Use Your Imagination…

I am a humble restroom-footslave in a busy office full of bright and successful women.

I am located next to the exit of the ladies’ restroom – my body buried in the wall, with only my head projecting out over a wooden footblock onto which the office ladies place their feet for cleaning and kissing after they have completed their business in the restroom.

It is a very humble role indeed within the office environment – the lowest of the low; and I’ve been doing it for over 25 years. I therefore know most of the superior office-mistresses very well, am intimately acquainted with their office footwear, and have seen many of the female office staff come and go over the years as they take career breaks in order to get married, or to have babies, or as they leave on promotion – basically as they get on with living their superior, free, female lives to the full whilst I languish in their communal restroom as the lowly office footlicker.

Some of the office-mistresses never speak to me; they just stand above me at the door of the restroom and place their feet, one at a time, onto the well-worn, wooden footblock beneath my permanently bowed and confined head in order for me to pay my humble respects to their feet and footwear – kissing their feet and/or licking their office shoes or boots clean.

Since such mistresses never deign to speak to me, as they regard a restroom-footslave as being too far beneath them on the social scale to merit conversation, I have to guess whether they wish their feet and shoes to be kissed or cleaned. Generally, I play it by mouth – if the shoe is still remaining on the block after I have kissed it several times I know it is time to start licking!

Other office-mistresses will speak to me, but only to deliver their curt and peremptory orders down at me in supercilious and condescending mistress-speak:

‘Shine my shoes, slave’; ‘Lick the heels’; ‘Clean the sides’.

Still other mistresses are actually quite friendly and chatty with me, asking me how I am, or telling me all about the exciting things that are happening in their superior, free lives. I think many of these latter mistresses feel a bit sorry for me – as they know I never get to go anywhere, and must remain confined in the wall and staring out at the cold, bare tiles of the office-restroom floor, even when the office is closed and empty; even after the night-time, female cleaners have gone!

I do lead a dull and humble life, but to cheer myself up I like to imagine myself as the personal, private footslave of many of the office-mistresses whom I serve. I like to fantasize as to what it would be like to be able to follow them around all day outside of the office, both to exotic locations and in their everyday homes, as their personal foot-servant, for personal foot-servants are regarded as being the most privileged and fortunate of male slaves here in the Gynarchy.

Let me show you what I mean, as my next office-mistress, miss Iqra, is now approaching my wooden footblock.

The Perky, Pakistani Mistress – Miss Iqra

Miss Iqra is a delightful, young Pakistani woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She has worked here for about ten years now, and still occupies a relatively junior position. I don’t think she is particularly untalented – she just doesn’t appear to be interested in promotion. She simply likes to come into work, do her basic job, and then go back home into the loving arms of her husband.

I know all that because mistress Iqra is one of the chattier, friendlier types of mistress, who is more than happy to tell me all about her life outside of work – where she is off to on her holidays; the latest concert or film she has been to see with her beloved husband; even what she is having for dinner with him that evening.

I think she likes to inform me of all these things because she knows that, unlike her, I can’t go on holiday, or go to the cinema, or choose what I am having for dinner. She knows that I am just a dirty, restroom-footslave condemned to lick ladies’ office boots and shoes day in and day out.

Speaking of which, miss Iqra is today, unusually for her, wearing a smart pair of shiny, black, low-heeled court shoes and dark nylons, beneath a modest, below-the-knee-length, navy blue office skirt. This is quite unusual office-attire for her, as she normally wears heavy-looking, black leather, calf-length biker boots with black, boot-cut, cotton trousers to work.

This change of attire will no doubt prove to be a subject of conversation with the ever-chatty miss Iqra. I know she won’t be offended if I enquire as to the reasons for her wearing a skirt with nylons and courts today!

But first we must greet one another, as per usual, in a manner befitting a superior mistress and inferior slave who are about to interact with one another, and as miss Iqra arrogantly stretches forth her slender, Pakistani right foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my face.

I must always wait for the superior mistress to speak first of course, for a mistress, even a customarily ‘chatty’ mistress, may not be in the mood for a conversation with a mere office-footslave, and her wishes and desires must be paramount at all times:

‘Hi, slave! How are you today?’

