Playing the Foot-Queue
I am an ornamental footkisser in the lobby entrance of a large theatre-hall in the centre of town. My job is to quickly kiss the feet of the female theatre-goers as they enter the building, by way of welcoming them to their evening’s entertainment and wishing them a pleasant time.
There are actually two of us positioned side by side on our hands and knees – a few feet apart, appropriately enough – at the main entrance to the theatre, since it is important that the ladies don’t have to stand in line for too long as they enter the theatre building. After all, it might be raining outside and we will both, quite rightly, be punished if any lady-guest has to queue outside the building in the rain thereby getting soaked.
Speed is, therefore, of the essence – and my ornamental footslave-colleague and I are consequently only permitted one, crisp kiss to each of the lady’s feet before she moves on into the theatre. There is, sadly, no lingering of the lips on feminine shoe-leather; no small-talk; no chat; no verbal communication whatsoever between precipitous, female-foot kisser and equally hurried, female-foot kissee.
And that’s just as it should be, for we are not worthy to speak to our superior, female, theatre-going, guest-mistresses!
In case you are wondering, male guests must enter the theatre by a separate entrance since they are not entitled to have their feet kissed – obviously!
Tonight the theatre is hosting a rock concert, so we can expect a young crowd, with casual footwear to match. Already I can hear the crowd of excitable, female rock-fans starting to form outside the main door. I too am excited, for I do like kissing young women’s feet – it’s so much more humiliating for me, given that I am in my late forties and must be more than twice the age of most of the ‘rock-chicks’ who will shortly be imposing their scruffy, unkempt footwear upon me with looks of utter disdain and contempt on their otherwise happy, youthful faces as they pass by the pathetic, middle-aged, ornamental footslave in order to get into the theatre and see their favourite, hunky rock-band.
Indeed, I rather suspect that many of the arrogant young ladies we encounter actually regard public foot-kissers such as myself as something of an inconvenience; a ritual they are obliged to go through before they can rush into the theatre building proper and try to get a good seat near to the front of the stage. For they do love to be as close as possible to their spunky, male idols – their ‘rock gods’. It’s not that they despise all men – only slaves!
Although I can’t see him, I suspect that my footkissing-colleague at the entrance to the theatre is thinking exactly the same things, though I feel a bit sorry for him for I happen to know he prefers a slightly more sophisticated crowd, with correspondingly more sophisticated footwear; smart polished heels as opposed to scruffy sneakers etc.
Not that the two of us won’t be in competition tonight to kiss the feet of the prettiest girls! It is always an honour and a privilege to kiss the feet of a stunningly beautiful, young woman – whatever she is wearing on her feet; be they smart, patent-leather, high-heeled shoes or scruffy, old, beat-up trainers! We both, as full-time footslaves, yearn to pay our respects to feminine foot-beauty – even if that respect is not reciprocated by the beautiful owners of the feet; and so we shall both be ‘playing the foot-queue’ – seeking out the most visually attractive, young women and slowing down, or speeding up, in order to manipulate the prettiest girls’ feet our way.
It can be done; just a few extra milliseconds of footslave-lip on a grubby, girly sneaker-toe can ensure that the next-but-one pair of black leather ankle boots are duly presented beneath one’s permanently bowed face; or, alternatively, an imperceptibly quicker kiss to a fat girl’s, common-or-garden, scuffmarked ballet-flat can clear the way for that intriguing pair of wooden clogs which are next in the queue to make their way towards your eager, footslave mouth.
Not that I don’t admire fat girls, you understand! Or, indeed, fat girls’ ballet flats! It’s just a question of priorities – and male-footslave fickleness. Wooden clogs will always win out for me due to their sheer rarity value, and since they expose a young rock-chick’s, rounded, socked heels at the back – such a rare area of female sock for a public footslave to see!
And that applies despite the unfortunate fact that a purely ornamental footkisser such as me never gets to kiss female sock-heel! Our kisses must always be respectful and to the toe areas of a lady’s footwear; not lascivious and all over the feet, as a personal footslave’s kisses towards his mistress’s adored feet might be!
But the doors to the theatre are opening now, and a flood of slovenly, young-women feet come rushing towards us. Let the foot-games begin!
My first encounter is with a sexy and dominant pair of brown leather, calf-length, lace-up combat boots over white, calf-length, woolly socks and black cotton leggings. It is wintertime, and quite cold outside, so we won’t be seeing many sandals and bare feet this evening.
