Footslave Parklife

I am enslaved in the central park in the Gynarchy’s capital city, Barbaria. It’s a huge park, and I’m not the only one enslaved there by any means; indeed, every park bench has a public footslave, like me, positioned beneath it – buried up to the neck – so that the ladies who use the park for recreational purposes can have their feet and footwear attended to by my face at any time they wish; day or night.

They call them submissives’ benches; or subs-benches, for short!

The park, like the footslaves located in it, never closes, so I am technically never off duty. Even in the middle of the night I can be kicked in the face and woken up by a lady demanding foot-service.

But my favourite time of the day is the early morning, especially on a bright and sunny, summer’s morning like this, when the park, or what limited part I can see of it – which is pretty much only the grass beneath my face – looks luscious and green, albeit slightly worn down by the shoe and boot soles of those ladies who have previously either been sitting on the bench directly above me, or who have been arrogantly pointing their feet onto the grass in front of my confined face for me to pay my humble respects to their superior, feminine footwear.

For I do both – I service ladies’ feet and footwear as they stand in front of my bench, should they so desire it; or I merely observe the backs of their pretty heels whilst they are seated imperiously above me. I guess you could say I’m a kind of seat-cum-footslave-stall.

And it doesn’t take long for my first customer of the new day to appear:

The Early-Morning Jogger

She is black – Somalian or Ethiopian, I would say, given her finely-chiselled facial features, her deliciously dark brown skin, and her tall and svelte physique. And this young woman, who looks to be in her early twenties and therefore in her physical prime, does look super-fit!

She is clearly out for her early-morning jog, and is dressed appropriately: a red and white T shirt; all-white jogging-pants which reach down as far as her shapely, upper anklebones, and have fetching draw-strings on the lower hems which dangle down towards the elasticated tops of her ultra-short, ankle-exposing, plain, white sneaker socks inside her red and white stripe, Velcro-fastened jogging-sneakers.

The fit, young, East African woman’s feet are, like the rest of her fit body, quite long and thin, judging by the size and shape of the sneakers, and her ankles are equally pronounced and slender, such that I can see a little gap between the stretched-open elastic of her sock-top and her bare ankleskin when she suddenly stops jogging and smugly positions her right foot on the grassy ground beneath my face, having first performed a few stretching exercises by resting her leg on top of the wooden bench above me.

The African jogging-mistress doesn’t say anything to me, but it is obvious what she requires of me. Whenever a mistress stretches out her foot beneath your buried-up-to-the-neck, slave face the default position is that you must kiss her toe-area – either her bare big-toe inside her open-toed sandals; or the pointy leather toe of her stylish, stiletto-heeled shoe or boot; or, as in this case, the rounded and slightly flaky and scuff-marked toe of her outstretched running-sneaker. It’s just a public demonstration of male-slavish respect for the superior female, whatever her footwear.

And although I have never seen this particular young lady, or her sneakers and socks, before in my life I do mightily respect her – for she is self-evidently my superior and better, being free, female, young, African and attractive; all the things I am not.

Her flaky, rounded sneaker-toe feels hot on my lips, and I can almost smell burning rubber - but it is sadly too early for me to be able to smell any feminine footsweat emanating from the young, East African woman’s hot, sneakered feet. She will undoubtedly build up a sweat as her jogging session progresses, but for now she has only been exercising for half an hour or so – I would guess, given that the sun only came up about then.

I am, however, gratified to observe the stretched-open, elasticated top of her short, white sneaker sock flexing and folding in tandem with the young woman’s black foot muscles in what I presume is a subconscious, pleasurable reaction to having her flaky, sneaker toe humbly kissed by one of the park’s public-footslaves. After my first respectful kiss to the white, scuffmarked, rubbery-leather sneaker toe, the girlsneaker simply stays in place – indicating that further respectful kisses are required. This too is a default position – I must continue to kiss the proffered, female footwear until it is withdrawn from beneath my ground level, parkbench-face.