Miss Iqra speaks without any trace of a Pakistani accent. I think she may have been born in the Gynarchy – to Pakistani parents:

‘Good morning miss Iqra. This slave is most pleased and honoured to serve the most respected mistress this morning, if it is so pleasing to you most beautiful Pakistani goddess-mistress Iqra.’

I then kiss the rounded toe-end of her shiny, black court shoe – a single, respectful kiss.

Beautiful Pakistani goddess-mistress Iqra may be a friendly and chatty mistress, but I have to always remember my footslave place, and employ humble and respectful slave-speak, as well as a suitably humble and submissive demeanour, in all my dealings with my various mistresses. I am their slave, not their friend.

Miss Iqra duly gives me my humble orders:

‘Shine them up for me, would you?’

It might sound more like a polite request, than a mistressly command. But it is, of course, non-negotiable. Put it this way – if I declined to ‘shine up’ miss Iqra’s black leather, court shoes she would report me to her office managers immediately and have me soundly whipped.

And rightly so!

‘Yes miss Iqra. At once miss Iqra!’

I quickly lower my tongue to the round, patent-leather toe of the modestly-heeled outstretched right, court shoe on petite and slender miss Iqra’s right leg.

The fact that she is wearing a skirt and dark nylons means that I am getting a rare view of her anklebones and lower legs which, as I explained earlier, are normally hidden inside miss Iqra’s heavy, calf-length biker boots. Her calf muscle and anklebone on her outstretched, nylon-covered, right leg are very slender, in keeping with the rest of her delicate, Pakistani-girl frame. It reminds me that she is a truly beautiful young Asian woman, and that she is very much my better.

I therefore feel particularly humbled as I admire her dark-nylon-covered, slender and bony anklebone whilst I apply my lips and tongue to the shiny, leather surface of the rounded toe-area at the front of her low-heeled court shoe. I particularly admire the way the dark, nylon material of her finest-denier nylon stocking (or, of course, for all I know they may be tights) stretches over her prominent anklebone, causing the individual stitches of the nylon to be more visible to the naked footslave-eye.

I simply must enquire as to the reasons for miss Iqra’s unusual-for-her office attire this morning, for whilst I very much appreciate her nylon-stockinged ankles I am sorely missing her heavy, black biker boots; I hope she hasn’t dispensed with them completely (they are starting to look a bit worn and tatty these days), for it is always a challenge to tongueshine such buckly, female boots – a challenge I relish in my otherwise often dull existence. These shiny, black, buckle-free courts she has on now are so much easier to lickshine, and therefore comparatively boring and undemanding to the experienced footslave-tongue!

But, of course, I must be discreet in my enquiries, for miss Iqra does not choose her office footwear just to please me! She can wear whatever she damn well likes on her office-girl feet – she is, after all, a free, young woman!

‘Oh pray mistress Iqra, if it pleases you mistress Iqra, this slave truly admires the mistress’s dark, nylon stockings and shiny, black court shoes, if you would be so kind mistress Iqra! This dirty slave was wondering, is the nice, clean mistress off to an important meeting today, mistress Iqra?’

I know this question must sound incredibly impertinent to some of you, but, believe me, miss Iqra will not be offended by my footslave-inquisitiveness. She knows I am only asking out of a genuine interest in her superior life.

She laughs, as I continue to tongue-buff her already shiny court shoe:

‘Ha! Ha! How did you guess, slave? I’m off to a meeting with my boss this morning up at head office. She’s asked me to be her minute-taker.’

I congratulate miss Iqra on her selection for this apparently important role:

‘Oh pray mistress! Congratulations mistress Iqra! Praise be to you mistress Iqra!’

In my heart of hearts I know that miss Iqra would probably prefer not to have to dress up in her officewear-best and accompany the boss to head office, but it is, nevertheless, an indication of her boss’s trust and confidence in her. Even the unambitious and lackadaisical miss Iqra appears to be going places!

She just smiles down at me:

‘That’s why I need my shoes to have a nice shine on them, stupid slave!’

‘Yes, mistress Iqra. Of course, mistress Iqra. Pray leave it to me, most beautiful mistress Iqra!’

It is now, whilst I am tongue-shining her court shoes in preparation for her big meeting with her boss, that I start to imagine what it would be like to be miss Iqra’s personal footslave.

