The Riding-Club Bootboy
It’s a dirty job – but someone’s got to do it.
And that someone must be me, for I’ve been doing it for over twenty years!
I am the riding club bootboy, employed to lick clean and to tongue-shine the dirty, rubber riding boots of the female members of the horse-riding club. There are no male members of the club, of course – only females; males, even free males, are not permitted to have any leisure pursuits in the Gynarchy.
And so I am stationed, or rather chained up, in the female changing room of the club, where my humble duties include the following:
- Greeting the female members of the riding club as they arrive, by kissing their feet;
- Assisting them to change out of their street footwear into their knee-length riding socks and knee-length, rubber, riding boots;
- Lick-cleaning and tongue-shining those same boots after the lady has finished her riding session;
- Sniffing her sweaty, knee-length, riding boot socks before taking them off her feet;
- Mouth-washing those same dirty socks after she has gone, ready for her next trip to the riding club.
Perhaps the best way I can illustrate what I have to do is by letting you observe my work as one particular riding-mistress, miss Felicia, visits the club for a regular riding session.
Miss Felicia is fairly typical of the type of women who are members of the club – young; posh; arrogant; and snooty.
That’s not to say that she isn’t beautiful, however – in a ‘horsey’ sort of way! She has a rather long, aristocratic nose, but is slim, white, and with long, dark hair which, appropriately enough, is invariably tied back in a ponytail.
She is a student – studying Law at Uni – so she’s not stupid, although some might, rather unkindly, suggest that she had bought her way into college through her rich parents, rather than on academic merit.
I, of course, am in no position to judge, for, being male, I am naturally stupid and intellectually inferior to miss Felicia, however academically challenged she may or may not be!
She’s in her first year at Uni, but I understand she partook of a gap year first after finishing school – a gap year which actually lasted 3 years as she wanted to see the world! So, I believe she must now be about 21 or 22 years old.
She is certainly a fit-looking girl – tall and slender, yet with delightfully dainty, feminine feet.
Here she comes now!
She looks stern – but then, miss Felicia always looks stern. I think that riding horses is her one main pleasure in life. I mustn’t spoil the experience for her. I must be at my humble best and make sure I do a good job on her riding boots and socks; serve her well.
Besides, if I don’t, miss Felicia will most assuredly not be slow to use her leather riding crop on my bare back!
As I indicated earlier I am kept permanently chained up in the female changing room of the riding club – on the floor; on my hands and knees; in front of the changing bench.
Miss Felicia sits down on the bench directly in front of my kneeling frame, and places her kit-bag beside her.
I verbally praise and bless her, and welcome her to the club, in humble slavespeak – my first chore:
‘Oh pray, mistress Felicia. God bless you mistress Felicia. Praise be that you are here and are gracing this club with your beauteous presence once again, superior mistress Felicia. This slave is ready to serve you, most beautiful and intelligent goddess-mistress Felicia.’
Now, you may think that that was all a wee bit over the top, but I can guarantee you that miss Felicia won’t see it that way. She accepts every word of what I have said as being the truth. For she is, as far as she is concerned, all of those things – a mistress; superior; beauteous; intelligent; and a goddess.
I’m not arguing against any of that!
Of course, by way of reciprocation, she speaks to me like I am the dirt beneath her feet.
Can’t argue with that either!
She looks down her long nose at me and snootily extends her right foot beneath my face:
‘Kiss my foot, slave.’
Miss Felicia is already partially changed into her riding gear; she is already wearing her cream-coloured riding-britches. However, on her feet she is still wearing her student-girl sneakers and student-girl anklesocks. That’s because a young woman should never have to change her own footwear. Such things are beneath her – certainly beneath a haughty and stuck-up young woman such as miss Felicia.
I lower my lips in order to obey the mistress, and kiss her imperiously outstretched foot in humble greeting.
The sneaker is black – plain black; of the low-cut, lace-up variety. It is also, however, quite scruffy and tatty looking. The blackness cannot hide the ingrained street and uni dirt, and some scuff-marks, which remind me that these are a well-worn and favourite pair of student-girl sneakers.
Miss Felicia’s ingrained sneaker-dirt holds no fears for me, however. There will be worse to come! And so my bootboy-lips unhesitatingly place themselves on the dirty, flaky toe of her black, lace up sneaker, and kiss it.
Just one, single, worshipful kiss – for I am not required to clean the sneakers as such; though I would, of course, do so willingly were I to be so ordered!
Sadly, though, miss Felicia has no time for her sneakers to be tongue-cleaned by the riding club bootboy. She wants to get on with her riding!
And so her right, plain-black-sneakered foot is quickly withdrawn from underneath my kneeling face, and replaced with her left. Again I lower my lips to the flaky, rounded toe of her flaky, black leather sneaker.
