Cordial Relations

Some public footslaves will try to tell you, privately, that all customer-mistresses are ‘bitches’; that they are always moody and arrogant; that they do nothing other than despise you as you attend to their feet and footwear in public; that they are constantly seeking any excuse to have you whipped for their own delectation and aggrandisement.

But I say that just isn’t true! Indeed, I feel that I can have quite cordial relationships with some of my customer-mistresses on my provincial, town-square, public bootlick-stand.

Take my last three customers this busy afternoon – all of them regulars; all of whom just so happen to be black; and all of whom just keep on coming back for more! You tell me if you think they are truly ‘bitchy’, or just strong, young, black women of the Gynarchy, deserving of my male-slavish respect and attentiveness…

Local Estate-Agent, Mistress Cisely

The first of the three ‘sample’ mistresses I would refer you to is customer-mistress Cisely – a beautiful, slim, auburn-haired, black mistress in her early twenties, who works in the local estate agent’s, and who is today wearing her usual workday outfit consisting of a beige-coloured trouser suit with her smart, brown leather, chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboots as she climbs up onto the bootshining-throne of female power in front of my kneeling face at precisely 3.00 P.M.

Miss Cisely is normally very civil with me as she uses my tongue to publicly clean her boots, and today would appear to be no exception, for as she takes up her seat of power in front of me on the public bootlick-throne, she graciously hitches up the bootcut-hems of her beige-brown slacks in order to afford my unworthy, slave mouth full and unimpeded access to her dark-brown leather, officewear boots – always a good sign that a lady is eager to have a nice bootshine!

I greet her in my customary cheery, but suitably respectful and submissive, tone – as a male slave like me is required to do under the Female Law:

‘Good afternoon, mistress Cisely. Oh pray, goddess-mistress Cisely, praise be to you for gracing this bootslave-sinner with your superior, black-female presence once again, most respected and beautiful mistress.’

I like to use religious terminology when greeting mistress Cisely because I happen to know she herself is quite religious (she sometimes stops by to have her black leather, Sunday-best, calf-length boots tongueshined on her way to church!)

A customer-mistress, of course, is perfectly at liberty to either ignore my slavish greeting, and to instantly snap back her haughty orders at me, should she feel so inclined. But, as I have already indicated, customer-mistress Cisely – though she can, on occasion, be somewhat aloof and stand-offish – is clearly in a good mood today, for she deigns to greet me back:

‘Hi, Boots! How are you today?’

Boots is her personal, dominant nickname for me – since she knows I spend all day and every day lickshining women’s boots in the town square. Needless to say, I am not permitted to have a nickname for her; she must always be addressed as, at the very least, ‘mistress Cisely’ – since she is my female customer and better.

This is an important point: however friendly a customer-mistress may be acting towards you whilst she is seated on the opulent boot-throne above you, you must never forget your humble place and station in life – which is at her booted feet, serving as her Female-State owned, public bootservant!

I am permitted, however, to respond to customer-mistress Cisely’s kind enquiry as to my well-being, though I must, by law, always answer in the positive – assuring the kind mistress of my good humour and well-being, since no mistress, however sweet and spiritual, would ever wish to hear about a slave’s ill-health or problems (or give a damn about them!):

‘Oh pray mistress Cisely, if it pleases you black mistress Cisely, this slave is feeling very well indeed, thank you for asking black goddess-mistress Cisely, and is all the better for seeing the beautiful, holy mistress and her beautiful, brown boots again, if it is so pleasing to you goddess-mistress Cisely.’

A bit of bootslave-flattery always helps to melt any residual, miss Cisely ice, I always find!

Customer-mistress Cisely smiles a smug smile of successful, young, black-woman satisfaction – not that I can see her gloating, African-Caribbean face as I must focus my eyes on her boots resting on the two silver-plated footrests in front of my humbly kneeling and bowed face; but I can hear her justifiable, black pride in her voice:

‘Just a quick lick and a shine today, Boots!’ she snaps, but not in an overly-aggressive way; more in a ‘friendly advice’ sort of way.

Miss Cisely, I should explain, is a very rich, young black woman – from a very wealthy black family. I don’t even think that she needs to work for a living; she chooses to, as she is a good girl, who wishes to be a productive member of female society.

