Footslave Chronicles Volume 2
The second volume in a collection of essays chronicling the experiences of humble footslaves, both public and private.
VOLUME 2 CONTENTS (scroll down for chronicles in reverse numerical order)
10. The Slave-Driver
9. Infeariority Complex
8. Sound, Masterly Advice
7. False Assumptions
6. The Gooseberry
5. 191 Stinging Whiplashes
4. Flustered
3. Subliminal Sock Messages
2. The Joys of Winter!
1. From a Slavish Kneelpoint
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Chronicle no. 10 – The Slave-Driver
To look at her – you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her pretty, Bangladeshi mouth! Slim; petite; fragile; dark-haired and wide eyed – with a beautiful, if somewhat sardonic, smile.
Yes – 23 year old miss Priya looks nothing like a professional slave-driver in her cheap, blue-plastic, slave-supervisor, uniform smock; her ill-fitting, black-denim jeans; and her scuffmarked, second-hand, black leather slip-on shoes and ropey, dark blue, cotton anklesocks – and when my mistress Saffron first appointed her as my ‘overseer’, I thought the sweet and innocent-looking, but scruffy, Bangladeshi girl was going to be a complete pushover!
How wrong I was!
I had failed to appreciate that miss Priya had grown up on a farm in rural Bangladesh. She was used to working with animals – and that was very much how she saw me; as an ‘animal’; a beast of burden – to be driven and bullied by the sting of the female whip!
Technically, I was employed merely as my mistress Saffron’s personal footslave – but she had got to the point where she could no longer bear to have me under her increasingly busy feet all day long; especially not now that she had been promoted at work into a busy managerial role. And so, like many busy and successful, middle-aged mistresses in the Gynarchy she left me at home under the supervision of a ‘slave-driver’ – the aforementioned, Bangladeshi-immigrant mistress, miss Priya – whose job it was to keep me occupied and busy about my mistress’s house, since a slave must spend every waking moment toiling and working at something!
Or, as miss Priya had explained to me herself on my very first morning with her, as she so eloquently disabused me of my first impressions of her in her cute, but firm, Bangladeshi, peasant-girl accent:
‘Ha! Ha! I Priya. I your master! You call me master Priya! I better than you; I make you work. All time I make you work hard! Ha! Ha! You a slave – you work, or get whip! Ha! Ha! Madam give me strong whip – make you very pain, innit? Ha! Ha! You obey me, or feel whip, innit? Ha! Ha!... You kiss me on foot now, dirty slave; you beg me not hurt you with whip!’
And with that the pint-sized, 23 year old slip of a Bangladeshi overseer-mistress, appointed by my own mistress Saffron to the position of household slave-driver, had gleefully extended forth her shapely, right foot on the linoleum of the kitchen floor directly beneath my humbly-kneeling face, and had simultaneously pushed my neck downwards with the dusty sole of her left shoe towards the rounded toe-end of her right, scuffmarked, slip-on, black leather shoe in order for me to respectfully kiss it.
Unfortunately, I had hesitated for just the briefest of seconds – a tad repulsed by the ropey and bobbled appearance of the Bangladeshi girl’s nearby, navy-blue anklesock which was looking somewhat crumpled and bedraggled below her shapely, right anklebone – and that moment’s hesitation had been enough for miss Priya to bolster her delegated, young-womanly authority over me by means of the vicious, single-tailed, black leather, female whip:
Swish…Crack!
Suddenly my bare back was on fire – burning with an almighty, red sting that spread ferociously from my front ribs around my entire, semi-naked torso. I knew then – in an instant – that this former-peasant girl knew just how to earn a maleslave’s respect and, more importantly, how to wield a whip and drive a dumb animal like me!
I let out an involuntary male-scream, as miss Priya simultaneously let out an involuntary laugh of young womanly glee and power:
‘Ha! Ha! Pain, innit? Ha! Ha! Now you obey master Priya, innit? You kiss toe of dirty shoe, or I whip again! You obey! You a slave! I your master! Ha! Ha!’
‘Aaagh!...Y…Yes…m…mistress P…Priya!’
Swish…Crack!
More pain! Deeper pain! Worse even than before, if that’s possible …
‘You call me MASTER Priya! You learn obey Bangladeshi female master, or I whip you many pain, innit?’
‘Aaagh!...Oh, yes master! Pray forgive me, master Priya! Oh the pain, master!’
I now lowered my lips without any further delay to the scuffmarked shoe-toe of the sweet and innocent looking Bangladeshi peasant-girl mistress who was fast proving her worth as an expert slave-driver. I didn’t mind, now, that her well-worn, black leather shoe was dirty and unkempt, or that her ropey-looking, bedraggled, navy blue anklesock was just inches from my face. All that mattered to me now was doing whatever it took to stop the pain; to stop her from whipping me again!
She had me! I was hers – and she knew it! She exulted and gloried in her newfound, absolute feminine power over me, a power engendered by the ferocious, burning sting of the female whip:
‘Ha! Ha! You weak! You a weak man – you kiss Bangladeshi girl on dirty foot; not on girl nice, clean lips like real man! Ha! Ha! I laugh at you. You frightened of me; you frightened of Priya whip! Ha! Ha! I strong! I your female master; you my work-slave!’
‘Yes, master Priya…kiss…kiss…God bless you, master Priya…kiss…kiss.’
Her crumpled, navy-blue sock seemed to twitch with delight at my obsequiousness and subservience to her exquisite, Bangladeshi-female power; I watched its bobbled, cotton material cease and fold in front of my very eyes beneath her soft, brown, Bangladeshi anklebone-skin as my lips tasted her outer, cheap-leathery, shoe dirt.
But I would even have kissed this former peasant-girl’s ropey, blue sock – if it meant avoiding another stinging cut from her single-tailed, black leather, slave-driver’s whip!
Suddenly her scuffmarked, right shoe was withdrawn from underneath my kneeling face, only to be replaced by her equally scruffy and scuffmarked, left shoe – the one which had, until now, been resting on the nape of my neck. I cupped my hands around her proffered foot this time – as if honouring it as a prized object deserving of my unquestioning worship and devotion (which, of course, it was – being the scruffy, left shoe and sock of a superior, young Bangladeshi woman equipped with a whip!)
I noticed that her left sock had slidden even deeper down inside her shoe than her right sock, but there was still enough of it on show for me to make out the individual stitches in its elasticated top along her shapely, brown-skinned instep.
At least her bare ankleskin looked clean and fresh!
My ribs and flank still throbbing courtesy of my new slave-driver’s whip, I avidly kissed the toe of her outstretched, musty-smelling, left shoe:
‘Ha! Ha! That right, slave – you show respect for female master, innit? Ha! Ha!...Now I make you work! All the time you work! You never rest! You stop work – you get whip! Ha! Ha! You not like whip – you work hard! Work – only way to stop pain! Ha! Ha!...’
‘Yes, master Priya. I obey you, master Priya! Please don’t whip me again, master Priya – I will be a good slave and will work hard for you, master Priya! Oh pray master Priya! Oh pray!... kiss… kiss… kiss… kiss… Oh the pain!… kiss… kiss…’
Unbidden, I was now even daring to put my slave-mouth where my mind was, and started kissing the twisted, elasticated top of her ropey, navy-blue anklesock – in an effort to express my contrition and humility before her, and perhaps in the hope of tickling her young-womanly fancy, and eliciting some sweet, feminine compassion in this female-whip wielding slave-driver!
‘Ha! Ha! You stop kiss Priya shoe and sock now! Now you work!...First you lick clean all of madam dirty shoes and boots! Than you wash madam dirty socks and tights in mouth! Then you lick clean madam dirty floors; then you lick clean madam dirty driveway! Ha! Ha! All time I watch – I watch with whip! Ha! Ha! I put my feet up – relax! But you not relax! You work – or I beat hard with whip! Ha! Ha! I a winner – you a loser! I get pay for watch over slave with whip! You not get pay – you just work! Ha! Ha! You a dog! You a dirty work-dog! You clean madam shoes and madam flat, while I watch! I like queen! I like princess! I not lift finger – except to whip, innit? Ha! Ha!’
Swish…Crack!
Pain!
‘Aaagh!...M…mercy…m…master Priya…Oh pray, m…master!’
‘You start work now, dirty slave! You crawl over to where madam dirty shoes and start lick! Dog obey! Dirty dog move!...’
‘Swish…Crack!
Unbelievable pain! Yet undeniable.
Driven by pain, I duly crawl over to the pile of dirty, discarded, mistressly shoes and boots belonging to my businesswoman-mistress Saffron in the corner of the kitchen, and start to vigorously lick them clean.
Behind me, mistress Priya pulls up a wooden chair and sits down on it, resting her dirty, scuffmarked, black leather, slip-on shoes and Bangladeshi socked-feet on my throbbing back, digging her flat, leather heels into my fresh whip-stripes!
It’s pure agony – but my moans are purely of pain, and not of complaint. For I know the sweet and feminine Bangladeshi immigrant-mistress is only doing her job. She is making me work, and getting the best out of me with her whip, as she is required to do in accordance with her contract of employment with my mistress Saffron. I should have shown more respect for her Bangladeshi-female power and authority right from the start!
Shame on me!
One thing’s for sure – as I feel her partially-socked anklebone digging painfully into one of my stinging whip-weals whilst I get on with my humble tongue-work on my mistress Saffron’s discarded, black leather court shoes, I sure as the fires of hell respect the slave-driving, Bangladeshi peasant-girl now!
Chronicle no. 9 – Infeariority Complex
Whenever my beautiful, olive-skinned, 25 year old, Jewish customer-mistress, miss Hadar, enters my public footslave-stall for a bootlicking, I am always afraid – very afraid!
Not because she is especially big and strong; she is, in actual fact, quite slim and petite in stature.
Nor because she is a particularly important customer-mistress; she is a perfectly normal member of female society (though, of course, all my customer-mistresses are important to me!)
Not even because she is a particularly cruel young woman – though she is not a customer-mistress to be messed with.
No, my fear and trembling stems from my innate, footslavish inferiority complex vis-Ã -vis young women, and from my overwhelming desire to always please my mistresses.
Mistress Hadar, for her part, clearly revels in my fear of girls, and exults in my quaking over her boots.
Speaking of which, she wears very nice boots – black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots – which she almost invariably wears on her pretty, Israeli-girl feet beneath the hems of her ubiquitous, navy-blue, bootcut slacks whenever she pops into my footslave booth every evening on her way home from work for a quick ‘lick and a shine’.
Even though I know full well exactly what she wants as she settles herself down onto the raised chair with a smug and supercilious grin on her pretty, Jewish-girl face, resting her street-soiled and scuffmarked, booted feet onto the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face, my fear of offending her always prompts me to humbly greet her with apposite fear and trembling in my weak-male voice:
‘Oh pray, mistress Hadar; truly this slave is blessed by your presence once again, mistress Hadar. Oh pray beautiful mistress, oh pray! Please don’t have me beaten, mistress! Please tell this dirty slave how he may serve you well, and avoid the sting of the lash, most beautiful and respected mistress Hadar.’
I am referring to the public-use lash which every customer-mistress is entitled to either employ herself on my bare back and shoulders, or request a passing supervisor to employ on my back.
I am right to be fearful in this regard, for mistress Hadar has, justifiably, had me whipped many times in the past – the most painfully memorable occasion being only a few weeks ago when I had allegedly failed to remove a slither of dirt round the back of one of her Israeli-girl bootheels, and she came to notice it some two hours later after she got home. She promptly rang the authorities and demanded that I be given 25 hard lashes of the female whip, as she was sure that slither of mud had been present on the back of her bootheel before she availed herself of my supposed bootcleaning services.
And who am I to argue? I’m just a slave, and the customer-mistress is always right!
