The Fitness-Club Floorlicker

‘You work hard today, esclavo! You lick lady floor clean, or I punish you hard with my whip!’

I am a 50 year old male slave, and I am serving a two year community-servitude sentence as a humble floor cleaner in the lobby entrance of an exclusive ladies’ fitness club in the city. I am just starting the third month of my justifiably harsh sentence.

I must clean the floor by mouth and so I work all the time on my hands and knees. I have a bucket which consists of two compartments. In the first, larger, compartment is lukewarm water into which I must dip my slave-tongue in order to lick the floor clean. In the second, smaller, compartment is cold water in which I must clean my dirty tongue prior to kissing the shoes or boots of any of the ladies who enter or leave the fitness club.

That’s because my female-floor-licking tongue must not be allowed to soil the footwear of my feminine superiors and betters.

Cruel Supervisor-Mistress Chantico

My supervisor is a sweet, Mexican mistress by the name of miss Chantico. She is in her mid forties, but looks 20 years younger as she has led an easy life – a life supervising hardworking, community-servitude, floorlicking slaves like myself.

She is equipped with a State-supplied, short, brown leather, bulls-pizzle whip which she uses most efficaciously to direct and control me. Her management style is delightfully simple, and I am already fully au-fait with it; if I please miss Chantico and do a good job of tongue-cleaning the lobby floor I don’t get whipped; if I displease her and don’t do a good job I get whipped. I also get a taste of the bulls-pizzle whip whenever she wants me to start or to stop licking the floor.

Miss Chantico wears a shiny, blue, polyester tabard over civilian clothes – usually jeans and a T Shirt. On her feet she generally likes to wear flat shoes or sneakers, and short sneaker-socks. Her everyday footwear is normally all I see of her thanks to my humble work station on my hands and knees. But I happen to know that she is a very pretty, Mexican lady with dark, curly, shoulder-length hair and big, brown eyes. Also, although she is quite petite in stature, she always seems to tower above me as I labour on the floor at her pretty, Latina feet – as, indeed, do all the young women who frequent the fitness club.

I am dressed in only my white slave shorts – like all male slaves in the Gynarchy. Because I am being punished in the Female Community, however, I must also wear a bright pink, rubber foot-fool mask with the humiliating words:

‘Community-Servitude Floorlicker’

emblazoned on it in big, bold, black letters. The mask also has symbolic, little rubbery models of a black bucket, a red tongue, and a pair of pink and white-striped ladies’ training shoes attached to it, to show everyone that my whole life now revolves around licking the germs off the floor of, specifically, a ladies’ fitness-club.

Miss Chantico is very cruel and strict with me, and she very much enjoys her Mexican-female power and authority over me, so I am in good hands. Already, after just a few months of harsh community servitude, I have come to respect and fear both my Mexican supervisor and her stocky, brown leather, bulls-pizzle whip. Miss Chantico has informed me, in her broken English, that she takes great female pride in being very good at her job, and that she received a large bonus payment from her employers last year – thanks to her judicious use of the whip to extract the best efforts out of her various male charges.

She also advised me that she is determined to get another bonus this year!

It is 06:00 in the morning and my supervisor-mistress, mistress Chantico, is unchaining me from the side of the inner lobby wall. I must work, eat and sleep in this lobby throughout my entire two-year sentence.

I begin my long, working day by respectfully kissing my Mexican supervisor’s petite feet. Today I am gratified to observe that she is wearing her tatty, grey and white, cheap, lace-up, leather sneakers and a short pair of plain, light-grey anklesocks beneath the somewhat frayed hems of her black, denim jeans. Higher up, I can also just make out the shiny blue hem of her thigh-length, polyester tabard.

