Footslave Yarns Volume 2

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

VOLUME 2 CONTENTS (scroll down for yarns in reverse numerical order)

10. Domestic Bliss

9. A Footslave’s Sex Life (short story)

8. Glad to be of sock-service, ma’am!

7. Entombed

6. Falling Asleep on the Job

5. Skank with a Shank

4. The High-Class Ho’s Low-Class Footslave

3. Ashen-Faced

2. Naïve

1. I Do

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Yarn no. 10 – Domestic Bliss

My mistress Inga hails originally from Sweden, and she and her Swedish boyfriend, master Lars, have therefore elected to settle in a remote region in the far north of the Gynarchy – where the climate is very similar to that of Scandinavia; cold and dark, but with breathtakingly beautiful scenery.

The other reason that my mistress and her boyfriend have settled up here is their occupations – they are both postgraduate environmental-conservation students, and the master, in particular, is writing a thesis on acid rain and its effects on forestry.

He is out in the forest doing some research at the moment, whilst I and the mistress are at home – she curled up on the sofa of her ultra-modern, wood-construction villa overlooking a scenic lake; me kneeling on the wooden floor by my mistress’s curled-up feet at the end of the sofa.

My mistress Inga is typically Nordic in appearance – beautiful, tall and slim; with long, straight, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Although the modern villa is heated, it is a freezing cold day outside, and so even whilst she is relaxing inside the house she is wearing a thick, woolly grey jumper, black woollen leggings and a pair of thick, light grey, scrunched-up, calf-length, woolly bootsocks.

My mistress is enjoying a warming cup of black coffee whilst she chills out on the sofa. I am kneeling quietly and concentrating on her woolly-sock-covered feet – concentrating being the operative word since I am fitted with a cruel ‘concentrator’ device which is a tiny microchip inserted into my footslave-brain enhancing my senses of sight, sound, smell, touch and taste whenever I am close to my mistress Inga’s feet, thanks to a corresponding master-chip inserted into my mistress’s right ankle.

The chip means that I can see each individual, woollen stitch in the fabric of her bootsocks as if it were magnified 100 times; I can hear every rustle in the creasing and folding of her scrunched-up-around-the-ankles, light grey bootsocks; I can smell the warm aroma of her cold feet emanating from beneath the socks, mixed in with the aroma of the sock-wool itself; and, were I currently permitted to be kissing her socked feet, I would be able to feel each individual, woollen sock-stitch on my lips, and taste the very essence of my mistress Inga’s individual foot-chemistry in the woolly enclosure of her socks.

But I am not currently under orders to kiss her socks; nor to nose them; nor to nuzzle them; nor to face-massage them. At the current moment in time my orders are merely to kneel in unobtrusive silence and admire my blonde, Scandinavian mistress’s grey-woolly-socked feet from anear, and so it is primarily my sense of sight that is dominated by her socks; I can count the individual, woollen stitches in the thick, grey girlsocks, so large do they loom in my microchip-impregnated brain!

The reason why I am not permitted to sniff or touch my mistress’s socks at the present time is simple – mistress Inga likes me to be seen, and not heard. She finds me to be an unwelcome distraction whilst I am nosing or kissing her socks, and at the moment she is trying to concentrate on reading a magazine whilst she drinks her coffee. She could be sitting here for hours on the sofa, flicking through her glossy magazine and occasionally admiring the view of the picturesque lake outside the panoramic window of her lounge, whilst I admire the panoramic view of her thick, woolly socks.

But we are both suddenly disturbed by the sound of the key being inserted into the front door of the villa – it must be master Lars, back from his field-trip in the woods. Mistress jumps up off the sofa and marches over the wooden floor of the lounge in her sloppily-socked feet in order to greet her beloved, returning eco-scientist boyfriend.

I must crawl behind her thick, woolly socks; I must do so because, if I don’t, the separation between the microchip in my slave-brain and the master-chip in my mistress Inga’s ankle will cause me to experience a splitting headache; quite unbearable pain in my temples, actually! The cruel, concentrator device demands that I permanently concentrate all my five senses on my mistress’s socked feet, unless, of course, my mistress elects to switch it off.

Which she won’t.

So I literally can’t bear to be parted from my mistress’s feet!

The statuesque Swedish couple embrace and greet one another in Swedish, with the master confirming how bitterly cold it is outside – though it still isn’t snowing. Just frosty.

I should perhaps explain at this point that my mistress has taught me how to understand Swedish as she can’t be bothered to give me my orders in English. I don’t have to speak Swedish, as such, since my mistress is such a great believer in slaves being seen and not heard. But I can now understand what my Scandinavian masters and betters are saying to one another – and respond submissively to basic orders in Swedish.

I suppose you could say that my mistress has taught me how to understand Swedish with sub-titles!

For the moment, however, her foreign words are not being directed at me, and I am being conveniently ignored as my master divests himself of his thick jacket and scarf and my mistress offers to make him a warming cup of coffee, which he gratefully accepts.

I briefly kiss the floor in front of the master’s booted feet, as I have been trained to do by the mistress, as a mark of my respect for him, but, as per usual, it goes almost unnoticed.

I really am just part of the flat-pack furniture now!

I next follow my mistress’s socked feet on my hands and knees back into the lounge and through to the kitchen area where she switches on the coffee-percolator, her grey-woolly-socked feet coquettishly tucked in behind each other on the kitchen floor as she does so. I can now see, through my concentrator-enhanced eyes, lots of little dust and dirt particles stuck to the soles of my mistress’s grey, woolly socks – the inevitable detritus that a superior young woman will pick up on her socks as she wanders around the house – however ‘clean’ the polished, wooden floors may be.

And the floors are spotlessly clean – I know that because I had to lick them clean myself just yesterday morning, under the close supervision of my mistress Inga, of course. She had deliberately worn her thick, woolly white socks yesterday morning to better help me identify the areas of dirt on the floor – white socks, the soles of which I then had to suck clean again after our hour-long, wooden floor licking/dusting exercise.

But for now my mistress Inga appears blissfully unconcerned about the house-dustmites living on the soles of her grey, woolly socks; she just wants to cuddle up next to her man on the sofa and give him his coffee.

Then I hear her utter a little cry of despair, and she shouts out to the master from the kitchen area:

‘Lars, har vi slut på mjölk!’

They have run out of milk! Unlike the mistress, master Lars likes milk in his coffee, and I hear him groan from within the adjacent lounge.

‘Oroa dig inte, älskling, jag ska gå och köpa i butiken!’

Mistress is offering to pop out to the local village shop and get some.

‘OK älskling, kan du ocks skaffa mig en tidning?’

The master seems to think it would be a good idea, as he would like her to get him a newspaper as well.

‘Absolut, älskling!’ responds the mistress, warmly.

Her next words in Swedish are then, coldly, directed at me:

‘Slav, hämta mina stövlar.’

As I have already indicated I am not, generally speaking, allowed to speak in this Scandinavian household. My Nordic masters and betters are of the view that silence is golden, when it comes to the slave. So I have no need to respond verbally to my mistress’s orders – which are simply to fetch her boots.

I crawl out of the kitchen, and through the lounge where master Lars is now sitting, over to the front-door porch where I pick up my mistress Inga’s sturdy, black leather, lace-up, calf-length, combat-style boots with reinforced soles and chunky heels, in my mouth, like an obedient puppy-dog, returning with them as quickly as possible on my hands and knees since the sharp pain of the concentrator device is beginning to kick in whilst my head is separated from my Swedish mistress’s, electronic-chipped feet!

My blonde mistress is now sitting on a kitchen stool waiting patiently for me to lace up her black leather, combat boots onto her woolly-socked feet. I now have unspoken permission to touch her thick, light-grey socks, of course, since I must straighten them and smooth out any wrinkles before placing the boots onto my mistress’s precious, Nordic-goddess feet. Thanks to my concentrator-induced, enhanced sense of touch the grey bootsocks feel ultra soft on my trembling-with-excitement, slave fingers as I pull the socks up her black-leggings-covered, lower calve muscles, and straighten them.

I am trembling with excitement because this could very well be the highlight of my miserable day in this God-forsaken place – accompanying my mistress on the short walk to the local village shop in order to buy some fresh milk and a newspaper for the master.

Her black leather combat boots duly laced-up, and with the still stylishly, scrunched-up tops of her light-grey, calf-length, woolly bootsocks showing above the tops of her black leather boots over her black, woolly leggings – because that’s the way my mistress Inga likes them to be – I follow her chunky, black leather heels to the front porch of the villa on my hands and knees where she grabs her doorkeys and a thick, woollen, bright red coloured, knee-length jacket.

My mistress Inga now looks the business with her long, blonde hair flowing out from underneath her red, woolly, bobble-hat; her matching, red woolly jacket; black woolly leggings; grey woolly socks; and chunky, black leather, lace-up combat boots – not that there will be anyone much in the village to really take note of her supreme, feminine beauty. I mean, the rickety walk to the local village shop isn’t exactly a catwalk!

At least the backs of her Nordic boots and socks will be being suitably admired by her personal footslave as he crawls along the village dirt-track behind her!

Needless to say, as a slave, I am not permitted to wear a coat – no matter how cold and frosty it may be outside. I am clad only in my ubiquitous, thin cotton, white slave-shorts – and if I freeze to death, tough! It’s the law, and my mistress can always pick up a new slave the next time she is in town!

I must say the ground outside does feel exceptionally cold on my bare hands and knees today as I humbly crawl behind my mistress to heel – but then the concentrator device would enhance such sensations in my extremities anyway. Despite that, at times like this I am actually grateful that I have the cruel concentrator-microchip inserted into my stupid, slave-brain since a sharp jab of pain to my temples reminds me that I mustn’t be thinking about my own shivering pain and discomfort, but must be concentrating on the backs of my mistress’s block-heeled, black leather, calf-length boots and scrunched-up, grey woollen bootsocks.

Such a pretty sight on this cold, dark afternoon in rural, northern Barbaria!

My mistress speaks to the shop-assistant in English, of course, since that is the national language of the Gynarchy. It’s only me that she can’t be bothered to speak to in our national tongue – since she takes the view, quite rightly in my humble opinion, that a slave must conform to his mistress’s lifestyle and culture, and not vice versa!

