Footslave Chronicles Volume 3
The third volume in a collection of essays chronicling the experiences of humble footslaves, both public and private.
VOLUME 3 CONTENTS (scroll down for chronicles in reverse numerical order)
10. Most Respected, Fat-Slag, Customer-Mistress
9. Concentrate!
8. The Footslave Stand-In
7. Sweet on me?
6. Hearing Voices
5. Fantasy vs. Reality
4. Deskbound
3. A Mistress’s Complaint Letter
2. Let Them Eat Cake!
1. Piggy In The Middle
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Chronicle no. 10 – Most Respected, Fat-Slag, Customer-Mistress
She looks the business – fat; white; early twenties; her dirty and greasy, blonde hair tied back in a so-called ‘Gynarchy facelift’ (i.e. in an ultra-tight ponytail); smoking a fag, even though she appears to be heavily pregnant; dressed in a pale grey shell suit with a single, red stripe down the side of the pants; and on her fat feet – a tatty-looking pair of well-worn, beat-up, plain black, lace-up sneakers with a ropey pair of black and yellow, cartoon-print anklesocks.
She is gabbling away on her mobile phone as she approaches my ‘stand-up’, public-shoelick stand – swearing, though not in an angry way; foul language evidently comes naturally to her, and, being a young woman living in the Gynarchy is she not entitled to swear if she so wishes?
Of course she is! And who am I to take offence – I’m just a dumbass slave!
And besides, she clearly has absolutely no intention of interrupting her mobile-telephone conversation in order to swear at me – not even to bark down her orders at me – as she stops in front of my wooden footblock and inelegantly plonks her none-too-dainty, right-sneakered foot down on top of it, pausing only to take another drag on her cigarette.
She has no need to give me any verbal orders – when a young lady arrogantly plonks her dirty, sneakered foot down onto the footblock in front of my kneeling face I know what I must do:
- I must first kiss the scuffmarked, rounded toe area of the cheap, lace-up sneaker, as a mark of my respect for this high-class young woman (for, being female, she is automatically considered to be high-class on the social scale);
- As I do so I must take note of her twisted and well-worn, cartoon-print anklesock – admire the young woman’s choice of sockwear and attempt to study the yellow cartoon characters which adorn its otherwise black, cotton surface; for it is the sock of my better. I must not, however, touch the sock with my lips without the mistress’s express permission, foul-mouthed or otherwise, for I am not worthy of such intimacy with such a superior, female being unless that superior being deigns to grant me such humble intimacy;
- I must then start to lickshine the outer sneaker-surface, making sure to start with the dirtiest, mankiest part of the plain, black sneaker my mouth can find, for the young madam may be in a hurry and may only require the most soiled areas of her sneakers to be spruced up – though she can, of course, if she so wishes, stand here all day having her sneakers ‘licked-shined’. I suspect, however, that this busy mum-to-be has much more important things to do with her time, such as collecting her female giro cheque;
- I must continue licking the right sneaker until it is graciously withdrawn from my lips and replaced with her left, equally gruesome, sneaker. Then I must repeat the whole process with her left foot, from the initial, respectful kiss to the scuffmarked toe, through the admiration of the sock, to the licking of the sneaker-dirt.
All the while I am quietly serving the fat mistress, she is exhaling her cigarette smoke down onto the top of my bald head, and even flicking her hot cigarette ash onto it. I am her ashtray, as well as her sneaker-shiner.
I feel honoured!
Not that she deigns to say a word to me; she merely continues with her erudite, if foul-mouthed, conversation with the person on the other end of her mobile phone:
‘No…straight up…the ******* bitch then ****** told me to shut up, and I’m like, you shut the **** up, ******* cow! And she ******* grabs me by the hair, an’ that, and so I ******* knees her in the groin, an’ that, and she ******* tries to kick me in the ******* shins, and I ******* spat at her in the face… honestly, babe, it was ******* awesome! Ha! Ha!...’
You see, despite the violent subject matter of the conversation, the young mistress is clearly not angry or perturbed by the events she is describing to her friend, and so she is evidently not averse to the use of violence – which is a warning to me; I had better do a good job on her tatty old sneakers, or I can doubtless expect a good kicking!
My fear of what this violent, young woman might do to me prompts me to pay some extra attention to her grubby and mud-stained, black sneaker-laces. There would be no point in my tongueshining up the main body of her sneakers only to highlight the grubbiness of the accompanying laces!
And so I suck on the fat-girl’s dirty shoelaces, and endeavour to have them looking as good as new.
A moment of extreme excitement happens just after she has switched her left sneakered-foot onto my wooden footblock – the young mistress suddenly bends down to straighten the elasticated top of her left sock, and in so doing displays to me not only her nicotine-stained, dirty, fat fingernails, but also several pockmarks on her otherwise pasty-white, fleshy upper anklebone.
Now I understand why she is not wearing low-cut sneaker socks, but rather full-length anklesocks, and also why she wishes to ensure her anklesock is fully pulled-up – the poor girl must be embarrassed by the pustular nature of her ankleskin.
She has no need to be! I admire pustules on a mistress’s anklebones, and would happily soothe them with my tongue, if it would help – just as I would happily straighten the young woman’s sock for her, thereby avoiding the need for her to bend down and interrupt her phone conversation!
But it seems the superior young, shell-suited woman could not abide the thought of my greasy hands touching her nice, clean sock (I’m assuming she changes her socks every day), and so all I can do is watch – watch and admire as fat-slag mistress sock is straightened over red-pockmarked, pasty-white ankleskin in front of my very eyes.
At least such a privileged vision gives me a renewed sense of respect for the heavily pregnant, blonde-ponytailed mistress and her black and yellow, cartoon-themed anklesocks, for they are not only beautifying her fat, white ankles; they are also protecting her red-raw ankle-pustules from the elements, and from prying footslave-eyes like mine.
Yes, as she straightens herself up once again to tower above me in all her magnificent, young-womanly glory, I kiss and lick the foul-mouthed, chain-smoking, fat-slag mistress’s dirty, black sneaker with renewed energy and vigour, and suck hard on those mud-encrusted shoelaces!
Respect!
Chronicle no. 9 – Concentrate!
Over the years the technology used in concentrator devices has vastly improved.
They used to be little more than basic tracking devices for the footslave’s eyeline, ensuring that his cowed eyes remained focussed on his mistress’s pretty anklebones – be they socked, nyloned, or bare. But nowadays concentrator devices use sophisticated computer technology to read a footslave’s thoughts – to read his mind, and ensure that it is concentrating on whatever aspect of the mistress’s feet she has set the device to; her shoes; her boots; her socks; her toenails – anything female-foot-related!
As for me, I’m just a stupid, male slave, and all I know is that the fiendish, microchip-style device, which is implanted directly onto a footslave’s brain, somehow analyses the thoughts going through the dolt’s docile head, looking for the number of occurrences of any given foot-related keyword or phrase – and if that all-important keyword fails to show up in the footslave’s humble thoughts a sufficient number of times in a pre-designated period, he is immediately punished by a sharp burst of pain to the temples, which is also recorded on the cruel device’s hard-drive for the mistress to analyse and punish him further at a later time, should she feel so inclined.
My mistress Gülçin has set the device to keyword ‘socks’, so that I am forced to concentrate all of the time on her pretty socks. And, fortunately, they are always pretty socks on her pretty feet, for she is a pretty girl – and her innate prettiness makes the socks intensely desirable.
My mistress Gülçin is a 24 year old, single girl of Turkish origins. She is of average height, and arguably average looks, but what makes her so unbearably pretty to me is that she has dyed her naturally dark hair blonde – and that blondeness contrasts so starkly with her dusky, Turkish skin-tones! It truly makes her stand out in the crowd, and turn lecherous, free-male heads wherever she goes – even when she is dressed, as she is wont to be, in her scruffy old jeans and a common-or-garden, ripped and frayed T shirt.
On her Turkish-girl feet she is wont to wear an equally scruffy-looking pair of black leather ballet flats, with rather worn and scuffmarked, matching black leather, decorative bows over the somewhat flaky, rounded toe areas; and plain, ankle-length, towelling socks which deliciously fill out her otherwise shapeless anklebones, especially when she deliberately wears them all scrunched up around her ankles as she is now.
My mistress Gülçin always wears thick, towelling socks with her flats – only the colour of the socks will change, usually to match the colour of her T shirt (her denim jeans are invariably black) – and the socks are always plain; never patterned. My young, blonde-haired, dark-skinned Turkish mistress is nothing if not predictable when it comes to her neglected footwear!
Today she is wearing light grey towelling socks to match her light grey top, and very fetching they look too – all scrunched up exactly the way she likes them over her ankles. I know that’s how she likes them as I put them onto her feet this very morning myself, and if she wasn’t pleased with the way I had placed her soft socks onto her feet she would have beaten me severely with her short, single-tailed, brown leather slave-whip!
Right now, my mistress Gülçin is seated at her desk at work, her right leg crossed over her left, and as my brain is set to ‘socks’ thanks to the concentrator-device it is very much in my own best interests to focus all my attention on her dangling, right foot as I kneel beneath her desk, since the light grey towelling sock is almost fully exposed on her right foot.
You can see how well the concentrator device works by analysing for yourself how often the word ‘sock’ appears in this story – just press ‘Control’ & ‘F’ on your keyboard, and then inset the word ‘sock’ into the search box!
There truly is much to admire about my Turkish mistress’s thick, light-grey towelling sock on her pretty, Turkish foot:
· The overall hue of the sock – although it is light grey, the consistency of the towelling-sock colour is somewhat patchy, thanks to the sock having been being subjected to repeated wear and tear on my mistress Gülçin’s Turkish feet. In places the grey sock is quite worn and thinning – particularly around the lower instep and heel areas, giving it an even lighter shade, whilst in other areas, such as the upper, the original, grey dye is still fully intact.
I could spend hours, and often do, just admiring the varying shades of grey in my mistress Gülçin’s unremarkable – but thanks to the concentrator device fascinating to me – short, plain towelling sock!
· The stitching of the sock – although the sock is made of thick cotton and tightly-stitched, a number of individual stitches are beginning to loosen on my young Turkish mistress’s anklesock. They jut out from the surface of the sock and cause me no end of distress and concern, for I am acutely aware that at any moment one of those loose little stitches could catch or snag on a foreign object and rip a hole in my blonde mistress’s favourite pair of light grey socks!
Oh the punishment I would receive were that to happen, so I must keep a constant beady eye on such renegade stitches, and hope and pray that nothing comes near them – especially not my teeth when I am kissing my mistress’s socks to order, or even more so when I am mouthwashing her dirty socks at the end of the day. That’s precisely why I always soak my mistress Gülçin’s dirty, grey towelling socks gently inside my mouth, and I iron and press them with equal footslave-care!
· The movement in the sock – my mistress Gülçin’s sock is like a living thing. It is not, currently, lying dead and discarded all crumpled up and crusty on the floor of her bedroom, but is adorning her living, breathing, sweating girlfoot and ankle. And not only that – but a girlfoot and ankle which is dangling nonchalantly in front of me in the musty foot-air beneath her desk. And so, inevitably, my Turkish mistress is subconsciously moving and twisting her foot around, causing the thick, grey towelling sock within her dangling, black and scuffmarked ballet-flat to crease and fold most intriguingly in front of my mesmerized, and concentratorized, face!
How I love to count the subliminal creases and folds in my mistress Gülçin’s thick, grey towelling sock as she composes her emails or surfs the internet on her computer above me. Wave after wave of cascading, grey sock – and yet each wrinkle and crease can suddenly disappear as quickly as it came, depending on the subconscious positioning of my mistress Gülçin’s right foot.
I’ll swear I can even hear her precious sock rustling – so enhanced are my footslave sock-senses thanks to the fiendishly-female, concentrator device! Truly a footslave can never get bored when confronted by a pretty, young woman’s subconscious sock-movements!