Ha! Ha! That won’t please my partner in crime! (I should explain that both myself and my fellow footkisser on the door are convicted, footslave-criminals – sentenced to be ornamental footkissers for life by the Female Courts). As I said earlier, he likes more sophisticated styles of footwear – strappy, golden sandals and finest-denier nylons on pedicured feet, and the like. Ha! Ha! I rather think he’ll be out of luck tonight – though he may well get to see a few fishnet stockings close up!
In all the melee of the initial foot-rush towards the door I can’t get to see what type of footwear he is having to kiss first, but I am happy with my sexy pair of female, lace-up combat boots. They are probably the real deal, and not just a pair of fashion boots. The young-woman wearer of the boots is about the right age to have just completed her Female Military Service – learning how to kick male enemies of the Gynarchy painfully in the nuts with her heavy, authentic, combat boots!
I kiss the reinforced brown leather toes of the military boots with a genuine sense of admiration and respect. To (toe)cap it all, the wearer of the boots is a genuinely pretty, young ex-army girl – shoulder-length, auburn hair; lip and nose piercings; and shapely calve-muscles which stretch the elasticated tops of her thick, white-woollen bootsocks as they peek over the tops of her fully laced-up, brown leather, combat boots. The white socks remind me of her femininity, set as they are in stark contrast against the dark brown of the unforgiving boots, and the rich black of her plain, cotton leggings. And all below a brown, ruffled miniskirt!
As I have already explained, my footslave-lips are only permitted the briefest of encounters with the superior young, ex-army woman’s bootleather, but in those brief seconds I can detect both the taste and the smell of fresh, brown boot-polish on the toes of each boot. Unlike many of her peers tonight she clearly cares about her appearance; she has thought about it! And so it is only right that a dirty, public footkisser such as myself should be compelled to show the utmost respect for her powerful pair of brown leather, fighting boots.
It is a military honour to kiss them, and would be an even greater honour to be kicked in the face by them, should the aggressively-minded, young woman-wearer of the boots feel so inclined. But, of course, she doesn’t! At this particular moment she is ‘inclined’ to spend as little time as possible having her rounded, reinforced, leather boot-toes kissed by the sad loser of a balding, middle-aged, ornamental footslave, and to make her way into the front of the theatre-auditorium where she will get the best view of the young, long-haired, male rock-gods whose posters adorned the walls of her dormitory in the Female-Army barracks!
But her quickly-passing boots have taught me something else as well – it is raining outside. I could see the raindrops shimmering on her dark brown bootleather. Good! I like kissing a bit of musty, feminine boot or shoe leather – so much more refreshing than dry or cracked shoeleather! But, myself and my colleague must continue to kiss feet quickly, for, as I indicated before, a wet mistress equals a whipped slave!
The second pair of feet I get to kiss, in rapid succession to their army-booted predecessors, are clad in a pair of scruffy, civilian, black and white, high-top converse sneakers and plain grey, rather ropey-looking, ankle-length socks beneath the hems of some black, denim jeans. Unlike the previous pair of combat boots, these high-top converse sneakers are not well cared-for. They have holes in the sides where the grey, ropey sock is peeking through!
Nevertheless, they are no less worthy of my footslavish respect and adoration, since they are clearly the well-worn and favourite footwear items of choice of their short and stocky, blonde-ponytailed owner; and, besides, how could a down-in-the-dirt footslave not admire any feminine footwear which exposes what would be otherwise hidden areas of sweet, feminine sock? (Remember the clogs!)
Sorely tempted though I am to kiss the exposed, lower, grey sock, I must, by law, connect my lips to the intensely grubby, but nominally white, rubbery toe-area of the otherwise black, converse sneakers – one after the other as the young, blonde woman presents them in turn to my kneeling face for respectful kissing.
Sadly, the strong aroma of the dirty sneaker-rubber overpowers any escaping odour there might be from sweaty, exposed girlsock (for I rather suspect that these sneakers and socks have been on this young woman’s feet all day; unlike her ex-army predecessor I somehow doubt that she has bothered to change and spruce-up her footwear for the concert – or rather, that she has had her personal footslave do it for her, if she has one!)
The rubbery, grubbery converse-toe feels soft underneath my lips compared to the harsh reinforced leather of the army boots; and the rain outside has seeped into the black canvas along the young lady’s conversed insteps, making little darkened, black patches along the otherwise fading black of her well-worn and frayed sneaker-sides.
I find myself wondering whether any of her exposed sock-areas have been touched by the rainwater? I hope so, for the socks could probably do with a wash!