I kneel and admire the creases and folds in the leather at the back of my mistress’s now dirt-track stained combat boots whilst she passes the time of day with the female shop-assistant whose feet, sadly, I can’t see as she is standing behind the shop-counter.

She is quite a young woman – younger than my mistress by some 10 years I would say; early twenties or thereabouts. I would hazard a guess, therefore, that the pretty red-haired shop assistant is probably wearing jeans and sneakers with either plain white, or plain black, short sneaker-socks on her pretty feet – but the dreaded concentrator device detects that my mind is wandering away from my own mistress’s booted and socked feet and gives me a sharp jab in my disobedient temples to remind of my slavish duty to concentrate on my mistress Inga’s feet and footwear in front of me!

Don’t ask me how it works – but all I can say is that it’s like having a permanently-present, personal, electronic taskmistress looking over me, making sure I don’t slack in my duty to worship and admire my mistress Inga’s feet!

Mistress doesn’t stay chatting for long in the shop, as she is clearly anxious to get back into the warmth of her home, and into the loving arms of her boyfriend, master Lars. She pays for the milk and the paper, and heads back up the road to her villa.

Once we are back inside she doesn’t even need to order me to unlace and take off her dirty, black boots in the front porch, for this is a scene of domestic harmony and bliss in which every participant knows their place and function. Master Lars is the man of the house, and mistress Inga is the lady of the house.

I am the slave of the house, and my job is to put on and take off my mistress’s boots, and to kneel by her socked feet whilst she cuddles up on the sofa in the master’s manly arms. Later on I shall doubtless be required to tongueshine the mistress’s combat boots and remove-by-mouth all the detritus stuck to the soles from the village dirt-path following her short walk to the shop – for that is yet another of my everyday roles in this happy, domestic set-up.

I just hope and pray that my mistress Inga remembers to switch off the master-chip embedded in her ankle before she dismisses me from the warm master-bedroom to the cold and drafty porch where she has left her boots, otherwise I shall be tongue-shining her dirty, reinforced, black leather bootheels with one almighty headache!

 

Yarn no. 9 – A Footslave’s Sex Life (short story)

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Yarn no. 8 – Glad to be of sock-service, ma’am!

I saw her approaching my humble shoelick stall in the central town square from a distance – a pretty, Filipina lady in her early thirties with shoulder-length, dark, hair dressed up to the nines in a fetching pink, polyester jacket with a shiny, black leather handbag draped over her slender, oriental shoulder; a short black cotton miniskirt which barely covered her shapely thighs; shiny, black, high-heeled courts; and a cute pair of black and grey, argyle-patterned anklesocks on her otherwise bare, Filipina-girl legs.

Socks and heels – always a surefire winner! The young, Filipina woman looked the business and she knew it. She was presumably ready for a hot night out on the town; ready for some fun – with men; free men; real men.

Being a mere slaveman, I readied myself for the honour of putting the finishing touches to her footwear – perhaps sprucing up her patent-leather courts, removing any last vestiges of dust and dirt from the seemingly already clean pair of Filipina-girl, fun-time shoes; or just kissing her high-heeled shoes in order to make her feel good about herself – strong and powerful and in control.

But no – that wasn’t what she wanted. As she stood over me and positioned her right foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face an even more demeaning order was forthcoming from her pretty, red-painted, Filipina lips:

‘I meet up with husband tonight; go out to cinema. I wear nice socks for husband. Husband like socks on wife feet. But my socks all wonky. You straighten socks – make socks nice and smooth on Mutia feet for please Mutia husband. You a slave! You obey now, or I have you punish!’

So it has come to this – I, a semi-skilled shoe and boot tongueshiner, am reduced to being a Filipina girl’s sock-straightener for the benefit of her husband’s delectation, as he apparently likes his wife to have straight and tidy socks on her high-heeled feet!

Can’t she seek out the services of one of the unskilled public sockslaves in a nearby sock-booth? There’s one just around the corner! Or – even better – can’t this lazy, young Filipina wife just bend down and straighten her own socks? Is such a simple task really beneath her?

I feel humiliated and exploited – about to be used. But, of course, I give the semblance of being honoured to touch the beautiful, young Filipina woman’s argyle-patterned anklesocks, because I don’t want to be ‘punish’:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave will indeed be honoured to straighten the mistress’s socks for her. God bless you mistress!’

Resentfully, but seemingly willingly, I then make to place my hands on the top of the young woman’s admittedly wonky sock, but she suddenly screams at me to stop:

‘DIRTY SLAVE STOP! NOT MOVE DIRTY HANDS ANY CLOSER! …You stupid? You a dumbass? You a piece of junk – you like garbage I clean all day in hospital ward! You not worthy touch Filipina-girl socks with dirty, slave hands! You use only mouth! You straighten Mutia wonky sock with slave-mouth, or I tell husband you touch superior Filipina woman nice, clean sock with dirty, bare fingers and he have you whip! Ha! Ha! Husband strong! Husband big man – you not like be whip by Mutia husband; you tremble; you cry! You obey Mutia, or you feel many pain on back – pain from real man whip!’

I could kick myself! Such an obviously fundamental error on my part! What on earth made me think that I could get away with actually touching this superior young, hospital-cleaning woman’s socks with my bare hands? She’s right – I’m just a dirty slave. I really must up my game and improve my attitude towards her – pull my socks up so to speak – otherwise the sting of the whip beckons!

‘Oh pray mistress! Please have mercy on this stupid, insolent slave, Filipina mistress. Please don’t have me whipped! This slave honours and obeys the beautiful, Filipina mistress and her socks, mistress!’

Without any further ado I move my face over towards the wonky, argyle-patterned, black and grey, anklelength girlsock on her still outstretched, right foot and, with my lips, grab hold of one of the offending folds near the top of the sock, gently pulling it up the Filipina mistress’s shapely ankle in an effort to straighten out all of the creases.

The threat of a whipping appears to diminish as the Filipina mistress calms down, and expresses her qualified satisfaction:

‘Ha! Ha! That better. Now you straighten sock like proper slave; now you show respect for Filipina-girl nice sock. I pleased. Husband pleased!’

I’m glad that the Filipina mistress and her husband are both pleased – even though her husband, whose ethnicity and identity I have no clues about, is not actually present to witness my efforts. But it is important that, whoever he is, he should be pleased with my efforts to straighten his wife’s socks, since she has made it clear I am doing it primarily for his benefit as he reportedly likes his Filipina wife to have nice, straight socks on her feet. It presumably turns him on.

Mistress Mutia swiftly removes her right foot from beneath my humbly-bowed face and replaces it with her left – her shiny, black, patent leather high-heel wobbling slightly on the footblock until she manages to steady herself again:

‘Now you straighten Mutia other sock with mouth. You look only at sock – not at Mutia bare leg. You a dirty slave – you not worthy look at Filipina woman bare skin!’

The young woman clearly still despises and mistrusts me, despite her belated satisfaction with my sock-straightening efforts thus far. And rightly so – for I am having to perform a thoroughly demeaning, and somewhat difficult, task for her – that of straightening her socks with my mouth. It’s demeaning for me because she could so easily stoop down and straighten her sock for herself; and it would be much easier for her because she could use her hands to do so; but she wishes to demonstrate her absolute female power and authority over me – and in public.

And why not? That’s what I’m here for!

Some female, Japanese tourists are gathering around and taking pictures of my humble sock-work now. My public humiliation will no doubt soon be posted all over the world-wide-web!

But I don’t have time to worry about that – I have a job to do! I must straighten the demanding miss Mutia’s left sock using only my mouth again, taking great care not to focus my eyes on her soft, bare ankle or leg skin, as per her mistressly instructions.

I verbally acknowledge those clear and concise instructions and reassure her of my total compliance with them:

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. This slave hears and obeys the mistress, and assures the mistress that he will only look her in the sock, if it is so pleasing to you superior, Filipina mistress.’

Then I once again grab hold of an offending sock-crease with my slave-lips, this time over her left ankle, and pull up the argyle sock – taking great care to keep my eyes low and avert my gaze from the Filipina mistress’s precious, smooth, lower leg skin, though I can’t help being conscious of her shapely, miniskirted, bare Filipina legs towering above my head as I go about my humble work.

Once again the Filipina mistress – who appears to have calmed down considerably now, thanks to my compliance and respectful obedience to her will – seems cautiously satisfied with my efforts on her left sock:

‘Ha! Ha! Good slave! Now you like obedient puppy-dog. You obey Mutia. Mutia like when slave obey. Ha! Ha! I your master! You my slave! Ha! Ha! I better than you!’

‘Yes mistress Mutia. Thank you mistress Mutia. God bless you mistress Mutia.’

I feel I know her well enough now to be on first name terms with her. I’m certainly becoming intimately acquainted with her socks!

My heart sinks, however, when the gloating mistress Mutia utters her next pronouncement:

‘Now I check socks nice and even on feet. I stand with socks side by side. If socks not even, I tell husband. Have you whip!’

My God, I’m so thick I hadn’t even thought about this! How do I know the pulled-up socks are sitting evenly on mistress Mutia’s precious, Filipina ankles! I’ve been concentrating on them individually – so I can’t possibly know how they compare when positioned side by side!

I brace myself as I begin to suspect that mistress Mutia has all along been setting a trap for me. Perhaps she is just determined to have me whipped? Perhaps she is one of those cruel, young women who just loves to witness her ‘big and strong’, manly husband disciplining a weak and lowly slave on her behalf?

She stands with her Filipina feet immediately adjacent to one another and looks down at them. After a long and agonizing pause, she passes judgement on my work:

‘Mmm…not bad, slave! Left sock slightly lower than right, but I not have you punish for that. You do okay. I let you off. I a kind mistress!’

My sense of relief is overwhelming! Mistress Mutia is indeed a sweet and kind, Filipina mistress:

‘Oh pray mistress… thank you mistress Mutia…oh bless you mistress Mutia!’

She laughs at me, and my evident relief, and imperiously extends her right foot out onto my wooden footblock for one last time:

‘You kiss Mutia shoe now. Kiss on toe. You say … “thank you for make me straighten Filipina wife socks for husband, mistress Mutia. I glad be of service for you and husband. Your husband real man. I just a dirty slave!”… Ha! Ha!’

