing specifically black socks I get to see how greying and worn each individual pair of socks is on the soles as they run them over my upturned face. After a while I can even identify each individual mistress just from the sight, texture and smell of her black-sock bottoms.

After they have individually humiliated me beneath their sweaty, black girlsocks, they collectively position their stinky-socked feet onto my upturned face, jostling with each other for the prized position of having their socked, right foot directly over my footslave nose. How they all laugh at me and mock me as they smother me in their collective sockfeet.

Then the young ladies will take off their socks and deposit them on my face – some over my eyes; some over my nose; some in my mouth. I am ordered to smell, kiss and suck the divested, female socks as a means of demonstrating my submission to girlsock-power.

I’m quite sure that some of the young women must go home wearing the wrong socks at the end of such parties, for, generally speaking, the black socks all look alike – and they do get mixed up on my face, especially as the girls get more and more drunk throughout the evening.

The thought that they may be going home in the wrong socks thrills me to the core, as I visualise the intimate footsweat of one girl mixing with another on her friend’s socks! Mix and match!

Sadly, however, it is rare for my own mistress Damaris to ever be left with the wrong pair of socks, so distinctive are they in smell and texture. I would know my overweight mistress Damaris’s individual sock and footsmell anywhere, and selflessly make sure that her socks don’t go walkabout at the end of each party – mainly because I know she would severely whip me if I ever lost one of her precious, black bootsocks!

And so it is invariably my mistress’s own socks which soak in my footslave-mouth overnight at the end of one of her sockfests. Socks with a purpose – thick, black canklesocks which hide my self-conscious, Greek mistress’s fat, white cankles; the very cankles I admire and respect so much precisely because they are so fleshy.

For the fact that they are imperfect reminds me that, even though my mistress is herself flawed – she is still my female master and better, whose feet and socks I am not worthy to have gracing my ugly, male face.

So sock it to me, Greek goddess-mistress Damaris!

 

Fable no. 6 – Owned

I have been mistress Catherine’s lawfully-owned, personal footslave all my adult life – since the age of 21.

I am now 41 years old. My mistress Catherine, coincidentally, is exactly the same age as me, and so after 20 years living together as mistress and footslave we have gotten to know each other very well.

Or more accurately, I know every nook and cranny of her feet, boots, shoes and socks very well – and she is vaguely aware of my constant, humble presence at her superior feet. In addition, of course, I am familiar with her likes and dislikes – her whims and foibles – which can help me, on occasions, to avoid displeasing my mistress and thereby escape the punishing sting of her terrible, bull’s-pizzle whip (which she has also owned for twenty years), though I am still whipped relatively often since my mistress can be rather impetuous and hard to please.

Needless to say, my mistress Catharine knows nothing, and cares even less, about my likes and dislikes – since I am just her dirty slave, and therefore not allowed to have any feelings of my own. I am only permitted to feel what my mistress wishes me to feel – basically, pain when I have displeased her; and the absence of pain when she is satisfied with me.

Similarly I am not permitted to have any thoughts of my own. My permanent orders are to think only about my mistress’s precious feet and footwear – though that still gives my pathetic, footslave-mind a lot of leeway, for there is much to think about!

Right now for example, I am kneeling beside my mistress Catharine’s feet underneath her desk at her place of work. I am thinking specifically about her socks, partly because they are clearly visible to me beneath the hems of her navy-blue trouser hems, and partly because I am legally obliged to humbly study them, and admire them, whilst my mistress Catherine gets on with her superior, female office-work above me.

They are a very familiar pair of socks to me, for my mistress has owned this particular pair for about a year now. They are her bright blue, ankle-length towelling socks and go very nicely with her equally familiar, navy blue, office slacks and plain, black, low-heeled, round-toed, slip-on leather shoes.

Because my mistress is in a seated position I can see up and down the whole length of the sides of each of her bright blue ankle socks, from elasticated top to shoeline; the sweet, blue socks are directly in front of my face, as both her feet are currently resting on the ground beside me, tucked coquettishly around one another at the ankle. Sadly, however, this particular morning I am not afforded a glimpse of my mistress’s soft, pale brown ankleskin (my mistress Catherine is mixed race – Russian and Jamaican) above the elasticated tops of her socks, as her anklesocks are fully pulled up.

They are fully pulled up because my mistress, as I well know, likes it that way, and, as per usual, she ordered me to make sure they were fully pulled up when I attended to her feet first thing this morning.

There has however, inevitably, been a little bit of sock-slippage, for the following reasons:

1. Because of the movement in my mistress’s feet and ankles as she walks about the office;

2. Because of the build-up of sweet, feminine perspiration on her feet inside her black leather flats during the course of the working day (it is now mid-afternoon);

3. Because my mistress Catherine has rather delicate and thin anklebones, and the bright blue towelling socks are quite heavy and thick. My ultra-slender mistress could almost do with wearing sock-garters, given her fondness for neatly pulled-up socks on her sexy, lower legs!

As a result of such unfortunate slippage, my mistress Catherine’s bright blue socks are now quite creased and folded around her dainty, Russo-Caribbean anklebones, and I can even count the individual lines of creases in her socks. There are 2 creases in her right sock, and 3 in her left – the sock closest to my face.

What is really preoccupying my thoughts, however, is a little loose stitch standing up from the rest of my mistress’s left sock – just below her rather prominent, anklebone on the outer side of her left foot. It must have snagged on something, and my fear is that my Russo-Jamaican mistress will notice it, and punish me – punish me for allowing her sock to become irreparably damaged.

My biggest fear is that the loose stitch will get worse, and perhaps even lead to an unsightly hole in the side of the affected sock. I know from past experience that I would be sorely whipped should that happen, and therefore my humble fate is probably dependent on that tiny, loose stitch in my superior mistress’s left sock. Such is my powerlessness and helplessness at my mistress Catherine’s capricious feet. The well-being of her sock is more important than the well-being of my back, as far as my exotic, mixed-race mistress is concerned!

Such are my humdrum thoughts until something very exciting happens: my mistress suddenly decides to cross her right leg over her left. It is an unwritten rule between us that, whenever my mistress crosses her legs, I am permitted to raise my head up to the level of whichever foot is now dangling in the air and study that – as opposed to the foot which remains stationary on the floor.

This is a most unusual arrangement for a humble footslave who would normally be expected to keep his lowly head next to his mistress’s lower foot in such circumstances, but my sweet and kind mistress Catherine indulges me.

And it is an indulgence because, of course, there will be much more movement to admire in my mistress’s hovering-in-the-air foot than there would be in her stationary-on-the-ground foot, as she subconsciously flexes her skinny, right ankle-muscles leading to corresponding movements in the creases and folds in her delicious, sweat-absorbing, right anklesock.

I notice now, for example, that several new creases have developed at the very back of my mistress’s bright blue ankle sock on her right foot, in addition to the 2 pre-existing creases on the side of the much-admired, mistressly sock; and, of course, despite her right sock having been fully pulled up, the hem of her navy-blue, bootcut, office slack on her right leg has now ridden up further, thanks to her right leg being crossed over her left, to reveal a delicious slither of my Russo-Caribbean mistress’s smooth, mixed-race, pale brown calf-skin above the now slightly twisted, elasticated top of her bright blue towelling-anklesock.