I have to admire her:

‘Yes goddess-mistress Cisely. At once goddess-mistress Cisely.’

I get down to business on her brown bootleather straight away – for this is where I can really earn my ‘brownie points’. It doesn’t really matter how silver-tongued I am when it comes to words – at the end of the day a customer-mistress, even a friendly one, wishes her street-soiled boots to be made spotless; that’s really all my slave-tongue is good for – and a pair of clean, mud-free boots on a lady is, after all, the sincerest form of bootslave-flattery!

A ‘quick lick and a shine’ is just about all customer-mistress Cisely ever asks for; she’s not exactly what you would describe as the most imaginative of customer-mistresses. She doesn’t, for example, tend to lean forward and direct every aspect of my bootlicking – the way some other customer-mistresses will do; pointing with their slender, painted fingernails to particular areas of their boots; or pointing out where my tongue has missed a bit.

No, customer-mistress Cisely prefers to just sit back, relax, and let me get on with it – sometimes whilst she is reading a magazine; or even talking to her boyfriend on the phone. She is a very private mistress, however; she never discusses her love-life with me, so I know next to nothing about her ‘other half’.

All I can say is that he’s a lucky man, whoever he is, to come home to such a sweet and kind, auburn-haired, black beauty every night!

However, whilst holier-than-me, customer-mistress Cisely may be happy with a quiet, routine bootlicking session on my part, I have other, more devilish, designs on her footwear – particularly since she is evidently in an amenable mood, as evidenced by her aforementioned, kind signal of hitching up her beige, bootcut trouser-hems to half-mast. It’s as if she is inviting me to go further; tempting me. It’s as if she is saying:

‘The Gynarchy expects every humble bootslave to do his duty!’

What am I talking about? Her socks, of course!

Customer-mistress Cisely must be well aware that by hitching up her trouser-hems so forcefully she has revealed the elasticated tops of her plain, black, estate-agent-girl bootsocks to me – especially as my mouth reaches the upper rims of her brown leather ankleboots.

She knows full well that her plain, black socks – or, at least, the elasticated tops of her socks – will be very much in my bootlicking face and on my bootlicking mind as I go about my humble business. And I know full well that she is in the mood for a good, public sock-sniffing – even if she is much too ladylike and religious to say it! She wants me to beg to sniff her sweaty, black bootsocks – as it is the public bootslave’s unbidden, but gentlemanly, role to ask such things of a somewhat reserved, young black lady.

Such a refined, young lady should never have to explicitly order her socks to be sniffed; that’s much too intimate a service to order a mere public foot-servant to perform! She could order it of her personal footslave, if she had one (and she probably does!) – in the privacy of her own home; but not a dirty, public bootslave – however much she may desire it! That could be seen as unbecoming in a young woman!

Now, you might be wondering why any customer-mistress would even surreptitiously be desirous of having her stinky socks exposed in public and sniffed by a humble bootslave? The answer, of course, is the sheer, feminine thrill of humiliating and degrading a helpless, male slave in public – of making him smell the very essence of her perspiring feet inside her warm boots. It makes her feel strong and mighty to have her socks sniffed whilst she is still wearing them – just as it makes me feel humble and weak to have to sniff them!

For however accustomed may one become over the years to the aroma of warm, moist, feminine bootsocks – it remains a humbling smell! Tart; pungent; unpleasant; degrading.

And yet I am programmed through years of submissiveness to yearn for it; to crave it; to beg for it. How pathetic is that?!

I do, of course, have to beg for it; I can’t just start unzipping a lady-customer’s boots and sniffing sock – as such a flagrant act of public worship will necessitate the black mistress granting me her kind permission to unzip the sides of her boots and remove her outer footwear.

If I were a public shoelick I might not have to beg for permission – for the mistress may well be content for me to ostentatiously sniff the exposed sides of her socks whilst she is still wearing her low-cut sneakers or ballet-flats. But with boots on her feet and ankles, (and I am, exclusively, a public bootlicker), even relatively low-topped ankleboots naturally hide the sides of a customer-mistress’s socks – with perhaps just the narrow, elasticated tops of the girl’s socks peeking out above the upper rims of her boots, as they are now in the case of goddess-mistress Cisely.