As I kiss the black I admire the seemingly pure whiteness of the elasticated top of her contrasting, short, student-girl sneaker sock. I say ‘seemingly’ pure because I just know that the rest of the sock – currently hidden deep inside miss Felicia’s sneaker – will be warm and sweat-stained. It’s inevitable! Sneakers make girls’ feet and socks sweaty. It’s just a fact of life. I guarantee you that the white, cotton material of the sock will show signs of yellowy-brown staining as a result of miss Felicia’s aristocratic foot-perspiration reacting with the inner lining of her sneakers.
You’ll see what I mean in just a second.
‘Now take off my sneakers and kiss my socks, slave.’
Miss Felicia is admiring her nose in her compact mirror whilst she delivers her latest order to me.
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress Felicia!’
She may not be concentrating on what I am doing – but I have to. My back depends on it!
I duly unlace each sneaker, and slip it off her moist-socked foot, before lowering my lips to the reinforced toe-area of each white, cotton sock.
Now do you see what I mean? You see those yellowish sweat stains on the lower sides of her socks, below the insteps? Perhaps you can even smell them – a tart, vinegary smell?
Oh what I wouldn’t give to be permitted to put those dirty, female socks inside my mouth and suck miss Felicia’s precious, superior, feminine footsweat right out of them! Anything to be of sock-service to her! But, sadly, that’s not what I’m here for – though I may, if I’m lucky, be able to furtively sniff her white socks whilst she is riding her horse, providing I am not required to greet another riding-mistress in the interim.
We shall see!
‘Now remove my white socks and put these ones on my feet!’ declares miss Felicia, nonchalantly chucking down a rolled-up pair of navy-blue, argyle-patterned kneesocks onto the floor beside my face.
These, of course, are her riding-boot socks, designed specifically to keep her aristocratic feet and lower legs warm and cosy inside her black rubber riding-boots. It is my job to put the kneesocks over her white feet and pull them up her shapely calves.
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress Felicia!’
Always best to verbally acknowledge miss Felicia’s orders, I find; especially when she has just taken her slim, black leather riding-crop out of her kit bag!
I dutifully peel the short, white-but-yellowing, sneaker socks off miss Felicia’s outstretched feet. The elasticated tops leave fetching little tank-tracks on her bare white footflesh just below her shapely anklebones. I notice she has a small, red cut – possibly the aftermath of a sore – just below her outer, left anklebone. I yearn to kiss it better – but instead have fresh socks to put on her feet!
I carefully place the short, white sneaker socks into the open tops of her unlaced sneakers which are now resting just to my left on the changing room floor. I am careful in how I position them because, as I have already indicated, I am hoping to be able to furtively sniff the snooty student-girl’s sneakers and socks later.
But for now I must handle her fresh, argyle-patterned kneesocks. I unroll the rolled-up socks and stretch open the first sock ready to pull over miss Felicia’s pasty white, warm, unwashed right foot.
Miss Felicia, even though she is still concentrating on her facial make-up, nevertheless finds the time to subconsciously lift her right foot an inch or so up into the changing-room air, so that I may pull the long ridingboot-sock up her lower leg – or, more accurately, up over the elasticated hem of her ankle-length, cream-coloured riding-britches.
I smooth out each argyle patterned sock making sure there are no creases or folds either on her socked feet or calf muscles.
Just as I am doing so another mistress enters the changing room – blonde mistress Bethany.
‘Hi, Felicia!’ chirps miss Bethany.
‘Oh, hi Beth!’ replies miss Felicia.
I know the two girls are good friends. I believe they go to the same university, though I don’t know what miss Bethany is studying.
She’s another good-looking girl, though – tall and slim like her riding-club companion, and currently dressed in a fetching, red and white track-suit with matching red and white sneakers.
Some other bootboy will have to attend to miss Bethany’s feet and footwear, for I, obviously, am busy serving miss Felicia (Oh yes – there are 3 other bootboys employed in the changing room. I am not the only one! In fact, we currently have a vacancy – if you’re interested).
My two female superiors continue with their conversation above me, as if I wasn’t there:
‘Fancy riding out together today?’ asks miss Bethany of her college chum.
‘Sure Beth! I’d love to! I’ll meet you outside the stables, shall I?’
‘Yeah – I need to shower first. I’ve just come from the Gym! Ha! Ha!’
‘No probs, Beth. I’ll wait for you outside!’
‘Cool!’
And with that miss Bethany heads to the nearby shower room.
Ha! Ha! My bootboy colleagues will be disappointed! I’ll bet they would have preferred it if miss Bethany wasn’t taking a shower before availing herself of their services; smellier, sweatier, student-girl gym-feet, you see! Still, they might still get a pleasing whiff of her sweaty, white gym socks!