I imagine I would be well-treated by her. Of course, because she is married, I would have to be discreet in my service towards her, and show complete and utter slavish respect not just for her, but also for her husband, whom I know from my numerous conversations with miss Iqra is also of Pakistani origins and is called Ahmed – master Ahmed to me. I would have to kiss the ground in front of his feet – rather than his actual feet – since it is illegal for footslaves to kiss male feet in the Gynarchy. But miss Iqra’s husband would still be my better, as he is her chosen partner and she is very much in love with him; and I am just her down-in-the-dirt personal footslave.

Nevertheless, I imagine miss Iqra and master Ahmed would be quite liberal towards me, and would permit me to accompany my petite and slender, Pakistani mistress on my hands and knees everywhere she goes. I would often be seen, therefore, crawling behind miss Iqra’s scruffy, black biker boots as she walks to the shops, or goes to the cinema with her husband.

Oh I do hope she hasn’t thrown her biker boots away – and since this is my fantasy, I’ll pretend that she hasn’t!

Moreover, as her personal footslave I would get to see something I rarely, if ever, get to see down inside her boots – her precious Pakistani-girl socks! I happen to know that miss Iqra likes to wear pink or light blue socks inside her heavy boots as I do occasionally catch a glimpse of the elasticated tops of her ankle-length bootsocks deep inside her boots whilst I am licking the upper buckles and rims. At such times miss Iqra will be helpfully hitching up the hems of her bootcut, office trouser-legs in order to afford my tongue unencumbered access to the tops of her calf-length biker boots, but an unintended consequence of such a kindly act on her part is that she becomes a bit of a Pakistani-girl socktease – affording me the cheap thrill of a surreptitious peek at the tops of her soft, pastel-coloured anklesocks!

Just imagine, if I were her personal footslave I would be seeing her socks all the time! And not just the tops of her socks, but the whole socks – for I would be responsible for dressing her feet; for putting on and taking off her boots and socks. I would therefore get to touch her socks – and not just touch them, but smell them! For I am sure miss Iqra would require me to nose her socked feet from time to time whilst she relaxed on the sofa with her husband Ahmed, my master, in front of the television!

And I would doubtless also have to soak her dirty, sweaty, pink or blue bootsocks in my mouth overnight; pre-wash them before I subsequently wash them properly by hand the next morning.

Yes – I would very much enjoy being the sweet and kind miss Iqra’s personal boot and sock slave!

Of course, I would also get to pay homage to my Pakistani mistress Iqra’s delicate and soft, bare feet on a daily basis; kissing them; washing them; pedicuring them by painting her toenails and gently removing any areas of hard skin on the bottoms of her bare heels with a pumice stone. I imagine I would be required to swallow her Pakistani footskin-filings, as she wouldn’t want them messing up her carpet!

I imagine too that the liberal-Pakistani couple would even take me on holiday with them, at which times I would get to see my mistress Iqra’s brown, bare flip-flopped or sandaled feet on the beach…

I am only brought back from my tropical island paradise to my harsh reality in the office-restroom when miss Iqra issues me with a verbal warning:

‘Stop daydreaming and concentrate, you filthy slave! Lick the back of my shoe as well as the side!’

‘Yes mistress Iqra. At once mistress Iqra. Pray forgive me for my foolish inattentiveness, most merciful mistress Iqra!’

As I said before, I must never forget that even the friendly and chatty office-mistresses, such as miss Iqra, are not my friends – they are my female masters. And I must not allow my footslave-imagination to run away with me, for runaway footslaves invariably get caught and whipped!

The Grim, Gothic Mistress – Miss Bobbi-Jo

As I indicated before, not all the office-mistresses are approachable and like to have a friendly chat with me. My next ‘customer’ is a case in point; one of the office juniors – miss Bobbi-Jo.

As a general rule the younger the mistress, the less chatty and friendly she is likely to be. That’s because she will not fancy me in any way. I am much too old to be of any interest to her. I’m in my forties, and miss Bobbi-Jo, for example, is only 19 years old.

She therefore uses me every day in complete, disdainful silence. Her dark-brown Ugg-booted foot, with the top of the calf-length Ugg-boot folded down almost making it look like a somewhat misshapen, furry ankleboot, will simply be plonked down unceremoniously onto the matching, brown wooden footblock beneath my face on the office-restroom floor, often whilst she is still finishing off her make-up.