· The smell of the sock – my mistress Gülçin’s towelling sock is, of course, specifically designed to absorb her delicate, feminine foot perspiration throughout the day; to ‘towel’ the moistness from her young, office-womanly feet, and protect the inner linings of her soft, black leather, office ballet flats from excessive foot-perspiration damage.
But by the same token the thick, grey towelling sock will increasingly smell of my mistress throughout the day – of the very essence of her Turkish-girl feet. It is an acquired smell, but I love it – for it humbles me and puts me in my place. I am humbled by the thought that the air I must breathe is contaminated by a superior, young woman’s sock; and that, as a personal footslave, I am not fit to breathe in clean air, but must live in an atmosphere polluted by Turkish girl sock.
· The touch of the sock – my mistress Gülçin is very kind; she permits me to nose and nuzzle her sock at will, though she doesn’t like me to do it all the time as she finds my nose somewhat ticklish on her socks!
Nevertheless, at regular intervals throughout the day, I will rub the tip of my nose devotedly across the soft, thick, grey-cotton material of her right sock (again taking great care not to snag any of those loose towelling-stitches on the end of my nose!) just by way of a public demonstration of my pathetic, footslavish devotion to the higher being that is my mistress Gülçin, and to remind her, and all those around her, of my willingness to serve her.
Of course, it’s not an entirely selfless act on my part – I do manage to breathe in deeply as I nose sock, thereby experiencing the true pungency of the sweet, Turkish girlsock in all its glory! Despicable I know – but a poor footslave simply must have his regular fix of smelly, female sock, otherwise his mind may start to wander, and that, as you now know, will inevitably lead to sharp pain in his temples, and a probable subsequent whipping, thanks to the dreadful concentrator-device!
However, as you can tell if you have analysed the paragraphs above for the word ‘sock’, the fiendish device does work – incredibly well. You can see just how obsessed I am by my mistress Gülçin’s sweet sock – and that’s exactly how it should be; for I am her personal foot and sock slave.
My mind only starts to wander when I am distracted by the arrival of her friend and co-worker, miss Hita, as she approaches my mistress Gülçin for a chat! Unfortunately for me, mistress Hita is even prettier than my own mistress – a petite, young Indian woman with big brown eyes and the most delightful pair of spike-heeled, pointy-toed, patent black leather, zip-up ankle boots you have ever seen!
Equally unfortunately for me, miss Hita has perched herself on the edge of my mistress Gülçin’s desk, and is now seated on top of it with her pretty, ankle-booted heels tucked around one another and swaying in the air directly beside my mistress’s right foot and in front of my face.
Of course, I am distracted by the über-beautiful, Indian girl’s fashionable boots as they dangle enticingly in front of my face, and I’m afraid my mind, temporarily, wanders away from my mistress’s right sock. The ever-vigilant concentrator-device detects this act of wanton disobedience and insolence on my part and brings me back to my personal-sockslave senses by sending a painful jolt of electricity through my disloyal temples.
Immediately I am refocused on Turkish-mistress ropey, dull-grey, towelling sock inside scruffy, black leather ballet-flat, rather than Indian-mistress stylish, shiny-black ankleboot, and all is once again well with my pathetic, footslave world!
Until, that is, later in the day when my mistress Gülçin analyses the results of her concentrator device on her smart-phone connected to the web. She sees the spike of pain delivered to my temples on a graph, and quizzes me as to what had happened. Since the concentrator device doubles up as a lie-detector, I have no choice but to confess my temporal disloyalty to her plain, grey towelling sock, in favour of her Indian colleague’s shiny, black ankleboots, and beg for my Turkish mistress’s sweet feminine blonde-mercy and forgiveness.
Her mercy and forgiveness, however, are – quite rightly – not forthcoming, and I am sorely whipped; not by my mistress herself – she can’t be bothered; but by a professional whipmistress in the local house of slave-correction, to whom I must report with a chit filled out by my mistress Gülçin which embarrassingly details my offence, and stipulates that I be disciplined with 12 harsh strokes of the female whip!
Cruelly, my mistress Gülçin has also left the concentrator device switched on inside my brain, so that during my punishment the distracting pain of the whip causes even more distress to my temples as my one-track mind is temporarily whipped away from her socks!
But I deserve all I get; there is no fooling the concentrator device!
My chastened mind returns to my mistress Gülçin’s light grey, towelling socks as I crawl back home after my punishment at the house of correction. Perhaps my bleached-blonde, Turkish mistress will soothe my whip-wounds by graciously kicking off her ballet-flats and rubbing her soft-socked feet all over my sores after I show her my suitably fustigated back? It would be nice to have her precious sock-sweat oiling my righteously stinging whip-weals.
Chronicle no. 8 – The Footslave Stand-In
One could hear her shouting and complaining even from outside the rent-a-slave showroom; she appeared to be having a go at her father, of all people:
‘Shut up, papa! It is all being your damned, stupid fault in the first place! If you weren’t being so incompetent none of this would be being necessary, isn’t it?’
As they entered the showroom – the trio of father, mother and petulant daughter – the man looked suitably sheepish.
They were Indian, and the girl, like her mother, was a stunner – even though she was dressed rather dowdily in a blue bomber jacket; scruffy, blue denim jeans; and a pair of black, misshapen, crochet-styled Ugg boots with thick, ribbed stitching all down the sides and uppers. To be fair, the young Indian woman had added a dash of colour and panache to her outfit, by wearing a brightly-coloured, stripy scarf and matching, rainbow-striped socks inside her black boots – socks which were only just visible beneath her frayed jean-hems thanks to her excellent fashion-decision to turn down her ribbed, calf-length Ugg boots at the collars, thereby exposing at least a small slither of her socked ankles to the waiting world.
This spoilt-brat, young Indian woman clearly had some class – which she appeared to have inherited from her mother, a smartly and traditionally-dressed Indian lady in her mid forties, wearing a bright, yellow sari beneath her beige-brown overcoat, and open-toed, strappy sandals with bare, pedicured feet (unlike her daughter’s feet, her middle-aged, purple-painted, Indian toes must be freezing, however! There is a definite chill in the air outside the showroom today; you can notice it whenever the door to the showroom opens and any customers walk in!)
And right now there is a distinctive chill in the air inside the showroom, as the spoilt, Indian girl continues to berate her elderly father in public:
‘You damned fool! How can you have been so incompetent! Is this not being one of the most important days of your daughter’s life? Or are you not caring about your daughter’s happiness?’
‘I really am being very sorry, Parni darling! But I am sure that we can be sorting something out in this fine showroom, isn’t it?’
The poor man’s feeble attempt at placating his angry daughter has only limited success, as she is still huffing and puffing and stamping her dainty, Indian-girl feet in her oversized, black-ribbed Ugg boots:
‘Well, be getting on with it then, you damned fool!’
How can she get away with talking to her father like that? I always thought that Indian girls were very respectful of their elders? Surely her mother will have words with her?
‘Yes, Achir! Get on with it, you nincompoop! It is inconvenient enough that we are having to drag ourselves all the way down here on such a bitterly cold day, isn’t it? Hurry up, damn you!’
‘Yes, my dear!’
Hmm…a henpecked husband, evidently!
But then – I’m hardly one to talk; I’m a henpecked slave to the female! At least the Indian man is a free man, and can walk on his own two feet in the presence of women – unlike me, the male slave, who must crawl on his hands and knees in their superior, female presence.
I lower my gaze to the petulant and spoilt, young Indian woman’s black, ribbed Ugg boots, out of respect for her and, if I’m honest, out of an element of fear of her – for this is clearly a young woman who enjoys absolute power and authority over others; even her doting parents!
I stare at the thick, black rubber soles of the crotchety, crocheted, sheepskin Ugg boots as the sheepish, and suitably rebuked, elderly Indian man explains the reason for his wife’s and daughter’s anger to the rent-a-slave trader, a bearded Arab man in his early fifties known only to me as master-sir Ahmed:
‘Please, this is being my beloved daughter Parni, who is being turning 21 years old tomorrow! We are being arranging her coming of age ceremony, but unfortunately the personal footslave we are being choosing for her will not be arriving on time from India tomorrow…’
His daughter interjects at this point:
‘Because of your damned, foolish incompetence, papa!’
‘…Yes, my darling! I really am being most terribly sorry, my dear!...Anyway, kind sir, I am hoping that you can be renting us a slave for the day, so that my daughter may be having a footslave to trample on during the ceremony!’
Ahh – now I understand! I’ve heard all about these ‘coming of age’ ceremonies amongst the expat Indian community living here in the Gynarchy! They are, by all accounts, quite lavish and drawn-out affairs – a chance for an extended circle of family and friends to celebrate the legal coming of age of a prized daughter, who can now lawfully own her own status-symbol, personal footslave at the age of 21.
Such ceremonies are, by all accounts, second only in importance and lavishness to a daughter’s marriage – especially amongst wealthy, upper-caste Indian families, such as this one – and they culminate in the young woman’s trampling of the footslave’s face before her gathered family and friends, prior to his being masked for life behind a footfool’s rubber mask, decorated with little, rubbery female shoes and boots!
I have also heard about how such, wealthy Indian families prefer to import their daughters’ future footslaves from India, as they like to see their young women’s upper-caste feet trampling all over a suitably lower-caste, downcast male. In this case, however, it seems that there is a delay in importing the requisitioned slave, and he will not be arriving on time for tomorrow’s ceremony! No wonder the young Indian lady is angry and upset!
But it’s an ill wind that blows no good, as the saying goes …and, being mixed race and quite dark-skinned, I could pass for an Indian man, on a good day – which appear to be master-sir Ahmed’s exact thoughts:
‘Well, sir, I’m afraid I do not have any Indian slavemen in stock at the moment, but allow me to propose this swarthy-skinned, mixed race slave for your daughter. He would be making a most excellent stand-in for your daughter’s slave at her coming of age ceremony!’
‘Ha! Ha! You are meaning a stand-on, isn’t it?’ quips the girl’s mother, in a valiant attempt to lighten the mood.
‘Shut up, mother! The slave is being much too pale and ugly for my feet! Are you being wanting to be totally embarrassing me in front of my friends tomorrow?’
‘But, darling Parni, his pale ugliness will only be enhancing the natural beauty of your soft, brown feet even more, isn’t it?’ retorts her mother, less used to being shouted at by her petulant daughter.
She has clearly hit a nerve; the younger woman is happy to take advice from her mother, when it makes good sense:
‘Mmm…very well; I will try him under my boots. Salesman, lay him prostrate at my feet!’
‘Yes indeed, stunningly beautiful young madam! At once!’
Master Ahmed-sir is always happy to obsequiously indulge a petulant and rude customer – if it leads to a successful rental!
I am unceremoniously dragged out of my showroom cage and roughly forced to lie flat on the ground, my face resting in front of the girl’s thick, black Ugg-boots with my left cheek turned uppermost – ready for the weight of her right Ugg boot to come trampling down on it.
It does so – without delay. Soon I can feel, and smell, the cold, thick, rough black rubber sole painfully squashing my upturned cheekbone. All I can think about is miss Parni’s rainbow-coloured bootsock now towering above my face. Even this arrogant, Indian girl’s stripy anklesock is higher, and better, than me.
She complains, again, about my ugly face, however:
‘Tch!...His face is not even grimacing, mama! I am wanting everyone to be seeing a pained expression on his damned, ugly face when I am standing on it, isn’t it?’
I could kick myself with the scuffmarked, rounded toes of this Indian girl’s thick, black, ribbed Ugg boots! Why didn’t I think to make myself look more pained beneath her pretty boot-pressure? I guess I’m more of a natural boot-kisser, than a boot-rest!
Fortunately, her clever and wise mother knows just how to make my excuses:
‘Do not be worrying, my dear! Tomorrow you will be wearing your high-heels, isn’t it? And the fool will soon be grimacing under the pressure of your spiked heels digging into his cheekbones, isn’t it?’