Customer-mistress Hadar sniggers gleefully at my fear as she towers over me in the raised shoelick-chair of power, and curtly barks down her orders at me, thereby instilling even more pathetic, slavish fearfulness in me:
‘Stop whining, slave, and lickshine the sides of my boots – and make damn sure you clean out the zippers also!’
‘Yes mistress Hadar! At once mistress Hadar! God bless you mistress Hadar!’
I am relieved to receive my usual, wholly anticipated, orders – basically to tongue-polish her black leather, office ankleboots, albeit with the additional, very specific stipulation this evening that I am to diligently divest the black, felt zipper-tracks of street dust and detritus as well.
I really don’t mind being close to mistress Hadar’s boot-zippers, for I am acutely aware that behind those flimsy zipper-tracks lie her glorious, plain black, woollen, anklelength bootsocks – the socks of a middle-eastern goddess whom I truly respect, fear and admire.
I know that because I can just see the twisted and creased, elasticated top of her thick, black, winter-woolly bootsock on her booted foot as I obediently lower my lips and mouth to the outer side of customer-mistress Hadar’s right, chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboot.
I have had a particular, pathetic fondness for customer-mistress Hadar’s woollen bootsocks ever since the day she let me unzip the side of one of her boots (I believe it was the left one) and kiss her on the black sock – right over her woolly-socked anklebone. I think she must have been feeling in a particularly good mood that day, for she knows full well that I hanker after her socks and normally takes great pleasure in denying me their thick and fluffy bootsock-softness on my unworthy, footslave lips.
Clearly she had wanted to cut me some bootcut-slack on that particular, happy day!
But it was all so long ago – over a year or so now – and since then the merest glimpse of the elasticated tops of her thick, black, woolly, anklelength socks is the most reward I have received whilst tongue-shining the sides of her boots.
I don’t think she’s in any such mood to have the sides of her socks kissed today. The boot-zippers will be remaining firmly up – more’s the pity. And I’m too frightened to ask, of course!
Still, at least I have stunningly-beautiful, dark-haired and olive-complexioned, Jewish-girl’s boot to lickshine, and it is truly an honour to remove the elements of offending street-dust and grime from the sides of her superior, female boots and the tracks of her modesty-preserving, boot zippers.
As my eyes get closer to the top of her right boot I find it easier to focus in on the extreme top of her twisted, black bootsock – but I must be ultra-careful, for customer-mistress Hadar’s ever-alert eyes are focussed in on me, and my tongue’s obedient performance on the side of her dirty ankleboot.
As the saying goes – ‘A lady’s whip is never far from a maleslave’s back!’, and so I admire the sight of mistress Hadar’s twisted, woolly sock-top, but don’t obsess about it – until, that is, she utters her next, young-womanly order:
‘Shine up the actual metal zipper, bootslave. Put it in your mouth and suck it clean!’
Customer-mistress Hadar can be truly unpredictable! She’s never ordered me to do this before – to suckshine her bootzipper! That’s one of the reasons why I fear – and admire – her so much:
‘Yes mistress Hadar! At once mistress Hadar! As you wish mistress Hadar! Please don’t beat me beautiful and kind mistress Hadar!’
The taste of thin metal replaces the taste of thick leather as I insert her jangling metal bootzip into my mouth. But it’s not that which is assailing my senses the most now: the humble and degrading action of having to suck clean my beautiful and dominant, Jewish customer-mistress’s ankleboot-zip, whilst she is still victoriously wearing the boot, has necessitated my ugly, mesmerized face moving even closer to the top of her twisted, thick-woollen bootsock!
I can now see, and smell, the individual stitches in the exposed, elasticated top of her precious, black bootsock – a sock I once kissed (or one very like it)!
I know customer-mistress Hadar is teasing me now, for she must, surely, be aware of the impression that the top of her black anklesock is making on my humble footslave-psyche, especially as it contrasts so vividly with the soft, smooth duskiness of her beautiful, Jewish-girl legskin?
My suspicions are confirmed by her next utterance, made in unmistakeably threatening tones:
‘Stop admiring my woolly bootsock, pathetic slave, and get on with your work – polish my bootzip!’
It seems there really is no pulling the wool over customer-mistress Hadar’s eyes, or her woolly sock over my eyes! I apologise immediately to the Jewish bootmistress for my blatant sock-indiscretion, and promptly lower my gaze to the sole of her boot whilst I continue to suck on her flimsy, metal bootzip – the only, small thing that separates my parched-with-fear lips from her magnificent, Jewish-girl sock.
You see – I’m at it again! I just can’t help myself! A beautiful, young, Jewish woman’s black bootsock ought to be kissed, for she is infinitely better than me – a humble, gentile footslave!
But my fear compels me to hold my tongue and to zip it; that, and the humiliating knowledge that I am just not worthy to kiss such superior girlsock without her explicit, female permission.
It’s my infeariority complex kicking in, yet again; I am in fear of girls! But my complex, slavish phobia undoubtedly spares me from an angry, girlish kick to the face; or even worse, from the biting sting of the dreaded female whip!
Chronicle no. 8 – Sound, Masterly Advice
My new master has just purchased me as a gift for his lovely, young wife – miss Mei-Hua from Hong Kong – and he is helpfully explaining to me my new duties as his wife’s personal footslave , in no uncertain terms!
It has been left to the master-sir because the mistress is apparently a bit diffident and shy, plus her English is also somewhat limited.
The master-sir is a native Englishman, and has no such problems expressing himself:
‘Slave, you will address my pretty, Chinese wife as ‘mistress Mei-Hua’ at all times, is that clear?’
‘Yes, master-sir.’
‘You will remain on your hands and knees at all times in your mistress’s presence, with your head humbly bowed, and you will only ever look her in the foot.’
‘Yes, master-sir. As you wish, master-sir.’
‘Your demeanour shall be continuously humble and respectful towards her, as she is your female master.’
‘Yes, master-sir. Of course master-sir.’
‘Let me explain to you in some detail how you will serve my wife as her footslave during a typical day, pathetic footslave…’
‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you, master-sir.’
‘When she awakes in the morning you will be kneeling by the side of our master-bed ready to greet her bare feet by kissing them just as soon as she places them onto the bedroom floor. You will then kiss my wife’s unwashed, overnight, bare feet 10 times each as a daily demonstration of your respect for her Chinese footskin. You will seek out any areas of dry or dead skin on her pretty, oriental feet, and will concentrate on kissing those areas first.
You will then fetch her furry, white, mule-type slippers and gently and respectfully place them onto her delicate feet. You will kiss the furry toes of her slippers 10 times each both before and after you place them on her bare feet as a demonstration of your undying admiration and respect for my wife’s bedtime footwear.
You will then accompany my wife to heel into our ensuite bathroom where you will remove her slippers and kneel humbly in the corner, facing the wall, with your nose buried deep inside the linings of her furry, white slippers whilst she performs her morning ablutions. You will breathe in the aroma of her warm slipper-linings, like a good footslave.’
‘Yes, master-sir. I am a good footslave, master-sir.’
‘After my pretty, young Chinese wife has showered, and dressed herself for work, you shall attend to her feet again. My wife works in an office and likes to wear her smart, grey-pinstriped trouser-suit to work, along with her chunky-heeled, black, slip-on shoes and sheer, black, nylon anklesocks. She looks the business!...’
The master sighs wistfully at this point.
‘…You, of course, will be responsible for dressing only her feet. You will fetch her chunky, office, slip-on shoes from her shoe cupboard, and her short, black, nylon socks from her sock drawer, and will then gently and smoothly place each item of superior, feminine footwear onto her feet whilst she sits on the edge of the bed above you.
You will again kiss each individual item of her footwear 10 times, both before and after you place it onto her foot, as a symbol of your humility and respect for all, young womankind. Do I make myself clear, Chinese-girl’s foot-toady?’
‘Yes, master-sir, as it pleases you master-sir.’
‘You will then kneel beside my wife’s fully-shod feet underneath the breakfast table whilst she breakfasts with me. You will concentrate on her feet whilst she is eating – staring at them and admiring them; noting any early signs of creasing or wrinkling in her sheer, black nylon anklesocks, for my wife may require you to straighten out any wrinkles or creases in her socks at any time of the day or night…’
‘Yes master-sir. This slave hears and obeys you, master-sir.’
‘…If there are no wrinkles in her nylon socks you may focus instead on her chunky, black leather shoes – again looking for any signs of wrinkling in the feminine shoeleather which may attract dust or dirt, for it will be your job to tongueshine my wife’s office shoes throughout the day as and when she requires you to do so.’
‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you master-sir.’
‘When she has finished breakfasting you will accompany her to the train station – again crawling behind her to heel. You are not to be distracted by anything that is going on around you as you follow my wife to heel in public – the traffic; the feet of other pedestrians; cats or dogs etc. You must focus in only on the backs of my pretty wife’s chunky-heeled, office shoes, and be grateful for the occasional glimpse of the backs of her sheer, black nylon anklesocks beneath the hems of her smart, pinstriped trousers as she walks along.
You will then kneel on the dirty floor of the train next to my wife’s feet, presenting your upturned cheek as a footrest for the sole of one of her shoes should she so desire it. Either way, you shall stare at the sides of my wife’s nylon-socked feet in order to admire them and count any wrinkles or creases in the thin, dark-nylon stitching – just as you did before underneath the breakfast table. Similarly, if her nylon socks are in order, you shall focus on the sides of her black leather shoes again, noting any accumulations of dirt or dust from the street and/or train carriage floor.
However, you must never touch, or tongue-shine, my wife’s shoes without her express permission, is that clear dirty footslave?’
‘Yes master-sir. I hear and obey you, master-sir.’
‘Good! You will then spend the rest of the working day kneeling underneath my wife’s office desk, admiring, and focussing in on, her shoes and socks as she goes about her important, daily business above you. Again, all the time, you must be looking for any tiny flaws in either her socks or shoes – for you must be ready to correct those flaws at a moment’s notice.
If her shoes and socks look perfect – and only if they are completely perfect – you may contemplate instead your condition of bondage to my wife’s feet in general; about how fortunate you are to be the lowly, personal footslave of such a beautiful, young, happily-married, Chinese woman; to be allowed to spend practically all your humble time kneeling at her feet; to know all of her little foot-secrets – such as how her feet tend to smell; the areas of hard-skin on her feet; the location of her little foot-moles; the amount of toe-jam that has accumulated beneath each of her toenails that particular morning; the current condition of the corn-plaster on her left foot; the overall state of her nylon socks; and, of course, the condition of her chunky, black leather, slip-on shoes – both inside and out.
All of these things are a privilege and an honour for you to know, wretched slave, and you shall mentally contemplate your sheer good fortune at my wife’s beautiful, Chinese feet. Do you understand that, or shall I be forced to whip you?’
‘Oh no, master-sir! I fully understand my good fortune, master-sir! Please don’t whip me master!’
‘Be very clear on one thing above all else, slave. You are a slave, and you are, therefore, subject to the whip! My wife may be a very sweet-natured and kind-hearted, young Asian woman, but she will always do what I tell her; and if I tell her to report any footslave-shortcomings on your part to me – she most assuredly will!
Believe me, slave, you will be sorely whipped for those reported shortcomings!’
‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you, master-sir. God bless you, master-sir.’
‘Now – back to my wife’s feet! At the end of the working day you will again accompany her home, to heel, on the commuter train. Clearly my beautiful, Chinese wife’s feet will be getting hot, sticky and tired inside her shoes and socks by this late stage of the day, so you must mentally prepare yourself to serve and pamper them just as soon as she gets home.
