Footslave Yarns Volume 3
The third volume in a collection of yarns and tall-tales from women’s footslaves, believe it or not!
VOLUME 3 CONTENTS (scroll down for yarns in reverse numerical order)
10. I sniff sock; therefore I am
9. The Exalted One!
8. Mistress Nastya’s nasty, nylon knee-highs
7. New Horizons
6. From Fisherman to Footslave (in one fell swoop!)
5. Ode to the Female Whip
4. Horn of Africa
3. Angry, Young Women
2. The Self-Delusional, Dumb-Ass, Public Foot-Fool
1. Officer-Mistress Philippa of the Female Police
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Yarn no. 10 – I sniff sock; therefore I am
My 28 year old mistress, mistress Fiona, likes me to perpetually sniff her socks throughout the day. It is largely a symbolic act – since she will for most of the time be wearing her shoes, sneakers or boots with her socks and so the smelliest parts of her socks (the toe areas) are inconveniently hidden from my sniffing nose – but it does demonstrate to all and sundry her absolute female power and authority over me.
And so, if we take a typical working day, from the breakfast table onwards I am publicly, and audibly, smelling her socks. Being her personal sockslave, I have the added indignity of knowing – as I kneel beside her feet underneath the kitchen table whilst she breakfasts with her 50 year old husband – that my beloved mistress Fiona’s plain, black, office anklesocks inside her equally plain, black, low-heeled, round-toed, slip on court shoes are worn and thinning in places, and contain areas of grey along the insteps where repeated wear and tear, and its concomitant female foot-perspiration, has weakened the black dye of the cotton sock material.
However, I can actually see none of that as I must concentrate on sniffing the currently visible areas of her socks i.e. the upper parts, which are already, so early in the day, considerably creased and folded around her shapely, young white woman anklebones.
My mistress Fiona graciously grants me what she calls ‘the freedom of her socks’ – in other words she leaves it to me to decide which sock to sniff on which of her feet at any given time. She does, however, casually monitor my sock-sniffing throughout the day, and expects me to afford equal sniffing-time to both her pretty, black socks.
Woe betide me if she catches me inadvertently sniffing, or even looking at, her pale, white skin above the black sock-line! I must, therefore, be ultra-cautious whenever I am sniffing my mistress’s sweet socks whilst she is seated (as she is now at the breakfast table) and the hems of her bootcut trouser legs have consequently ridden up to reveal not just her glorious, ankle-length sock-top but also her smooth, bare leg skin above the elasticated sock line. I must remain fixated on my mistress’s socks, for she has specifically employed me as her sock-sniffing slave, and considers that her bare, feminine ankleflesh is too good for me.
I have to agree with my mistress on this point, for she is a very beautiful young woman in the prime of life – with dark, shoulder-length hair; deep, blue eyes; a stunning figure; and mega-shapely calves and ankles. Being a mere middle-aged, ugly old sock-sniffing male I am just not worthy to look my mistress Fiona in her bare, young-womanly leg-skin.
And so I dutifully focus on black, office girlsock throughout the day – even when my mistress is standing up and her bootcut trouser hems are virtually covering the tops of her unremarkable, low-heeled, court shoes. Even at such stressful times of sock-outage, I can normally see at least a thin slither of pure, black, feminine sock beneath my mistress’s trouser hem, and can just get my nose onto it (for my mistress likes to feel me sniffing her socks whilst she is wearing them, as well as hear me sniffing them.)
I always get a particular frisson of pathetic, footslavish excitement when my mistress subconsciously stands with one foot extended out in front of the other – perhaps whilst she is deep in conversation with someone – for at such times my freedom to choose which sock I may sniff allows me to fixate my nose on the greatly expanded area of visible sock on the instep of whichever foot and leg is extended forward, rather than struggle to find unencumbered sock to sniff on the foot which remains straight on the ground and therefore almost completely covered by black, office, feminine trouser hem.
Of course, whenever my mistress Fiona is so engaged in conversation above me with another superior being (a female – or even a free male) I must sniff particularly vigorously at her exposed sock on her shapely, white anklebone and instep, so that her talking-companion may also see and hear my humility and degradation at my mistress’s feet, and verbally mock me accordingly.
You can just imagine what the free young ladies or free young men like to say about me as I continuously sniff on the sides of my mistress’s plain, black office socks inside her plain, black, office-court shoes:
‘Ha! Ha! I see your sock-sniffer is in good form today, Fiona? He seems to be loving your socks! Ha! Ha! What a fool! What a cluck!’
‘Ha! Ha! I think he’s trying desperately to get his nose down inside your sweaty shoe, Fiona! Ha! Ha! Seems like he just can’t get enough of your sock-smell up his pug-ugly nose! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! What a dirty dog! What a queer! Sniffing a girl’s plain, black, office socks throughout the day! Ha! Ha! He clearly has nothing better to do than sniff sock! Ha! Ha! What a sad, pathetic loser!’
Some of the superior young people even like to ask me humiliating questions, such as:
‘Ha! Ha! Hey you down there – the sock-sniffing queer, what is it that you like so much about your mistress’s socks that you can’t bear for your nose to be parted from them? Ha! Ha!’
I must always answer the young master or mistress’s derisory questions with the utmost of respect, for they are my betters, whoever they are, since they are not the ones on their hands and knees down on the dirty, office floor sniffing my mistress Fiona’s plain, black anklesocks.
Of course, whilst I am responding to the mocking question, I must also be continuing to sniff my mistress Fiona’s socks – for I am never permitted to desist from sniffing female sock on female foot:
‘Oh pray master sir…sniff…sniff…if it pleases you master sir…sniff…sniff…this slave truly is drawn to his beloved mistress’s socks because they are better than him, master sir…sniff…sniff… as they are permitted to touch the mistress’s divine, bare feet... sniff...sniff…and absorb her precious footsweat … sniff…sniff… unlike the slave who is unworthy of such intimate contact with the mistress…sniff…sniff… if you would be so kind and understanding, young master sir…sniff…sniff…’
The young master-sir will then, likely as not, come back to me with yet another stinging riposte, designed to emphasise still further my utter lowliness and worthlessness compared to both him and my mistress:
‘Ha! Ha! Too right, slave! You’re just a queer sock-sniffer – not worthy to even look at your beautiful mistress’s bare flesh, let alone touch it; not even the skin on her bare, sweaty feet! Ha! Ha! You can think about that, sock-queer, while you are sniffing her dirty socks in the corner of my bedroom tonight while your mistress and I are making love! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes master sir…sniff...sniff... thank you kindly master sir...sniff…sniff.’
Although my mistress Fiona is happily married, she has many affairs with different men in her office. And rightly so, for it is not my place to kneel in judgement of her!
I then hear the lover-master and his mistress giggle and embrace passionately above me whilst I continue to sniff my mistress Fiona’s creased and wrinkled anklesocks around her shapely, untouchable anklebones. I know the young master-sir is not bullshitting me – he will indeed be making love to my mistress Fiona tonight, even though they just met in a bar a few hours ago, for my mistress does like sex; very much so! And her husband, my other master-sir, is away on business tonight!
She may have many lovers, but she only has one humble sock-sniffer – me, I’m honoured to say!
Of course, I am lucky also in that the Female Laws of the Gynarchy prevent my mistress from ordering me to sniff her boyfriends’ or husband’s socks. Sniffing male socks is considered a heinous criminal offence in the Gynarchy – and whilst my mistress herself would not be punished for instigating such a crime I would, undoubtedly, be taken away from her in order to be whipped and sent to the slave-mines for life, so she would lose my services as her personal sock-sniffer forever which would cause her the minor inconvenience of having to purchase and train up a new sockslave.
More significantly perhaps from her point of view, her husband, or the boyfriend concerned, would undoubtedly be locked up and she would feel terribly guilty about that, for she is such a sweet-natured and giving young woman – where the free men in her life are concerned; the men she finds attractive, and who can satisfy her sexually!
It’s only sexually useless sock-sniffers like me that she cares little about, even if she does enjoy the humble services of a personal sock-sniffer.
However, male socks aside, there is nothing in Law to prevent my mistress Fiona from ordering me to sniff her female friends’ and relatives’ socks, and I am frequently, therefore, to be found with my nose buried in the creases on the sides of one or other of her female co-workers’ socks – particularly around my mistress’s office or in the bar after work.
The most frequent ‘non-domiciled’ socks I have to sniff out loud belong to miss Angela, my mistress’s 19 year old junior assistant who sits beside her at their joint office-desk. Blonde-ponytailed miss Angela is too young to own her own, personal sockslave (the minimum legal age for a young woman to own a personal footslave of any kind is 21) and so she thinks it is really cool when her ‘boss’, my mistress Fiona, orders me to respectfully sniff the tops of her office-junior socks.
I can only ever sniff the very tops of miss Angela’s socks as she always wears the same pair of stylish, chunky-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up, black leather ankleboots to work – but she does, thankfully, compensate for this oversight by wearing a wide variety of sock-colours to work; anything from plain white, to yellow, to bright pink, to multicoloured cartoon-print socks, to occasional plain, black socks such as my much more businesslike mistress Fiona is wont to wear.
Furthermore, blonde mistress Angela always kindly ensures that her ankle length bootsocks are fully pulled-up inside her boots whenever my mistress Fiona offers her my sock-sniffing services, so that my pathetic slave-nose always has plenty of elasticated, bootsock-top with which to make humble and respectful, physical contact.
Indeed, I am permitted by mistress Angela to even go so far as to nuzzle her socks whilst I sniff at them – to whine pathetically like a puppy-dog as I endeavour to inhale the warm and moist aroma from the insides of her office boots through her open boot-tops. I think she finds such pathetic whining endearing on my part, as she often reaches down to pat my head affectionately whilst I am nosing the tops of her sweet, feminine bootsocks!
My own mistress Fiona never pats me on the head – though she does, on occasion, kick me in the face – sometimes, though only sometimes, inadvertently as I am crawling behind her heels as she walks along the street or down a corridor. Such times – when my mistress is physically on the move – are, obviously, the most difficult for a perpetuant sock-sniffer, for keeping one’s nose attached to the back or side of a moving sock is well-nigh impossible!
My mistress has not exempted me from trying, however – which is why the backs of her heels are frequently making accidental contact with my face as she walks along. I subsequently receive one stroke of the cane for every time my face disturbs my mistress by making such rough contact with her black-socked heels during the course of a day – but the pain of the cane is worth it, for it is far more painful for my nose to be separated, even for a few seconds, from my mistress Fiona’s socks (unless, I must admit, I am sniffing the substitute socks of another superior female such as those of the delightful miss Angela!)
I much prefer it, though, when my mistress travels by train or by bus (she doesn’t drive) for then I can relax on the dirty floor of the vehicle underneath her shoes and socks and rest my nose on the side of one of her stationary, socked feet. What’s more, I am largely unharried on public transport by her fellow-passengers since the sound of my pathetic sock-sniffing is drowned out by the sound of the train or bus engine – making me much less obvious. I am, at such times, just a thing on the dirty floor for my mistress to rest the dusty sole of her right foot on whilst my nose is pressed up close and personal against the side of her left sock.
In the evening, after work, she hooks up again with the young master-sir who was mocking me earlier, and enjoys a slap-up meal in a restaurant before retiring with him to his grubby, student-bedsit where, as the young master-sir had promised me, they make wild, passionate love as only superior, free human-beings can, whilst I, the sexless slave, kneel unobtrusively in the corner of the bedroom – my nose buried in the very fabric of my mistress’s hastily discarded court shoes and black anklesocks.
Now I can at last smell the very essence of my unfaithful mistress in the crusty, greying toe-ends of her black socks – socks, the upper parts of which have been worshipped throughout the day as they stared me in the face, but whose lower, humbler parts are now preoccupying my sockslavish attention.
As the young master-sir revels in my mistress Fiona’s warm, soft and fragrant body I revel in the stink of her sweaty, day-old socks and moist, inner shoe-lining, continuing to sniff them out loud as a dutiful sockslave damn well should, even though I know the master and mistress cannot hear me over the din of their noisy lovemaking.
But, whether my betters can hear me or not, I continue to sniff. That’s because I am a perpetual girlsock-sniffer. I sniff sock – therefore I am.