Again, her daughter recognizes the intrinsic value in what her mother is saying:
‘Hmm…You are being right, mama! I will be digging my heels most painfully into the wretch’s face tomorrow! Ha! Ha! He will even be crying out in pain, if I am having my way!’
This is the first time the stroppy, young woman has laughed, and the sense of relief in the showroom is palpable – amongst her father; her mother; salesman master-sir Ahmed; and her soon-to-be-rented footslave!
For I shall regard it as an honour to be this petulant, young woman’s footslave stand-in at her forthcoming ‘coming of age’ ceremony tomorrow; or her footslave ‘stand-on’, as her mother so wittily put it!
The rental agreement is duly signed by her father, and master-Ahmed sir makes me kiss the girl’s black ribbed Ugg-boot toes before I am ordered to crawl behind her thick, misshapen heels out towards the Indian family car, where I am unceremoniously and disappointingly put into the boot (I had hoped to be the young woman’s footrest in the back of the car!)
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
The following day, however, I did play the humble role of her personal footslave, being inducted under her feet in front of her extended family and friends. Since it was a non-speaking role on my part, none of them (apart from her parents) were any the wiser that I wasn’t her actual footslave – imported from India! I looked the humble part!
And my God, master Ahmed-sir was right! What a stunningly beautiful girl miss Parni truly is, especially when dressed up to the nines in her semi-diaphanous, turquoise-green sari, and with a pair of delightfully high-heeled, strappy, gold leather sandals on her slender and shapely, Indian-girl anklebones. She did indeed elicit a grimace and a scream as she dug her spiked, diamond-encrusted, sandal heel into my upturned cheekbone just before the black rubber footfool mask was placed over my damaged face, declaring me, falsely, in big, bold, red lettering, to be her permanent footslave-property:
Property of beautiful goddess-mistress Parni
One particularly nice little touch, I thought, was that there was even a little, black-sheepskin and rubber model of her favourite, pair of black, crocheted Ugg boots dangling from the top of my ‘borrowed’ footfool mask, along with a tiny pair of symbolic rainbow-coloured socks – her favourite boot-sock combo, dangling ignominiously from my rubber face!
Everyone indulged miss Parni on her 21st birthday, and congratulated her on coming of age. Her big day went, seemingly, without a hitch, and she was pleased!
Oh how I would have loved to remain forever as the ill-tempered and spoilt miss Parni’s personal footfool – but it was not to be! Her actual footslave, chosen for her by her parents, arrived from India by parcel post some two days later, and the mask was duly transferred onto his lucky face whilst I was promptly returned to the showroom.
None of miss Parni’s wider circle of family and friends ever knew that the pain-faced footslave on whom she had trampled at her coming of age ceremony was a mere stand-in for her real footslave. But I still have a pampered and haughty, Indian girl’s cruel, diamond-stiletto, heel mark indelibly etched into my left cheekbone – as evidence that my story is all true!
Chronicle no. 7 – Sweet on me?
Most respected, fat, blonde, regular customer-mistress Clare is such a tease!
As she sits elegantly above me on my suburban, sink-estate, public shoelick-stand, looking truly resplendent in her ubiquitous black denim jeans and distinctive, green and brown speckled, shiny-rubber ankleboots and thick, black cotton socks, she mercilessly torments me about my previous customer-mistress, the skinny and petite, Indian-mistress, miss Rabia, who stepped down from my shoelick-stand just 2 minutes ago:
‘Ha! Ha! I reckon that stick-insect miss Rabia is sweet on you, slave! Ha! Ha! I was watchin’ the way she was lookin’ at you while I was waitin’ in the queue an’ that, an’ I reckon she wants you as her personal foot-bitch though, innit slave? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress Clare?’
I am, of course, curious to know why customer-mistress Clare – whose opinions I very much respect, given her superior, feminine intellect and her excellent, if very individualistic, taste in footwear – would think that miss Rabia, the rather fragile and unremarkable-looking Indian girl, would be considered ‘sweet’ on me, and want me as her personal ‘foot-bitch’!
‘Oh yeah, slave! You wouldn’t have been able to see it, an’ that, coz you was, like, havin’ to concentrate on lickin’ her boots, an’ that, but I could see that she wants you, an’ that! I could see it in her big, brown eyes! Ha! Ha! I know it sounds silly, an’ that, slave – but I reckon she was, like, wearin’ those dirty, black ankleboots and white socks just for you, an’ that, innit though? Ha! Ha! I mean – you does like her boots and socks, an’ that, innit slave?’
It’s very hard to think back admiringly on a previous customer-mistress’s footwear – however appealing – when one is trying to focus on the equally appealing footwear of one’s current, blonde, chavvy customer-mistress who is seated high above one; especially when the latter’s footwear is so strikingly distinctive – ankle-length, green and brown speckled, rubber boots! So rare! So precious! And yet, so cheap – their beauty only increased by mistress Clare’s thick, black bootsocks covering her fat, fleshy-white cankles underneath.
I do so like fat, feminine ankles covered in thick, black sock – there is so much more sock to admire!
But, as I lick the outsides of her cheap, rubber, khaki-coloured, ‘camouflage’ ankleboots I try to think back to the much skinnier Indian-girl’s relatively smart, black leather, zip-up, chunky-heeled and round-toed ankleboots and plain, white anklesocks on her slender, brown anklebones.
I think, on reflection, that miss Clare may have a point – I have to admit that I do also quite like scuffmarked, black leather ankleboots and creamy-white cotton anklesocks on soft, brown, Indian-female skin; it’s the contrast between the white of the cotton and the brown of the skin! And there can be no doubt that miss Rabia was delighting in showing off her socks to me, since I recall how she had deliberately hitched up the hems of her smart, navy-blue, bootcut, office-trouser legs in order to give me a full and unimpeded view of her plain, white socktops.
I hadn’t really thought about it at the time – but, thanks to the vigilance and astute observations of mistress Clare, I can see now how the Indian-girl’s socks may indeed have been designed to seduce me.
I answer miss Clare’s question truthfully:
‘Oh yes, mistress Clare! This slave does indeed admire the boots and socks of customer-mistress Rabia – as indeed he admires the boots and socks of all his respected and beautiful customer-mistresses, including your own, if you would be so kind most respected customer-mistress Clare?’
I just wanted to make it clear to blonde customer-mistress Clare that I was equally admiring of her cheap, green and brown, rubber ankleboots and thick, black socks – lest she feel I was disrespecting them in favour of another customer-mistress’s more expensive-looking footwear.
‘Ha! Ha! Oh come on, slave – surely you must, like, yearn, an’ that, to serve a pretty Indian mistress as her personal foot-bitch, innit though? Ha! Ha! Just think – havin’ to worship and serve her pretty, black ankleboots and white socks, an’ that, on her fine, Indian ankles all the time! Ha! Ha! Wicked, man! Ha! Ha! Gettin’ to, like, know them intimately, an’ that; their tastes and smells, innit? Ha! Ha! I mean – if you was, like, miss Rabia’s personal footslave, or somefing, you’d get to see the rest of her white socks inside her boots, innit? Ha! Ha! Not just the elasticated tops of her socks, an’ that! Ha! Ha! You’d get to see, like, all the yellowy-brown bootstains on the soles of her yummy, white socks, or somefing? Hmm…Yum! Yum! You’d like that, slave, wouldn’t you? Ha! Ha! Indian-girl, yummy white, stinky socks, innit though? Mmm!...Not to mention, like, all her flaky, dry footskin and moist, stinky toe-cheese, an’ that? Ha! Ha! Mmm…lovely! You’d like that, wouldn’t you slave? Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you, though? Ha! Ha!’
Miss Clare certainly knows how to turn an uneducated, male footslave on – even with her talk of another woman’s socks and feet!
‘Oh yes mistress, Clare! If it pleases you, mistress Clare!’
Part of me wishes to add:
‘But even more so, I would dearly love to attend to your chavvy, rubber boots; thick, black socks; flaky, dead footskin; and stinky, fat toe-cheese – if it would be so pleasing to you, most sweet and kind mistress Clare? To be your personal foot-bitch, madam! Because your feet and ankles are so delightfully misshapen and fleshy, most respected, fat chav-mistress!’
But, of course, I don’t dare to say any such thing, because I am a timid and ineffectual footslave!
It apparently does please the selfless customer-mistress Clare, however, that she is successfully turning me on to her fellow customer-mistress’s boots, socks and feet:
‘Ha! Ha! You know what? You’re pafetic, slave, innit though? Ha! Ha! Salivatin’, an’ that, over the very thought of a skinny, Indian girl’s stinky, white socks! Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what, slave, would you like me to put in a good word for you, or somefing, with miss Rabia? Be like, a matchmaker, or somefing? I’m sure she’d be happy to, like, buy you, an’ that, if you’d really like to be her personal foot and sock bitch, innit? Ha! Ha!’
I am somewhat taken aback by goddess-mistress Clare’s kind offer to be a matchmaker made in heaven, as I continue to lickshine her bitter-tasting, brown and green speckled, sink-estate, cheap rubber ankleboots beneath her scrunched-up, thick black bootsocks:
‘Oh pray, mistress Clare, I’m not sure, mistress Clare!’
She laughs at my diffidence:
‘Ha! Ha! Oh come on slave – what is it they used to say in them olden times, an’ that?... A faint footslave-heart ne’er won a fair lady, an’ that!... Ha! Ha! Don’t you want to be an Indian girl’s personal boot and sock bitch? I’m sure she’d, like, whip you, an’ that, every day – if that’s what you’re worried about! She’s bound to impose her strong, masterful will and aufority on you, innit though? Ha! Ha!...’
I am somewhat bemused that customer-mistress Clare seems to think, like so many young, sink-estate women, that, as a slave, I actually crave the sting of the female whip, and yearn to be nagged!
‘…Then again, I can see why you might be nervous about missin’ out on all your other customer-mistresses’ nice boots and socks, an’ that! Like mine! Ha! Ha!’ continues to mock miss Clare. ‘I mean, miss Rabia is a very nice girl, an’ that, but I has heard that she’s, like, a bit of a psycho, or somefing? Ha! Ha! She’d probably keep you locked up, an’ that, in her personal dungeon, or somefing, and insist that you only worship her dirty socks and boots all the time, an’ that! Ha! Ha! There’d be no more variety, an’ that, in your life – an’ they say that variety is the spice of life, innit footslave?’
How could I possibly disagree with such clichéd statements by mistress Clare when confronted by such a unique and individual pair of khaki-coloured, shiny-rubber ankleboots?
‘Oh yes mistress Clare. If it pleases you mistress Clare!’
‘Oh well, I suppose I’ll just have to tell mistress Rabia to back off then, innit? Tell her you is, like, not interested in bein’ her personal foot-bitch, an’ that? That you just ain’t ready to serve her spicy, Indian boots and socks in, like, any kind of personal capacity, or somefing? Ha! Ha! Reckon I’ll just tell her that you thinks her dirty, black boots, stinky, white socks, an’ flaky, sweaty toe-cheese just ain’t good enough for you, an’ that – innit though, slave?’
I baulk and quake at the thought of chavvy, socktease customer-mistress Clare telling another mistress – who is, apparently, sweet on me – that, in effect, she and her highly prized, spicy Indian feet and footwear are just not good enough for me!
‘Oh pray mistress Clare, if it pleases you mistress Clare, please don’t tell the mistress Rabia that I am rejecting her, most sweet and kind mistress Clare. This slave will most assuredly be sorely whipped if you do so, mistress Clare! Oh pray, mistress Clare! Truly I fear the female whip, mistress!’
‘Ha! Ha!...Truly I fear the female whip, mistress...You really are a pafetic little worm, innit though slave? Ha! Ha! Expectin’ me to do all your dirty work for you, an’ that? Hah! What a snake in the grass, though! What a creep, though!’