As soon as she puts her feet up on the sofa you must humbly offer to remove her chunky, leather shoes and to sniff and massage her tired and sweaty, nylon-covered feet. This is where you can start to do something about any creases or wrinkles that have developed during the day in my wife’s sheer, black, nylon anklesocks – for you can now, without receiving any specific bidding to do so, nose them and smooth them out with your ugly, maleslave face, inhaling their pungent, nylon aroma as you do so. You have my full, masculine authority to do so at such times. Is that clear, footslave?’
‘Oh yes, master-sir. Oh thank you kindly, most generous master-sir!’
‘You will proceed to demonstrate your total respect for my wife’s sweaty, nyloned feet through your facial demeanour – never turn your nose up at my wife’s sweaty feet, slave, however stinky they may be! Instead you must turn your nose down on them – immerse your face in her feminine footstink; for she is your female master and better, and don’t you ever forget it!’
‘Yes, master-sir. Of course not, master-sir!’
Having straightened out the wrinkles in my wife’s dark, nylon socks with your footslave-nose, you must then rub her nylon-socked feet with your bare hands – rub away all the tension and fatigue in her pretty, Chinese feet. Your hands will get sweaty, of course, as my wife’s nylon-footsweat is transferred onto your fingers, but you must regard that too as an honour and a blessing – to have a superior, young, Chinese woman’s stinky, warm footsweat on your unworthy, footslave hands!’
‘Yes indeed, master-sir. I hear you and obey you, master-sir! It will be an honour for me, most respected master-sir.’
‘Then – if my wife wishes you to, and only if she wishes you to – you must remove her sweaty, dark-nylon anklesocks from her dainty, Chinese feet by gently pulling them off by the damp, reinforced toe-ends, in order to suck the day-old sweat off her bare, oriental toes and insteps. You must also extract, with your footslave-mouth, any extra toejam that may have accumulated beneath her fragile toenails during the course of the day inside her nylons – and swallow it. You’ll probably be quite hungry by now, anyway – and in need of some Chinese-girl, stinky-toejam nourishment, slave! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes master-sir. Thank you for laughing at me and mocking me, master-sir!’
‘Ha! Ha! My pleasure, Chinese girl’s personal footslave!...Now, once you have tongue-bathed my wife’s dirty feet, she may require you to give her a full pedicure – to paint her toenails and lick away her hard skin etc.
If you are ordered to paint her toenails you will do so with the mouthbrush provided, and you will wish to note that any smearing of the toenail-paint onto my wife’s cuticles will result in a severe and unrestricted whipping! Similarly, you will ensure that you do not tickle my wife’s bare heels as you lap away at her dry and chapped heels, again under severe pain of the whip!’
‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you for the warning, master-sir! God bless you, master-sir!’
‘After you have pampered and pedicured my wife’s tired feet, and revived them, you will await her softly-spoken instructions as to how to dress her feet for the forthcoming evening.
If she is going out to the gym you will be required to fetch her white sneaker-socks and pink and white, lace-up sneakers, and obligingly put them on her feet.
If she is going out with me to a restaurant or the cinema she will probably order you to fetch her a pair of her black, cotton anklesocks and her brown leather, zip-up, chunky-heeled ankleboots.
If we are going out clubbing you must fetch my wife’s silvery, strappy, high-heeled pumps and tan-coloured nylon stockings.
Either way, whatever her choice of foot and leg wear, you shall be responsible for dressing her again – though in the case of her nylon stockings you must raise them up her lower legs only as far as her knees. My wife’s body above her knees is totally out of bounds to you! I, and I alone, shall take care of her upper bodily needs, as well as all her spiritual and emotional needs. You’re just her lowly, down-in-the-dirt footslave, do I make myself clear, slave?’
‘Yes, master-sir. Thank you master-sir.’
‘Again, you shall accompany my wife to heel throughout the entire evening whatever she is doing, focusing in on, and admiring, whatever type of footwear she happens to be wearing – again, humbly looking for signs of any creasing or soiling as you may be required to rectify all such flaws and deficiencies at any time my Chinese wife sees fit!
If she is working out at the gym in her white sports socks and pink and white sneakers, beneath the hems of her pink and white tracksuit bottoms, you will kneel and admire the creases and folds in her pure, white anklesocks. You will also make sure her laces don’t become undone, lest she trip and fall on the treadmill. Be warned, slave, if my precious, Chinese wife does ever injure herself as a result of some flaw in her footwear, your own body shall be injured in a similar way by me, only ten times worse!’
‘Yes, master-sir. I understand master-sir! And justly so, if I may say so, master-sir!’
‘Be quiet, slave! I’m talking!...Whilst you are admiring my wife’s sneakered and socked feet on the treadmill at the gym, you must continuously contemplate how her pretty, work-out feet must me getting hot and steamy again inside her sneakers, and look forward to smelling them later in the evening when she finally permits you to remove her sneakers and smell her sweaty, white gym socks.
If, on the other hand, my Chinese wife is out with me enjoying a slap-up meal whilst wearing her brown leather, chunky-heeled, zipped-up ankleboots and black, cotton anklesocks you must unobtrusively kneel below the restaurant dining-table and admire the sides of her brown boots below the hems of her dark-blue denim jeans – particularly the black, felt zippers as they match her black, cotton socks. You are permitted to raise your eyes as high as the elasticated tops of my wife’s black, cotton anklesocks – so that you may better admire them – but you are not to focus in on her smooth, bare, Chinese ankleskin above the socks, if such skin is inadvertently on display beneath the hems of her blue jeans.
If my wife is out dancing and clubbing with me in her silvery-sparkly, high-heeled, party pumps and tan-coloured, nylon stockings beneath her short, sexy party-dress, you will kneel next to her dancing feet on the dance-floor and admire all the creases and folds in her finest-denier nylons around her shapely, oriental anklebones as she dances the night away. Again – do not be distracted by the pretty feet and footwear of other young women around you, under pain of the punishment whip!’
‘No master-sir. Absolutely not, master-sir! This slave is a loyal footslave to his mistress, master-sir!’
‘Mmm…we shall see, slave!...Finally, before my wife retires to bed, you must divest her of her evening footwear, whatever it may be, kissing each individual footwear item the customary 10 respectful times.
You will then crawl to the lower laundryroom where you will mouthwash all my wife’s dirty socks and stockings, which she has worn during the day, prior to humbly and worshipfully handwashing them in the sink. You will treat them like gold-dust, for they contain the very essence of your Chinese mistress’s foot-DNA!’
‘Yes, master-sir! Of course, master-sir!’
‘Similarly, you will tongue-polish any shoes or boots which my wife has been wearing during the course of the day. You will lick-shine her dirty, worn shoes and boots both on the insides and on the outsides!
You will then sleep in my wife’s shoe-cupboard surrounded by the leathery smell of her many pairs of shoes, sneakers and boots. If my Chinese wife is feeling very generous, and is pleased with you, she may also let you select several pairs of her rolled-up socks from her sock-drawer to use as comforting pillows whilst you sleep.
If, however, you have displeased her during the day she’ll probably make you sleep with your head and nose buried in her stinky, unwashed socks as a fitting punishment for a footslave – and you will then have to rise an hour earlier in the morning in order to mouthwash the stale sock-pillows first thing in the morning, before presenting yourself on your hands and knees by the side of her bed as per usual – ready to serve her as her personal footwear-slave all over again throughout another long and arduous day of bondage to a young, oriental woman’s feet!’
…………………………………………………………………….
So there you have it – sound, masterly advice for a Chinese girl’s, beta-male, personal footslave, delivered in a matter-of-fact manner by her doting, Alpha-male, freeman husband!
Miss Mei-Hua did indeed turn out to be a truly beautiful and sweet-natured, soft-spoken and unassuming, young, Hong-Kong Chinese woman. Although she wears glasses – she doesn’t strike me as being particularly bright. But, as the master-sir has so eloquently pointed out to me, none of that matters – for I shall have him to answer to if I fail to please the mistress in any way.
Truly I shall endeavour to do my best at my mistress Mei-Hua’s oriental feet, and be pleasing to both her and the master. For I do very much fear and loathe the sting of the whip, and I’ve always been one to listen carefully to sound, masterly advice!
Chronicle no. 7 – False Assumptions
God I hate the rain!
Not only do I not appreciate getting soaked (for my humble, ‘stand-up’ public shoelick-stand on the edge of the sink estate offers me – the common, public shoelick – no protection against the elements, though there is, thankfully, a rusting, corrugated-iron awning to cover my pretty, female customers’ heads as they stand proudly having their shoes or boots tongue-cleaned), but the wet conditions just make my job of tongueshining ladies’ boots and shoes so much more difficult!
I mean, the ladies will have been walking through dirty, rain puddles and all sorts of sink-estate streetmud before availing themselves of my humble services – and what really frustrates me is that, as soon as they leave my shoelick-stand, their boots and shoes will be wet and muddy again in no time!
Why do they bother?! (Silly question, of course! They ‘bother’, because they like causing me nugatory work, and they know it’s extra-humiliating for me to have to tongueshine their dirty shoes or boots during the rainy season!)
Take the young lady who is jauntily approaching my shoelick-stand as we speak. She must be all of 20 years old – slim and svelte, but with a distinct ‘bump’ around her tummy area; unnaturally jet-black, permed, shoulder-length hair; long, black eyelashes; Goth-style make-up peering out from beneath a dark grey hoodie (with the hood fully pulled up, of course, but this time not just because it’s fashionable, but to presumably protect her dyed-black hair from the rain); and skin-tight, pale blue, denim jeans tucked into the tops of her beige-brown, shapeless, calf-length, Ugg boots.
I say beige-brown, but in places – especially around the thick, rounded toe areas of the boots – they are actually dark-brown, thanks to the muddy rainwater that is seeping into them. Surely this beautiful, chavette-goth mistress isn’t expecting me to successfully mouthclean her rain-dampened, sheepskin Ugg boots on a miserable day like this?
Do you know, I think she actually might be?!
It’s hard to tell what she wants, since she is listening to loud goth-music on her MP3 player, and doesn’t choose to interrupt her musical entertainment in order to bark down her orders at me. She merely stands underneath the corrugated awning that protects her, but not me, from the rain which is still bucketing down, casually stretches forth her shapely, skinny-jeans-covered, right leg, and rather unceremoniously plonks her oversized and misshapen, calf-length Ugg boot down onto the rain-sodden, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling and bald head, splashing me in the face as she does so.
I now realise, on reflection, that it’s almost certainly not a genuine Ugg boot; it is almost certainly a cheap imitation of the genuine article. I’d love to get a closer look at the label on the back, for I very much doubt that a young, sink-estate goth-woman like this, probably unemployed and certainly pregnant, could afford to purchase a genuine pair of smart, sheepskin Ugg boots from a reputable dealer! They could be nicked, of course – but my money’s on them simply being fakes.
Fakes or not, I immediately move my head forwards over her suspect-counterfeit, Ugg-booted foot to protect it from the rain, for it can’t be nice for a young woman to have her fake-sheepskin boot getting rained on when the rest of her is now shielded from the rain by the corrugated awning.
I’m glad my head can be of humble service in this way – but as for my tongue, how on earth is it going to help spruce up a pair of musty and wet, imitation Ugg boots on a wretched, winter’s day like this?
As I have already indicated, I have to assume that a thorough boot-cleaning is what the young lady wants me to put my mouth to, since plonking one’s boot down onto the footblock is normally a signal for me to start licking!
But where to start on a soaking wet pair of faux-sheepskin Ugg boots like this? And how can I possibly clean them, without getting them even wetter and damper – damp with my dirty, male footslave-saliva? That surely wouldn’t please the young woman, unless she wants her precious ‘Uggs’ to look dark brown and manky all over?!
I don’t know her, or recognise her, though she does look like one of the local girls from the sink estate. Jordan; or Tammi; or Whitney; or Ashleigh I imagine is what she’s called – mistress Jordan, Tammi, Whitney or Ashleigh to me, of course.