No words of instruction are required; after all, isn’t it obvious what a face buried up to the neck in the ground is required to do when confronted by another human-being’s foot? It’s not that a superior mistress is forbidden to speak to me; nor am I a legally dumb footslave – forbidden to speak. But a superior, young African woman can hardly be expected to strike up a conversation with me – I’m self-evidently much too far beneath her in the social scale of things! My primary function is merely to kiss feet – her jogger’s feet.

In the event I must deliver a further 5 respectful kisses to the young, black woman’s right sneaker toe, until it is replaced by her left. I must say, I do like this fit African girl’s haughty attitude as she stands, hands on both hips, above me, slightly breathless, having her red-and-white-hot sneakers kissed. She certainly is a good sport, and even adds to my early-morning sense of thirst and dryness of mouth by extracting a bottle of water from her jogging-pants’ pocket and unthinkingly drinking from it whilst I continue to place my parched lips onto the dry flakiness of her left sneaker-toe.

Of course, being a pathetic footslave, I am thirsting not just for water – but for her socks; to reach up and touch the soft, cotton stitching on the exposed tops of her short, pure white sneaker socks with my humble slave-lips would be my ultimate reward first thing in the morning, for I would then be touching the very essence of her foot which is no doubt starting to seep into the fabric of her running-socks from her delicate, East-African-girl footpores. She may not yet have had the chance to build up a fulsome footsweat – but the socks are there for a good reason; to capture her unavoidable foot-perspiration as she exercises her shapely, young-womanly body.

And I so much would like some of that – even if it’s just the traces of her stinky foot-secretions on her short, African-girl socks.

But it is seemingly not to be. The young woman would have to specifically order me to kiss her socks. Kissing sock is not a default position – unlike kissing shoe, more’s the pity. And an order to kiss Somali-girl sock is not forthcoming. She clearly regards me as unworthy to touch her socks!

Or maybe, to give her her due, she’s not as arrogant and stand-offish as I think? Maybe she is in reality a sweet and kind, young African woman, who would dearly love for me to kiss her on the jogging sock, but who simply doesn’t speak English?

Whatever the case may be, the justifiably supercilious young woman jogs off without a word of gratitude, her tense, East-African calf-muscles duly stretched; her red and white striped running-sneakers duly kissed and respected; and her sweet, but silent, African mouth duly refreshed and watered – leaving me with just the lingering taste of her rubbery-leather sneaker toes on my dry and parched footslave-lips.

I may not have spoken to the superior, young Somalian woman, but I do feel that I made a connection with her – or, at least, with her dirty sneakers!

The Breakfasting Shop-Assistant

The next young lady to grace me with her early morning foot-presence appears to be on her way into work – almost certainly a shop assistant of some kind who perhaps has to open up a newsagents or some such similar establishment, for it’s still a bit early for an ordinary office-worker to be up and about.

She looks to be of a similar age to her African predecessor – early twenties – but that is pretty much where the comparison ends. Unlike the jogging mistress before her, she is not dressed for running, but for work, in a fetching white blouse; a black cotton jacket; a short, black, above-the-knee skirt; and short pink socks inside a pair of single-strapped, black leather ballet-flats.

Also unlike her African antecedent her skin is white – pasty-white, almost Goth-like in fact (I noticed she had a nose-piercing) – with shoulder-length, dyed black hair; and she is somewhat podgy around the hips and bottom, with her bare, white legs looking particularly fleshy and attractive, despite the signs of cellulite on them, below her ridiculously short black skirt.

Also unlike her predecessor she chooses to sit down on the bench above me, rather than stand in front of it, and, disappointingly, she does not even first bother to extend her park-dust stained, ballet-flated feet for me to kiss. I am disappointed because I would very much like to have demonstrated my slavish respect and admiration for her shop-assistant footwear before she sat down above me - especially since the poor girl is likely to be up on her feet for the rest of the day on the shop floor!

Still, that probably explains why she is so keen to take the weight off her feet right now – to have a bit of a sit-down and a rest before the long, working day ahead, so I can’t really blame her. My working day may be longer than hers, being 24 hours long – but at least I don’t have to stand all day and night (or rather, I do – but since I am buried up to the neck in the ground the surrounding earth supports me!)