And with that, fat chav-mistress Clare gathers up some sweet feminine phlegm in her pretty, blonde mouth, leans down and spits on me – the pathetic, little worm cum snake in the grass – on behalf of her ‘rejected’ fellow customer-mistress.
I humbly admit my shame to the superior mistress, and beg her blonde-haired forgiveness:
‘Yes mistress Clare. This dirty slave is indeed pathetic. Thank you for spitting on me, mistress Clare. Please forgive me for being so wretched, mistress.’
‘Kiss my socks, slave!’
I am only too happy to bury my lips in the creases and folds of blonde mistress Clare’s thick, black, cankle-hiding bootsocks.
Crazy though it may sound, I’m beginning to wonder whether my luck may be in, and if she is actually the one who is sweet on me?
Or possibly even sweet on miss Rabia, an’ that?
Chronicle no. 6 – Hearing Voices
Being the personal footwear-slave of my mistress Carmela is certainly pressurized enough! She is a beautiful, petite, 23 year old girl of Latina origins; very feisty; always hyperactive; and very demanding – so much so I fear I might be cracking up under the pressure!
What makes matters even worse, however, is that she is extremely rich – and consequently she can afford to employ a footslave-overseer, Kwame; or mister Kwame sir to me (as per my mistress’s instructions).
All I know about mister Kwame sir is that he is a thirty-something, tall and stocky black man who is very handy with the female whip! And he takes his job of being a rich, Latina lady’s personal-slave overseer very seriously indeed. Wherever my mistress and her personal footslave go, he goes too!
Taskmaster Kwame, and his dreaded whip, are therefore my constant, nagging companions.
Today, for example, I am accompanying my long-dark-haired, Latina mistress on her way into college. I am crawling along the pavements on my hands and knees, endeavouring to keep my elderly, footslave face close to my mistress Carmela’s dainty, Latina, student-girl heels. She is wearing her favourite pair of pink leather, kitten-heeled booties (half-ankleboots which only reach up as high as her shapely, lower anklebones), and crisp, white, scrunched-up anklesocks beneath the light grey, turned-up hems of her blue denim, designer jeans.
Mister Kwame sir, and his supervisory whip, are, in turn, hovering behind me – ready to strike at a moment’s notice – and I can be sure that he will be concentrating on me every bit as much as I am endeavouring to concentrate on the backs of my Latina mistress Carmela’s pink, leather student-booties and scrunched-up white anklesocks!
Mister Kwame sir is a hard, African taskmaster (or a ‘diligent’ taskmaster if seen from my mistress Carmela’s point of view), and likes to continuously berate me as I crawl down the public street to heel, and to cajole me with his whip – all in order to inspire me to ever greater public devotion towards my mistress’s boots and socks, and in her full hearing, of course!
As for my mistress Carmela, she loves it – her slave-supervisor’s masterfulness over me; the sound of the whip periodically slicing without mercy through the cold, winter air and splattering down ignominiously onto my prone and vulnerable, bare back; the attention she receives from passers-by; the admiring glances of free men; the jealous looks of other, less-well-off, young women who are not financially secure enough to employ such a hunky and manly, personal footslave-overseer like mister Kwame sir for their weedy and wimpish, personal footslaves! (They, sadly, just have to discipline their personal footslaves themselves!)
And so, as I desperately try to keep up with my fast-paced and fit, young, Latina mistress, African taskmaster Kwame, who is also much younger and stronger than me, keeps me in line through a combination of verbal encouragement and the sting of the whip.
He continuously reminds me of my duties in his thick, West-African accent as he studiously whips me along the street:
‘Keep your gaze low, slave…whip!... Look only at your mistress’s socks…whip!... Go on, old slave, do as you are told…whip!...whip!...Respect your young mistress’s socks ...whip!... Pay homage to her socks with your eyes ...whip!...
whip!… Admire the creases and folds in the backs of her white socks as she walks along, dirty slave!...whip!...Admire the patterns in the white stitching …whip!...whip!... Filthy pig!...whip!...whip!…Girl’s sock whore!...whip!... Don’t think about anything else, slave…whip!....only her white socks!....whip!... Think about how nice they look on the backs of her heels…whip!... Admire the way they contrast so nicely with your mistress’s soft, smooth legskin…Mentally beg to bury your face in her white socks... whip!...whip! ...Pray to them and bless them …whip! ...for they are the socks of your mistress and better, you wretched, dirty old slaveman…whip!...whip!...’
Mister Kwame sir never laughs, you will note; he takes his job much too seriously ever to laugh at me or even just to exult in his delegated, free-male power over me!
Then, when my mistress Carmela is seated on the train, with me lying prostrate on my stomach on the dirty, carriage floor beneath her – my head serving as her pink-booted footrest – taskmaster Kwame will be seated beside her as an almost-equal (being her free-man employee, as opposed to her bonded slaveman like me), but continuing all the while to lean down, evil whip in hand, in order to dutifully monitor my footface-rest behaviour:
‘Stare at the insteps of your mistress’s pink, leather booties slave…Admire the creases in the leather running all along the side of the boot which is resting in the dirt directly in front of your ugly slave-face…don’t look up at her white sock…let it tower above you as it covers her anklebone, for it is better than you…it is a superior young woman’s sock, and you are just a beautiful, young woman’s sock-slave!... Now concentrate on the zipper on the side of her half-boot…admire the black felt of the zipper-track, and how it contrasts with the surrounding pink leather on the side of her boot…Seek out the dust particles in the black felt with your eyes, and imagine running your nose down the groove of that felt zipper!...Now imagine undoing that short zip with your slave-teeth and nosing the side of your mistress’s soft, white sock!...You can imagine it, but you must not do it…You are not worthy to touch your mistress’s white sock with your mouth or face…you are just a worthless, dirty footslave!… Her clean, white sock is too good for you, slave!...’
Mister Kwame sir finds it more difficult to whip me in the restricted confines of the train carriage, but he still draws admiring glances from many of the other lovestruck females on the train. Such obedience he can instill in a young lady’s footslave – they would just love to see him whipping me using his manly, rippling biceps! (This is their point of view, you understand – not mine! I don’t relish being whipped by a strong, muscular man! Or even by a feeble, young woman, for that matter!)
We are in the college cafeteria now, and mistress Carmela is enjoying a casual snack with her female college friends. Several pairs of attractive, young-womanly shoes, sneakers and boots surround me underneath the college-cafeteria table, but the ever vigilant taskmaster Kwame makes sure my footslave-eyes don’t stray even for one second from my own mistress Carmela’s pink leather booties and pure, white, scrunched up anklesocks.
He now speaks in lowered, almost whispered, tones to me, and merely rubs the business-end of the whip threateningly across my existing whip-sores, so as to cause me the maximum amount of pain and anxiety that he can, without disturbing the young ladies’ conversation. Such a considerate and gentlemanly, African taskmaster!
‘Focus on your mistress’s boots and socks beneath the table, slave…Observe the way one of her white socks is lower than the other…Ponder how that may have happened, for I shall whip you for that later, slave…Count the difference in the number of creases on your mistress’s right and left socks, and work out how her left sock could have possibly slipped further down inside her pink ankle-boot…Beg the left sock for mercy and forgiveness, and implore it to have you whipped by me later!
I obey the master-sir, and do my begging in equally subdued tones:
‘Yes, mister Kwame sir, at once, mister Kwame sir…Oh pray, mistress Carmela’s left, white sock…if it pleases you, mistress Carmela’s left, white sock…please forgive me for allowing you to slip down inside my mistress pink leather bootie lower than your sister-sock on her right foot…And please, I beg of you, don’t have me whipped by the mighty master-sir for such incompetence on my part…Oh I pray to you, sock! Oh pray! Pray have mercy on me, mistress Carmela’s most gracious white sock!’
I must be careful not to raise my voice and disturb my Latina mistress as I beg her white sock on her left ankle for mercy!
Later, in the lecture hall itself, taskmaster Kwame crouches down beside me again, looking diligently over my previously whipped shoulder as I continue to kneel at my Latina student-mistress’s, pink-bootied feet.
He must speak in a very low whisper now, directly into my right ear, so as not to interrupt my mistress Carmela’s concentration on the lecture. I can smell his bad breath, and feel the whip trailing over my back wounds, as he sotto voce denigrates me:
‘Stupid slave!...Don’t take your eyes off your mistress’s pink boots in front of your face…but while you are staring at them, think about her white socks inside her boots again…Think about how hot and sweaty they must be getting by now, and about how you are going to have to smell them and mouthwash them later, under the pain of the whip!…It’s the whip for you, old slaveman, for you have let one of your mistress’s white socks slip down inside her boot!... Wait until I point that out to your mistress – she will have me whip you hard, slave!...Think about the whip, and be afraid, slave!’
And, true to his whispered word, taskmaster Kwame sir does whip me later – mightily so; and at the explicit behest of my mistress Carmela, for I have, as mister Kwame sir has so kindly pointed out to her, clearly failed to put her white socks on her feet properly first thing this morning, since one of them has mysteriously slipped down inside her pink leather, zip-up bootie, whereas the other one continues to stand tall and proud around her shapely, Latina anklebone (albeit in a scrunched-up and slovenly-looking kind of way; designer slovenly!).
I am convinced in my own mind that I deserve to be whipped, and taskmaster Kwame deserves to be the one who wields the female whip over me – since it was he that spotted the sock-slippage on my mistress’s pretty ankles in the first place.
The only thing that isn’t quite clear to me is:
Does taskmaster Kwame sir really exist, or am I just hearing voices?
Is he, perhaps, just a figment of my fevered, footslave-imagination – the voice of my footslave-conscience, urging me on to ever greater efforts at my beloved, Latina mistress’s feet?
It is unmistakeably a male voice that I hear – so it could be my own! But then, why would my conscience have an African accent? I’ve never been to Africa! And the halitosis? Can the voice of one’s subconscious possibly have halitosis? Or is it just my own breath that smells, from constantly having to lick dirty, female boots and suck on dirty, female socks?
Furthermore, if mister Kwame sir is a mere figment of my imagination, how do you account for the biting sting of the female whip now regaling my back and shoulders? That sure feels real enough! Who could possibly be wielding the cruel, female whip so expertly across my bare back if the existence of taskmaster Kwame is mere fanciful thinking on my pathetic, footslave part?
My mistress herself, perhaps? No – it can’t be! I can see her now – relaxing, alone, in front of me, with her bare feet up on the edge of the sofa, her discarded pink leather booties lying just inches away from my kneeling and bowed face as her dirty, discarded socks youthfully gag the insides of my elderly footslave-mouth.
She can’t possibly be the one whipping me!
But, maybe the stinging wounds on my back are from a previous whipping? Maybe the pain from them has suddenly just ‘reignited’? Come to think of it, I can’t actually hear any crack from the whip behind me. I can only feel the pain!
Oh, I just don’t know any more! I’m confused! Like I said – I fear I’m cracking up! You decide the truth, please, whilst I just continue to suck-clean my Latina mistress’s dirty, white socks in my humble footslave-mouth!
Or, perhaps, horror of horrors, even my beloved mistress Carmela doesn’t exist?!
No – no! Like I said, I can see her above me; reclined barefoot on the sofa. And the taste of dirty, white, Latina-student-girl sock is definitely for real inside my footslave-mouth; I’d recognise that taste anywhere! Furthermore, the soft, white, female socks are still warm, and reek of sweet, feminine footsweat. They have certainly been on a beautiful, young woman’s feet, and inside her boots, in the very recent past. And now they are inside my mouth!
Yes, my Latina mistress Carmela most indubitably exists; and she is indubitably a very wealthy, young woman; and I am indubitably her personal footwear-slave.
Of that much you can be sure!
Chronicle no. 5 – Fantasy vs. Reality
Sadly, the reality of being an office footslave does not always live up to the fantasy.