Yarn no. 9 – The Exalted One!
Say what you like about mistress Aliya (and, believe me, her fellow, female co-workers have plenty to say about her – that she is lazy; self-centred; self-opinionated; stuck-up; not very bright; stand-offish; full of her own self-importance) – but to we office-footslaves she is nothing less than a true foot-goddess.
She is a supremely beautiful, Muslim businesswoman, of Afghani origins, who emigrated to the Gynarchy many years ago. She is nonetheless still in her thirties – with beautiful, long, flowing, black hair. Though she remains a devout, Muslim lady she is ‘westernized’ to the extent that she no longer seems to wear a headscarf or a veil, and is clearly proud both of her pretty, Afghani-female features and her long hair. To top everything, she has a permanently smug expression on that pretty, but supercilious, Afghan-woman face.
As well she might – for she is an extremely successful young woman both at home and at work; married with 3 children; in charge of the Finance department of the multinational company in which we all work; one of life’s winners!
Which is why we male footslaves – life’s losers – are honoured and blessed to serve at her office feet and footwear on the many occasions throughout the day that she frequents the office coffee-lounge (mistress Aliya has a reputation amongst her female co-workers for ‘skiving’ throughout the day; but we inferior footslaves know that she just needs to take frequent breaks from her stressful job overseeing the company’s finances. I’m quite sure the fact that she is married to the company director has nothing to do with her position in the company; she must have obtained her post on merit – otherwise she wouldn’t be so self-evidently intellectually superior to everyone else, right?)
She is certainly superior to me – the cringing, communal-use, office footslave servicing her ankle-booted feet in the coffee lounge right at this moment. I justly feel inferior to the divine mistress Aliya as she towers above me on her coffee-stool of power – the backs of her anklebooted feet resting on the circular, metal footrest at the base of the stool directly in front of my mesmerized and awestruck face. These are the familiar scuffmarked ankleboots of divine mistress Aliya – the all-powerful company finance manageress who holds the purse strings! It is she who decides just how little I get to eat and drink during my bondage to the company! Such exalted company for a lowly, down-in-the-dirt, company footslave!
Mistress Aliya is pleasingly predictable as to her choice of office attire and footwear according to the seasons. She always wears smart, dark-coloured, shalwar-kameez style trouser-suits with tapered hems – made of the finest silk-cotton.
On her superior, office-manageress feet she wears either her single-strapped, round-toed, low-heeled, no-nonsense, plain black leather, court shoes with Afghani-lady, flesh-toned nylon socklets in the springtime; or with bare feet in the summertime.
During the autumn and winter months she opts to wear her black leather, blocky-heeled, zip-up, round-toed ankleboots with black or navy, ankle-length cotton bootsocks. These are the slightly scuffmarked ankleboots and black socks she has on right now beneath the tapered hems of her dark-green, silken, shalwar-kameez, trouser-hems as her feet rest, tucked in around each other at the ankles, on the circular footrest at the bottom of her high stool whilst she leans on the round coffee table above me flicking through the pages of a glossy, Islamic-fashion magazine and sipping on her well-deserved, warm and refreshing cup of black coffee.
Thanks to the tapered design of her exotic, dark green trouser hems, her plain and ordinary, zip-up, block-heeled, black leather ankleboots, and even the tops of her unremarkable black cotton, officewear anklesocks, are fully on display in front of my humbly-kneeling face.
I’m not at all surprised that such a superior and refined, Afghani-immigrant lady as mistress Aliya should be interested in flicking through glossy, Muslim fashion magazines – even during her work time – for she is such a sophisticated person. Even the slightly twisted bootsock atop her right boot-rim looks almost designer-stylish and is highly appealing, especially as the top of her black cotton sock contrasts so sweetly with the smooth, soft, brown skin of her Afghani calf-muscle exposed below the raised hem of her right, silken trouser leg.
Fortunately mistress Aliya is as equally predictable about her foot-service requirements as she is about her officewear – for she can rarely be bothered to utter verbal orders to we inferior footslaves. She naturally assumes that we shall tongue-polish the scuffmarks on her black leather, office ankleboots whilst she sits over us enjoying her coffee and magazine in peace.
And she assumes correctly – for I defy any public footslave worth his salt to resist the urge to tongue-polish such delectable, Asian-female boots on such a delectable and exotic, Afghani-origins, business lady!
I therefore lick dirty, black leather ankleboot and admire twisted, black bootsock whilst she sips on her black coffee. We are both in our rightful places – the privileged, high-flying footmistress and the underprivileged, down-at-heel footslave.
Her coffee break seems to last for quite a long time, as per usual, and so my feverish boot-licking does too. Her booted feet are not exactly placed in the best position for my tongue to gain access to every crease and crevice in her delectable, feminine bootleather – but then, why should mistress Aliya wish to help me in my humble task by unfurling her shapely, booted and socked, Afghan-lady anklebones? Is she not above me and better than me – entitled to sit and relax in whatever position she damn well pleases?
I know that mistress Aliya certainly is of that opinion!
When she eventually stirs from reading her magazine and finishes her last gulp of coffee, she lazily casts her pretty, Afghani eyes down towards my mouthwork on her boots. I am quite pleased with my efforts, I must say! The hard-to-remove, permanent scuffmarks on her well-worn, winter wear ankleboots are, temporarily at least, darkened and therefore hidden by my footslave-saliva.
Mistress Aliya herself, however, being a successful young businesswoman with high standards and expectations, is clearly not so impressed by my work on her office footwear:
‘Tch! Look at my sock, you the stupid slave! Why it is being all twisted and crooked? Why you are planning to leave it like that on my ankle, you damned, incompetent foot-lackey?’
I apologise for my abject failure to straighten mistress Aliya’s crooked, right bootsock – even though I would happily have straightened it earlier had I known I had her female permission to straighten it! A slave just can’t assume these things and go about touching superior, Afghan-Muslim ladies’ socks willy-nilly – especially not the superior bootsocks of such a divine and exalted young lady as company finance-manageress mistress Aliya:
‘Oh pray mistress Aliya, please forgive this stupid, ignorant slave for his wanton neglect of your sock, if you would be so kind and merciful to this lowly slave at your feet, most highly respected mistress Aliya.’
I make to straighten the elasticated top of her right anklesock with my fingers, but such impertinence only earns me a sharp kick in the middle of my face from the inner, zipper side of her right boot:
‘TCH! WHAT YOU ARE DOING, IMPUDENT SLAVE? DO NOT BE TOUCHING MY SOCK WITH YOUR DIRTY, INFIDEL FINGERS! BE STRAIGHTENING MY SOCK WITH YOUR UGLY NOSE, IMPERTINENT WRETCH, OR I WILL BE HAVING YOU SORELY WHIPPED!... YOU DAMNED, IGNORANT, FOOTSLAVE!... REMEMBER YOU ARE NOTHING MORE THAN THE OFFICE FOOT-LACKEY, AND I AM BEING YOUR FEMALE MASTER AND BETTER!’
‘Yes mistress Aliya. At once mistress Aliya. Please forgive this slave his intolerable impudence, most gracious mistress Aliya! Please don’t beat me mistress!’
‘HAH!’ she snorts triumphantly, and derisively, at me as I promptly move my stupid, gormless footslave-face over towards the offending sock-top and duly straighten it with the tip of my penitent and trembling nose.
Mistress Aliya seems to have calmed down now – bolstered, no doubt, by the pathetic sight of a terrified, office-footslave straightening her measly, crooked sock with his face. How superior to me she must be feeling as I obediently use my ugly maleslave-face to do what her lazy, feminine hands can’t be bothered to do – to straighten the top of her common-or-garden, ankle-length, black, office bootsock inside her common-or-garden, black leather, office ankleboot!
That smug and supercilious grin on her pretty, Afghani face must be even more potent now as she leaves the coffee lounge and walks back up the corridor towards her desk – and rightly so! For a humble and powerless manservant has just had to shine her block-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboots with his tongue, and straighten her now hidden sock-top with his face, and she has left him on his hands and knees internally praising and blessing her for merely gracing him with her superior, Afghani-female, coffee-break presence!
Yes, lowly though he is, the humble office-footslave feels exalted, for he can still taste the cold, black boot polish of mistress Aliya’s Muslim, office-ankleboot leather in his mouth, and feel the soft, warm cotton of her intimate, black, office bootsock on his unworthy lips.
Praise be to mistress Aliya – the exalted one!
Yarn no. 8 – Mistress Nastya’s nasty, nylon knee-highs
23 year old mistress Nastya is a beautiful, dark-haired, indolent and supercilious, East-European girl. She and her similarly aged, black boyfriend love to tease and torment me with her nasty, nylon knee-highs at my suburban, public shoelick-stand on the sink estate where they live.
A typical encounter will go something like this:
Mistress Nastya, as ever chewing gum, will approach my shoelick-stand with a smug grin on her pretty, masticating, East-European face. She will be walking arm in arm with her manly, though very working-class, young, hoodie-wearing, black boyfriend, master Denzil, who gallantly helps her up onto the raised seat in front of my kneeling face (unusually for a humble, suburban shoelick-stall this is of the ‘sit-down’ variety; all paid for by the local Female Council!). Mistress Nastya then rests her two feet onto the respective metal footrests at my face-level.
She is wearing a revealing, black top; a short, red leather miniskirt; and dark-coloured, sheer but laddered, knee-high, nylon popsocks with a pair of scruffy, common-or-garden, black leather ballet-flats.
How those sheer, dark, shimmering nylon knee-highs seem to tower above me as I cringe on the dirty ground with my head humbly bowed before them! They are truly an awesome sight – darker around her ankle areas; then increasingly lighter as they progress up her shapely calve muscles due to the stretching of the fine, nylon stitching; then darkest of all just below her pasty-white kneecaps due to the reinforced stitching at the tops!
Moreover, I know from previous experience that the nylons on her shapely, East European feet and legs will be odorous when encountered close-up, for miss Nastya has incredibly sweaty, stinky feet! Either she suffers from excessive foot-odour; or she is just too lazy to wash her feet on a regular basis; or she simply cannot be bothered to change her nylon hosiery; or perhaps it’s a combination of all three! But, whatever the reason, my public-footslave nose has learnt to brace itself when I see the all-too-familiar, sexy, nyloned feet and legs of goddess-mistress Nastya approaching – especially on such a hot and sticky summer’s evening as this.
Her black boyfriend, having settled his beloved white girlfriend with her smelly, nyloned feet up onto the raised, shoelick-stall chair in front of which I am kneeling, is the first to street-speak:
‘Hja! Hja! How does you like my foxy girlfriend’s pretty shoes and popsocks, slave? They’s real nice though, innit batty-bwoy?’
‘Oh pray master sir. Yes please master sir. If it pleases you master sir.’
I must always be ultra-respectful towards this particular, mixed-race couple as they can be quick to apply the communal-use whipping-stick to my bare back and shoulders if they detect even the slightest disrespect. Indeed, the young master-sir already has said whipping-stick in his tattooed hands, and is using it as a pointing stick towards his girlfriend’s feet.
Specifically, he points with it towards the scuffmarked, rounded toe area of mistress Nastya’s unremarkable, plain black ballet-flat on her undeniably shapely, right foot:
‘Yo! Show some respeck to my girlfriend’s shoe slave, yeah? Kiss she right here on the toe-area, yeah?’
‘Yes master sir. At once master sir.’
I would never argue with a young, black master-sir in front of his white girlfriend and his pointing/whipping stick, and so I move my face down onto the mistress’s right, ballet-flat shoe so that my lips are respectfully touching its soft, black leather.
I can smell three things as I do so – in descending order of strength: the mustiness of mistress Nastya’s well-worn shoe leather; the vinegary and cheesy aroma of her sweat-saturated, laddered nylons; and her fresh, minty breath as she continues to chew nonchalantly on her gum above me.
The dominant young couple laugh triumphantly over me – the much older public footslave kneeling in chains at the behest of a black master in front of a young, East European woman’s feet – as I pay oral homage to the mistress’s scuffmarked, ballet-flat toe. I have to say, the young, mixed-race couple do not exactly have a reputation around the estate for being particularly bright – and they therefore very much enjoy the unusual-for-them experience of being obeyed and worshipped by an even less intelligent and lower being in the Gynarchy’s social scale, like me.
