Footslave Yarns Volume 1

The first volume in a collection of yarns and tall-tales from women’s footslaves, believe it or not!

VOLUME 1 CONTENTS (scroll down for yarns in reverse numerical order)

10. Black & White

9. Blessed By Sri Lankan-Girl Brown Sock

8. The Stubbed Toe

7. Birthday Treat

6. Begging for non-mercy

5. A Close Shave

4. Priceless!

3. Blind Devotion

2. Looking her in the foot

1. Flawed

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Yarn no. 10 – Black & White

My 29 year old, long-legged and beautiful, Barbadian mistress, mistress Rosalina – who is some twenty years my junior – has just arrived home from work and has peremptorily summoned me on my hands and knees into her living room. It must be something important for I was in the middle of tongue-polishing her many pairs of shoes and boots. I hope I am not to be whipped again for doing something wrong?

Or even for doing something right, for I don’t necessarily have to be in the wrong to be whipped. I’m just a scumbag, male slave, and can be whipped on a Barbadian-mistressly whim!

As I crawl into the living room, a bespectacled mistress Rosalina is standing haughtily in the middle of the floor with her arms folded, still dressed in her smart, dark-grey pinstriped, successful-businesswoman, workday trouser suit and frilly, white blouse. Her long, jet-black hair is done up, as usual, in a rather severe-looking bun, and her face, as is often the case, looks like thunder. I therefore immediately make a beeline straight towards her business-womanly shoes and socks, and start kissing them – by way of attempting to atone for whatever it is I am supposed to have done!

My mistress Rosalina has likewise not yet changed out of her smart, black patent leather, pointy-toed, officewear courts and plain white, officewear anklesocks as she towers commandingly above me – and so I kiss her several times both on her pointy shoe-toes, and on the visible white sock area below her dark-grey pinstriped, bootcut trouser hems, admiring as I do so the vivid contrast between the smooth, but cold, leather of her shiny black, court shoes and the slightly rougher, but warm, ribbed cotton of her plain, white anklesocks.

Although she graciously accepts my act of slavish foot-homage without kicking my face away, I can tell from the tone of my black mistress Rosalina’s Bajan voice that she is still not best pleased with me:

‘Stop that now, white slavey, and listen up to what I has to say, yeah?’

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

My mistress likes to see things in black and white. She insists that I always address her as ‘black mistress’. I’m not sure why, except that it clearly gives her some sort of buzz; perhaps because she is a tall, black woman with supreme power over a cringing, white man; or, at least, over a cringing, white manservant? Likewise, she chooses to address me as ‘white slavey’ – again, perhaps because I am a white man who is very much in her female power? Mistress Rosalina likes to be ironic!

But whatever her inverted-racist views may or may not be, she certainly has every right to see herself as superior to me, for the simple fact of the matter is that I am her legally-bound slave, and in her power. Nor would I have it any other way!

I therefore immediately obey my mistress Rosalina, and desist from slobbering unmanfully over her smart, feminine shoes and socks whilst I listen attentively to her authoritative, female, Caribbean voice chiding me:

‘I is not happy wit’ your attitude towards me, white slavey, and I has therefore decided to introduce a few changes around here, yeah?’

‘Yes black mistress.’

First, I is not happy wit’ the way you is continually kissin’ my socks whenever you kisses my feet, yeah? Has I ever given you permission to kiss my white socks, white slavey?’

I look closely at my black mistress’s partially-visible, slightly grubby and dusty, white cotton, officewear socks beneath her grey pinstriped, bootcut trouser hems, and realise that she has never, in actual fact, explicitly authorized me to kiss her on the sock! I had always just assumed it was the right thing to do – as a demonstration of my respect and submission towards my superior mistress, and my willingness to touch her grubby, white socks with my footslave-mouth; so that she could really feel my humble lips on her black feet through the ribbed stitching of her white socks.

‘Erm… no, black mistress, if it pleases you black mistress.’

‘No black mistress!...That’s right! In fact, you has never actually aksed me for permission to kiss my socks, has you white slavey?’

That’s not a misspelling, by the way; my mistress always says ‘aksed’ instead of ‘asked’! But, mispronounced or not, my mistress’s point is well made:

‘Erm…no, black mistress, if it pleases you black mistress.’

‘No!...That’s right, white slavey. You has never aksed me for my permission, and so I wants you to stop doin’ it, yeah? In my opinion you ain’t worthy to kiss a superior, young woman like me on the socks, yeah? So in future I has decided you cain look me in the sock, but you cain’t kiss me in the sock, yeah? From now on I only wants to feel your dirty, slave lips on my shoes, is that clear white slavey?’

My heart sinks with pathetic, footslavish disappointment, for I regard female sock-kissing as much more than just the physical expression of a slave’s respect for his mistress! I do also love the extra intimacy of kissing my black mistress on her warm footsocks whilst she is still wearing them! I can always feel, and smell, the warming contours of her soft, black footflesh on the tips of my sensitive, footslave lips and nose beneath the warm, cotton material of her white sock. Kissing her cold, outer shoe leather is much less intimate; and fragrant!

However, a Bajan mistress knows best, and I shall have no choice but to comply with her wishes from now on.

I signal my footslavish consent to this new, mistressly stipulation, without the need for the added incentive of her never faraway, single-tailed, brown leather, female whip being applied to my bare, already well-striped back:

‘Yes, black mistress Rosalina. As it pleases you black mistress Rosalina.’

Speaking of nearby whips, my mistress next picks up an object I had not hitherto noticed lying on top of a nearby coffee table – a fearsome-looking, multi-thonged, black leather scourge-whip!

She continues with her living-room lecture as she now runs the leather thongs gently through her Barbadian fingers:

‘Second, white slavey, I is not satisfied that you really fears me enough, and that you is truly respectful of my single-tailed punishment whup. Therefore I has bought myself a new whup, yeah – wit’ lots of leather thongs and bits of bone and metal in it, and that, yeah?’

My black businesswoman-mistress leans down to proudly show me more closely the various little bits of jagged bone and steel sewn evilly into the business-ends of the multitudinous thongs on her new, black leather, multi-tailed whip. Her white teeth are bared in a cruel smile as she does so.

Now this is unlawful! Such excoriating whips are completely illegal here in the Gynarchy – but then again who, realistically, is going to prevent my black mistress from using it on me in the privacy of her own home? Her husband – master-sir Sherwood? I think not! If anything, the master-sir would encourage her in its use, as he loves witnessing his young wife’s domestic cruelty towards her lowly, personal footslave. In fact, I think he gets off on it!

Even though I feel like invoking my meagre, Gynarchy slave-rights not to be punished with a scourge, and, indeed, to protest my innocence of this particular false charge – i.e. the charge that I don’t fear my mistress and her former, brown leather, single-tailed whip enough (for I most assuredly do!) – I decide it would be more prudent to simply acknowledge my incontestable, newfound fear of my mistress’s new, totally illegal, black leather scourge-whip, and my readiness to submit to its harsh, illegal regime, lest my pathetic protestations of innocence invoke the immediate use of the very thing I now fear most in the world – the stinging embrace of my mistress Rosalina’s illicit, new whip:

‘Yes black mistress. I understand, black mistress. Oh pray, black mistress. Please don’t scourge me with your new, black whip, black mistress! I am at your mercy, black mistress!’

My mistress Rosalina chuckles to herself at her sense of delicious, absolute black-female power over me, and then startles me by gently drawing the jagged thongs of her new scourge-whip across the small of my kneeling back. Even such a gentle drawing of the whip over my already whip-striped flesh causes me to flinch and tremble with fear. I can’t begin to even imagine how much a single stroke of this multi-thonged scourge, delivered in young-womanly anger, would sting!

My mistress laughs at my evident distress (I am sweating profusely now at her feet), and proceeds to the final section of her Barbadian-mistress diatribe:

‘And tird, white slavey, I is not satisfied that you has enough work to do about the house, yeah? I mean, cleanin’ my dirty shoes and washin’ my dirty socks all day long is all well and good, yeah? But we needs to find even more menial work for you to do, yeah?...’

‘Y…yes, b…black mistress. As it p…pleases you, black mistress.’

You see – the mere presence of that fearsome-looking whip is making me stutter now!

‘So, my husband Sherwood and me has decided to make you scrub our concrete driveway outside wit’ your slave-mouth every day, yeah? You will be responsible for lickin’ it clean every day, yeah? And iffin it’s not cleaned to our satisfaction by the time we gets home at night we’ll both whup you, yeah – usin’ this nice, new whup of mine, yeah?’

‘Y…yes, b…black mistress. I understand you, b…black mistress.’

I do indeed understand the mistress, only too well! She may speak with a cute, Bajan twang, but the import of her words couldn’t be clearer. Even though I am, officially, registered as her household footslave, my black mistress is perfectly at liberty to force me to lick clean the driveway on which she, and all my other female and male betters, walk. So this new, daily chore is one I shall simply have to add to my ever-expanding list of everyday chores – along with tongue-polishing my black mistress’s shoes and boots; mouth-washing and then hand-washing her dirty, sweaty socks and nylons; swallowing her sweaty toenail-clippings before washing and pedicuring her large, bare, black feet; and endlessly massaging her sweaty, white-socked feet of an evening as she relaxes on the sofa in front of the television – cuddled up in the arms of her manly, Barbadian husband, master Sherwood sir.

The thought of my black mistress’s grubby, white-socked feet draws my kneeling and downcast eyes once again towards my tall, Barbadian mistress’s socks and shoes as she now stands triumphantly over me in the middle of the living room. Oh if only I could throw my parched and dry lips onto those sweet, black-woman, white socks – so enticingly exposed inside the tops of her patent leather, black courts – just one last time, and beg them for mercy; worship them; honour them; and draw both comfort and sweet feminine footsweat from them, as I have become so accustomed to doing!

But that is now no longer an option for me, it seems, for my black mistress Rosalina has clearly decided to instigate a new regime and a new relationship vis-à-vis her humble, personal footslave – a new, sock-kiss-free regime based on abject fear, respect, and bloody hard work!

I’m going to have to mend my ways, and so all I can do is obediently lower my lips to her cold-hearted, shiny black shoeleather, and seek solace in that instead.

After some five minutes of my kissing the pointy toes and shapely insteps of her black, patent leather court shoes, my mistress, mercifully, puts down her vicious-looking, multi-thonged whip and superciliously turns her superior, Barbadian back on me:

‘Now get out, white slavey – and start lick-shinin’ my driveway, yeah?’

‘Yes black mistress. At once black mistress.’

I wonder what dirty, walked-over concrete actually tastes like?

 

Yarn no. 9 – Blessed By Sri Lankan-Girl Brown Sock

I consider myself very lucky to be the personal footslave of my mistress Sakthipriyah, for all the following reasons:

Firstly, she is a very beautiful and feisty young woman of Sri Lankan origins; 27 years old; slim; quite petite in stature; with long, dark hair and a beautiful, dark complexion to match which shows up her white teeth whenever she smiles. Not that she ever smiles at me, but she does often bare her teeth at me in young-womanly anger or frustration due to my middle-aged, footslavish incompetence.

Secondly, she is continuously haughty and arrogant towards me, as a superior, young mistress should be in her dealings with her down-at-heel, personal footslave. I am blessed in this regard because some mistresses can be quite friendly and chatty towards their slaves. Not my mistress Sakthipriyah, who is known affectionately as just ‘Sakthi’ to her friends, but always addressed as ‘mistress Sakthipriyah’ by me as I am most definitely not regarded by her as a friend; I am merely her slave and must, therefore, address her respectfully by her full, mistressly title at all times.

For her part, she only ever addresses me in curt, unfeeling mistress-speak in order to bark down her orders at me in her fluent English, but still with a hint of a superior, Sri Lankan accent; or to criticise and berate my footslavish performance at her footwear; or to admonish me and pass sentence upon me – invariably a sentence of whipping with her brown leather, single-tailed whip for some perceived misdemeanour or incompetence on my part. My mistress Sakthipriyah has very exacting standards and a great fondness for utilising the whip, so it would be well-nigh impossible for any slave to avoid the sting of her punishment whip on a regular basis.