Here is a perfect example of what I mean:
My first office-mistress of the day is 20 year old, Pakistani office-junior mistress, miss Ishrat – a beautiful, but slightly built girl, with rather skinny legs and ankles. I would much prefer it if she were a bit ‘fleshier’ about the anklebone. Not that my tastes in feminine ankles are of any consequence – I must serve them as I find them, and treat them all with an unconditional, footslavish respect! But, in my selfish fantasies, set in a perfect world, miss Ishrat’s ankles would be thicker.
Moreover, again in my ideal fantasy world, she would be much harsher and nastier towards me; miss Ishrat is such an innately sweet-natured and kind young woman that she rarely stoops to the level of disciplining me with the office whip, for example. I sometimes wish she would exercise her perfectly legitimate, female right to impose the sanction of physical pain on me more often, but, regrettably, she does not yet possess the emotional maturity to wield her absolute, female power over the middle-aged, male slave absolutely.
One can only hope that will come with time!
Another disappointment today: as it is snowing quite heavily outside this morning, the far too sweet and kind miss Ishrat has (very sensibly) elected to wear her synthetic, black, shapeless, calf-length moonboots on her delicate, Pakistani-girl feet and ankles, with her ubiquitous, navy-blue, officewear trousers tucked into the tops of them. Extremely fetching though she looks in her misshapen, flat-heeled moonboots and tucked-in trousers, I would very much prefer it if she were wearing her more usual office footwear, consisting of her creamy-sock revealing, black leather, chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboots.
I prefer her in those shapely, everyday ankleboots not just because genuine, female bootleather tastes much nicer than female synthetic-boot material, and is correspondingly easier to lick clean, but because I always like to have sight of a Pakistani girl’s socks inside her boots, or at the very least the elasticated tops of her socks, whilst I am lickshining her outer footwear for her.
It somehow just adds to my overwhelming sense of footslavish humility when I am obliged to observe, close-up and personal, the soft, and often creased, cotton material of her socks whilst she is still wearing them inside her boots – especially when they are such a manky-looking pair of well-worn, cream-coloured socks as those customarily worn by miss Ishrat, and all the more so when they help to ‘fill out’ skinny and bony, feminine ankles like those belonging to such a petite and slender Asian-girl.
It’s just so humiliating to be that close to a skinny girl’s socks whilst she is actually wearing them!
Today, however, it is not to be. Immediately upon her taking up her seat in the communal, office shoelick-chair above me, I am obliged to express my humility and gratitude for the opportunity to serve her by showering her thick, round-toed, sock-hiding, synthetic moonboots with dozens of genuinely respectful kisses, even though they are so cruelly denying me a glimpse of my Pakistani mistress’s creamy-white, sock tops! Reality vs. Fantasy!
Furthermore, I must do so in abject silence – since that is humble office-footslave rule no. 1 (in this office at any rate): The communal, office footslave may not talk to a mistress whilst he is kissing, licking, or otherwise attending to her shoes or boots – under penalty of the female whip!
In my pathetic, footslave fantasies, however, I would much rather greet miss Ishrat with some gushing and verbose, humble slavespeak as I pay labial homage to her shapeless moonboots – verbally express my fear and admiration of her delicate, Pakistani-girl power and authority over me not just through the medium of humble bootkisses and deeds, but in heartfelt, slavish words:
‘Oh pray, mistress Ishrat. Greetings be upon you, mistress Ishrat. And God bless you for honouring me with your divine, feminine presence, Pakistani goddess-mistress Ishrat. Please don’t beat me, mistress Ishrat. Truly this slave will be a good footslave to you, mistress Ishrat, and will worship and honour your beautiful moonboots, if it would be pleasing to you, mistress?’
I realise, of course, that I’m contradicting myself here! On the one hand I have already told you that I wish miss Ishrat would deploy the whip to my back more often; on the other hand I wish I could obsequiously grovel for mercy at her moonbooted feet, and pray not to be beaten by her! But that’s because, whilst I may like the fantasy of being whipped by miss Ishrat, the reality is quite a different matter! Real pain, as opposed to imagined pain, is a whole different ball-game, and no-one could possibly like the biting embrace of the female whip around one’s exposed, male ribs in reality (especially not when wielded by a genuinely angry, young Pakistani woman!)
But it’s a moot point (or should that be ‘mute’ point) in any case – since I am forbidden to verbally beg for mercy. I must confine myself to conveying my fear and trembling before her superior young-womanhood through the medium of my silent lips pathetically bobbing up and down on her artificial boots!
At least, as I repeatedly kiss the outsides of her black, synthetic boots from broad, rounded toes to misshapen uppers, I can be comforted by the knowledge that deep inside those calf-length moonboots lie an unseen, but decidedly manky, old pair of cream-coloured, cotton bootsocks; I can visualize them in my imagination, for miss Ishrat never seems to wear any other colour of bootsocks on her slender, Pakistani-girl feet.
She is not exactly what you would describe as a ‘sock-proud’ young woman!
I continue to festoon the outsides of her cheap, artificial moonboots with genuine kisses of fear and admiration as she sits regally above me on the office shoelick-chair, until such time as miss Ishrat deigns to deliver her entirely predictable orders to me in her delicate and softly-spoken, indeed almost timid, Pakistan-girl accent:
‘Slave, you may now be lick-cleaning my boots for me, please!’
They are entirely predictable, but also entirely unimaginative orders. In my ideal fantasy world miss Ishrat would think outside the boots! She would bark down the following, humiliating orders to me, in a much harsher and more demanding tone of authoritative, Pakistani-girl voice:
‘Dirty slave, be pulling off my boots and smelling my socks this instant! Be sniffing my dirty socks out loud from top to bottom while I am still being wearing them on my feet, and be making damn well sure that everyone is seeing you and hearing you sniffing my socks, isn’t it? For I am wanting them all to be laughing at you as you are being forced to sniff a Pakistani girl’s smelly socks in public, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! You are being nothing more than a stupid girlsock-sniffer, you ignorant fool! I am spitting on you, and denigrating you, you impotent, lowly maleslave-peasant!’
In my fantasies miss Ishrat would then carry out her threat to spit on me from above, noisily gathering up phlegm and mucus inside her pretty, Pakistani mouth before expelling it ingloriously down onto the top of my balding, bowed pate, whilst I humbly and fearfully sniffed her grubby, cream-coloured bootsocks on her dainty, brown feet – creamy socks saturated in stink as they have only just been liberated from the sweat-inducing, inner lining of her warming, synthetic moonboots.
But no such luck! As I indicated before, the reality of the matter is that miss Ishrat lacks the maturity and self-confidence to mistreat me like that. It is with good reason that the Female Laws of the Gynarchy prevent a young woman from owning a personal footslave before the age of 21. They just aren’t ready for it – though they may practice their dominance on public or communal footslaves like myself from the age of 18.
Again, I am forbidden to speak or verbally acknowledge her orders in any way. And so I must indicate my slavish acquiescence with miss Ishrat’s disappointingly polite, humdrum orders to lick-clean her boots, by merely sticking out my tongue and obeying her:
As I indicated before, I’d much rather be licking the smooth leather, and felt zippers, of her usual chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots. I am accustomed to the strong and bitter taste of female-human bootleather, though it is very much an acquired taste. But these synthetic moonboots are virtually tasteless under-tongue. Very bland.
Still, looking on the bright side, at least it means the taste of miss Ishrat’s recently acquired street-mud and snow-slush is not overwhelmed by the taste of her synthetic boot-material, as is often the case with ordinary female bootleather. There is nothing worse, for a footslave, than spotting what you think will be a tasty morsel of brown, feminine bootdirt, only to find it drowned out by the taste of the black, feminine bootleather it is stuck to!
And that’s the whole point about real life, as opposed to fantasy, isn’t it? As I lick clean the slushy, early morning street-dirt from the rough treads of miss Ishrat’s flat moonboot-soles, I must learn to take the rough with the smooth. Okay – so what if her stinky, cream-coloured socks are not visible to me today? Am I not compensated by the peripheral vision of her calf-length, black synthetic boots towering so dominantly and misshapenly above me as I lick their, slovenly, street-soiled soles?
And what miss Ishrat lacks in mistressly experience, she makes up for with youthful impetuousness. For she suddenly kicks me in the face with the ridiculously broad, rounded toe of her right moonboot:
‘BE LICKING THEM HARDER, YOU QUEER FOOT-FLUNKEY!’ she shouts angrily down at me.
Yes, mistress Ishrat. At once miss Ishrat. That’s more like it, miss Ishrat! Please don’t hurt me, mistress Ishrat! Please don’t kick my face in!
That’s what I feel like responding, even though my only response can be to silently obey; to lick moonboot harder.
Yes – I suppose, on reflection, the reality of my footslave-life in the office isn’t all bad, even if it only very rarely lives up (or should that be down) to the fantasy!
Chronicle no. 4 – Deskbound
I am employed as a deskbound office-footslave. Specifically, I am bound underneath the desk of 24 year old miss Jeeval, a beautiful, if somewhat chubby, Indian girl who is one of the office accountants.
My job is to attend to her feet and footwear underneath the desk. Every female office-employee has a personal, deskbound office-footslave like me, but I consider myself particularly fortunate to be allocated to miss Jeeval’s desk – for she has a wonderful sense of style and panache when it comes to her office footwear.
Even when it is freezing cold and snowing outside, miss Jeeval knows how to beautify her feet. This morning, for example, when she enters the office and takes up her seat at her desk, I see that she is wearing an ultra-fetching pair of thick, rainbow-patterned, stripy-cotton towelling socks – all scrunched up around her chubby ankles – inside her chunky, pale pink, low-top, lace-up leather sneakers. Moreover, the rainbow-coloured towelling socks cover the bottoms of her thick, grey woollen leggings beneath her short, grey office-skirt.
She looks the business – and she knows it!
I can tell from her pink sneakers that it must be snowing outside, as I can see little patches of white, melting snow on the lower insteps and thick treads of her walk-to-work footwear. My job, first thing in the morning after she has settled down into her office, swivel seat at her office desk, is to now change miss Kumar out of her chunky and round-toed, girly-pink sneakers, into her smart black leather, block-heeled and chisel-toed, zip-up office ankleboots – boots which, as per usual, she has left underneath her desk next to my kneeling nose all night; Indian-girl, officewear boots, the warm and moist insides of which I have been breathing in all night – out of respect for my 24 year old, Indian desk-mistress.
Miss Jeeval does not need to give me any verbal orders in her cute, Indian accent – for we both know exactly what I must do. It’s part of her winter-morning routine. She arrives at the office; she takes up her seat at her desk and stretches forth her still-sneakered legs for me to ‘boot her up’ whilst her freemale office colleague master-sir John, on whom she is quite sweet, makes her a warming cup of coffee.
I mustn’t rush, of course – for changing a superior, young woman’s footwear is a privilege and an honour which is to be savoured. I therefore begin by paying my humble, footslavish respects to her cold, snowy sneakers – by kissing them ten times (five times each) on the flaky, and snow-sodden, rounded toe areas. A true slave must always worshipfully kiss a lady’s item of footwear before touching it with his hands – otherwise he will be sorely whipped for behaving disrespectfully.
My lips brush against miss Jeeval’s dirty, white sneaker-laces as I kiss the leathery, rounded toes of her thick-treaded, low-top sneakers. They do feel particularly cold under lip this morning– and I gather from miss Jeeval’s conversation with her freemale colleague, master John sir, above me that it is indeed bitterly cold outside this morning; my Indian desk-mistress even takes off her black woolly gloves to let him feel her cold, brown hands on the side of his white cheek. He laughs – and sympathises with her.
I wonder if miss Jeeval’s brown-skinned tootsies are as cold inside her pink sneakers – despite the thick, warming rainbow-towelling socks she is wearing inside her sneakers – and wish that she would let me feel her bare toes on the side of my humble, maleslave cheek.