Mistress Nastya is impatient:
‘Make him to kiss my stockings, Den. I want to feel the dirty-slave lips on my nylons!’ she requests in a slightly stilted East-European accent.
Master Denzil laughs:
‘Hja! Hja! All in good time, babes, yeah? First he has to, like, smell yoh dirty nylons though, innit?’
Mistress Nastya laughs too:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes! Oh yes! Make the dirty slave to take off the shoe and smell my stocking first, Den! Ha! Ha! I like! I like!’ she exclaims repeatedly and excitedly.
It would be perfectly easy, of course, for mistress Nastya to just slip off her own, black leather ballet-flat shoe. It would require minimal effort on her superior part, but she is clearly not so inclined. She would much rather her black boyfriend made me do it for her – for she is the superior footmistress and I am but the inferior footslave, born to do her bidding.
‘Hja! Hja! Slave-bwoy – you heard my pretty girlfriend, innit? Obey she, yeah? Take off her right ballet flat and sniff her stinky, nylon foot, man, yeah?…’
Swish…Whack!
Without warning, the master-sir brings the whipping stick down sharply across my bare, right shoulder-blade, and miss Nastya claps her pretty hands in unrestrained delight at the sound of my involuntary scream of shocked pain at her ballet-flated feet:
‘Ha! Ha! Whip him again, Den! Whip the stupid slave! Flog him! Beat him! Hurt him! Ha! Ha!’ she shouts animatedly, in between slapping noisily on her ubiquitous chewing-gum.
Master Denzil duly obliges, clearly of the opinion that only severe physical pain could possibly persuade any man to take off miss Nastya’s ballet-flat shoe and expose himself in humble close-up to the ammonia-like stink of her dark, sweaty, nylons inside!
The master-sir was, as ever, perfectly, if not politically, correct – for the sting of that whipping stick did indeed compel me to do just that, and the smell of malt vinegar soon supersedes that of musty shoe-leather as I dutifully take off miss Nastya’s right, scuffmarked ballet-flat to reveal yet more of her dark-hued, laddered nylon on her shapely, East-European foot.
I am no longer living in fresh air, but in the polluted air of East European, industrial, sweaty-nyloned, female foot.
The master laughs out loud:
‘Wow! I can smell that from up here babes, innit? Hja! Hja! Phew! Well done, babes, yeah? Hja! Hja!’
The master appears to be congratulating his young girlfriend on deliberately imposing her stinky, nyloned foot on my face. And his girlfriend-cum-mistress is seemingly not in the least bit offended by her manly, black boyfriend’s disparaging remarks concerning the stinky estate of her sink estate, East European feet:
‘Ha! Ha! Make the ignorant footpig to sniff my toes out loud like the pig, Den!’
Master Den, the middle man, passes on his girlfriend’s demeaning instructions to me yet again (as she is self-evidently too lofty a feminine creature to converse directly with a down-in-the-stink, male footslave such as myself).
He does so in the form of a rap:
‘Hja! Hja! Do as my girl says, batty-bwoy, innit? Get yoh ugly nose, onto she nylon hose, over she stinky toes! Hja! Hja! Yeah man!’
Master Denzil may not be very well educated, but he is self-evidently very articulate and talented when it comes to ordering a slave about through the medium of rap, as well as being very handy with the stick!
Speaking of which, he raps me with it yet again, directly across my exposed, right shoulderblade.
Prompted by pain, I swiftly bury my nose into the finely-stitched, dark-coloured, but in places thinning and laddered, nylon mesh-material covering the dark-haired mistress Nastya’s pretty, East European toes on her right foot. I can feel my nose literally sink into the stink, as it presses down on an area of fetchingly laddered, moist and warm nylon in between her unvarnished and unpainted big and second toes.
Sweaty, feminine toe-stink truly overwhelms me and I groan with utter despair and disgrace as much as with the stinging pain now pulsating through my whipped, right shoulder-blade, as I am obliged to nose mistress Nastya’s nasty, nylon knee-highs in public!
The stinky nylon feels quite coarse on the tip of my nose, despite its warmth and moistness. This is truly cheap nylon – not smooth and soft, expensive nylon. But it is nevertheless worth more than me, for it is nylon which covers and protects the gum-chewing, East-European immigrant-mistress Nastya’s right foot, and absorbs her priceless, East-European footsweat which I am fit only to sniff and kiss.
The mistress Nastya herself, however, is an extremely compassionate young woman, and it seems she wishes to offer me a proper, fulsome drink of her truly nasty footsweat:
‘Ha! Ha! Now make him to suck the sweat out of my nylons, Den! Well, make him to suck on the dirty, nylon toes please! Ha! Ha!’
Master Denzil has a special trick up his grey hoodie-sleeve today – literally so! For he now produces a torch-like apparatus from his jacket pocket which he ‘shines’ on his pretty girlfriend’s exposed, nylon foot:
‘Hja! Hja! Look what I’s got for you, babe! It’s one o’ them sweat-detectors, an’ that, innit? Ha! Ha! It’ll show up all the sweat on your foot which he has to suck off! Hja! Hja! I nicked it from that shop earlier this morning, innit though? Cool, yeah?’
Mistress Nastya is indeed impressed and claps her hands with glee as all three of us – the young, black master-sir; the equally young, white mistress-madam; and the middle-aged, pug-ugly slave – observe how the mistress’s right, nyloned foot is now a mixture of blue, green and yellow under the ray of the ‘sweat-detector’ device.
The clever master Denzil kindly explains everything to me:
‘Hja! Hja! You see those yellowy areas on my girlfriend’s foot, slave-bwoy?...Those are sweat stains, yeah? And the green areas are the even sweatier parts, yeah? And the blue spots are where the sweat is at its greatest, like, yeah?...Hja! Hja!... Man, I doesn’t wanna see any traces of sweat left on my girl’s nylons when you has finished wit’ them slave, yeah? You is gonna suck all she sweat clean away, innit batty-bwoy? Hja! Hja!...’
Swish…Whack!
Yet again master Den’s stick reinforces his point. He also, helpfully, keeps pointing the ‘sweat-detector’ device in his left hand towards his pretty girlfriend’s concomitantly pretty, nyloned foot in order to facilitate me in identifying the areas of greatest sweat, and thereby enable me to humbly comply with the dominant couple’s orders to divest her foot-nylon of the offending, and now highly visible, perspiration – to divest her nylon popsocks of girlfoot-sweat by mouth!
By the time I have finished sucking on mistress Nastya’s, nasty nyloned feet much of the highlighted yellow and green areas have, mercifully, disappeared; disappeared down my footslave-gullet. But some stubborn areas of blue remain – particularly on the reinforced areas of dark nylon material directly beneath her sticky, sweaty, unwashed toes.
Dissatisfied with my poor performance master Denzil whips me hard several more times with the stick – always across my right shoulder blade which is by now very raw and sore. As he does so he is egged on by the mistress who enjoys watching her young boyfriend beating a much older public-manservant on her behalf.
Mercifully, the couple must have an urgent appointment of some sort, for they suddenly and unexpectedly decide to cut short my wholly justifiable punishment in order to leave my public shoelick-stand. However my regular customer-mistress Nastya has just one more wicked suggestion for her beloved, black boyfriend before he helps her down from the raised seat:
‘Ha! Ha! Make him to take off my nylons, Den, and continue sucking on them until he gets out all the sweat!...Ha! Ha!...The fool can be sucking on my stinky, nylon footsweat while we are enjoying ourselves in the nightclub, yes?’
Master Denzil clearly thinks this is a wonderful idea:
‘Hja! Hja! Cool, babes!...Yo, slave! Do it…take off my girlfriend’s nylons wit’ your teeth and suck them in yoh big, ugly mout’, yeah? You is gonna suck off all that remainin’ sweat from my girl’s nylon kneesocks by the time we gets back or you is gonna get more o’ this, yeah?…’
Swish…Whack!
I gasp in pain as mistress Nastya gasps with delight at the sight and sound of the whipping-stick descending yet again onto my already tenderized shoulder-blade:
‘Aoww!…Yes master sir; at once master sir!’
I promptly, but respectfully, pull off mistress Nastya’s sticky and slimy, right nylon popsock from the still-sweaty, reinforced toe-end using only my teeth, as instructed by the black master-sir – taking great care not to ladder or tear the already well-worn and thinning, East European nylon even further. I then scrunch the flimsy, nylon material up into my mouth for a good soaking.
Having done the same with mistress Nastya’s left foot I then put her scruffy, well-used, black leather ballet-flats back onto her now bare, white, veiny feet before her boyfriend helps her down from the chair.
The happy, young, mixed-race couple then run off hand-in-hand towards the nearby bus-stop, leaving me with my mouth full of mistress Nastya’s nasty, nylon knee-highs. I can only hope and pray that no other female customers come my way this balmy, summer’s evening, for it is so rude to speak to a mistress with your mouth full of another girl’s temporarily discarded, sweaty nylons, don’t you think?
Yarn no. 7 - New Horizons
Even though my humble existence as a communal footslave in a female-run office is generally very routine and mundane – kissing and licking the same old, familiar shoes and boots belonging to the same old (but often young) office-ladies day in and day out – just occasionally I do get to experience new horizons!
Take today, for example; today that new horizon relates to 21 year-old miss Samantha – the beautiful, but dippy, blonde-curly-haired receptionist who never fails to utilize my services during her lengthy, mid-morning coffee break.
Normally she is wearing her ubiquitous short, black skirt; her finest-denier, tan-coloured nylon stockings; and her smart, black, office courts with the three-inch, stiletto-heels. She has great legs and I always enjoy admiring them as they tower above my stupid, ugly head whilst she is seated above and in front of me as I humbly kneel and attend with my unworthy tongue to her black, office shoe-leather.
In particular, I like to admire the almost-imperceptible-to-the-human-eye, but strikingly-visible-to-the-footslave-eye, tiny little creases and wrinkles in the sheer, nylon, stocking-material around her shapely, office-girl ankles, caused by the outstretched positioning of her feet onto the metal footrests at the base of the office shoelick-stand directly in front of my kneeling face as I dutifully tongue-shine her dusty shoes.
I am aware that mistress Samantha herself is unaware of, or at the very least unconcerned by, such tiny creases and imperfections in her tan, nylon stockings – since they are an insignificant thing – and yet the very fact that they loom large in my own pathetic, footslave-consciousness makes me feel very humble and worthless, for I am basically reduced to being a dippy blonde-girl’s, nylon-stocking-creases admirer!
Not that mistress Samantha herself is not to be admired in her superior, female personage; she is a very sweet-natured and bubbly girl, who, as I said, indulges me nearly every day with a court-shoe shine, even if her shoes don’t particularly need tongue-shining, precisely because she knows I enjoy licking her shoes for her.
I think she feels sorry for me, as I am the lowest of the low – a common-use, office footslave - though she is probably not much higher above me in the office hierarchy herself, being just the junior receptionist.
Divine mistress Samantha is always very chatty – with everyone; even with me – albeit only with regard to her feet and footwear (for she knows I am incapable of having a meaningful conversation about anything other than superior young women’s feet and footwear!). She is always happy to discuss her high-heeled shoes and sheer nylons with me, and to physically direct my tongue over her black-leather office-courts with her pink-varnished, index finger whilst she verbally enlightens me as to the wear-history of the particular pair of nylons she has on that day – their denier number; how long she has been wearing them since their last wash; whether they feel hot and sticky over her pink-varnished toes inside her shoes etc.
Occasionally she even invites me to kiss or nose her tan-coloured, nylon-stockinged anklebones, as a treat for ‘doing a good job’ on her outer shoeleather. As I said – a sweet and kind, indulgent young blonde office-mistress. I do admire her very much!
So what’s so exciting and different about today, I hear you ask? Well, mid morning, as per usual, I spy with my little footslave-eye miss Samantha approaching my ‘sit-down’ shoelick stand in the office corridor, a big bright and bubbly smile on her pretty, white face – again as per usual – only today she is wearing casual clothes! A pale pink T-shirt; blue denim jeans; and a pair of blue and white stripe, lace up sneakers!
