Footslave Fables Volume 3

The third volume in a collection of humble fables on the subject of footslavery.

VOLUME 3 CONTENTS (scroll down for fables in reverse numerical order)

10. Broken

9. Transfer Deal

8. The Unimportant Foot-Slut

7. Car Boot Slave

6. By the Waterfall

5. The Untouchables

4. The Wind-Up Merchant

3. What’s in a footkiss?

2. Fat Sock

1. East meets West

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Fable no. 10 – Broken

So I have just been publicly caned - live on national television – by two correctional officers from the Gynarchy’s Female Police.

12 stinging strokes of the rattan! 6 from each side!

I am now lying on my stomach on the low-level recovery bench inside the police station, reflecting both on the acute pain in my buttocks, and on the still-fresh memory of the sight of my female caners’ black leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankle boots positioned firmly on the dusty ground of the town square behind me as they had caned me with all the feminine vigour they could command – a truly diligent and conscientious pair of correctional officers, both determined to make sure that female justice was seen to be done.

How the female crowd had roared with approval when – humbled by the female canes and still bent over the rough, wooden punishment trestle – I had kissed my female punishers’ dusty boots, and begged for sweet, feminine mercy immediately following the final, agonizing twelfth stroke.

But my public humiliation, it seems, is not yet complete – at least, not as far as the viewers of a female, Muslim TV station, ‘Women Power TV’, are concerned – for a female reporter from said TV station has now been given access to me, and is crouching down beside my sobbing face as I lie on the recovery bench surrounded by female police officers – all wearing similar boots to those of my erstwhile punishers.

Indeed, the female TV reporter is the only young woman present who is not wearing black leather, police-uniform ankle boots. She is dressed in a pretty, pink hijab, with a white salwar-kameez style outfit, white ankle socks with a pretty, pink trim, and white ballet-flats. She looks Indonesian; or possibly Malaysian.

As she crouches down beside me her white ballet flats fold along her shapely, feminine insteps to reveal even more of her soft, white socks.

She rudely shoves a microphone under my face and speaks to me. I appear to be live on air:

‘Ha! Ha! You a whipped slave! Ha! Ha! You in pain! Ha! Ha! How you feel? How you like it, dirty criminal?’

The young woman from ‘Women Power TV’ is clearly not very sympathetic to my predicament. But then, why should she be? After all, I am nothing more than a dirty, male criminal who has justly felt the full force of the Female Law.

I decide that I must co-operate fully with her enquiries, particularly since the Female Police are there to assist her also with her enquiries should I fail to be forthcoming:

‘Oh pray mistress…sob…sob… if it pleases you mistress…sob…sob… this slave is truly sorry for his crimes…sob…sob… and is in a goodly amount of pain… sob…sob… if it is so pleasing to you most beautiful and respected mistress …sob…sob.’

The Muslim reporter-mistress, a fitting representative of superior Muslim womanhood throughout the world, speaks up on behalf of her sisters:

‘Ha! Ha! You cry! Ha! Ha! You weak. You a weak man. You broken by female whip! Ha! Ha!’

The reporter-mistress is quite right, of course. I am a broken man. A slave. Although I could, I suppose, argue with her on the technicality that I have just been broken by the female cane, rather than the whip!

But it’s only a technicality, for either way I am broken:

‘Yes mistress…sob…sob… as it pleases you mistress…sob…sob…’

Through my tears I can’t help but admire the way the bright and intelligent, young reporter-mistress’s snowy-white socks remain smooth and uncreased along her pretty insteps in such sharp contrast to the sharply-creased, soft, white leather of her pretty ballet flats as she crouches down beside my sobbing and truly-penitent face.

Meanwhile she demands that I make a public declaration of my penitence:

‘Ha! Ha! What you got to say to our viewers? What you want say to superior Muslim women all over world?’

It is a slightly off-beat question since my crime had not been specifically against Muslim women, but against all womankind (I had failed to show proper respect to a black mistress’s brown Ugg boots by leaving some dirty chewing-gum stuck to the rubber sole of her boot after she had specifically ordered me to tongue-clean her boots from top to bottom). But, of course, that includes all Muslim women and, therefore all the female viewers of ‘Women Power TV’.

I must therefore express my male penitence through the mediums of television and humble slavespeak; make it clear that I have learnt my lesson, thanks to the correctional mercies of the Gynarchy’s esteemed Female Police:

‘Oh pray mistress… sob…sob…if it pleases you mistress…this slave apologises for his crime…sob…sob…and assures the mistress and all her female viewers throughout the Muslim world…sob...sob…of his humility and contrition at their feet…if you would be so kind and understanding to a whipped slave most respected young mistress…sob…sob…’

Not terribly eloquent, I know, but I do have other things on my mind right now:

1. Pain;
2. The dusty, black leather ankle boots of my female punishers and of my surrounding guards;
3. The delightfully feminine white shoes and socks of the beautiful, pink-headscarfed, TV reporter.