Thirdly, and most importantly, however – I consider myself blessed due to my pernickety mistress Sakthipriyah’s choice of day-to-day footwear; she invariably likes to wear her shiny, red leather ballet flats with the single, broad, matching red straps running across the crowns of her shapely, Sri Lankan feet – along with plain, dark brown anklesocks. This is a particular blessing because it means I get to observe my beautiful, young, Sri Lankan mistress’s socks throughout the day as I follow her feet on my hands and knees – or, at least, that area of sock between the shoe-straps and the rounded toe areas of her shiny, red ballet-flats.

I am so fortunate in this regard, for my fully westernised, Sri Lankan mistress could, if she so wished, choose to wear boring, black leather ankleboots – like so many young women of her generation – thereby hiding her precious and distinctive, brown cotton socks from my view (apart, perhaps, from the occasional flash of brown, elasticated sock-top beneath the raised hems of her black, office trouser-legs when she is seated at her desk!). But I, mercifully, get to see at least part of my mistress’s dark brown socks throughout the entire working day!

Even on her days off my mistress tends to wear the same, red ballet flats with brown socks – albeit with black denim jeans rather than her smart, black officewear trousers, and so whether she is at work or play I get to see Sri Lankan-girl sock!

This means that I get to study the distinguishing, flowery pattern in the exclusively feminine stitching of her socks; to observe the comings and goings in the tiny creases and folds that form, and then disappear, in her brown, female socks whilst she is wearing them inside her soft, low-cut, red leather shoes; to even count the individual stitches in her flowery-patterned socks, although, frustratingly, I must repeatedly begin counting them again every time she subliminally moves her foot. I also get to admire any little specks of white fluff or dust which may attach themselves to my mistress’s brown socks – admire, and then later remove them with my slave mouth. Most importantly of all, however, I get to kiss my Sri Lankan mistress on the sock at regular intervals, for she demands that I respectfully kiss her nice, warming socks in all of the following circumstances:

· Whenever I put her dark brown socks onto her pretty, dark brown Sri Lankan feet first thing in the morning

· Whenever I remove her brown socks from her shapely, but now clammy, Sri Lankan feet last thing at night

· Whenever she temporarily leaves my presence (e.g. to go to the toilet)

· Whenever she subsequently re-enters my presence

· Whenever she sits down

· Whenever she stands up

· Whilst she is standing on the kerb waiting to cross the road

· At any other time when she so desires it

I must kiss her on the exposed area of brown sock between her thick, red ballet-flat strap running along the top of her precious, Sri Lankan foot, and the rounded toe area of her shoe, and my sock-kisses must be suitably reverential and respectful – for, as my mistress Sakthipriyah is constantly reminding me, she is very much better than me.

Of course, my mistress Sakthipriyah is not deliberately wearing such incredible socks just to indulge me; she does so because she cannot bear to have my dirty, male footslave lips touching her bare, Sri Lankan footskin. She also chooses to wear sombrely-coloured, brown socks all the time as a reminder to me that she is a serious-minded young woman who brooks no disobedience or disrespect towards her feet and footwear, however fun and flighty her bright red shoes may appear to be.

The shoes are designed to attract free men; they are most definitely not intended to stimulate the likes of me – a mere slave! Her plain brown socks are therefore designed to instil humility and obedience in me, and yet I do, occasionally, risk tiny acts of rebellion against my mistress Sakthipriyah’s brown-socked power over me.

Take the last few days, for example. Although I am under strict, permanent instructions only to look my mistress Sakthipriyah in the dull, cotton sock, and not the shiny, leather shoe, for the past few days I have found myself drawn inexorably towards a loose piece of stitching which is jutting out from the bright red, leather strap which crosses my mistress’s left, socked foot. The loose stitching is incongruously white, and contrasts vividly with the deep brown of my mistress’s sock beneath.

I just can’t help myself! I know I am being disobedient to my mistress’s wishes, but the loose, ballet flat, strap-stitch is constantly moving and changing shape in the wind, and it is simultaneously the most exciting, and terrifying, thing to have happened to my mistress’s ballet-flat shoes in the three, long years that she has been more or less constantly wearing them on her shapely, Sri Lankan-girl feet! For all I know this single, loose stitch could signify the beginning of the end for my mistress’s favourite pair of well-worn ballet flats – for she might have to replace them if that offending, loose stitch gets any worse!

The thought of that terrifies me because I fear that my mistress may decide, in such circumstances, to replace her ballet flats with a brand new pair of closed-in, sock-hiding, office shoes; or, even worse, with a pair of black leather, sock-concealing ankleboots!

It would be a disaster for me – significantly affecting my humble, footslave life, though I, of course, would have absolutely no say in the matter. A mistress’s choice of footwear must be just that – her choice! The slave must just then deal with it.

These thoughts of impending sock-doom have been agitating my mind for the last few days, and yet the same loose shoe-stitch presents me with an exciting opportunity – to offer to repair it with my slave-teeth; to bite it off before it gets any worse, thereby, hopefully, prolonging the life of my mistress’s sweet, shiny red, ballet flats.

After ruminating on it, I decide to bite the bullet and offer to bite off the stitch, but of course, that entails obtaining my volatile mistress Sakthipriyah’s superior-female permission.

I must choose my moment footslave-wisely.

I decide to respectfully broach the subject one evening whilst she is relaxing at home in her living-room armchair reading a book, still wearing her ubiquitous red ballet flats and brown, flowery-stitched anklesocks as is her wont even when she is lounging around the house (my mistress is not one to walk around the house in her brown-socked feet – more’s the pity!).

I interrupt my routine kissing of the exposed areas of her early-evening socks to offer my humble, makeshift, shoe-repair services, employing the most respectful and obsequious slave-speak that I can muster:

‘Oh pray mistress Sakthipriyah, if it pleases you mistress Sakthipriyah; please forgive this intrusion and don’t be angry with me, goddess-mistress Sakthipriyah – but this slave has been observing a loose, white stitch which is developing on the mistress’s precious, left shoe-strap, and would like to offer the mistress his humble services in effecting a repair of said shoe by respectfully, and diligently, removing the offending, loose stitch with his slave-teeth, if you would be so desirous of it most respected and feared goddess-mistress Sakthipriyah?’

I brace myself, for this could go either way.

Sadly for me, it goes the wrong way. My mistress is most annoyed and upset with me!

Her pretty, white teeth are once again bared as she angrily throws down her book, leans down to slap me hard across the face with the palm of her right hand, and shouts at me:

‘TCH! DIRTY, INSOLENT SLAVE! HOW DARE YOU TAKE YOUR EYES OFF MY SOCKS! EXACTLY WHO IS BEING GIVING YOU PERMISSION TO BE LOOKING AT MY SHOE STRAPS?...’

I hope it is a rhetorical question, for I am unable to answer my angry, young, Sri Lankan mistress due to a second, stinging blow with the palm of her punishing, brown hand across my right cheek – a blow which sends my footslave senses spinning:

‘…GET YOUR INSOLENT, SLAVE MOUTH BACK ONTO MY SOCKS THIS INSTANT, AND DON’T YOU DARE BE TOUCHING MY SHOE STRAP WITH YOUR UGLY, DISEASED TEETH, ISN’T IT? DIRTY, DISOBEDIENT SLAVE! IT WILL BE BEING THE WHIP FOR YOUR SORRY BACK LATER THIS EVENING!’

I regain some of my footslave senses and composure and immediately apologise to my superior, angry mistress:

‘Yes mistress Sakthipriyah. At once mistress Sakthipriyah! Pray forgive this dirty, stupid slave for his insolence and impertinence, most feared and respected Sri Lankan mistress!’

I decide it is best just to leave it at that, and to kiss sock, as I have been ordered to do, rather than to launch into a long and whining, slave-speak plea for clemency from my irate, Sri Lankan mistress. I have clearly made an error of judgement in offering to bite off her loose shoe stitch – and will soon be sorely punished for that foolish error by the biting sting of the female whip across my penitent back!

And rightly so – for, as my mistress has pointed out, nobody, least of all she who must be obeyed, had given me permission to neglect her socks and focus my slavish attention on the loose stitch in her ballet-flat strap. I mean, who had promoted me all of a sudden to the shoe-repair business?! I truly am blessed to have such a beautiful mistress who shows me the error of my ways, and who beats proper sock-obedience into me with the brown palm of her hand and the matching brown leather of her whip!

I can only hope that I shall continue to be blessed by the sight of her soft, brown anklesocks when she does, eventually, decide to replace her well-worn, sock-revealing, ballet flats!

Or are her brown socks actually a curse – demeaning my pitiful existence to that of a stroppy Sri Lankan girl’s pathetic, obsessive sock-kisser?

 

Yarn no. 8 – The Stubbed Toe

Disaster!

My 33 year old Jamaican mistress, mistress Teana, has just stubbed her little toe on the corner of her bedroom door!

She has angrily summoned me up to her bedroom, so that I might be punished. Not that I could have done anything to prevent the unfortunate accident – I wasn’t even with my mistress at the time; I was in her basement shoe-cupboard, dutifully smelling the insides of all her discarded, worn boots and shoes.

But I shall nevertheless be punished for her stubbed, Jamaican toe – and rightly so; for I am her personal footslave, and therefore I am ultimately responsible for the well-being of my mistress Teana’s feet. ‘A stubbed toe is a snubbed toe’, as the footslave-saying goes, and I am about to be sorely punished for neglecting my mistress’s precious toes!

Her husband, master-sir Kelvin, comes up to the master bedroom to see what all the fuss is about. My mistress, his beloved wife, is now sitting on the edge of the marital bed rubbing her furry, beige-coloured, slipper-toes and groaning in pain. She poutingly explains to the master-sir what has happened.

He wastes no time in fulfilling his husbandly duty:

‘Slave-bwoy – fetch the stick!’

The master-sir is referring to the ‘beating stick’ which he and his wife regularly use to beat me – a thin, whippy, rattan cane with a cruelly sharp sting in its tail!

‘Yes sir, master sir. At once sir, master sir!’

I crawl downstairs to fetch the cane from the dreaded stick-drawer whilst my master comforts his wife by sitting down beside her on the bed and putting his manly arm around her; the same arm that will soon be swinging the beating stick across my bare legs beneath the hems of my white slave-shorts on the backs of my exposed thighs!

I crawl back into the master bedroom on all fours with the stick between my teeth, and my tail between my legs – like a bad dog. I then hand the whippy stick up to the superior master-sir:

‘Pray beat me, master sir. Don’t spare me, master sir! Teach me a lesson!’

The master-sir needs no encouragement. He stands up, orders me to kneel with my face in the carpet at my mistress’s beige-slippered and black-anklesocked feet, with my ‘batty-bwoy butt’ up in the air, and then delivers 15 scorching strokes of the cane to the bare skin immediately below my flimsy-shorts-covered buttocks.

During the beating, I silently count the creases in my mistress’s black socks whilst she counts out the biting cuts of the cane to the backs of my white thighs.

After the beating, I sobbingly thank the master-sir for correcting me:

‘Thank you, master sir… sob…sob… sir, master sir… sob…sob…’

He clicks his teeth in disgust and disdain at me – the weeping, whipped wimp:

‘Tch! Shut your stinking beak, sore-batty bwoy, and soothe your mistress’s toes wit’ your mouth, yeah?’ he orders.

I lower my face once again, contritely, to my smugly-smiling, Jamaican mistress’s outstretched right foot – the one containing the little toe she had stubbed on the wooden doorframe – and gently kiss the soft, rounded toe area of her beige-coloured, furry house-slipper. I then respectfully, and ever so gently, pull the soft slipper off her damaged foot, and place her black-socked toes inside my warm and, hopefully soothing, mouth.

I can taste bits of lint and house-dust on the black socks, mingled in with my Jamaican mistress’s precious, African-Caribbean footsweat; but, mercifully, I don’t believe there is any blood on the sock.

I suck avidly on her black-socked toes, concentrating on the area of sock covering her little toe in an effort to soothe her still-smouldering toe pain.

Needless to say, no-one is about to do anything to soothe the sharp, stinging pain on the backs of my footslave-thighs. That’s because I deserve my pain, which was deliberately inflicted on me by the master-sir, for I am being punished; whereas my mistress should never be subjected to pain, accidental or otherwise, since she is a superior woman.

Her short, black socks are quite moist around the toe areas by the time I have finished, but my mouth has done its curative job. My Jamaican mistress’s toes are feeling healthy and refreshed once again inside her socks, including her temporarily damaged little toe.