I have never seen the always smartly-dressed miss Samantha looking like this! Scruffy jeans and a T shirt! And her normally curly, blonde hair all tied back in tight braids. She looks for all the world like some sort of scruffy student-girl! Almost unrecognisable!
What’s going on?
Miss Samantha can clearly observe the consternation and confusion on my pig-ignorant face, for she laughs out loud at me as she gaily approaches my office shoelick-stall and takes up her seat in front of me – resting her scruffily-sneakered feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face (I think one of the reasons why she likes me so much is that, being a mere footslave, I am one of the very few people in the world who is even more intellectually challenged than she is; for miss Samantha is, by all accounts, not the brightest bulb in the chandelier! She therefore likes seeing someone else confused and perplexed for a change, whilst she is in full control of her, somewhat limited, intellectual faculties!):
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t you recognise me, slave? It’s me - miss Samantha! Ha! Ha!’
I am still in a state of shock – but manage to respond to the superior young, blonde woman above me:
‘Oh pray mistress…Oh yes mistress Samantha…You are looking very beautiful today, mistress Samantha!’
I don’t know what else to say under the circumstances. Miss Samantha, the normally stiletto-heeled office junior, in scruffy jeans and sneakers! What a treat!
‘Ha! Ha! Does you like my blue and white sneakers, slave?’ she asks me, coquettishly twisting her sneakered feet on the footrests beneath my face in order to give me a better view of the two, pale blue stripes running along each side.
I should, perhaps, explain that the impressionable miss Samantha speaks a bit like a black girl, except when she is on Reception duties, ever since she started dating her Jamaican boyfriend, master Leroy. She appears to be very much under his voodoo spell – nuts about him, in fact!
Not that I’m jealous, of course!
‘Oh yes mistress…very much so, mistress Samantha. Thank you mistress; if it pleases you mistress Samantha!’
This is the God’s honest truth. I do very much like the sight of miss Samantha’s scruffy and scuff-marked, flat-heeled sneakers resting beneath my humbly-kneeling face, for sneakers are a rare treat for me in the office environment. The office dress-code prohibits the wearing of sneakers, and I can only ever recall seeing sneakers being worn on one occasion before – by miss Josephine from Accounts – and that had only been because she had a medical certificate from her doctor authorising her to wear soft footwear to work due to a sprained ankle. And even then the sneakers had been black – to match miss Josephine’s black office slacks.
This is, I think I am correct in saying, the first time I have ever been privileged to witness a young office-woman wearing a pair of scruffy, blue and white sneakers and equally scruffy, blue jeans to work! So they are indeed a sight for sore footslave-eyes!
What really catches my eye, however, is the sight of the elasticated tops of miss Samantha’s short, blue and white sneaker socks, just visible along the upper rims of her matching, low-cut, blue and white, lace-up sneakers. The blue element of the socks is a single, thin, pale-blue, horizontal line running through the elasticated area of the sock-top – a sock-top which disappears completely down the backs of miss Samantha’s flat sneaker-heels and is really only visible along her shapely, blonde-girl insteps.
This is such a rare treat – being so close to miss Samantha’s bare, white ankleskin which I have only ever previously seen through the fine mesh of her tan-coloured office-nylons!
Of course, I am no stranger to female socks per se. Many of the young office ladies wear socks to work – socks with ballet flats; socks with ankle boots; socks with flat, shiny black, plastic, slip-on shoes. But nearly always dark-coloured or plain black socks – to comply with the sober, officewear dress code. Even the aforementioned miss Josephine had felt compelled to wear plain black anklesocks over her swollen ankle inside her plain black, lace up sneakers during the period of her unfortunate ankle-injury!
But these socks of miss Samantha’s – these short, casual-wear sneaker socks – these are blue and white!
What the hell is going on?
Miss Samantha continues to laugh at my perplexed and gormless face:
‘Ha! Ha! Well – get on with it then, slave. I wants you to tongue-shine my dirty sneakers, innit? Ha! Ha!’
She’s laughing, in part, because – thick and naïve though she is – even miss Samantha knows that it is impossible for a slave to ‘tongue-shine’ a pair of sneakers; especially such a scruffy and unkempt pair of girl-sneakers with ingrained scuff and dirt marks all along the sides and toe areas. But she knows also that it won’t be for the want of trying on my part – so much do I admire and respect her sweet, young-womanly, dippy-blonde authority over me!
‘Yes mistress Samantha! At once mistress Samantha!’
I lower my mouth to the unfamiliar texture of coarse and scuffmarked, girl-sneaker leather – directly onto the rounded toe-area of miss Samantha’s right sneaker. As I do so, I am gratified to observe that my face is now so close to her cotton sock-top that I can see the individual stitches in the blue-striped, narrow elasticated area at the top of her sock along her pasty-white instep.
This is such an honour!
As I start licking miss Samantha’s flaky sneaker-leather, she continues to indulge me from on high:
‘Don’t you want to know why I’m wearing jeans and sneakers today to the office, slave? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh yes mistress…lick…lick… if you would be so kind mistress Samantha…Pray enlighten this stupid slave, mistress... lick…lick…’
Of course I’m curious to know! This is the undoubted highlight of my day; of my week; possibly of my entire office-footslave career! The day I attended to miss Samantha’s, scruffy blue and white sneakers!
‘Ha! Ha! God, you is such a dumbbell, innit slave? Don’t you know I’m on a ‘Personal Safety and Slave Restraint’ training course today? Ha! Ha! I’m supposed to come in in my casual clothes since it involves having to wrestle male criminals to the floor and kick their asses, and that, innit? Ha! Ha! Couldn’t really be doin’ that in my nice, clean courts, could I now? Ha! Ha! What a silly dumbass you are, slave! Ha! Ha!’
Actually, I would have thought that a pair of stilettos would come in quite handy when fighting off any rebellious or mutinous maleslaves? Just imagine getting kicked in the slave-groin or in the slave-face with a sharp, feminine, stiletto heel! But, at least I now understand miss Samantha’s unusually casual garb. I’d heard rumours going around the office ladies about these new personal safety courses being on offer – designed to help the more fragile and petite amongst them learn how to restrain a recalcitrant slave (or indeed an overly amorous, free male) should the need ever arise!
And miss Samantha is, physically, quite petite. She may be blonde – but she is certainly not what you would call a ‘leggy’ blonde, even though she has great-shaped legs! She is actually quite short and delicate-looking, and I can see how she might wish to develop her personal safety techniques before, perhaps, employing a personal footslave of her own (which she is now lawfully entitled to do being over the age of 21) as personal footslaves, however subdued and contrite they normally are, can occasionally ‘snap’ and try to run away, perhaps spooked by the sight of their mistress’s cruel whip being unfurled for action!
I understand also that the classes are being delivered by officers from the Gynarchy’s Female Police. I gulp at that thought – for such young, police-officer women are most definitely not to be trifled with here in the Gynarchy! I wonder whether I may have to attend to a uniformed, female police officer’s boots at some point during the day? If so, I shall have to be on my best behaviour, or no doubt the WPC’s thick, brown leather punishment strap will be decorating my bare, kneeling back!
But for now I must get back to concentrating on the sneakers and socks of sweet and kind mistress Samantha – a girl who is much too sweet-natured to ever become a female police officer herself! She will beat a manservant – but only if he upsets or annoys her personally; not because it is her professional duty to punish him.
‘Oh I see, mistress…lick...lick… thank you, and God bless you for enlightening me, mistress Samantha…lick…lick…this slave is pig-ignorant, mistress Samantha…lick…lick…and is truly indebted to the gracious mistress for her clear and lucid explanation, mistress …lick…lick…lick…’
‘Ha! Ha! Too right you are, slave! You’re nothin’ but a pig-ignorant, pig-faced, pig-like, little footie-pig, innit though?’
‘Yes mistress Samantha…lick…lick… Indeed, mistress Samantha…lick…lick… as you so rightly say mistress Samantha…lick…lick… God bless you, superior mistress Samantha…lick…lick…lick…’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, slave, what do you think? Does you like the taste of my dirty sneakers, and that? Is they doin’ it for ya’? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh pray mistress Samantha…lick…lick…if it pleases you mistress Samantha…lick...lick… this slave does indeed relish the taste of the mistress’s wonderfully beautiful and well-worn sneakers mistress…lick...lick… if it is so pleasing to you most respected and beautiful mistress Samantha… lick...lick… Truly they taste of the very essence of your feet, mistress…lick…lick…lick…’
I mean it – I’m sure I can taste the ingrained, salty footsweat on them; even on the outsides!
Miss Samantha laughs at my obsequious response, as well she might.
Of course, much as I am enjoying the unfamiliar taste of dippy blonde-girl, scuffed sneaker-leather, what I would really like to get my mouth onto is the soft, elasticated top of her short, white sneaker-sock below her blue-denim jean hem – because that sweet, feminine girlsock is currently in direct contact with mistress Samantha’s superior, female foot-skin!
Now, there are some mistresses who you know just won’t do requests! Any request to kiss sock from a humble, down-in-the-dirt footslave such as myself would be regarded as an impertinence, and would receive short shrift, along with, quite probably, a taste of the female whip on one’s impudent back!
But there are others – like the bubbly and sweet-natured, blonde-braided miss Samantha – with whom one can take guarded liberties. I can’t even begin to count the number of times, for example, that she has permitted me to respectfully kiss her tan, nylon-stockinged anklebones over the six months or so that she has been employed in the office!
And so I decide to strike whilst the slavish sock-ardour is hot:
‘Oh pray mistress…lick…lick…if it pleases you mistress Samantha… lick…lick… this slave also very much admires the sight of the mistress’s sweet, blue and white sneaker socks…lick…lick… if it is so pleasing to you sweet and kind mistress Samantha…lick…lick…and humbly begs the mistress for the inestimable honour of kissing the tops of her socks…lick...lick…if it would be so pleasing to you most clever and erudite mistress Samantha...lick...lick…Oh pray mistress!…lick…lick…Oh pray!...lick… lick... Please offer this lowly footslave at your feet some sweet feminine sock-succour!…lick...lick… Oh pray mistress! Oh pity pray!...lick…lick…lick…’
Miss Samantha, as I had guessed, is not in the least bit offended at my pathetic desire to kiss her on the short, blue and white sneaker-sock! Indeed, quite the opposite! She is delighted at my humility, and at my description of her as ‘clever and erudite’ – two epithets not normally associated with her dippy-blonde personality type!
‘Ha! Ha! I’m glad you like my socks, slave. My boyfriend Leroy chose them for me, as he likes me to wear white socks inside my sneakers! Ha! Ha! I’m not sure he’d like the idea of you slobbering all over my socks though, innit? Ha! Ha!...’
She must be able to see the disappointment writ large on my face, for, sweet and compassionate young woman that she is, she then continues…
‘Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what I’ll do, slave…you carry on licking clean my sneakers, innit, and in the meantime I’ll phone my boyfriend and see if he’ll grant you his permission to kiss my white socks, yeah? Ha! Ha!...’
My face lights up:
‘Oh thank you mistress…lick…lick…God bless you mistress Samantha… lick…lick …and God bless master Leroy mistress…’
‘Ha! Ha! Calm down, slave…master Leroy hasn’t given his permission yet, innit though? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress…lick…lick…Sorry mistress... lick…lick...’
I try to concentrate on my vigorous, young-woman-sneaker licking (on both miss Samantha’s precious sneakers) whilst she, graciously, takes out her mobile phone and makes representations on my behalf to her beloved Jamaican boyfriend (about whom she is forever wittering on; ‘oh he’s so handsome’; ‘oh he’s so strong’; ‘oh he really loves her, and that!’) – representations that I should be permitted to kiss the soft, cotton tops of his blonde girlfriend’s short, blue and white sneaker-socks, the ones he apparently bought for her, whilst she is still wearing them!