I am just about to start admiring the fetching little pink-cotton trims that run along the elasticated tops of her white anklesocks when suddenly the pink trims disappear as she stands up straight - her pure, white salwar kameez trouser hems frustratingly covering the tops of her socks once again.

Soon, however, the pink trim on the top of her right sock is mercifully once again visible to me as the young, traditionally-dressed, Malaysian-Muslim woman imperiously stretches forward her right foot directly beneath my prostrate face which is hanging over the edge of the low-level recovery bench:

‘Ha! Ha! You kiss me on foot! You pay respect to feet of superior, young Muslim woman and show respect for all women. You obey! You nothing but a damned, dirty criminal-slave!’

I am happy to oblige the young, TV reporter-mistress, not least because it means I shall get to see the pink trim of her snowy-white sock close-up again.

I therefore stretch my sore neck forwards and downwards until my lips make humble and respectful contact with the top of the young woman’s short, white sock. I have a good excuse for kissing her pink and white sock – rather than her white ballet flat – because my lips, quite simply, won’t reach that far down. However, I don’t think it will matter as the young woman has merely ordered me to kiss her ‘foot’, and her sock is part of her foot.

I feel that pretty, Indo-Malaysian foot flinch in a pleasurable reaction to my lips on her white sock, and I relish the feel of the soft, cotton material on my parched and dry lips. It is the first comforting thing I have felt since my punishment began!

But, of course, the pretty socked foot is not there for my comfort, but for my public humiliation, and so it is soon withdrawn from my face only to be replaced by the young Muslim woman’s left foot:

‘Ha! Ha! And the other one, dirty, whipped slave!’

I notice that the plain, white ballet flat on the young woman’s left foot is slightly more scuff-marked on the soft, rounded toe-area than her right shoe had been. But still my focus is very much on her pure, white sock, and I make sure that my stiff upper lip pays homage to that narrow, pink trim at the very top of her sock whilst my trembling lower lip pays similar homage to the main body of her sock – the stretched area just covering her shapely, Indo-Malaysian ankle bone.

As soon as her second, socked ankle has thus been respectfully kissed the young TV reporter stands with the dirty sole of her right ballet flat resting on top of my head, forcing my face to stare down at the left foot I have just kissed. I understand this is a symbol of contempt throughout the Muslim world – placing the sole of your dirty foot on the head of your enemy and grinding his face into the dirt!

Be that the case or not it is most certainly a universally recognised symbol of female victory and power over the male! As our ancient texts say:

‘And woman rested her feet on the male dirt,
and she saw that it was good.’

Or, as the young, pink-headscarfed TV reporter herself now puts it:

‘Ha! Ha! You a slave! You kiss my feet! Ha! Ha! I better than you; all women better than you! Ha! Ha! You a weak man; we strong women. Ha! Ha! We laugh at you! We beat you and make you our obedient slave! Ha! Ha!’

I can’t think of anything to say in reply to the obvious truism spoken by the superior, and jubilant young woman – who now clearly sees herself as a representative of all womankind, and not just Muslim women.

All I can do is continue to sob into her pretty, left foot in full view of the television camera, though my tears are now as much tears of gratitude, as they are of pain.

 

Fable no. 9 – Transfer Deal

This morning my 42 year old mistress – mistress Bryony – had some shocking news for me: after 20 years of devoted service at her feet she was getting rid of me as she wanted to get a younger, fresher slave.

I shouldn’t have been all that surprised really, as it is true that I am knocking on a bit – I am now in my early fifties. Nevertheless, my buxom mistress Bryony’s pronouncement came completely out of the blue, and left me in a state of slavish shock.

I immediately threw myself down on her shapely, but somewhat veiny, dark-nylon-stockinged feet and assiduously kissed her navy blue court shoes and nylon-covered ankles. Of course I wasn’t naïve enough to think that this would cause my mistress Bryony to change her mind about dispensing with my footslave-services – I fervently kiss her shoes and feet literally hundreds of times every day. I was just conscious of the fact that I would soon no longer be able to kiss those feet any more, and wished to demonstrate my undying appreciation for my mistress’s feet and footwear, and my consternation at my impending separation from them.

My middle-aged mistress just laughed at my distress, and kindly sought to reassure me that I was going to a good, if cruel, home. She explained that she had arranged to sell me on to one of her colleagues from work – a miss Emma. She informed me that miss Emma was in her mid thirties, and married – like my mistress – but that she was looking for a new, second-hand slave. My mistress Bryony and miss Emma had, therefore, apparently come to a mutually beneficial, private arrangement whereby my mistress would sell me to miss Emma for an undisclosed fee.