Needless to say I am more than happy to comply with the Filipina mistress’s somewhat idiosyncratic command, for she has shown me goodness and mercy:

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress!’

I promptly lower my lips to the shiny, black patent leather toe of her high-heeled court shoe, and gently and respectfully kiss it, my lips leaving a temporary trace of my relieved, slave breath on the superior young, oriental woman’s polished shoeleather.

Meanwhile her equally exotic sisters from the Far East – the Japanese, female tourists – click and whirr their cameras. Some of them even film me on their digital camcorders as I make my self-deprecating homily, as dictated to me by my superior Filipina mistress in her delightfully broken English, although by law, of course, I am obliged to translate it into fancy slave-speak:

‘Oh pray mistress Mutia. God bless you mistress Mutia, and thank you for making me straighten your socks – the socks of a beautiful Filipina wife – for the pleasure of her manly husband, mistress. Oh pray mistress Mutia, truly I am honoured to have been of service to you and your husband. Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you most respected mistress, your husband is a real man, and is better than me, for I am just a down-in-the-dirt, lowly footslave who has straightened his wife’s socks for him, if you would be so kind and merciful towards me, mistress Mutia!’

She laughs out loud at me again before withdrawing her outstretched foot from my presence and then turning to walk off triumphantly towards the nearby cinema for her forthcoming rendezvous with her ‘big and strong’ husband.

Meanwhile, I watch proudly as mistress Mutia’s argyle-patterned anklesocks look nice and even on the backs of her shapely, Filipina heels whilst she happily walks away from me and out of my life forever.

Glad to have been of sock-service, ma’am!

 

Yarn no. 7 – Entombed

As a free human being it is sometimes possible to ‘fall in with the wrong crowd’, as the saying goes. As a male slave it is sometimes possible to fall under the remit and power of the ‘wrong mistress’, in a manner of speaking – for, by law, there is no such thing as a ‘wrong mistress’; if she buys you, she owns you, and can do whatever she damn well likes with you!

But from the moment I first clapped eyes on my would-be purchaser at the maleslave auction it was a case of fear at first sight. She was a pretty enough, young woman – late twenties; slim and white, but with a slightly pockmarked face framed by beautiful, shoulder-length, jet-black, permed hair. She was elegantly dressed in a smart, black, feminine trouser suit over a frilly, white blouse; and on her all important feet – a pair of no-nonsense, black leather, chisel-toed, spike-heeled, zip-up ankleboots.

Normally I would have been honoured and excited to be bid for at auction by such an outwardly attractive-looking, young woman!

But it was her dour expression, and unsmiling eyes, which set her apart from the rest of the female bidders, most of whom were treating the whole event like it was part of a hen-night – though this was most definitely not a fantasy slave-auction; this was the real deal.

Mistress Helen, as I subsequently discovered her name to be, certainly knew it was for real; and her expression showed that she was deadly serious when she put in her derisory, opening bid of just 5 Fems for me! The auctioneer eventually managed to bump the winning bid up to 9.5 Fems – and, yes, it was the black-frizzy-haired, glum-faced and pockmarked, young woman who won the bid.

Things went rapidly downhill for me from thereon in. Even as I was being led down the ramp from the slave-auctioneer’s podium, a slightly tipsy female member of the audience lent over to remark in my ear:

‘Ha! Ha! Your new mistress looks a bit serious, slave! Ha! Ha! It’ll be the whip for you tonight! Ha! Ha!’

I was unceremoniously led on my hands and knees across the painful cobblestones of the Auction-Room courtyard out to the back office, where the final formalities of the slave trade were made. Here I was also formally introduced to my new, unsmiling owner – or, more accurately, to her boots – by means of the burly auctioneer pushing me forward with his hobnail boot until my face landed on my new mistress’s dusty, black, feminine ankleboot-leather, which I promptly kissed and fawned over on the slightly scuffmarked, chisel-shaped toe areas.

Meanwhile the cobblestony-faced wearer of the sweet, feminine, stiletto-heeled ankleboots stood triumphantly with her hands on hips as she extended first her left, and then her right, female boot for me to kiss. Sinister!

At least her boots tasted nice – as I knew they would, having seen them from a distance on the Auction Block. The first decision my new owner had to make was whether to have me tattooed, or branded, on my right, inner thigh. She opted for the more painful branding – an ominous sign. But again, trying to look on the bright side, at least there were only 5 letters in her name.

After I had recovered from the branding she loaded me up into the boot of her car. I was somewhat disappointed, as I had been looking forward to lying beside her boot on the floor of the car, observing her all-powerful, pedal-pumping feet during the journey to my new home, and admiring the creases and folds coming and going in her black, ankleboot leather as she pressed the pedal to the metal!

Her home, it turned out, was a very large and opulent house in the countryside; very isolated. However, as I soon found out, my own home within her home was to be even more isolated! For she led me in silence on my hands and knees behind her stiletto-anklebooted feet down a rough flight of stairs and into a solid looking, dank and dingy, basement cell – with no window, no light, no heating, and no bedding. Just a thick, iron door with an aperture at the bottom for me to stick my head out of, and presumably for the mistress to pass food through.

It wasn’t until the following day, however, that the true direness of my situation was brought home to me! I had expected, of course, to be released from my cell by the mistress the following day – if only to serve her feet around and about the house. But, although the hatch at the bottom of the heavy, iron door opened – the cell door itself did not!

Instead my strange, oddball mistress, still dressed much as she had been the day before at the Auction House, spoke her first words of proper command to me, ordering me to project my head out through the hatch – face looking downwards at the dirty floor, as befits a dirty prisoner-footslave (as she put it).

One good thing – the only good thing – about this situation was that she was wearing the same pair of fetching and dominant, black leather ankleboots which I had paid my humble respects to the day before – I recognised the scuffmarks. So I now had time to study in detail, as my head hung over them, every nook and cranny of my dark-curly-haired mistress’s boots whilst she enlightened me as to my newfound predicament in her very matter-of-fact, female voice, as if reading from a well-rehearsed script:

‘Dirty slave, it has been my longtime sexual fantasy to own a prisoner who is kept in solitary confinement for the whole of his life – with only my boots and socks for company. And now that fantasy has been realised! The following elements have, therefore, now disappeared from your miserable life forever:

• Natural light;
• Fresh air;
• Tasteful food and sustenance;
• The right to speak;
• The right not to be punished;
• The sight, smell, touch and comfort of superior women’s soft, bare, feminine footflesh

By way of contrast, the following shall now apply to you for the rest of your miserable existence:

• Darkness, other than the dim light of this corridor when you are permitted to project your head out through the ground-level, celldoor hatch;
• Dank, musty, stale air;
• Bitter bread and stagnant rainwater shall be your only sustenance from now on, seasoned by the occasional mud and filth from the bottoms of my boots;
• Perpetual punishment – the pain of loneliness and yearning to be free;
• My dirty boots, and manky socks. My precious bare feet shall never brighten up your dull, miserable existence as my personal prisoner; only my boots shall be with you on a regular basis as you lick them, and worship them, and honour them from inside your tiny head-hatch!’

For the first time since I had ‘met’ her, she now laughed – an evil, self-congratulatory laugh:

‘Ha! Ha! Look hard at my boots, slave, for they shall be your only, daily comfort from now on. Even my socks shall be hidden from you except for each anniversary of your imprisonment in my private dungeon! Ha! Ha! That is the only way you shall be able to mark the passing of the years – by humbly marking each anniversary of your confinement in my dungeon with feverish and respectful kisses to my socks!

Ha! Ha! And today – of course – is your lucky day, for I am going to grant you sight of my socks for the very first time by way of welcoming you to my dungeon, your new home for the rest of your life, and your eventual tomb! Ha! Ha!’

And with that she gaily proceeded to reach down, hitch up the hem of her left, black cotton, smart, bootcut trouser-leg and teasingly unzip the side of her stiletto-heeled, chisel-toed, black leather ankleboot to reveal a very ordinary-looking, plain, navy-blue, anklelength, cotton bootsock.

The sock looked bobbled and well-worn in places – but it was nice to see that she had made an effort to at least wear a plain and manky pair of socks for me inside her stiletto-heeled boots!

I made to move my lips forwards in order to kiss the side of her beautiful, exposed sock – by way of acknowledging this strange, young dark-haired, dark-souled woman’s absolute power over me and her lawful right to do with me as she wills. For everything she had threatened me with was perfectly legal, under the laws of the Gynarchy, since I was male, she was female, and she now owned me body and soul!

But she promptly pulled her partially-unzipped, booted foot away from my face:

‘Tut! Tut! Not so fast, slave! Naughty! Naughty! You didn’t think I was going to let you kiss my socks on our first date, did you? Ha! Ha! My, you are funny! Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve just said? You’ve got a whole lifetime to get to know my socks! Ha! Ha! You can kiss them next year – on our first anniversary together! Ha! Ha!’

And with that she swiftly pulled the zipper on the side of her boot back up again, and readjusted her bootcut trouser hem back over the top of her stylish, black leather boot.

The sound of that zipper, echoing down the corridor, made my heart sink!

My new mistress laughed at the footslavish consternation and distress etched onto my gormless, maleslave features, and continued to mock me:

‘Ha! Ha! Cheer up, slave! Look on the bright side – at least you’ll now know, when you’re kissing my boots, what colour of socks I like to wear inside them. Ha! Ha! I always wear blue socks with my black boots, you see – and I always wear my black boots! Ha! Ha! You’ll never see me wearing anything else! So the mystery of my socks has now gone for you! Be grateful for small mercies, slave! Ha! Ha!’

She then gleefully adopts the practised, bootkissing pose of a superior mistress once again, by stretching forth her left leg in the dirt of the basement corridor immediately outside my cell door, her hands resting on her hips, until her dusty and scuffmarked, chiselled boot-toe is resting on the dirty ground immediately below my kneeling face:

‘Now kiss my boot, slave – kiss it 100 times, and think about the lovely sock you have just seen inside it whilst you are kissing it!’

I start to sob – in abject, footslavish frustration and misery! For I was now in what can only be described as a desperate situation, for a humble, eager-to-please, girlsock-loving footslave – no more sight of plain, navy-blue, female sock for a whole year!