‘Hi, honey, it’s me…Yeah…we’re on a break innit, so I’m having my sneakers cleaned by the office footslave, and that, yeah?... Ha! Ha!...Yeah, that’s right, hon…Yeah…Ha! Ha!...Listen, honey, he wants to know if he can kiss the tops of my socks, and that?…What do you think?...Should I let him, and that?...It’s up to you honey, whatever you think...you knows best, innit?...Ha! Ha!.. Okay, thanks honey!... See ya’ later…love you…Muah!... Muah!…’
I hear mistress Samantha kissing her manly, Jamaican boyfriend over the phone, and wait with bated breath to hear master Leroy’s considered decision as to my humble request towards his blonde girlfriend’s socks:
‘Ha! Ha! He says that he’s not happy at the idea of you kissin’ my socks, slave, but he will let you place your nose on the tops of my socks so that you can sniff them three times each, and that. And he wants me to film you doin’ it for him on my phone, yeah? Ha! Ha! He’s so clever, my boyfriend, innit slave?’
I have to agree with the mistress. It’s a master-stroke on the part of master Leroy – denying me the succour of his dippy and indecisive, blonde-braided, receptionist girlfriend’s soft, cotton sock-material on my lips (presumably because my lips would be too close for comfort to his girlfriend’s bare ankleflesh), but nonetheless obliging me to pay my respects to her socks, and to honour them, by sniffing them out loud, and having my humiliation recorded for posterity on her smart phone:
‘Yes mistress Samantha...lick…lick… if it pleases you mistress Samantha... lick…lick… the master is indeed a very clever and intelligent man, mistress …lick...lick…and is better than me, mistress…lick…lick…God bless master Leroy, mistress…lick...lick…’
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave. He’s twice the man you’ll ever be! Ha! Ha!...Now stop lickin’ my sneakers and obey your master…sniff my socks three times each; and do it out loud so he can hear it as well as see it when I plays it all back to him later, yeah? Oh, yeah, and make sure you don’t touch my bare skin wit’ your nose, yeah? Otherwise Leroy says he’ll come and whip ya! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress…at once mistress Samantha!’
A master’s orders must be instantly obeyed whenever they are approved and relayed by his blonde-braided-haired girlfriend, however dim and dippy she may be, and so I immediately press my nose to blue and white, blonde-girl sneaker sock, respectfully making sure that the tip of my nose doesn’t inadvertently brush against the mistress’s soft, forbidden, bare, white ankleskin.
Her skin is reserved for master Leroy.
She laughs at the, presumably ticklish, sensation of my slave-nose resting on the top, blue and white strip of her sock:
‘Ha! Ha! Sniff it slave, innit? Sniff it three times, like the master ordered you to!’
I audibly sniff, and breathe in through my nose the musty, sweaty aroma of her well-worn, upper sneaker-leather mixed in with fresh, cotton girlsock.
As I do so, out of the corner of my eye, I can make out the thin, horizontal line of pale-blue stitching that embellishes the elasticated top of miss Samantha’s truly amazing, short, white sneaker-sock!
Yes, today, rather like miss Samantha herself, I am definitely getting to seek out new horizons – even if mine are only humble, sock-related ones!
Yarn no. 6 – From Fisherman to Footslave (in one fell swoop!)
Author’s note: I am indebted to a regular reader for the inspiration behind this short story.
Off the south-eastern coast of the Gynarchy’s mainland lies the picturesque island of Futurosa. It is an island run on Gynarchic-Islamic principles, and is therefore something of a natural haven for superior Muslim women who wish to enjoy their natural, feminine power over the subordinate, non-believer male whilst remaining true to their religion.
Futurosa’s economy, however, depends almost entirely on fishing, and so one of the most important organisations protecting the island’s economy is the ‘Female Coastguard’ – staffed by fit, young, mainly Muslim women in smart uniforms consisting of pure white, dupatta-style, silken headscarves; and matching, pure white salwar kameez style trouser-suits with the tapered trousers tucked into the tops of heavy-looking, black rubber, calf-length boots.
The ‘Female Coastguard of Futurosa’, to give them their full title (or the ‘FCF’ for short), have a ruthless reputation for protecting the island’s fishing grounds, and are legendary throughout the Gynarchy and beyond.
If you are female – you can relax. You will not be on the FCF’s radar-screens (literally). If you are male, however, be afraid – be very afraid! Especially if you are a stupid, male fisherman who dares to stray into Female Waters!
Maxim is one such stupid, impecunious fisherman. He is such a stupid dolt! Ha! Ha! He thinks that by fishing alone at night, on his rickety, single-seater fishing boat, he can avoid detection, and get away with stealing some of the fish that rightly belongs to the female inhabitants of Futurosa!
And his self-delusional stupidity is compounded by the fact that he has managed to get away with it so far – a full 3 weeks of illicit, nocturnal fishing off the coast of Futurosa, an island he has no desire to ever set foot on, but whose abundant fishing grounds help feed his family back in his own, non-female-dominated, neighbouring country. He is a free man, from the free world, just eking out a living, and he sees nothing wrong in that!
…………………………………………………………………………….
Or at least he didn’t until now! Just a few seconds ago he was quietly pulling in his net filled with his latest, illicit haul; but right now he is lying face-down on the wooden floor of his dilapidated fishing boat staring at the dirty and wet instep of a black rubber, female, calf-length boot whilst the sole of a second, similar boot presses his right cheek down painfully onto the wood.
Those black rubber boots, unbeknown to Maxim, belong to 20 year old officer-cadet miss Jala of the FCF - a slim, young woman of Pakistani origins who just loves to catch illegal fisherman in her beloved island’s waters!
She is not alone – she is part of a Female Boarding Party consisting of 6 Female Coastguard Officers, but not all of them could find room enough to board this tiny, rickety fishing vessel – a vessel which will now most assuredly be scuppered.
As for its skipper – well, his fate is now well and truly in the hands, or more accurately beneath the dirty, calf-length rubber boots, of officer-cadet mistress Jala and her fellow-Muslim, female comrades. She smiles cruelly down at the wriggling, male infidel-worm beneath her uniform-booted feet. Quite a catch! He is relatively young, and will make a good, personal footslave for some lucky, Muslim woman in Futurosa. All miss Jala has to do is ‘reel him in’; tie him up in her net; and deliver him to market while he is still fresh!
She begins by happily enlightening him as to his fate in her fluent English, but with a cute Pakistani accent, and all whilst casually adjusting her white, dupatta-headscarf around her pretty, Pakistani face in order to preserve her young-womanly modesty:
‘Ha! Ha! Lie still beneath my boots, you the slippery slave! Ha! Ha! You are now being my captive, and the property of the Islamic Gynarchy, isn’t it? In the name of the island of Futurosa I am hereby appropriating you as a male slave for women! Be kissing the side of my dirty, rubber boot as an acknowledgement of your surrender and submission to the power that is being invested in me by the Female State!’
Maxim – still in his stupid, male head a ‘free’ man (though not for much longer) – has no intention of submitting to the petite, Pakistani coastguard-girl’s black, rubber boots, and struggles to get his oily head free from underneath the wet and muddy, rubbery-treaded sole of her right, calf-length boot.
‘Ha! Ha! You’ve got a live one there, Jala!’ exclaims another of the Female Coastguards, an Indonesian officer-cadet by the name of miss Dita. ‘Need a hand?’
Miss Jala just smiles at her white-headscarfed colleague:
‘Ha! Ha! No thank you, Dita. He’s nothing I can’t handle!’
And with that the fully-trained officer-cadet mistress Jala withdraws her ceremonial sword from its sheath attached to her lithesome, young waist, and brings the flat edge of the sword crashing down across the struggling fisherman’s flailing, wet buttocks.
He howls in pain like a dogfish – his first experience of bright-young-woman-delivered pain:
‘Be kissing my boot like I am saying to you, stupid slave, unless you are wishing to be receiving another one!’ counsels miss Jala, who is far from being a cruel girl and does not wish to see the newly-hooked man suffer any more than is absolutely necessary!
Fortunately, one firm stroke of the flat sword is enough to subdue the weak-willed and lily-livered fisherman-cum-poacher, and he now compliantly places his lips onto the muddy, lower side of his young, female-Muslim captor’s black rubber, calf-length boot.
It is his first ever taste of female rubber-boot, and must be an acquired taste; for he balks at the bitter taste of the muddy, wet rubber.
He will have to get used to it from now on, however; for he is now a slave of women, and will henceforth be living his life under female foot.
………………………………………………………………………….
Back in the naval base he has to get used to another, hitherto unknown to him, aspect of footslave-life – the feel and smell of a Pakistani officer-cadet girl’s thick, black, uniform-regulation, sweaty bootsocks resting on his upturned face; for miss Jala is using his face as her socked-footrest whilst her trusted colleague, miss Dita, takes some snapshots of the Female Coastguard’s latest catch for the organisation’s monthly, in-house magazine.
‘Slave’ Maxim, for that was what he now legally was – a slave – is having to experience for the first time the sight and feel of little, black balls of Pakistani-girl, sweaty bootsock-lint rubbing over his face and into his eyes, nostrils and mouth. For the first time in his life he is breathing in raw girlsock, and familiarising himself with the distinctively poignant aroma of young-woman, sweaty feet which have until recently been encased in rubber boot.
Although he is used to strong smells, having worked all his life around fish, he doesn’t much appreciate the smell of sweaty, feminine feet – yet. But he will have to come to appreciate it in the months and years ahead, for the very next day he is put up for auction as a ladies’ personal footslave in the main town square of the Islamic island’s capital.
Such a strange experience for a formerly self-respecting, freeworld fisherman – to be forced to kneel on the auction block whilst being poked, prodded and examined by a succession of potential buyers; all Muslim women in various degrees of Islamic dress ranging from full-length, black burkas to much more ‘westernized’ young women wearing, modest Islamic headscarves, but with tight-fitting jeans and T shirts.
To his initial dismay, slave Maxim was eventually purchased by a black-burka clad woman. He was dismayed because he had no way of telling whether or not his new owner and mistress was young or old, or had a beautiful or cruel face behind her black-burka veil.
His selfish concerns were soon dissipated, however, when he espied her pink and white sneakers beneath the somewhat dusty hem of her long, ankle-length, black burka. This was an attractive, young woman. She must be young and attractive – after all, she’s wearing brightly-coloured sneakers!
And not only brightly-coloured sneakers – but short, multicoloured, stripy sneaker-socks, the elasticated tops of which are only just visible above the upper rims of her low-cut, lace-up sneakers and beneath her prominent, Arabian anklebones. It all suggested a fun-loving, if strict, young Muslim woman who would soon take him in hand and teach him a lesson or two!
And slave Maxim – perhaps for the first ever time in his ignorant, stupid life – was quite correct – for his new owner was none other than one miss Faridah; a 25 year old, Yemeni girl whose occupation was ‘prison visitor’. She visited helpless, male footslave-prisoners throughout the Gynarchy, both on the Island of Futurosa and on the mainland – teasing and tormenting them to the point of insanity with her pretty, feminine sneakers and socks beneath her severe, black burka.
But when she had finished her day job of ruthlessly teasing pathetic male prisoners, it was her newly acquired personal footslave – slave Maxim – on whose face she now rested her warm and moist, multicoloured, stripy-socked feet as she divested herself of her sneakers and burka in the privacy of her own home on the island of Futurosa, and cuddled up into the arms of her beloved and manly, Yemeni husband, Sulaiman.
Or ‘master-sir Sulaiman’ to Maxim, the former fisherman, and now Muslim-woman’s, pathetic, personal footslave.
Not such a great catch after all, perhaps; but there are plenty more fishermen in the seas off the island of Futurosa!
Yarn no. 5 – Ode to the Female Whip
I am in the process of being punished – and Righteously so.
I am confined and kneeling in a set of old-fashioned looking, wooden whipping stocks, my mouth gagged with a pair of my mistress’s dirty, white anklesocks.
I am midway through my punishment – 10 lashes already received from her Righteous, single-tailed, black leather whip; 10 yet to come.
My mistress Esther – a 23 year old, petite and beautiful, dark-haired maiden of Germanic origins – has temporarily left the dank and dingy punishment room in the basement of her family home in order to rest her whipping arm, and thereby prolong my agony.
She looks nice today, as she always does, in her white bonnet; her modest, ankle-length, navy-blue, long-sleeved, dress; and her plain, white apron – all worn with her shiny, black, flat slip-on shoes and another pair of plain, white, religious anklesocks – similar to the pair now inside my mouth.