But I know she won’t! Miss Jeeval is quite a modest, Indian girl, and wouldn’t dream of indulging her office-footslave in such an intimate matter. Besides, she’s not ‘sweet’ on me – I’m just a down-under-the-desk footslave, with no prospects or future to make me attractive to an ambitious, young woman like miss Jeeval, unlike master John sir, the office Alpha-freemale!
Having respectfully kissed the pink sneaker-toes and grey-white laces, 10 times in total, I begin to untie them. Miss Jeeval subconsciously assists me to slip the thick, heavy sneakers off her stripy-rainbow-socked feet by graciously lifting her wet, sneakered heels up off the office floor.
I set the snow-dampened, Indian-girl, pink sneakers to one side – next to her waiting, black leather office ankleboots – and next turn my slavish attentions towards her thick, brightly-coloured towelling socks. I briefly admire the stripy rainbow-patterns in the socks, before lowering my lips to them and respectfully kissing them, for I shall be touching them next as I must divest my mistress Jeeval’s feet of them. These are strictly outdoor-socks, to be worn along with her sneakers on the way into work. They will not be worn inside her black, office ankleboots.
The socks don’t smell in the least bit sweaty as I lower my lips to the stitching covering the slightly damp, reinforced toe areas; they do smell a little musty and mouldy, perhaps, from the snow having seeped through the pink leather of the sneakers and onto the outer surfaces of her rainbow socks – but in no way could the smell be described as perspiratory.
It’s not that miss Jeeval can’t have sweaty feet. In the summertime – when she often chooses to wear her black, office courts on her bare, Indian feet – her feet do frequently smell incredibly moist and sweaty; particularly towards the end of the long, working day.
But right now – inside her relatively fresh, rainbow towelling socks, this early in the morning and on such a bitterly cold day – miss Jeeval’s divine, Indian feet are far from being sweaty. Like her hands inside her gloves, they will be cold inside her socks. The socks – even such a pair of thick, towelling socks – like her woolly gloves will have been unable to completely protect her pretty, Indian-girl extremities from the exceptionally bitter cold. But I take some comfort in the thought that – partly thanks to the freshly-made cup of coffee she is now sipping courtesy of her ever attentive colleague master-sir John – my young, Indian office-mistress will be stating to warm up.
Despite their mustiness, I kiss the stripy, multicoloured girlsocks 10 times with genuine admiration and respect for the sterling efforts they have made to keep mistress Jeeval’s Indian toes warm inside her sneakers – and out of sheer jealousy at their unrivalled intimacy with her bare, Indian footflesh.
Except that – when I respectfully pull the scrunched-up, anklelength towelling socks off miss Jeeval’s feet and place them inside the tops of her recently divested sneakers – I am in for the shock of my life; inside her stripy, thick rainbow-coloured socks she is wearing another pair of thin, plain, white cotton socks! Today must be so cold, that miss Jeeval has elected to wear two pairs of socks simultaneously over her chubby, Indian anklebones!
This is a first! Normally, when I take off her sneaker socks – be they these rainbow-coloured pair or any other pair – she then requires me to put her black leather ankleboots onto her bare, Indian feet! But today her feet are so cold she is evidently wearing an extra layer of socks!
I am in a bit of a quandary now! What am I to do? Leave the plain white socks on her feet, or take them off too? This is unprecedented, and I need some guidance from my much more intelligent desk-mistress.
Fortunately for me she senses my stupid-male-slave confusion, and kindly interrupts her lovey-dovey small-talk with master-sir John above me in order to clarify her wishes in her cute, dark-haired Indian-girl accent:
‘Slave, be leaving the white socks on my feet and be placing my boots over the top of them. Be smoothing the socks on my feet first before you are placing on the boots!’
‘Yes, mistress Jeeval. As it pleases you, goddess-mistress Jeeval.’
I am relieved – for the decision has been made for me and my instructions could not be any clearer. I am to leave the pure, white anklesocks on my Indian office-mistress’s feet, and zip her black leather, office ankleboots up over them. But first, I must smooth the thin, white cotton anklesocks around her shapely, brown insteps and ankles; therefore I must touch the second pair of socks; therefore I must respectfully kiss them 10 times.
All my ignorant slave-questions have been answered, and miss Jeeval can resume her besotted conversation with her office beau, master-sir John, above me. I can sense the latter smirking masterfully at me as he watches me attend to his beautiful, Indian girlfriend’s socks and boots; he is thinking: what a loser! what an Indian girl’s, pussy-whipped footslave!
And he is right to think like that, for that is exactly what I am!
The thin, white socks are truly stunning – fresh, pure, white cotton; much smoother and creamier than the thick, fuzzy, multicoloured, towelling socks, and just long enough to cover miss Jeeval’s somewhat podgy, Indian anklebones. Or, at least, they will be when I have evened them out over her pretty, brown ankles – for they have become slightly dislodged and creased on her feet following my inept removal of her stripy-patterned, outer socks.
So these white socks are actually the socks which have enjoyed truly intimate access to my mistress’s bare, cold footflesh on this snowy winter’s morning! Respect! And they look so pure and white – not a mark on them! I suppose that’s because the stripy, rainbow-coloured socks have prevented her inner sneaker-linings from staining them!
Respect to the rainbow-socks (again!).
I kiss the pure, white anklesocks on the reinforced-cotton toe areas ten times. Again, no smell of human sweat; just fresh cotton. My only regret is that the stitching of the socks is so dense and narrow I cannot see my mistress Jeeval’s painted toes underneath.
Miss Jeeval always paints her toenails – usually to match her fingernails; and today, I couldn’t help noticing as she earlier took off her gloves to hold her cold hands up to master-sir John’s face, her podgy fingernails are painted blue. So I’m guessing her toenails are painted glossy blue also.
Oh, what wouldn’t I give to kiss miss Jeeval’s bare, blue toenails! But, as I indicated before, even when she wears her office boots or courts on bare feet, I am never permitted lip-contact with her bare footflesh – not even with her bare cuticles!
For all I know master-sir John might be granted such intimate foot-access – after work; after dark. For she likes him!
Still, at least I can feel the ridges of her pedicured toenails underneath the cotton stitching of the fresh-smelling, white socks.
That’s enough sock-worship for now. I straighten the white socks with my trembling slave-fingers (trembling because I fear the sting of the female whip if I fail to please either the desk-mistress or her consort) smoothing out all the white-cotton creases and folds – and then pick up the nearby, black leather, block-heeled and chisel-toed ankleboots in order to zip them up onto my Indian mistress Jeeval’s white-socked feet.
First I must kiss the ankleboots, of course, before I am permitted to touch them – kiss them 10 times, out of respect, as I have done with every other item of my mistress’s winter footwear.
It is with a certain degree of sadness that I finally zip up my mistress’s smart, office ankleboots – for they are not only now hiding her beautiful, white socks, they are also covering the elasticated hems of her grey, woolly leggings, and hence her bare, brown ankleskin. Miss Jeeval has such smooth, Indian skin! Oh how I yearn to kiss it!
But, I have to admit it – the ankleboots look ultra-stylish on my office-mistress’s feet and ankles as I kneel humbly by their side and stare at them. And the pleasing thought that hidden inside those wonderful boots she is wearing such a delightful pair of white, feminine socks thrills me to the core, for I hope to catch a whiff of them at the end of the day when I must change my mistress Jeeval back into her sneakers and outer, rainbow socks! Surely by then the white socks will be smelling of her, having been inside her warm, office boots all day.
Even a pathetic, deskbound office-footslave has to have something to look forward to at the end of the day – and kissing and touching an Indian-girl’s, plain white, sweaty bootsocks will do for me!
Only her luscious and fulsome, naked body will do for master-sir John, of course – but then, he is a real man, who needs more than a girl’s sweaty, white socks and black leather ankleboots to get off on!
Chronicle no. 3 – A Mistress’s Complaint Letter
The public-slave owning organisation received the following letter of complaint:
‘Dear Sir or Madam,
My name is mistress Tina, and I am a regular visitor to your public footslave no. 371A in the central town square.
Earlier today I visited the dirty slave for a regular bootshining, but was far from satisfied with the service I received! The slave appeared distracted and aloof, and his tongue was clearly missing several areas of mud and street-dirt on the lower edges of my black, leather ankleboots – boots which, I might add, he is very familiar with since his tongue has been required to attend to them on many previous occasions!
When I challenged the fool as to the reasons for his substandard service, he actually had the temerity to admit that his mind was still preoccupied with the feet and footwear of a previous customer – some Indian girl, I gather, with whose dirty shoes and socks he had been particularly enamoured!
Correct me if I am wrong, but I was under the impression that a public footslave is required to give 100% of his attention to the feet and footwear of the customer-mistress who is seated in front of him at the time?
I feel insulted and slighted by your slave, and demand that he be severely punished for his wilful neglect of my office ankleboots. I await your reply.
Yours mistressly,
Mistress Tina’
The Customer-Service Department of the public-slave owning organisation replied, promptly, as follows:
‘Dear mistress Tina,
We are very sorry to hear about the substandard service you received from one of our public footslaves – no. 371A. This behaviour you describe is not the standard of slavish behaviour we require of our slaves, and we, as an organisation, have let you down.
We wholeheartedly apologise for that, and can assure you that the slave concerned will now be sorely punished for your delectation.
We would propose that he receive 100 lashes of the female whip, well laid on and in slow time, whilst secured at your feet. One of our female disciplinary-managers will be happy to carry out the whipping on your behalf, and will record the event for your future entertainment and satisfaction onto a complimentary DVD.
The punishment may be conducted at a time and place of your convenience – either in the comfort of your own home surrounded by your immediate friends and family; or at your place of work in front of your work colleagues; or in the town square where the slave is based; or, indeed, at our own offices.
Immediately prior to the flogging, the disrespectful and incompetent slave shall be required to kiss your feet 1000 times and to beg for your forgiveness and mercy (we would recommend that you show him neither). Similarly, immediately following the whipping, the whipped slave shall be required to kiss your feet a further 1000 times, and to praise and bless you for reporting him and having him punished.
He shall then be required to show the due respect and attention to your footwear which was so sadly lacking on the occasion of your visit to our public shoelick-stand, and we would therefore politely request that you wear the selfsame boots which you were wearing when the original incident occurred.
Finally, the slave shall be put on public display by being required to follow you to heel on his hands and knees for one whole hour at your chosen punishment location, with a placard around his neck declaring his crime for all in the vicinity to verbally mock, despise and berate him.
Alternatively, you may prefer to whip the footslave yourself, and to humiliate him in a manner of your own choosing, in which case our disciplinary manageress will merely oversee the proceedings and again record them for your satisfaction onto a complimentary DVD.
Please ring our senior customer-services’ manageress – mistress Heather – on Barbaria 549 76543 at your convenience to make all the necessary arrangements.
Assuring you of our best intentions at all times, and our desire to see this dirty, ignorant footslave suitably humbled and chastened.
Yours in mistresshood,
Mistress Annette
Customer Service Manageress’
Mistress Tina decided to opt for the slave to be disciplined at her feet by one of the organisation’s professional, disciplinary-manageresses in the manner they had proposed.
Public footslave no. 371A was thus duly punished at her black leather anklebooted feet some 3 days later in front of her office colleagues at her place of work.
Everyone present was jubilant that the tremendous sting of the expertly-applied female whip had fairly taught the neglectful slave the error of his ways, and that he would never again insult the block-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboots of their beloved friend and blonde-haired, office-colleague, miss Tina!
Just to add to the stupid footslave’s torment and shame during his whipping, mistress Tina deliberately hitched up the hems of her smart, navy-blue, bootcut slacks whilst she was seated in front of his kneeling frame, just so that he could see the elasticated tops of her plain, black cotton bootsocks inside her boots throughout his unmanly pain and distress.
She often watches the complimentary DVD with her friends, and always with a smug, self-satisfied grin on her pretty face.
For she had, in point of fact, made the whole thing up. The public footslave had never neglected her boots, or made any such insulting comments towards her concerning a previous customer’s footwear. He was, in reality, always a very diligent and conscientious footslave towards her, as he was to all his customers.