It would save my mistress Bryony from the hassle and expense of having to place an advertisement in the ‘Slave-Finder Weekly’ magazine, and miss Emma would get her new slave quickly and with a minimum of paperwork, and perhaps most importantly of all tax-free, since it was a purely private transfer deal between two mistresses.

All perfectly legal – you understand – since I am my mistress Bryony’s lawful property, for her to dispose of as she wills.

As I feverishly kissed her nylon-stockinged right foot over the prominent, blue vein on my mistress Bryony’s right foot, she kindly went on to advise me that her work-colleague Emma (whom I had never met since I am a house-footslave) has something of a reputation for being cruel to her slaves – being an expert with the three-tailed whip! My mistress Bryony therefore counselled me to prepare myself mentally for a new life of frequent whippings and beatings, and suggested that I show my new owner complete and utter respect from the very outset – unless, of course, I liked the sting of the whip (which my mistress Bryony knows full well I do not!)

My mistress Bryony’s last, mocking words to me as the slave-removal van came to tear me away from her familiar, bony, nylon-stockinged feet were:

‘Have a nice life, slave! Ha! Ha! Enjoy the whip!’

Which I thought was very considerate of her, under the circumstances.

………………………………………………………………………………

My first impressions of my new owner – miss Emma – as I knelt before her, head bowed, in her much less opulent living room, were that she was not as conventionally pretty, or as well off, as my former mistress Bryony: somewhat short and stocky in her build, and rather flat-chested; dowdily dressed in scruffy, black denim jeans and a pale blue T shirt (my mistress Bryony would never be seen dead in jeans, or any other kinds of trousers for that matter); and flat, black leather, ballet flats with black, cotton anklesocks (as opposed to the sheer, nylon stockings and designer, court shoes that my mistress Bryony nearly always used to wear).

I was somewhat disappointed at my new, younger mistress’s dress sense, but knew that I must hide that disappointment – not least because of what my mistress Bryony had advised me about mistress Emma’s character i.e. her fondness for the application of the whip!

And besides, there were some plus points to my new owner. She had nice, flame-red hair (my mistress Bryony was a brunette), and I have to admit that, as I festooned humble kisses to my new owner’s feet, her black, cotton socks did feel nice and soft on my footslave-lips – as, indeed, did her soft, black leather, ballet-flat-style shoes. I was particularly enamoured by the single, black leather button-strap that crossed over the crown of my new mistress Emma’s black-socked foot as I showered a whole series of respectful kisses onto her right foot.

My new mistress was seated dominantly on a living-room chair, and so I could even see some of her bare, white, pockmarked legskin above the elasticated top of her short, black anklesock – again an unfamiliar experience for me since my previous mistress Bryony never wore socks!

I was shaking with fear as I paid oral homage to my new, redheaded owner’s feet – and not just because, thanks to my mistress Bryony’s kind words of advice, my new owner’s reputation for cruelty preceded her! It was more a fear of the unknown – of having to ingratiate myself with a new, female owner after all those years serving at my former mistress’s familiar, nylon-stockinged feet. Now, it seemed, I would have to get used to serving female socks!

I have to say, though, that my new mistress Emma didn’t sound like she was too much of an ogre! As I kissed her black socks and the cute button-straps on her black, ballet-flat shoes mistress Emma calmly introduced herself to me.

She explained that she was glad to see I was frightened and respectful of her, as she thought that was a good thing. It would mean that she wouldn’t have to employ the whip very often in order to instill proper fear and obedience into me.

At this point mistress Emma did produce her infamous, black leather whip, and she took great mistressly pride and pleasure in pointing out to me that each of the three tapered lashes had little, leaden balls attached to them – balls which, she gleefully informed me, would rip through my skin leaving my bare back and sinews red raw.

I am aware that such cruel ‘scourges’ are technically illegal here in the Gynarchy, but it is only a legal technicality since a mistress is effectively above the law. Only male slaves are subject to the Female Law. Indeed, I should be the one to be prosecuted in such circumstances – as the passive, male recipient of the illegal, female whip!

My new mistress Emma then asked me if I wanted to feel a demonstration of her scourge on my back, but I humbly declined her kind offer, kissing my new mistress’s ballet flats and socks even more fervently.

She laughed and, mercifully, put the three line whip to one side, but she then stopped laughing and ordered me to unbutton her black ballet flats and kiss the heel and toe areas of her short, black ankle-socks.

When her shoes came off, I was shocked and surprised to see that the heel and toe areas of her otherwise black, cotton anklesocks were actually pale-blue in colour, to match her T shirt. I thought, however, that the contrast between the blue and black colours in her cotton socks looked very fetching, and I dared to tell mistress Emma so. She bent down and slapped me hard across the face as a punishment for my impudence, but then went on to say that she was glad I liked her socks, for I would be spending a lot of time with them – and indeed with her many other pairs of socks – from now on.