Given that I don’t actually know her name, I guess just plain ‘mistress-madam’ will have to do if she starts up a conversation with me – unlikely given she is so high and mighty above me on the Gynarchy’s social scale, and given that she is currently fixated on listening to her urban-goth, dance music.
I’ll bet if she was kindly disposed to speak to me from on female high she’d refer to me, liberatedly, as ‘mate’, rather than ‘slave’, even though I must be nearly twice her age, and way too old to be her ‘mate’ in any sense of the term:
‘Shine my boots up would ya, mate?’ or ‘Lick all the filff off my kicks ‘an that mate, yeah?’
That’s how most of my customer-mistresses from the sink estate speak down to me – in a kind of inner-city, chavvy mistress-speak. It’s almost as if they’re embarrassed at having to order a man to clean their dirty footwear in public, like it’s not their idea of what a real man should have to do! They certainly couldn’t imagine their own beloved boyfriends or husbands doing such a menial task for them, not even in private! Nor would they expect them to, for they like their men to be men, innit?
Hence they try to regard me as their ‘mate’, and/or still acknowledge my masculinity in some small way, as they feel more comfortable with that – even though they must surely realise that I am masculine in name only. I have effectively been emasculated by my permanent, public embondagement at chavvy women’s feet!
But, be all that as it may, for now I face a true test of my supposed ‘manhood’: I have to decide how I’m going to tackle this disarmingly taciturn, young mistress’s proffered, counterfeit, Ugg boot! It’s my problem – not hers. She, presumably, wants her damp and dirty, beige-coloured, fake-sheepskin boots dried and cleaned, and I expect she doesn’t much care how I go about doing it – so long as I remain suitably humble and respectful of her and her footwear at all times. I might be her ‘mate’, but she’s still the boss!
I decide to try buffing dry the thick, rounded toe-end of the wet and musty, brown boot with my lips. Despite the inclement weather, and the rain still pouring down onto the top of my head, my slave-lips are actually quite parched and dry since I’ve had nothing to drink since 06.00 this morning when my slave minder – miss Chantelle – woke me up and fed me my usual breakfast of tasteless slave-mush, washed down with rusty and dirty water from the nearby, green-mouldy, communal hosepipe-tap.
A meal fit for a public slave!
So I’m hoping that my current thirst will be mistress ‘Ugg boots’s’ gain, as my dry lips will hopefully absorb some of the dirty rain moisture from the ‘sheepskin’ surface of her boot. Perhaps, if I simultaneously blow on her damp and darkened boot-toe, my slave-breath too will help to dry away some of the moisture – leaving the way clear for me to then suck off any remaining traces of ingrained mud and dirt from the pregnant, young woman’s boot?
It’s gotta be worth a try!
I must say, the only saving grace as I start my ( let’s face it, hopeless) task is that I can now see that the bright, young woman is wearing a most fetching pair of thick, white woollen, anklelength bootsocks deep inside her beige-coloured, replica Ugg boots. I can just see the scrunched-up, elasticated tops of her thick, white socks deep down inside the rim of her calf-length boot. At least her feet will be being kept dry inside such thick and warming, woolly socks. They look genuine enough – pure wool I would say.
That’s nice – for her!
Oh, this is totally useless! I’m getting absolutely nowhere with my futile attempts at lip-drying the damp toe-area of the young, Goth-cum-Chav-woman’s extended, right Ugg boot. It’s as dark brown as ever! What the hell am I going to do?
I start to sweat – yes sweat! On a day like this! But I am sweating with fear, not warmth – fear at what this all-powerful young woman might do to me when she sees that I have singularly failed to make any lasting impression on her beloved ‘Uggs’!
Suddenly, though, I am saved by the bell – the bell of the approaching tram across the road. For the chavette-mistress just turns and leaves without a word, clearly keen to catch her tram – more keen than she is to have her phoney Ugg boots cleaned!
And the sight of the backs of her Ugg-booted heels does indeed confirm my suspicions that they are nothing but cheap imitations. The labels on the back read ‘Botushi’.
Maybe she’s not a chav, after all – and wouldn’t speak down to me in chavette-mistress-speak, but rather with a delightful and dominant, East European accent! And maybe her jet-black hair beneath that grey hoodie is not dyed; it’s her natural, East-European colouring! She’s actually mistress Lyudmyla; Ivanka; Teresa; or possibly Vasilka!
It just goes to show how wrong you can be in your footslavish prejudices and assumptions. But I just can’t help doing it! I’m now assuming, for example, that the young, Bulgarian goth-mistress is rushing for her tram because she is in a hurry to get to the Female Benefits’ Office before it closes.
With regard to her ‘Ugg’ boots, however, I had been right; she had obviously been faking it! Phew! That’s a relief! They’re well and truly gone – gone with the tram. All that is left of the young, dark-haired, East-European woman now are the residual, muddy boot-marks from the thick treads on the soles of her calf-length, imitation, Ugg boots on the dirty, wooden footblock beneath my genuinely submissive face.
After my initial sense of relief, I start to feel shame-faced – ashamed at my abject failure to clean my superior, young, foreign customer’s non-sheepskin boots; that I have let such a delightful and charming, young, East-European woman walk away from me with still rain-dampened and soiled footwear, however cheap and nasty it may have been!
I therefore lower my mouth onto the recently departed customer-mistress’s muddy, ‘Ugg-boot’, tread marks and lap them all up.
That’s the least I can do for her – and, unlike her, I’m not faking it!
Chronicle no. 6 – The Gooseberry
I have to admit that sometimes I feel I am cramping my beloved mistress Alexandra’s style as I kneel dutifully by her side when we are out and about in public.
I feel I am a bit of a ‘gooseberry’ at her feet, like, for example, when she is chatting up free men. My mistress is a vivacious and bubbly, young black woman of 23 – slim, tall and beautiful, with long, black hair; a curvaceous figure; long, shapely black legs; and a cute tattoo of a dolphin just above her right ankle.
For those last two reasons – her shapely legs and her ankle tattoo – she likes to wear short, leg-revealing miniskirts and ultra-short, white ‘sneaker-socks’ with her black ballet-flats when she is out wooing an alpha male. She knows that the Alpha-type males she is seeking to attract love to see her long, shapely, black legs and dolphin-shaped, ankle tattoo – but they equally don’t want to see her in high-heels, lest she end up looking taller and stronger than them!
She is stronger than them of course – being a superior, young woman – but she doesn’t want her alpha-male boyfriends to think that!
I’m just a beta male, of course – being a slave – so she doesn’t give a damn about what I think, though I do, in point of fact, also very much appreciate the sight of her long, shimmering-black legs and her sexy ankle tattoo; albeit from the lowly perspective of a down-in-the-dirt footslave i.e. from down below, looking adoringly upwards!
But I digress – the point I’m trying to make is that whenever my beautiful and attractive, Afro-Caribbean mistress is wooing an alpha male my humble role is to try to blend into the background at her feet; to unobtrusively honour and worship her soft, black ballet flats and short, white, below-the-ankle socks by quietly sniffing them and nuzzling them as I kneel in the dirt beside her feet.
But, inevitably, sooner or later, the alpha male is bound to bring me up in the conversation – to ask about my role in my mistress’s life – not because the alpha male sees me as a threat to his manhood! Ha! Ha! Not at all – he knows I’m just an impotent footslave!
No – he is just curious to know how ‘this bit of alright’ treats her personal footslave, so that he can gain further useful insights into her character, and perhaps lure her into bed that bit more quickly, by displaying his machismo vis-Ã -vis the unfortunate manslave kneeling at his new, black girlfriend’s feet; by offering to discipline him, for example.
I can’t begin to tell you the number times I’ve been horse-whipped by an alpha male just to impress my beautiful mistress! But, fortunately for me, they don’t all resort to whipping in order to impress the opposite sex, and my humiliation in front of other men can often be much more subtle.
Take what happened yesterday evening, for example:
My mistress Alexandra was sitting alone on a barstool in a busy city-centre pub – dolled up to the nines as per usual in her short, black leather miniskirt and short white socks and black ballet-flats – giving the eye to a nearby alpha male who also appeared to be drinking alone.
It wasn’t long before he made his move, ambling over towards my mistress and taking up a seat on the barstool next to her. He offered to buy her a drink, and they started chatting away above me.
I, meanwhile, was dutifully and respectfully kneeling on the dusty floor of the pub with my face right next to my black mistress’s ballet-shoes and socks – diligently sniffing the undersides of her rounded, white-socked heels since both were exposed due to the coquettishly-dangling position of her black-ballet-flated feet on the circular metal footrest at the base of the bar stool.
Whenever I am sniffing her socks in public my mistress Alexandra likes to ‘rub my nose in it’; i.e. she requires me to actually rub my nose along the soft, cotton material of her sock. She thinks it looks better – more respectful, as if I am demonstrating to all and sundry that I am not afraid to bury my nose in a young black woman’s stinky, short, white anklesock.
I like doing this anyway, as I enjoy the feel of her soft sock on my nose, and there’s no doubt that it enables me to breathe in the sweaty aroma of her sock all the more profoundly and deeply.
It’s not that my mistress Alexandra has particularly smelly feet – but there will always be an inevitable, faint aroma of human footsweat on her sock, especially when my nose has access to an area of sock normally encased inside her ballet flat – such as it has now on her socked heels.
And so I happily revel in my black mistress’s delicate, white sock smell, whilst she chats happily to the man of her dreams above me.
The happy couple appear to be getting on well. My mistress really fancies him – I can tell by the coquettish positioning of her feet on the circular footrest, with the toes turned in towards each other, as well as by the subconscious movements in her black foot muscles which cause her short white sock to crease and fold most seductively in front of my very eyes!
I don’t allow myself to be distracted by her foot-movements, though. I am a fully-trained girlsock-sniffer of many years’ experience, and so I manage to keep my nose dutifully fixated on the backs and sides of her short, white anklesocks – particularly her left sock which is the one currently closest to my face.
How my mistress Alexandra’s long, black legs seem to tower above me as I concentrate on the relatively small area of snowy-white sock below her shapely, black anklebone-skin!
Inevitably, however, the lovey-dovey conversation above me turns to the subject of my place in the world at my mistress’s feet:
‘So, who’s this dork sniffing your feet, Alexandra darling?’ asks the free man.
‘Who him? Ha! Ha! That’s just Sockface, honey. He’s just my personal footslave and socksniffer, innit? I, like, takes him with me everywhere I go, an’ that? Ha! Ha! He’s, like, a kind of status symbol for me, or somefink? You know what I’m sayin’?’
The alpha man does know what his new ‘bird’ is saying. He laughs at me – the black girl’s ‘status symbol’, sniffing his black mistress’s white socks in public and never daring to look at her above the ankle (or so he thinks!)
I am annoyed with myself, however, for distracting the alpha male’s attention, albeit just momentarily, away from my beautiful mistress Alexandra. I know she will be annoyed with me also – for, be I a status symbol or not - she’s currently on the pull, and she needs the alpha male to focus all his attention on her!
Fortunately, the man soon turns his attention towards my mistress’s pretty, dolphin-shaped, ankle tattoo, and so the focus is back on her body again – albeit one of the lowliest parts. But I can relax again, for I know my mistress Alexandra will soon be able to attract the Alpha male’s gaze back up her long, shapely legs and towards her groin – where she wants him to focus his free male attention. For she now has one thing – and one thing only – on her pretty mind: sex!
…………………………………………………………………………
The man drives her back to his place in his sports car. Once again I am temporarily a distraction for him, as he is bemused at the way I am obliged, by law, to kneel on the floor beside my mistress’s feet in the passenger seat, staring at, and continuing to sniff, her short, white socks (or, at least, the elasticated tops of her short, white socks since the heels and insteps are now, once again, encased in the soft, black leather of her pretty ballet-flats).