My cruel and perverse mistress Helen is suddenly annoyed with me and my selfish sobbing:

‘What did I tell you about talking, dirty prisoner-slave? Did I not prohibit you from speaking?’

I am now flabbergasted, as well as miserable! I hadn’t realised – until now – that quietly sobbing to oneself constituted a breach of this makeshift prison’s ‘no talking’ rule! Clearly, when my mistress condemned me to a vow of prisoner-slavish silence, she meant absolute silence!

Only her own echoing, sarky female voice now disturbs the silence of her private, household-basement, dungeon corridor:

‘Tut! Tut! Now I’ll have to punish you for being such a disobedient prisoner on the first full day of your lifelong sentence! Mmm, let me think! What would be a suitable punishment for you, slave?.... I know! Ahem! ….Anonymous, isolated, unloved and unwanted prisoner-slave, cut off from the rest of the world for all eternity, I hereby sentence you to no bread and water for three days, and no human contact with my boots for the same period!... Ha! Ha! That should teach you a lesson, you insolent and disobedient wretch! Ha! Ha!’

And with that she hastily shoves my face back through the hatch and into my pitch black cell with the zipper-side of her dusty, black ankleboot before kicking down and then locking the hatch from outside.

I hear her stiletto bootheels click-clacking down the stone corridor, and her voice echoing with laughter, and then – nothing!

Nothing for three whole days.

After what seemed like an eternity, but must have been three days later, my celldoor hatch was opened from the outside and I was invited to kiss the same pair of black, feminine ankleboots, one after the other, on my pockmarked, black-curly-haired, private-prison-wardress’s imperiously outstretched feet. I showered genuinely respectful kisses onto her black, feminine, ankleboot leather, in total silence – for I had, indeed, learnt my lesson, and was just grateful for the company of her female boots once again, and the knowledge that she is wearing navy-blue anklesocks underneath.

My mistress ‘rewarded’ me with my first taste of bitter bread, washed down by stagnant rainwater – my only future taste of the great outdoors, aside from the mud and dirt stuck to the soles of her boots from wherever she has been walking!

 

Yarn no. 6 – Falling Asleep on the Job

The first thing I saw, blurring into view as I slowly woke up from my slumber, was the female sock – a thick, fuzzy, red and white striped anklesock, on a pretty, white ankle; followed by a plain, black, female-sized, low-top, lace-up, rubber sneaker, and the slightly frayed hem of a stylish, bootcut, black denim jean-leg.

They were the vaguely familiar jean-leg, sneaker and sock of my young mistress – 21 year old, blonde-haired mistress Sally – and they were moving beneath my face! My God – my forehead was actually touching them! I must have been using the soft and inviting, rubber sneaker and fuzzy sock as pillows on which to rest my weary head – whilst my mistress was still wearing them!

Slowly it all came back to me. The last thing I remember was obediently nosing my mistress’s soft, cotton, stripy-red, ankle-length, towelling sock whilst she relaxed and watched television with her sneakered feet up on the arm of the living room sofa. I remember it because my most beautiful and respected, blonde mistress had specifically ordered me, through her snooty, turned-up nose, to apply my common slave-nose to the most central red stripe which ran along the middle of her pretty anklesock.

I must have fallen sleep on the sock nose-job!

‘Ah, so nice to have you back with us, dirty slave!’ sneers my blonde mistress from the other end of the sofa.

My heart sinks! I am in trouble – big trouble, as would be any slave who falls asleep on the job, however humbling and demeaning that job may be! Pathetically, I try to cover up my unauthorised somnolence by immediately, albeit through sleepy eyes, running my nose along the central red stripe of her thick, fuzzy anklesock once again – as I had originally been ordered to do God knows how long ago now!

My bleached-blonde mistress just laughs at me – not a pleasant, forgiving, compassionate laugh as one flawed human-being to another; but the laugh of a superior, female being who has caught out her male inferior, and who is going to enjoy having him punished as a consequence!

First though, she wishes to milk the situation for all its worth:

‘Ha! Ha! So now you choose to obey me, slave! Now my sock is good enough for you to respectfully nose, is it?’

I try to retain an air of footslavish dignity in the face of completely justifiable and understandable mistressly indignation, but I am shaking with fear inside as I desperately seek to nose the soft, red, cotton sock-stripe:

‘Oh pray mistress! Oh pray!...nose…nose… Please forgive me mistress Sally! ...nose…nose… I don’t know what came over me mistress! ...nose…nose.’

Actually I do know what came over me – I’m not as young as I used to be, and I was, quite simply, exhausted, having been up all night at a party with my mistress the night before (she – partying; I – kneeling humbly beside her partying feet) and then, unlike her, having been unable to catch up on some sleep during the daytime due to my standing orders to tongue-polish all her shoes and boots, whether she has been wearing them in the interim or not! All 500 pairs of them! (My mistress Sally is very rich, having married an investment banker; she can therefore afford as many pairs of shoes as she likes!)

‘Oh – don’t apologise, slave! I’m just flattered that you find my sock interesting enough, and appealing enough, to want to obey my simple orders to nose it …albeit only in your own good time, and only when it tickles your fancy, of course…dirty, rebellious sockslave!’

Her sarcasm is biting – just as her whip, no doubt, soon will be.

I decide to nuzzle sock, as well as nose it, in an attempt to elicit sweet feminine mercy from my articulate and well-educated mistress, for I know I am not very good with words:

‘Oh pray mistress Sally! Oh pray! ...nose…nose…nuzzle...nuzzle… Truly this slave admires and respects the mistress’s most beautiful, red and white, towelling socks ... nose … nuzzle… nose…nuzzle… if it is so pleasing to you most sweet and kind mistress Sally…nuzzle…nuzzle…nuzzle…nuzzle… and had no desire to disobey or disrespect the superior mistress… nose… nose… nose... nose… if you would be so kind and forgiving to an incompetent servant of female socks, mistress Sally… nuzzle…nose…nuzzle…nose…Oh pray, mistress… nose…nose…Please don’t beat me mistress!…nuzzle…nuzzle…’

I can smell the strong, musty smell of my mistress’s plain black, lace-up rubber-sneaker beneath her matching, black denim jean-hem as I despairingly nuzzle the centre of her warm and shapely, stripy-red sock, and remember how that distinctive, rubbery shoe-smell actually featured in my illicit dream – a dream about me being a successful, free man who owned an expensive sports car and was polishing the hub caps; I thought I could smell the rubber of the tyres!

Ha! Ha! How bizarre is that? Me – a free man! With my very own car! Ha! Ha! Truly our dreams can take us to strange places!

Right now, however, I wish I did own a car – a getaway car, to get me away from the inevitable whipping that is most surely coming to me!

And, coincidentally, just at that very moment the likely whip-wielder enters the house, slamming the front door noisily behind him. Her husband, my master, is back from his highly stressful job in the city! He too was at the party last night and won’t have had a lot of sleep – only my mistress is unemployed and can laze around during the daytime as a young lady of leisure.

Quite right too!

Of course, the master – master Paul – had not been accompanying my mistress Sally to the party in the capacity of her personal footslave, as I had been. He was her manly escort, being her much loved and admired, rich, middle-aged, sugar-daddy of a husband.

But I can tell by his tone of voice as he enters the living room and throws his executive briefcase down onto the neighbouring armchair that he is in a household-slave whipping mood!

‘God…what a day!’ he complains.

He stoops down to kiss my mistress Sally – his young wife – on the lips before slumping into the opulent armchair alongside his briefcase.

I studiously continue to nose the side of my mistress’s exposed sock inside her black rubber sneaker beneath the hem of her right, black denim jean-leg, even though the particular red sock-stripe I am attempting to belatedly nose is now creasing and folding most unhelpfully as my mistress, excitedly, jiggles her sneakered foot around over the edge of the sofa.

She is excited because she knows what is coming next – a slave-whipping at the hands of her magnificent, manly husband!

But, largely for my benefit I’m sure, she draws the moment out – thereby prolonging my impending agony:

‘Aw...tough day at the office, honey?’ she asks her lord and master with her big, doe, blonde eyes.

‘Yeah…the Fitzsimmons contract nearly fell through. I had to fight tooth and nail to keep it!’

‘Aw…I’m sorry to hear that, honey…still, at least you held on to it!’

I know for a fact that my mistress knows nothing about the ‘Fitzsimmons contract’ that her middle-aged, executive husband has been working on, and cares even less about it. All she cares about is spending the money her rich and powerful, sugar-daddy husband earns – because that, in turn, makes her rich and powerful and keeps her in designer shoes (and black rubber, designer sneakers and stripy red towelling socks!).

Oh, and of course, she cares about one other thing tonight as well – the blatant disobedience and disrespect for her young-womanly authority on the part of her lowly, personal foot-servant, as evidenced by his impertinent falling asleep on her sock!

She decides, at last, to tell her exhausted husband all about the stressful time she’s been having with me:

‘Well, honey, I don’t want to add to your problems but, would you believe, I’ve had a rather stressful day too? I know it’s hard to believe, but our dirty slave Patheticus here actually fell asleep while he was supposed to be nosing my sock!’

There is a deafening silence for a few ominous seconds, and then an almighty, masculine roar:

‘HE DID WHAT?’ exclaims the master.

‘Yeah I know, honey…Ha! Ha! I couldn’t believe my eyes! He literally disobeyed me by falling asleep over my sock…right here, on the end of the sofa! I want him whipped, sweetheart! Ha! Ha!’

My mistress Sally is laughing now, but only because she knows I will most assuredly be whipped. The master will take it as a personal insult to him that I fell asleep on the job, since he purchased me as a gift for the mistress on their wedding day!

‘RIGHT!’ he screams, jumping up out of his chair. ‘WHERE IS THE WHIP?’

My mistress Sally laughs out loud and informs the master it is lying, as per usual, in her sock-drawer up in the master bedroom.

The master storms out of the room to fetch the whip as I continue in my feverish, but ultimately doomed attempt, to rehabilitate myself by nosing and nuzzling my tell-tale, blonde mistress Sally’s stripy-red, towelling sock.