In many cases, a customer-mistress’s socks may not be visible at all, of course – if, for example, she has not elected to hitch up her trouser hems above her ankleboots; or if she is wearing calf or knee-length boots.

When a lady ‘hides’ her socks in such a way she may, of course, be signalling that she has no desire on that particular day to have her bootsocks sniffed in public. But I make it my bootslave-policy to nonetheless always ask. I just think it’s polite to ask – or more accurately beg – to sniff a customer-mistress’s sweaty bootsocks, as it can enhance her mistressly self-esteem so much!

On the plus side – if I am granted a mistress’s female permission to unzip her boots and sniff her socks I am more or less guaranteed a strongly humiliating smell, for the bootsocks, by definition, will have been building up a sweat inside their moist and sweaty, female-leather confines! I crave it – yet I am also repelled by it; that’s what causes the customer-mistress such an ego-boost whilst she sits imperiously on the bootshine-throne above me; the fact that I must beg for that which I find repulsive – her sweaty, stinky, inner sock-smell!

Anyway, I digress! Having licked the delightful miss Cisely’s brown leather, chisel-toed ankleboots to a shine, I must now make my wicked, bootslave-move on her socks:

‘Oh pray mistress Cisely, if it pleases you goddess-mistress Cisely, would the mistress be requiring this dirty slave to sniff her holy socks today, if you would be so kind and magnanimous to a dirty, humble bootslave most feared and respected mistress?’

She pretends, as social convention dictates, that the thought hadn’t even crossed her polite, female mind – but, of course, we both know that she wants it!

‘Oh…erm, yes, okay then, Boots. I’ll let you sniff my socks today...erm…Unzip the sides of my boots and take them off my feet.’

‘Oh pray, mistress Cisely! God bless you mistress Cisely! Praise be to you mistress Cisely!’

It’s all part of the ‘game’; I beg: I fawn; she graciously concedes (even though she wants it every bit as much as I do); and I praise and bless her for her sweet feminine generosity in agreeing to impose her hidden, black-girl sock-smell on my kneeling nostrils!

Her boots are still resting on their respective metal footrests at my kneeling-face level as I pull down the zippers on each feminine, chisel-toed, brown leather ankleboot in turn, and gently and respectfully pull off each boot from its pleasingly black-socked foot.

Both boots come off with a gentle whoosh of stale, warm, girlboot air – air that invades my nostrils with the familiar smell of regular customer-mistress Cisely’s plain, black, realtor bootsocks; for this is by no means the first time I have been honoured to sniff her socks!

Though a part of me baulks at the stink, another part of me – the part that fears the sting of the female whip – compels me to swiftly lower my nose to the sweatiest area of the recently-liberated sock on her right foot, identifiable by its darkened moistness: the reinforced cotton toe-area.

I audibly sniff.

Mistress Cisely’s dainty, feminine toes wriggle inside her black socks in a pleasurable reaction to the sight and sound of my sock-sniffing self-degradation, and it brings out the worst in her:

‘Ha! Ha! Make sure you sniff all along my socked insteps, Boots! I want to hear all that stink going up your fat, ugly nose, yeah?’

‘Yes mistress Cisely…sniff…sniff…At once mistress Cisely…sniff…sniff…’

Goddess-mistress Cisely is clearly getting excited at her black sock-power over my humble nose!

And so it continues – her socks enveloping my nose, whilst her recently tongueshined, brown leather ankleboots lie fully unzipped on the ground beneath me, their bright pink inner linings reminding me that they are a pair of decidedly feminine boots. I feel honoured to be thusly surrounded by her female-dominated, inner sock and boot smells. How anyone, let alone a humble, public footslave, could ever possibly describe customer-mistress Cisely as a ‘bitch’ is beyond me?!

This has all been perfectly cordial, hasn’t it? She is a black goddess – a stinky-bootsocked, black goddess, and I happily-reluctantly immerse myself in her overwhelmingly superior, female-estate-agent, footsweat aroma.