She stretches forward her right, sneakered foot first on the cold, white marble of the lobby-entrance floor, and watches me from her position of absolute, cleaning-lady power and authority, running her thick, bulls-pizzle whip threateningly through her pretty, Mexican hands, as I humbly place my lips on the grey, scuff-marked, rounded toe of her right sneaker:

‘Ha! Ha! You work hard today, esclavo! Clean lady floor well or feel sting of Chantico whip on bare back! You a dirty criminal! I make you pay for crime! I pain you! I make dirty prisoner sweat hard!’

I am not allowed to answer miss Chantico back – or to speak to any woman, for that matter. The good lady judge decreed that I must labour in humble silence for the next two years, and that my penitent tongue and mouth must only be used to clean exclusively female floors and to kiss exclusively female footwear (hence my location in the lobby of an all-female fitness club). It is only through my respectful kissing of miss Chantico’s sneakers, therefore, that I can express my readiness to comply with her wishes and indicate my aversion to being whipped.

You will note that miss Chantico, despite having lived for many years in the Gynarchy (or so I was told) still speaks with a strong, Mexican accent. I think she sounds incredibly cute – even if her bark is often as bad as the cruel bite of her bulls-pizzle whip!

She laughs disdainfully at me as I kiss her cheap sneaker, and promptly switches feet beneath my face. I notice that the short, grey sock on her left foot has slid deeper down inside her cheap, grey and white sneaker than the sock had been on her right foot; all I can see is the faintest slither of cleaning-girl, plain grey sneaker-sock along her left instep. But that makes me appreciate her left sock all the more – for it is a thing of great, feminine mystery, hidden deep inside her cheap and grubby-looking sneaker. Moreover, the elasticated top of her left sock is slightly twisted along her shapely, Mexican instep. I shall enjoy looking at that twisted sock-top, and admiring it, throughout the long, working day as I lick clean the female floor.

For I must labour perpetually for 18 hours a day – licking the same floor again and again, from corner to corner, and all under the close supervision of my dedicated and equally hardworking community-supervisor, miss Chantico.

As soon as I have paid my respects to her trashy and rather nasty-smelling, cleaning-girl sneakers, she enters a nearby washroom in order to fill up both compartments of my metal slave-bucket with fresh water – lukewarm in the left compartment; cold in the right.

She then unceremoniously plonks the bucket down onto the cold, white, marble floor of the fitness-club lobby beneath my humbly kneeling face:

‘Esclavo start lick; start clean lady floor; lick now; move!’

And with that she gives me an encouraging kick to my buttocks with the scuffmarked, rounded toe of her right, leather sneaker, together with a sharp cut from her bulls-pizzle whip across my bare back and shoulders.

I say ‘cut’, but the bulls-pizzle, if truth be told, rarely breaks my skin. If anything it only bruises it. It still stings like hell, though, and I can’t avoid letting out an involuntary gasp of early-morning pain.

The lobby floor is already quite clean at this time of the morning, since it hasn’t been used by any of the female members of the club since I last licked it clean long after the club had closed yesterday evening. But it opens early in the morning as it mainly caters for office-worker ladies in the city, many of whom like to work-out in the gym before they start their high-powered executive (or even just their low-powered administrative) jobs.

I can be confident, therefore, that we shan’t have too long to wait until the first, early-bird office-mistress will enter the lobby of the fitness club this morning, soiling my nice, clean floor with the street-dirt from the soles of her shoes.

Miss Chantico, of course, knows all the ladies who frequent the club – but even after just three months I too am starting to recognise the various office-mistresses; if not from their faces and voices, then from their individual tastes in footwear.

And – indeed – from the individual tastes of their footwear, for one of the stipulations of my community-servitude punishment is that I must kiss the feet of every female who deigns to enter or leave my humble, floorlicker-prisoner presence.

Laughing Mistress Lisa

The first client of the day is most definitely a regular – miss Lisa; a pretty, bespectacled, blonde-haired girl who works on the reception desk in one of the nearby offices. I guess she has to be in early in order to open up the office?

Depending on the time of day, the ladies who frequent the fitness club will either arrive in their sports gear and then change into their office clothes after their session in the gym (as now, in the mornings), or arrive in their officewear and leave in their sweaty, work-out leotards or tracksuits (as in the evenings).