She explained that she was a ‘socks and ballet-flats’ girl, and, fingering the strands of her black leather whip once again, asked me if that would be a problem for me? I sought to immediately reassure my new mistress that it was not a problem, and that, although I was more familiar with the servicing of nylon stockings and high-heeled court shoes or pumps due to my erstwhile mistress Bryony’s personal footwear preferences, I was only too willing to learn how to service my new mistress’s socks and ballet-flats.

Mistress Emma put the three-tailed whip down again, and said that was good, since she expected me to follow her to heel throughout the day (even into work!), and to act as a humble footrest for her socked feet. She explained that she often liked to slip off her ballet-flats under her desk at work, and rest her socked feet on a male slave’s ugly, upturned face.

From now on that face would be mine!

As I listened to my new mistress, and dutifully kissed her rounded, pale blue, sock heels, all I could think about was the fact that I would be accompanying her into work – for if she is one of my former mistress’s work-colleagues that must surely mean that I would still get to see my mistress Bryony’s smart, nylon-stockinged feet and ankles from time to time!

But mistress Emma must be able to read my pathetic mind, for she immediately went on to explain that she worked in a very large organisation, and on a completely different floor from my former mistress Bryony. Miss Emma explained that I was unlikely to ever bump into my former mistress’s feet again – but she counselled me that if, by chance, I ever did I should merely kiss my former mistress’s feet once each, respectfully, and then direct my attention back onto my new owner’s feet and footwear again. For I am her slave now – and she will have my undivided, footslavish respect and devotion, even if she has to engender such devotion by means of the scourge!

I respectfully inhaled my new mistress Emma’s unfamiliar, but pleasingly delicate, feminine foot-odour through her black and blue ankle socks as she disrespectfully threatened to beat me black and blue. I must get to know my new mistress well if I am to flourish as her personal footslave – and not just her footwear preferences and intimate foot tastes and smells, but also her superior, feminine personality; her whims, her foibles and her fancies – so that I may fully pander to them.

It’s very selfish of me, I know, but I must do all that I can to avoid the sting of mistress Emma’s terrifying-looking scourge! For I am well and truly in her power and at her mercy – as well as at her socks.

Oh pray goddess! Pray help me to be a good footslave to my cruel, new, whip-loving mistress and her shoes and socks!

 

Fable no. 8 – The Unimportant Foot-Slut

I take great pride in my 23 year old mistress – miss Courtney – and in all her affairs.

Right now we are at the bedsit of one of her several boyfriends – master William. I am kneeling at her Ugg-booted feet whilst she cuddles up to master William on the sofa above me. Her light-brown-coloured Ugg boots look particularly fetching this evening, as she has turned them over at the furry cuffs to make them look like a pair of ultra-thick, furry ankle boots, even though they are actually calf-length. It also means that I can see the creased and twisted tops of her multicoloured, stripy, cotton anklesocks inside her sheepskin boots – whereas ordinarily, with her Ugg boots fully turned up, I would not be able to see them deep inside her furry boots.

Not that she is wearing them like that tonight for my benefit. She is wearing them like that because she thinks it looks fashionable. And she is right – for turned down Ugg-boots are currently all the rage amongst fashionable, young women here in the Gynarchy!

I do like serving mistress Courtney’s Ugg boots – folded over at the cuffs or otherwise. They might smell musty and uninviting on the outside, but they cause my mistress’s socked feet to perspire and sweat on the inside, and it is that happy thought which I am dutifully focussed on as my mistress and master are busily snogging on the bedsit-sofa above me.

For, judging by the way they have now stopped talking and are lasciviously french-kissing one another, it won’t be long before the Ugg boots come off and I am able to sniff those warm and sweaty, striped anklesocks in all their feminine glory!

Sure enough the signal comes from my mistress in the form of an arrogant click of her pretty, white fingers. My mistress Courtney rarely bothers to give me verbal orders any more. I have been her personal footslave – permanently at her feet – for nearly two years now, and we both know what is required of me, and when, without the need for verbal commands.

That nonchalant click of her fingers means it is time for me to respectfully pull my mistress’s light brown, furry Ugg boots and stripy, multicoloured ankle socks off her feet - and without delay; for she is now feeling hot and steamy, and ready to get undressed and have full sexual intercourse with master William on the sofa above me!

The only thing I must quickly do before divesting my mistress of her footwear is to politely kiss each item of female footwear once – each individual Ugg boot and sock – before I pull them off her pretty feet. That’s just a legal requirement here in the Gynarchy – a footslave must never touch a superior mistress’s footwear without first kissing it.

It’s a stupid rule really- for my mistress Courtney is completely oblivious to my humble, slavish kisses to her footwear at this moment in time; she is only sentient of her manly boyfriend’s loving kisses to her pretty, metal-studded lips and mouth, as they both strip off the rest of their clothes above me.