Meanwhile miss Felicia has realised that I have completed my humble, not to say degrading, task of pulling her knee-length bootsocks up over her lower legs:
‘Now put my boots on me, bootslave!’
‘Yes mistress Felicia. At once mistress Felicia. As it pleases you mistress Felicia!’
Please the mistress – that’s all a slave must ever do! If he knows what’s good for him!
Miss Felicia has by now extracted her black rubber, knee-length riding boots from her kit bag and placed them on the floor for me to pull onto her feet.
And I do mean ‘pull’ – for riding boots, of course, have no zippers. They must literally be pulled onto a lady’s legs via the rubbery bootstraps at the top.
The black, rubber boots are pleasingly clean and shiny at the moment. Would that they would stay that way!
I happen to know that miss Felicia – in common with most riding-mistresses - likes to have a slither of argyle-bootsock still showing at the tops of her boots. It’s a question of style; of fashion. The navy-blue, patterned socks beautify her legs, and contrast nicely with the black rubber of her boots and the cream of her corduroy riding-britches.
How her boots and socks seem to tower above my humble head as she stands up – the business-end of her black, leather riding crop resting threateningly on the top of her right boot as miss Felicia examines herself in the nearby full-length mirror. Surreptitiously I can observe my own, gormless face kneeling behind her shiny, rubber boots in the mirror. I look suitably awestruck – as well I might, for it has just been my privilege to handle those female-dominant boots and socks!
Miss Felicia, of course, has no need to thank me. She just walks off towards the exit to the stables leaving me with her smelly, discarded sneakers and sneaker-socks on the floor next to my face.
I check around – there is nobody watching. Miss Bethany is still in the shower; I can hear her. And the other bootboys are out of sight as we must all work in individual cubicles.
I am free to sniff miss Felicia’s stinky, white sneaker-socks!
God they smell tart! Really quite strong! She too must surely have been to the gym in them today! Or at least out for a run! Oh if only I could taste them, but I dare not lest my tongue remove the yellowy-brown sweat marks and thereby give me away! I must content myself with merely smelling them – with breathing in the very essence of miss Felicia’s stale, stinky foot-smell; the truly sickening foot-odour of a beautiful, young, snooty-nosed woman, through her sweaty, discarded socks!
I have to confess, it’s not the smell of sweaty, female socks that I like; it’s the humiliation of having to smell them.
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A couple of hours later and misses Felicia and Bethany return from their vigorous horse-riding session.
Each girl goes to her separate booth in the changing room, though they are situated adjacent to each other. Miss Felicia, obviously, is sitting in my booth – unaware, hopefully, that her white sneaker-socks have been well and truly sniffed and inhaled in the intervening period.
Neither girl seems inclined to shower before getting changed back into their streetwear. Good!
Miss Felicia clicks her haughty, young aristocratic fingers as she sits down again on the wooden bench in front of me:
‘Tongue-clean my boots, slave!’
‘Yes mistress Felicia. God bless you mistress Felicia. I obey you mistress. I am a good slave!’
‘Shut up slave, and get on with it!’
‘Yes mistress madam!’
Miss Felicia clearly doesn’t want to talk with me. She has better things to talk about with her friend Bethany. You and I, however, shall have to concentrate on my humble tongue-work on her dirty, rubber riding boots.
Sorry about that!
Now, you won’t be surprised to hear that miss Felicia’s erstwhile clean and shiny, black, rubber riding-boots are now covered in wet, sticky mud and pieces of straw! Walking around stables and riding through fields is a messy business at the best of times, and a young lady’s riding boots cannot be allowed to remain in such a disgusting state.
This is, after all, the primary reason why I am here – to lick-clean muddy, knee-high rubber boots!
But first, of course, before I lick –I must humbly kiss; show some respect for miss Felicia’s fresh bootmud – for it is the mud on a superior young woman’s boots, and therefore worth more than me.
And so my unworthy bootslave-mouth unashamedly lowers itself onto a particularly muddy patch on the rounded boot-toe of miss Felicia’s right, rubber riding boot – while she is still wearing it. My lips are covered in mud when they come up for air, and I must lick them clean before I place them kissfully on the same, muddy toe-area of her left boot.
The bootmud tastes bitter and rubbery, and the boots themselves reek of mud, rubber and horse – a heady concoction, fit for a riding-club bootboy!
I kiss each boot only once, however. For miss Felicia may well be impatient to have her muddy riding-boots cleaned. For all I know she may have a date with her boyfriend – master Giles – and I don’t want to delay her, thereby making her angry with me. For I am in her absolute, female power, and her black leather riding crop is resting on the bench beside her!
I therefore, quickly start to lick boot – starting with her right boot. I begin at the muddiest part – the bottom, although, frustratingly, miss Felicia doesn’t see fit to raise her dirty bootsole up off the ground in order that my slave-tongue may have access to its rubbery treads. It seems she only requires the uppers of her riding boots to be tongue-polished and cleaned.