So, this being early morning, miss Lisa is already in her workout-clothes consisting of a light grey shellsuit, with two fetching, pink stripes down the sides of her shiny, shellsuit trousers; plain, black, lace-up sneakers; and short, white sneaker socks.

She actually looks (and sounds) quite common, and I’m guessing that she can only afford the exclusive, city, fitness-club fees because her employers pay them?

Miss Lisa likes to wear her naturally-blonde hair up in a bun. I think she does so in order to give herself an air of gravitas, for she is still quite young (early twenties) and presumably left school without many qualifications, else she wouldn’t be starting her career as a mere office receptionist. In fact, I very much get the impression that others in her office may regard her as being a bit of an ‘airhead’, and that, as a consequence, she may have a bit of an inferiority complex.

Be that as it may she has, of course, no need to feel inferior around me for, common or not, and airhead or not, being female means she is automatically much better and more intelligent than me – a mere, male slave. And besides, even though I do have a number of academic qualifications from my previous life before my enslavement in the Gynarchy, I am the one who has to kiss her feet before and after she uses the fitness club facilities, and then lick clean the floor she has just walked on!

So she has every right to feel confident and superior in my presence.

Miss Lisa smiles and greets my supervisor-mistress, miss Chantico, as she enters the lobby of the fitness club:

‘Hi Chantico! How are you this morning?’

My mistress Chantico responds to the polite, fellow-womanly greeting with equal politeness:

‘Good morning, miss. I fine thank you. You have nice time last night?’

My supervisor-mistress is referring to the party miss Lisa had informed her about yesterday. I overheard her talking about some friend’s 21^st birthday party at which there was apparently going to be a slave-whipping for entertainment. Miss Lisa, I must say, had sounded very excited about it all!

‘Yeah, thanks Chantico! It was brilliant, and that? I’m afraid I only got to bed a few hours ago! Ha! Ha! And even then I could hardly get any sleep, innit? Ha! Ha! I just couldn’t get the image of the whipped slave out of my mind, you know what I’m sayin’? Ha! Ha! Boy did he suffer under the whip! Ha! Ha!’

Miss Chantico laughs too at the thought of a pitiful, male slave writhing under the female whip – purely for the entertainment of some drunken, female party-goers – and that amusing thought seems to remind them both of my floorlicking-presence at their feet, for miss Lisa suddenly extends her right, chavvy, black-sneakered foot directly under my nose just as miss Chantico barks down a new order at me in her Mexican-English:

‘Esclavo stop lick floor! Kiss miss Lisa foot! Kiss foot of female better!’

Whack!

I gasp again as the dreaded bulls-pizzle reinforces my Mexican, female master’s latest command.

Somewhat breathlessly, I lower my prisoner-lips to the somewhat flaky and dusty rounded toe area of miss Lisa’s now outstretched, plain black, lace-up sneaker. As I do so I admire the sight of a prominent blue vein that runs up the outer side of her otherwise pale white anklebone above the delicate and feminine, elasticated, cotton top of her ultra-short, white sneaker-sock.

Mistress Lisa appears to turn her nose up at me (as well she might) as she promptly withdraws her right foot from underneath my turned down nose only to replace it, almost instantly, with her equally flaky and dusty left sneaker-toe.

I admire the movement in her pink-striped, shellsuit trouser hems as she pushes her left foot forward, but I can only admire her shiny trouser-hems. I cannot touch them with my mouth. They are above me and I am not good enough for that.

This time another particularly prominent vein on miss Lisa’s left foot (she does seem to have very veiny feet for such a sweet, young woman) appears to pulsate and throb in a pleasurable reaction to having her black sneaker humbly kissed in public by a male prisoner-slave but, judging by her disparaging comments to my supervisor-mistress, miss Lisa is, in reality, far from being all that impressed by me:

‘Ugh! He’s disgusting, innit though? Do you think he actually likes it though, Chantico? Do you think he actually likes kissing people’s dirty shoes, and that?’ she asks my supervisor in a tone of somewhat vacuous, blonde-girl incredulity.