Soon my mistress Courtney is totally naked and engaged in making mad, passionate love with her boyfriend on the somewhat tatty sofa, whilst I focus in on her discarded Ugg boots and socks on the bedsit floor beneath her.

I bury my nose into the crumpled-up socks seeking out the reinforced-cotton toe-areas, for the best time for me to smell them is whilst the noise of my mistress and master making love on the sofa above me is drowning out the noise of my sniffing. The more noisily, and vigorously, my virile youngers and betters are making love, the more vigorously I can sniff my mistress’s dirty socks – without disturbing the happy, young couple.

For a footslave should always be not seen and not heard!

As the happy couple reach their climax, I immerse my face in the warmth of my mistress Courtney’s inner Ugg boots and stinky socks. I only ‘ease off’ when the dominant couple themselves start to wind down – both fully spent.

Now I must get ready to serve my mistress again, and await her signal to put her boots and socks back onto her pretty, but unwashed and sweaty, white feet. It will, of course, come in the form of another click of her slender, white fingers.

And it will come, for my mistress will not be spending the night here with master William. She has a rendezvous in a night club with one of her other boyfriends, master Peter, later on.

But the finger-click doesn’t come straight away – for she is happy to lie in her present boyfriend’s manly arms for a few more minutes first, sharing a post-coital cigarette with him. Meanwhile, I may be no longer able to sniff out loud my mistress Courtney’s discarded Ugg boots and socks, as everything has gone eerily quiet, but I can still look at them – study them; observe and admire the black street-dirt marks on the sides of her musty-smelling sheepskin boots, and savour the latent, vinegary aroma of the damp sweat stains on the thinning areas of cotton beneath the crumpled-up and crusty toe areas of her stripy socks.

I do well to study these temporarily discarded, young-woman boots and socks in some detail, for later this evening I shall doubtless be required to tongue-clean and mouth-wash them as I must mouth-wash my mistress Courtney’s boots and socks every night. It’s just one of my routine, daily tasks – again, never verbalised; just taken for granted – like me!

After some fifteen minutes or so the long-anticipated click of her fingers comes – after she has put her black leather miniskirt and loose-fitting pink and yellow blouse back onto her upper body – the part of her body above the ankles that is no business of mine.

I make sure my mistress Courtney’s crusty, stripy ankle socks are smoothed onto her warm, bare feet as best they can be, before pulling her musty-smelling, street-soiled Ugg boots over her socks, making damn well sure that the turned down cuffs of the furry boots are still neat and even, with just a hint of stripy sock showing – for that is clearly the way my mistress wants it tonight! A semblance of order and respectability!

She kisses her first boyfriend of the evening – master William – on the lips one last time, before heading alone out the door of his dingy bedsit and down the communal staircase; all seven flights of stairs because the lift is broken again! I say she is ‘alone’ but, of course, she is not really alone as she has me crawling down the stairs on my hand and knees behind her to heel. But I don’t really count as company as I am not a proper person. I am just a slave.

It is dark, and rather chilly, outside as we head out into the street towards the local bus-stop where my mistress will catch her bus into the centre of town where she is due to rendezvous with her other beau this evening – master Peter – in the nightclub.

There are more than a few other attractive, young women milling around the bus-stop waiting for the next bus, but I don’t allow myself to be distracted by their pretty, party feet and footwear. I am a good and faithful footslave to my mistress Courtney and, as she concentrates on lighting up another cigarette, I dutifully concentrate on kneeling beside, and staring at, my superior mistress’s dirt-stained Ugg boots and stripy, multicoloured sock-tops.

Better the devils you know – and, besides, most of the other young women have footslaves of their own to admire their respective feet and footwear.

When we get on the bus I act as a humble and respectful footrest for my mistress Courtney’s Ugg-booted feet – or more especially for her right foot, since I must lie on my stomach under her seat with my right cheek resting on the dirty floor, my upturned left cheek thereby acting as a footrest for the street-soiled and dusty sole of her heavy, right Ugg boot whilst my face stares at the blackened dirt stains, and creases and folds, in the light-brown, sheepskin material on the side of her left Ugg boot.

I am so proud of my mistress as she heads on the bus to meet her second boyfriend of the night. She is such a popular and successful young woman when it comes to bedding free men, and it is truly a privilege for a humble non-entity of a dirty slave like me to be so close to the booted and socked feet of such a desirable and beautiful young woman who is fresh from making love – something that I, of course, shall never be able to do!

None of her boyfriends know about the others of course, and it will never be my place to tell them. My mistress Courtney’s sexual promiscuity is most definitely no business of mine, for she is my better, and I am just a celibate, down-in-the-dirt footslave who concerns himself only with the well-being of his female superior’s feet and footwear.

She is the bright and vivacious, lusty young woman; and I am just her impotent, and therefore unimportant, male foot-slut.