Once seated on the bench directly below which I am permanently confined, the shopgirl-mistress stretches out her pasty white legs in front of me and tucks her chubby, ballet-flated ankles around each other. This is the second big frustration for me, for it means that her feet are now quite far away from my face – and my eyesight is not what it used to be. I have no problems seeing things close-up, but things become somewhat blurred even at short distances and I do like to be able to see all the little details in a superior young woman’s feet and footwear!

Still, it is the comfort of the fat, young, Goth woman that is paramount, and if she feels more relaxed sitting on the park bench above me with her legs stretched out in front of her, then so be it!

I hear her rustling some greaseproof paper above me and then smell the delicious aroma of cooked bacon and warm coffee – she is having her breakfast! Now I am hungry, as well as thirsty, but I shan’t be fed until much later in the morning when the female park-rangers eventually do their rounds in their bright orange, high-visibility jackets and black leather, knee-high boots– if they can even be bothered, for they are all female community-payback convicts who often don’t show up; and even if they do turn up I shall only be given stale bread and water – just the bare minimum I need to keep me healthy and in service; public footslaves are not fed for their own satisfaction!

The young white woman’s phone rings. Who on earth would be ringing her at this time of the morning? Silly question – it’s a young man’s voice; her boyfriend, no doubt, judging by her giggling and lovey-dovey responses to his manly tones.

I am jealous of him, of course – for he clearly has what I do not, namely the respect and admiration of this delightful and charming young woman. She has completely ignored me, though she will, of course, be aware of my humble presence beneath her – since it is a well-known fact that all park benches in the Gynarchy have a resident footslave buried in the ground beneath them.

However, I do have one thing to be eternally grateful to the young, free man for – the distraction of his phone call has caused the young woman to subconsciously tuck her legs in behind her underneath the seat, and as a result the man’s girlfriend’s ballet-flated heels are now tucked in behind one another just inches away from my face. I can now see the detail I was hankering after earlier.

I can see, for example, all the tiny scuffmarks on the backs of the young woman’s misshapen, black ballet-flat heels. They are obviously a well-worn and favourite pair of ballet-flats. And because of the tip-toed positioning of her feet I can also see her dirty and dusty, black leather shoe-soles – including the residual traces of a piece of chewing gum on her left ballet-flat sole.

My God, what I wouldn’t give to be able to lick off that dirty chewing gum stain!

And not just because my stinking mouth could do with some minty flavour in it, however street-dirty the source of that minty flavour might be; not just because all my unnatural, footslave instincts are to clean the soles of the young lady’s dirty footwear for her; but also because I know for a fact that that piece of chewing-gum will have been inside a superior young woman’s mouth. Not necessarily the mouth of the young, Goth woman seated above me now, but most definitely inside a female mouth; for, by law, only women are allowed to chew gum in the Gynarchy. Even free males don’t have that particular, messy luxury!

The most obvious details to observe about this enamoured, young woman’s feet and footwear, however, are the red chap-marks adorning both her bare, white heels. Her heels are bare inside her leather ballet-flats because her short, pink socks do not cover them. Indeed, her pink socklets barely cover the lower halves of her podgy white anklebones, let alone her fleshy insteps, and they disappear completely down the backs of her low-cut, black leather ballet flats!

It does make me wonder why young women would want to wear a pair of semi-useless socks like these inside a pair of everyday ballet-flats; I can sort of understand the wearing of short sneaker socks inside running sneakers (as with the white socks of the African girl) as a female runner needs some material inside her shoes to absorb her sweat and stop her feet from slipping and becoming uncomfortably sticky whilst she exercises.

I can also appreciate that for aesthetic reasons a young woman may wish to appear sockless inside her shoe, and might therefore wear short socks which are an identical colour to that of her outer footwear.

But why would a young, female shop-assistant, going about her daily business, bother to wear such ultra-short pink socks inside her common-or-garden, black, workaday footwear? She may as well either wear full-length, pink anklesocks – by way of a feminine fashion statement – or go completely barefoot inside her dusty, black ballet-flats, for such thin and short cotton socks are not going to protect her soft, white footflesh from rubbing against her inner shoe-lining – certainly not at the backs of her heels; and nor can the socks be deemed ‘secret’ or ‘invisible’, since the pink, cotton, foot-covering material is fully exposed on the top of her foot beneath the thin, black, ballet-flat strap!