Her husband resumes his manly place on the bed beside her and the two of them start to cuddle above me:

‘Slave-bwoy, now suck on my other foot!’ commands my mistress in her thick, Jamaican accent, giggling into her husband’s embrace as she does so.

I remove her other furry slipper, and suck on the completely undamaged toes of her left foot, again through the sweatiness of her short, black, dustmite-covered anklesock – just for the hell of it, and just because my mistress likes me sucking on her socked toes. It’s turning her on for her man.

So I guess you could say that all’s well that ends well!

 

Yarn no. 7 – Birthday Treat

I spy, with my little eye, two fat, black ladies – one older, one younger – ambling towards my public shoelick stand. They look like they could be mother and daughter, perhaps?

From the older lady’s attire I can surmise that they must be West African in origin, for the older lady is wearing a traditional, Nigerian, brightly-coloured, ankle-length, African tribal dress and matching African headscarf, with brown leather, strappy sandals on her fat and podgy, middle-aged, African feet.

The younger lady, however, is much more conservatively dressed in a beige cardigan over a plain, white blouse; a red, woollen, knee-length skirt; and black woolly tights with soft, black ballet-flats on her likewise podgy feet. I notice too, even from a distance, that the black ballet flats have immensely fetching, little black leather bows covering the African, rounded toe areas.

The younger woman seems somewhat diffident as the pair approach me, but the older lady has no compunctions whatsoever in walking straight up to me and imperiously presenting me with the dusty, brown leather sandal on her outstretched, right foot to kiss; swiftly followed by her left, African-sandaled, leathery-calloused, middle-aged foot. The dusty hem of her brightly-coloured, African tribal dress brushes against my submissive forehead as my lips brush against her sandals.

I make sure that my dirty, slave lips only touch the fat African lady’s brown leather sandal-straps, and not her bare brown, leathery footskin, as I don’t want to contaminate her precious, female-African feet with my dirty, male-footslave germs.

After just one quick kiss to each of her sandals, however, the elder African lady soon has something to say to me in a very matter-of-fact manner, albeit delivered in a melodic, West African accent:

‘Dirty footslave, this is my niece, miss Fayolla. Today is her 18^th birthday and she has now come of age; she is still too young to have a personal footslave of her own, but she is old enough to have her feet kissed in public by a dirty, public footslave. You will now bow your head over her feet and kiss them 100 times each. Kiss her on the toe of her shoe, and make damn well sure my beloved niece enjoys the experience, or you will have me to answer to!....Fayolla, come forward, my dear, and have your feet kissed by the dirty, public slave!’

I get the impression that this is one bossy African aunty, used to getting her own way! I am certainly in no mood to disobey her, and nor, it seems, is her niece, the shy and diffident miss Fayolla!

The latter somewhat gingerly steps forward and stretches out her right, ballet-flated and woolly-tighted foot onto the low-level, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face.

It is a truly wonderful looking foot – somewhat fat and misshapen beneath the thick, black wool of her woolly tight, but that only adds to its charm in my humble, footslave eyes. For the fleshiness of the young, West African woman’s feet and ankles, combined with the outstretched positioning of her foot, only serves to make her black, woolly tight crease and fold all the more around her plump, West African anklebone.

Moreover the tights look somewhat dusty and dirty; well-worn, woolly tights, I would say. And her soft, black ballet-flats look equally misshapen and unkempt this close up to my kneeling face. Certainly, the leather bow on the top of the scuffmarked, rounded toe area of her right shoe is stained with dust and street-dirt, and even looks in danger of becoming detached altogether from the main body of the soft, black leather shoe.

I make a mental note to be careful when kissing that black, feminine shoe-bow, so as not to inadvertently dislodge it. This young woman and her aunt do not appear to have money to burn. Why, even the young woman’s birthday treat is a ‘freebie’ – having her feet kissed by a down-at-heel, free-to-use, public footslave!

I would, of course verbally wish the young woman a happy 18^th birthday if I had been given permission to do so by her overbearing aunt, but since no such order was forthcoming I assume I must merely proceed to give the young, African woman her physical birthday ‘treat’ – 100 respectful kisses to each of her pretty, bow-decorated, well-worn ballet shoes.

I respectfully lower my face in order to kiss the dusty toe of the right shoe – and the young lady’s aunt helpfully begins to count my humble footkisses to her beloved niece’s dirty feet.

At kiss no. 25 – which happens to be on the very centre of her somewhat precariously-positioned, leather bow – the solid-looking, not to say sullen-looking, young, African woman standing above me having her feet kissed by a slave for the first time, who has remained ominously silent until now, complains to her aunt:

‘His mouth is tickling my toes, Aunt Babafemi!’

Her thick, woolly tight creases subconsciously around her plump anklebone as she lodges her complaint to the much higher authority above me.

‘SLAVE! Stop tickling my niece’s foot with your ugly slave-mouth! What did I say earlier?... Make sure my niece enjoys the experience of having her feet kissed or I’ll take the stick to your bare back!’

Madam is referring to the public-use whipping stick hanging ominously from a hook on the wall behind me.

‘Yes madame. Forgive me madame!’

The middle-aged, stout and surly, but brightly dressed African woman makes a contemptuous clicking noise with her tongue:

‘Tch! Stupid, ignorant slave! Do not be apologising to me! Apologise to my niece!’

‘Yes madame. Pray forgive this stupid slave, madame; he is an imbecile, as well as an incompetent foot-kisser …Oh pray miss Fayolla, if it pleases you miss Fayolla, pray forgive me for tickling your toes through your shoes and woolly tights, most respected young mistress. This slave humbly apologises to the young mistress for any distress he has caused her!’

‘Ha! Ha! Did you hear that, Aunty? He called me “mistress”! Ha! Ha!’

‘Ha! Ha! Yes, my darling, that’s because he is now your slave who is having to kiss your dirty shoes! Ha! Ha!...Do you accept his apology, my dear, or will you have him whipped? He is your slave, to do with as you wish!’

Miss Fayolla ruminates over her young-mistressly options for a few seconds. This is a totally new experience for her – absolute female power over the helpless male:

‘Hmm…I won’t have him punished if he apologises to my toes! Make him take off my shoe and apologise to my stinky toes, Aunty! Ha! Ha!’

This young woman is learning fast! But her aunt can still see room for improvement in her fat niece’s behaviour:

‘Make him do it yourself, my dear,’ she counsels her. ‘Order the pig to take off your shoe and beg forgiveness from your toes!’

‘Ha! Ha! Yes, Aunty…Hey you down there, the slave, take off my ballet-flat and apologise to my toes for tickling them with your ugly, slave mouth!’ she barks down at me in her heavy, Nigerian accent.

‘Yes mistress Fayolla. At once young, African mistress!’

She giggles as I gently and obediently cradle her right foot in my slave hands, lift up the heel, and slip her soft, black ballet-flat off her podgy, right foot. I am now greeted by the sight of greying, black woolly tight covering the clammy area of her toes. The tights are so worn and thinning in this area that I can also see her red-varnished big toenail behind the thin gauze of worn-down wool.

Thinning or not, the woollen material looks damp, and though her toenails may be varnished, they do not smell perfumed. They smell as nature intended them to smell after they have been cooped up inside a black, leather girlshoe for several hours on end.

Though they are unpleasantly damp and sweaty, I humbly and respectfully kiss the obese, young black woman’s woolly-tighted toes as it seems the correct thing to do whilst I am apologising to them for my inappropriate tickling of their fancies:

‘Oh pray mistress Fayolla’s toes…kiss…kiss…if it pleases you mistress Fayolla’s beautiful, African toes...kiss…kiss… please forgive me for tickling you with my dirty slave-lips, and for disturbing you through the fabric of your mistress’s shoes and tights …kiss…kiss…if you would be so kind and understanding to this stupid slave…kiss...kiss…mistress Fayolla’s gorgeous toes…kiss…kiss.’

It does seem somewhat ironic to me that my lips, which stand accused of inadvertently tickling the African girl’s chubby toes through her soft shoes, should now be having much more intimate contact with those selfsame toes, albeit through the thin veneer of her well-worn, black woolly tights! But, be that as it may, my toe-flattery seems to have worked, for mistress Fayolla gaily declares to her ever-protective aunt that her painted, but unperfumed, toes have now accepted my humble apology, and she promptly proceeds to order me to put her, still warm and moist, black, ballet-flat shoe back onto her dumpy foot.

Her aunt Babafemi claps her middle-aged, African hands in approval:

‘Ha! Ha! Well done Fayolla, my darling – we’ll make a mistress of you yet! Ha! Ha!... Now, you the slave, start kissing my niece’s right shoe again! Start all over again from the beginning, and this time make damn well sure not to tickle her toes or I will severely beat you!’

‘Yes madame. At once madame. God bless you and your niece, African madame!’

The highly numerate, middle-aged African mistress resumes the footkiss-count, whilst cocking her African-scarfed head to one side in order to enjoy a better view of my slavish humility at her plump niece’s ballet-flated feet:

‘One!’…‘Two!’…‘Three!’…

You may as well go now, dear reader; I have a feeling this may take some time!

 

Yarn no. 6 – Begging for non-mercy

My mistress Teadora has summoned me to her sock drawer.

I am sweating buckets, for this can only mean I must have done something wrong. Sure enough, just as soon as I crawl on my hands and knees into her bedroom, I am confronted by an angry mistress Teadora, with her jet black hair and swarthy complexion (my mistress hails originally from a rural area in Romania and I believe she has some gypsy blood in her), her arms folded and her outstretched, angry right foot tapping incandescently up and down on the bedroom carpet:

‘Come over here, you the stupid, imbecilic slave!’ she barks at me in her delightful, East European accent.

I bow my head in shame for whatever it is I am supposed to have done, and dutifully crawl forwards towards her outstretched foot. Mistress is wearing a navy blue T shirt; a pair of baggy, black denim jeans turned up at the hems; and short, black leather, slip-on booties with one inch blocky heels and purely decorative zippers down the fronts.

She calls them her ‘booties’ because they are neither boots nor shoes. They reach up to her shapely, East European, lower ankle bones, but don’t quite cover her upper ankles – hence they are not boots, even though they might look like them when she is standing up straight and the thick, light grey, turned-over hems of her oversized, black denim jean-legs are just covering the upper rims of her so-called ‘booties’.

Equally, though, one can’t really call them shoes – as they enclose her pretty, Romanian feet too much to be considered mere ‘shoes’, and, as I said, could very much be mistaken for a smart pair of ankleboots.

Whatever, my mistress Teadora likes wearing them; she finds them comfortable on her feet, when worn with thick socks, and today she is wearing her navy blue, thick cotton, ankle-length towelling socks – to match her navy blue T shirt.

As my humble face makes its way towards her clearly agitated, outstretched bootie and sock, however, I am suddenly pelted with a pair of her rolled-up socks, even before I can apply my lips respectfully to the rounded toe of my mistress’s black leather bootie by way of the customary greeting of a male footslave towards his angry mistress when entering her divine, female presence:

‘Look at these, you the dickhead, and tell me what’s wrong with them!’

Even though my 24 year old, Romanian, dark-haired, and dark-hearted mistress has only lived in the Gynarchy for some six years now, she has picked up a colourful command of English – and speaks it fluently, albeit in her still strong Transylvanian accent.

The dark socks which have just been so unceremoniously chucked down look fine to me – just another rolled-up pair of my Romanian mistress’s black, office anklesocks which she wears to work every day (today is Saturday, and one of her rest days!)

Yet, I know there must be something amiss, and so I humbly beg my incandescent mistress for permission to examine the offending socks in more detail:

‘Oh pray mistress Teadora, please don’t be angry with me, mistress Teadora, but this slave requests the mistress’s sweet, feminine indulgence and her female permission to examine the socks in more detail, if you would be so kind and understanding to this dumb, ignorant footslave, most respected and feared mistress Teadora?’

It’s not often I dare to put such slavish requests up to my superior mistress, for she is not one to suffer footslave-fools gladly. Mistress Teadora may be only half my age and half my size (for I am not, even if I say so myself, a particularly weedy slave!) – but she does, nevertheless have my undiluted fear and respect for she can be very handy with the female whip!

Fortunately, despite her ire, she appears to be in an unusually indulgent mood:

‘Go ahead, the dimwit-slave! Be my guest, why don’t you?’