Not that I am permitted to stare at my mistress’s bare, brown leg-flesh! My mistress Catharine, quite rightly, draws the line at the top of her sock, and woe betide me if she catches me focusing in on her bare skin! She considers that her sock is good enough for me, and that I am not worthy to study her bare footflesh in detail – except when I am washing or pedicuring her bare feet, which I do get to do on a fairly regular basis.

For now, however, here in public in the middle of her office, I must humbly and respectfully study only her moving sock on her right foot as it hovers in the air, not her bare flesh. In the unlikely event that I ever get bored with studying her bright blue sock I am, graciously, permitted to lower my gaze still further to her flat, black leather, plain, slip-on shoe; to study the creases in her feminine shoeleather as opposed to those in her feminine towelling sock. But this is merely a gracious concession on my mistress Catharine’s part to her faithful old footslave, and I am in any case highly unlikely to ever get bored with such a sweet, female sock flexing and folding repeatedly just inches away from my mesmerized and awestruck, footslave-face.

In the back of my pathetic, sock-obsessed mind I am vaguely aware, of course, of what other people are thinking of me – especially my mistress Catherine’s fellow, female co-workers. They are thinking that I am nothing but a pathetic, sock-dominated footslave, who must constantly kneel in abject silence and reverentially stare at his mistress’s everyday shoes and socks underneath her common-or-garden office desk.

They despise me, and even pity me – albeit in an entirely unsympathetic way – for in their eyes I am such a lowly being that I am even considered by polite, feminine society to be worth less than my mistress’s cheap socks. Literally so, for here in the Gynarchy of Barbaria a male slave can be bought in one of the illegal, backstreet slave-markets for less than the price of a pair of discounted ladies’ towelling-socks!

Although my mistress Catherine did, in fact, purchase me in just such an illegal backstreet market all those many years ago, as I said at the beginning I am still her lawfully owned footslave since possession of the male is nine tenths of the Female Law here in the Gynarchy; and my mistress Catherine truly possesses me. Just like she possesses a pair of bright blue, discounted towelling socks.

She truly owns me – body, mind and soul.

 

Fable no. 5 – The Social Outcast

My status as a social outcast was most eloquently brought home to me the other night by one of my prettiest-ever customers on my ‘stand-up’ shoelick stand.

My humble stand is situated near the entrance to a popular nightclub, and it was well past midnight when the young lady-customer concerned approached my wooden footblock – somewhat unsteady on her feet, but gallantly aided and abetted by her manly boyfriend.

The couple were both dark-haired and oriental in appearance – Japanese as I subsequently discovered – and they were obviously dressed to go out clubbing. The young lady, who looked to be in her early to mid twenties, was dressed in a very sexy, sparkly-silvery miniskirt with matching, silvery, high-heeled pumps which had two fetching little white lace bows over the rounded toe-areas.

Despite the seeming purity of the white bows, the said toe-areas of her high-heeled shoes had definitely seen better days – as they both contained ingrained scratch marks and scuffmarks on the silvery coloured shoeleather, which was even starting to peel away in places. Nevertheless, her well-worn shoes gave off a nice reflection under the spotlight which lit up my humble, wooden footblock.

What really caught my eye, however, was her brightly coloured anklesocks – sweet, cotton anklesocks with a delightfully intriguing colour-pattern comprising lots of little multicoloured squares running all through their length.

I quickly established that the little coloured squares ran in sequence – yellow, orange, pink, white, blue and black – but each row of coloured squares appeared to start (deep inside her high-heeled pump) with a different colour as the matching square-colours formed a delightful diagonal pattern vertically up her socks.

The brightly coloured socks looked very striking on her shapely, oriental feet and anklebones, and I could tell that a lot of thought had gone into them – both in their design at the sock-factory, and in their selection tonight by their beautiful, oriental wearer along with her silvery, high-heeled shoes and silvery miniskirt. For the overall effect of the young woman’s revealing, nightclubbing attire was of feistiness and flightiness, and that, undoubtedly, was fully in accordance with the young woman’s, alcohol-induced flirtatiousness as she, and her equally squiffy oriental boyfriend, prepared to make their drunken way into the night club.

A soon as she saw me, of course, she just had to use me – for the young, Japanese lady was not so drunk that she could not see that her beloved, silvery shoes could do with a quick lick and a shine, especially around the aforementioned scuff-marked toe areas beneath her lacy-white bows.

She therefore uninhibitedly positioned her shapely, but wobbly, right foot out onto the wooden footblock beneath my humbly-bowed, sock-impressed face, and proceeded to deliver her drunken orders down at me in a cute, oriental accent:

‘Ha! Ha! Footlick shine Mimi shoe; clean dirt off shoe with tongue; make shoe nice and shine for Mimi handsome boyfriend! Ha! Ha! You obey – you a ugly shlave!’

I presume that when she refers to her ‘handsome boyfriend’ she is referring to the young, oriental man who is currently with her, and whom she is simultaneously starting to drunkenly snog as she towers above me with one stilettoed and socked foot resting arrogantly on the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling and humbly-bowed face.

‘Yes, oriental mistress. At once, oriental mistress.’

She was completely ignoring me now, as I lowered my middle-aged and wrinkly old face towards the toe-area of her arrogantly extended, youthful foot.

As my face got closer to the pretty, multicoloured, square-patterned anklesock I began to notice various little imperfections in the fun-loving sock – stray, black hairs stuck to the outer stitching (possibly her boyfriend’s?); little fluff-balls of coloured sock lint stuck to the side of the sock; signs of some of the coloured squares starting to fade in one or two places – caused, no doubt, by a mixture of repeated, Japanese-girl washing and wearing.

I could even detect the faintest whiff of warm, cheesy, feminine foot odour emanating from the disco-sock. This young woman had already been out dancing tonight in these pretty shoes and socks, I’ll wager!

So it was only right and proper that she should stop off in order to have me refurbish her footwear with my slave-tongue as she herself exchanged tongues with her handsome boyfriend above me, before the happy couple headed off into their next nightclub venue.

Tempted as I was to lick the foreign hairs and other detritus off the young oriental woman’s right sock, I ensured that my mouth went to work only on her high-heeled shoe. My orders, even though they had been delivered in somewhat slurred and broken English, were nonetheless perfectly clear - I was to make the charming, young lady’s shoes ‘nice and shine’ for the delectation of her manly, young boyfriend even though, if truth be told, he didn’t appear to be all that interested in her shoes! More her pouting lips and pert breasts!

After a minute or so, however, the young lady came up out of his manly embrace for some feminine air, and it was at this point that she started to tease and mock me mercilessly in both word and deed.

First of all, the cotton in her multicoloured, blocky sock on her freshly shoe-shined, right foot creased and folded most fetchingly around her shapely, oriental anklebone as she made a great show, in front of her boyfriend, of examining my humble mouthwork on the silvery surface of her right shoe:

‘Ha! Ha! Shlave lick well…Mimi shoe nice and shine now. Ha! Ha! You a good shlave! I like! Ha! Ha!’, and with that she actually reached down and began to pat me condescendingly on the top of my bald head - still with her saliva-shined, stiletto-heeled shoe positioned directly beneath my face.

I could smell the alcohol on her pretty breath as she leaned down.

‘Oh pray, pretty mistress. Oh thank you, pretty mistress. God bless you for your kind words to the slave, most beautiful, Asian mistress!’