Ordinarily I will kiss her furry, sheepskin Ugg Boot, including the folded-down top, several times, and then if the boot remains in place (as it appears to be doing today) do my best to lick it clean – though it is well-nigh impossible to remove ground-in stains from the exterior of an Ugg boot with just one’s tongue.

It is a bitter experience – and not just because of the sheepskin flavour of the Ugg boot, but because miss Bobbi-Jo always has her blue, denim jeans tucked into the tops of her folded down Ugg boots, so that I never get to see whether or not she is wearing any girlsocks inside her pretty boots.

Nor is she the sort of mistress to graciously enlighten me as to her inner footwear. She despises me too much. To her I am just a thing - a middle-aged, balding thing that cleans her boots in the office rest-room.

But what if I were miss Bobbi-Jo’s personal footslave?

She looks like a bit of a Goth with her dark hair and pierced nose and lips. I imagine her boyfriend, assuming she has one, would be a Goth also – so, no doubt, I would be required to follow my Goth mistress and master to Goth music clubs, where my mistress Bobbi-Jo would be wearing her knee-length, lace-up, chunky-heeled, black leather Goth-style boots. (I imagine she keeps her ‘smart’, Ugg boots for work!)

I may even have to crawl behind her kneehigh boots to Goth festivals where I would watch her black, leather boots becoming progressively muddy throughout the day until the evening, when my master and mistress would retire to their tent leaving me to mouth-clean my mistress Bobbi-Jo’s Goth-boots outside in the rain.

How I would eat mud that evening – large clumps of my Goth-girl mistress’s wet boot-mud – from underneath her chunky boot heels…

My mudmouth-reverie is inevitably cut short as miss Bobbi-Jo quickly moves on after I have kissed, and briefly licked, her equally misshapen, left Ugg boot. She literally has no time for me!

The Hoity-Toity Mistress – Mistress Noreen

From the impetuous to the sublime as my next customer-mistress in the office restroom is the much more mature and sophisticated mistress Noreen.

Mistress Noreen is, like me, in her forties – though she is just beginning her fourth decade whereas I am nearing the end of mine. She has been working in this office almost as long as I have! Unlike me, however, she has climbed up the career ladder in that time and is now one of the company executives.

Mistress Noreen is what I would describe as ‘borderline chatty’, although her chat is always very much that of a conscious superior to an inferior. Indeed, she seems to revel in the fact that she is a success whereas I am a complete failure. She is a very ‘gradist’ mistress – forever mocking me, and reminding me of my lowly, male status within the office hierarchy, and of her own glittering, female success.

Not that she is undeserving of her hard-earned promotion – she is an intelligent woman, born and bred in the Gynarchy, and therefore predestined for success; whereas I am just a thick and stupid, male slave, destined for a lifetime of servitude at women’s feet. That’s precisely how things should be in a Gynarchy!

Mistress Noreen is always smartly dressed, as one would expect of an executive. Today she is wearing a crisp, frilly white blouse; a dark-grey, pinstriped trouser suit; and black leather, high-heeled, zip-up ankle boots. Even in summer she wears her trouser-suit and boots, though her bleached-blonde, shoulder length hair always gives her an unassailable air of femininity and authority.

The only difference between the summer and winter months is that mistress Noreen tends to wear dark-coloured nylons inside her boots during the winter, whereas during the summer she is barefoot inside her boots.

I know that because she has gleefully told me so, often complaining of how hot and sweaty her bare feet are inside her zip-up ankleboots on the hot summer days.

Not that I ever get to see the summer, of course, being stuck inside the ladies’ restroom as I am. I only get to hear about it, and to see it reflected in my office-mistresses’ summer footwear – or not, as the case may be with mistress Noreen and her ubiquitous, all-weather, black leather ankle boots!

‘Give me a quick lick and a shine today, slave!’ commands the normally chatty, if snooty, mistress Noreen as she imperiously stretches forth her successful, right, ankle-booted foot onto my wooden footblock, hitching up the hem of her corresponding, pinstriped trouser leg to reveal a tantalizing slither of dark nylon stocking (hence I know it is still the wintertime outside!)