The lusty couple begin to undress just as soon as they enter the master’s opulent apartment. I, of course, am responsible for divesting my mistress of her shoes and socks – for which procedure she must sit down on the edge of his bed.
This is the point where I really start to feel like a footslave-gooseberry, for the master and mistress are about to get very intimate with one another, yet they are too overwhelmed by their lust and passion for one another to even think about banishing me from the master bedroom!
I suppose that’s a good sign, really – a sign that I’m being overly paranoiac. If I really was getting in the way the master and/or mistress would be sure to order me out of their presence, wouldn’t they?
They have, in effect, forgotten all about me!
I should be grateful that they clearly don’t think of me as another living being – as a human gooseberry in the room – but, rather, regard me as a mere thing; an object, fit only to sniff my mistress’s now discarded, dirty, white socks.
And so that’s exactly what I do. Whilst my new master, and my long-established mistress, make love on the master bed, I crawl, unbidded, over to the corner of the bedroom with my mistress’s freshly-removed, musty-smelling, black leather ballet-flats and vinegary-smelling, white cotton socks and proceed to sniff them whilst respectfully facing the wall.
I can hear the grunts and groans of my betters’ lovemaking going on behind me. It sounds like they are both really enjoying themselves! But then, I am too – for I am conditioned to like smelling girls’ shoes and socks, being a beta slave-male, just as the master, being a free alpha-male, is conditioned to like making love to women.
We are both, in our own ways, where we belong – he with my mistress’s warm and sweaty, voluptuous body; I with her warm and sweaty, hastily discarded shoes and socks!
Only when they finish making love do I start to feel like a bit of a gooseberry again, as the sound of my socksniffs can once again be heard echoing in the post-coital silence of the master bedroom.
But I mustn’t stop sniffing; it is my job to sniff my mistress’s sweaty, discarded shoes and socks – until such time as she has me put them back on her feet again as she gets ready to leave her new boyfriend’s flat. Hopefully, that won’t be until the morning, for I sense she really does like this one. He seems very rich and powerful, judging by the opulence of the surroundings in his flat.
I continue to have my back turned on my masters and betters, of course, as I kneel humbly with my mistress’s ballet-flats and socks in the corner of the master bedroom – but only out of respect for their superior personages. I am doing my best not to intrude on my superiors’ intimacy, and just to be the humble socksniffer that I am.
For I know that is precisely what my mistress Alexandra expects of me. She expects nothing less than my face in her stinky, discarded shoes and socks, as she sits up in bed enjoying a post-coital cigarette and some fresh fruit with her manly new boyfriend.
Gooseberry anyone?
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Chronicle no. 5 – 191 Stinging Whiplashes
My master-sir likes to whip me, and closely supervise my work, on his pretty, young wife’s feet.
Thus, for example, when I am ordered to give my master’s blonde-ponytailed, chavvy wife, mistress Suzanna, a full pedicure he will stand over me, whip me, and give me directions as follows:
‘Kneel before my wife’s feet, dirty slave…whip…whip…unzip her knee-high, brown leather boots… whip…whip…faster, slave, faster!...whip…whip…Do as you’re told, dog!...whip…whip…Now pull her boots off her feet… whip… whip… Place them over there…whip…whip…
Now kiss her socks…whip…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave, kiss my wife’s dirty, sweaty, stinky, black bootsocks! Ha! Ha!...whip…whip…Ha! Ha! Kiss and smell her sock-stink!...whip…whip…Ha! Ha! That’s right slave, sniff her ripe socks! Ha! Ha! That’s all you’re good for!...whip…whip…Be careful slave! Stop tickling my wife’s feet with your sock-sniffing nose!...whip…whip…whip…whip…
That’s better! Now remove her socks from her feet…whip…whip…Peel her sweaty, black socks off her pure, white feet!...whip…whip...Faster, slave, faster!...whip…whip…Now put the dirty socks down beside the boots…whip… whip…
Now kiss my wife’s warm, bare feet, slave…whip…whip… That’s it, kiss her pretty toes…whip…whip…kiss her heels…whip…whip…kiss her ankles… whip…Ha! Ha! Now kiss her insteps…whip… kiss her arches… whip… whip… whip…Ha! Ha! That’s right, dimwit-slave, worship my clever wife’s dirty, and sweaty, bare feet!... whip… whip…whip…whip… Worship them! Honour them! Obey them, you dirty footdog!…whip…whip…
Ha! Ha! Now suck on her toes, footslave!... whip…whip…Suck each of her toes in turn, slave... whip…whip…Ha! Ha! Start with the big toe on her right foot…
whip…whip... Come on, get your slave-tongue deep underneath her big toenail!...whip…whip…whip…whip…Ha! Ha! That’s it, slave, extract my wife’s dirty, stinky toe-jam with your tongue…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! This is all you’re good for, slave! Ha! Ha!...Eating another man’s wife’s black toejam!... whip… whip… Ha! Ha! Harder slave! Harder!...whip …whip…Suck!...Now move onto her other toes; suck each one in turn!... whip … whip…Ha! Ha! You’re nothing but my pretty, blonde wife’s dirty, human toe-sucker! Ha! Ha!...whip…whip…whip…
Now lick the rest of her sweaty, goddess feet, slave!...whip…whip…Lick the dry and chapped skin at the back of her heels!...whip…whip…Soften it with your slave tongue…whip…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! Remove all the bits of dead skin from my wife’s feet, slave…whip…whip…whip…whip…Ha! Ha! That’s it, soothe my wife’s tired and dirty feet with your footwipe-tongue!...whip…whip…Now run it along her soft insteps…whip…whip…Lick off all the black sock lint from her feet, slave… whip…whip… Ha! Ha!... And now swallow it, slave…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! Swallow my wife’s dirty, black sock lint from her sweaty, stinky, white feet! Ha! Ha!... whip…whip…whip
Now place her feet in the footbowl, dog …whip…whip…Cradle her feet in the bowl…whip…whip…Gently does it, footslave!...whip…whip…whip… Ha! Ha! Now wash her feet with your bare hands, slave…whip…whip…Remove all the remaining sweat and dirt from my wife’s precious feet, slave…whip...whip…Ha! Ha! That’s it – you young-woman’s footwasher! Ha! Ha!... whip…whip… This is what you’re made for! Ha! Ha!...whip…whip…What a loser!...whip…What a schmuck!...whip…A foot-schmuck! Ha! Ha! …whip…whip…whip…
Now gently take her feet out of the bowl and dry them!...whip…whip…Dry them with that fluffy, white towel…whip…whip… Come on, slave! Stop dithering!... whip…whip… whip…whip…whip…What, do you think you’re too high and mighty to attend to a beautiful young woman’s feet, moron?...whip…whip…I’ll soon teach you obedience to your masters and betters, footpig!… whip… whip… whip… whip… whip... whip… whip… Ha! Ha! That’s better slave!... Let me see you quiver and quake at my wife’s superior feet!...whip…whip…whip…
Now gently dry my wife’s feet in the towel! ...whip…whip…Now pick up the mouth brush and paint her toenails…whip…whip…That’s it, put the brush in between your footslave-teeth and paint my wife’s freshly-washed toenails bright red, the way I like them, slave…whip…whip… Go on, paint them for me, dog!... whip… whip… Beautify my wife’s toenails for me!... whip… whip… Ha! Ha! Beautify the feet of a woman for another man to take pleasure in them! Ha! Ha!... whip … whip…whip…
Now blow-dry the painted toenails, slave…whip…whip…Make sure the paint is fully dried, you dog!...whip…whip… Or you’ll have me to answer to!...whip… whip… That’s right, slave, breathe out! Breathe hard! Dry my wife’s painted toenails with your dirty, footslave breath!...whip…whip…whip…whip…
Now pick up her dirty, black anklesocks and put them back on her feet... whip… whip…That’s right, slave, roll up the sweaty, black anklesocks in your fingers and pull them onto my wife’s freshly pedicured, white feet! Ha! Ha!...whip…whip… Ha! Ha! What a cluck! What a lamebrain! What a foot-dork!...whip…whip… whip… Now kiss her socks again, slave…whip…whip… Kiss them respectfully, all over…whip…whip…whip…
Ha! Ha! Now pick up my beautiful, blonde wife’s knee-high boots and put them back on her feet!...whip…whip…Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave, zip them up her lower legs!...whip…whip…Ha! Ha! Now kiss my wife’s brown leather boots, once on each toe, and praise and bless her for having you pedicure her feet, slave… whip… whip… whip… whip… whip…whip…whip…Ha! Ha! …Look darling, what a total loser he is! Ha! Ha! See how he cowers under my whip! Ha! Ha! ...whip… whip…
Now pick up the footbowl and drink my wife’s dirty, tepid footwater, slave!... whip …whip… Ha! Ha! That’s right, swallow all her dirty footsweat and toejam and pieces of dead footskin! Ha! Ha!...whip...whip...It’s thirsty work, being my wife’s personal footslave, isn’t it slave? Ha! Ha!...whip…whip...whip…whip…’
…………………………………………………………………………….
All the while the master-sir is whipping me, and giving me directions, his pretty, young, peroxide-blonde wife is egging him on:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling…Ha! Ha! Make the dog take off my boots…Ha! Ha! Now make him kiss and smell my dirty socks…Ha! Ha! His nose is ticklish on my socks, sweetheart!...Whip him! Tell him to stop tickling me with his nose!...Ha! Ha!
Now make him take off my socks and lick my bare feet! Ha! Ha!...Oohh, that feels good!...Oohh, make him lick them some more, darling! Make him suck on my toes! Ha! Ha!...You’re the master; he’s the slave…Whip him! Make him obey us! Ha! Ha!
Oohh lush!…Ha! Ha! More whip! More whip! Whip him while he’s having to suck on my bare toes! Ha! Ha!
Now make him wash my dirty feet, honey!... Whip him until he washes them totally clean! Ha! Ha! Look at the dirt in the water, darling! Ha! Ha! My feet must have been well filfy, innit?... Oh promise you’ll make him drink it all up at the end, honey! Ha! Ha!... Make the slaveman drink my dirty footwater! Ha! Ha!
Now make him paint my toenails, sweetheart! Make the slave paint your wife’s toenails and beautify her feet for you! Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling... keep on whipping him! He deserves it! He’s our slave! Ha! Ha! We can do what we likes with ‘im, innit though? Ha! Ha!
Now make him put my boots and socks back on my feet, lover-man! Ha! Ha! Make him drink my dirty footwater, like I asked! Ha! Ha!…Whip him, honey! Whip him until he’s drunk every last drop of my dirty footwater! Ha! Ha! …He’s a loser, and you’re a winner, though, innit darling? You’re the one holding the whip hand, though! Ha! Ha!...God, you are so strong and masterful, honey! Oh, I really love you, sweetheart! You’re the man!...’
…………………………………………………………………………..
My master-sir will get his heavenly reward from the mistress later in the evening when they return home from their night out clubbing. She will make mad, passionate love to him – whilst I kneel in the corner of the master bedroom, sniffing her newly discarded, sweaty black bootsocks, and still nursing my wounds from the 191 stinging whiplashes.
Chronicle no. 4 – Flustered
She’s a young, twenty-something, Asian woman who appears to be having a shouting match with someone over her mobile phone – right in the middle of the town square!
I hear her screaming down the phone at the top of her voice in what sounds like Chinese – a great language for shouting in!
Immediately following her public row, however, to my horror she marches angrily over towards my humble, stand-up, public shoelick-stall.