I thought I had better not refer to the mistress by name – ‘Me! Me!’ I think it was – for she was certainly a young woman who was full of herself, and might take offence if a humble, public shoelick dared to address her by her first name.

For a few, brief seconds I did genuinely feel proud, however – proud to be deemed a good public footslave by this drunken, oriental goddess; proud to have tongue-shone her right shoe to her evident satisfaction, and keen to make a fresh start on her left shoe.

However, it soon became apparent that the mistress, as was her perfect right, was just mocking me and my humble work on her footwear:

‘Ha! Ha! You a dirty footlick! Your mouth full of young Japanese lady shoedirt! Ha! Ha! You forced to kneel and lick superior, young lady dirty shoe all night! Ha! Ha! You a loser! You a damn fool! I laugh at you! Ha! Ha!’

My footslave-ego was immediately deflated, and I came back down to earth – the earth which is permanently just inches from my face; the earth on which my betters walk. My Japanese tormentress’s boyfriend, who still had his arm protectively around his beautiful, young girlfriend as she so eloquently berated me in what, for her, was a foreign language, laughed along with his girlfriend and said something to his young lady in their native tongue, apparently egging her on:

‘Ha! Ha! My boyfriend laugh at you too! He say you like piece of dirt in ground underneath my shoe. He want me squash you like dirty shlug in ground! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! He say you a dirty, ugly shlug! Ha! Ha!’

I felt I should acknowledge the wittiness of the young master’s comments, as his young lady clearly found his comparison of me to a dirty, ugly slug beneath her feet highly amusing, although as a slave I am not myself, of course, permitted to laugh - or even to smile – as such a seemingly happy demeanour would be considered unbecoming, or even downright impudent, in a slave.

I therefore restricted myself to some congratulatory, but humble, slave-speak words:

‘God bless you master; and God bless you mistress, for treating me like a dirty slug beneath your feet! Please don’t squash me mistress. I am at your mercy, mistress!’

The young woman laughed even more loudly, and appeared to translate my pathetic, weaselly (or should that be sluggish) words for her drunken boyfriend’s benefit.

She did not, however, move to crush me underfoot, as she was clearly a kind and merciful young mistress. Instead she just placed her long-awaited left foot onto the footblock for tongue-shining.

The oriental mistress and master then resumed their passionate french-kissing above me whilst my lonely tongue, still with the taste of her right shoe on its taste buds, made its first humble contact with the young, Japanese woman’s equally scuff-marked left shoe. Her left sock, however, appeared to be in slightly better condition than her right – no visible foreign hairs or sock lint; just a few little twists and creases in the soft, cotton material immediately below the elasticated ankle area.

I continued to lick Japanese-girl shoe until the happy, young, oriental couple finished kissing each other on the lips – for it is not my decision when to finish licking a young lady’s shoe. The owner and wearer of the shoe alone can decide that!

Once again miss Me! Me! drunkenly twisted her left foot on its silvery high-heel in order to inspect my work.

She did not comment directly on my shoelicking abilities this time, however. Instead she continued with her loquacious, but somewhat slurred, floccinaucinihilipilification of me, eloquently reminding me what an insignificant outsider I was in her pretty, oriental eyes:

‘Ha! Ha! I cold now! I go now with boyfriend into nice warm club. Ha! Ha! We drink and dance and have fun with friends. Ha! Ha! You shtay out here in wind and cold. You have to lick lady shoe all night! Ha! Ha! You queer. You a nothing! You a nobody! I not even remember you! Ha! Ha! I shpit on you, dirty footshlave...’

And with that the drunken, young, Japanese lady noisily and uninhibitedly garnishes up some female mucus and sputum inside her pretty, oriental mouth which she then gleefully expels down onto the top of my, middle-aged balding pate.

How she and her boyfriend laugh at me as her alcohol-flavoured spit slides down my head and face and into the corner of my mouth. It was my first taste of alcohol in years!

Then, as suddenly as they had come into my miserable, lonely existence, her shiny, silvery shoes and multicoloured socks were gone – gone into the nearby nightclub, and out of my pathetic, slave life forever. She would not stop by me again on her way home from the nightclub. She would be too tired by then, and as the young lady herself had said, I was a nobody and a nothing to her – just some slimy slug who lickshines her shoes, and whom her boyfriend thinks she should squash underfoot.

Indeed, she had already forgotten about me even before she entered into the noisy nightclub, as her superior mind was on higher things – like making mad, passionate love to her handsome, Japanese boyfriend in the nightclub toilets.

And what she had said about me was true. I am literally, and figuratively, a queer outsider, fit only to lick clean the dirty shoes and boots of my female betters after midnight as they head indoors into the warmth and light of the nightclub with their free, male partners – all real men unlike me; men they can respect; men they can look up to, not down upon; men they can kiss, not spit upon; men they can love, not despise.

Yes, I can hear the music and the laughter from inside the nightclub, but I am not part of it. I am truly a social outcast; rightly despised by everyone with whom I come into footslave-contact.

And yet I am where I belong. For someone has to clean a young lady’s shoes so that they look nice and shiny whilst she is dancing with her boyfriend; and that someone may as well be me, since tongue-shining shoes outside a nightclub is all I am good for.

 

Fable no. 4 – Two Voyeurs

My mistress Melanie likes to watch public slave-whippings. I like to watch her feet and footwear whilst she watches the whippings.

She will often get up early and travel for miles just to be present at a pre-announced, public slave-whipping, and in order to ensure that she gets a good seat. I must then kneel beside her feet underneath her seat and privately stare at her shoes and socks whilst she enjoys the public spectacle.

My 24 year-old, ginger-haired mistress is not a cruel girl, you understand - just curious; curious to see how each slave reacts to the whip; how he takes it; with dignity, or with shame. It’s her hobby. She records the events on her digital camcorder, so that she can study them in more detail when she gets back home – examining each whip-stroke, and each pained reaction, in slow motion and in minute and intricate detail.

I sometimes wish that I could have a footslave-camcorder to record the subliminal movements in my non-cruel mistress’s shoes and socks whilst she is enjoying the public whippings. For I am a student of female sock, and love to analyse my beloved mistress’s footwear in great detail whilst she is concentrating on higher things – such as the public chastisement of a recalcitrant, male slave.

Today, for example, we are in the central town square of the Gynarchy’s second city – Femina. We have a long and varied programme to get through, everything from 2 stroke canings to 30 lash whippings.

First up, according to the female announcement over the public tannoy, is the 15 lash punishment of a convicted female-shoe thief. He apparently ‘borrowed’ his mistress’s sister’s shoes just so that he could sniff their insoles whilst she was paying a visit to his owner’s household – but, crucially, the fool did so without the shoe-owner’s explicit, female permission. And, as we all know, a male slave requires explicit female permission to do anything. That’s why he’s a slave!

Fifteen public lashes. That sounds like an incredibly lenient punishment for such a heinous and idiotic crime, so I’m guessing it is the stupid shoe-sniffer’s first offence.

My mistress Melanie is settling into her seat in the front row, opening her flask of hot tea, for it is fairly chilly today. The prisoner-slave, no doubt, will be glad of the whip to warm up his bare, exposed back!