I shall have to continue to wonder, however, because all too soon the converse sneakers have gone.
Gone – but not forgotten!
Next up are a delightful pair of equally soft, white ballet flats and plain, white socks beneath a pair of frayed, bell-bottom, blue denim, jean hems. The white ballet-flats have a fetching little decorative bow on top of each of the rounded toe areas – almost enough to distract me from the latticed stitching in the pattern of the short, white, feminine socks, since decorative bows require careful lip-handling. I must concentrate on ensuring that the mistress can still feel my respectful lips on her footwear through the leather bow, since it is important that a young woman should have a palpable sense of a public footslave’s humility at her superior feet, as well as observing it!
But – however challenging and intriguing decorative, ballet-flat bows may be – nothing could ultimately distract me from the prettiness in the patterned stitching of this young woman’s, pure white anklesocks. They are, in actual fact, below-the-ankle socks – for they barely reach up as high as her shapely, young-womanly, lower anklebone. They are so-called ‘sneaker-socks’, rather than traditional anklesocks – but it is the latticed stitching, rather than the bare-ankle-exposing length of the socks, which so intrigues me.
Oh how I wish I had girl-permission to trace my footslave nose down that latticed sock-stitching; to see where it leads below this young woman’s matching, white ballet-flat rim!
But I have no such permission – for I am being punished. I am a convicted criminal-footslave, fit only to kiss the outer shoe-toes of my female masters and betters! Not for me the extraordinary privileges of a personal footslave – nosing his mistress’s socks in the privacy of her own home; a quick, public kiss to her white leather shoe-bows is all I am good for. Her inner, white sock is so near – and yet so far!
It’s even farther away now as the white ballet flats and socks have already passed on!
The queue is starting to look a bit more orderly now. The initial rush of the most enthusiastic groupies has died down. All of which is good news as I can now start to properly ‘play the queue’.
Speaking of which, I have now spotted my first ‘foot prey’ of the evening – a delightful pair of shiny, pink plastic crocs over argyle-patterned, red and grey kneesocks, beneath a pair of ultra-short, pink hot-pants!
Crocs and socks! One of my favourite combinations! And the wearer seems extraordinarily pretty – a slim, dark-haired beauty with possible Hispanic connections!
They are immediately preceded in the queue by a stylish pair of black leather, low-heeled, knee-high, stretch boots over black woolly tights. My co-footkisser can have those; they’re the best he’s going to get in a crowd of scruffy rock-chicks like this. And besides, the unsophisticated pink crocs and argyle socks would be wasted on him; he just wouldn’t appreciate them the way I will! The crocs are even open-heeled at the back! My God, I simply have to have them underneath my face!
So watch me now as I skilfully play the queue!
The pink crocs are actually behind the black, knee-high, stretch-leather boots and a pair of pink and white striped, Velcro-fastened sneakers. So If I take the sneakers, and my colleague takes the leather stretch-boots, I’ll get the crocs!
It just means my mouth will have to surreptitiously break the rules of ornamental-footkisser etiquette, and linger somewhat on the toes of the pink sneakers – until the leather boots move forwards towards my expectant colleague’s mouth, at which point I can quickly finish paying my respects to the pink, Velcro-fastened sneakers and make way for their pink, croc cousins!
My lips, I have to say, wouldn’t normally loiter on these pink and white striped sneakers, for the young-woman wearer of the sneakers is not only overweight; she is sockless!
I can forgive the obesity; but sockless! It’s such a waste of a female, sneakered foot – to be sockless – in my humble, footslave opinion. Especially when the young woman concerned is wearing a rather unflattering black leather miniskirt on her fleshy, cellulite-enhanced, bare thighs – thereby exposing her podgy calves and ankles; fat ankles which could be so enhanced by a nice bit of unnaturally-stretched, black, or even pink, sock!
I have to confess I am keeping one eye on the crocs behind the low-heeled stretch-leather boots in the queue as I pay my seeming respects to the scuffmarked toes of the disappointingly sockless, pink and white sneakers. At least I get my first whiff of fat-girl footsweat this evening as my lips dawdle ever so slightly on the scruffy, pink sneaker toes – dawdling not out of genuine respect for a sockless fat-girl, but out of a devious ploy to play the foot-queue and gain access to the socked crocs two paces behind the sneakers!
I let go of the sneakers just as soon as the leather boots make their way towards my neighbouring, footslave-colleague. There is no harm done – the sweaty, fat, sockless girl labours under the illusion that I was being particularly admiring of, and respectful of, her grubby pink and white sockless sneakers; she feels flattered.