Miss Chantico laughs:

‘Ha! Ha! Of course he like it, miss! He a queer footlick! You know he a full-time lady boot and shoelick before he become a convicted criminal? Ha! Ha! That why he being punished with lick dirty floors. Ha! Ha! He queer – he like taste of lady dirty sneaker, but he not like taste of lady dirty floor!’

‘Well I think he’s a disgusting animal, and that, Chantico! I think we should write the words “I am a queer footlicker. Please kick me!” on his rubber mask, innit?…Ha! Ha! Here, we can use this black, felt-tip pen if you like, though?’

She promptly extracts a thick, felt-tipped pen out of her fake-designer shoulder bag.

At moments like this I rather wish mistresses like the vacuous mistress Lisa wouldn’t try to think, but Miss Chantico clearly does like the chavvy office-receptionist’s big, blonde idea:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes please, miss Lisa. Ha! Ha! You write please – I not very good at spell! Ha! Ha! You write words on esclavo pink mask with pen and make all office ladies know he a queer footlick, as well as dirty floorlick, who need a good kicking! Ha! Ha!’

The two superior women, only one of whom can write, then laugh out loud together before miss Lisa stoops down to write the aforementioned words, in big, black felt-tip letters, on my pink-rubbery, convicted-criminal’s, foot-fool mask.

How the two females roar with laughter at their improvised handiwork on my rubber face, prior to duly kicking me on my exposed legs and thighs with their black and white sneakered feet respectively, just as my rubbery mask now requests them to do!

Having kicked me several times with the rounded toe of her right sneaker, miss Lisa then proceeds happily on into the club.

Meanwhile, now covered in graffiti, I am ordered by my still laughing supervisor, miss Chantico, to build up a sweat by resuming my humble licking of the lobby floor, paying particular attention to some dirty marks left by the soles of miss Lisa’s black sneakers, whilst the owner of those sneakers, who has just left her mark in more ways than one, no doubt builds up a sweat of her own inside the club by means of a vigorous work-out regime.

An hour or so later, when miss Lisa has finished her early-morning work-out, she exits the club having changed into her smart, grey-pinstriped trouser suit with a frilly-white blouse. Her office-girl feet are now clad in plain, black leather ballet flats on flesh-toned nylon stockings (though I suspect they may actually be knee-length, nylon popsocks beneath her grey-pinstriped trouser legs; I’m sure I saw her pulling them up her shapely calve muscles inside her pinstriped trouser legs the other day).

I am, of course, once again required to kiss the bespectacled, blonde party-girl’s feet on her departure, this time admiring the way her blue foot veins, presumably now full of adrenaline following her work-out, are just visible beneath the delicate, flesh-toned nylon covering her pasty, white foot. I concentrate on kissing a tiny, ingrained dirt-mark on the very edge of the rounded toe of the arrogantly outstretched, black leather ballet flat on her right foot as my slave-mouth is, naturally, automatically attracted to chavvy, young women’s shoedirt. As miss Chantico has pointed out, I was a full-time public shoelicker for many years prior to my conviction.

From public shoelicker to public floorlicker. How the lowly have fallen!

I am now keenly kissing miss Lisa’s ballet-flated feet with the briefest of kisses by way of thanking her for gracing me with her superior, female presence – and, of course, for decorating my pink-rubbery footfool mask with graffiti and then for kindly fulfilling my stated wish to be soundly kicked!

Superior Mistress Susan

Meanwhile, the additions to my pink, footfool-mask didn’t go unnoticed by the next office-mistress who entered the upmarket, city-centre, female-fitness club. It is mistress Susan, an executive-mistress from one of the nearby banks. ‘Snooty Sue’, as the rest of the female club members seem to like to call her – for I gather that she is somewhat ‘stuck-up’.