My mistress has chosen to wear her favourite pair of black denim jeans today, along with her low-cut, white, lace-up, keds-style sneakers, and her short, black sneaker socks, so I am almost as excited as she is as I kneel, humbly and unobtrusively, in the dirt of the town square beside her student-girl sneakered and socked feet.

I truly adore her white sneaker/black sneaker-sock combination, though, if truth be told, the scruffy, well-worn sneakers are now more grey than white! Still, the pure black of her short socks provide a nice contrast with the pale white of her foot and ankle skin beneath the somewhat frayed and dusty hems of her black, denim jeans.

Since my mistress’s chosen footwear-theme of the day is clearly ‘black and white’, I decide to focus in on a tiny piece of white fluff stuck to the elasticated top of her left sock (the one closest to my face), since it stands out so clearly against the black, cotton material of my mistress’s short, female-ankle-revealing sneaker-sock.

Besides, there aren’t, yet, much in the way of creases and folds for me to study in the elasticated top of my mistress’s left sock, given that it is a short, sneaker-style sock and therefore only just visible above the greyish-white rim of her scruffy, low-cut, canvas sneaker instep (though I am hopeful that many little creases will start to appear in the stretched top of that precious, black sock as the whipping progresses and my mistress subconsciously moves her sneakered feet with subliminal pleasure).

Speaking of which, it is actually proving quite difficult for me to focus in on the white piece of foreign fluff stuck to the black sock since my mistress is continuously, but unwarily, jiggling her pretty, left foot up and down whilst it rests on the ground in front of my face. She is excited – looking forward to the flogging, particularly as the about-to-be-whipped slave is now being led out onto the raised dais of the whipping platform by a uniformed, black leather kneebooted, female police officer.

My mistress Melanie joins in the female jeers and cheers as the prisoner-slave is roughly, but professionally, secured to the whipping post by the police officer, ready to be whipped for the delectation of the surrounding female audience.

For my part I am just hoping against hope that the piece of white fluff will not fall off the top of my mistress Melanie’s short, black sneaker-sock as a result of her feverish, subconscious foot-movements. That would be a complete and utter disaster! What would I have to study then? I might have to resort to trying to count the tiny, individual stitches in the elasticated rim of my mistress’s sock – an almost impossible task at the moment given her repetitive foot-movement!

Thankfully her left foot comes to a sudden standstill, or rather a sit-still, as, perched on the edge of her seat, she falls into an expectant hush along with the rest of the mainly young-female crowd in a collective, eager, feminine anticipation of the first whip-stroke to the disobedient maleslave’s back…

Swish…Crack!

Gosh that must have hurt! I almost felt that one myself! My back flinches in male-slavish sympathy for the freshly-whipped slave – though I must say he takes it relatively well for a novice criminal; he waits a full 3 seconds or so before crying out in his unmasculine shock and pain.

My mistress joins in the female cheers that echo around the square, and, sure enough, as she subconsciously repositions her excited, grubby-sneakered feet in front of my face, I see a fetching, little crease develop along the exposed, elasticised top of that short, black-cotton, sneaker sock on her left foot – just above where the piece of foreign, white fluff is still, mercifully, located…

Swish…Crack!

Even my whip-happy mistress gasps at the force of the second lash to the recalcitrant slave’s bare back. The kneehigh-booted, female police-officer-whipmistress is certainly putting everything she has got into it!

I hear my mistress Melanie laugh out loud at the hapless prisoner-slave’s anguished cry (along with several other young women) as, simultaneously, the crease in her black cotton sock disappears almost as quickly as it had appeared – due to yet another tiny, subconscious repositioning of the mistress’s left foot on the dirty ground beneath her.

I am far away from her thoughts now as she sets down her flask of hot, warming tea in order to better focus her digital camcorder on the whipped slave’s rapidly reddening back. My mistress Melanie’s black sock, however, continues to loom large in my own footslave-consciousness as, yet again, a tiny, temporal crease appears in the top of her left sock – although this time slightly lower down, thereby forcing the tiny piece of white fluff into even sharper relief as it dangles, precariously, on the now slightly-raised area of creased and folded, black, feminine sock-top.

It’s almost as if my mistress’s sock is thrusting the piece of white fluff forwards onto my lips, inviting me to pay slavish, oral homage to it. Yet I dare not touch the object of my footslavish desire – my mistress’s sock – for I must only ever do so with my mistress Melanie’s express permission, and right now she has other things on her sweet, feminine mind; such as the delightful crack of the female, leather punishment-whip across a male slave’s bare back – the bare back of an idiotic slave who omitted to ask for his female better’s permission to touch her feminine shoe!

It is an exemplary lesson for me – and for all maleslavehood – as it is very much intended to be!

Swish…Crack!

The slave has lost all his masculine decorum by now (if that isn’t a contradiction in terms!) and is screaming mightily.

I do empathise with him, even though I have never yet myself been subjected to a public whipping by my sweet and kind mistress Melanie. I have, of course, on occasion been whipped in private by my mistress – but not often. Thankfully, my sweet, ginger-haired mistress is more of a whip-voyeur than a whip-wielder. And besides, I am a good personal footslave, diligently concentrating on my mistress Melanie’s shoes and socks throughout the day and night, and serving them with my very heart and soul – with her express permission! She has, by and large, no occasion to whip me.

The sound of the suffering and the whip does, however, serve as a timely reminder to me of my male weakness and vulnerability vis-à-vis my pretty, ginger-haired mistress’s absolute, female power over me, and that, in turn, prompts me to focus in even more closely on her left sneaker-sock as she towers so dominantly above me in her seat.

I close my mind to the outside world and only have eyes and thoughts for the still creased top of my mistress Melanie’s short, black sneaker sock – and its sputnik of white, alien fluff. The more I examine that foreign object, the more I am convinced it is actually a piece of white sock-lint from one of my mistress’s own, white sports socks. It is almost certainly the result of cross-contamination in her precious and beloved sock drawer!

I find that thought immensely humbling! Truly this is the black sneaker-sock and white sock-fluff of my feminine superior and better – of my female owner and master, the sweet and kind mistress Melanie; the mistress who has deliberately chosen to wear contrasting white sneakers and black socks on her casually-clad, young-white-woman feet, just in order to keep me entertained whilst she herself is entertained.

Swish…Crack!

Only eleven more empathetic back-flinches to go – until the next poor sod is led out onto the whipping-dais. I’m truly glad it’s not me!

And I’m pleased to say a second small fissure has now appeared along the top of my mistress’s short, black sneaker-sock – to balance out the lower crease. Truly I am not worthy to be the voyeur of such precious, intimate things on my superior mistress’s superior sock whilst she voyeuristically enjoys the spectacle of a public slave-whipping!

 

Fable no. 3 – Bigging Him Up

The dominant, young couple were embracing in the alleyway next to my humble, backstreet, public shoelick-stand. Although it was dark, I had a nice and clear, close-up view of the mistress’s feet and footwear, as she embraced her manly boyfriend above me, thanks to the bright streetlight which lit up my wooden footblock.

He was a black man in his early twenties. The mistress was extraordinarily beautiful – mixed race; also in her early twenties; her sultry features framed by long, dark flowing hair and a fetching, red beret; dressed in a black leather jacket; black cotton, ankle-length leggings; cute, white ankle socks covered in little red lip-logos; and a pair of shiny black, shoes with blocky heels and two, black leather button-straps running across the top of each dainty, feminine foot.