She leans over to laugh directly into my fear-stricken face. She has stale, blonde-girl breath from not having brushed her teeth last night after the party:

‘Ha! Ha! Now you’re for it, useless, dirty slave! Ha! Ha! Your master will soon teach you not to fall asleep on the job! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress Sally…nose…nose… Thank you mistress Sally… nuzzle … nuzzle… God bless you mistress Sally…nose…nose…’

I wonder whether the red stripes on my maleslave back will be as vivid as the ones on her young-womanly, fuzzy, white sock?

 

Yarn no. 5 – Skank with a Shank

	Dictionary Definitions: a) Skank: 1) A derogatory term for a (usually younger) female, implying trashiness or tackiness, lower-class status, poor hygiene and a scrawny, pockmarked sort of ugliness. May also imply promiscuity. Can apply to any race, but most commonly used to describe ‘white trash’. 2) Dancing to reggae music 3) Walking in a sexually suggestive way 4) To swindle or deceive 5) Derivative – ‘skanky’; very unpleasant or revolting b) Shank: 1) A slang term for a knife (especially as used by prisoners) 2) A person’s leg, especially the part from the knee to the ankle; the shin 3) The narrow middle of the sole of a shoe

My 19 year-old mistress, miss Alyssia, is a skank – or, at least, that’s what the members of a rival girl-gang call her, or ‘The skank with a shank’ to give her her full title – not because she is into reggae music (though she is), but because she is regarded as dirty, and always carries a knife for protection.

I very much adore and admire her, however. I think my mistress is really beautiful and sexy. She certainly walks the streets with a sexy swagger and skank in her hips in more ways than one!

Although she is white, my mistress Alyssia has her brown, straggly hair tied up in long, greasy dreadlocks; she also has attractive piercings through her nose, ears, and lips. She is a bit of a tomboy, as well as being an occasional tom, and likes to wear a grey hoodie top, and long, beige-coloured shorts which reach down to her often grazed, bare, white knees. On her feet she wears her ubiquitous, low-top, black and white stripe sneakers with distinctive, thick, day-glo green laces. And today she has also elected to wear her cheap, low-cut, grey sneaker socks with the fetching white trims.

To be perfectly honest she has been wearing these same sneaker-socks for three days now.

I am miss Alyssia’s personal footslave, supplied to her by the Female State some 6 months ago as a reward for her good behaviour (although my mistress is always in and out of trouble she does help to maintain female law and order on her sink estate – her version of law and order, backed up by her shank!)

I like kneeling at my mistress Alyssia’s skanky feet – for they exude young-womanly power and authority, as well as dirt and sweat. She even has a tattoo of a tigress on her left ankle above the sock line, and on her right ankle, just below her often cut and bruised shank (for her right leg is her main kicking leg) she likes to wear a cheap-looking, plasticky, multicoloured ankle-chain.

A skankle-chain, you might say!

Everyone is frightened of my mistress, including myself, for she can be very volatile and has a fiery temper. Hanging from her waist belt, alongside her knife, is her single-tailed, bulls-pizzle whip, also supplied to her free of charge by the Female State, which she uses to beat me with relish – often egged on by her fellow, female gang members.

I always shower my mistress Alyssia’s sneakers with humble and penitent kisses after a beating, and not just because it’s the only time they get a wash, but because I want her to know that I am sorry for displeasing her, even if I am unclear as to what I may have done wrong. At the very least, by kissing her skanky socks and sneakers in front of her black and mixed-race girlfriends I am displaying to the world that she is my infinite better, as well as being my all-powerful, female master.

It’s not just me that my mistress frequently beats up. She is always getting into arguments and fights with her fellow, and rival, girlgang members on the sink estate where she lives with her Jamaican boyfriend – master Jerrick. He does little to stop her getting into scrapes – in fact, I think he actually enjoys watching his girl getting into a good scrap!

But it does mean that my mistress Alyssia sometimes ends up in prison – for she not only beats up and skanks free men of their hard-earned cash (which is not a crime in the Gynarchy), but also women; women who are not gang members, and who therefore press charges against her.

And attacking or skanking a woman is, quite correctly, regarded as a serious crime in the Gynarchy, even if it’s carried out by another woman.

I, of course, have to accompany my mistress Alyssia to prison, for I am her personal footslave and must therefore share in her righteous punishment. I must say, though, she sure knows how to hold her own in prison, and is very protective of me – only allowing the other female inmates to use me with her express permission, perhaps to tongue-clean the shanks along the soles of their dusty prison-sneakers.

My mistress Alyssia also uses me, of course, to win favours with the female prison guards, for she is a born-survivor. So, she will make me tongue-polish the dirty, knee-high boots of a female guard in return for the latter supplying her with smuggled-in cigarettes. My mistress Alyssia does like to smoke, although she doesn’t do drugs, even though her boyfriend, master Jerrick, is a dealer. I think power is her drug – power over others; especially me.

And as for that shank, well, even in prison she is allowed to hold on to it; for it is her personal property; just like me. So the knife gives her a certain status within the prison environment. I, of course, am much less of a status symbol, since virtually all the female inmates have their personal footslaves in their cells with them – if not their own slaves, then foot-nonces supplied to them by the prison authorities (these tend to be male prisoners convicted of crimes against femininity; boy do they get a hard time at the fair hands and feet of the female prisoners!)

Whenever she gets out of prison my bitch-mistress Alyssia is soon back on the streets again marking her territory, sometimes literally so, with me in tow behind her ubiquitous black and white striped, jailbird sneakers. The first thing she will do, however, is reclaim the affections of her manly, Jamaican boyfriend, master Jerrick, whilst I cringe in the corner of their squat-bedroom with my nose buried in her discarded socks and sneakers.

It is truly an honour and a privilege for me to have to sniff the stale, sweaty aroma of my greasy-dreadlocked mistress’s discarded sneakers and socks whilst she is making love to a superior man. Unlike me, master Jerrick has the luxury of being unemployed and living on the generous female benefits handed out to his girlfriend by the Female State (as well as the money he earns from dealing drugs, of course). My mistress Alyssia, for her part, is happy to share her generous female-benefit payments with master Jerrick because he is a real man; her man.

Just as she is happy to share her skanky sneaker-socks with me since I am a slave man; her slave man.

My mistress and master always seem to be at their most placid and relaxed after a lovemaking session, and, as they lay back on the bed in each other’s arms enjoying a shared, post-coital cigarette, they both laugh at me and mock me for having to breathe in the aroma of my mistress’s skanky sneakers and socks. How they despise me – for being so weak when they are both so strong!

Truly I am in the presence of greatness when I am with them both, and I don’t need the sting of my mistress Alyssia’s bulls-pizzle whip, or the threat of her knife, to remind me of that. Her mere act of getting up out of the bed and coming over towards me in order to spit in my sock-sniffing face, and then inviting her Jamaican boyfriend to do the same, reminds me that I am honoured to be the personal sock-and-sneaker slave of a superior skank with a shank!

 

Yarn no. 4 – The High-Class Ho’s Low-Class Footslave

My 24 year old mistress, mistress Victoria, is a street-prostitute in the capital city of the Gynarchy – Barbaria. She hangs around on her street corner at all hours of the day and night touting her services to free men.

I’m afraid she is somewhat looked down upon by other women in the Gynarchy – because of her chosen profession. But what she does is completely legal, since she has chosen this particular lifestyle of her own free will – mainly because she loves sex.

Of course, I am despised in polite female society even more – being a street prostitute’s personal footslave – so even my mistress Victoria has someone she, in turn, can look down upon. Literally so – since I must be ever present on my hands and knees by her feet as she solicits for business standing at her pitch on the corner of one of the capital’s seedy, backstreet alleyways near the Chinatown area.

My mistress Victoria is of mixed race origins, being part Italian and part Native American Indian, which makes her stunningly attractive. She has all the attributes which appeal to free men – a sultry, mixed-race complexion; dark, piercing eyes; ultra-pretty facial features, including a roman nose; long, dark, greasy hair; a slim and shapely figure (some might say ‘scrawny’); and nice legs, albeit with needle marked veins.

I don’t think that ‘Victoria’ is her real name, but it’s the name she chooses to work under (or rather she chooses to work under the street-name of ‘Vicky’, except that I must respectfully refer to her as ‘mistress Victoria’).

She dresses nicely as well. This evening she is wearing a black leather miniskirt along with her classy, black cotton, thigh-high socks with the fancy-patterned stitching and pink, silken bows at the tops; and kinky, patent black leather, zip-up ankleboots with golden, spiked heels and a matching gold trim. I love my mistress Victoria’s working-girl boots and socks – for they seem to tower above me as I kneel humbly at her feet whilst she stands seductively on her alleyway corner luring in her male punters with her sultry, Italian-Indian charms.

I like to study her ankleboots, and the lower parts of her thigh-length socks, in great detail as I kneel quietly and unobtrusively at my prostitute-mistress’s feet in the alleyway. I try to focus in on the various little, lamp lit creases in her jet-black, shiny bootleather – especially those in her left ankleboot caused by the vampish positioning of her left foot tucked in behind her right. The resultant creases in her left ankleboot-leather are truly an awesome sight to behold, and the closer my face gets to her left ankleboot the more creases and wrinkles in the leather I can see, along with the distorted reflection of my gormless slave-face.

Of course, being on the streets most of the time also means that my mistress’s nice, shiny boots unavoidably collect traces of street dirt and dust – and I very much admire those dirt and mud stains too; on both her boots. It humbles me to think that I am forced to kneel and stare at the sides of a working-girl’s dirty, spike-heeled ankleboots and literally look up to those boots since my humbly bowed face is effectively lower than them – just as I am a lower form of life than my esteemed mistress Victoria.

I must be – for she has the protection of the Female Law as she goes about her business of providing sexual services to free males, whereas I, being an enslaved male, am merely subject to the harsh rigours of the Female Law. Even if she robs and beats up her punters, for example, I am the one who must be punished under the Female Law – usually a public whipping in the central town square whilst I am tethered over a wooden whipping trestle, my face just inches away from the shiny, black ankleboots of the gleeful, actual offender!

And as for mistress Victoria’s thigh-length socks – well, they really put me in my place! They are so superior to me I cannot even see their pink-bow-decorated tops whilst she is wearing them! The highest I can see up my mistress Victoria’s socks, is up as far as her shapely, if somewhat bony, mixed-race kneecaps – and even that is a strain, for my footslave face must always be suitably downcast, looking at the dirty ground on which my superior mistress both stands and streetwalks.