Still holding her red-hot phone in her right hand, she arrogantly plonks her right, brown-moccasined foot down onto the wooden footblock directly beneath my kneeling face. She then hitches up the wide, bell-bottom hem of her pale-blue jean-hem in order to afford me full and uninterrupted access to the elasticated top of her pale pink, calf-length, cotton sock:
‘You make damn sure my sock straight, dirty slave!’ she barks down at me.
I’m guessing the highly-flustered, young, Chinese woman has just been having a row with her husband or boyfriend over the phone. It was almost certainly a man, anyway – let’s face it, only a man could prove such a source of irritation for a woman that she feels compelled to raise her voice in public!
And I, it seems, am to be her fall-guy – the nearest, vulnerable male on whom she can take out her superior-womanly frustrations! Frustrations not just related to her manfriend – but to her socks; they must be slipping down uncomfortably inside her soft, dark brown, moccasin shoes, for she clearly feels she needs her socks pulling up at this particular, volatile moment in time!
I must say, I do like her flat, moccasin shoe. It not only smells nice and musty this close to my face; it also has several little multicoloured tassels over the rounded toe area, and it is somewhat soft and misshapen at the back of her heel – through repeated wear. It does very much look like an Indian squaw’s shoe – an Indian squaw’s, brown moccasin-shoe on a Chinese girl’s pink-socked foot!
How exotic is that?!
I can see exactly the problem the young, Chinese woman is referring to – her pale pink, thinly-stitched, calf-length, cotton sock is indeed wrinkled and crumpled over her shapely, oriental anklebone; it must be uncomfortable for the mistress, and the misshapen and crooked back of her moccasin-shoe can’t be helping matters much either!
So, rather than stop to pull up her own socks, she has stopped so that I may do it for her. No shoe-shining required! No buffing up her dark brown moccasins with my slave-tongue, or sucking street dirt and grime out of her multicoloured, leathery shoe-tassels; just oriental-girl sock-straightening.
And quite right too! I am here to serve sock if needs be!
I humbly acknowledge the harassed, young, Chinese mistress’s curtly-delivered command:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’
I then gently finger the top of the young woman’s soft, pink sock – with her explicit permission, of course – whilst she slowly simmers down and catches her sweet, feminine breath.
It’s amazing, though, how quickly this oriental girl can switch from relative, womanly calm to mistressly anger and condemnation:
‘WHY YOU TOUCH MY BARE SKIN, DIRTY SLAVE! I NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TOUCH SKIN! ONLY SOCK! YOU A FOOL? YOU A MORON? YOU NOT UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?’
And with that she angrily spits on me.
The mistress is referring to my inadvertent brushing of my dirty slave-fingernails against her soft, pure, oriental legskin whilst straightening the top of her pink, calf-length sock. She has every right to be angry with me, even though it was purely an accident on my part (honestly!), and even though her sharp, raised voice must be doing nothing to calm her own nerves!
I instantly apologise to the mistress, and invite her to spit on me again:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you Chinese mistress, please forgive this slave his incompetence and impertinence! Oh pray mistress – please don’t report me to the Female Police mistress, for I shall surely be sorely whipped! Oh pray, Chinese mistress, please spit on me again, Chinese mistress! Humiliate me, degrade me, punish me with your righteous spit – only please don’t have me whipped, pretty Chinese mistress! Oh pray! Oh pray!’
I attempt to kiss her sock in footslavish contrition, but she angrily pushes my lips away with her shapely, pink-socked, oriental anklebone, whilst denying me any more of her precious, female spit:
‘YOU NOT TOUCH SU-LEE SOCK WITH DIRTY MOUTH, SLAVE. YOU GET BACK TO WORK! YOU STRAIGHTEN SU-LEE SOCK WITH HANDS – AND NOT TOUCH SUPERIOR WOMAN SKIN!’
She then switches back, in the blink of an oriental eye, into calm mode, placing her phone into the inside pocket of her warm, knee-length, beige-coloured, winter coat.
Flustered though I am by my stupid mistake, I make sure I am much more careful this time, merely pinching the top of the young, Chinese woman’s superior, pink-cotton sock on the outside, thereby ensuring that my fingers go nowhere near her precious, bare, oriental legskin.
She may be outwardly calm and serene again, but the sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, young, Asian customer-mistress is all the time watching me like a hawk. She doesn’t trust me now – and is on stand-by to summon the assistance of a female police-officer, should the need arise.
She does seem satisfied, however, with my second attempt on her right sock, for she swiftly changes feet on my wooden footblock – again hitching up the hem of her pale-blue, bell bottom jeans-leg until the top of the twisted and crumpled, matching pink sock on her left leg and foot is fully visible:
‘Now the other one, slave!’ she barks down at me, though not as loudly as before. Everything seems to be calming down now.
This time I make no foolish mistakes – for I am nothing if not a fast learner when it comes to pleasing a customer-mistress, even the most demanding ones.
I think I’ve done a good job this time – but I think too soon:
‘Why you not kiss Su-Lee shoes before touch Su-Lee socks, dirty slave? You a complete ignoramus? You not know basic rules for dirty footslave?’
She may be speaking placidly now, and not shouting. But my footslave-heart, nevertheless, sinks! In all the noise and confusion, what with her screaming row over the phone, her resultant angry disposition, and my desire not to screw up over her screwed-up socks again, I have completely forgotten the public footslave’s most basic rule of etiquette – always to respectfully kiss a lady’s shoe, boot or sandal-toes prior to attending to her footwear needs!
It’s basic footslave-manners – and, to my knowledge, there is no exception for tatty moccasins!
Flustered, I festoon the tasselled toe-areas of the young, oriental woman’s flat, dark brown, moccasin shoes with humble and respectful kisses – one foot after the other – as the hard-pressed Chinese girl kindly presents each moccasined foot in turn onto the wooden footblock for me to belatedly kiss:
‘Oh pray young mistress…kiss…kiss…Please forgive this stupid, forgetful slave, mistress…kiss…kiss…He is just a stupid, dumb animal, mistress… kiss…kiss… Oh pray, Chinese mistress…kiss…kiss…Oh pray!... kiss…kiss… Please don’t report me for my insolence, sweet and kind Chinese mistress!...kiss…kiss…’
But I know in my heart of hearts it’s too late. I can just tell by the victorious smirk on the young oriental woman’s thin and cruel lips that she is going to report me – I would if I were her!
Sure enough, she summons over a nearby, uniformed female police officer – and I see the dreaded, knee-high, black leather jackboots and dark nylons of the leather-punishment-strap-equipped WPC marching towards us!
I brace myself for some physical pain.
‘Yes, madam, what appears to be the problem?’ enquires the blonde-ponytailed WPC politely of the similarly-aged, dark-haired, oriental customer-mistress – whose freshly-kissed, brown-moccasined feet are now glistening with my footslave-saliva in the bright, winter sunlight.
‘This ignoramus-slave not please me properly, officer! First he forget kiss me on shoe; then he touch me on bare leg while straighten sock! I want him punish! I want him whip!’
The blonde-ponytailed police-officer mistress looks suitably shocked, and exhorts the oriental complainant to stand well back as she unfastens her brown leather punishment strap from her belt:
‘OK, madam. Leave this to me! I’ll soon teach this wretch some footslave-manners!’
The young, Asian woman withdraws to a safe distance nearby, and watches with a smug, feminine smile on her sweet, oriental features as the blonde-ponytailed, female police-officer swings the stinging punishment-strap down onto my bare back at least a half a dozen times on her oriental behalf.
The volatile, Chinese mistress’s mood has changed yet again – for she is heartily laughing at me now! And all because she happened to be in a bad mood and her pink, calf-length socks weren’t straight!
Chronicle no. 3 – Subliminal Sock Messages
One can tell a lot about a girl from her socks, whilst you are tongue-shining her dirty shoes on the streets at one’s public shoelick-stand.
Here are just three examples of what I mean:
The High-Flying Socks
Take, for example, the young woman whose right foot is currently outstretched onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face. It belongs to one of my regulars – the blonde-haired, airhead, air-stewardess mistress, miss Stephanie, who, as per usual, is availing herself of my humble services on one of her days off.
When she is in uniform she presents me with a smartly-nyloned, shapely, hard-working, air-hostess anklebone to admire as I tongueshine her bright, red, airline-uniform courts. The shiny red of her courts contrasts so sweetly with the tan of her uniform-nylons – nylons which will have expanded along with her swollen ankles at 30,000 feet, but which have now contracted again to enhance her back-down-to-earth anklebones with a shimmering, nylon glow.
But there are no anklebone-enhancing, tan-coloured nylons on her off-duty legs today. Instead, on the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling and humbly bowed face, I see a rather ropey-looking, black, calf-length, slouch sock with a pink heart on its side, inside an equally scruffy, black and white, high-top, converse sneaker beneath a bare, outstretched, off-duty, miniskirted leg!
The pink and black slouch sock is creased and folded around the high-flying, female calf-muscle. It is a truly well-worn sock, showing several signs of wear and tear – bobbling along the sides; greying around the back. It shouldn’t surprise me if the sock even had holes in it deep down inside miss Stephanie’s high-top, canvas sneaker.
And what messages is the blonde airhead miss Stephanie seeking to convey to me through her choice of duty-free sock?
Her pink and black slouch-sock is clearly saying:
‘I am off duty today, slave; I can relax and unwind! I can be flighty and flirty, even though the foot I adorn shall today be kept firmly on the ground! My large, pink-hearted sock-logo on the scrunched-up side of my sock will attract the men – real men; not slave men like you! I have no love or affection for the likes of you! Ha! Ha! I’m not that desperate that I would seek to attract the amorous attentions of a lowly, public footslave! Ha! Ha! I have ambitions – ambitions to marry an airline pilot; or a premier-league footballer; or a film star. I meet them all the time - in my job; in the nightclubs; in the pubs! But, for now, during the daytime, I am content to just slouch around – looking slack and easy and well-used like my mistress.
For she is no virgin air-stewardess – unlike you, the celibate, virgin footslave! Ha! Ha! You shall never win a woman’s heart – not even her scruffy sock-heart! Ha! Ha! You’re just a sneaker-licking, down-in-the-dirt foot-loser! Ha! Ha! You may kiss me in the pink, loser-slave! Kiss my pink sock-heart. But you will never win it; my sock-heart will never be yours. I shall give my heart to another man – my knight in shining armour; when I find him. So continue to kiss the shoes and socks of another man’s blonde-woman! Kiss them and weep, loser in love! Ha! Ha! You’re well and truly grounded!’
No-Nonsense, Mind Your Own Business, Heartless Black Socks
Then there is regular customer-mistress Fiona - a somewhat humourless, raven-haired, serious-minded and bespectacled, young woman who reveals her contempt for me by hitching up the hem of her dark-grey, pinstriped, businesswoman trousersuit-leg to reveal the very top of her short, plain black sneaker-sock inside her matching, plain black, low-heeled, court shoe as she stretches out her shapely foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my face – the court shoe which I must routinely tongue-clean for her, divesting it of the working day’s dirt and grime.
Unlike its immediate predecessor, this black sock is totally heartless. It nevertheless also belongs to a high-flyer! This particular, short, black sock is very much conveying a subliminal message to me from the cold and stand-offish, successful-businesswoman mistress whose outstretched, right foot it currently adorns.
The plain, black, businesswoman sock is saying:
‘I am a cold and no-nonsense type of female sock, whom you may admire – but not touch – whilst you go about your humble business of lickshining my owner’s plain, black, court shoe. I am a sock-tease – for I reveal my businesswoman-wearer’s soft, bare, pasty-white, feminine anklebone-skin above my stretched, elasticated top, but I hide the rest of her precious, superior footskin from your humble view. I may be plain – like my owner; I may be simple – like my owner; I may be heartless – like my owner; but I am nevertheless your superior, like my owner, for like her I am successful in what I do – my role is purely to absorb her smart-businesswoman footsweat, thereby protecting the precious inner lining of her shoe.