The contrast between the matt black of her cotton leggings, the white and red of her patterned, cotton anklesocks, and the shiny black of her strappy shoes was truly a sight to behold – especially so close-up to my face. Oh how I adored the way her right sock creased around her shapely ankle bone as she tucked her right foot in behind her left during a coquettish kiss to her manly boyfriend’s lips above me.

My own lowly slave-lips were truly longing for the mistress and master to finish their loving embrace, and for the mistress to then place her right foot onto my footblock so that I could kiss her flirty socks and tongueshine her already immaculate shoes.

That’s what normally happens in these sorts of circumstances, and my slave-mouth was certainly eager and willing to serve!

To my initial chagrin, however, having finished their embrace, the mistress demurely headed off towards the entrance to the nearby ladies’ public lavatory in order to, as she so delicately put it, ‘powder her nose’ – leaving me, temporarily, alone with her black boyfriend.

I heard him light up a cigarette, as he looked disdainfully down on me – the public, male slave kneeling in the dirt, head humbly chained up and bowed over the wooden footblock which bore the dirty sole-marks from the boots and shoes of many ladies, but not yet those of his beloved, mixed-race fiancée.

He laughed at me in my pathetic, servile state:

‘Ha! Ha! How do you like the sight of my girl’s shoes and socks, slaveboy? ’Aint she the pretty one, eh?’

I had to agree with the master, first of all because he spoke the truth; and secondly because he was a free man, and therefore my better:

‘Yes, master sir. If it pleases you, master sir, this slave certainly does admire the mistress’s beautiful shoes and socks, master, and surmises that such beauteous footwear must surely belong to the feet of a truly beautiful young woman, if it would be so pleasing to you most respected master sir.’

The young, black man takes a drag on his illicit cigarette (for it is, technically speaking, illegal for males to smoke in the Gynarchy – even free men with indulgent and lovestruck girlfriends who may have given them their female permission), and then he continues to mock me:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slaveboy. You’d better believe it! She’s a cracker alright! Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what, you’re gonna big me up in front of my girlfriend when she gets back from doing her business, yeah? When she gets back you’re gonna beg me, in that humble slave-speak you guys use, for the honour of sniffin’ my girl’s socks, yeah? I want you to beg me to let you take off her shoes and sniff her socks in front of me, just so that you can show me how much you respect my girl, yeah? And then I’m gonna grant you that permission, with my girlfriend’s consent…and then you’re gonna do just that; you’re gonna unbuckle her shoes and sniff her stinky, sweaty white socks yeah? You got that, foot-faggot?’

I did get it, particularly as the master had started fingering the thin and nasty public-use whip which hung on the wall behind my head ready for any dissatisfied female customer, or her male consort, to use on my bare back!

‘Yes, master sir. This slave hears and obeys the master. It will be an honour for this dirty slave to enhance the master’s reputation in the mistress’s eyes by begging him for permission to smell the mistress’s socks, if it so pleases you master sir.’

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, queer footlicker. That’s the kinda stuff I wanna hear from you, yeah? …Quick!... Get ready… Here she comes!’

And with that the master swiftly extinguishes his illicit cigarette, concealing the cigarette butt by kicking it into the darkness of the alleyway behind him. Clearly his girlfriend had not given her permission for him to smoke! But my role, as the black master-sir has just explained to me in no uncertain terms, is not to dob him in, but to big him up.

The young woman can’t wait to start embracing her man again just as soon as she walks back up to the area immediately adjacent to my public shoelick-stand. Once again I see beautiful, flirty, red and white patterned anklesock creasing and folding inside shiny, black, mary-jane style, chunky-heeled, strappy shoe.

I take that as my cue:

‘Ahem!...Oh pray master…oh pray mistress…please forgive this dirty slave’s unwarranted intrusion master sir, but this public footslave would truly be honoured if the master would grant him his permission to respectfully remove the beautiful, young mistress’s shoes in order that he may attentively sniff her socks for the pleasure of both the master and the mistress, if you would be so kind master, and if it would indeed be pleasing to the supremely beautiful, young mistress, most respected master sir?’

I couldn’t really see it, but I could certainly sense the utter look of disdain that the pretty, young woman cast down in my direction, contempt etched all over her supercilious, mixed-race face beneath her tarty, red beret.

The master-sir laughed out loud at me, and then turned, very convincingly, to his girlfriend whom he still held in a warm and loving embrace:

‘Well, darling…what do you think? This footslave-creep wants my permission to take off your shoes and smell your dirty socks! Ha! Ha! Would you like him to do that for you, sweetheart? Would you like me to make him smell your stinky, dirty socks for you? Ha! Ha!’

The young woman does not appear to be offended by the master’s light-hearted assertion that her socks are dirty and stinky. I mean, it’s not like he could possibly know that – since he is a real man; a real man who concerns himself little, if at all, with the lowest and humblest parts of his girlfriend’s anatomy – her feet and footwear. His freeman face certainly won’t have been anywhere near her feet tonight.

That’s my job!

The young woman now laughs out loud too:

‘Ha! Ha! He sure sounds like a real loser, honey! Ha! Ha! Begging you to smell my socks! Ha! Ha! What a dweeb! What a knucklehead! Ha! Ha!’

The free man tends to agree with her:

‘Ha! Ha! Too right, honey! He’s a total loser, by the sound of it! Ha! Ha!...But, all the same, I think I kinda like the idea of seein’ him sniffin’ my girl’s dirty socks on her feet while she’s still wearin’ ’em! Ha! Ha!... I mean, why not? Why don’t we give the knucklehead a cheap thrill, honey? Why don’t I give him my permission to unbuckle your shoes and smell your white socks? Ha! Ha!’

‘They’re not just white socks, master sir; they’re red and white! Pay attention!’ I think to myself. But, of course, I’m in no position to say it – to criticise a real man for his lack of attention to his girlfriend’s humble socks!

The young woman smiles at her boyfriend – a wicked smile – and then lovingly kisses him on the lips again.

Her right sock is creasing again – right in front of my gormless, spotlit face! One of the little, red lip-logos even appears to be puckering up in front of me. Oh this is agony! I truly do want to get my nose on those fabulous, young-womanly, red and white, kiss me socks. Even if I am to be denied the honour of kissing their puckered lips, at least I shall have the honour of inhaling their young-womanly aroma! And I am truly starved of young-women’s intimate footsmells – being a mere down-in-the-dirt public footslave, condemned, for the most part, to smelling my anonymous customer-mistress’s outer footwear! This could be a rare treat for me indeed!

When she has finished her latest snog with her strong and manly black boyfriend above me, the young, mixed-race woman – the only person with any real power in this intriguing situation – graciously consents to her boyfriend’s proposal:

‘Ha! Ha! Very well, honey...let’s do it! Here, hold me up while he unbuckles my shoe!’

Praise be!

And with that the young, red-bereted woman peremptorily stretches out her shapely, black-cotton-clad, right leg onto my wooden footblock, her shiny, black, double-strapped, chunky shoe glistening under the streetlight; her red and white, cotton ankle-sock – the sock I am about to sniff – now illuminated in sharp relief so that each and every individual, red and white cotton stitch is now clearly visible to my mesmerized eyes. I can even now observe, under the brightness of the spotlight, that the right sock is not as pure and flawless as it had first appeared, for there is a trace of street-dust along the white stitching of her socked instep just above the shiny, black shoeline.