In my case, of course, she has every right to feel superior – for, just like the comparatively lowly receptionist before her, miss Lisa – she is superior to me. I am just a dirty, convicted slave-floorlicker and queer footlicker as my pink, rubbery mask declares – fit only to lick the ground on which mistress Susan and her female compatriots walk.

Mistress Susan is a tall and proud black, Afro-Caribbean woman of about 40 – slim, with long, dark hair and an exceptionally good figure. She is currently clad in a loose, white shirt and pink cotton leggings, the elasticated hems of which reveal a gap of shapely, bare, brown ankle-flesh above the rims of her expensive looking, sparkly-silver sneakers. She appears to be sockless inside her sneakers and therefore already, presumably, building up a nice, feminine footsweat.

The bulls-pizzle whip reminds me to lower my lips in respectful greeting to the now outstretched, sockless silvery sneaker on mistress Susan’s right foot.

As I hinted earlier, I have already picked up on the fact that mistress Susan is not known throughout the fitness club for her sense of humour , so I suspect that it is with a degree of apprehension that my supervisor, miss Chantico, hears the high-flying, female bank executive referring to the recently added scribbles to my State-property, pink rubbery footmask:

‘What’s that written on the community-service prisoner’s mask beneath the official words, Chantico?... I am a queer footlicker. Please kick me?!’

‘Ha! Ha! Erm…Me and club-member miss Lisa decide write that on his mask, Madam, since he a queer footlick who like lick women dirty shoes and boots! Ha? Ha?’

There is a tense moment or two of silence whilst mistress Susan changes her silvery-sneakered feet beneath my face.

Then, to my relief, the high-powered, female bank executive joins my supervisor’s tentative laughter, and heartily so:

‘Ha! Ha! Well done, Chantico! I like it! It shows him what we all really think of him! A queer footlicker! …Ha! Ha! Nice one!’

The middle-aged, black-female, bank executive then kindly proceeds to kick me on my flanks with the silvery toe of her right sneaker – the sneaker I have just respectfully kissed – as my rubber mask now politely requests her to do.

Eventually, when mistress Susan is quite breathless from kicking me with her right foot, I kiss it again by way of thanking her for giving her executive-mistress’s seal of approval to my impromptu and makeshift, felt-tip humiliation, and for ably demonstrating that approval by leaving her posh, silvery sneaker-tread marks all over my maleslave ribs.

I notice how mistress Susan’s bare, brown ankles, unlike those of her much younger white predecessor, miss Lisa, are impressively smooth and unveiny.

Mistress Susan then turns on her smooth, brown, Afro-Caribbean ankles, and heads off into the fitness club. Meanwhile, the rough bulls-pizzle descending on my smooth, white back signals that I must once again start licking the floor on which the mocking, snooty, and sometimes belligerent, black banking-executive, mistress Susan, happily walks before and after she makes use of the exclusive fitness-club’s facilities.

On her departure from the club later on mistress Susan is wearing a very short, black cotton, well-above-the-knee-length, executive skirt, but she can get away with it, despite her age, thanks to her superb figure and shapely legs.

Legs which are now fetchingly clad in dark-coloured, finest denier nylons. Now these are, most definitely, full-length stockings or tights – for they visibly stretch all the way up mistress Susan’s long, black legs and shapely thighs, and underneath her black, office mini-skirt.

On the other end of her shapely legs she is now wearing a smart pair of shiny, black, high-heeled courts – courts which click-clack along the white marble floor of the fitness-club lobby, and which ably reflect my ugly, pink-rubbery face when I lower my lips to the pointy toe of her now arrogantly and superciliously outstretched right foot in order to mark her departure.

Immediately after I have kissed the pointy toe of her shiny, black, high-heeled, court shoe, mistress Susan laughs at me and kicks me in the ribs. Her pointy leather toe hurts much more than the kicks from any of the rounded toes of the lady-sneakers I had hitherto experienced this morning!