‘Thank you mistress. God bless you mistress.’

I somewhat gingerly pick up the ball of clean, black socks from the bedroom floor, and start to examine them. I’m going to have to unravel them, for there is nothing amiss with their external appearance, and they smell suitably laundered and fresh!

Oh my God – my heart sinks just as soon as the two rolled-up, Romanian-girl socks are unravelled! They are clearly odd socks! One of them has a yellow line dividing the black reinforced toe area from the main body of the black anklesock; the other one has a pink line!

Socks from the same batch, if you like – similar in design, but not the same pair!

And why does my heart sink at this news? Because I am responsible for all of the socks in my footmistress’s sock-drawer. I must have been the one to inadvertently roll them up in a ball together in error! Which means that somewhere in my mistress’s sock-drawer is another pair of similarly incongruous sock pairs!

It’s a serious error for an angry, young Romanian woman’s personal footslave to make! How could I have been so stupid?

No wonder she is so angry – she has every reason to be!

My mistress Teadora is clearly baffled by my lack of judgement also:

‘Well, you the dirty slave, what have you got to say for yourself? Do you think, perhaps, that it is acceptable that your mistress should be forced to walk around in odd socks? Well? Answer me, you stupid, dumb animal!’

I wouldn’t dream of even suggesting to my indignant mistress that it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d worn such a pair of odd socks on her pretty, Romanian feet since, when she had her shoes, or her ‘booties’, on, no-one would have noticed. Those thin, coloured lines at the tops of the toe areas are the only flashes of incongruous colour in the otherwise short, plain black anklesocks.

I wouldn’t dare suggest that as it would be an insult to the mistress – implying that she was making a lot of fuss over nothing! And that, in turn, would be sure to earn me some sore, red stripes up and down my bare back!

No, instead, all I can do is ‘fess up’ to my footslavish incompetence, and throw myself on my cold-hearted, young Romanian mistress’s sweet, feminine mercy:

‘Oh pray mistress Teadora ! Oh pray! Please forgive me, my most powerful mistress. Oh pray! Oh pity pray!’

She snorts derisively down at me:

‘Hah! Kiss my foot, you the slave, and beg me not to whip you!’

I shuffle forward to, at last, place my dry-with-fear lips onto my mistress’s precious, Romanian shoe-cum-boot leather.

And whilst I am feverishly kissing her outstretched, black leather bootie, I beg; I beg, unashamedly, for sweet, feminine forbearance:

‘Oh pray mistress Teadora!…kiss boot…kiss boot…Oh pity pray!... kiss boot… kiss boot…Pray forgive this stupid, incompetent slave for his appalling error, divine mistress… kiss boot… kiss boot… and have it in your heart not to punish him, sweet and kind mistress Teadora … kiss boot…kiss boot… Oh pray mistress! Oh pity pray!... kiss boot…kiss boot…Please don’t whip me mistress, for I am just a weak and feeble male-slave and truly fear the sting of the female whip, mistress… kiss boot…kiss boot…kiss Romanian girl short, leather boot…. God bless you mistress!’

I continue to kiss the black leather bootie all over – including on the frontal, non-functional zip-area. My Transylvanian mistress’s dark mood seems to lighten somewhat at my obsequious display of sheer, footslavish terror at her feet. She puts away her female fangs and helpfully and graciously hitches up the thick, light grey, turned-over hem of her outstretched, black denim jean leg a little further – so that I now have full and unimpeded view of the upper half of the navy blue ankle sock she is currently wearing so glamorously inside her black leather bootie:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, the slave – be afraid; be very afraid! Ha! Ha! For you are completely in my power and at my mercy, I think? Now, kiss me on the sock, frightened footslave. Kiss me on the side of my anklesock and beg me to whip you this time! Ha! Ha! Beg me to punish the slave, just as you have been begging me not to punish him! Ha! Ha! Come on do it, you the dirty, ignorant footslave of a superior Romanian mistress!’

Ah – so that’s her game! It’s not just a turn-up for her trousers, it’s a turn-up for the books! My evil-minded mistress wishes to torment me further by actually making me beg for that which I truly deserve – not her forgiveness; but her young-womanly whip-wrath!

I have no choice but to obey. I lower my lips to the outer side of her somewhat ropey-looking and bobbled, thick, navy blue towelling sock, and kiss it, and beg for that very thing I fear most – the female whip:

‘Oh pray mistress Teadora… kiss sock…kiss sock…oh pray…kiss sock... kiss sock… please teach me the error of my ways, most sweet and kind Romanian mistress… kiss sock…kiss sock… Whip me, mistress! Beat me!...kiss sock…kiss sock… For the sting of your single-tailed whip will fairly teach me a much-needed lesson… kiss sock…kiss sock... about the need for due diligence…kiss sock…kiss sock… when attending to a superior mistress’s footwear…kiss sock…kiss sock….if it would be so pleasing to you, most respected and all-powerful mistress Teadora… kiss sock…kiss sock… kiss Romanian girl sock…’

I apologise if my begging to be whipped doesn’t sound quite as enthusiastic and genuine as my begging not to be whipped, but that’s because my heart was only in the latter. This is a begging borne of fear, and compulsion. Nevertheless, my lips have been delivering truly heartfelt kisses to my mistress’s tired and ropey looking, navy blue towelling sock – for it was her fellow female socks which I had offended, even if they are a different race of sock with a different skin colour!

They still adorn and beautify my cruel mistress’s exotic, Romanian feet!

Mistress Teadora continues to laugh at me – which may, or may not be a good sign – as she ponders my fate; to whip or not to whip? That is the question!

Her considered response is both just and ingenious:

‘Hmm…let me see, the slave…you clearly must receive the punishment, and, as you have so rightly said, the whip will soon teach you valued lesson. I therefore sentence you to 20 lashes of whip! Ha! Ha! However, I am not inclined to beat the slave right now. I think I shall wait until I am in right mood for beating! Right now, my arm is too tired. Perhaps I shall wait until it is my time of the month; or perhaps I shall wait one night until the dirty slave is sound asleep; or I shall arrange the surprise whipping-party for the slave with all my friends, and we shall all take it in turn to whip him for disrespecting his mistress’s socks! Ha! Ha! Either way, the male slave shall not know what has hit him until he feels sting of glorious, female whip wrapping itself around scrawny ribs! Ha! Ha! You will not get the warning, you the slave – other than gracious warning I am giving you now! You shall be sorely whipped – but at time and place of my choosing! Ha! Ha!’

She withdraws her well-worshipped, fully-clothed right foot from beneath my naked face, and replaces it with her left – again hitching up the grey, turned-over hem of her black denim jean-leg to reveal yet more navy blue towelling sock:

‘Ha! Ha! Now kiss other bootie and sock, and thank me for being such kind and merciful Romanian mistress towards you. Praise me and bless me for not having the stupid slave whipped straight away, but for prolonging agony through not knowing exactly when he will be receiving the cruel punishment! Ha! Ha!’

What can I say? I have to praise my blessed, Romanian mistress just for being such an ingeniously cruel young woman, for the terrifying female whip shall, quite literally, be hanging over my head now for days, weeks, or possibly even months, until such time as she sees fit to unfurl it!

Clever!

I duly acknowledge her female power and ingenuity:

‘Oh pray mistress Teadora…kiss boot…kiss boot …God bless you mistress Teadora…kiss boot…kiss boot… Truly the mistress knows just how to treat a dirty and incompetent, disobedient slave, mistress…kiss boot…kiss sock ...and how to keep him on tenterhooks…kiss sock…kiss sock… God bless you mistress!.... kiss sock…kiss sock… Praise be to you mistress!...worship sock…worship Romanian girl sock…’

‘Ha! Ha! What is ‘tenterhooks’ slave?’

‘Oh pray mistress…kiss sock…kiss sock…if you’ll forgive me mistress Teadora…kiss sock…kiss sock…to be on tenterhooks…kiss sock...kiss sock…means to be kept in a state of suspense and fear for the future, mistress…kiss sock…kiss sock…just as I now live in fear of your righteous whip, mistress…kiss sock…kiss sock…kiss sock…’

‘Ha! Ha! Stop the talking, slave…keep on kissing side of my beautiful sock!’

I obey, and continue to kiss her full-length, navy blue ankle sock, above the upper rim of her black leather semi-boot, in abject silence until I am excused; excused – but not forgiven:

‘Ha! Ha! Now pick up those black socks and go and sort out the socks into the proper pairs, slave! And when you find them, kiss each of the four mismatched socks 1000 times as the proper slave-penance for your crime!’

‘Yes, Romanian mistress Teadora. At once, Romanian mistress Teadora!’

…………………………………………………………………………

Four years later I was rudely awoken one night by the sharp sting of the Romanian-female whip cutting into my bare, slumbering ribs – twenty times in quick succession. I must confess I had begun to think that my mistress Teadora had forgotten all about the unfortunate episode with her mismatched socks, given that she had now moved on with her life and was happily married to a wealthy, free man and looking to start a family.

But an insomniac, sock-obsessed, Romanian foot-mistress never forgets!

 

Yarn no. 5 – A Close Shave

My 29 year old, buxom mistress, mistress Marcia, has just emerged from the shower. Her flame-red hair is hidden beneath a white towel-cum-turban, and she is wearing her fluffy, white bathrobe. She is now seated in her expansive, ensuite bathroom on a chair next to the medicine cabinet containing all her perfumes – her long, fleshy, white legs stretched out in front of her.

I am kneeling on the bathroom floor at her feet, my head suitably lowered to the ground, and my slave-eyes downcast. It is not often that I am permitted into my mistress’s ensuite bathroom in her semi-naked presence, but she is indulging me because I have an urgent, slavish task to perform.

I eagerly await the much-anticipated order:

‘Slave, shave my legs!’

‘Yes mistress Marcia. At once mistress Marcia. May the beauty of the goddesses be forever upon you, most respected mistress Marcia!’

It is, of course, an honour for any humble, household footslave to be given the order to shave his mistress’s legs just after she has showered. For normally her legs, above the ankle-level, would be well and truly out of bounds to a down-in-the-dirt foot servant! But my mistress Marcia is incredibly lazy – as well as incredibly kind to her footslave – and she simply cannot be bothered to shave her own legs.

She is beautifying herself this afternoon for the benefit of her lover – master-sir Roberto – who should be arriving at her home in about one hour’s time. Master-sir Roberto is not my mistress’s husband – her husband is away for the day on business and won’t be back until late evening. No – master-sir Roberto is merely the latest in a string of affairs my mistress Marcia has enjoyed over the past two years or so. She met him in a bar just two evenings ago – and this is their first surreptitious, intimate rendezvous.

So, naturally, my mistress is anxious to look and smell her best – and as she sprays perfume all around her pretty, if slightly wrinkled, neck and begins to apply her make-up using her compact mirror, my role in assisting her to look her seductive best for master-sir Roberto is to shave her fleshy, cellulite-afflicted legs to a state of sweet, feminine perfection!

I hastily fetch the ladyshave-cream and razor, and resume my humble kneeling position in front of my beautiful, red-headed mistress’s outstretched legs. Almost subconsciously she pulls the hem of her white, cotton dressing-gown up to her knee level in order to afford me access to her fatted calves.

I begin with her right leg – smoothing in the shaving cream before gently – ever so gently – applying the lady-razor to my fat mistress’s precious legskin. I have to be ultra gentle and cautious, of course, because the penalty for a household slave who accidentally nicks or cuts his mistress’s soft, feminine legskin just doesn’t bear thinking about!

And yet, I can’t fake it! The dangerous blade must caress the tiny, almost imperceptible hairs on my mistress’s thick, lower calf-muscles if I am to fulfil my humble role of being a lady’s leg-shaver to the best of my ability. I just hope and pray my often impetuous mistress doesn’t make any sudden leg movements whilst I am attending to her soft, bare legs – otherwise I am doomed!

Fortunately she does not, and by the end of the lady-leg shaving session I have a goodly collection of soft, feminine lady leg-hairs to consume. My mistress Marcia expects – nay demands – that I remove the offending hairs from her divine presence by licking them off the end of the razor, and swallowing them. She cares not one jot whether I cut my slave-tongue in the process.