Local Traffic-Warden, Mistress Beverley

Next up is 20 year old, black, uniformed traffic-warden mistress, mistress Beverley – on her booted feet all day walking the filthy pavements, and very much in need of some tender loving bootcare!

She’s a bit of a softie at heart, mistress Beverley – despite the cold and professional exterior she must exhibit due to the nature of her job.

I must say, her uniform is most fetching too – consisting of a red, peaked cap; a matching red jacket; red knee-length skirt; tan-coloured nylon stockings; and black, knee-length, blocky-heeled, lace-up leather boots with reinforced, rounded toes (presumably in case she needs to defend herself against some yobbish, disgruntled female driver who has been caught parking illegally; the driver would have to be female since males – even free males – are prohibited from driving in the Gynarchy).

I can tell she is exhausted and nearing the end of her shift as she plonks herself down onto the throne of power in front of my kneeling head. I must say, she’s quite a big girl – quite rotund – considering the amount of exercise she must get walking around for miles every day! But I like, and even envy, her rotundity – being a scrawny and half-starved slave (we public bootslaves are expected to survive on a mixture of tasteless, nutritionless slave-gruel and whatever our tongues can pick up off our female customers’ boots, so we are rarely overweight ourselves!)

Even though I can tell she is stressed, I am still confident that I shall soon enough be sniffing female traffic-warden sweaty footnylon – for I know goddess-mistress Beverley always finds my nose relaxing on her sweaty, nylon toes.

But first we must go through the rituals of a polite, Femdom society:

‘Good afternoon mistress Beverley. Thank you for gracing me with your presence once again goddess-mistress Beverley. How may I serve you this afternoon, goddess-mistress traffic-warden, miss Beverley?’

I can tell that my very bootslave-obsequiousness and politeness is helping her to unwind – such a contrast to the constant shouting-matches she must have with her own disgruntled ‘clients’. At long last someone is having to show her some respect – even if it is just a down-in-the-dirt, common public bootslave:

‘Shine they up, slave-bwoy!’

‘Yes, mistress Beverley. At once goddess-mistress Beverley.’

As if I didn’t know what she wanted! Predictable, fat mistress Beverley always orders me to ‘shine up’ her traffic-warden kneeboots; and she always refers to me in her cute Caribbean accent as a slave-boy, even though I must be at least 35 years her senior! (Goddess-mistress Beverley is not as wealthy or posh as her black predecessor, miss Cisely, but she is still, you will note, more high-class and superior to me – in every possible way!)

Next she’ll go on to enquire how busy, or otherwise, I have been on my public bootlick-stand. I think she likes the reassurance of knowing that someone else has been having to work even harder than she does!‘

She takes off her peaked, traffic-warden’s cap and flicks back her black, shoulder-length hair as I start to lick black-girl, traffic-warden boot. She is definitely unwinding after a long, hard day!

‘Has you been busy, an’ that, today, slave-bwoy?’

You see? I told you she’d enquire as to my heavy workload!

‘Yes thank you, mistress Beverley…lick...lick…if it pleases you goddess-mistress Beverley…lick…lick…I have had many boots to lick clean today, mistress... lick …lick…’

‘Hja! Hja! Good! ‘Cause we cain’t have dirty slaves like you skivin’, an’ that, cain we boot-bwoy?’

‘No mistress Beverley…lick...lick…Indeed not, mistress Beverley…lick… lick… Thank you, mistress Beverley…lick…lick…’

‘I has had a busy day too, an’ that, bwoy, thank you for askin’! But at least I can now relax an’ go home to my man, an’ that. Hja! Hja! You is stuck here 24/7, an’ that! Hja! Hja!’

‘Yes mistress Beverley…lick…lick…Thank you mistress Beverley …lick ...lick …God bless you mistress Beverley, and God bless your manfriend, mistress Beverley…lick…lick…’

Mistress Beverley’s freemale partner – whoever he is – is a truly lucky, free man. I know from my previous mistress/slave conversations with her that Mistress Beverley dotes on him and, unlike her predecessor, mistress Cisely, traffic-warden mistress Beverley is happy to tell me all about her love-life, and how wonderful a man her sexual partner is:

‘Hja! Hja! My man is cookin’ for me this evening, slave-bwoy – jerk chicken! Mmm...Mmm! My favourite! Hja! Hja!’