Of course, I do recognise that a sweet pair of pinky socks like this help to beautify the shop-assistant’s feet in many ways – perhaps covering up the pasty-whiteness of her Gothgirl footskin, or even some unsightly, prominent blue veins. The socks are also fetchingly stretched thanks to the chubbiness of her feet and ankles, and I can observe one or two brownish dust-stains on the pale pink insteps of the socks - already, so early in the morning!

Furthermore, on reflection, I do have to admit that the pink socks look extremely cool on her – hardly surprising given that she probably works in a trendy fashion store or ladies’ shoe shop. But are the socks in any way practical?

Be all that as it may, I can’t even begin to put into words my deep, primeval longing to touch those short, pink socks with my malefootslave-lips, especially when I observe how the young woman’s subconscious foot-movements are causing her pale pink socks to crease and fold most enticingly beneath the single, thin, black leather straps that cross the crowns of her female shop-assistant feet.

Those short, pink, dusty and creased socks are simply crying out to be worshipped – but their owner is seemingly oblivious to their calls. She only has ears for her beloved boyfriend on the other end of the phone, and, having ended her early-morning love-call, she dumps her breakfast waste in the neighbouring bin, stands up, and strolls off to her place of work without so much as a by-your-leave.

She is unwittingly cruel, for she could have offered me her leftovers; or a piece of that discarded chewing-gum; or, at the very least, offered me her shoes and socks to kiss. But she has too many other things on her mind – such as meeting up with her boyfriend after work.

I forgive her, for at least she equally unwittingly presented me with a nice view of the backs of her red and chapped heels!

Bless her Cotton Socks!

The next mistress to grace me with her presence is, unlike the first two, well-known to me. Arguably too well know to me, for she is what’s known as a slave-stalker!

And I am the one being stalked – not that it’s difficult to stalk me since I am unable to ever go anywhere. You will always find me here underneath this particular park-bench if you are looking for me - since I am a slave for life; buried alive for the rest of my life!

Mistress Benedicte is a beautiful, thirty-something, tropical-island kind of girl. I believe she hails originally from Mauritius, and she has those wonderful half-oriental, half-African looks which turn free men’s heads wherever she goes.

But, bizarrely, she only seems to have eyes for footslave-losers like me; for male heads buried helplessly in the dusty ground! It’s almost as if she likes to feign pity for us; to visit us, and express her tender, young-womanly sympathy for our plight; to seek to satisfy some of our pathetic, footslavish frustrations by selflessly pandering to our slavish desires.

And yet, you just know that the sweet and kind miss Benedicte would never want to see us slaves freed or released from our living interment, for then we would no longer be subject to her absolute power and at her complete mercy. And mistress Benedicte does very much like to be the one in control – to offer us sweet feminine graces and favours, but strictly on her terms.

I’m quite sure I’m not the only public-footslave whom she stalks. I know for a fact that she is unemployed – a young lady of leisure living on benefits – and I think she regards slave-stalking as her full-time occupation, if not her full time hobby. She spends all day doing it in the park and in the shopping malls, and in the town square.

Bizarrely, also, she likes to dress as if she does have a regular office job – in smart, pin-striped trouser suits or pencil skirts. She is never what you would describe as ‘casually’ or ‘scruffily’ dressed. I don’t know where she gets the money from for such nice clothes!

Today is no exception: she is wearing a dark-grey pinstriped trouser suit over a smart, frilly, white blouse, and black patent leather, high-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up ankleboots beneath the bootcut hems of her pinstriped-trousers.

She is seemingly pleasant towards me, as always, as she smilingly walks up to me and stretches forth her smart, right ankleboot for kissing:

‘Ha! Ha! Good morning, slave! How are you today?’

Her accent always sounds a bit French to me – I believe French is her native tongue though she speaks perfect English.