Potty Time

Our third customer of the morning was much more junior in the office-world hierarchy than mistress Susan – miss Polly, who I believe works in the Accounts Department of a local firm. ‘Potty Polly’ appears to be her nickname amongst the other fitness-club ladies, for miss Polly is, admittedly, somewhat eccentric.

In some ways she looks perfectly normal; spiky, blonde, shoulder-length hair; a grey jumper over a white blouse; and dark blue, denim jeans tucked into low-heeled, calf-length, black, stretch-leather boots.

But that’s the point! You will note that she is not wearing a tracksuit or leggings. Nor is she in a leotard, In fact, she will have no change of clothes. That’s partly why she is considered somewhat eccentric by her female compatriots – she works out first thing in the morning in her normal work clothes!

But it’s not just that which makes miss Polly different – she also has an eccentric and idiosyncratic laugh. Not to put too fine a point on it, mistress Polly laughs out loud like a distressed donkey when something, however small, tickles her fancy; and we can be pretty sure that the words recently added to my pink, rubbery facemask will tickle her eccentric fancy this morning!

Sure enough, no sooner has mistress Polly entered the lobby of the fitness club than the walls are echoing to the sound of asinine laughter:

‘Haw! Haw! Haw!... I am a queer footlicker. Please kick me…Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw!...Where exactly would you like me to kick you, slave? …Haw! Haw! Haw! … Here?...kick…Or here?....kick… Or here?....kick…Or here?…kick… Haw! Haw!’

Although mistress Polly is wearing stretch-leather, calf length boots with soft, rounded toe areas, I can feel her scrunching up her dainty, feminine toes inside her boots in order to inflict as much pain on me as she possibly can with each mocking bootkick – one to my calf; one to my thigh; one to my ribs; and one to my belly.

I gasp with each feminine kick, especially the last one to the belly which fairly knocks the wind out of my sails!

Still she brays:

‘Haw! Haw! Haw!’

Then, suddenly, her mood changes and she crouches down beside me so that her pretty, spiky-blonde head is level with my pink-rubbery head. She grabs my confined head by the little rubber-tongue attachment, and pulls my real mouth down onto the now seriously creased black leather of her right, pull-on, calf-length boot:

‘Well, if you like licking ladies’ feet and footwear so much, cop a load of my boots, slave! Lick the filth off the side of my boots, queer footlicker! Haw! Haw! That’s right! Lick the boot that has just been kicking you in the gut! Haw! Haw! Lick a young woman’s boot until it sparkles! Haw! Haw! Go on … Licky licky! Slurpy slurpy! Mmm…yummy bootie! Nice-girlie dirty boot leather! Mmm…Haw! Haw!...Mmm.’

Mistress Polly then licks her own lips in a mock parody of my pathetic taste for her bitter bootleather – which, I have to say, does genuinely taste nice to me. I suppose it’s what you would call an acquired taste – girl bootleather – acquired subconsciously, no doubt, over my many years of public service as a public boot and shoelicker in the central town square!

Unlike the taste of the lobby floor. That’s a taste I don’t think I shall ever get to like, not even by the end of my two year community-servitude sentence. It’s just so dull; so bland - compared to the taste of the office ladies’ sneaker, boot and shoe leather!

So I am pleased and honoured to be permitted, indeed ordered, to lick the strange and eccentric, and now incredibly sweaty, miss Polly’s black leather calf-length boots once again as she exits the fitness club some 45 minutes later in the same, casual clothes she went in with.

Oh if only I could pull off those calf-length boots and smell her sweaty feet inside. I wonder, are they socked inside her boots? If so, I’ll bet they are an eccentric pair of multicoloured and kookily-styled toesocks!

Tasteful Madam Taroob

We go from ‘potty’ to ‘panache’ when the next mistress enters the lobby – madam Taroob, the elegant, 55 year old Pakistani mistress. She looks so smart and dominant in her purple, dupatta-style headscarf which she constantly adjusts with a kind of studied negligence; her plain black overcoat; her black salwar-kameez style trousers with gold trims on the elasticised hems; her low-heeled, black leather pumps with silver, heart-shaped buckles over the rounded toe areas; and her purple, cotton anklesocks.