The very mention of human food makes me feel hungry, and seek out even more diligently any globules of street dirt and mud on the soles and uppers of miss Beverley’s, calf-stretched, kneehigh boots. I must relish my leathery main course before I move onto my ‘afters’ – her sweaty, tan-coloured, nylon uniform-stockings!

‘Oh mistress! If it pleases you mistress Beverley…lick…lick…I am very pleased for the mistress…lick…lick…Is the master-sir a good cook, mistress?...lick… lick…’

She reaches down from on high and slaps me, hard, across the right cheek with the back of her black-leather-gloved hand:

Slap!

‘Don’t you be askin’ me such stupid questions, slave-bwoy – of course he’s a good cook! An’ a good cock! Hja! Hja! He’s good at everyting he does – unlike you, bwoy! Hja! Hja! He’s a far bigger an’ better man than you is ever gonna be! Hja! Hja!’

It’s a spitefully barbed comment – but one I fully deserve. Of course the free master-sir, whoever he is, must be better than me. After all, he’s a real man, with a real girlfriend, who clearly admires, loves and respects him. I’m just his black girlfriend’s ‘elderly’, bootlicking slave! And by all accounts I’m not a very good one either!

I apologise to the haughty, fat black mistress for my evident shortcomings:

‘Yes mistress…lick…lick…pray forgive me for my impertinence and incompetence, black mistress...lick…lick…This slave will try harder, black mistress Beverley…lick...lick…’

A somewhat podgy, red-painted fingernail, belonging to the same black-female hand that had just chastened me, comes down in front of my face and points to the thick treads on the sole of her right traffic-warden boot:

‘I should tink so too, slave-bwoy! Now git yoh tongue deep into those dirty treads, an’ that! I don’t wanna see no stones or grit or anyfing stuck to them, an’ that, when I leaves this booth, you hear me, bwoy? Look – look at this stone right here! Git it out now, bwoy!’

‘Yes mistress Beverley…lick…lick…At once mistress Beverley…lick...lick…’

Actually, I could do with some female traffic-warden boot-stone inside me – might help to fill up my achingly empty stomach!

Her female-police style, knee-length, lace-up boots duly divested of their offending street grime and detritus, it’s time for me to make my move on goddess-mistress Beverley’s female-police style sweaty nylons! As my tongue eventually reaches the upper rim of her left boot I am sorely tempted by the thin, tan-coloured, nylon stitches stretched to the limits over mistress Beverley’s fleshy, black leg-muscle; the rich black of her skin gives the sheer, tan nylon stocking a most delightful, dark hue:

‘Oh pray mistress Beverley, if it please you goddess-mistress Beverley, will the mistress be requiring her boots to be unlaced, and her nyloned toes and ankles to be sniffed, this afternoon, if you would be so kind and generous to a humble, public bootslave mistress Beverley madam?’

She looks disparagingly down at me through her flared, African-Caribbean nostrils. But she is pleased; not angered. If only everyone she came into contact with was so respectful towards her superior, uniformed personage:

‘Yes, slave-bwoy – I reckons I will be requirin’ it today. My feet are killin’ me inside them boots, an’ that!... Start with my right boot, bwoy; undo them laces and take it off my foot, yeah?’

‘Yes, mistress. At once, mistress Beverley. Thank you, mistress. God bless you, mistress Beverley!’

You heard her – her traffic-warden feet are killing her! They must be particularly hot and spicy inside her Caribbean boots today. I brace myself – for, in my humble experience, sweaty nylon stocking is always much more pungent than sweaty cotton sock!

My fears are confirmed just as soon as that right, chunky-heeled boot comes off; I am enveloped by truly awesome, sweaty, feminine footstink! My God, even the fresh air of the town square around me can’t overpower the stink!

The poor girl – she must have been walking literally for miles! Even fat, up-on-her-feet-all-day, traffic-warden mistress Beverley’s nylon-stockinged feet don’t normally smell this bad.