I’m just grateful for the opportunity to converse with a superior, young woman for a change – even if she is a bonkers-mad slave-stalker:

‘Oh pray mistress Benedicte. Good morning mistress Benedicte. Thank you for joining me again mistress Benedicte. This slave is all the better for seeing the mistress, if it is so pleasing to you, most beautiful and respected mistress Benedicte.’

I know – I shouldn’t really be encouraging her; but being ultra-polite to a mistress is the Law here in the Gynarchy. I am obliged to fawn to her, and flatter her. Otherwise I can be reported for insolence and punished! (mercifully, I can’t be whipped because I am buried in the ground up to the neck – but there are many other ways to physically chastise a partially buried slave; notably kicking in the face!)

Mistress Benedicte may be a slightly-built, petite, black-curly-haired Island-girl; but she nevertheless seems to tower above me like a tropical giantess as I lower my lips to obediently kiss her proffered, patent-leather, pointy boot-toe.

She laughs at me, as is her wont, as soon as my lips make respectful contact with the slightly dusty toe of her otherwise highly-polished boot. Then, again as per usual, the right boot is replaced on the ground beneath my face by her left after just one kiss.

As I lower my lips to the toe of her second boot I observe how her spiked heel is crushing a blade of grass – killing it with her female power, just as I fear she might one day crush me!

For she most certainly has a bizarre crush on me!

As soon as I have demonstrated my undying respect for her superior, female, sharply-dressed personage by kissing both her boots, she begins her routine mocking of me:

‘Ha! Ha! I’ve been watching you from the woods over there, slave, and I saw you lusting after that shop-girl’s black ballet-flats and pink socks! Ha! Ha! But she was having none of it, was she? Ha! Ha! She wouldn’t even let you kiss them would she? Ha! Ha!’

A shiver of fear runs down my confined spine. This is all a bit creepy! What does mistress Benedicte think she is doing spying on me from the woods at such an ungodly hour of the morning?

She’s very astute, though. She can read me like a book, and even at a distance she has clearly been able to make out the frustration and disappointment written large on my gormless, interred face as I was forced to stare at the beautiful – but unattainable – shoes and socks of an equally unattainable, fat shop-girl!

I therefore have no choice but to politely acknowledge the veracity of my slim, mixed-race stalker-mistress’s observations:

‘Yes indeed, mistress, if it pleases you mistress Benedicte.’

‘Ha! Ha! And that African girl before her… she didn’t let you kiss the tops of her white socks either, did she slave? Ha! Ha! How frustrating for you!’

‘Yes indeed, mistress, if it is so pleasing to you mistress Benedicte.’

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t say that, slave – what do you think I am? Do you think I would actually enjoy seeing you all pent-up and frustrated? Ha! Ha! I’m not a cruel mistress!’

‘Oh no mistress. Indeed not mistress Benedicte. Pray forgive me mistress Benedicte!’

I have to be ultra-careful here; mistress Benedicte has never yet done anything to actually hurt me, but there is an ever-present undercurrent of menace whenever she is around! I must pander to her whims, and her view of herself, lest she erupt in fury like a smouldering, tropical-island volcano, and lash out at me with her pointy-toed, black leather boots!

However, I’m pleased to say that she appears to accept my apology for inadvertently implying that my footslavish frustration may have been pleasing to her.

‘Ha! Ha! That’s more like it, slave!...Now, just to prove to you that I am a nice and kind mistress, I’m going to let you kiss one of my socks! Would you like that, slave?’

‘Oh mistress…oh pray mistress Benedicte... oh yes please mistress Benedicte…’

My enthusiasm is genuine. Nutter or not, mistress Benedicte is offering me the opportunity to kiss her bootsocks, and that’s an offer not to be sniffed at!

‘Ha! Ha! I’m afraid they’re black, rather than white or pink, slave… but footslave-beggars can’t be choosers, eh? Ha! Ha!’

‘No indeed, mistress Benedicte. This slave likes black socks, if you will forgive him his impertinence, mistress Benedicte.’

I am being nothing if not honest with my mistress Benedicte. I do like black socks – especially on black girls’ feet, where the rich black of the cotton sock-material contrasts so sweetly with the rich brown of their ankle and leg skin. And mistress Benedicte, the brown-skinned tropical Island girl, knows it full well!