Normally, of course, I would have to begin by kissing, and then tongue-shining, that beautiful, sexy, black leather shoe; wrap my tongue around the deliciously clumpy and streetmud-stained, black leather heel at the back. But tonight I have received special orders – tonight I am required to ‘big up’ the master by unbuckling his young woman’s shoe and sniffing her patterned anklesock.

And so that is precisely what I do.

As the happy couple fumble with each other in yet another passionate embrace, I deftly and respectfully undo the black, plastic buttons on the ends of the young woman’s, black leather shoe-straps and gently raise her foot a few centimetres up into the air in order to slide her pretty shoe off her equally pretty, socked foot.

She wobbles slightly above me as I do so, but her gentlemanly boyfriend gallantly steadies her by holding her even tighter in his arms until her now fully-exposed, socked foot is resting again, albeit on tip-toe, on the firm surface of the wooden footblock beneath my humbly-bowed face.

I hear her giggle as I lower my nose to the creased, and somewhat crusty, browning, but nominally-white toe-end of her otherwise smart-looking anklesock, and audibly sniff:

‘Ha! Ha! His nose tickles, honey! Ha! Ha! …Tell him to stop tickling me!’

The man laughs, but then orders me to obey his girlfriend and make sure I am pleasing her:

‘You heard my bird, slave! Stop tickling her foot with your ugly slave-nose! You’re supposed to be sniffing her socks – not nuzzling them like a dirty dog!... My God you’d better not displease her, or you’ll have me to answer to, you hear me boy?’

Boy!? I must be nearly twice the young master’s age! In fact, I am probably older than the master and mistress put together!

But, of course, age counts for nothing in the Gynarchy of Barbaria! You are either slave, or free. And if, like me, you are slave, the free are your undisputed masters and betters, and you must address them as such; you must big them up:

‘Yes, master sir. At once, master sir. Pray forgive me, master sir. This slave hears and obeys the master and mistress.’

I am, actually, quite happy to concentrate on just sniffing the young woman’s sock without kissing or touching it – even though it did feel nice and soft on my nose – for the smell emanating from her recently-liberated sock is quite pungent, even in the cold night air; like warm cheese, mixed with rotten egg.

I lapped it up, for it was a smell that was truly fit for a humble footslave!

This was, for sure, a much more intimate service than I normally get to perform for a customer-mistress on my backstreet, public shoelick-stand – sniffing her inner sock-smell almost like a personal footslave might have to do – and I have to confess I was overwhelmed with feelings of gratitude towards the clever black master-sir.

Not only did he somehow know that his girlfriend’s socks were dirty and odorous inside her shoes; he had also been the one to come up with the excellent idea of how I could ‘big him up’ in front of his girlfriend by making myself small in her pretty eyes; by debasing myself to the pathetic role of her public sock-sniffer, humbly sniffing her stinky, red and white, flirtatious socks under the bright spotlight, and all on the command of her masterful boyfriend.

No wonder she swooned further into his manly arms, whilst I swooned over her young-womanly socks!

 

Fable no. 2 – The Four Types of Footkiss

I am very much in awe of my mistress Melissa.

I am in awe of her youth, for at just 23 years old she is some 20 years my junior;

I am in awe of her physical beauty, for although she may be considered slightly on the podgy side, her long, curly, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes turn free men’s heads wherever she goes;

I am in awe of her personality, for her only personality flaw is her endearing inability not to sympathise with, and not to show compassion towards, her dirty, personal footslave (me);

I am in awe of her female power and authority, for I am nothing but a weak-willed male.

I convey that sense of awe and wonderment for my blonde mistress through the humble act of kissing her feet, but there are, of course, several different types of footkiss – each designed to emphasise a particular facet of my admiration for my esteemed mistress at any given time.

I must say, I am indebted to my mistress Melissa for patiently teaching me these various types of footkiss, and for ensuring my compliance with her tuition in this regard through judicious use of her female whip:

1. The Respectful Footkiss

This is the most common type of footkiss – the type I can expect to deliver to the toe of my mistress’s shoe or boot many times each day.

It is a short, sharp kiss to the dirty and scuffmarked toe-end of my mistress’s footwear, usually in response to her imperiously stretching forth her foot for me to pay my humble respects to it.

Respectful kisses need not be single, solitary footkisses, however - they may be repeated many times. My mistress Melissa decides when to withdraw her foot from my lips; when to replace her outstretched right foot with her left etc. And so I must continue to apply respectful kisses to her footwear until such time as my mistress decides I have paid her enough slavish respect.

I am very lucky in that my mistress Melissa has very nice tastes in footwear. Being an office clerk, during normal working days she tends to favour her soft, black leather, ballet flats with the single, broad strap across each upper toe area, worn fetchingly with her matching, ultra-short, plain black sneaker socks which leave her shapely, if slightly podgy, bare, white anklebones exposed to my gaze above the sock-level and beneath the hems of her smart, pinstriped slacks (part of her ubiquitous, officewear trouser-suit).

The sharp contrast between the rich-black of my mistress Melissa’s ballet flats and socks, and the pasty-white of her fleshy, bare anklebones, is extremely alluring to a pathetic, down-in-the-dirt footslave like me.

I therefore very much admire and respect my mistress’s low-cut, black cotton sneaker-socks inside her equally low-cut, black leather ballet flats – BUT A RESPECTFUL KISS TO MY MISTRESS’S FEET OR FOOTWEAR MUST NEVER TOUCH HER SOCK. That would be considered much too intimate for a ‘respectful’ kiss. Respectful kisses must only be delivered to the outer toe surface of a mistress’s boot or shoe; her socks or bare ankles are to be considered well out of bounds to my lips in such circumstances of purely respectful footkissing.

Still, the sight of my blonde mistress’s short sock and bare anklebone only serves to enhance my sense of respect for her great physical beauty and superior, young-womanly power over me as she towers above me in all her common-or-garden, office-girl glory. And I am eternally grateful to my beautiful, young mistress Melissa for not wearing ankle or calf-length boots with her officewear slacks, as her dusky, Iranian co-worker miss Zeeba tends to do, for then I would rarely, if ever, get to see my pasty-white mistress’s pretty socks and soft, bare ankle-flesh whilst paying my respects to the toes of her boots!

Miss Zeeba’s personal footslave can only imagine what his mistress’s socks must be looking like inside her boots whilst he is respectfully kissing her outer, black leather boot-toes (though he will, of course, know exactly what colour and type of socks she is wearing since he will have put them on her pretty Iranian feet first thing that very morning as he footslavishly dressed his mistress’s feet beneath her long, black burka).

Wearing sock-hiding footwear during the day is one of the cruellest things a mistress can do to a personal footslave, in my humble opinion, but thank goodness my own sweet and kind mistress Melissa is not one to hide her socks under a pair of boots! That’s precisely why she is deserving of so much respect, and so many respectful footkisses, from my footslave-lips throughout her working day!

2. The Fearful Footkiss

A fearful footkiss differs from a respectful footkiss in that it precedes punishment. It is a footkiss which is, basically, pleading for one’s mistress’s mercy – usually delivered immediately after punishment is announced or immediately prior to punishment being inflicted.

By ‘punishment’, of course, I am referring to the application of the stinging, female whip to one’s maleslave back.