Nevertheless I do get to see the fancy-patterned stitching of her high socks just above her ankleboot-rims as her socked calves emerge from her boots, and that exotic, feminine, cotton sock-stitching is truly a sight to behold – a latticed, flower-motifed stitching which stretches all the way up my superior mistress’s shapely legs, getting wider and more prominent the higher up her legs it goes.

Sadly, I only ever get to admire the flowery stitching in all its glory at the very pinnacle of her thigh-length socks when I am mouthwashing my mistress’s socks back in her flat after she has divested herself of them.

Of course, at such times I am obliged to concentrate on the lower, smellier, sweatier parts of her black thigh-high socks – the parts that have been covering her pretty feet inside her ankleboots all day and night – but I nevertheless get to see the thigh-wide tops of the socks, and those gorgeous, little pink bows, whilst the damp, narrower, reinforced toe-ends fill my mouth with her very personal, feminine footsweat.

Incidentally, in case you were wondering, I am never permitted to reach up and touch the tops of my mistress’s thigh-length socks, either the black cotton or the pink, silken bows, whilst they are adorning her soft, young-womanly thighs – not even to put them on or take them off my mistress’s streetwalking legs – for my mistress Victoria considers me unworthy to touch her upper leg areas. She reserves those parts of her sensuous body for her paying, freemale clients.

No, I must make do with touching her socked legs only up as far as her knobbly kneebones when I am dressing or undressing her shapely, prostitute legs, and even then I must keep my head humbly bowed to the tops of her socked ankles as I do so. My mistress takes full responsibility for pulling up, or pulling down, her thigh-length, black cotton socks between her kneecaps and thighs.

So I only ever get to observe close up the upper halves of her long socks when they are off her legs and dangling by the sweaty toe-ends from inside my ugly slave-mouth!

Not that I am totally unenamoured by the lower halves of her thigh-length, working-girl socks, of course – especially those crucial areas just above her gold-trimmed ankleboot rims, and especially as now when the thick, cotton material of the sock on her left foot is, like the matching black leather in her left ankleboot, creased and folded on her shapely calf-muscle thanks to the flirtatious positioning of her left leg and foot as she leans against the alleyway wall, soliciting clients.

Her legs, boots and socks are, naturally, a powerful ‘come-on’ to her freemale clients, but the delicious irony is that I am the only male who gets to observe them in such close up detail! I am the only male who experiences temporary blindness caused by the bright lamplight reflecting off the gold trim that adorns the upper rims of my mistress’s sexy ankleboots; and I am the only male whose face is close enough to my prostitute-mistress’s boots and socks to be able to smell the heady aroma of working-girl ankleboot leather and working-girl thigh-length, cotton sock!

Of course, such irresistible feminine beauty does not take long to attract freemale punters, and soon I am crawling behind my mistress’s boots to the back of the alleyway behind some bins where my mistress likes to conduct her business. Occasionally she will march a favoured client back to her flat, but for the most part my mistress likes it rough and ready in the dirt and grime of the alleyway.

I must continue to kneel at my mistress’s spread feet and meekly observe one or other of her boots and socks whilst the free man has sexual intercourse with her above me. My mistress doesn’t bother to wear any undergarments, since it just wastes her time having to repeatedly pull them down during a typical, working evening.

I am not permitted to watch the act of intercourse itself, since I am a mere footslave and have no business watching my free betters indulging in such sophisticated activity. After all, it’s not something I shall ever get to do. My place is at feet.

And nor does my humble presence at my mistress’s booted feet ever seem to inhibit either her or her clients as they unashamedly go about their dirty business - presumably because I am regarded as a dumb animal rather than another human-being. I can therefore be quietly ignored during such exquisitely pleasurable moments of high passion between my two, free superiors as they noisily make out with one another in the darkness above me.

After the dirty deed is completed, and the magnificent and mighty, free master is fully spent, I must once again crawl behind my superior mistress’s spike-heeled ankleboots along the dingy backstreets of our fair capital as she seeks out her dealer and spends her hard-earned cash on her next fix. Then, whilst she is relaxing alone on her bed in her one-roomed, bedsit flat, high on drugs, I must lick any traces of mud and dirt off the soles and uppers of her discarded ankleboots in the corner of the room, for I cannot have my beloved mistress Victoria walking the streets again in dirty, unpolished boots!

I mean, what if one of the Female Police officers who patrol the red light district in order to protect their working-girl compatriots noticed that my mistress was having to work in a pair of unkempt boots? I would undoubtedly be immediately arrested and charged with neglect of my mistress’s footwear – and that carries a 12 lash sentence!

No, I shall make damn sure that my mistress Victoria’s golden-spike-heeled, working boots are perfectly clean and pristine, and that my bare back remains unmarked by an angry, female police officer’s punishment cane! And besides, I’m starving and haven’t eaten all day, mainly because my mistress herself has omitted to eat anything. I rely on her leftovers – or, failing that, her bootmud to keep me sustained. She certainly wouldn’t share any of her precious drugs with me!

So prostitute’s bootmud it is.

Her thigh-high socks, sadly, will have to wait a while until the early hours of the morning before I can attend to them, for my mistress Victoria will not finish her work, and finally get undressed, until then. For now her long, black cotton socks are cosseting her drug-fuelled bloodstream in her shapely, mixed-race legs as she lies back on her bed and thinks of the Gynarchy – pondering, no doubt, how lucky she is to be living in a Femdom State where she can be lawfully paid to have sex and fund her expensive drug habit by doing what she loves best.

As I tongue-shine my mistress-streetwalker’s boots and avidly consume her street bootdirt in the corner of her bedroom, I too contemplate my immense good fortune at being a high-class whore’s low-class, personal footslave.

 

Yarn no. 3 – Ashen-Faced

Mistress Kate is a formidable and sexy young woman who works in the offices next door to my public-shoelick stall. Tall and slim, mid thirties, with shoulder-length auburn hair and a striking fringe framing her pretty, if badly pockmarked, Caucasian features, she has the air of a rich and powerful executive-woman who is not to be trifled with.

She’s most definitely the boss!

Which is why I say nothing whenever she, illegally, lights up a cigarette on the pavement outside her office right next to my shoelick-stall. She is supposed to use one of the ‘smokers’ corners’ facilities located nearby – but she clearly can’t be bothered to walk all the way down to the end of the street.

I presume she has only popped outside for her cigarette out of courtesy towards her fellow office-workers, for smoking inside office buildings is also illegal in the Gynarchy. But smoking near a down-in-the-dirt public footslave such as me – whether illegal or not – well, nobody really gives a damn about that, do they?

And so I must bite my lip and passively inhale whatever chemicals she puffs out, all whilst admiring her nearby feet, clad in her one-inch-kitten-heeled, silver-buckled, black patent leather shoes and plain, black socks beneath the hems of her smart, beige-brown, executive trouser suit.

Such style and elegance in a beautiful, pockmarked, auburn-haired lady – especially when she is smoking.

Mistress Kate won’t actually use me until such time as she has finished her illicit cigarette and dominantly stubbed it out on the ground beneath her black leather, silver-buckled, office shoe. Now she needs the slave to lick any dirty ash-residue off the sole of her otherwise nice, clean shoe – and so she nonchalantly walks over to my humble shoelick-stand and stretches forth her right, trouser-suited leg until her right shoe is resting on the wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling face.

Now, you see, this is where I feel a bit frustrated about serving high-flying, executive-businesswoman mistress Kate, for my basic, ‘stand-up’ shoelick stand – at which the customer must stand whilst having her footwear attended to by my mouth – is not really designed for cleaning shoe-soles, as such. For that very specialist service mistress Kate really needs either a ‘sit-down’ shoelick stall or, dare I say it, a proper smoker’s corner where ‘ashtray’ slaves are located with the specific purpose of licking the ash off the soles of the smoking mistresses’ superior shoes and boots.

My purpose in life is really just to tongue-shine the uppers of my female betters’ shoes or boots, but mistress Kate, it seems, doesn’t need a standard tongue-shining:

‘Slave, lick clean the sole of my shoe. Lick off all the filth, and be quick about it!’

To be fair to her, she does endeavour to place the front end of her shiny black, round-toed, kitten-heeled shoe over the edge of the wooden footblock, so that my slave-tongue can get underneath the shoe, and specifically to the part which has just been utilised to stub out the recently discarded cigarette on the dirty pavement. But it still means that I can’t actually see where I am licking, and have to rely on my sense of taste to determine the cleanliness or otherwise of mistress Kate’s expensive, leather shoesole.

And that worries me – for I do like to ensure I do a good job on my patrons’ shoes, and I therefore always try to visually inspect my handiwork (or, more accurately, my mouthwork) on a lady’s superior shoe before I ‘allow’ her to depart!

After all, I have my reputation – not to mention my bare back – to protect, both from stinging, female criticism of my work and from the sting of the bitingly thin, public-use whip which hangs on the wall behind me!

Of course, I would never dare to express my current concerns to goddess-mistress Kate! She is a rich and powerful, well-heeled businesswoman, and I am but a poor and humble, down-at-heel, male slave who must do what he is damn well told! So I merely acknowledge her command and get on with the job in mouth:

‘Yes, mistress Kate. At once, most beautiful and respected mistress Kate.’

I then respectfully jut out my silver-tongued, shoeshining appendage and make it boldly go where my slave eyes, regrettably, cannot see – beneath mistress Kate’s shiny, executive shoe.

Sure enough I can taste ash. It flakes off the leathery shoesole onto my leathery tongue. Thankfully it is no longer hot, although it does taste foul and bitter. But mistress Kate is quite right, of course – she cannot have such filthy cigarette ash sullying the bottom of her nice, clean shoe!

I taste other stuff as well, but, regrettably, I have no real way of knowing what the other dirt and detritus is composed of – not without looking at it, or possibly sniffing it. All street-dirt tends to taste the same – unless you are lucky enough to be serving a mistress who has inadvertently walked in some chewing gum, or through some other easily-identifiable, discarded foodstuff.

But, aside from the bitter ash, I am not picking up any particularly sharp or distinctive flavours on my footslave-palate – just the familiar, dull taste of common-or-garden streetdirt mixed in with female shoeleather; a footslave’s staple diet, you might say!