 

Fable no. 7 – Car Boot Slave

This afternoon I am accompanying my mistress Pamela to a car boot sale. She has various items of unwanted bric-a-brac in the boot of her car which she hopes to get rid off for a few fems each – the accumulated junk of several years.

I too am travelling in the boot of the car as, rather like the bric-a-brac which surrounds me, I am regarded by my superior mistress as a next to worthless, piece of rubbish – though I myself am not up for sale.

At least, I hope I am not up for sale. As far as I know I am not up for sale – but my fate, of course, is very much in my mistress Pamela’s pretty hands, for she has total power over me. Like a piece of useless, old junk I am her property – to dispose of as and how she pleases!

My mistress Pamela is a very pretty girl in her late twenties. A slim and svelte brunette. She is recently divorced, and so I think some of the stuff she wants to get rid off is detritus that reminds her of her previous, married life.

Good riddance to bad rubbish – as the saying goes.

As soon as the car pulls up in the playing field where the car boot sale is to take place, my superior mistress Pamela chooses her pitch and orders me out of the boot.

You might think that, being her slave, I would be required to assist her in setting up her table and laying her unwanted worldly goods out on display. But that is not my role – I am merely her personal footslave, and such things are therefore, literally, above me. I must merely kneel at my mistress’s feet – on the muddy ground – and observe her shoes and socks whilst she goes about her business above me, setting up the portable table.

I love my mistress Pamela’s shoes and socks – especially whilst she is wearing them on her pretty feet! Today she is wearing her familiar flat, black, slip-on, patent leather shoes with the low heels and rounded toes, and her black ankle socks with the little red logos.

The logos on the sides of her socks don’t amount to much – just a single, little red square on each outer ankle bone amidst the otherwise pure black stitching of her pure cotton socks. But I appreciate those little red squares very much – for they give me something to focus on – when, that is, my mistress’s black, denim jean-hems are not covering her shapely, socked ankles!

As they, sadly, are now – for my mistress is standing up straight. But soon my mistress Pamela will take her seat on her portable, fold-up chair behind her table of unwanted bric-a-brac and, with any luck, her black-socked ankles – with their intriguing, little, red logos - will once again become visible to me!

My only regret is that I definitely won’t be able to observe the worn and thinning areas of her black socks deep inside her shiny, black, slip-on shoes – around the lower heel areas and the insteps. But just the intimate, footslave knowledge that her socks are well-worn and thinning inside her warm, leather shoes will greatly add to my sense of footslavish humility as I kneel in the mud and admire my mistress’s upper anklesocks above her pretty, feminine shoeline.

Somewhat frustratingly however, when my mistress is seated – her right leg hovering in the air as she crosses it over her left – I am under strict, kneeling instructions not to raise my head off the muddy ground in order to study her fully exposed right ankle-sock with its elasticated trim at the top. Precisely because I am just a despised, down-in-the-mud footslave, I am required, at all times, to keep my head close to the lowest part of my mistress’s divine body – and that means that if one foot is resting on the ground – her left foot – I must kneel and stare at it.

It’s symbolic – as much as anything else – for it declares to the world that my mistress’s right foot is not just literally, but also figuratively, above me! Her young, right foot hovers over my middle-aged, balding head – tantalizingly close, and yet clearly better than me.

And, of course, it also means that my ugly slave-head can, if necessary, act as a footrest for the dirty, muddy sole of my mistress’s right shoe – should she so desire it!

It is terribly irksome, however, for a slavishly devoted and humble footslave like myself, to be made aware that all that delicious female sock on her right foot is now fully exposed by the riding-up of her right jean-leg hem above her shapely, socked anklebone – and yet it is now completely beyond my field of footslave vision. Instead I must concentrate on my mistress’s left foot which is resting in the dirt – with only a thin slither of black ankle sock visible to me. Even the pretty, red, square-shaped logo on the side of her black-socked, left anklebone is (hopefully only temporarily) hidden from my footslave view.

Instead of red sock-logo, I find myself having to concentrate on the ever-accumulating mud on the lower part of my mistress Pamela’s left, black patent leather shoe. The grassy playing-field is still quite moist and wet from this morning’s rainfall and although, thankfully, it has now stopped raining, my pretty mistress’s shiny, black leather, slip-on shoes are taking the brunt of the wet field.

And so I dutifully concentrate on the mud now sticking to the side of my mistress Pamela’s left, flat-heeled shoe as she sits on her convenient, foldaway chair awaiting the first customers to her makeshift, car boot stall.

She has numerous items up for sale – but the only items I shall be sad to see going are the pair of ultra-stylish, designer-label, pointy-toed, 3 inch heeled, matt pink leather, zip-up ankleboots. My mistress Pamela has owned them for about three years - so they are quite worn and even scuff-marked in places. Indeed, she had me spruce them up with my tongue all day yesterday as she informed me she would be selling them at the car boot sale today. I think she only wants rid of them as they remind her of her erstwhile husband. He bought them for her as an anniversary present three years ago!