If she only knew!
But now I get to kiss my real prize – the cheap, pink, plastic crocs over argyle-patterned socks on the dusky and slim, Mediterranean mistress!
She is talking to someone on her phone in Spanish as she unthinkingly stretches forth her right foot for kissing. I can clearly see her red and grey, argyle-patterned sock through the holes in her pink, plastic croc-cum-clog! My God, my lips can even brush against a tiny slither of woollen sock as they make genuinely respectful contact with her cheap, everyday footwear! This is such a delight!
Her right, knee-high sock seems to tower over me, and although my mouth and face have no business around the backs of her fully-exposed, socked heels, I can clearly see the wrinkles and creases in her sock at the back of her outstretched, right foot. Moreover, the sock looks well-worn! The fluffy, woollen stitching is wearing away at the back through repeated wear. I can tell that by the slight fading in some of the red lines in the red, grey and black pattern of her sock!
This is just to good to be true! I hope my footslave-colleague is enjoying his black leather stretch-boots as much as I am enjoying my kneesocks! And my young, Hispanic mistress’s haughtiness in conveniently ignoring me as she continues with her phone conversation above me whilst I pay lip-homage to her croc-footwear only serves to enhance my footslavish admiration for her.
She really is quite dark in her complexion – possibly even of gypsy origins! How exotic is that?!
All too soon for my liking, her right foot is withdrawn from underneath my face, to be swiftly replaced by her left. I kiss the holey-patterned, rounded toe of her holy, left, pink croc, and barely have time to count the creases in her left, argyle-patterned sockheel before she is gone – still rabbiting away in Spanish on her phone.
She’ll have to switch her phone off during the concert – out of respect for her fellow theatre-goers, even if she has no such respect for me!
I don’t believe it! Strappy, silvery, high-heeled sandals and finest-denier, white nylon stockings are the next footwear to be presented to my lips! I had spent so long concentrating on the pink crocs I had forgotten to observe the queue!
My co-footslave will be so angry – what a waste! These are right up his street; and I had thought we wouldn’t get to see any such ‘classy’ footwear this evening.
At least the young woman is black – and therefore highly attractive. She is also wearing a short, silvery-sparkly dress to match her silvery, open-toed sandals, and has very shapely legs and ankles, which give the white denier a wonderful, darkened hue.
As I have explained, I don’t normally go for the classier look and rich nylons; I prefer cheap plastic shoes and well-worn, fuzz-balled, argyle socks! But even I have to admit this young, classily-dressed, black woman’s white nylons are highly appealing – particularly since I must kiss the reinforced toe-areas on her nylons through her peep-toed, strappy sandals.
The reinforced nylon feels slightly rough on my lips, but there is no unpleasant aroma of foot-odour. Indeed, my fully trained, footslave nose can detect that the young, black woman has actively perfumed her feet this evening. I can only surmise she must be hoping to cop off with one of the band after the concert, being so provocatively dressed. Or perhaps she is some sort of guest of honour? Perhaps she is a famous singer herself? She certainly oozes wealth and disdain as she towers over me whilst I humbly pay homage to her stylish, white nylons – tinged by her black foot and leg skin from within.
I can also see her bright-red-painted, big toenails beneath the reinforced mesh of her perfumed nylons!
I have to admit, I love my lifelong punishment as an ornamental footkisser – kissing the cheap, pink plastic crocs beneath the argyle-patterned, woollen kneesocks of a disinterested, Mediterranean girl one minute, followed by the classy, reinforced, white-nylon toes of a haughty, black goddess the next! They say variety is the spice of life – and this particular public punishment certainly brings lots of variety into my theatrical life!
Ha! Ha! I can see out of the corner of my eye that, while I am kissing rich, black-girl nylon, my comrade-in-feet is having to kiss a pair of black, leather, lace-up Oxford brogues. Ha! Ha! He’ll hate that – even though they are quite shiny! They look almost manly! Even I would baulk at having to kiss such masculine-looking footwear on a woman – even though I can spot a slither of plain, black sock beneath the young, crop-haired, blonde woman’s brown corduroy trouser hems; and, as you know, I do like sock!
Oh well, that’s my excuse for inadvertently ‘stealing’ my footslave-colleague’s black-girl nylons and strappy sandals! I can ‘pretend’ that he stole miss Oxford’s socks from me! I really don’t want to fall out with him – for it takes two to play this game; the humble game of playing the foot-queue!
The End
The Foot-Queue
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