But a mistress is always right, even when she lies about being wronged! So her complaint, automatically, gets filed under ‘substantiated’, without the need for any formal, or even informal, investigation.
Even the perfectly innocent, male slave has to accept that, and suffer the painful consequences of his innocence!
Chronicle no. 2 – Let Them Eat Cake!
My sweet-natured, sweet-toothed, generous and giving, podgy blonde mistress, mistress Libby, is today celebrating her 29th birthday. She is at work in her office, but is taking some time off away from her desk in order to dish out some celebratory cakes to her female work colleagues, in recognition of the happy event.
As her personal footslave I, of course, am obliged to follow her on my hands and knees as she makes her way around the office with her goodies – but there will be no tasty cakes for me. I am deemed unworthy to join in my blonde mistress’s birthday celebrations; and besides she requires me to kiss the office feet of each and every female work colleague to whom she offers a cake, and I can hardly do that properly with my slave-mouth full of sponge and cream!
I therefore crawl hungrily behind my mistress Libby’s heels and try to stay focussed on the backs of her shoes and socks until such time as I am required to focus on the feet and footwear of the latest recipient of her birthday generosity.
My own mistress is, as per usual, wearing her kitten-heeled, round-toed, single-strapped, black leather, office shoes and black, office anklesocks beneath her navy blue, officewear slacks, and so there is much for me to admire as she does her cake-run.
In particular I am afforded the occasional, exciting glimpse of the very top of a bright pink, diamond-shaped logo on her left sock which is only just visible above the black leather shoeline along her instep. I happen to know (for I smoothed the socks onto my mistress’s feet this morning) that the black sock on her right foot contains an identical logo, but that sock appears to have slipped further down inside my mistress’s, kitten-heeled shoe as its pointy-shaped, pink top is not visible to the naked eye.
I do so love these pink, diamond-shaped logos on my footmistress Libby’s otherwise plain black anklesocks, however, as they bring some much needed, female colour into my otherwise drab, male footslave life. I stare at the tops of the pink logos whenever I can, and even kiss them when I have my mistress’s implicit permission to kiss her socks – for example when she is standing stationary, or seated at her desk.
My mistress is often to be found seated at her desk – though she never seems to have too much work to do; she just surfs the internet and updates her Social Networking page. But that’s her privilege – she is a free, young woman living in the Gynarchy, who is therefore guaranteed to keep her job however much she slacks at it. A woman cannot be sacked from her job – it’s against the female law.
And rightly so.
But I digress, and I must return to my humble task in mouth – that of kissing my mistress’s work-colleagues’ feet as she dishes out her birthday cakes; for unlike my plump, blonde mistress I can be sacked if I fail to perform at my footslave job – sacked and despatched to the salt-mines!
My mistress’s shoes and socks stop first by the desk of one of the administrative assistants – miss Nilima, a truly beautiful, young Indian woman in her early twenties; slim and petite, with long dark, hair and, more importantly from my perspective, wearing a beautiful pair of shiny, black leather, zip-up, pointy toed and high-heeled, office ankleboots beneath the hems of her slender, bootcut, office trouser legs.
Miss Nilima thanks my mistress Libby for the kind offer of a sticky bun, and graciously accepts; she also congratulates my mistress on her birthday, and the two girls joke and chat light-heartedly about the aging process. I think my mistress is acutely aware that her thirties are rapidly approaching! She need not worry – she is still young; I can barely remember my late twenties – it was all so long ago!
There is certainly no need for 23 year old miss Nilima to be worried about her age, though, bizarrely, I hear her jokingly complain to my mistress Libby that she wishes she was 18 again!
Miss Nilima does not engage in any conversation with me, of course. I am just her blonde work-colleague’s personal footslave, and miss Nilima barely even notices me. In fact, my only interaction with the slim and petite, Indian admin assistant is when my mistress Libby orders me to kiss her boots by way of a parting gesture to her esteemed, junior work colleague.
Miss Nilima, now noticing me for the first time today, kindly facilitates me in my humble task by swivelling round in her office chair to face me, and hitching up the hems of her black, bootcut trouser legs, thereby giving me easier access to her ankleboot leather. Sadly, the trouser hems still cover the very tops of the Indian girl’s stylish, black patent leather boots and so I am unable to ascertain whether she is wearing any socks inside her boots. But I’m guessing that beneath those sexy boot-zippers are a pair of plain, black office anklesocks – and that very thought inspires me to kiss the office-junior miss Nilima’s boots with all the more humility and respect.
For she is clearly my better – being a beautiful, young, Asian woman in her prime, and wearing such a sexy pair of boots (and socks?)!
Frustratingly, I am only allowed one short respectful kiss to each pointy, Indian-female boot-toe, but I savour them both. Miss Nilima promptly thanks my mistress Libby – both for the cake, and for her slave’s bootkisses. She doesn’t thank me, of course. No self-respecting, superior, young woman, of any ethnic origin, would ever demean herself to address me – except to admonish, berate or mock me; and in the case of my own mistress Libby to order and boss me about, of course.
And that’s exactly how it should be – for I am just an inferior, middle-aged, male slave in the company of my young, female betters. I am not fit to converse with my betters; my tongue is for shoe and boot kissing, not for idle chit chat!
We leave the Indian girl’s delicious, shiny black ankleboots behind as she tucks into her delicious, sticky bun, and move on to the neighbouring desk where miss Iqra – a Pakistani girl – is seated. Like her Indian neighbour and colleague, miss Iqra is slim and petite, but unlike her South-Asian sister she has dyed her hair auburn, and she is wearing a thick and rounded pair of black, sheepskin Ugg boots on her pretty, Pakistani-girl feet.
The Ugg boots make miss Iqra’s petite and skinny, Pakistani ankles look much bulkier than they actually are beneath her black, office trouser hems. I think that’s the whole point – I think she is somewhat embarrassed by her skinny anklebones, and the thick, misshapen Ugg boots make her feel, and look, stronger.
I certainly am made to feel weak and small as I am ordered to kiss the thick, rounded toe areas of the auburn-haired, bespectacled, Pakistani office-girl’s black, sheepskin boots. I admire the dust on her boots as I do so and make sure that my dirty and unworthy footslave-lips make direct contact with the fragile and delicately-built, Pakistani girl’s sheepskin-boot dust.
Indeed, if I had the female authority to do so from my mistress Libby, I would very much like to spend more time divesting miss Iqra’s black, sheepskin boots of their offending street and office dust, for I am ashamed that such a beautiful, young Pakistani woman’s ugg-style boots should be so soiled by our Gynarchy’s common dirt – and all my natural, footslave instincts are to lick off that dust!
But it is not to be – just one, respectful kiss to each dusty, oversized boot toe is all I am allowed as miss Iqra takes delivery of her celebratory, sticky bun.
Absolutely no chance of seeing miss Iqra’s socks inside her heavy, calf-length, black sheepskin boots, but I have caught glimpses of her wearing cream-coloured, thick cotton bootsocks inside other, less cumbersome, pairs of office boots in the past – so I like to imagine that she is wearing those now inside her heavy, black Ugg boots as I pay my respects to her sheepskin boot-dust.
She may be the black-sheepskin-booted one of the office family, but her clumpy footwear nonetheless elicits my deepest footslavish respect – simply because miss Iqra is just so beautiful to behold – even from below; even from one’s hands and knees!
Next in line for a sticky bun and respectful footkisses is miss Zara – one of my mistress Libby’s fellow-ranking colleagues. Like miss Libby, miss Zara must be in her late twenties – perhaps slightly younger; mid twenties?
Miss Zara is wearing her familiar double-strapped, blocky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, mary-jane style shoes, along with her ubiquitous, dark-coloured nylons. I have never seen her wearing anything else on her office feet – in fact, I am confident I would recognise miss Zara’s shoes and nylons anywhere, even if I were a public footslave out on the streets of the Gynarchy dealing with hundreds of pairs of female feet throughout the day!
That’s the thing about being a humble footslave – you get to recognise your female superiors from their individual tastes and styles in footwear; and, of course, from the individual tastes of their footwear!
Miss Zara’s shoes always taste musty, for they are a well-worn and favourite pair of young-womanly shoes. I almost feel like I know each and every crevice and crease in her well-worn, mary-jane shoeleather – for she is one of my own mistress Libby’s closest work-colleagues and friends, and I am frequently required to greet miss Zara’s feet by humbly kissing them.
Indeed, miss Zara clearly feels she knows my mistress Libby well enough to actually decline her kind offer of a sticky bun, for she is on a diet. My own mistress Libby could probably do with going on a diet herself, if truth be told! But I certainly won’t be the one to tell her that! I might be a slave, but I don’t relish the sting of my mistress’s female whip!
I kiss miss Zara’s proffered, dark-nyloned feet one after the other, on the slightly scuffmarked toes of her double-strapped, mary-jane shoes. I admire the detail in her musty, black leather shoe straps as they cross her dark nylon-stockinged feet – in particular the way the straps are somewhat curled up at the buckle-ends; again a sure sign of repeated wear.
Most of all, though, I am enamoured by the sight of a tiny ladder developing on the dark nylon of her right foot – just above the upper strapline of her chunky, mary-jane shoe. Oh how I long to kiss that ladder in miss Zara’s stocking – as a sign of my humility, and my respect for her worn nylons!
But, frustratingly, other young women’s hosiery (other than my mistress Libby’s) – be it nylons or socks – is strictly off-limits for a personal footslave like me. I can look but not touch. Only my own mistress Libby’s socks are socially acceptable for me to kiss, and even then only when I have her specific and gracious young womanly permission to do so.
And speaking of my mistress Libby’s socks, I see, as we head on towards the feet and footwear of the next recipient of a birthday bun, that the little pink diamond logo on my mistress’s left sock has now also disappeared completely down inside my mistress’s left shoe. It is a humble reminder to me that my mistress’s left sock must be joining her right in slipping further down inside her kitten-heeled shoe – caused, no doubt, by the increasing sweatiness of my blonde mistress’s foot as she goes about the business of the day.
Never mind – I shall, at least, get to see both those pink-diamond, sock logos again at the end of this special day, when I humbly attend to my mistress’s dirty, discarded, office socks and bravely put them inside my mouth in order to wash them And, I have to say, I would much rather my mistress Libby’s socks were sweaty and flavoursome, than dull and bland, as I savour them inside my footslave-mouth. There is nothing worse than sucking on an insipid and flavourless sock! So, as far as I’m concerned, her socks can slip-slide away all they like inside her warm and moist, black leather, kitten-heeled, office shoes!
I wonder whether the jet-black-haired, Goth-mistress Holly’s black and grey stripy socks are sweaty inside her somewhat battered and scruffy, black, low-top, lace-up, office sneakers? Always a bit of a rebel, miss Holly is not embarrassed to wear sneakers to work, and her socks are actually quite restrained today. She has been known to wear brightly-coloured, cartoon-character socks to work – great fun to admire and study whilst I am kissing her plain, black office sneakers, but hardly suitable socks for wearing to work!
The grey and black, stripy socks she has on today are therefore sober by comparison, and she must really be making an effort to comply with the female office’s unofficial ‘dark-hosiery’ dress code.
I’m glad that mistress Holly chooses to wear her grubby, black, lace-up sneakers to work, however, for they always taste and smell nice and rubbery; and today, of course, whilst I am kissing her sneakers I can admire, close-up, the contrasts between the shades of grey and black in the stripy pattern of her scrunched-up, cotton anklesocks. No need to imagine what her socks are like inside her outer footwear, as I had to do earlier with mistresses Nilima and Iqra. Miss Holly is a liberal, western girl – and not at all shy about showing off her socks to the world!