I can taste the very essence of my pious, young mistress’s Righteous feet in my penitent-sinner mouth as I blubber into her sweaty, white socks with each cruel cut of the castigating whip. From my kneeling position in the stocks I can also observe my mistress’s current black shoes and white socks behind me as she whips me. The dusty hem of her ankle-length, navy blue dress swings around her shapely, white-socked ankles with each descending swish of the cruel and unforgiving whip!
How can one so delicate and gentle be the source of so much pain?
Pain – all is pain!
As I await my holier-than-thou mistress’s return for the second part of my punishment, I am reminded of the ancient ode written by an anonymous, whipped footslave from times long ago:
Ode to the Female Whip
O whip, how I fear and admire thee in my mistress’s fair hands!
Symbol of absolute feminine power and authority,
Inscriber of the female will on the bended, maleslave back.
How I dread thy stinging embrace, and wouldst seek to turn my back on thee!
Yet thou teachest me humility at the feet of my female betters.
Thou leadest me to respect and obedience for the woman.
Crack on, dear whip!
For I am in need of thy tutelage, though it paineth me mightily to say so.
Crack on, dear whip!
And teach thou this sinner his humble place.
Crack on, dear whip!
Crack on!
But not so harshly, I prithee; for I am but flesh and bone laid bare before thee!
The rusty door to the punishment room creaks open again, and my mistress Esther steps softly in – whip in hand. I see its snaking, black leather tail slithering along the dusty, wooden floor behind my Righteous mistress’s shiny black shoes and plain white socks.
I brace myself in my wooden bonds, for it is indeed time for her to crack on!
Yarn no. 4 – Horn of Africa
There can surely be no more erotic sight than that of a tall and slim, exotically beautiful, young Ethiopian woman dressed in her traditional, light-grey-coloured, Islamic robes and headscarf, and with a fetching pair of oversized, clearly borrowed, scuffmarked, chunky-heeled, brown leather ankleboots on her slender, East African feet and ankles?
Add to that a pair of somewhat ropey-looking, thick, white, ankle-length towelling socks – worn inside the ill-fitting boots in order to fill out the young woman’s svelte anklebones – and you surely have one of the most exciting and enticing, black-female, boot and sock combinations known to man!
At least, that’s how I felt as soon as I saw her from my humble kneeling position in the corner of the central railway-station, where I was dutifully poised to wait on superior mistresses hand and foot as they got off the international train.
Fortunately my freemale, Indian taskmaster – appointed by the Female State to oversee my humble work – had clocked the exotic, Ethiopian lady too, and whisked me straight over towards her booted feet by means of the chains around my neck just as soon as she had passed through the automatic ticket barrier with her single, brown leather holdall:
‘Welcome Madam! You are being most welcome indeed to the Gynarchy!...’ exclaims my Indian master to the somewhat shy and diffident-looking young, East African woman – possibly a female refugee seeking female asylum here? If so, she will be guaranteed to be accepted by the Female Authorities; she is just so beautiful in her modest, grey headscarf as it frames her pretty, Ethiopian face they could not possibly turn her down!
You could say she has a prima-facie case!
‘…Please to be letting my humble footslave be attending to your dusty boots, Madam? There is being absolutely no charge to the Madam!’
The young, upright, East African woman – who has barely had a chance to set foot in the Gynarchy – seems somewhat overwhelmed by all the attention, but clearly speaks enough English to understand what is on offer to her: a humble tongue-polishing of her oversized, brown leather boots by a free-of-charge, public foot-servant!
Sounds good!
She moves over to one side, places her brown leather holdall down onto the ground, coyly adjusts her grey, silken headscarf, smiles at my Indian master, and speaks:
‘Ha! Ha! Thank you sir. Ayanna boots hot and dusty after long journey – need good shine from humble footslave, yes?’
My master, and I, are both delighted by the young, East-African woman’s positive response, for we were both acutely aware of the possibility that she would have been frightened off by such an audacious proposal so soon after her arrival in the Gynarchy; for she is clearly not long out of Africa, judging both by her attire and her accent!
But mistress Ayanna is evidently also a natural dominant, despite initial appearances, and a young woman who is not averse to having her dirty boots attended to in public, in a strange land, by a lowly, public footslave and his male overseer! And so she happily hitches up the long, flowing hem of her grey, ankle-length robe to reveal, in all their incongruous glory once again, her zipped-up, right ankle boot and thick, white towelling sock which I had earlier clocked at 100 paces as she had stepped gingerly down from the train.
My master gives me my orders for the benefit of the Muslim mistress (I have no real need to have my footslave-tongue ordered onto the proffered boot, but my Indian taskmaster likes to show off his power and authority over me – as delegated to him by the Female State – in front of the stunningly beautiful, if modestly dressed, African-female visitor):
‘Yes indeed, Madam!.... You, the dirty slave, be licking the dust and dirt off the Madam’s boot this instant, you miserable wretch! Be cleaning her boot with your tongue, or you will be soon feeling the sting of my overseer’s lash, isn’t it?’
Master is referring to the thick, bulls-pizzle whip supplied to him by the Female Authorities for the discipline and chastisement of his maleslave-charge. Since the master is remunerated according to the number of stripes I receive on my bare back each day – at the rate of 1 Fem per stripe - I have to be careful not to give him any excuse to lay onto me above and beyond the 10, thick stripes he will undoubtedly paint on my back as a bare minimum.
The impecunious master has to whip me at least 10 times – after all, he has a family to feed! But I do so dread the sting of the vicious, bulls-pizzle whip!
And so I respond most humbly and obediently to my Indian taskmaster, and through him, to the African customer-mistress:
‘Yes master…at once master sir …this slave obeys the master and mistress!’
And no sooner have my lips uttered those words than they are touching the dusty, scuffmarked toecap of the young Ethiopian woman’s imperiously outstretched, chunky-heeled, brown leather, right boot, followed swiftly by my bootwiping tongue, eager to divest the East African girl’s boot of all its offending mud and dust.
What I don’t know, of course, is whether or not this is pure Ethiopian mud and dust that I am licking and swallowing – or, like the boots, is it borrowed mud? Borrowed from the many European countries she must have been traversing during her overland trip to the Gynarchy?
Such incongruous, oversized, ill-fitting ankleboots are a real mystery to me on such a delicate and slender pair of dainty, East-African anklebones! The mistress would surely not have been wearing them on the dusty streets of Addis-Ababa? And the socks too! Boots and socks in 40 degree heat? I think not! I’ll bet her holdall contains at least one pair of flat, brown leather sandals whose soles are festooned with the dust of her homeland! No, the muck and dirt on these ankleboots is from Europe. It must be! It certainly tastes European!
All of these thoughts are racing through my pathetic, footslave mind until I each the top of the tall and thin African mistress’s right ankle-boot. Then I am confronted by the indescribably beautiful sight of the twisted top of her plain, white towelling sock about an inch or so down inside the beige-coloured, inner rim of her boot.
My master can see it too, and knows exactly what I am thinking! But he is determined to stop me from taking any illicit pleasure in the sight of the young, Ethiopian woman’s dusty bootsock – and rightly so; for that is his job!
He soon kills my rising ardour with a deft blow across my right shoulder-blade with his bruising, bulls-pizzle whip:
Swish…Crack!
‘Do not be focussing on Madam’s sock, dirty slave! Be concentrating on licking clean the outer rim of her boot, isn’t it? You are not being worthy to be looking at Madam in the sock, isn’t it, you ignorant footslave-coolie?’
That’s one small Fem for a free man; one giant stripe for slavekind!
Madam herself appears to enjoy witnessing my being punished for the sin of lusting after her ropey, white towelling sock inside her scuffmarked, brown leather, zip-up ankleboot. She laughs out loud at me, baring her grey-white teeth, as she readjusts her diaphanous-grey headscarf around her pretty, Ethiopian face:
‘Ha! Ha! Why the white slave is liking Ayanna dirty sock? Ha! Ha! He is a whore? He is a dirty foot-whore? Hah! Infidel! I spit on him!’
And the seemingly coy and modest, young, African-Arab woman then does just that; she unabashedly, and noisily, gathers up some copious amounts of phlegm in her pretty, Ethiopian mouth before expelling it in a most unladylike manner down onto the top of my balding head!
The master congratulates her:
‘Ha! Ha! Well done Madam! You will be making a most elegant mistress for a dirty, male slave here in the glorious Gynarchy, isn’t it? …Ha! Ha!... Slave, be kissing Madam’s boot and thanking her for delivering her spit most graciously onto your foot-whore head!’
Swish...Crack!
The master strikes while he is hot, thereby earning himself yet another, well-deserved Fem coin from the Female Authorities.
He is clearly sexually aroused by my humiliation at this beautiful young Muslim woman’s feet, as, indeed, is she. My own, shameful, sock-induced ardour, however, is for now suitably cooled both by the burning sensation in my back, and by the slimy sensation of Madam’s warm, Ethiopian spit sliding down the side of my face.
But I nevertheless kiss the scuffmarked, rounded toe-area of her now dust-free, brown leather boot with a great degree of slavish resignation and respect, for I am acutely aware that I am in the presence of two of my African and Asian betters who have every right to lord it over me – she, by virtue of being female; he by virtue of his delegated power and authority from the Female State:
‘Oh pray, black mistress….kiss…kiss…Oh thank you, black mistress… kiss… kiss…Thank you for spitting on my foot-whore head mistress…kiss…kiss…as the master has said, mistress…kiss…kiss…’
I have learnt my lesson, and studiously avoid the temptation of looking at the top of the tall and lithesome, Muslim Ethiopian mistress’s left, white anklesock as I attend to the outside of her other dusty, brown leather ankleboot with my enslaved, public foot-whore tongue.
Yarn no. 3 – Angry, Young Women
Two of my prison wardresses – officer-mistresses Sally and Barbara – have just entered my cell with their brown leather, single-tailed, punishment whips drawn for action.
They have explained to me that they are both going to whip me – not because I have done anything wrong, but because they are fed up with men in general and want to take out their anger and frustration on a weak and vulnerable representative of the male sex; and who better than one of their helpless prisoners?
They are, of course, perfectly at liberty to whip me any time of their choosing – since I am a maleslave prisoner – but this news is all the more galling since I am a good and hard-working prisoner, and I normally enjoy a very good working relationship with my wardress-mistresses, especially officer-mistresses Sally and Barbara, whom I invariably find to be firm but fair when it comes to supervising my hard labour breaking rocks in the prison yard.
But now that good working relationship is set to suffer because their personal relationships, with their respective free men on the outside, appear to have gone awry!
Oh well – such is life! Or such is the life of a hapless, male prisoner-slave at any rate.
Before they have me assume the position at my in-cell whipping post (my back is already bare so there is no need for them to strip me; they just secure me to the whipping post by means of the chains hanging from its top) officer-mistress Sally demands that I humbly approach each of them on my hands and knees and kiss their feet, begging for mercy. She explains that I won’t actually be receiving any mercy from either of them, but hearing me beg and watching me grovel will make them feel good and all-powerful.
Needless to say, I am anxious to comply with officer-mistress Sally’s command, partly because I enjoy kissing officer-mistresses’ feet – it reminds me of my helplessness and powerlessness in the face of their young-womanly superiority and authority; and partly because not to obey two such belligerent officer-mistresses when they are in such a foul mood would, inevitably, prolong my whip-agony even further, whatever they may or may not say about denying me sweet, feminine mercy!
I start with officer-mistress Sally’s feet first since she is the first to stretch out her right foot in the prison-cell, floor dirt beneath my kneeling face.
Of the two young women now standing over me in my cell, brunette officer-mistress Sally is probably the one I fear the most. That’s because:
- She is the most volatile and least predictable of the two, known throughout the prison for her violent mood-swings;
- She is the taller and stronger of the two officer-mistresses now gracing me with her whip-ready presence;
- She is a bit of a rebel – wearing soft, black, round-toed and tasselled, moccasin-style shoes and white anklesocks with pink hearts on them, as opposed to the regulation, prison-wardress-uniform, navy-blue anklesocks and black leather, chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, zip up ankleboots – such as her cohort in correction, blonde officer-mistress Barbara, is currently wearing;
- Both women are wearing the regulation navy-blue slacks and crisp, white shirts of the wardresses’ uniform, but officer-mistress Sally has made a point of rolling up the sleeve on her right, whipping arm by way of an indication of her absolute, young-womanly determination to inflict severe pain on me – her helpless, innocent prisoner-slave (mistress Barbara’s shirt-sleeves are still done up, and I very much hope they remain that way, for, even though she is physically the less strong of the two girls, I know, from previous bitter experience that her whip can pack an almighty punch – especially to a prisoner-slave’s bare and exposed lower ribs!)