What is a different sensation for my tongue is the feel of the tiny, narrow treads on mistress Kate’s leather shoesole, for, as I indicated earlier, I am much more used to tasting street-dirt from the smooth, leather uppers of a lady’s shoe. That’s why I am intrigued when my sightless tongue suddenly detects what appears to be a tiny stone stuck in one of the treads.

What do I do now? Work on it until I have extracted it with my tongue? Or leave it there? I am in a bit of a quandary because, whilst I know full well that no self-respecting mistress would wish to walk around with a dirty stone stuck to the sole of her office shoe, I am equally aware that mistress Kate has specifically ordered me to be quick about my humble business at her executive feet. She is clearly in a hurry – perhaps she has an important meeting to go to, or a client to speak to.

And yet here am I – dithering about a stone stuck to the bottom of her manageress shoe!

I am well out of my comfort zone here! A public shoelicker based on a ‘sit-down’ shoelick stand would know exactly what to do – they lick clean ladies’ dirty boot and shoe soles all the time! Even a smoker’s corner footslave could probably have the offending stone out in no time, lying as he is – face up – beneath the lady’s shoe.

But for all I know it might not even be a stone; it might be an integral part of her shoe – a rivet or some such thing, holding the sole in place!

Oh what do I do? What do I do? My face joins my tongue in turning ashen with fear and indecision.

Fortunately, mistress Kate, who is used to making difficult decisions on behalf of confused, male underlings, makes the decision for me. She twists up the sole of her expensive, designer court shoe and inspects the sole for herself. She then places her right foot back onto the wooden footblock, daintily hitching up her beige, bootcut trouser-hem:

‘Now kiss the side of my sock, slave.’

Oh joy! Oh relief! I am back in my footslave comfort-zone! Kissing ladies’ socks is something I know all about. I must do it hundreds of times a day – as a symbol of my public-footslave respect for my superior mistress-customers and their footwear. And mistress Kate, evidently, is satisfied with the current state of her shoesole and merely requires that universally recognised, sock-kissing demonstration of slavish humility and respect from her public shoelicker. So I can forget all about the stone; if indeed it is a stone.

Never, in the history of female domination, has a female sock been kissed with such respect and fervour as the decisive mistress Kate’s black sock is being kissed today! God bless you mistress Kate, for granting me a taste of your discarded cigarette-ash. I repeatedly kiss a tiny crease in the plain, black, cotton anklesock of my kind and merciful female superior, whilst she revels in her pockmarked power and authority over me.

 

Yarn no. 2 – Naïve

I am the personal footslave of a beautiful, but somewhat naïve, mistress.

Her name is miss Felicity, and she is just 21 years old. I have only been her slave for 3 months, as I was a gift to her on her 21^st birthday.

My mistress is, of course, very beautiful – what young woman isn’t at the age of 21? Blonde, with shoulder length curly hair; piercing, blue eyes; slim, and with a figure to die for! She is perfection personified, except that she is not what you might describe as the ‘brightest’ of mistresses.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying that she is stupid; she is, after all, studying fashion design at college. But she has had a somewhat pampered and sheltered upbringing. She’s not exactly what you would call ‘worldly-wise’ – though I do know for a fact that she is sexually active and has had many boyfriends (I know that because, already, I have been obliged to spend many a night sniffing her discarded, dirty socks and shoes in the corner of her bedroom whilst she has made love to them!)

It’s more her understanding of the world of slavery that she is lacking in. She seems to have little understanding of my role and position in her life, and of her mistressly duties. But I will say one thing for her – she is keen to learn, and not afraid to ask questions of her slave. I think it’s because I am so much older and more experienced in such matters – being more than twice her age.

Take the other day for example, when my mistress Felicity returned home from college. She barked her usual orders at me as soon as she had settled down in the living room:

‘Slave, come here and take off my shoes and socks. You’re going to wash my feet!’

I, of course, was up in my mistress’s bedchamber, mouthwashing her dirty socks from the day before. But I stopped what I was doing immediately since duty called, pausing only to fetch a bowl of lukewarm water and a white, fluffy foot-towel from the ensuite bathroom in order to slavishly attend to my naïve, young mistress’s feet as instructed.

I crawled down the stairs on my hands and knees and into the living room with my foot-washing paraphernalia in hand, without spilling a drop of the clean water – no mean feat, I can tell you! My beautiful mistress Felicity was lying back on the sofa with her feet up, flicking through the TV listings magazine and twiddling her blonde locks (a subconscious, nervous habit she seems to have), but she stopped what she was doing as soon as I entered the room and swung her feet round onto the floor – ready for my humble servitude.

She could, of course, have taken her own shoes and socks off in preparation for my humble ministrations to her bare feet, but she had already learnt that it was inappropriate for a young woman to take off her own footwear when she had a living, live-in, male slave to do it for her. She had learnt that because I had painstakingly taught her as much. She therefore now waited patiently for me to perform the humble and demeaning act of taking off her shoes and socks, after I had carefully positioned the bowl of water and fluffy towel next to her feet on the living-room carpet.

As per usual my mistress Felicity was wearing her fashion-student, plain black ballet-flats and short white sneaker-socks beneath her calf-length, black cotton leggings. She looked hot – cool and hot at one and the same time:

‘Hurry up, slave, my feet are killing me!’ she snapped bratily.

‘Yes, mistress Felicity. At once, blonde mistress,’ I replied humbly and respectfully; for I know my place in the face of such outstanding, young-womanly beauty.

I gently raised my mistress Felicity’s right, ballet-flated foot up off the living room carpet and slid the soft, musty-smelling, black leather shoe off her dainty, right foot. The smell of mustiness was quickly replaced by the warm smell of delicate, feminine foot-odour emanating from her somewhat grubby-looking, short, white cotton sneaker-sock.

Well, it had been a long, hot summer’s day outside – not that I am permitted to accompany my young mistress outside the house. I am strictly a housebound-footslave.

I repeated the shoe-removal process with my mistress’s left ballet-flat, silently observing that the short, white cotton sock on the mistress’s left foot was, for some unknown reason, more twisted and distorted than the one on her right foot. That might explain the pinkness and reddening at the back of her delicate, feminine heel on her left foot since the white sock has, apparently, not been doing its job of protecting the mistress’s heel from the inner lining of her black leather ballet flat.

Whatever, all I can now do is compensate for the sock’s neglect of the mistress’s left heel by being especially gentle when I apply water to that part of my mistress Felicity’s sore left foot. I make a mental note to do so.

Next to come off are my mistress’s grubby socks. I must remove them from her feet in the manner of a humble slave, keeping my head bowed over them, grabbing them at the sweaty toe-ends with my trembling footslave-fingers and gently, and respectfully, pulling them off my mistress’s pale, white feet.

The socks feel, and smell, warm and moist and shall, I hope, be destined for the inside of my footslave mouth later in the day. But before I can tuck into them, I must tuck them into my mistress’s recently removed ballet flats lying side by side on the red carpet of her living room floor, as the immediate task in hand is the ritual washing of my non-celebrity-mistress Felicity’s bare, white feet.

I gently lift her soft, unpedicured, slimy-with-footsweat, student-girl feet into the adjacent bowl of lukewarm water and begin to ladle water over them with my right hand whilst my left hand protectively cradles my mistress’s somewhat raw and chapped left heel inside the white, porcelain foot-bowl.

My mistress Felicity is very brave, and doesn’t flinch from the initial contact of lukewarm water on delicate, raw heel-skin. Instead, she continues with her education into the meaning of slavery whilst I wash her hot and tired feet:

‘Why are you a slave?’ she suddenly asks, in all innocence.

It really is, I’m afraid, a case of back to basics when it comes to explaining the ways of the world to my sweet and naïve mistress Felicity!

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you blonde mistress Felicity, I was born a slave as I am a slavish by nature, most glorious and respected mistress.’

She still looks puzzled as I continue to wash her dirty feet:

‘Yes, but why are you my slave?’

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you blonde mistress Felicity, I am your slave because you are better than me, if you would be so kind mistress Felicity.’

She twiddles with her golden locks, seemingly still not satisfied with my answers to her perfectly legitimate, but naïve, questions:

‘Yes, but why am I better than you, slave? Why must you constantly bow the neck to me?’

Bow the neck is a euphemism in the Gynarchy for submit. At least my mistress Felicity knows that much! However, the very sound of the now dirty footwater splashing gently over her beautiful, youthful, female feet –courtesy of my humble, middle-aged, maleslave hands – seems to me to make her utterly stupid question almost redundant, and even undeserving of an answer.

Nevertheless I am obliged by law to answer it, since it is a question posed by a superior mistress to her humble slave:

‘Well, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, you are better than me for a number of reasons:

Firstly, you are female, and I am male, and the female has dominion over the male. It is written in our Ancient texts, if you would be so kind mistress Felicity…’

I don’t think mistress Felicity has ever paid much attention to our Ancient Gynarchial texts, or, indeed, to the history of the Gynarchy – hence her lack of knowledge in this regard!

I feel an area of hard skin on the back of my mistress’s right heel as I gently massage it in the still pleasantly lukewarm, but increasingly discoloured, footwater.

‘..and secondly, sweet mistress, because you are younger than me, and youth is better than age, for youth is strong and vigorous, whereas age is weak and withered…’

This last pearl of footslave-wisdom isn’t actually written anywhere – to the best of my knowledge – but even at the tender age of 45 I have come to realise it is a truism.

I move my left hand up to my blonde mistress’s shapely ankles, taking great care not to splash any of the increasingly cloudy and sweaty footwater onto the much-respected, elasticated hems of her calf-length, black cotton leggings.

‘…and thirdly, mistress, you are better than me because you are more intelligent and better educated than me. I am just a stupid male slave, blonde mistress, and your female brain is bigger than mine. Scientists have proved it mistress…’

She giggles triumphantly at this point. I suspect it’s not often that my sweet and kind, but somewhat dim, mistress Felicity is described by anyone as being ‘intelligent’! But I do genuinely feel inferior to her in the brains department since she is the one going to college and improving herself, whereas I must languish at home every day with her dirty shoes and socks.

I start to rub my slave-fingers in between her dainty, feminine toes as I must extract any remaining accumulations of sweaty toejam from her precious, college-student feet.