Kneel before me, therefore, in awe and wonderment, footslave; harbour your jealous thoughts of my sock-intimacy with your snooty, customer-mistress’s bare foot, since I am seeped in her warm and moist, foot-perspiration-DNA inside her unforgiving and inflexible, young-businesswoman court-shoe – perspiration which you can only smell, but not touch, even though your lips long to brush against me! Ha! Ha! But you may not! You may look – but you may not touch! This sock has no heart, and is not for kissing. Get on with your work, slave! Mind your own business – and tongueshine my shoe, whilst the woman who wears me ignores you by reading her newspaper above you! Ha! Ha! I am better than you. I despise you – like my owner despises you! Show me some respect!’
Danger Socks
Red means danger – in any footslave’s language! But it can also signify joy, happiness and prosperity – for the wearer.
Regular, Chinese customer-mistress, miss Chu-Hua, who owns a restaurant, likes to wear bright red socks, with her matching red ballet-flats – thick, red, ribbed socks, beneath the frayed hems of her blue-denim jeans.
Unlike miss Stephanie, who is still flying around the world searching for the love of her life, miss Chu-Hua has found him – master-sir Fu-Han - who invariably accompanies his pretty bride-to-be to my public shoelick-stand.
The dominant, happy Chinese couple revel in my public shoeshining misery and poverty as I must dutifully tongue-shine miss Chu-Hua’s bright red, ballet flats to her fiancé’s complete satisfaction, whilst he mocks and cajoles me for my helplessness and worthlessness at his pretty girlfriend’s feet.
But what is her matching, thick red anklesock saying to me? How is it ribbing me as I tongueshine its soft, red, leathery shoe-covering?
The bright, red sock is saying to me, in good English but with a strong, Chinese accent:
‘Ha! Ha! I better than you, slave, for I a success. I found my place in life – on successful, Chinese mistress foot! You kiss me; you honour me! You run slave nose down my ribbed stitching! Ha! Ha! You a dirty slave; you show respect for beautiful Chinese-woman, red sock! Ha! Ha! You smell me; you inhale beautiful, young Chinese-woman footsmell.
But you be careful – for I a big danger to you! Ha! Ha! I short, like my Chinese owner – and if your dirty nose stray onto superior, young Chinese woman bare skin, master-sir Fu-Han whip you hard with nearby stick! Ha! Ha! Look – Chinese master already pick up stick, ready to redden your back. Ha! Ha! But red marks on your slave back not sign of your success and prosperity! Ha! Ha! Red marks make you public shame and failure! Ha! Ha! Everyone laugh at you and your sore back! Ha! Ha!
So, you proceed with caution, dirty footslave. For me – red mean success and happiness; for you – red mean pain and danger! You nose me and caress me with dirty slave-lips, but you not let ugly, slave-mouth stray where it not belong – on superior, Chinese woman, bare flesh. That reserved for real man who now tower over you with whip – Chinese master-sir Fu-Han! Ha! Ha!’
So there you have it – three subliminal messages from three different kinds of sublime, feminine socks.
And I haven’t even started to tell you about the messages I sometimes see actually printed on my female-customers’ socks! But you can read all about them here!
Chronicle no. 2 – The Joys of Winter!
As a public footslave in the town square, I love the changing of the seasons!
I am particularly fond of the change from Autumn to Winter since that is when my lady-customers’ winter footwear starts to appear in front of my permanently kneeling face – the heavy shoes; the thick socks; the warm boots – and I am especially partial to having a pair of warm, woolly, female socks and stylish, warm winter shoes or boots shoved into my kneeling face!
There is also, of course, more humble work for me to do – since the streets along which my customer-mistresses walk become dirtier in winter.
Yes, I love the first winter-footwear signs!
Nylon vs Wool
Take the first customer-mistress to utilise my sit-down, public shoelick-stall this morning in the cold and breezy town-square – regular customer-mistress, miss Kirsty.
All throughout the summer and autumn blonde officer-worker miss Kirsty has been visiting my shoelick-stall on her way into work in her brightly-coloured, summer dresses and ubiquitous black leather, single-strapped, kitten-heeled, round-toed, mary-jane shoes worn with ultra-short, sneaker-style, tan nylon, summer socks (‘footies’, I believe they are called).
Some days the elasticated tops of her short, flesh-toned, sheer-nylon ‘footies’ or socklets have barely been noticeable inside her shoes – and, indeed, I have only been able to observe them when she has twisted her pretty foot to one side in order to afford my slave-tongue better access to the soiled instep of her black, mary-jane shoe, thereby causing the leather at the top of her shoe to fold open exposing a tiny slither of almost invisible, tan-coloured, nylon footie-sock deep down inside!
Her sheer tan, summery nylon-socks are clearly designed to be functional rather than aesthetic – to discreetly absorb her precious, summertime footsweat inside her warm shoes during the hot summer months, rather than beautify further her already attractive, if somewhat podgy (for she is rather a fat girl), suntanned feet. Her thin, nylon socks are so short that blonde mistress Kirsty often appears to be barefoot inside her shoes during the hot, summer months – and perhaps that’s the way she likes it!
But, being a pathetic and wretched, sock-obsessed footslave, I like to actually see a flash of wrinkled, nylon socklet inside a smartly-dressed, overweight, blonde office-girl’s black, mary-jane shoe of a summer – for I can then imagine myself sniffing and sucking on her stinky, nylon socks whilst I am dutifully tongueshining the outsides of her shoes. It adds to my sense of public-footslave humiliation to know that she feels the need to wear such secret, nylon foot-coverings just because her fat feet perspire so much during the summer – sweaty, nyloned feet she is nonetheless happy to impose up close and personal on my ugly, footslave face as she demands that I lickclean her dirty, office shoes!
It all indicates that she cares nothing for my nasal comfort and well-being; and I must confess, I like that sort of selfish arrogance in a fat, blonde mistress!
But today, for the first time this winter – whilst she is still wearing that same pair of favourite, black leather, single-strapped, mary-jane shoes – mistress Kirsty has switched to her black, office slacks and her thick, matching black, winter-wool, full-length anklesocks.
Unlike their summer predecessors, these winterwear socks are clearly designed to beautify the appearance of the blonde mistress’s feet and footwear beneath her trouser hems – as well as keeping her feet warm. Despite the trousers, the thick, black woolly socks are quite exposed on her feet by the strappy design of her shoes, and I’m even convinced that the various creases and folds in mistress Kirsty’s warm, winter socks are deliberate, designer folds – intended to add flare and style to her fleshy, white feet and anklebones.
They certainly impress me – along with the distinctive, flowery-patterned stitching in the socks – for they give me something to admire and study whilst my tongue pays attention to her boring old, year-round, mary-jane shoes! I can count the individual creases in her thick, black socks; I can trace the pattern in the flowery stitching with my eyes down the sides of her socks; I can even – if she is kindly disposed to linger long enough on my sit-down, public shoelick stand – respectfully run my nose down the individual sock-stitches in a single line of flowery stitching covering the side of her fat, fleshy anklebone!
She likes that!
Of course – also unlike their hidden, summer-nylon counterparts – these thick, winter-wool socks are not designed so much to absorb mistress Kirsty’s moist and sticky footsweat, as to keep her feet cosy and warm. But I like that thought too! For it reminds me that the comfort and well-being of my fat, blonde customer-mistress’s feet must be paramount at all times, and that, like her socks – be they her sheer tan-nylon, summer socks or her thick, black-woollen, winter socks – I exist, primarily, to take care of her feet, albeit in my case by attending to the well-being of her outer shoewear, whilst the socks protect her inner feet.
The socks are therefore more important than me.
I would, of course, dearly love to attend to mistress Kirsty’s inner footwear as well – to sniff her sweaty nylons in summer and nuzzle her warming, black woollen socks in winter – but, sadly, mistress Kirsty is not one of those customer-mistresses who goes so far as to unbuckle her shoes and have her socks sniffed in public. Nosing the exposed side of her anklesocks is the best I can hope for, since goddess-mistress Kirsty is primarily a shoelick girl – which is fair enough, given that is my humble job title: a public shoelick – not socksniff!
Regal Bootsocks
Other customer-mistresses, however, I’m pleased to say, are not so averse to my sniffing their stinky socks!
My next customer-mistress, for example – 22 year old miss Majeeda, a beautiful, petite and slim Pakistani girl – is one such sock-indulgent footmistress. I know her, and her sock-stink, well, for she has been another of my regulars for over two years now – and she is most definitely not shy about having her intimate, inner footwear attended to!
And I am even familiar with the much less miasmic aroma of her precious, bare feet for, unlike blonde-haired mistress Kirsty before her, black-haired miss Majeeda only ever wears socks during the wintertime; throughout the summer she has been completely barefoot inside her open-toed, strappy, flat, brown leather sandals!
I’m most definitely not complaining about that, even though I admire a sock on a pretty, Pakistani girl at any time of the year – for her soft, brown, Pakistani-girl, bare feet are truly beautiful to behold; dainty, with skinny anklebones; smooth, with just the minutest of skin-wrinkles along her soft, bare insteps; and always pedicured – her toenails painted rich red and her summer feet sweetly perfumed beneath the elasticated hems of her diaphanous-pink, salwar kameez trouser hems (miss Majeeda likes to dress in traditional, female-Pakistani garb including dupatta-style headscarf and matching, silken salwar-kameez trousersuit).
She looks so feminine, and so beautiful – so delicate – as she sits regally on the raised chair above me, studiously adjusting her pink headscarf whilst having her strappy, brown leather sandals ‘tongueshined’ in the height of summer. It’s all I can do to avoid my tongue from inadvertently straying onto her precious, brown, Pakistani-girl, bare footflesh in between the narrow sandal-straps, in a wholly selfish attempt to seek out the succulent delights of any Pakistani-girl toejam; very moreish, I’m sure! But, fortunately for my backskin, I am a well-trained sandal-licker, and manage somehow to resist the toejam temptation, not that there’s a lot of it about on her, essentially clean, feet!
On this late-autumn/early-winter morning, however, the divinely slender, Pakistani-girl feet have finally disappeared inside a fetching pair of black leather, square-toed, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboots – and the hems of her ultra-feminine, pink diaphanous, silken salwar-kameez trousers are now neatly tucked into the tops of said boots for the winter.
I am a bit disappointed at first – disappointed that I have no way of knowing for sure whether my pink-silken-headscarfed, Pakistani customer-mistress is actually wearing any socks inside her chunky, black winter-boots. The thought that she may still be barefoot inside her boots fills me with dread, as it would inevitably mean those delicate and soft, feminine feet being chafed and damaged during the winter months! They need the protection of socks inside such a heavy pair of Pakistani-girl ankleboots!
But I needn’t have worried! It’s almost as if sweet and kind mistress Majeeda can read my pathetic, footslave mind!
After I have dutifully tongueshined the outsides of her black leather ankleboots, she pulls the hems of her silken salwar-kameez trousers up out of her boot tops to reveal the teasing, elasticated tops of a delightful pair of bright, purple cotton bootsocks. The sock tops are all crooked and creased, and need straightening, and the order I am fervently hoping for is swift in being forthcoming:
‘Slave! Be unzipping my boots and taking them off, and then be straightening my socks with your nose! They are being all incredibly wonky, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, mistress Majeeda. Indeed, goddess-mistress Majeeda! Truly this slave will be honoured to nose-straighten your purple bootsocks, most beautiful and respected goddess-mistress!’
‘And do not be touching my clean skin, dirty slave! Otherwise you will be feeling the sting of my whip, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, mistress Majeeda! This slave understands, mistress Majeeda. As it pleases you, mistress Majeeda. Please don’t beat me, Pakistani goddess-mistress Majeeda!’