I’m pretty sure it’s not a knee-high, nylon popsock gracing her still-shapely leg, but a full-length nylon stocking. Mistress Noreen and popsocks would not go together. Nor would she wear tights. She is much too sophisticated a lady to wear anything other than full-length nylon-stockings beneath her pinstriped, boot-cut trousers.

I imagine that serving mistress Noreen as her personal foot-servant would be very demanding. She would require very exacting standards of me, and insist that I yield unquestioningly to her every whim.

I know she likes horse-riding, so I like to imagine myself as her personal pony-boy and stable-boy: pulling her knee-length, black shiny rubber riding-boots onto her posh, argyle-kneesocked legs over her cream-coloured riding britches; then attaching the metal stirrups to her boots, stirrups which will dig mercilessly into the side of my face whilst she is riding me, on my hands and knees, through the muddy fields surrounding her country mansion; feeling the sting of her upper-class riding crop on my thighs and buttocks as she urges me to carry her ever faster through the mud; then cleaning her muddy riding boots with my tongue whilst she stops to sip champagne with her fellow huntswomen; and, finally, pulling her black rubber boots off her legs and nosing her posh, argyle-patterned kneesocks from soft tops to smelly bottoms as a demonstration of my respect for her, before changing her out of her riding attire and back into her thigh-high, nylon stockings and off-duty, black leather mini-skirt…

‘Don’t touch my nylons with your imbecilic mouth, dirty slave!’ shouts mistress Noreen above me as my tongue reaches the upper rim of her outstretched office ankle-boot. It is a timely reminder of my reality – the reality of being an office restroom-footslave, fit only to lick female bootleather, and not worthy to touch feminine nylon.

I shall never be ridden by mistress Noreen, or get to roll her dark, nylon stockings up her female-executive legs; just taken for a ride occasionally as she makes fun of me and my helpless position confined in the office-restroom wall at her ankle-booted feet!

The Modest, Muslim Mistress – Miss Mlathi

Next up is the twenty year old Muslim girl from Reception, miss Mlathi.

Miss Mlathi is, I believe, of Indonesian origins. She speaks English well, but with a cute, Asian accent so I don’t think she has lived in the Gynarchy for all that long.

She is always modestly, and semi-traditionally, dressed in a white hijab or headscarf; pink or white blouse; smart, navy blue jacket; and black denim jeans. On her feet she tends to wear black ballet flats with cute little, black leather string-bows on the rounded toe areas, and plain black or navy-blue ankle socks.

Today she is wearing black socks with her black ballet flats – and very nice socks they are too – short, cotton socks with lots of little black lint-balls stuck to their surfaces; clearly a well-worn pair of Indonesian-girl socks!

Miss Mlathi never speaks to me – not even just to order me to kiss her black ballet flats. I only know of her Indonesian accent as she occasionally chats to other women in the restroom, or uses her mobile phone to speak to her friends whilst I attend to her footwear.

Although she doesn’t ever deign to speak to me she is clearly not averse to having her office ballet flats diligently tongue-cleaned by the male footslave as her pretty, Indonesian foot often remains for quite a while on my wooden footblock. Humble kisses to the rounded, scuff-marked toes of her soft black leather shoes are clearly not enough for her – she wants those scuff-marks to be diligently tongued away, and the little black string-bows to be sucked free of street-dust and grime.

I always do my shoe-level best for the modestly headscarfed miss Mlathi, for it is such an honour and a privilege to be allowed to tongue-clean the modern, black ballet-flats of such a superior and delightful young Indonesian woman. The only thing I cannot do, out of respect for her Muslim-girl modesty, is kiss her socks. I know she is wearing those black socks, in part, to prevent my infidel lips from sullying her bare, Indonesian footflesh, and that for my lips to even brush against the protective, cotton material of her socks whilst I am lick-shining her low-cut ballet shoes would be considered a great insult.

I therefore can look – but not touch, when it comes to miss Mlathi’s short, black ballerina-socks.

I imagine that serving her, and her husband (for I’ve heard tell that she is married despite being only 20 years old) would be a very different affair from serving the ‘westernized’ miss Iqra and her husband. There would be very rigid footslave-protocols to follow in miss Mlathi’s strict household, and whilst, as her personal footslave I might be granted limited access to her socks, I would certainly not be allowed to ever touch her precious, bare feet!