My mistress Melissa is particularly adept with the whip, and therefore much to be feared.

Unlike ‘respectful’ footkisses, fearful kisses to a mistress’s footwear may be feverish and frenzied. Also unlike ‘respectful’ kisses they may involve lip-to-sock, and/or lip-to-bare-footskin contact, for it is considered that the feel of a fearful slave’s trembling lips on a mistress’s bare sock or bare footflesh may well illicit mercy and compassion in her.

I have to confess, I have known it to work with my mistress Melissa, thanks to her one and only personality flaw – her young-womanly compassion – and so I tend to utilise the fearful footkiss on a regular basis.

Having said that, no amount of fearful foot, sock or shoe kissing will absolve me completely from the sting of my mistress Melissa’s whip. When she is minded to whip me, her brown leather, single-tailed punishment whip will still crack down hard upon my bare back, no matter how hard I grovel and beg for forgiveness and mercy at her feet, for, compassionate, young, fat woman or not, she is still acutely aware of her young-mistressly duty to discipline her slave as decreed by the Female Law.

And my mistress Melissa is nothing if not law-abiding!

Nevertheless I sense that my mistress does very much like to have me grovelling feverishly for mercy at her feet. Like most young women I’m sure she gets a feminine ‘buzz’ out of feeling a helpless, middle-aged slaveman’s lips slobbering voraciously over her superior, young-womanly feet, acknowledging that he is well and truly in her female power and at her female mercy – and yet receiving little; or even none.

And so I frantically kiss and kiss and kiss my mistress Melissa’s sweet feminine ballet flats, socks and bare anklebones prior to any impending punishment for any perceived misdemeanour on my part, as a fitting demonstration of my absolute fear of her, and of my being in her absolute female power; I deliver truly fearful kisses all over her podgy, white feet until she smilingly and condescendingly withdraws them from my kneeling face, and moves unhurriedly to stand behind me, whip in hand, ready to strike my recalcitrant back!

3. The Penitent Footkiss

After the whipping, of course, I must express my sorrow and penitence for my slave-failings through, yet again, the medium of the footkiss – this time the ‘penitent’ footkiss.

This type of footkiss (sometimes referred to as a ‘remorseful’ footkiss) is like a strange mixture of the ‘respectful’ and the ‘fearful’ footkiss. It resembles the ‘respectful’ footkiss in that it is controlled and sober (unlike the feverish and uncontrolled nature of a series of desperate ‘fearful’ footkisses); and yet it resembles the ‘fearful’ footkiss insofar as it may be delivered to any part of the mistress’s shoe, sock or bare foot. It is not restricted to the toe area of her dirty shoe or boot.

And they say the penitent footkiss speaks more eloquently of a footslave’s contrition than any amount of weaselly slave-speak words might do – for the mistress can really feel her slave’s submission and repentance through his lip-contact with her whip-wielding feet and footwear.

Penitent kisses will often be accompanied by sobs, as most male slaves are lily-livered and weak, and highly allergic to pain. The mistress can therefore revel in her whipped slave’s pain and distress as she listens to him sob and watches his middle-aged, balding head bobbing penitently up and down on her shoes and socks, with his lips occasionally daring to stray onto her bare footflesh in a pathetic, and ultimately doomed, effort to elicit her sympathy or even empathy. Ha! Ha!

Even my own sweet and compassionate, blonde-curly-haired mistress Melissa is unlikely to feel any sorrow for her freshly-whipped slave whilst she is still on a high from the whipping, and her sweet feminine heart is still racing from the effort of applying the terrible whip.

Again, it is much harder for a whipped footslave to convey his penitence if the whiplady is wearing boots, and he does not, therefore, have access to her socks and bare anklebones with his truly penitent lips and mouth. Mistress Zeeba’s footslave must therefore find it very difficult to convey his penitence following a whipping from his Iranian mistress.

I, on the other hand, because of my mistress Melissa’s preference for wearing her everyday, black leather ballet flats and short, black sneaker-socks – even whilst she is whipping me – can ensure her socks are soaking wet with my tears and remorseful saliva after a whipping, and all whilst my back is still warm from the whip.

I know she likes it for she will often make mad, passionate love with her husband shortly after whipping me!

4. The Worshipful Footkiss

Not to be confused with any of the above, the ‘worshipful’ footkiss is delivered by the slave who is in a state of utter devotion towards his superior mistress. It is delivered with his hands cupped reverentially around the object of his worship – his mistress’s foot and shoe.

It may be delivered to the sock and/or bare ankle as well, but the slave who is experiencing such strong sensations of devoutness and wonderment towards his mistress is perhaps less likely to feel emboldened enough to touch his mistress’s inner holy (or even holey) footwear – her socks or hosiery – or, indeed, her soft, bare feminine footflesh, without her explicit and verbal permission.

The mistress’s short, black sock – after all – is seeped in her exquisite, feminine foot bacteria and footsweat. The worshipful slave is not considered worthy to touch that precious, female foot-bacteria with the inferior bacteria from his dirty, maleslave mouth – at least, not without her say so. And the same goes for the mistress’s bare foot. A slave undergoing feelings of extreme devotion will not feel worthy to touch his mistress’s divine, female flesh with his dirty, sinner mouth, unless the mistress graciously condescends for him to do so.

And so, the devotional slave ordinarily just cups his hands around the mistress’s arrogantly outstretched foot, and worshipfully kisses her outer foot-covering – her shoe or boot leather – with his awestruck mouth.

Unlike a respectful footkiss, however, a worshipful footkiss to a young woman’s footwear may be long and lingering – conveying a sense of the footslave’s slavish reluctance to part company with his superior mistress’s foot. For he is its slave; he is her slave; and he wants everyone to see it and know it.

Which brings me onto another aspect of foot-kissing. The kissing of the mistress’s feet – be it with respectful, fearful, penitent or worshipful footkisses – may, of course, take place either in private or in public.

If the slave kisses the mistress’s feet in private, he abases himself in her intimate presence and thereby enhances her young-womanly self-esteem.

If the slave kisses the mistress’s feet in public, he enhances her mistressly reputation amongst others, who admire the way her personal footslave respects, fears, is penitent towards, or utterly devoted to his superior, female mistress. She is admired by all and sundry, and congratulated on her female power and mastery over her pathetic slave – an admiration she can then enhance still further by having the slave respectfully kiss the feet of the onlookers.

The slave must now kiss other feet – at his triumphant young mistress’s behest; and everyone can see that he is the loser in life, whilst his mistress is the winner.

Yes, footkissing is the natural order of things in a Gynarchy like Barbaria, and everyone can relax when a male slave is down on his hands and knees in the dirt and kissing the feet of his female betters. For it means everything is right with the world, and everyone is in their proper place – whipped or otherwise.

Now, if you’ll forgive me, I feel the urge to devotedly kiss my blonde mistress Melissa’s plain, black ballet flats with a series of worshipful footkisses whilst she relaxes on the sofa with her husband, sharing a bucket of popcorn with him as they watch television together.

 

Fable no. 1 – Cold Feet

Long-black-haired Goth-mistress, mistress Alison, is what I would describe as one of my ‘colder’ mistresses – always superior and stand-offish towards me; frigid and cold-hearted – with absolutely no warmth in her pasty-white face, her dark eyes, or her softly-spoken voice as she sits imperiously above me in my public shoelick-booth just off the central, town square, barking down her orders at me in a cold and frosty manner.