And nor should she – for she is the one whose blood must never be spilt; a male slave like me, however, can often be cut – not least by the whip which hangs inside the door of her adjacent boudoir!

But my most respected and admired, fiery-redheaded mistress, mistress Marcia, has no need for her whip this afternoon, for I am a good slave. Her ‘boot-worm’ as she calls me, since I used to be a professor of English Literature with my head buried in eminent books, but now must spend most of my time with my nose buried deep down inside my female owner’s discarded, calf or knee length leather boots. You see, I am never allowed to accompany my mistress-owner outside the house – her husband simply won’t allow it; and so I end up spending a lot of time smelling the insides of my mistress’s warm, sweaty boots – of which she has many pairs!

That’s precisely why attending to my superior mistress’s bare legs in the privacy of her personal, ensuite bathroom is such a welcome change – lady hairs instead of lady boots. And now I am ordered to finish the job by moisturising my mistress’s freshly-shaven legs by rubbing soothing moisturising cream into them, so that they will feel even softer and smell even nicer for her manly, Latin lover – master-sir Roberto.

Just think – I am getting to touch my mistress Marcia’s bare legs before even her hunky, illicit lover will get to do so! It is such a rare honour for a humble male slave-wimp such as myself to fondle a beautiful, young woman’s bare legs before a real man gets his hands on them!

And it’s not over yet! For next I must paint my mistress’s pretty toenails – bright red, her favourite colour – to match her bright, red, cherry lipstick. I must say, by the time I have finished painting my mistress’s toes with my tiny mouthbrush (a slave is expected to paint his mistress’s toes with the brush in his mouth so that his face is close up to them and he can see exactly what he is supposed to be doing), her pretty toes look like a bunch of plump, ripe cherries which are good enough to eat – even the slightly deformed little toe on her left foot which has an unfortunate bunion developing on it.

But the cherry-sweet toes, and silky soft, cellulite legs, are, alas, not for my benefit; or even for my mistress’s husband’s benefit – they are for her lover, master-sir Roberto. I am given a sharp reminder of this by my mistress’s final order in the privacy of her boudoir:

‘Dirty slave, fetch me my purple, knee-high boots and put them on my feet!’

‘Yes mistress Marcia. At once mistress Marcia. May the strength of the goddesses be forever with you, most respected mistress Marcia.’

I crawl over to her shoe and boot cupboard and select her pair of highly favoured, and in vogue, purple, suede leather, knee-high, zip-up boots with the multitudinous purple tassels hanging down the sides. The tassels flick against my bare cheeks like tiny, suede-leather whips as I kneel once again in front of my mistress Marcia’s now black leather mini-skirted legs and carefully zip the boots up over her now super-soft, but chubby, calf muscles.

She stands up, causing the purple tassels to sway, and the soft, suede, purple bootleather to crease and fold around her heels and ankles in front of my very eyes. My mistress looks the business – the exotic, knee-high boots truly flatter her fat legs, and she knows it!

Just in time – for the doorbell rings and I must follow my excited mistress down the stairs on my hands and knees as she goes to answer the door. A quick check through the net curtain confirms it is her lover, and she lets him in. Her slightly street-darkened, beige-coloured, right bootsole lifts coquettishly up into the air directly in front of my kneeling face as she kisses and embraces her secret lover just as soon as the front door is closed. She is showing me her contempt whilst she shows master-sir Roberto her love.

The happy couple run hand in hand up the stairs, with myself following awkwardly behind them on my hands and knees – my face still ‘glued’ to the backs of my mistress’s suede-leather, purple boots.

Once we are in the master bedroom my mistress, having spent so long getting dressed up for master-sir Roberto, now proceeds to hastily strip off for him.

The reason why I have stuck around like a bad smell and audaciously followed my mistress and her lover into the sanctity of her marital bedroom is because I know I have work to do. I must have, for my mistress has not seen fit to dismiss me from her presence yet:

‘Slave, my boots!’ she suddenly barks down at me as she sits on the edge of the bed next to her male lover. I must now scurry over to her on my hands and knees and, keeping my head dutifully bowed, unzip and remove her boots from her fabulous, sexy legs – so soon after putting them on!

Master-sir Roberto appears to have noticed me for the first time:

‘Are you sure we can we trust your foot-flunkey, darling?’ he enquires somewhat nervously.

‘Who – my little boot-worm? Ha! Ha! Oh, don’t worry about him, darling. He’s the bootsole of discretion! Ha! Ha! At least – he will be if he knows what’s good for him! Ha! Ha!’

And with that she glances over towards the single-tailed, brown leather slave whip hanging inside the bedroom door, and chuckles. Master-sir Roberto sees the whip too, relaxes, and chuckles evilly with her.

My mistress is right about me, however – I am the soul of discretion. I have never revealed any of her affairs to her husband – my master Neil; and not just because of the very real threat of the whip. I’m discreet because it’s simply not my place to be otherwise. My place is, as my mistress Marcia has just intimated to her lover, beneath her dirty bootsoles.

Or, perhaps, with my nosey-parker nose buried deep inside her discarded boots – as it soon will be:

‘Boot-worm! Take my boots over to the corner of the room and sniff them. Sniff the insides of my boots out loud while I make love to your superior master Roberto here!’

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. May the pleasure of the goddesses be forever within you, most respected mistress Marcia!’

I bite my tongue whilst I flatter and fawn to my mistress. For I do not regard master-sir Roberto as being my master. He may be a master-sir, and my mistress’s current lover, and therefore my better; but I only have one master as such – and that is, legally, my mistress’s husband!

As I pick up my mistress’s discarded, knee-high, purple suede boots in my mouth by means of the convenient purple tassels on the outsides, I hear my mistress lay back on the bed and invite her lover to feel her legs:

‘Mmm…smooth!’ exclaims master-sir Roberto lustfully.

‘I had them shaved just for you, honey!’ purrs my mistress.

A split second later she is moaning with pleasure as the master-sir is on top of her.

I, meanwhile, retire humbly to the corner of the bedroom with my mistress’s boots and, facing the wall, discreetly place my nose and face inside one of the boots’ uppers, that I may at least sniff the sweet fragrance of my mistress’s leg-moisturising cream from the insides of her still-warm, suede-leather boots.

This is my feeling-down time; and it is my only downtime – sniffing the insides of my mistress’s boots whilst master-sir Roberto – clearly a real man as opposed to a mere male foot and boot-servant like myself – brings pleasure to the mistress in ways that I shall never be permitted to do. For I am just a slave; her footslave; her ‘boot-worm’ – with my face buried deep inside the top of her musty, suede-leather boot.

The happy couple reach their lecherous climax – and not a moment too soon! For my mistress suddenly hears the keys turning in her front door downstairs:

‘****! It’s my husband!’ she exclaims!

Master-sir Roberto grabs his clothes and exits via the drainpipe whilst my mistress hastily gets dressed!

‘Honey, are you up there?’ we hear her husband – my true master – shouting from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Neil darling, is that you?’ exclaims my mistress in genuine shock and surprise.

‘Yeah, hon! The conference finished early!’

‘Cool! Be down with you in a second, darling!’

Meanwhile I am hastily helping my mistress on with her boots – the last item of her clothing remaining.

‘It’s alright! I’m coming up, honey!’

My mistress Marcia straightens the duvet and fortuitously spots master-sir Roberto’s discarded tie just in time; she deftly kicks it with the purple suede toe of her right boot underneath the bed. Her lacy, boot-tassels whip unceremoniously against my face as she does so, as if punishing me for my mistress’s act of deception!

Master Neil enters the bedroom:

‘Wow! You look nice, honey!’ he exclaims – as well he might!

‘Ha! Ha! I was just getting ready to go out and meet you at the station, darling! I thought your train wasn’t due back for another couple of hours or so?’

They embrace and kiss above me. Once again I see street-soiled, feminine bootsole – the dirty bootsole of infidelity being humbly observed by the ‘bootsole of discretion’, as my mistress Marcia herself might put it.

‘Aw, that’s sweet, honey! You should have said you were thinking of meeting me! Yeah, I got an earlier train as the conference finished nice and early! Ha! Ha! Wow – what’s that perfume you’re wearing? Is it new?’

‘Yeah, honey – and I wore it just for you! And I’ve done something else for you too, darling…Boot-worm, unzip my boots for your master and show him my nice, smooth legs!’

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. May your young-womanly power and authority never wane over me, most respected mistress Marcia!’

And so, for the second time that afternoon, I am obliged to unzip and doff my mistress’s purple, suede-leather boots from her freshly-shaven legs, in order that another man may feel my razor-sharp handiwork and revel in the silky smoothness of my cheating mistress’s bare, lower legs.

And, also as before, I am promptly banished to the corner of the master bedroom with my mistress’s tassel-covered, purple boots in my face, whilst I listen to the sounds of my superiors making love behind me.

Phew! Now that was a close shave, for everyone concerned!

 

Yarn no. 4 – Priceless!

One of my more blonde customer-mistresses – 22 year old miss Tiffany – is very sweet, but dim. I’m afraid she is easily manipulated by a wily and caddish, old public footslave in his forties, such as myself.

Take today, for example. As she climbs up onto the seat of power at my comfy ‘sit-down’, public shoelick-stall I can observe that she is wearing a brand, spanking new pair of black leather, Chelsea-style boots on her pretty feet beneath the hems of her black, bootcut, office trousers – boots which it will soon be my pleasure and privilege to lick for her.

Of course, you’ve got to ask yourself why a superior young woman would wish to stop by the ‘elderly’ public footslave in order to have her brand new, and perfectly clean, fresh out of the box Chelsea boots attended to if it is not merely to have her new purchases worshipped and admired by a lower being such as myself – for the boots don’t have a street-scratch on them and are still perfectly clean and polished.

But I’m not complaining – I love the strong smell, and taste, of brand, spanking new girlboot-leather. My only gripe with blonde miss Tiffany’s nice new, tight-fitting, black leather Chelsea boots with the elasticated sidings is that – along with the bootcut hems of her matching, black, officewear trousers – they are hiding her socks.

I imagine the fashion-conscious miss Tiffany will be wearing plain black ankle socks, to match her black boots and trousers, inside those sexy new boots – but I can’t be sure. I shall have to use all my canny-old, public footslave charm in order to manipulate the blonde office-mistress into permitting me to take off her boots in order that I may satisfy myself as to my wicked desire to observe young, naïve, blonde, office-worker girl, black sock!

But first things first – I must begin operation ‘see-socks’ by consciously wooing the brand new Chelsea boots in order to make them compliant and open to my selfish, slavish desires:

‘Oh pray mistress Tiffany, if it pleases you mistress Tiffany, this slave truly admires the mistress’s new boots, and will be honoured to lick them for the mistress, if it would be so pleasing to the sweet and kind mistress, mistress Tiffany Madam?’

It never does any harm to be polite to a young customer-mistress, and to make her feel honoured and respected. To flatter her already inflated ego and make her feel big and proud – especially when one has an ulterior motive!

She giggles with delight at my old man, cringing obsequiousness:

‘Erm…yes, okay then slave. You may lick my new boots clean!’

Like she has come here for any other reason than to show off her new boots and have them licked by a decrepit old, unattractive slaveman in public!

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress Tiffany. God bless you, mistress Tiffany Madam.’

Always be polite; always flatter. It’s the only way for a down-in-the-dirt, kneeling footslave to get his wicked way onto a girl’s socks, in my humble estimation!

My blonde-airhead customer-mistress smiles innocently as she helpfully hitches up the hems of her officewear, black, bootcut trouser legs in order to afford greater access to my public-footslave tongue onto the sides and tops of her stylish, new Chelsea boots. Still no sign of her socks, though! Damn it!

I must be patient.

I begin by licking the lower, leathery parts of the boots before moving on to the stretchy elasticated areas on the sides, directly covering her shapely, young-womanly anklebones. Always nice to taste the elasticated side of a pretty girl’s boot for a change; the texture feels so different from the usual bootleather, and I’ll swear I can feel the very contours of the mistress’s ankle beneath the elasticity.

But this fact too reminds me that mistress Tiffany will almost certainly be wearing socks beneath that elastic – thin, black cotton-and-polyester anklesocks I’ll wager!

Oh, I simply have to find out, for she is such a beautiful young woman towering above me so ostentatiously in her public throne of female power!