Thanks to the outstretched positioning of her right foot, officer-mistress Sally’s rebellious pink and white sock is now clearly exposed to me inside her low-cut moccasin, so, as I shuffle forward on my prisoner hands and knees and lower my face towards the dirty floor in order to kiss her punitive foot, I decide to kiss her directly on the sock – more specifically on one of the little pink heart motifs on the side of her outer anklebone, since I am hopeful that such intelligent and deliberative kissing of her sock will elicit some deep-seated feminine compassion and mercy in her all-female soul (It is a well-known fact, amongst footslaves, that the feel of a quivering slave’s lips on a mistress’s socked or bare foot is much more likely to elicit such feminine compassion than a kiss to the cold, outer surface of her leathery boot or shoe – even if that shoe is an ultra-soft, black leather moccasin!)
Whilst I am repeatedly kissing her sock-heart, I am simultaneously, of course, obeying officer-mistress Sally by verbally begging her for mercy:
‘Oh pray, goddess officer-mistress Sally…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…if it pleases you most respected and feared goddess officer-mistress Sally…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…please have pity on this poor prisoner-slave at your mercy…sock-kiss…sock-kiss… who grovels and fawns at your feet, mistress…sock-kiss…sock-kiss… Oh pray mistress! Oh pity pray!...sock-kiss…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…Oh I do fear you, officer-mistress!…sock-kiss…sock-kiss ’
Because she is so tall, officer-mistress Sally’s brunette-framed face is quite far away from me, but I can still detect out of the corner of my eye a supercilious and smug grin on her pretty, Caucasian features. As, indeed, I can detect the tapered tip of her single-tailed, brown leather whip – dangling down the side of her outstretched trouser-leg, a reminder to me, if one were needed, of my impending pain and doom!
Mistress Sally’s sock feels soft and warm on my prayerful lips, and I especially like the way the little pink heart motif on which my mouth is concentrating is slightly raised on the surface of the soft, white cotton sock, making it feel strong and rigid. I also like the way officer-mistress Sally’s pasty-white foot and ankle muscles flex within her sock in a pleasurable, female reaction to my respectful sock-kissing – it’s as if the little pink heart is beating wildly beneath my lips; beating with excitement; beating with lustfulness and lasciviousness at the thought of my own impending beating!
Officer-mistress Sally’s right, moccasined foot is soon replaced with her left on the dirty floor beneath my face, causing the numerous black tassels covering the rounded toe-area of her non-regulation moccasin to flick about like mini-whips – yet another reminder of my impending suffering!
I repeat the sock-kissing/begging process on officer-mistress Sally’s left, pink-and-white-patterned anklesock, and then despair as she steps away to make room for her co-conspirator to step forwards and have her regulation, prison-wardress uniform ankleboots kissed.
I don’t have the option of kissing blonde, officer-mistress Barbara’s, no doubt regulation navy-blue, socks, of course, since they are hidden inside her boots and beneath the dusty hems of her navy-blue uniform trouser-hems. But I nevertheless do my foot-level best to really press my lips onto the outer surface of her stretched-forwards, dusty and scuffmarked, black leather boot-toe in an effort to let her feel my slavish contrition and humility:
‘Oh pray, goddess officer-mistress Barbara…boot-kiss…boot-kiss… if it pleases you most respected and feared goddess officer-mistress Barbara…boot-kiss…boot-kiss…please have pity on this poor prisoner-slave at your mercy…boot-kiss…boot-kiss… who grovels and fawns at your feet, mistress…boot-kiss…boot-kiss… Oh pray mistress! Oh pity pray!...boot-kiss…boot-kiss…boot-kiss…Oh truly I am frightened, mistress!…boot-kiss…boot-kiss…’
I afford exactly the same amount of respect to officer-mistress Barbara’s boots, as I did to officer-mistress Sally’s socks, even though officer-mistress Barbara (or ‘bubbly Barbara’ as she is known amongst her prison-wardress colleagues) is much less physically, and psychologically, intimidating than her long, tall counterpart.
In fact, on this particular occasion I sense that blonde-haired and stockily built officer-mistress Barbara may actually be the more dangerous of the two young women, given her evident rage at whatever it is her freemale-boyfriend has done to upset her on the outside. Whilst I am grovelling and fawning over her prison-wardress ankleboots she actually swears at me:
‘F***ing kiss my boots harder, you f***ing dirty, stupid, f***wit of a prisoner!’
I’ve never heard bubbly officer-mistress Barbara swear like this before! She’s swearing like a female trooper, rather than a female prison-warden! I can sense the anger in her dangling, leather whip also!
Speaking of which, I know many of you are waiting to see me whipped, and are wishing that the two angry, young women would just get on with it – and start whipping me!
But, unfortunately, you have to leave my cell now – as there is barely enough room to swing a cat in this dingy cell, let alone two, long, single-tailed female whips. Your own bodies might get in the way and deflect some of the sting from my vicarious-maleslave back.
You can laugh at the after-effects of the whipping on my bare back, however – the sharp, red stripes decorating my bare shoulders courtesy of officer-mistress Sally’s whip, and the deep cuts to my lower ribcage caused by officer-mistress Barbara’s equally venomous whip.
Why not? Everyone else in the prison, including my fellow-prisoners, will come to laugh at me through the viewing hatch in my cell-door during the ensuing days, as I shall be held up as an example of what righteous, young-womanly anger can do to a prone and vulnerable man’s back when she is scorned by another man!
Hell hath no fury…as the saying goes!
Yarn no. 2 – The Self-Delusional, Dumb-Ass, Public Foot-Fool
I am a faceless, dumb-ass, public foot-fool situated in a rundown shopping mall on the outskirts of town.
I am ‘faceless’ because I am forced to wear a foot-fool’s mask, and I am a dumb-ass because I am forbidden to speak. Furthermore, my mask includes donkey’s ears – just to emphasise to everyone who passes by, or who stops to laugh at me and mock me, my literal, dumb-ass status.
It is all a part of my punishment handed down by the Female Courts. I used to be the personal footslave of a very beautiful, if stuck-up and demanding, young black woman called mistress Chelsea – but then one day, just over a year ago, she broke her right ankle whilst she was abroad skiing.
I wasn’t present at the time; I wasn’t even allowed to accompany her on her skiing holiday – but had been peremptorily ordered to stay at home, without any food or water, and to tongue-clean all her many pairs of dirty boots, shoes and sandals, and mouth-wash and blow-dry all her manky pairs of worn socks and tights, whilst chained up in the basement dungeon of her flat. But, of course, in the eyes of the Female Law a footslave’s absence from the side of his mistress’s feet is no defence, and so I was charged with footslave-negligence and blamed for the accident upon her return to the Gynarchy.
The Female Court duly convicted me and sentenced me to life as a dumb-ass, public footslave, with the good lady Judge (who also happened to be black) actually specifying as part of my sentence the theme and design of my beige-coloured, leathery foot-fool mask – not only that it should include a donkey’s long ears, but also that the following words, declaring my crimes and my humiliating existence from now on, should be emblazoned on it in large, black letters as a permanent reminder to everyone of my public footslave shame:
Negligent oaf; Boot-licker; Incompetent fool; Ankle-breaker; Nincompoop; Dumb-ass; Dirt; Slave of female feet; Toejam-lover; Ladies’ Sandal-sniffer
How people laugh when they first see me kneeling in the mall! Some overseas, female student-girls from the nearby English-Language College even stop to make donkey noises at me – ee-aww; ee-aww – and to take amusing pictures of me using their mobile phones, before they use me to clean their dirty, foreign footwear, for I do still have a function in life, be it ever so humble; that of cleaning my female superiors’ and betters’ street-dirty footwear.
The irony is that one of my regular customers in the suburban shopping mall is my very own erstwhile mistress, mistress Chelsea – she who can do no wrong; she who cannot even be held responsible for her own safety and well-being whilst skiing in a foreign country!
She is now fully recovered, I’m pleased to say, from her unfortunate ankle-injury, and by pure coincidence she moved into this poor and rundown area of town a few months ago, so this is now her local shopping mall!
How spooky is that? It’s almost as if her black feet and footwear are destined to follow me, and dominate me, throughout my entire life – even after she has formally dispensed of my personal foot-services!
I would recognise my former mistress Chelsea’s feet and footwear anywhere – that familiar pair of plain, flat, black leather, slip on shoes and frayed, navy-blue towelling socks – all worn beneath a pair of stylish, black tracksuit bottoms with fetching pink stripes down the sides. Truly a wonderful sock/shoe/tracksuit combo on a superior, black mistress, if ever I saw one, although my erstwhile personal mistress, mistress Chelsea, used to be, and presumably still is, just as keen on wearing her white and navy-blue, lace-up sneakers with her matching, navy-blue towelling socks – for she is very much the sporty type.
Yes – I would recognise those black-girl shoes and socks anywhere!
Of course, mistress Chelsea doesn’t recognise me in the mall, as she has forgotten all about me, and I cannot speak to her. All she sees is yet another anonymous, dumb-ass, public footslave in a donkey’s mask licking clean her dirty shoes. But I recognise her also from the sound of her voice when she delivers her curt and abrupt orders to me from on high, in between slapping noisily on her ubiquitous chewing-gum:
‘Lick my shoe clean, dumb-ass slave!’
This is, most definitely, my erstwhile mistress Chelsea; the Caribbean twang; the arrogance; the slapping on her chewing gum; and those unkempt, navy-blue towelling socks! They were brand new when I first met them, and I must have mouth-washed that particular pair of my mistress’s favourite socks dozens of times during my two year period of enslavement to her, and yet now they look embarrassingly worn-out and manky on her pretty, black feet and ankles!
My beliefs are finally confirmed as soon as she stretches forward her right foot onto my wooden footblock for licking, her hands resting arrogantly and dominantly on her shapely, tracksuited-hips whilst she hitches up the elasticated hem of her right, pink and black tracksuit-leg in order to afford my donkey-like face better access to her dirty, outer footwear, for that soft, brown legskin just above the elasticated top of the ankle-length towelling sock is unmistakably that of my former, black mistress – even down to the tiny, black mole just above her uneven sockline.
My heart starts to race, for it is always a privilege and an honour for me to serve my mistress Chelsea’s feet and footwear – even now in my much less prestigious capacity as a dumb-ass, anonymous public foot-fool.
‘I SAID LICK MY SHOE, DUMB-ASS! GOD, IS YOU DEAF AS WELL AS DUMB, OR SOMEFINK?... TCH!’
Oh how I love to hear her shouting voice again – so distinctive; so sharp and piercing; so impatient; so very feminine. It sends a shiver down my spineless and bent-over, asinine backbone.
Of course, I would dearly love to verbally acknowledge my former mistress’s rhetorical questions and commands – as, indeed, I would those of all my customer-mistresses’; even just a fearful ‘Yes mistress; at once mistress’ would be an honour – but I am totally forbidden to speak. I’m not even allowed to bray like a donkey as my student-girl mockers were free to do, since I am specifically a dumb-ass footslave. I can therefore only acknowledge my female betters’ commands by obeying them instantly – taking care when I lower my mouth to their dirty footwear that my long, mule-like ears don’t tickle or interfere with their precious bare ankles above their equally precious, elasticated sock-tops.
As I begin to lick the street grime and filth off the side of mistress Chelsea’s flat, black leather, slip-on shoe I do admire her familiar, thick, creased-up, navy-blue towelling sock in all its unstylish glory. To be honest, I think these particular anklesocks never did sit terribly well on my mistress Chelsea’s ankles, not even when new, as they are quite cheap, loose and flabby, but they do help to fill out her rather skinny anklebones, which is why, I think, my former mistress Chelsea likes them so much!
Incidentally, I’m sure that’s why she broke her ankle in the first place – such delicate, slender anklebones on such a slightly-built, young black woman!