Well, appearances are everything, I suppose!
I’m hungry – so I am glad of the mud. It helps to fill my empty stomach, as do all the muddied bits of straw.
As I reach the upper rim of miss Felicia’s right boot I see that the exposed top of her navy-blue, argyle-patterned sock is now somewhat twisted. Not only that, but it too contains splashes of wet mud.
I feel I have no choice but to interrupt my mistress Felicia’s inconsequential chatter with her friend Bethany in the neighbouring booth, for this is important. I need to know whether mistress Felicia requires me to divest her argyle-patterned sock of its muddy stains:
‘Oh pray mistress Felicia, if you will forgive the intrusion mistress Felicia, this slave begs to point out to the mistress that the top of her beautiful riding-sock has also been sullied with mud. Oh pray mistress, pray grant this slave the honour of sucking clean the mistress’s sock for her, if you would be so kind to a wizened, old footslave, most beautiful and respected mistress Felicia?’
In case you are wondering, I’m 50 years old; but I do look older, having lived a hard life as a footslave!
I brace myself for a possible cut of the female riding-crop across my bare, middle-aged shoulderblade, for I am taking one hell of a risk – interrupting a snooty young mistress during her banal conversation with one of her equally snooty friends.
But it was a risk worth taking – for miss Felicia is, for all her inbred haughtiness, not a naturally cruel girl and, having casually inspected the top of her right kneesock, she duly signals by means of a dismissive and peremptory wave of her pretty, right hand that I do indeed have permission to suck sock!
‘Oh thank you mistress. God bless you mistress, Felicia!’
Felicitations mistress Felicia, for you have just brightened up my life by letting me suck the dirt out of your ridingboot-sock! My lips and mouth now experience the delightful sensation of soft, wet, muddy, female sock as I duly suck on miss Felicia’s offending sockmud.
Somehow the mud from her sock tastes sweeter – less bitter – than the mud from her boot. It’s the same mud, of course; just minus the bitter taste of rubber boot!
I’m pleased to say that my mud-sucking mouth does a good job on the top of miss Felicia’s knee-high, argyle-patterned bootsock. It looks fresh and clean again; you can see the uninterrupted argyle-patterning in the top of the sock!
It is only when I have finished tongue-cleaning miss Felicia’s left boot and sock, and have responded to her next peremptory order of ‘boots off!’, that I am reminded these riding-boot socks are not so fresh and clean as they might appear. They have, after all, been festering inside miss Felicia’s tight-fitting, knee-length, black rubber riding boots for over two hours now, unable to ‘breathe’ inside her boots.
And, as a result, they now stink! In fact, they are deliciously warm and stinky. Or should that be feliciously?!
I think my face must say it all, for miss Felicia notices my involuntary grimace caused by the smell emanating from her freshly-liberated bootsocks:
‘Ha! Ha! Smell me slave! Smell my socks! Sniff them! Run your nose down the entire length of my socks from top to bottom! Get to know my socksmell, dirty footslave! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress Felicia. As you say mistress Felicia. At once mistress Felicia!’
The irony is, of course, that I have already gotten to know miss Felicia’s socksmell – through my earlier, unbeknown to her, surreptitious sniffing of her sweet, white sneaker-socks.
Perhaps, therefore, I should have the last laugh?
No way! A slave must never laugh at a mistress, and besides it is an honour for me to be mocked by such a beautiful and superior, haughty young woman and forced to sniff her socks in front of her friend – especially whilst she is still wearing them!
Not that she is wearing them for much longer, for after just a few minutes of nosing her socks I am ordered to take them off her feet, and replace them once more with her dirty, white sneaker socks and scruffy, black sneakers, which I must lace up onto her pretty, aristocratic, student-girl feet.
I ensure that the tiniest slither of white cotton sneaker-sock is once again visible above the rims of her black sneakers because – as we have already established – miss Felicia likes the tops of her socks to be just visible above the upper rims of her footwear, whatever that footwear may be.
Once again, miss Felicia leaves the club without a single word of thanks or gratitude to me for all my sneaker-kissing, boot-licking, sock-cleaning and sock-sniffing efforts.
But she does leave me with a parting gift – her dirty, sweaty, navy blue, argyle-patterned, riding-boot socks:
‘See that those are mouth-laundered by the next time I come, dirty sockslave!’ are her only derogatory, parting words to me.
‘Yes mistress Felicia. Thank you mistress Felicia. God bless you mistress-madam!’
Such a sweet and kind girl – leaving her dirty socks behind for me to suck clean!
Actually, I’d be shocked and disappointed if she hadn’t. All the riding-club girls do it!
I’m afraid I can’t talk anymore. My mouth is now full of student-girl, dirty, riding-boot sock!
The End