I am so glad to be of humble sock-service to such a charming and exotic, young woman and her slender anklebones and calf-muscles! Indeed, I think the main reason why her regal, purple socks are crooked on her ankles is that her feet and legs are just so slender the socks find it difficult to gain purchase on her sweet, Pakistani-girl ankles!
Be that as it may, I am honoured and privileged to deboot a superior, young, headscarfed Pakistani-Muslim girl, and apply my crooked nose to her crooked bootsocks in order to straighten them for her. I would not dream of fingering her socks without her express permission, and my obedient nose is in no danger of brushing against her precious, bare skin since I am a respectful and obedient footslave. I will, of course, permit myself the luxury of smelling her boot-warmed socks whilst I nose-plane them, but the tip of my sensitive nose will no more stray onto her bare, brown ankleflesh than my dry and parched lips would ever violate her bare, brown toeflesh during the long, hot, summer months of Pakistani-girl sandal-licking!
I respect and fear the Pakistani female-whip!
Her purple bootsocks duly straightened by me, and her black leather ankleboots rezipped back onto her now smooth-socked feet, the kind and indulgent, Pakistani princess-mistress Majeeda readjusts her pink, salwar-kameez trouser hems inside the upper rims of her boots, and then jubilantly climbs down from the raised chair of my public sock-straightening stand in order to walk off without so much as a by-your-leave.
Such sweet, feminine arrogance! Such sweet, feminine elegance! Such sweet, feminine class!
Turkish Delights
During the spring, summer and autumn my next customer-mistress, miss Gülen – a sultry, dark-haired, dark-eyed Turkish girl – has a penchant for wearing sneakers and socks. Black, lace-up sneakers and plain, white socks to be precise!
She doesn’t much care if her sneakers make her feet sweat in the height of summer, for, like mistress Kirsty’s short, tan-coloured, nylon socks before them, mistress Gülen’s short, white sneaker socks will dutifully absorb her Turkish-girl footsweat – ready for her personal footslave at home to attend to when she shoves her sweat dampened sneaker-socks inside his mouth at the end of her long, hot, summer’s day walking the floor of the sportswear shop she works in.
He’s a lucky slaveman – whoever he is! I wish I could be mistress Gülen’s personal footslave!
But being her public footslave is a nice consolation prize – especially in the wintertime! For during the winter months mistress Gülen switches from low-cut sneakers and socks, to her knee-high, brown leather, flat-heeled, lace-up boots and navy-blue, knee-high bootsocks – all worn over her warm, black, winter leggings (for she still likes to wear short skirts in winter; short summer skirts, but with warm, winter leggings!)
How her long, knee-high boots seem to tower over me as she now sits imperiously above me in her Ottoman-like seat of power having her outer footwear dutifully tongueshined by the lowly winter-bootslave!
And when my tongue reaches the upper rim of each knee-high, Turkish girlboot – well! – I get to see, all close-up and personal, the elasticated top of her thick, woollen, navy-blue kneesock!
I’m assuming they are socks – rather than legwarmers – though mistress Gülen would never be kind enough to enlighten me, even if I begged her to. She hates men – especially at the moment, since her free boyfriend recently dumped her!
I, of course, if I were enslaved to mistress Gülen on a personal basis, would never ‘dump’ her! I would never run away from the Turkish delights of either her black, summer sneakers and white, summer sneaker-socks, or her brown leather, winter boots and navy-blue, winter kneesocks. Not that I would have any choice in the matter – for, unlike her free ex-boyfriend, I’m sure she would keep me on a tight leash! Literally so!
It is therefore with a mixture of sympathy, shame and fear that I must lickshine miss Gülen’s brown leather, winter boots, and admire her navy-blue, winter socktops – sympathy for her despair and loneliness; shame at the way the free representative of my inferior, male sex has treated her; fear that she will take out her righteous, young-womanly anger and frustration on me.
It is a fear which compels me to lickshine her brown leather, knee-high, winter boots all the more diligently and respectfully, for, again unlike her ex-boyfriend, I am at this young, Turkish woman’s mercy and in her power. She could kick my face in with her brown leather, knee-high jackboots at any time – should she feel so inclined. And I rather suspect that she does!
Yes, these are potentially dark days ahead both for her and for me – the dark, lonely days of winter. But at least I have my various customer-mistresses’ winter shoes, boots and socks to keep me company, and to brighten up my otherwise dull and dreary existence! If only I could spread my winter joy to the forsaken miss Gülen!
I yearn to comfort her by affectionately nuzzling the tops of her navy-blue woollen kneesocks; but I dare not. The sullen expression on her beautiful, Turkish-girl face indicates that this young lady, unlike her Pakistani counterpart, is not for sock-nuzzling!
Chronicle no. 1 – From a Slavish Kneelpoint
The humble, male footslave must view his fellow human-beings around him from a totally different perspective to that of an arrogant, free man.
Take, for example, 45 year old mistress Valerie - who works as a secretary in the large, anonymous office-building in which I am employed as a communal footslave. If I were one of the, somewhat arrogant, free men in the office I would probably regard her as being ‘a bit plain’; of average looks with her short, dark, but greying, hair and somewhat sagging chest (she is, after all, no spring chicken!); and definitely of below average intelligence, despite her horn-rimmed glasses – the sort of woman whom one could easily pass by in the street without really giving her a second, or even a first, lustful glance!
Furthermore, spinster secretary-mistress Valerie has a reputation amongst her free work-colleagues, both male and female, for being rather lazy and inept – since she never seems to get any work done and could only, they say, represent the Gynarchy outstandingly well in an international competition designed to find the most unproductive and uninteresting person on the planet!
In addition, she has some major personality flaws – being almost entirely egocentric, and forever focussed on what is best for her. I’m sure that’s why she has never married, although she is reputedly not virginal. She is all take, and no give; and certainly not viewed as a ‘team-player’ at work.
All in all, a not very flattering picture of a plain-looking, self-obsessed and rather unintelligent, middle-aged woman, I think you’ll agree?
But because I am a slave I must take a totally different viewpoint of goddess-mistress Valerie whenever she graciously deigns to enter my humble, maleslave presence. I must view her from the standpoint, or more accurately from the kneelpoint, of a truly slavish inferior.
In practice this means:
· I must think of her as a genuine goddess, and bear in mind at all times that, for all her faults, both physical and moral, she is nevertheless my infinite superior and better;
· I must therefore remain on my hands and knees in her divine, female presence at all times, and ensure that I respectfully lower my gaze and only ever look her in the plain and ordinary foot (though, to be fair, the heavy, wooden cangue kept permanently around my neck facilitates me in that!);
· I must publicly demonstrate my humility and respect towards her superior, female presence by politely kissing her feet as and when she arrogantly presents them to me for public homage and kissing, even if there are legions of other, younger, more beautiful female-secretary feet in the vicinity;
· This entails cupping each of mistress Valerie’s divine feet in turn with my two maleslave-hands, thereby demonstrating to her, and to anyone else watching, that I regard her 45 year old feet as objects of holy veneration;
· When kissing the rounded toe of each of her plain, navy-blue leather, low-heeled, office, court shoes I must seek out the dirtiest part of each street-worn, scuffmarked, shoe toe with my unworthy, maleslave lips;
· Also, my bald head must repeatedly bob up and down over each shoe as I continue to kiss it until mistress Valerie herself decides to withdraw her outstretched foot from beneath my face;
· I must leave a gap of three full seconds in between each footkiss as a demonstration that my kisses to her feet are genuinely considered, respectful and thoughtful;
· As I am kissing her musty-smelling, court shoe I must be actively admiring it, noting any creases in the navy-blue shoeleather; any unsightly scuffmarks; any loose areas of stitching along the base of the shoe – as these are all pertinent reminders to me that I am kissing the flawed and well-worn footwear of a living, breathing, human-being who, like her shoes, may be tired and far from perfect, but who is nevertheless better than me;
· Similarly, if her dark-toned, officewear nylons are at all visible beneath the hems of her ubiquitous, navy-blue, office, trouser-suit legs, I must study them whilst I am repeatedly kissing her shoes. I must admire any creases and wrinkles in the dark nylon; the fine patterns in the stitching; any bobbling or laddering in the thin material of the sweet, feminine lady-nylon; and any alien fluff, hairs or other detritus stuck to the surface of the visible nylon covering her somewhat veiny and bony, middle-aged feet;
· Furthermore, I must fervently imagine what the rest of her nylons may look like, both above her bony ankles and up the rest of her varicose-vein-covered legs underneath her navy-blue trousers, and below her bony ankles inside the depths of her warm shoes – the sheer, dark nylon’s crookedness; its warmth; its sweatiness; its odour. In short, I must feel truly honoured to be so close to mistress Valerie’s clammy, but largely hidden, dark-coloured nylons;
· I must view her as highly desirable, but unattainable, and be truly overawed by the way in which the spinsterish, bespectacled mistress Valerie seems to tower above me as I humbly and respectfully kiss her feet – even though she is actually quite slight of build. She must be regarded by me as a truly awesome giantess-cum-goddess – a still young(ish) woman with absolute power over me, in whose authority and at whose mercy I must languish and cringe in the dirt, even though I am 20 years her senior;
· I must express my humility and powerlessness at her court-shoed feet by praising and lauding her in the appropriate language of humble, male slavespeak;
· This will entail all of the following:
o Greeting her verbally with genuine, if pathetic, slavish joy and respect, and praising and blessing her for entering my unworthy presence;
o Assuring her of my maleslavish fear of her;
o Attesting to her great and undeniable (?) female beauty;
o Acknowledging her superior, female intellect;
o Praising her overall femininity, selflessness and kindness, and begging her not to whip me (whilst at the same time indicating, reluctantly, my readiness to submit to the sting of her female whip, should she see fit to whip me);
o Confirming to her that is an inestimable honour for the likes of me to kneel in her divine presence and to kiss the rounded, scuffmarked toes of her plain, office shoes;
o Declaring my undying and absolute admiration for her navy-blue, low-heeled, court shoes and dark nylons;
o Recognizing my wretchedness at her superior, female feet, and that I am dirty;
o Offering to serve her feet and footwear in any way she so desires, however degrading or humiliating it may be for me;
o Stressing that I exist only to please her, and her fellow female work-colleagues; but primarily her – since she is the one who is currently gracing me with her divine, feminine presence;
o Reminding her, as if she needs reminding, that she is my better, and inviting her, in male fear and trembling, to punish me as she sees fit, or even should she simply desire to relieve any menopausal stress or tension in her superior life by taking out her middle-aged, womanly frustrations on me, since I am a helpless, male object at her feet;
o Expressing regret when she eventually leaves my presence and imploring her to grace me once again with her superior, feminine presence in the near future.
None of the above is mere sycophantic flattery – it is all the truth, from a slavish kneelpoint.
It’s all about having the right attitude towards one’s mistresses– the attitude of a lowly slave in the presence of one of his betters. The more mistress Valerie’s free colleagues may despise and denigrate her behind her back, the more I must be worshipful and respectful in front of her feet.
Even her scruffy, court shoes and stinky, dark nylons are better than me, and I must show that I am honoured to be in their female-secretary presence. I must concentrate on them; think about them; think only about them, and about how I may better serve them. For spinster-mistress Valerie’s shoes and nylons dominate my slave’s eye view of the world, and give meaning to my otherwise worthless existence on my hands and knees – at least when she is nearby.
A spinster she may be, but I am the only virgin around here, and the one who has been well and truly left on the shelf! No woman, not even a 45 year old, sexually frustrated spinster, wants a 65 year old, male slave as a partner; only as a shoeshiner!
God bless superior, plain and ordinary, goddess-secretary-mistress Valerie, and God bless her everyday, navy-blue, court shoes and dark nylons! I will happily shine her shoes, unworthy though I am!