Today, however, she is particularly cold – literally so, as it is minus 12 degrees outside. It is not snowing, as such – but only because it is probably too cold for snow!

Nor is it much warmer inside my public-footslave booth, for the Female Authorities don’t provide me with any form of heating, despite the fact I am kept permanently semi-naked in just my flimsy, white slave-shorts as I kneel humbly at my female customers’ feet. The Female Authorities, understandably, don’t care much about the physical comfort or discomfort of a worthless, male, public slave like me – and I suppose they think that the much more precious, female customers will be well wrapped-up in winter (if they have any sense), and will be adequately sheltered from the worst of the biting, winter wind by the roof over their head and the external door to the public shoelick-booth!

Still, it must be, at best, minus 5 or 6 even inside the locked, private foot-booth!

Just as well, then, that mistress Alison is, indeed, well-wrapped up against the cold – dressed somewhat dowdily, as she always is, in a long, black overcoat to match her black hair and her black heart; black slacks; plain, black cotton anklesocks; and equally plain, matt-black, square-toed, slip-on shoes with black, elasticated tongues.

I believe it’s her everyday officewear-outfit – all in black – and it never seems to change. I have never seen her, for example, in brightly-coloured slacks or shoes, or even socks. Always plain and predictable female footwear – a bit like mistress Alison herself, some might say; plain and predictable, though I couldn’t possibly say that, of course, being a mere public footslave! I would have to describe her as having a certain ‘gothic’ charm!

Cold and dowdy-looking young Goth-woman or not, I greet her cheerily as she settles herself frostily down into the raised chair above me, her black-shoed and black-socked feet resting on the two metal footrests in front of my kneeling and bowed face – just as I always do, because I am obliged to do so under the Female Law:

‘Good morning mistress Alison, and God bless you most kind and beautiful young mistress for gracing me with your presence again on this cold and bitter morning, most glorious and divine mistress Alison!’

It is, actually, a heartfelt slavespeak-greeting as I know I am truly honoured to have such a cold and haughty young, dark-haired woman in my humble footslave-presence:

‘Shut up, slave! My feet are freezing! Take off my shoes and warm up my socked toes this instant!’

‘Yes mistress Alison. Forgive me for my tardiness, mistress Alison. At once mistress Alison!’

Mmm…not the usual command from the normally predictable customer-mistress Alison! She normally just requires a ‘lick and a shine’ to her shoes. So this is quite unexpected and exciting – for I am going to see her inner socks for the very first time by taking off her black, leather officewear shoes!

A rare treat indeed – goddess-mistress Alison’s black, gothgirl anklesocks, in all their sweet feminine glory!

Now, I know what you’re thinking – why on earth would any young woman, Goth or otherwise, whose feet were cold, invite a public slave to take off her shoes? Surely that can only make her feet feel even colder? But, actually, lots of young customer-mistresses will order me to do this on a cold and frosty morning such as today – for they desire me to warm up their socked or nyloned toes by breathing on them! A foot-warmer powered by slave-breath! It’s not that uncommon a command; it’s just the first time I can recollect the cold-hearted, cold-footed mistress Alison ordering me to do so!

I therefore waste none of my slave-time in obeying the superior Goth-mistress’s command – for I have plain, office-girl tootsies to warm up and inner, black cotton, girlsock to admire!

The square-toed, slip-on, black leather shoes slip off with a gentle whoosh of semi-warm footair – but trapped air that is clearly not warm enough to satisfy the demanding mistress Alison’s cold feet. I am truly delighted by the sight which greets me – two, plain black ankle socks in all their sweet feminine glory, with reinforced stitching over the toe areas, and clearly visible areas of bobbling and greying along the lower insteps and on the soles thanks to repeated wash and wear of the soft, cotton foot-material.

The cold-blooded mistress Alison’s warm-blooded toes must still be alive inside her socks, for I can now see them wriggling inside her freshly liberated sock. Sadly however, but perhaps not surprisingly given that it is still early morning and a bitterly cold day, her socks don’t appear to smell; a real pity that, for I would dearly love to get her gothic footscent – the footscent of a cold and sit-offish young woman whom it is my privilege to serve almost every working day on my public shoelick-stand as I lick away the street dust and grime from the outsides of her unremarkable, plain black office shoes on her way into work.

At least I now know that the normally hidden areas of her lower anklesocks are not as clean and fresh as the upper ankle areas below her black trouser-hems might suggest, but are, in fact, well-worn – and that, at least, is a suitably humbling thought!

As is the thought that my breath is, in the mistress’s own high opinion, only good to warm her socked toes! She cares not that my breathing actually keeps me alive – she cares only about the warming of her cold feet:

‘Get a move on, slave! Breathe on my toes! Warm them up! Quickly – or I’ll whip you red raw!’

‘Yes mistress Alison. At once most merciful mistress Alison!’

Spurred on by the threat of the public-use whip, I quickly lower my face closer to the wriggling girlsock on her right foot and breathe out loud over the reinforced-cotton toe area.

Mistress Alison, quite rightly, laughs at me and mocks me as I obediently breathe over her sock:

‘Ha! Ha! Perhaps you are feeling the bitter cold also today, foot-faggot? Ha! Ha! Would you actually like me to whip your bare back and shoulders for you? Ha! Ha! Perhaps the biting sting of my whip would help to warm you up on such a cold morning?’

Sweet and kind though the offer is, I feel I must decline, as it wouldn’t be right for a mistress to have to go to all that trouble just to warm up a slave’s back for him! Selflessly, I’d much rather shiver and freeze with the cold, than writhe and burn under the sting of the female whip:

‘Oh pray mistress Alison…breathe…breathe…Oh no, mistress Alison… breathe…breathe…please don’t whip me, mistress Alison…breathe…breathe… Truly this slave fears the sting of the female whip, mistress… breathe … breathe…’

‘THEN BREATHE HARDER, SLAVE! I WANT TO FEEL YOUR DIRTY, SLAVE BREATH WARMING MY SOCKED TOES!’

‘Yes mistress! At once mistress! As it pleases you mistress!’

I move my warm-air heating unit (my mouth) over to the black-socked toes on her left foot, and breathe all the more vigorously. Oh if only mistress Alison would let me take her socked feet all the way into my mouth, I’m sure my warm saliva would help to warm up her pretty, black-socked toes!

But she is unlikely to grant me such an intimacy – the honour of having her socks in my mouth – being such a notoriously cold and frigid young woman! She despises me too much. And besides, she won’t, I’m sure, want to be walking around the office with slave-saliva-sodden socks inside her square-toed, black leather office shoes!

And so I must content myself with merely breathing on her socks, and not touching them – not even to respectfully kiss them, for kissing a customer-lady’s bare sock without her express permission is a whippable offence here in the Gynarchy!

At least my breath seems to be doing the trick –for mistress Alison appears to be a bit more relaxed now:

‘Put my shoes back on my feet now, slave, and lickshine them up as usual!’

‘Yes mistress Alison. At once mistress Alison!’

I breathe a sigh of relief. Back onto familiar territory – the dirty outsides of her plain, black office shoes! But even if it had proved to be my dying breath, I would have died happily knowing that I was being of service to cold and frigid customer-mistress Alison’s black-socked, Goth-girl feet!