The boots don’t take long to lickshine since they are already perfectly clean and shiny. I must think quickly on her feet, for I am fast running out of time! There’s no two ways about it – these Chelsea boots are simply going to have to come off if I am to get my wicked wish of observing miss Tiffany’s socks!

Think man! Think!

Suddenly, in a flash of inspiration, I see my chance! The boots still have the bar-coded price labels attached to the curvy, black soles underneath! Yes! This will be my ‘in’, for I’m quite sure the style-conscious and somewhat stuck-up miss Tiffany will not wish the world to know how cheap her new boots actually were! They’re even marked as being in an end of season sale!

I therefore humbly, and ‘selflessly’, offer to remove the barcode-stickers from the soles of her boots:

‘Oh pray mistress Tiffany, if it pleases you mistress Tiffany, if you will permit this slave to be so bold, young mistress Tiffany, this slave has noticed that the mistress’s boots still have the price tags stuck to the soles, mistress Tiffany-madam. Oh pray mistress, would the most beautiful and respected mistress like the slave to remove the tags from the soles of the mistress’s boots with his slave tongue, mistress, if you would be so kind?’

It’s a fashion faux-pas for a normally style-conscious miss Tiffany, and of course, she immediately gives me her blonde permission to rectify matters:

‘Oh! …Er…Yes please! Can you lick them off for me please, slave?’

Please, slave! You see what I mean? Sweet, but dim! Putty in my hands!

Now, I know what you’re thinking – how is licking the barcode-labels off the curvaceous soles of my naïve customer-mistress’s new Chelsea boots going to help me gain access to her socks?

Watch and learn!

I fumble; I falter; I sigh with fake exasperation – for try as I might (?) my tongue just cannot gain sufficient access to those curvy bootsoles in order to remove the sticky labels underneath. This despite my blonde customer-mistress’s gallant attempts to facilitate me by holding each ankle-booted foot up off the metal footrests into the leather-smelling air in front of my humbly-kneeling face.

It’s just no good – I can’t get proper mouth-access to the soles of the boots. Or, at least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

I express my frustration and disappointment to the superior, young customer-mistress, but come up with a potential, manufactured solution to the manufactured problem:

‘Oh pray mistress, if you will forgive me mistress Tiffany, this stupid, incompetent slave is having great difficulty in accessing the sticky labels with his tongue, if you would be so kind and understanding mistress Tiffany. Oh pray mistress; please don’t punish me mistress. Please permit this slave to remove the boots from the mistress’s feet, that he may better lick off the offending labels, if you would be so kind to an inept and clumsy footslave most respected customer-mistress Tiffany?’

The thick, young blonde woman falls for it – hook, line and sinker! Ha! Ha!

‘Tch! Nincompoop! … Very well, then…you may pull off my boots, but be gentle with them, and make sure you don’t disturb my socks, slave!’

Aha! So I was right! The young, blonde office-worker is wearing sexy socks inside her boots! And now – thanks to my footslavish ingenuity – I am about to see them! I’ll bet they’re black! Plain black! You just wait and see!

‘Yes mistress Tiffany! Of course, mistress Tiffany. This slave obeys the mistress!’

Ha! Ha! Only when it suits him, mistress Tiffany!

I’m such a cad!

The first Chelsea boot comes off with a whoosh of warm air, and warm girlsock!

What did I tell you? Plain, black cotton sock! Well, alright – not plain black! They do have pink toes and pink heels – but, again, I could have predicted that, given enough time. Why wouldn’t a young, blonde, office girl have a splash of girly-pink on her otherwise sober, black bootsocks?

I’m still not satisfied, though. I’m going to kiss those socks – on the reinforced cotton and polyester stitching of the slightly sweaty and moist, pink toe areas – even before I turn my attentions to the sticky price-labels on the soles of the discarded boots, and without even asking for miss Tiffany’s permission! For I do like to live dangerously – and, besides, I’ve worked so hard to gain access to this sweet but easily-manipulated, young blonde woman’s well-hidden bootsocks!

I deserve to feel them on my footslave-lips!

So there you have it – labels! I take my reward of kissing blonde-girl, pink and black, sweaty bootsock, and it’s all been thanks to the price labels attached to the soles of my customer-mistress’s brand new Chelsea boots!

Speaking of labels, which would you attach to me? Controlling? Manipulative? Despicable? Disrespectful?

Or just plain pathetic?

P.S. You’ll be pleased to know that the not so dumb blonde, customer-mistress Tiffany had the last laugh; she called the Female Police and had me cut seven times with the public whipping stick across my bare back and shoulders; my unauthorized sock-kiss had, it seemed, been a kiss too far – even for a kind and indulgent mistress like miss Tiffany. So, at the end of the day the mistress, as always, had the upper hand, and everything was in its proper place: the shiny, new Chelsea boots were back on mistress Tiffany’s socked feet; the sticky bar-code labels were inside my slave-stomach; and the stinging pain of the female whipping-stick was gracing my freshly reddened bare back and shoulders. I had been publicly labelled and tagged as just another whipped footslave. A socks offender. Ha! Ha! Priceless!

 

Yarn no. 3 – Blind Devotion

I am often mocked by my free superiors and betters, both male and female, for my seemingly blind devotion towards my mistress Fiona’s feet and footwear. They see it as a weakness – as an example of my footslave impotence and limpness in the face of sweet, young-womanly temptation; and they laugh at the fact I am a footslave who doesn’t even require leather blinkers over his face, so blinkered is his devotion to his mistress’s lower body parts!

For my eyes are permanently glued to my mistress Fiona’s feet, shoes and socks, figuratively speaking.

Take earlier on this evening, for example. I was kneeling behind my brunette goddess-mistress’s pink-and-white-sneakered feet in a bar whilst she stood next to her boyfriend – master Robert – in amongst a group of their mutual friends. It was, apparently, some sort of birthday celebration for one of their friends but, even though I wasn’t invited to formally partake in the celebrations, my mistress and master were kindly permitting me to accompany my mistress’s sneakers and socks to the party. Indeed, the master had insisted that I come, in order to show off his recent whip-handiwork on my bare, kneeling back to all and sundry!

I was therefore on my hands and knees with my face to the floor next to my mistress Fiona’s feet in the busy bar-room as she stared besottedly into what she regards as master Robert’s manly and handsome features. My equally besotted, footslave eyes were meanwhile firmly fixed on a tiny slither of my beloved mistress’s very ordinary, plain-stitched, pale pink cotton sneaker-sock beneath the hems of her black denim, skinny jeans – even though there were umpteen other sweet feminine foot-temptations all around me.

To the right of my mistress stood a young, blonde woman – a stranger in a pair of bright yellow hot pants and pure white, cableknit anklesocks with bright yellow, patent-leather high-heeled, peep-toe sandals on her white-socked feet. Yet, pathetically, I paid them only a fleeting glance, so obsessed am I by thinly-stitched, pink sneaker-sock! The slutty, white, cableknit socks may have been crying out for my devoted attention, but I remained pathetically loyal to the much less glamorous, everyday sockwear of my own comely mistress.

And to my mistress’s left, resting on the metal base of a nearby bar-stool, were the feet of her Chinese work colleague and best friend – miss Jing Fei – clad in the most delightful pair of exotic, lace-up, knee-high, block-heeled, oriental, black leather boots a humble, down-in-the-barroom-dirt footslave like me could ever hope to set eyes on!

The somewhat scuffmarked, oriental, kneehigh boots were delightfully topped off with a pair of thick, navy-blue, woollen bootsocks beneath her matching, navy-blue, miniskirt. And yet, again, I preferred to focus on that tiny, pink slither of common-or-garden, pink cotton sneaker-sock above the rim of my mistress’s equally unremarkable, pink and white sneaker on her right foot.

Then one of the barmaids, a redhead, walked past my mistress’s sneakers and socks, collecting up empty glasses. She was apparently wearing some sort of revealing top, for many of the free men in the bar were wolf-whistling at her and making jokey, lewd comments about her buxomness.

For my humble part, I should have been lusting after her awesome black leather ballet flats and black and red patterned anklesocks beneath her thick, grey, turned up student-girl jean-hems – but not even the creases in her barmaid’s soft, young-womanly shoeleather could divert my gaze from my mistress Fiona’s pale pink, sneaker-sock tops; not even when the buxom barmaid leant forwards to pick up a glass from an adjacent table, thereby causing her breasts to lurch forwards (generating ample, male comments as to her ample, female bosoms) and simultaneously causing the red triangle on the reinforced heel area of her right sock to slip out of the back of her right ballet-flated heel.

It provoked no slavish comments of girlsock-admiration from me, and merely remained in my peripheral vision – a vision of what might have been on my lips were I not the loyal and devoted footslave of my pink-socked mistress Fiona!

Meanwhile a tall, leggy blonde girl with bright pink highlights in her shoulder-length hair was pushing her way past my mistress and her entourage in the opposite direction to the barmaid in a pair of silvery-sparkly high-heeled slingbacks and tan-coloured, finest-denier, nylon stockings. She must surely have appealed very much to the eyes of the free legmen in the bar, but none of them said anything as she was hand in hand with her beefy-looking and very proud boyfriend.

As a ladies’ footman I too kept quiet, even though I was secretly full of admiration for the almost imperceptible wrinkles and creases on the leggy blonde’s nylon-stockinged anklebones as she teetered and tottered, somewhat drunkenly, in her silvery high-heeled shoes.

For I know my place – and it is on my hands and knees staring at my much more soberly dressed mistress Fiona’s short, pink sneaker-sock on her right, sneakered foot – the foot closest to my face.

Indeed, I was so focussed on the short- but-sweet, pale pink sneaker-sock that all I could think about were the little balls of fluffy, pink sock-lint attached to the vertical lines of stitching along the elasticated top of the sock, and how those little, soft sock-lint balls would be entering my humble, slave food-chain later in the evening when I dutifully mouthwashed my mistress’s dirty sneaker-socks for her, and the master-sir’s, supercilious delectation.

How they shall both berate and belittle me as I munch voraciously on my mistress’s dirty, day-old, pink feminine socks whilst they lovingly relax in each other’s arms on the sofa above me. And rightly so! For they are justifiably disparaging of my pathetic obsession with my mistress’s shoes and socks, and my seeming aversion towards the feet and footwear of other mistresses, be they female acquaintances of my master and mistress, or mere female strangers in a bar.

My owner and her boyfriend are disparaging of me precisely because of my pathetic, blind obedience to my mistress’s pink sockwear, which they see as a fitting symbol of my maleslave weakness, and of my cringing, slaveworthy fear of the female whip! For they have both previously enjoyed seeing me cower many times under the strength and force of my mistress Fiona’s black leather, single-tailed, punishment whip, usually as wielded by the master-sir.

If truth be told it is that whip, or the threat of it, which was the glue holding my cowed eyes on my mistress Fiona’s pink sneaker-socks back in the bar-room, for if my unblinkered eyes had blinked and strayed even for one second onto the tarty, white, cableknit anklesocks or the smart black leather, scuff-marked boot-heels, or the soft black ballet-flats, or the sparkly-silver slingbacks of her four, respective co-females, I would most assuredly now be making the acquaintance of the female whip’s sharp, feminine sting across my dull, male back in the sanctity of my mistress’s own home.

Yes, in all probability the whip would now be in the process of being royally swung down upon my bare back by the angry master-sir, fustigating my fragile flanks and ripping open my yellow-bellied ribs, as I knelt and prayed for mercy to my mistress Fiona’s slighted and insulted pink, cotton sneaker-socks. Oh pray, master and mistress; please don’t beat me, master and mistress; the whip will fairly teach me respect and loyalty for my mistress’s socks, master and mistress!

I think that is another reason why my master and mistress despise my unstinting obedience so much – it denies them their rightful enjoyment of the whip, for they are neither of them capricious and cruel masters without principles who would resort to whipping a slave just for the sheer hell of it! I am whipped only when I deserve it – when I disobey my mistress; and so I obey her – I focus on her shoes and socks and thereby avoid the fearsome sting of the female lash as much as I can!

With my eyes suitably downcast to the living-room floor in abject shame at my selfish footslavish-cowardliness, I now find myself, as I had earlier predicted back in the bar-room, kneeling by the side of my mistress’s opulent sofa sucking on her sweaty and warm, discarded, pink sneaker-socks next to her equally forlorn looking, pink and white sneakers whilst the master-sir, resigned to being without the added stimulant of applying the whip this evening to his girlfriend’s obedient footslave, sucks lustfully on her luscious lips and succulent breasts above me.