‘..and fourthly, mistress, you are better than me because you are better looking than me, being a beautiful female, whereas I am just an ugly male…’

She is completely silent at this point – presumably because there can be no argument about it. She is beautiful – and she knows it. She doesn’t need a stupid slave to tell her that!

‘..and finally, mistress, you are better than me because you now own me. I am your property, and my body and soul belong to you now, mistress, for I am in your female power. By law, you may do with me as you will, sweet and kind, blonde mistress Felicity.’

There is no ‘finally’ about it, of course. I could go on all day with literally thousands of reasons as to why mistress Felicity is my better, but I think she gets the gist.

In fact, I know she does, given her next arrogant words to me:

‘Finish washing my feet now, slave, and put my shoes and socks back on me. I’m going to whip you!’

I tremble at the mere mention of the whip, for, although I have been a practising footslave all my adult life, I am weak and averse to pain:

‘Oh pray mistress, pray have mercy on me mistress! Have I offended the sweet mistress in any way, mistress Felicity?’

She giggles with that girlish giggle of hers, clearly revelling in my evident fear and distress at her freshly-washed feet:

‘Ha! Ha! No – I just feel like whipping you, dirty slave! Have you got a problem with that? Do I need to seek your permission to whip you, you impertinent, dumbass slave? Ha! Ha!’

I now feel relief and fear at one and the same time – relief that I have not offended my young mistress; fear that I have clearly unleashed her natural, young-womanly urges to dominate and chastise the inferior male slave.

And, of course, fear of my impending whipping!

‘Oh no, sweet mistress. Thank you, sweet mistress. God bless you, blonde-haired mistress Felicity!’

She impatiently lifts her dripping-wet feet out of the bowl and places them on the white, fluffy towel which I had previously laid out on the red, living room carpet for her:

‘Well then, get on with it, dirty good-for-nothing slave! Dry my feet and then put my shoes and socks back on me. Then kiss my shoes and socks ten times each, and then get out my whip from my bedside cabinet! You’re my slave and I’m going to beat you!’

‘Yes, mistress Felicity. At once, mistress Felicity!’

As I humbly dry my young mistress Felicity’s dainty, white feet, and then smooth her still sweaty and grubby white sneaker-socks back over them, I cannot help but think that, naïve or not, she is learning fast!

Or was it just me who was being naïve?

 

Yarn no. 1 – I Do

I do so love it when a customer-mistress has a clear and unambiguous sense of her own self-worth – of her innate superiority over me, the male slave at her feet. It makes my job as a public footslave so much easier!

The first thing that struck me about this particular, twenty-something mistress was that she was dressed all in white – a pure, white, knee-length, all-in-one, summery, cotton dress; pale, bare legs; crisp, white ankle socks with white, flowery-patterned stitching; and strappy, white sandals with open toes and cork, wedged heels.

She may have appeared pale, but she was not, in fact, Caucasian. She was Asian – Japanese – and therefore petite and delicate-looking, with dark, black hair cut into a cute, bob-style haircut. And her lips were painted bright red. But, painted oriental girl or not, the overall impression, thanks to her unsullied attire, was of whiteness; pure, feminine whiteness.

She also had a disarmingly self-assured smile on her ruby-red lips as she walked up to my stand-up shoelick stall and, oriental hands on hips, imperiously stretched forward her right, sandalled foot, positioning it directly onto the well-worn wooden footblock below my equally haggard face.

I heard her laugh at me as I dutifully studied her pure white sock and white, cork-heeled, strappy leather sandal:

‘Ha! Ha! You like, slave? Ha! Ha! My name miss Matsuki – flom Japan. I pure; I clean; I better than you! You dirt! You a dirty slave – live in dirt on hands and knees; lick dirt off women shoes all day. Ha! Ha! I different – my shoes not dirty; my shoes clean; socks clean. But I a merciful mistress – I let you touch Japanese girl nice, clean sock with dirty, slave lips! Ha! Ha! I make you pay respect to clean woman white sock! Ha! Ha! You obey! You obey now! You kiss Matsuki clean white sock – on big toe!’

I had to agree with everything the Japanese mistress had just said. Even without her pure, clean, fresh white socks she clearly was better than me – being female. Indeed, even the dirtiest female prostitute with the street-dirtiest boots and socks is better than me, and worthy of my respect. But this pure and modest Japanese mistress, miss Matsuki as I now knew her to be called, had the appearance of being an angel descended from heaven – albeit without the wings. A pure goddess come down to earth in order for me to worship at her sandaled and socked feet.

Truly I am blessed by the oriental goddesses in heaven!

I wasted no time, therefore, in obeying my Japanese angel’s command:

‘Yes mistress Matsuki. At once mistress Matsuki. God bless you mistress Matsuki!’

I then lowered my dirty, maleslave lips, as instructed, to the reinforced area of her pure white cotton sock – until they came to rest on the red-painted, big toenail which was enticing me through the sock in the exposed peep-toe provided by her strappy, white sandal – and gently, and respectfully kissed my female better’s pure, cotton foot-covering as a demonstration of my footslavish respect for her unsullied, feminine purity.

Simultaneously, I admired the fancy-patterned stitching of the rest of her cotton anklesock as I did so – thick, wide stitching in a flowery-trellis pattern which stretched above the much narrower, reinforced stitching covering her Japanese-girl toes, heel and instep – and which reached up as far as the elasticated top of the sock enveloping her slender, Japanese anklebone. I could even see the mistress’s pure, bare Japanese footflesh beneath the patterned stitching, and understood instantly why I was deemed unworthy to kiss the upper area of the mistress’s pure, white anklesock – lest my dirty and impure, maleslave-lips make inadvertent contact with the mistress’s superior, bare footpores beneath the wider, and consequently much more revealing, flowery-stitching.

I heard mistress Matsuki laugh down at me from on high as I withdrew my lips from the hard, painted toenail which was so deliciously covered in the white, creamy softness of the reinforced toe-area of her white cotton anklesock and awaited my next orders.

Her right foot remained in place on the footblock, the only movement being a slight twitching of Japanese-girl foot-muscle beneath the white sock. Clearly the right foot was, in her mistressly estimation, in need of further footslavish attention before her left foot would be presented for my lip-service. Perhaps the Japanese mistress requires me to pay equal kiss-homage to the corked, wedged heel of her strappy, white leather sandal?

I daren’t make a move on it, however – lest the mistress does not wish my mouth to go anywhere near her heels!

As it turns out, it’s just as well I didn’t:

‘YOU NOT STOP KISS TOE OF MATSUKI WHITE SOCK, STUPID SLAVE! YOU SHOW PLOPER RESPECT FOR JAPANESE MISTRESS – YOU KEEP ON KISS SOCK UNTIL MISS MATSUKI TELL SLAVE TO STOP! YOU A FOOL! YOU A BIRD-BLAIN! YOU OBEY MISS MATSUKI, OR MATSUKI HAVE YOU WHIP! YOU KISS JAPANESE GIRL SOCK NOW!’

She suddenly sounded very annoyed and insulted that I had ceased kissing the reinforced toe-end of her Japanese anklesock after just one worshipful kiss. I thought it best to apologise to the superior mistress for my being so stupid before resuming my act of humble homage to her superior sock:

‘Oh pray mistress. Please forgive me mistress. This slave is indeed just a stupid, ignorant slave mistress. Truly I worship your sock mistress!’

And with that I put my mouth where my mind was – back onto the more modestly-stitched, reinforced toe-area of the pure and clean Japanese mistress’s pure white sock. As ordered, I did so repeatedly. However, the more I kissed, the more I began to spot tiny, little flaws in the seemingly pure, fresh-smelling, white sock:

First of all, on the reinforced toe-area itself there were one or two tiny, almost imperceptible to the naked eye, little black balls of sock-lint – the result, presumably of some cross-contamination from a pair of mistress Matsuki’s black socks whilst they had lain in her Japanese-girl sock-drawer;

Secondly there was the faintest trace of street-dust on the very edge of her big-toe, sock area – the inevitable result of walking the streets, I would have thought, since Barbaria, the capital of the Gynarchy, is a big, bustling, noisy city, with lots of dust and grime on its pavements;

Thirdly the Japanese mistress’s white sock was ever so slightly creased and twisted near the top of her ankle, the result, no doubt, of the arrogantly outstretched positioning of her dainty, oriental foot on the wooden footblock. Still, the single crease in the otherwise smooth, white cotton material detracted somewhat from the sock’s overall perfection – or, at least, it did for me – as it interrupted the flow of the flowery-patterned stitching on the sock’s upper.

Mistress Matsuki, however, appeared unconcerned by such anomalies in her angelic, white anklesock, and continued to extol her own virtues:

‘Ha! Ha! I get married next week, dirty slave! My boyfriend come over from Japan and we get married! He not like you – he a real man! Ha! Ha! I not make him kiss Matsuki white sock; I let him kiss Matsuki nice, soft body; make love to Matsuki; I do nice things for him – he worthy; you just a slave; you fit only kiss woman sock and get whip! Ha! Ha! You a bird-blain sock-kisser! Ha! Ha!’

What could I say? The Japanese mistress is, once again, speaking the absolute truth. All I could do was congratulate her on her forthcoming nuptials, to which I clearly wasn’t invited, and continue to kiss her bridal-white sock:

‘Oh pray mistress Matsuki…kiss…kiss…Congratulations mistress Matsuki…kiss…kiss…God bless you mistress…kiss…kiss…and the master…kiss…kiss…on the happy occasion of your forthcoming wedding, mistress Matsuki…kiss…kiss…’

Mistress Matsuki continued to smile and laugh at me:

‘Ha! Ha! That right slave – you kiss sock of another man blide! Ha! Ha! You a loser; he a winner! He get me – you only get sock! Ha! Ha!’

And with that she finally switches feet, that I may pay equal homage to her left socked-foot.

I am filled once again with an overpowering sense of inferiority and humility in the face of such a seemingly pure, white sock adorning the foot of a superior, young, Japanese woman – as I damn well should be! The bride-to-be all in white – how fitting that I, a filthy-dirty, male slave, should be made to show my respect for her, and her absent bridegroom, by kissing her on the sock!

Do you take this Japanese woman, to be her lawfully-enslaved sock-servant, for as long as ye both shall live?

I do!