She is just sock-teasing me – literally so now as she coquettishly hitches up the hem of her grey-pinstriped, bootcut trouser on her right leg in order to reveal the tiniest slither of black cotton, ankle-length bootsock just peeking out above the upper rim of her stylish, zip-up, black patent leather ankleboot:

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t be getting too excited, slave-boy…I’m only going to let your upper lip touch the very top part of my sock, whilst your lower lip touches the rim of my boot! You don’t deserve the honour of unzipping my boot with your ugly pig-mouth and kissing the side of my sock – since you have been so unfaithful to me by lusting after other girls’ socks!’

This is so typical of mistress Benedicte – mercy and compassion, mixed with arrogance and cruelty. A heady combination in one who has the appearance of being so fragile and sweet.

In fact, at that very moment a free man jogs past us, and wolf-whistles at the sight of mistress Benedicte revealing her sexy sock-top to me:

‘Wow!...Alright darling?...You’re gorgeous, you are sweetheart!’

The man doesn’t stop running, which is probably just as well, for if looks could kill mistress Benedicte would have already stabbed him to death with a dagger! It’s not, I suspect, that she hates men, or doesn’t appreciate male attention. It’s just that it must always be on her terms – with her in complete control.

That’s why she finds helpless, male slaves like me so appealing.

And she is certainly fully in control now – if not of herself, then of me:

‘Ignore that idiot, footslave. Just get on with kissing the top of my black sock like I told you to – with one lip on the sock and one on my boot. GET ON WITH IT, I SAID!’

That’s the problem with emotionally unstable mistresses like mistress Benedicte; if something, or someone, upsets them they just have to take it out on the nearest slave. She should be shouting at the free man; not at me. I’ve already apologised to her for my earlier insolence:

‘Yes mistress Benedicte! At once mistress Benedicte!’

Though I am now quaking over her boots, I am nevertheless overjoyed to at last be kissing female sock – albeit in a very limited and controlled way. Kissing a young woman’s sock – whilst she is still wearing it – is such an intimate thing to do; so much more intimate than merely kissing the dusty toe of her shoe or boot, for the sock is in intimate contact with her foot and ankle skin, and is therefore unseeingly saturated with her personal foot and leg bacteria.

And besides, the black cotton sock feels so deliciously warm and soft on my upper lip compared to the relative coldness of the black leather boot on my lower lip.

There is a definite spark of static electricity between us as my lips pay their humble respects to mistress Benedicte’s sock and boot respectively, and I know she feels that spark too. A spark in the park!

Mistress Benedicte is evidently in a much better mood now following my single, humble, if slightly lingering, kiss to her upper footwear:

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t stop, slave! Continue to kiss my boot and sock until I tell you to stop!’

‘Yes mistress Benedicte. This slave obeys you, mistress Benedicte. You are the one with the power, mistress. God bless you, and your beautiful sock, mistress Benedicte.’

I believe mistress Benedicte must already be blessed, since that’s what her name means in French! But her superior sock is worthy of my additional blessing.

Unlike me – for I am cursed; cursed to be at the mercy of superior, flaky mistresses like miss Benedicte, who can decide on a whim whether or not I may kiss their sweet socks, and if so which parts of their socks. I am oppressed and powerless, but happy to be so at moments like this if it means I can at least get to feel female sock, however limited, on even just one of my parched lips!

Perhaps mistress Benedicte, with her superior female mind, knows best. Perhaps less is more – and unfettered, unrestricted access to her black bootsock would not be good for me! For she leaves me wanting more – more soft and warm, feminine girlsock! And that can only be a good thing as I deal with my subsequent female customers’ feet and footwear throughout the rest of the day.

For it will, quite literally, keep me on their toes – eagerly and expectantly kissing their dirty and dusty outer footwear whilst admiring their inner footwear with exquisite pining and longing; longing for the inestimable honour of possibly kissing their most intimate, inner foot-coverings by way of demonstrating my total, maleslavish respect for their absolute feminine superiority.

Yes – frustration and denial, peppered with occasional moments of male-footslave bliss; it’s all part of a footslave’s parklife.

The End