He has, as expected, already verbally mocked and berated me for my pathetic, slavish loyalty to his girlfriend’s pink sneaker-socks, and has ordered me to suck all the sweat and the furry, pink lint-balls out of them whilst he enjoys some moments of true intimacy with my mistress. For, unlike me, he is a potent and real man, and will soon be taking my naked mistress to bed. He will not be spending the evening with her dirty socks!

I wonder if his freeman eyes had been wandering elsewhere back in the bar?

 

Yarn no. 2 – Looking her in the foot

My 35 year old Pakistani mistress, mistress Tahira, is very insistent on one particular aspect of common footslavery – that I only ever look her in the foot.

It is her perfect right as a fully-fledged footmistress, of course – and to be fair she has stipulated this right from the start of my personal enslavement to her some 4 years ago, even reinforcing the message with an introductory flogging at her feet on the very first hour of my thralldom.

I still bear the scars of that introductory message on my naked, slave back.

And so, I can hardly remember the last time I saw my Pakistani mistress’s pretty, white-dupatta-headscarf-framed, facial features – though I do recall from the auction block that she had a very kindly, if somewhat podgy-looking, face.

In practice, ‘looking my mistress in the foot’ means, for the most part, looking my mistress Tahira in the side of her boot – for she has a particular love of bootwear, especially heavy-looking, cumbersome boots; lace-up, calf-length DMs; heavily-buckled and strappy biker-boots, and the like.

Somewhat ironically for a mistress who likes to insist on her personal slave keeping his eyes permanently downcast towards her feet, I think that my mistress Tahira may be a bit embarrassed by her feet, as she regards her ankles as being somewhat puffy and unshapely; cankles, I believe they are sometimes called. She therefore likes to hide them inside her boots.

I have to say I disagree with my all-powerful, Pakistani mistress! I think she has lovely feet ankles! Admittedly they are a bit on the podgy side, but that only serves to complement the rest of her slightly overweight body – a soft, feminine, Asian body which I worship even if I am forbidden to look at or touch it above the ‘cankles’.

My fat, Pakistani mistress is not a particularly wealthy or gluttonous woman. I think her rotundity is either genetic; or due to an underactive thyroid gland; or possibly even due, in large part, to her innate laziness and apathy. My mistress Tahira will never do anything herself that a slave or a servant can do for her. Hence I must dress and undress her fat, fleshy feet; wash her feet; pedicure her feet; polish her boots (often by tongue); and mouthwash her dirty socks – for she very much sees all those things as coming under my jurisdiction as her personal footslave.

Despite being of modest means, mistress has a black-and-white-pinafored, personal maid to take care of the rest of her needs. She treats her maid, 22 year old miss Madalena, extremely well – almost as a friend and equal – and insists that I show all due respect to the maidservant (such as kissing her feet when she enters the room) as mistress Tahira insists that I perpetually show male, slavish respect to all females whom I encounter – even uniformed maidservants.

And rightly so – for they are all my betters.

And so I am obliged to kiss the shiny, black court shoes and sheer-black-nyloned anklebones of miss Madalena, the superior maidservant, on a regular basis. I always look forward to kissing the maid’s shiny, black court shoes and dark-nyloned feet, for her skinny and shapely, Latina anklebones do make for a nice change from my own mistress’s thick, heavy boots and fat, Pakistani ankles!

Nevertheless, throughout the day I must primarily concentrate on my mistress Tahira’s booted feet – performing all the humble tasks which are considered beneath the maid: placing my mistress Tahira’s socks and boots onto her podgy, Pakistani feet at the start of the day, be they her lace-up DMs or her strappy biker-boots; crawling behind her heavy, calf-length boots on my hands and knees wherever she goes throughout the day; my head acting as a footrest for her dirty and dusty, leather-booted soles on the train into work; kneeling beside her booted feet underneath her office desk; kissing her boots respectfully on command; tongue-shining her boots to order as and when required throughout the day; untying or unbuckling her hot and sweaty boots at the end of the day back in the privacy of the modest home she shares with her husband, master-sir Ghulam; massaging her sweaty-socked feet as she relaxes in her manly husband’s arms on the living-room sofa; peeling off her dirty bootsocks in order to wash her bare feet at the end of the day; kneeling at the end of her marital bed throughout the night, with my face underneath the duvet so that it may act as a footwarmer for my mistress’s bare feet.

And all the time I am directly serving her – I must only be looking at the delightful feet and/or footwear of my mistress Tahira, otherwise I shall be sorely whipped either by my corpulent Pakistani mistress herself, or by her skinny, Latina maidservant (whipping me on behalf of the master or mistress is one of miss Madalena’s happiest duties).

My mistress’s favourite pair of boots – her calf-length biker-boots which she wears to the office every day come rain, hail or shine; in Spring, Autumn, Winter and Summer – are now, perhaps not surprisingly, well-worn and moulded to the individual shape of her Pakistani feet and ankles. I must say, they are, indeed, a very pretty pair of chunky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, buckle-up boots, normally worn with a pair of thick, plain, dark ankle-socks, and I can clearly see the contours of my mistress Tahira’s Pakistani feet in the various little creases and folds of the matt black, somewhat scuff-marked, external bootleather.

I consider myself very lucky that my mistress Tahira likes to wear full-length, cotton or woollen ankle socks inside her biker-boots, as opposed to the more modern, low-cut sneaker-style socks. She doesn’t do so specifically to please me, of course! She does so in order, primarily, to help hide her fat ankles – of which, as we have already established, she is somewhat ashamed – inside her boots. But her choice of full-length ankle sock means that I occasionally catch an exciting glimpse of the elasticated top of her dark, cotton bootsock down inside her boots – for example when she is seated at her desk and the hems of her stylishly half-mast, black office slacks have risen to above the level of her upper bootrims. At such intimate moments I might even get a glimpse of her soft, bare Pakistani legskin just above the twisted sock-top inside the rim of her black, leather, calf-length boot!

That is as far as my dirty, slave eyes are allowed to go – under pain of the whip – for having to continuously look my mistress in the foot means that any part of her precious, womanly body above the lower calf-muscles of her chubby legs is prohibited to me. Even if she is wearing thigh-length stockings or tights my footslave eyes must not wander to mid or upper calf! (In case you are wondering, mistress Tahira’s personal maidservant – miss Madalena – is responsible for dressing my mistress in her full-length stockings and tights, and even in her several pairs of knee-high, nylon popsocks, whereas I must dress my mistress’s feet in her short socks. It’s only right and proper, for I must not look my mistress above the calf-muscle!)

But, I must say, I am now totally conditioned so that I really have no great desire to look any higher than the top of my Pakistani mistress’s thick anklesocks. She has taught me, through the terrible sting of the female lash as applied by both herself, and on occasions by her eager maidservant, that I am unworthy to look any higher than the tops of a superior woman’s socked anklebones, and my weak, male body and soul are happy to comply with my mistress’s very restrictive stipulations.

In fact, just about the only time my eyes are permitted to, temporarily, stray from my own mistress Tahira’s boots and socks is when I am required to kiss the feet of one of her female relatives, work-colleagues, or friends; or, of course, the feet of her maidservant, miss Madalena. At such moments I must focus temporarily on the shoes, boots and socks (if any) being worn on the feet I am kissing, and thus look the temporary mistress only in the foot, before returning my face to my own mistress Tahira’s heavy, black boots immediately after I have fulfilled my footslavish obligation to show some foot-kissing respect to the other member of the superior sex who has deigned to grace me with her presence.

Many of my mistress Tahira’s work-colleagues comment on my compliance and devotion to my mistress’s own feet and footwear – to my mistress Tahira’s enormous satisfaction. Take this morning, for example, when I was required to kiss the black leather ballet flats and short, black sneaker-style socks of one of the office juniors – a pretty, 19 year old black girl by the name of miss Ashleigh.

Even though the young black woman’s ballet flats and socks were, obviously, enormously tempting to an inveterate, old footslave like me, I restricted myself to just one, short, respectful kiss to each of her shoes and socks beneath the hems of her dust-stained, bell-bottom, black, office slacks – as stipulated by my mistress Tahira – before immediately resuming my default position by the side of my mistress’s own black leather, strappy, officewear biker-boots.

Miss Ashleigh was clearly quite impressed, and said as much to my mistress, in between masticating noisily on her bubble-gum:

‘Ha! Ha! God Tahira, you has got him well trained, innit? He’s like, glued to the sides of your boots, or somefink, innit? Ha! Ha! He’s well pafetic, though, innit?’

My mistress Tahira was clearly chuffed at her junior work-colleague’s heartfelt and eloquent compliment as to her slave-husbandry:

‘Ha! Ha! Well, it is only because the stupid fellow is knowing full well that I shall be adding to his whip-scars most efficiently if he is not being most respectful of my feet and boots at all times, isn’t it?’

‘Ha! Ha! Cool! You go girl! You whup him all you like iffin that’s what makes him so meek, Tahira babe, you know what I’m sayin’?’ responds the bubble-gum chewing, black office-girl.

I’m sure my mistress Tahira does know what the black girl is saying, even though I can’t imagine anyone else getting away with calling my staid and modest, 35-year-old, Pakistani owner a ‘babe’! Not even her husband, master Ghulam!

I resist the temptation to look away again from the creased and scuff-marked leather on the side of my mistress Tahira’s left boot towards the soft, black, office ballet-flats and matching short, black sneaker-socks of the arrogant, young black woman who has just urged my Pakistani mistress to keep me under the influence of the stinging female whip. I resist it because I truly fear the very whip which miss Ashleigh has just urged so persuasively upon my back; and, of course, because my mistress Tahira has given me strict instructions to constantly look her in the foot!

I sense her proudly adjusting her pure-white, dupatta headscarf above me, before she leans down to give me my reward for being so obedient towards her office boots in public, and earning her praise from a fellow female:

‘Dirty slave, you may be straightening the top of my sock, but do not be touching my bare skin, isn’t it?’

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’

Like Pavlov’s dog, I salivate at my ‘reward’ of touching and straightening my mistress’s left, navy blue bootsock inside her calf-length biker-boot!

In the background I hear miss Ashleigh sniggering out loud at me – the fat and lazy, 35 year old Pakistani woman’s ‘pafetic’, devoted sock-straightener.

 

Yarn no. 1 – Flawed

I am a public footslave located on a suburban housing estate.

One of the things I have to humbly accept as I attend with my big mouth to the feet and footwear of my regular, female customers is that – though they are all very much my betters, since I am but a mere, male slave – they are, nevertheless, flawed human beings.

I don’t mind that fact. Indeed, it all adds to my sense of humiliation to know that my female betters, whose feet I must submissively lick and kiss, are themselves far from perfect.

Let me demonstrate what I mean:

The Drugs-Addled Biker-Chick

My first customer of the day, miss Holly, is a pasty-faced Goth. That, in and of itself, does not mean she is a flawed character, of course. Far from it! But she is a flawed Goth with a drug habit, always scheming and conniving for ways to get her next fix.

Not only that – she is rumoured to have had no fewer than 3 abortions, despite only being in her mid twenties (I get to hear all the gossip being chained up permanently in the middle of the sink estate serving feet!) Truly a young woman with multiple sexual partners and all the concomitant self-esteem issues which go with her lifestyle choices!

Miss Holly has been walking the streets all night, and has casually stopped off to have her dirty and well-used, calf-length, leather boots cleaned. As she towers over me in her short, black leather miniskirt and her thick, black, woolly tights with holes in them – her right, dirt-stained, scuffmarked, black leather, biker-style boot arrogantly outstretched in front of my kneeling face for a much needed tongue-polishing – I am forced to contemplate the fact that it is not just her heavy boots, with their warped, leather straps and rusting metal buckles, that are flawed. Her entire personage is too.

Yet she, and her biker-boots, for all their feminine flaws, are undeniably better than me – and are therefore worthy of my unstinting, maleslave respect. And so, as miss Holly lights up an illicit spliff above me, I suck on her musty-smelling, black leather bootstraps with true, slavish admiration, devotion and vigour.

The Serial Divorcee

Next up to my humble, suburban footlick stand is miss Rowena – a tall, fit-looking, forty-something black woman, out for her early morning jog.