Other than that I think my mistress really likes the pink leather boots in question. She certainly used to wear them often enough – and I spent many a happy hour crawling to heel behind her designer, spike-heeled ankle boots on my hands and knees, especially when she went out clubbing and partying.

I guess my mistress is no longer in the mood for partying.

Various customers – mainly female – come and go at my mistress’s improvised, second-hand goods’ stall. Some of them buy stuff; some of them don’t. Such lofty transactions are really none of my business as such high commerce is, quite literally, over my head.

My role is simply to dutifully concentrate on the side of my mistress’s flat, black patent leather shoe – the one stuck in the mud – and to think about how I shall be required to lick all that fresh mud off it when we eventually return to her home; get it shining again. It is imperative, therefore, that I focus in on those areas of the shoe where the mud is actually accumulating – that I make a mental note of each fresh globule of mud or blade of wet grass as it attaches itself to my beloved mistress’s shoesole – for I need to know exactly where I shall be require to lick later on.

It is, I suppose, a fairly boring and mundane existence for me this afternoon – as, indeed, it is most days at my mistress’s feet. Being a young woman’s personal footslave in the middle of a muddy field isn’t exactly glamorous!

But there are two moments of supreme excitement for me during the course of the car boot sale which are worth recording.

The first is when my mistress Pamela suddenly orders me to scratch her right ankle with my nose. She itches.

This is, of course, a real privilege and an honour for me – for it means I have my mistress’s exceptional permission to raise my lowly head up off the ground and out of the mud next to her lower, left shoe in order to place my nose on her higher, fully-exposed, right, socked anklebone so that I may endeavour to soothe it and rub it, thereby alleviating her offensive ankle-itch. My mistress Pamela helpfully points with her slender, right index finger to the specific area of anklebone that is irritating her – just below the little red, logo on the outer side of her black sock!

I scratch her itch – with my slave-nose. I only wish I had my mistress’s permission to temporarily pull down her right sock and touch her soft, bare, pale-white anklebone with my nose. Surely that would make my slave-nose much more efficacious in relieving her annoying foot-itch?

But no – my demure and modest mistress Pamela requires only that her feminine foot-itch be scratched through the material of her red and black, cotton anklesock, and it is not my footslave place to question her orders.

At least I am getting to nuzzle her soft, creased, cotton sock!

All too soon, however, my face is ordered back to the dirt of the ground, my humble mission clearly successfully accomplished!

The next major moment of excitement comes when I observe a young, Afro-Caribbean woman approaching my mistress’s stall, strolling up casually, arm in arm with her manly, black boyfriend. The young woman and man both look to be in their early twenties.

The young, black woman is wearing a dark-coloured, hoodie-style top and muddy, black Wellington boots over a pair of scruffy, grey, denim jeans. She is chewing gum and has her MP3 player on at full volume. Even I can hear the rap music from my lowly position in the dirt, underneath the table, beside my mistress Pamela’s left shoe.

Normally I make sure not to allow myself to be distracted by the sight of another young woman’s footwear, as my slavish duty is to focus on my own mistress Pamela’s feet and footwear. It is also, incidentally, what I am required to do by law!

However, on this occasion, I can’t help but be distracted by the young black woman’s footwear, for three reasons:

1. Her black wellies are exceptionally muddy – particularly around the foot and toe areas; but even the uppers contain long streaks of mud – and it is old mud; for it is caked on, not fresh like the mud on her black, rubbery soles and insteps;
2. I can just make out the fuzzy tops of some thick, knee-length, white towelling socks above the upper rims of her black Wellington boots; at first I thought they were just part of the inner lining of her boots. But now, closer up, I can see that they are, in fact, quite separate, fuzzy-cotton sock-tops;
3. From her conversation with my mistress Pamela above me, on which I am unfaithfully eavesdropping, I gather that the young, black woman is interested in possibly purchasing the pair of pointy-toed, spike-heeled, pink leather ankle boots I mentioned earlier.

This last point interests me greatly because – should the hip, young, black woman be seriously considering buying my mistress’s pink ankle boots - she will doubtless wish to try them on first to make sure that they fit. And that will be where I come in – for the young black woman does not appear to have a personal footslave of her own in tow. Just her boyfriend – and he is definitely no slave! She can hardly expect him to help her off with her dirty wellies!

It will be down to me, therefore, to assist the black mistress with taking off her existing, mud-soiled footwear and trying on my mistress’s stylish ankle-boots – and that could get truly exciting and interesting for me, especially since it will inevitably entail me touching both the superior, young black woman’s muddy, black rubber Wellingtons and her crisp, white towelling socks!

Sure enough my luck is in – and the young woman is invited by my mistress to sit down on the foldaway chair in order to ‘have her slave’ help her on with the stiletto-heeled ankle boots.