I must stress that madam Taroob is not clad like this because she is yet another eccentric woman who chooses to work out in her everyday clothes – she actually works in the fitness club as some sort of club administrator.

Her purple socks are of the towelling variety and deliberately thick – no doubt in order to keep her delicate, middle-aged, Pakistani tootsies warm in this cold, winter weather! For, despite her age, she has not long emigrated from Pakistan, as evidenced by her still strong Pakistani accent:

‘Ha! Ha! I see this fellow is now being describing himself as a queer footlicker?’ she comments to my mistress-supervisor, miss Chantico, as I respectfully welcome her to her place of work by kissing the silver-buckled toe of her low-heeled, black leather shoe. I inadvertently salivate over her purple sock, so nice and soft does it look up close to my face, but luckily the thick towelling-material of the Muslim-Pakistani woman’s cotton sock quickly absorbs my slavish saliva.

‘Ha! Ha! Yes madam Taroob! He want whole world to know he a queer footlick! And he want for you to kick him please, madam! Ha! Ha!’

Madam Taroob’s right foot momentarily twists on its one-inch heel causing the gold-trim of her elasticised, salwar-kameez trouser hem to catch the artificial light along with her silver, heart-shaped shoe buckle in front of my truly hypnotized eyes. Purple sock, silver buckle and gold trim! What a privilege and an honour this is going to be. I am about to be kicked by an immaculately-adorned, elegant and tasteful, Pakistani-female foot!

But it seems madam Taroob is having second thoughts (her womanly privilege). Her pretty, right foot is suddenly placed firmly back on the ground again:

‘Ha! Ha! All the same, I will not be kicking him, if you are not minding it Chantico? I am frightened that I will be hurting my foot on the stupid fool! Ha! Ha!’

Instead, madam Taroob presents her left, dainty, purple-socked and black-leather-shoed foot for me to humbly kiss, before she walks regally off towards the lifts, readjusting her purple headscarf over her long, black hair.

Prompted by another bruising blow from my Mexican supervisor’s bulls-pizzle whip, I avidly trace madam Taroob’s graceful, Pakistani footsteps as far as the lift doors along the floor of the lobby with my tongue, for I am truly honoured to lick the ground on which she walks!

I am clearly not considered worthy enough to follow her feet into the lift, and to kneel beside her classy, Pakistani-goddess socks, shoes and golden-elasticated trouser hems underneath her administrator desk all day long, for my head is roughly pulled away from the lift just as soon as the doors open by my ever-vigilant supervisor-mistress, miss Chantico.

It is a sharp, physical reminder to me that my primary role is to lick floor – not to admire exotic, feminine footwear all day long. For the words written on my pink slave-mask in black, felt-tip ink declaring me to be a ‘queer footlicker’ will, doubtless, soon fade away, leaving only the original words – ‘Community-Servitude Floorlicker’ – emblazoned all over my rubbery, pink face.

And that, fundamentally, is all I am – a lowly floorlicker, until such time as my two-year community-servitude is up. After that, and only after that, can I, hopefully, revert to being a full-time public shoelicker; to doing what I do best, if the Female Authorities deem me to be sufficiently humbled and rehabilitated.

Later that day, much later, the Pakistani, fitness-club administrator madam Taroob emerges from the lift adjusting her purple headscarf – still looking as elegant as ever as she unhurriedly exits the fitness-club lobby.

As she brushes past me I briefly manage to respectfully kiss her now warm with wear, purple-towelling-socked feet, before resuming my laborious licking of the cold and bland, white-marble-tiled floor where the soles of her black leather, low-heeled, buckled, office pumps have just been; and all under the stimulus of my unrelenting, tabard-wearing, Mexican supervisor’s harsh and unforgiving whip!

The End