At first sight mistress Rowena might appear to be perfect. She is certainly beautiful – for her age. But look closer at her seemingly, pure white running-sneakers and socks, as I am forced to do as I lick her sneakers clean, and you will observe the inevitable flaws – a dried up piece of blackened chewing gum stuck to the heel of her right running-sneaker; a loose stitch along the elasticated top of her short, snowy-white sports-sock; a dulling dust-mark on the area of sock just below her prominent, black anklebone.

And as she slugs noisily on her bottled water above me, during her scheduled pit stop at my public-footlick stand, I am cognisant of the fact that she has no fewer than 3 failed marriages to free men behind her, so she must surely have some personality issues of which I am unaware?

Nevertheless, I endeavour to suck the offending dust-stain out of mistress Rowena’s almost pure-white, jogging-sock – for she is, like her spliff-smoking, biker-boot predecessor, undeniably better than me.

The Impetuous, Stressed-Out, Asian Businesswoman

The main flaw in connection with my next superior customer-mistress’s personality is her sheer impetuousness and impatience. I know that mistress Indira – a local, Pakistani shop-owner – is an incredibly busy woman, but she always seems so impatient as I lick her very plain and ordinary footwear, directing my tongue around the various scuffmarks on her flat, white, closed-toe, slip-on shoes on her bare, brown Pakistani feet like there was no tomorrow. She is seemingly always in a hurry, and therefore I have to be in a hurry to lickclean her Asian-shopkeeper shoes also!

She is also instinctively impetuous, reaching for the public-use whipping stick at every opportunity, as she is a firm believer in the power of the whip to induce better service in a public footslave.

She is right, of course! I do fear mistress Indira, and her whipping stick. And I fear her because I can sense she despises me, and sees through me for the footslave-loser I really am.

It’s a shame, therefore, that her business is, by all accounts, going through hard times and is, by all accounts, about to go bust. Still, however much she may be about to fall on hard times, mistress Indira will never sink to be as low as me. The Female Welfare State will take care of her – and rightly so.

Naivety Incarnate

African-Caribbean mistress, miss Chantelle, has only just turned 19, bless her. Shy and softly-spoken, she still has a lot to learn about life, being incredibly innocent and naïve for her age – especially when it comes to free men. She is madly in love, at the moment with young master-sir Darren, a young, white man of a similar age to hers, whom I happen to know is simultaneously dating another, older woman.

But it is not my place to disabuse young miss Chantelle of her beloved boyfriend’s evil shenanigans, especially as it is none of my footslave-business.

And so as I lickshine the besotted miss Chantelle’s plain, black leather ballet flats and kiss-worship her matching, frilly-black sneaker-socks, I must keep shtum as she spouts all her usual, self-delusional nonsense to me about how wonderful master-sir Darren is; about how he’s much more of a man than I will ever be; about how much he really loves her, and how he will soon be asking her to marry him so that they can start a family together.

Of course, miss Chantelle is right about one thing: the young master-sir Darren is a much better man than me, since he is free to have sex with beautiful, young black women like miss Chantelle, whereas I am just a down-in-the-dirt, celibate and impotent dirty footslave, fit only to lick her dusty, black ballet-flats and kiss her equally dusty, black sneaker-socks.

I therefore join mistress Chantelle in praising and blessing her man, and confirm her misguided assertions as to his manliness and the strength of his character, lest the young lady take offence at my disrespect for her beloved and beat me across the bare back and shoulders with the whipping stick.

With each worshipful kiss to miss Chantelle’s sweetly innocent sock I am therefore extolling the dubious virtues of master-sir Darren also. I know my place.

The Loud-Mouthed Chavette

Next to lord it over me on my humble, suburban, public-shoelick stand, by way of a complete contrast from her softly-spoken predecessor, is the fiery, thirty-something, redheaded market-trader – miss Lindsey.

Miss Lindsey, for all her deeply held opinions about things – opinions which she is not shy about sharing with the world in her gratingly-loud, female market-trader voice – is nevertheless a bit thick. Or ‘fick’ as she would call it – not that she ever uses such a disparaging epithet to refer to herself! Everyone else may be ‘fick’ in her eyes – especially me – but she herself is always right.

She is, of course, right about my being ‘ficker’ than she is – since I’m just a raggedy-assed, public footslave. And boy doesn’t she just love lording it over me in her scruffy, cheap-looking, pink and white striped sneakers and equally cheap-looking, bright red and purple, cartoon-print anklesocks beneath her garish, dayglo-green shell suit!

Everyone else in the square can hear her supercilious orders to me as she barks them out loud, along with several nasty expletives incorporating threats to my physical well-being should I fail to please her with my virtual mission impossible of ‘shining up’ her cheap, leather sneakers.

Doesn’t miss Lindsey realise by now that sneakers – especially cheap and nasty ones like these – can’t be adequately ‘tongue-shined’? I expect she does, but she nevertheless takes enormous female pleasure in making me try. Just having a man in her power is what gives the likes of miss Lindsey a buzz, innit?

Fortunately she soon loses interest in my obedient tongue on her chavvy, scuff-marked, and in places holey, sneakers – for her ubiquitous mobile phone rings. Time for yet another inane, but loud-mouthed, conversation about nothing of any great importance with one of her chav-mistress friends, as I start to pay homage to the cartoon-print on the side of her cheap, multicoloured, right, cotton sock – which only partially covers her dragon-shaped ankle-tattoo – by humbly kissing it.

The Sophisticated Chavette

Whatever else you might accuse my next customer-mistress of, mistress Roxanna is certainly not a loud-mouthed, shell-suited chavette! She is a much more sophisticated, young chavette-woman than her immediate predecessor – albeit of a similar age and profession (though she runs a book-stall and therefore, presumably can read – unlike her loud-mouthed counterpart).

She is also much more conservatively dressed, in plain black, calf-length leggings (which show off her fat thighs and ankles a treat), and grey leather, ankle-length pixie-boots. It’s only if you look deep down inside her short, leather booties, as I must do as I tongue-polish the upper rims of her grey boots, that you get to see the unnaturally-stretched, elasticated tops of her short, yellow sneaker-style socks – yellow to match her too-tight, short-sleeved blouse.

Mistress Roxanna’s flaws are not just sartorial, however – she is very much seen around the estate as a bit of a ‘stuck-up cow’. I think the way she looks down at people through her thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses doesn’t help matters. I, of course, am happy to be looked down upon by her, and prefer to think of her as a justifiably superior young woman – at least in her dealings with me. She is, after all, undeniably my better – being female – and why shouldn’t everyone else know it?

So I always make a particular show of grovelling and fawning towards the fat, bespectacled mistress Roxanna and her grey leather pixie boots – to enhance her inflated, feminine ego still further and quietly show the world that she is indeed, for all her obvious flaws, my female master and better.

Mistress Roxanna often responds by gathering up female phlegm and mucus in her round mouth, and expelling it down onto the top of my balding head. She never explains why – like I said, she is a mysterious, young woman of few words.

But I am just grateful for any attention she shows towards me; for the fact that she is even bothering to take the time to spit on me and remind me of my place at her grey-pixie-booted feet. I also like the fact that I can see, but not touch, the tops of her bright, yellow socks below her fat, pixie-booted anklebones, as her spit slides down the back of my head. Her short, yellow socks are our little secret as nobody else can see them (or, indeed, is the slightest bit interested in seeing them), and both mistress Roxanna and myself know that I am not worthy to touch them with my dirty slave-lips.

At least, I’m sure that’s how the bookish, spitting-mistress Roxanna sees things beneath her podgy, turned up, bespectacled toffee-nose!

Mutton Dressed As Lamb

Next up is mistress Angela, whom I like to think of as being mistress Holly, 20 years down the line.

Now in her mid-forties mistress Angela is an ex-prostitute (allegedly ex), but she still likes to dress like one: short skirts; fishnet stockings; long, black leather, knee-high, zip-up, spike-heeled boots.

Her free peers describe her as ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ – but I prefer to think of her as a strong and powerful, sexy woman; a born survivor; one of life’s winners who has landed on her knee-booted feet!

I certainly feel like a worm about to be crushed beneath the jackboots of my female better as her black bootleather towers above me on her still shapely legs. I have to be careful – for brunette mistress Angela despises all men; especially slavemen. And she doesn’t suffer fools gladly – especially foot-fools. She knows when her boots have been adequately shined, reflecting the true glory of her womanhood – and she will have my respect.

She will also, invariably, have some of the skin off my shoulders courtesy of the complementary, public-use whipping stick. Mutton dressed as lamb she may be – but she’s certainly not sheepish about employing the whip!

‘I Want To Be A Model!’

The blonde-airhead, miss Courtney, wishes for nothing more than to be a cover-girl on the front of a glossy fashion-magazine. She spends her day posing for pictures of herself which she then uploads to her blog. I’m really not sure that anyone else is logging on to her blog, for, although she is undeniably a very pretty girl, with her long, blonde hair typically tied back in a tight ponytail, I personally don’t think she’s quite got that ‘wow!’ factor that would set her apart from all the other wannabe fashion models!

Not that I would ever dare to voice such an opinion to her face, of course; or even to her stiletto-heeled feet. In fact, quite the opposite, I am actively helping her in her would-be modelling career by posing for pictures with her – as her footslave at her feet.

Today she wishes to take a picture of her brand new, shiny, bright red, stiletto-heeled, slingback-pumps on her bare, white feet - with me tongue-shining the stylishly pointy toes. It’s for her blog, of course.

I therefore have to hold my tongue on her shiny-red shoe leather for what seems like an inordinate length of time whilst she sets up the shot. She is my director in every sense of the word – not only directing my role in her shoe-modelling photo shoot, but also subsequently directing my respectful kisses to her bare, pasty-white anklebones (I wonder if the hard skin on the backs of her pinky-white, bare heels will show up on the photographs, or will she airbrush them out? I, of course, shall never know as I don’t have access to a computer – only to women’s feet and footwear!)

Almost Perfect

Last up this morning is a young woman who is probably as close to perfection as one can get – the sweet and kind, highly intelligent, mixed-race 23 year old university graduate, miss Rebecca (‘Becky’ to her friends, but, sadly, she does not consider me her ‘friend’. I’m just a slave in her bespectacled eyes).

Brown-haired and brown-eyed miss Rebecca dresses conservatively – dowdily some might say – in light brown, corduroy jeans; flat, dark brown, lace-up hush-puppies and just a hint of exciting, red sock beneath the thick, ribbed hems of her jeans. She is engaged to be married to one of her old university professors – a man reputedly twice her age (and therefore my age) – and will therefore shortly be leaving the sink estate.

I am distraught at the thought of not being able to serve mistress Rebecca’s soft, hush-puppy shoes on a regular basis from now on, though she has kindly promised to ‘pop over and see me’ from time to time whenever she is back on the estate visiting her parents.

Mistress Rebecca’s only flaw, in my humble slave-opinion, is her inordinate kindness towards me – which I sometimes perceive as weakness. She will not whip me, even when I deserve it; such as when I fail to remove all the dust marks from her dark-brown, suede leather hush-puppies; or when I deliberately brush my nose against the exposed area of her red sock inside her shoe – even though she has not given me permission to do so.

Yes, mistress Rebecca is much too indulgent towards me – and that is her only major flaw.

………………………………………………………………

And so there you have it – my flawed customer-mistresses from the sink estate in all their flawed glory.

They don’t see their flaws, of course. They each think they’re the bee’s-knees, and, as a humble, down-in-the-dirt public foot-servant I must pander to their ignorance and self-delusion; as should you.

Mind you, I’m not exactly perfect myself, as the many red stripes on my bare back and shoulders bear eloquently testimony to! I can be lazy, arrogant and inept when it comes to serving my female betters, as you have just witnessed.

And, it has to be acknowledged that my regular customer-mistresses are – each and every one of them – my undoubted superiors and betters, despite any perceived human flaws on their part. I do very much admire and respect them, despite all my private criticisms of their characters; for however flawed they may be as female individuals, I am still the inferior male slave who is obliged to kneel in the suburban street-dirt attending to their soiled, feminine footwear with my opinionated, big slave-mouth!

If my customer-mistresses are flawed, then I am deeply flawed; and I won’t hear another word said against them!