Of course, I am, like most male slaves, a sucker for female sock – however cheap and manky – and so I find myself aching to slip off my erstwhile, black mistress’s plain black, leather shoe and run my nose along the, no doubt moist and sweaty, bobbled sole of her thick, navy-blue towelling sock; to breathe in the familiar aroma of my mistress’s personal foot and sock odour from the very bottom of her black foot the way I used to do on a regular basis in my capacity as her personal footslave.
I am very familiar with the, currently hidden, bottoms of these socks. In fact, I remember with extreme fondness how my mistress Chelsea used to spend whole evenings using my upturned face as her navy-blue-towelling-sock footrest whilst she watched television cuddled up on the sofa in the arms of her then boyfriend – my former master Sebastian.
But I lost my right to unrestricted female sock when I so negligently allowed my black mistress to break her ankle. The Female Law says so, and the Female Law is always right!
So I have no right to feel frustrated or sorry for myself as I lick the side of my mistress Chelsea’s dirty, black street-shoe – pining after the aroma of her sock which is so near, and yet so far. Besides, I have come to better appreciate the merest glimpse of a black, female better’s sock beneath the hem of her trouser or tracksuit leg, or above her upper shoe rim, instead of constantly having full-on, black-girl sock in my face like I used to. For there are many young black women who frequent this particular shopping mall in this mainly black suburb – and many of them are kind enough to display a snippet of their socks to me whilst I lickshine their dirty shoes or sneakers.
In some respects less girlsock is more, and in these modern times a glimpse of soft, cotton towelling sock or sheer, nylon stocking can be thought of as something shocking – for a mere dumb-ass, public foot-fool like me at any rate!
‘YO, CONCENTRATE ALONG HERE, STUPID DUMB-ASS SLAVE, YEAH?’ shouts my still irritable mistress, leaning down to point with the pink-painted fingernail of her black, index finger to an area of flat shoe near the back of her worn-down heel. That’s my mistress Chelsea alright – always finicky; always demanding. How I miss her finger-wagging pernicketiness!
At least one thing hasn’t changed – the tone of her beautiful, black voice whilst she bosses me about! She still despises me – just as she always did; even if now she despises me in the way that a mistress despises any faceless, old, public footslave, as opposed to the very personal contempt she held me in when I was her private footslave.
Oh if only I could kiss the side of her ropey sock and give her yet more reason to despise me! Yet I am cruelly obliged to restrict my mouth to the back of her dirty, leather shoe. Her black-girl, sweat laden towelling sock is out of bounds to me – unless I am specifically ordered to pay oral homage to it!
That’s how much I have fallen from grace! I am now considered unworthy to even touch a beautiful, young, black woman’s three year old, frequently worn towelling sock which once graced my gormless, footslave-face – the face that now resembles an ass!
In due course I am ordered to tongue-clean my mistress Chelsea’s other shoe before she turns brusquely to walk off – blissfully unaware that the pathetic, dumb-ass foot-fool who has just licked the street-filth off the uppers and backs of her common-or-garden, black leather, slip-on shoes is the very same slave who was once part of her household, and on whose face those crumpled and creased, navy-blue towelling socks once rested their stink!
Oh woe is me! How the weak have fallen!
Barbed comment from mistress Chelsea:
Ha! Ha! The pafetic, dumb-ass foot-fool is deludin’ himself, though! Does he really fink it was just a coincidence that I has moved into his area a few months ago, and that? Ha! Ha! I knows full well who he is, and is just, like, gloatin’ over him, or somefink? And, like, revellin’ in all his suffring, and that?
Ha! Ha! He’s a fool, man! He’s a ass! Ee-aww! Ee-aww!
Yarn no. 1 – Officer-Mistress Philippa of the Female Police
It’s another live episode of the very popular fly-on-the-wall, TV documentary series:
‘Officer-Mistress Philippa of the Female Police’
following the black, and very pretty, uniformed police officer-mistress, mistress Philippa, as she goes about her day-to-day job of safeguarding the streets of the Gynarchy’s capital, Barbaria, for her fellow females. Indeed, the Female Force’s motto is explicitly ‘To protect the female, and subdue the male’, and officer-mistress Philippa ably demonstrates that motto in action, week in and week out!
Tonight we join her on a stake-out of a run-down shack in a poor part of town suspected of housing a runaway footslave. It is turning dusk and officer-mistress Philippa is crouching behind a ramshackle fence observing the suspect through a pair of powerful binoculars.
The television camera is focussed in on the backs of her heavy, flat-heeled, black leather, lace-up, police uniform, ankleboots – and we, the viewers, thanks to some expert camerawork by the film crew, just catch a glimpse of the elasticated top of the auburn-haired, black police officer’s black, ankle-length bootsock on her right leg beneath the hem of her navy-blue trouser leg as she crouches silently behind the fence. The top of her sock looks slightly twisted against her smooth, bare, brown legskin, but officer-mistress Philippa has more important things on her mind – like capturing the runaway footslave.
She puts down her binoculars and whispers to the unseen director of the TV crew:
‘Yeah… he’s in there. I can see him… in the living room…yeah?’
The camera pans away from her twisted bootsock and zooms in over the fence on the lit-up living room of the rundown, runaway’s shack. Through the window one can clearly see a white, male slave of about fifty on his hands and knees at the end of a sofa gently massaging a young, black, civilian-woman’s white-socked feet.
He is clearly a slave as he is wearing the ubiquitous, white slave-shorts worn by male slaves, both public and private, throughout the Gynarchy. The young black woman inside the shack – his illicit mistress – is also wearing white: a dirty white T shirt; white cotton leggings which reach down to her fleshy, lower calves; and the aforementioned white calf-length socks, scrunched up around her podgy, black anklebones. She really is quite fat, and the slave is quite thin.
Again – nothing unusual in that; male slaves are often neglected by their mistresses in the glorious Gynarchy, and kept wan and unfit, whilst many mistresses themselves are overweight, being well fed and looked after by the Female State. Even the super-fit officer-mistress Philippa is quite stockily built.
Put it this way – you wouldn’t want to mess with her!
The camera zooms even further in on the young, black woman’s white socks inside the shack, since the males in the audience will be interested in seeing a close-up of them. They look dirty and unkempt, with holes in them through which the young, black woman’s chubby, black footflesh can clearly be seen. But the white, middle-aged footslave is nevertheless eagerly fingering them, and occasionally sniffing them, whilst the fat, young black woman picks her nose and watches television – presumably not the current programme, for she is blissfully unaware that she is currently being watched by millions on TV!
Officer-mistress Philippa, still speaking in a whisper, explains the background to this case to the accompanying camera:
‘We had a tip-off that this runaway slave was…ahm… living with and serving a young, IC3 female at this address. She’s not…like… his rightful owner, an’ that. His lawful owner, a mistress Abigail up in the northern city of Iris, filed a report that he was missin’, presumed runaway, more than…like… 6 months ago, or somefing’? He definitely fits the description – I’ve even just seen his owner’s brand-mark on his thigh…Can you git that?...(The cameraman zooms in on an indistinct, red, and very sore looking, mark on the kneeling slave’s outer, right thigh)…. So I’m gonna move in an’ make an arrest, yeah?’
Rustling sounds can be heard as the camera follows after auburn-haired, officer-mistress Philippa’s heavy, black ankleboots as she stealthily makes her way up to the front door of the run-down property, withdraws her pistol, and then kicks in the ramshackle, wooden door with her stocky, right leg.
She bursts into the room and immediately forces the kneeling footslave prostrate onto the floor, her booted right foot digging painfully into the small of his scrawny, bare back, before he has a chance to know what is happening:
‘FEMALE POLICE! LIE STILL DOWN ON THE FLOOR, SLAVE! DON’T MOVE! YOU IS UNDER FEMALE ARREST, YEAH?’
The fat, young, civilian black woman, who is naturally startled, screams and jumps up off the sofa, running to the corner of the room in her dusty, white-socked feet. But officer-mistress Philippa professionally ignores her – she’s not the one she has come to arrest, for she has done nothing wrong. At least – not legally, for being female she is considered above the law, and harbouring a fugitive footslave is therefore not a crime, for a woman.
And besides, she is a fellow black woman. A sista!
As soon as her victim is secured, officer-mistress Philippa seeks to reassure the innocent black woman that she herself, is now perfectly safe:
‘It’s okay, ma’am. Keep calm – this slave is a suspected runaway-felon and is now under arrest, yeah?’
He is too – for the scrawny, white, middle-aged footslave is now well and truly cuffed, with his hands secured tightly and painfully behind his back and the side of his middle-aged face squashed beneath the dirty sole of the young, black policewoman’s heavy, left boot. That’s bound to leave a permanent treadmark on his face!
The pretty, black, completely-in-control, female police officer next reads her prisoner his non-rights, mainly for the benefit of the camera, for nobody really cares about his non-rights, not even the slave himself, since, by definition, they don’t exist:
‘Dirty slave, I is arrestin’ you on suspicion of desertin’ your mistress Abigail in contravention of the Female Law. You may not say anyting in your defence, and anyting you do say will be used against you in a Female Court of Law. You git that?’
Although the unfortunate slaveman is completely subdued to her female power, and is not struggling, officer-mistress Philippa – ever the consummate television actress as well as a professional female cop – doesn’t bother to await her newest prisoner’s startled reply to her rhetorical question, but instead utters some further kindly words of caution to the newly-entrapped felon, just to add some spice to the female, TV viewing experience:
‘LIE STILL, PRISONER, OR I’LL DISLOCATE YOUR SHOULDER, YEAH?’
The weak and feeble, middle-aged, male detainee clearly has no intention of struggling against such overwhelming young-womanly, black-female power, particularly as he is aware of the age-old adage that whilst the Female Police can be quick to dislocate, they are often not so quick to return a prisoner’s shoulder blade to its rightful socket!
However, though her male prisoner is in actuality being totally compliant, officer-mistress Philippa knows that such dramatic lines go down well with the viewing public. As does her catchphrase – delivered, as always, with a winsome smile directly into the camera:
‘Another bad bondsman busted!’
Meanwhile the good and free, young, civilian black woman vehemently protests her innocence of the slave’s runaway status, although everyone watching knows she must have known full well he was a runaway when she picked him up, homeless and starving, on the dirty backstreets of the hick town in which she lives. Still, she exhorts the police officer to take the ‘dirty dawg’ away out of her sight, and to make sure he is soundly whipped for invading her home and lying to her about his status.
Not only has she been harbouring a fugitive from female justice, it turns out she is herself too young to even own a personal footslave, being just 19 years old. Personal footmistresses in the Gynarchy have to be at least 21 years old! But officer-mistress Philippa turns a blind eye to this also, since she has her arrest stat for the night. Gleefully she picks the old slaveman up by his cuffed arms and frog-marches him outside to her waiting police van, thereby ensuring that all he can see in this humiliating, bent over position are the tops of her black, police-uniform ankleboots.
Back at the station he is formally charged and whipped – 20 lashes of the cane across his bare buttocks, plus a further 4 lashes for invading the privacy of the young black woman’s home. The camera watches his despairing reaction as officer-mistress Philippa then gleefully informs him that his rightful owner, mistress Abigail, no longer wishes him back, and that the Female Court has therefore already sentenced him in absentia to life as a hard-labour slave in the Gynarchy’s diamond mines, with the specific stipulation that the first diamonds he mines be used to make an ankle-bracelet for his erstwhile mistress Abigail.
He will therefore have the humility of knowing that the rocks he has backbreakingly extracted from the underground diamond mine are adorning and beautifying the slender anklebones of the beautiful, young, white woman he so rudely abandoned up north.
And we were right – officer-mistress Philippa’s treadmark from the sole of her police-uniform ankleboot did leave a permanent mark on the side of his gormless, wrinkled, old face. Ha! Ha! What a loser!
And as for officer-mistress Philippa – what a winner! Yet again she has marked a recalcitrant criminal for life, and put him below ground where he belongs; in the Gynarchy’s dark and unforgiving, hard labour slave-mines!
Yes, it’s been another truly brilliant, live episode of the fly-on-the-wall documentary featuring officer-mistress Philippa of the Gynarchy’s fabulous Female Police. No wonder she now spends nearly all her spare time signing autographs and opening new supermarkets!
She’s the bomb!