She laughs at my involuntary grimace:

‘Hja! Hja! Oh, I forgots to mention, slave-bwoy – I is still wearin’ those same nylons I had on yesterday, an’ that! Hja! Hja! I couldn’t find a clean pair this mornin’, though myself an’ my man was lookin’ high and low for ‘em! Sorry ‘bout that, slave-bwoy! Hja! Hja!’

Like mistress Cisely before her she wriggles her red-painted, but chipped, toenails inside the reinforced nylon of her tan-coloured stockings in order to release more of her beautiful, big black-woman toenail stink up my helpless, public-bootslave nose. I am the prisoner of her unkempt, nylon footsmell – and she knows it; and delights in it.

At least mistress Beverley has had the good grace to apologise for her sweaty foot-stink to my face!

That’s what I like about mistress Beverley – she’s a softie at heart, and yet quite thick-skinned at the same time; not just in the sense of having fleshy toes and ankles, but in the sense that she doesn’t give a damn what others think about seeing her sweaty, two-day old, laddered nylons imposed on my public-bootslave face. As far as the beleaguered miss Beverley is concerned she has earned the right to have me sniff her stinky nylons; she is using me to get her own back on all those who have hurled abusive and racist insults at her today. Smell that, is what she is effectively saying to them, holding two chipped toenails up to them.

Except it isn’t to them – it’s to me, the humble, vicarious representative of all her would-be tormentors. They take it out on her; so she takes it out on me. And rightly so – for I am at the very bottom of the food chain; and, right now, at the very bottom of her stinky, reinforced, tan-coloured nylons!

Unlike her beloved manfriend back home, who will doubtless be fiddling with her nylon stocking-tops later this evening!

Local Horsewoman, Mistress Eleanor

My third example of a perfectly cordial, mistress-slave relationship involves 27 year-old customer-mistress Eleanor – a ‘horsey’ young woman in every sense of the word; she owns horses; breeds horses; loves horses; rides horses; and, some would say, looks a bit like a horse with her long, black face framed by her billowing, jet-black locks!

A very tall and pretty black girl, nonetheless – and blessed with her own innate sense of inbred, aristocratic superiority.

She sees me as a mere bootmuck-scraper for her riding boots, and visits me regularly – every Wednesday afternoon – in her shiny, but simultaneously mucky, black rubber, flat-heeled riding boots and cream-coloured, cotton britches during her ride into town (it is, I should explain a busy, country market-town). Moreover, she is the elder sister of mistress Cisely whom we met earlier – nothing like keeping a public bootslave in the family!

Bits of mud are literally falling off goddess-mistress Eleanor’s black rubber bootsoles as she climbs up onto the boot-throne and rests her riding-booted feet where her younger sibling’s estate-agent, brown leather, office-anklebooted feet had earlier been.

The knee-high, pull-on, rubbery riding boots, like traffic-warden mistress Beverley’s knee-high leathery boots before them, seem to tower above me as I keep my eyes humbly lowered onto the messiest, dirtiest parts of the young horsewoman’s boots – the toe and heel areas, covered in filth, mud, grass and straw.

The rubber boots are pleasingly creased on her lower legs, but, out of the corners of my eyes, I am once again distracted by sock – for mistress Eleanor has kindly chosen to wear a pair of green and blue, argyle-patterned, knee-length woolly bootsocks with her knee-high, black rubber riding boots today – and a good two inches of woolly, argyle sock is clearly visible atop the bootrims.

Oh what wouldn’t I give to be cordially invited to sniff the lower parts of these aristocratic, young-black-lady-of-leisure, female socks! (Unlike her younger sister miss Eleanor hasn’t yet found a job – and possibly never will; by all accounts she can be quite lazy, refusing even to muck out her beloved horses’ stables! She employs stable-slaveboys to do that. But that’s her privilege – she can choose to live her life however she wishes – unlike me; especially since she comes from a wealthy family!).

But before I can invite myself to sniff on her spectacular, argyle-patterned kneesocks, I must offer to attend to the haughty, riding-girl, black rubber boots:

‘Oh pray mistress Eleanor. God bless you, black goddess-mistress Eleanor. Will the mistress be requiring her usual bootshine this afternoon, most esteemed and respected, black mistress?’

‘Shut up, old and decrepit slave, and get on with it, yah?’