And so it goes on - a succession of office-girl shoes, boots, nylons and socks are nonchalantly paraded in front of my face and presented to my lips as their owners’ lips are regaled by the delicious flavours of various sticky buns and cakes. The smell of the buns is making me hungry – hungry for yet more young-womanly shoes and boots, for that is the only sustenance I shall be receiving on my mistress’s 29th birthday.
Let my superiors and betters eat cake, for I shall taste female shoeleather!
Chronicle no. 1 – Piggy In The Middle
There is possibly nothing worse than being a footslave-piggy-in-the-middle!
I have the unfortunate distinction of being one such piggy. It happens like this:
Two of my regular customers – mistresses Rebecca and Gemma – are at loggerheads with one another. They used to be good friends, but now aren’t talking to one another.
I have absolutely no idea what the dispute between them is about, and can only assume it has something to do with their rival affections for some handsome hunk of a free man? But, whatever the cause of the rift – I am right, slap bang in the middle of it!
Black, 23 year-old mistress Rebecca is the first to use me to vent her young-womanly wrath. She sits down above me on my suburban, public-shoelick stall with a sullen expression on her pretty, African-Caribbean features, and curtly barks her angry, black-female orders down at me as I kneel before her black-leather-anklebooted feet:
‘Shine them up, slave, and make sure you doesn’t miss any of that filfy muck along the sides, yeah?’
‘Yes mistress Rebecca. At once mistress Rebecca.’
So far, so normal; but then things take a sinister twist, just as my tongue is anxiously twisting itself around the muddy, block-shaped heel at the back of her chunky, right ankleboot:
‘Has you been serving that skinny cow Gemma yet today, slave?’
By ‘that, skinny cow Gemma’ I know she means her office work-colleague and onetime bosom buddy, miss Gemma – the fiery-tempered, freckle-faced redhead.
So, in between covering my slave-tongue with a coating of mistress Rebecca’s dirty, fresh street-bootmud, I give her my slave’s honest reply:
‘No mistress Rebecca…lick…slurp…if it pleases you mistress Rebecca… lick…slurp…’
‘Ha! Well, if you does, I wants you to spit on she shoes – you hear me slave-bwoy?’
I hear her – but I can’t believe my ears! Slave-bwoy! I’m not a boy! I must be at least 20 years miss Rebecca’s senior!
Mind you, having said that, I’ll never be a man; not a real man – since I am forbidden to have sex.
As for ‘spitting’ on miss Gemma’s shoes, well, needless to say, any such insulting behaviour on the part of a public footslave towards his regular customer-mistress’s footwear would be sure to earn him instant and severe punishment – so it is completely out of the question! But I decide to humour miss Rebecca, even though she is clearly not in the mood for black humour; or, indeed, precisely because she is not in a good humour:
‘Yes mistress Rebecca…lick…slurp…As you command, mistress Rebecca …lick…slurp…’
‘Good bwoy, slave! I’ll tell you what – because you has agreed to spit on Gemma-cow’s manky old shoes, an’ that, I’ll give you a little treat, yeah? Would you likes a sneaky peek at my socks, slave-bwoy? Would you? Would you?’
I am acutely aware that mistress Rebecca is half-mocking me now, as she knows I am pathetically obsessed with beautiful, young black women’s socks – especially when they are wearing them inside a pair of hot, black leather, zip-up ankleboots! It’s something to do with my face being constantly so close to beautiful, young women’s feet and footwear – I just can’t help my pathetic, hidden-girlsock obsession.
So, a furtive sneaky-peek at mistress Rebecca’s African-Caribbean socks inside her chunky, black leather ankleboots would truly be a wonderful sight for any down-in-the-dirt slave to behold – especially since she rarely reveals even her elasticated sock-tops to a public footslave. Her smart, navy-blue, bootcut, officewear trouser-hems almost always seem to cover the upper rims of her chunky, ankle-high boots and to thus, frustratingly, hide her precious bootsocks from view, so I often find myself wondering what style and colour of sock I am blindly worshipping as I dutifully tongueshine the outsides of black mistress Rebecca’s beautiful, chunky-heeled, fully zipped-up, officewear boots.
But now she is actually offering to show me her hidden bootsocks on the promise of my spitting on her erstwhile best friend’s ‘manky old shoes’; this is too good an opportunity to miss even though, footslave cad and coward that I am, I have absolutely no intention of fulfilling my half of the bargain!
‘Oh pray mistress Rebecca…lick…slurp…Oh yes please, mistress Rebecca!… lick…slurp…Oh pray mistress!...lick…slurp…Your socks, mistress!... lick… slurp…’
She laughs at me – albeit a humourless laugh – and then reaches down with the pink-painted fingernails of her podgy, right hand to partially unzip the side of her right, now shimmering with my footslave saliva, chunky-heeled ankleboot to reveal…a plain, black cotton, full-ankle-length bootsock with a thin, pink, frilly-elasticated trim at the very top!
My jaw drops open with desire and delight! Miss Rebecca’s socks are even more beautiful than I could ever have imagined – the power of no-nonsense black, mixed with the femininity of frivolous, frilly pink!
I stop licking her blocky and scuffmarked, leather bootheel in order to express to the fullest my undying admiration for her superb choice of sweet, feminine bootsock:
‘Oh pray, mistress Rebecca! Oh pray! Oh mistress – such a pretty sock! Oh pray mistress! God bless you for showing it to me, mistress!’
She laughs her humourless, black laugh again:
‘Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what, slave – if you spits on that cow Gemma’s shoes for me I’ll even let you kiss the sides of my socks next time; right over my pretty, black anklebones! Ha! Ha! You’d like that, wouldn’t you slave-bwoy? Ha! Ha!’
The mere thought of my lips making contact with the sides of mistress Rebecca’s soft, black socks over her somewhat fleshy, black ankles, with her pink frilly sock-top simultaneously ticking my humbly-bowed forehead, thrills me to my truly pathetic footslave-core!
I am, quite literally, left speechless:
‘…!...!...!’
Mistress Rebecca, perhaps seeing that I am getting over-excited at the prospect of kissing her socks, swiftly leans down to zip-up the side of her boot once more, prior to climbing down triumphantly from the public shoelick-stand – her left boot still unattended to by human tongue!
‘Remember slave – a shoe-spit for a sock-kiss! Let me know how you gets on! Ha! Ha!...’
‘Yes mistress! Thank you mistress! God bless you mistress Rebecca!’
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Sure enough, about 3 hours and a dozen or so customers later, whose familiar, black leather, low-heeled, pointy-toed, court shoes do I see approaching me, but none other than mistress Gemma’s?
I suppose, if I had to take sides, I’d side with the slightly podgy, anklebooted mistress Rebecca, purely because of her excellent, personal footwear preferences. I do prefer lickshining female boots to shoes – simply because there is more dirty leather to lick! And besides, the stunningly attractive, slim and svelte redhead mistress Gemma never wears socks – only flesh-toned nylons – with her pointy, black leather, low-heeled, court shoes.
Not that I mind the sight and smell of finest-denier, flesh-toned nylon on a beautiful and arrogant, young redheaded office-woman’s slightly bony, white feet and ankles – it’s just that mistress Rebecca’s fleshy-ankle-stretched, pink and black, frilly bootsocks on black skin were a revelation for me; so businesslike, and yet so playful with those stretched and creased, frilly pink trims! Mistress Gemma’s relatively strait-laced and staid, tan nylons seem quite boring by comparison!
‘Shine them up, pig!’ barks the skinny, redheaded, freckle-faced ‘cow’ down at me as she positions her flat-heeled, pointy-toed, black leather shoes onto the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face.
So that’s what I am – a pig between two cows; or a slave between two sows, one black and one white! Piggy in the middle!
‘Yes mistress Gemma; at once mistress Gemma!’
There is, of course, absolutely no way I am ever going to disrespect the shoes of a female better by spitting on them, however ordinary and unremarkable they may appear! Can you even begin to imagine what the fall-out would be? Come on, you’ve lived for long enough in the Gynarchy by now to know what the Female Courts would do to me for such an outrageous act of maleslave impertinence and rebellion towards a superior, and beautiful, customer-mistress!
I therefore lick, and don’t spit, on my bony, tan-nylon-stockinged, female master’s somewhat tired-looking and scuffmarked, black leather shoe; I lick and I swallow.
‘Has that fat sow miss Rebecca stopped by you yet today, slave?’ enquires the inquisitive redhead seated imperiously above me.
Oh no! Here we go again!
‘Erm…yes, mistress Gemma…lick…lick…if it pleases you mistress Gemma …lick…lick…’
My humble licks are met with angry kicks – sharp, pointy-toed leather kicks to my prone and vulnerable, public face:
‘NO IT DOES NOT PLEASE ME, DIRTY, INSOLENT SLAVE! I HOPE YOU’VE CLEANED YOUR MOUTH OUT, FOR I SURE AS HELL DON’T WANT ANY OF THAT FAT SOW’S STINKING BOOTDIRT GETTING ONTO MY NICE, CLEAN SHOES!’
Clean? Clean?! I wouldn’t exactly describe mistress Gemma’s shoes as clean – although admittedly miss Rebecca’s description of them as ‘manky’ was a tad over the top!
But they certainly aren’t clean – though they soon will be if my tongue has anything to say about it!
I reassure mistress Gemma that any traces of her love-rival’s bootdirt are long gone from my mouth and are deep down inside my footslave-gullet:
‘Oh pray mistress Gemma…please forgive me mistress Gemma. Mistress Rebecca’s filthy bootdirt no longer sullies the inside of my ugly slave-mouth, mistress Gemma, but has long since passed down out of harm’s way into my ugly, male stomach, if you would be so kind and understanding most sweet and kind mistress Gemma? Mercy mistress! Mercy!’
My pathetic pleas for mercy seem to placate her young-womanly, hygiene concerns, and her restless, court-shoed feet settle back onto their metal stirrups:
‘Ha! In that case you may carry on licking my shoes, slave – but make damn sure your dirty lips don’t touch my nylon stockings, you filthy, no-good footwhore!’
‘Yes mistress Gemma. Thank you mistress Gemma! God bless you mistress Gemma!’
A filthy, no-good footwhore indeed! Miss Rebecca would never talk to me like that! I almost wish right now that I had the courage to spit on miss Gemma’s immensely insulting and uninspiring, pointy-toed, black leather, court shoes – and her ubiquitous, white-flesh-coloured nylons!
But I don’t.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Later that afternoon, on her way home from work, miss Rebecca calls in to see me again.
‘Well, slave? How did it go? Did you do as I aksed? Did you spit on Gemma-cow’s manky old shoes for me?’
The thought that ‘fat sow’ mistress Rebecca’s black and pink, frilly bootsocks must now be well saturated with black-girl footsweat inside her chunky-heeled, workaday boots compels me to lie to her:
‘Yes mistress Rebecca. If it pleases you, mistress Rebecca!’
‘Ha! Ha! Cool! And how did she react slave? Ha! Ha! Was she, like, very upset wiv you, an’ all that?’
‘Erm…yes, mistress Rebecca! She…er…she even threatened to report me to the Female Authorities and have me sorely whipped, miss! The stupid cow!’
I can’t believe I just said that! I’ve just called a superior and much-valued, regular customer-mistress a cow – if not to her face, then to her former girlfriend’s boots! But – for a kiss of a sweaty, pink and black, frilly bootsock on the side of a stockily-built, black girl’s fleshy, black anklebone – I would say just about anything!
‘Oh yeah, slave? Is that what I really said?’
My heart sinks! The familiar voice of customer-mistress Gemma!
She enters the public footbooth where her black rival is already smilingly ensconced above me.
I wait for the sparks to fly between the two young enemy-women!
But they don’t, of course – because unbeknown to me they have kissed and made up; long ago!
I had fallen into their clever, female trap!
And now the sparks really are about to fly, as I am sorely, and rightly, whipped by customer-mistress Rebecca for disobeying her orders and for lying to her; and by customer-mistress Gemma, for calling her a stupid cow!
Have you ever heard a piggy in the middle squeal?