I imagine also that she would not be averse to employing corporal punishment on her slave should he transgress. I can visualize myself kneeling in her back yard, my back bared, whilst she stands triumphantly behind me in her hijab, blouse and jeans, rattan cane in hand, ready to deliver six stinging strokes to my bare back by way of a punishment for my insolence in looking furtively and longingly at her bare, Indonesian feet earlier that morning underneath the breakfast table.

Whilst she is readying herself to beat me I stare at her black leather ballet flats and black cotton socks on the dusty ground behind me in a pathetic effort to take my mind off the impending pain. I admire the way the string bows on the toe-areas of her black ballet flats flap about, and her short, black socks crease, as she brings her rattan punishment cane whistling down through the air onto my prone and vulnerable back. The first agonizing stroke of six, hard, judicious strokes…

But I miss out on imagining the other strokes as miss Mlathi’s mobile phone suddenly rings and she is off, even before I have had a chance to attend to her left ballet-flat on my cold, office-restroom footblock.

It just goes to show how little the young Indonesian receptionist actually thinks of my humble shoe-cleaning efforts!

The Bright and Bubbly Mistress – Miss Shantaya

Next up is a very different young woman to her predecessor – 35 year old mistress Shantaya.

Mistress Shantaya is far from being shy and retiring – she is a sassy, fun-loving black girl of Afro-Caribbean origins who thinks, quite rightly, that she is ‘all that’. She knows that she over-indulges me with her knee-length, black patent leather, zip-up boots and fetching, navy-blue, office kneesocks, but she likes doing it, for she is a sweet and kind mistress.

Her party-trick is to ostentatiously pull up and straighten the tops of her navy-blue, thick-woollen kneesocks inside her boots as each booted foot is stretched forwards onto the wooden footblock beneath my confined-to-the-restroom face.

It drives me mental, as I can not only see the long, woolly sock being straightened, but hear it too! I can hear the soft, woollen material of her upper sock brushing against her soft and smooth, black skin beneath her knee-length, navy blue office skirt.

Mistress Shantaya (‘Shanti’ to her friends and colleagues) is such a tease! She knows only too well that I am unable to straighten her socks for her since my arms and hands are confined in the restroom wall; only my head and face are exposed – and you try straightening a black girl’s navy-blue socks with only your mouth! It can’t be done – not when they are high kneesocks! If they were anklesocks I might stand a chance!

Having deliberately straightened her socks in front of me mistress Shantaya will then always chat to me:

‘How’s it hangin’, slave?’ (she means my head, of course). ‘Are you ready for some serious, black-girl bootlickin’?’

‘Oh yes mistress Shantaya! Oh pray mistress Shantaya! If it pleases you most blessed mistress Shantaya!’

I sound so eager because mistress Shantaya’s sexy sock-straightening in front of my face has got me all fired-up. It has reminded me that her very boots and socks are better than me, for they now tower elegantly above me (mistress Shantaya is quite slender and tall) – lording, or should that be ‘ladying’, it over me in all their African-Caribbean glory!

Mistress Shantaya laughs at my pathetic enthusiasm for licking her boots. I am putty in her hands:

‘Ha! Ha! Very well then, bootboy, get to work...and I wanna see my face in them!’

‘Yes mistress Shantaya. At once mistress Shantaya.

It may be a cliché, but why wouldn’t mistress Shantaya want to see her face reflected in her shiny bootleather? It is a very pretty, Afro-Caribbean face, after all – and I would quite like to see her beautiful face reflected beneath me in her boots also!

‘Bootboy’ is her pet-nickname for me, and just imagine how life would be as mistress Shantaya’s personal foot-pet…

Hard work, I should imagine! She is always on the go! Hyper-active. Several boyfriends, by all accounts. I wonder if she wears her knee-length boots whilst she is out on the pull, or if the boots are strictly for the office?

One thing’s for sure, if she does wear these same boots and socks whilst out dating I would be required to sniff her discarded, sweaty, navy-blue bootsocks as I knelt by the side of her bed whilst she makes love to her latest beau. The more passionately she makes love, the more passionately I sniff her dirty, woollen kneesocks from top to bottom, for that would be my humble place as her personal footslave.

I would not be worthy to observe her bare, Afro-Caribbean feet in bed as she makes love – only her boots and socks as they lie dishevelled and all crumpled up on the bedroom floor.