‘Yes goddess-mistress Eleanor. At once, goddess-mistress!’

Once again a red-painted, feminine index finger – only this time much more bony and slender than the female traffic-warden’s finger – comes down into my field of humble vision to point out a particularly soiled area of black rubber riding-boot:

‘Make sure you clean up this bit, slave. It’s truly filthy, yah?’

‘Yes mistress Eleanor. At once mistress Eleanor. This slave hears and obeys the upper-class, black mistress!’

I wonder whether her posh, upper-crust toenails are likewise painted red inside those thick, woollen socks and tight, rubber riding-boots – to match her bright red fingernails? I probably won’t be able to tell when I eventually get to sniff her socks, of course – unless the socks are particularly thin and worn over the reinforced toe-areas such that I can see through the thick woollen, argyle-patterned sock material.

In the meantime, however, before I enjoy my feast of knee-length, riding sock, I must feast on long-faced miss Eleanor’s riding-boot mud. And what a feast it is for a starving bootslave – such humble fare!

I lap it all up, though, for miss Eleanor, as ever, is watching me intently and laughing at me:

‘Haw! Haw! OK – yah. I’ll bet my bootmud tastes juicier than my little sister’s, yah slave?’

She sounds so utterly posh – but I know much of it must be affected. Mistress Cisely never sounds quite so plummy when she talks. I think mistress Eleanor has ideas above even her own, admittedly already lofty, station!

‘Yes indeed mistress Eleanor…lick…lick…this lowly slave is indeed honoured to be tasting the rich flavours of the black mistress’s superior, upper-class, riding-boot mud…lick… lick… if it is so pleasing to you most eminent, black mistress.’

Do you see what I’m doing? I’m pandering to her whims – making her feel rich and important, but all with the admittedly selfish aim of getting her posh, high-brow, rubber riding boots off her aristocratic feet and my working-class nose onto her equally high-brow, argyle-patterned bootsocks!

She laughs delightedly at my cringing, peasant-like servility at her blue-blooded, rubber-booted feet:

‘Haw! Haw! Keep sucking and licking slave, yah? Get it all off my boots and down your scrawny throat, yah?’

‘Yes mistress…lick…lick…I obey you, superior mistress Eleanor…lick…slurp…’

Speaking of slurping, I hear miss Eleanor open a bottle of lime cordial above me, and take a dainty swig out of it. How different our respective mouths must taste inside – hers of lime cordial; mine of rubbery bootmud! Needless to say, however, she doesn’t offer me any of her sweet-tasting lime cordial to wash away the taste of her bitter-tasting bootmud.

Our supposedly cordial, mistress/slave relationship doesn’t quite extend that far!

There is, if truth be told, a lot of mud to consume, and it’s a good ten minutes before I can make my move on lady Haw-Haw’s bootsocks:

‘Oh pray mistress Eleanor…now that I have brought the mistress’s beautiful, black rubber boots up to an illustrious shine, will the black mistress be requiring me to remove her boots from her feet and sniff her equally illustrious socks, if you will be so kind to a lowly bootslave, goddess-mistress Eleanor?’

She snorts derisively at me, and throws back her long, black hair, like a horse:

‘OK yah, slave – I shall decide whether or not my boots are sufficiently cleaned, yah? Forget about my socks and keep licking my boots, yah? Otherwise I’ll have you horsewhipped, yah?’

Did I mention that she had her black leather riding-crop with her? It’s resting ominously on her britches-covered lap!

‘Yes mistress Eleanor...Beg your pardon, black mistress Eleanor…Please forgive this slave for his impudence, black goddess-mistress Eleanor.’

Failure! My first failure of the day! No woolly, argyle-patterned socks for me today – it seems!

But you see, even though I have clearly upset and offended the superior mistress, my relationship with her remains cordial enough that she does not instantly lash out at me with her riding-crop whip! She has given me a verbal warning first. Such a sweet-natured and kind, if somewhat haughty-taughty, young, upper-class woman! My manservant, bare back remains mercifully unscarred and unmarked by the self-important, young, black woman who is clearly teasing me with her socks, and taking me for a ride!

I wonder if she is as gentle and indulgent towards her poor horses? Or her poor stable boys?