However, once she has finished making love, and is getting dressed again, it would be my inestimable honour to put her boots and socks back onto her legs and feet – straightening her knee-length socks so that they are just showing above the tops of her boots, the way she likes them.

Yes, if I were mistress Shantaya’s personal foot-servant I would actually get to straighten her socks myself! Not just watch them being straightened!

The thought leaves me quite breathless…

Whack!

She reaches down and slaps my face, her bling-festooned fingers slapping me out of my sock-straightening reverie:

‘What’s the matter wit’ you today, bootboy? Concentrate on lickin’ my boot or I’ll report you to miss Chandler, yeah?’

I gasp with the unexpected jolt of pain:

‘Aow!... Y…yes mistress Shantaya! Please forgive me, m…mistress Shantaya!’

The mere mention of miss Chandler’s name – the office supreme-manageress – is making me nervous; for she alone has the authority to have me sacked and sent to the salt-mines.

I’d much rather be here, in the office restroom, licking miss Shantaya’s shiny, black leather, knee-high boots and admiring the tops of her navy-blue kneesocks!

So I lick. I concentrate on black-girl bootleather, and lick for all I am worth – which admittedly isn’t much!

‘That’s better, bootboy!’ states mistress Shantaya encouragingly, as she plucks away at her eyebrows.

Such a kind and forgiving Afro-Caribbean mistress!

The Inscrutable Mistress – Miss Niu-Ling

My final mistress of the morning is the 25 year old oriental girl from Accounts, miss Niu-Ling.

Miss Niu-Ling is a young, Chinese lady of few words, but nice sneakers. She always wears pink and white striped, low-cut , lace-up sneakers to work with blue denim jeans. As you will have realised by now there is no dress code as such for the ladies of the office!

The reason why I like and admire miss Niu-Ling so much is that she always wears very low-cut, white sneaker-socks with her sneakers – always with different-coloured, elasticated trims; pink; yellow; blue; or purple. The coloured sock-trims are the only way I can distinguish between her various socks, or tell if she is sometimes wearing the same socks for two days in a row.

Of course, if I could unlace and take off her pink and white sneakers and then sniff her socks, that would be another way of knowing how long she had been wearing them on her pretty, Chinese feet. But miss Niu-Ling is not disposed to indulge my footslave-curiosity in that way.

She does, however, permit me to kiss her socks – or rather the narrow, elasticated, colour-trimmed tops of her socks. Usually it involves only my upper lip on her short sock, whilst my lower lip pays homage to the rim of her sneaker.

The sock always feels nice and warm compared to the cold of the leather sneaker.

But however warm and inviting her socks may be, mistress Niu-Ling herself always sounds cold and inscrutable towards me. When she speaks it always sounds like she is angrily shouting at me.

Perhaps she is. Perhaps she just hates and despises me.

She sulkily positions her right sneakered foot onto my wooden footblock:

‘You kiss Niu-Ling sock and sneaker. Kiss top of sock and side of shoe! You obey! You a dirty slave!’

‘Yes mistress Niu-Ling. At once most glorious and all-powerful miss Niu-Ling.’

I think it is always best to flatter miss Niu-Ling, especially when she is in such a dominant mood.

I imagine that serving her on a full-time basis as her personal footslave would be quite exhausting, as well as quite rewarding. She strikes me as a ‘perpetuant’ mistress – the sort of mistress who would like her feet and footwear to be kissed all the time by her personal footslave as a public demonstration to the world of her innate superiority over me, her humble footslave.

But then, what footslave wouldn’t wish to have the honour of kissing a beautiful, surly young Chinese woman’s sneakers and sneaker-socks throughout the day? Being perpetually shouted at and called a ‘dirty slave’; laughed at by all and sundry as she keeps me firmly under her young-womanly, oriental, sneakered heel!

Yes, I could quite happily live with mistress Niu-Ling’s soft white sneaker-socks attached permanently to my lips as she goes about her Chinese business throughout the day…

And so, there you have it! My fevered, low-brow imaginings of my personal servitude at my various office-mistresses’ free-time feet.

That’s the great thing about the maleslave imagination; wherever you are, whatever your circumstances, you can always dream.

So use it! Use your imagination…

The End