My mistress Pamela’s flat, black, shiny and muddy, slip-on shoe is therefore suddenly replaced before my kneeling and bowed face by the arrogant black girl’s even muddier, plain black rubber, Wellington boots.

But before I even think about pulling the muddy, rubber boots off the black mistress’s precious and divine, Afro-Caribbean feet I must first, of course, pay my public respects to them by kissing them.

It’s a dirty business being a humble footslave, but someone’s got to do it!

Without further ado I therefore lower my lips to the thick, rounded, rubbery toe-area of each Wellington boot and kiss it in turn. The black girl’s seriously muddy Wellington boots seem to tower above me as I do so, and I can smell the strong aroma of wet, mud-encrusted rubber. I notice also how my lips leave a wet imprint on the toe-end of each rubber boot amidst the hoodie-wearing, black girl’s brown bootmud.

Oh what wouldn’t I give to be ordered to tongue-clean those filthy Wellington boots! Right here; right now; whilst the young, female, inner-city gang-member is wearing them and listening to her ubiquitous rap music. All in front of her manly, black boyfriend and my own sweet feminine, mistress Pamela!

But it isn’t to be, for I am not here for my own pathetic amusement! I have footslave work to do – I must divest the young customer-woman of her black wellies and replace them with my mistress’s designer, high-heeled, pink leather ankleboots on her pretty white-towelling-socked feet!

And so I get to humble work, pulling off each muddy, frustratingly unlicked, Wellington boot.

As soon as the boots are off I am greeted by the sight of long, white towelling socks which are progressively much less clean-looking the further down the black mistress’s leg my eyes go. Indeed around the fuzzy-socked toe areas the nominally ‘white’ socks are more what could be described as cream-coloured – even yellowy-brown in places – the result, no doubt, of repeated wear inside this black mistress’s rubber, Wellington boots and the biological reaction of her precious footsweat with the beige-coloured, furry, inner linings of her boots.

Not that her socks smell, mind you! They probably would smell a bit were I this close to them inside the confines of a sealed room, but here, in the great outdoors of the muddy playing field, all I can sense on the gangsta-girl’s socks is the odour of rubber Wellington boot!

Speaking of muddy fields I must be careful, of course, not to place my temporary-mistress’s socked feet down into the mud, thereby dirtying the soles of her thick, white towelling socks even further! The socks must be treated with respect (or should that be ‘respec’?), for they are the socks of a superior, young black woman, even if they are a bit cheap and nasty-looking, innit?

Thankfully, my mistress Pamela has had the mistressly foresight to put a clean cloth down on the ground precisely in order to protect her potential customer’s feet from the mud and the dirt.

So it is a relatively easy process for me to slip my mistress Pamela’s spike-heeled and pointy-toed, pink, designer ankle boots onto the unknown black girl’s feet, and then zip them up – even though it pains me that the most interesting parts of the black girl’s white socks, the dirty parts, are once again hidden from my view!

She stands up in order to walk around in the pink ankleboots and try them out for size. I must say, they look rather fetching on her grey denim, jeans-covered legs together with her white, almost knee-high, towelling socks. Not the boot/sock combination such a stylish and fashionable young, streetwise black woman would normally choose to wear, I’m sure. I expect she would much rather wear these pink, stiletto boots with a matching, pink leather mini-skirt and perhaps a pair of smart, black, ankle-length bootsocks, possibly like the socks my own mistress Pamela has on right now!

Now wouldn’t that be a treat – if my mistress Pamela were to offer the black customer-girl the opportunity of trying out her pink ankleboots with her black socks? But I’m letting myself get carried away now. That’s not going to happen. My white mistress Pamela’s black sock-lint is not about to merge with the black girl’s white sock-lint on the black girl’s black feet!

If you get my drift?

In any case, I have to say this arrogant and superior young, gum-chewing black girl would look good in any kind of female footwear! She looks the bomb – and she knows it; even in the somewhat incongruous designer-pink-boot/grubby-white-towelling-sock combination she has on now!

Her manly and protective boyfriend clearly knows it too, as he puts his arm around her, kisses her on the cheek beneath her pulled-up hoodie, and whispers into her ear how much he likes the boots on her feet, and how she looks really fly in them.

If she were to ask my humble opinion, I too would encourage the young black woman to buy the boots, for they do appear to fit her well. But, of course, she is not interested in the opinion of a mere down-in-the-mud bootslave like me.

She decides, nevertheless, on the recommendation of her boyfriend, to take them, and has me unzip them off her feet so that I may replace them once again with her muddy wellies on her socked feet before she hands over her, no doubt hard-earned, cash to my mistress Pamela.

The black customer-mistress clearly doesn’t wish to sully her new ‘second-hand’ boots by wearing them any further in this muddy field. She obviously thinks more of her new, second-hand boots than she does of me, since she displays absolutely no compunction about having me dirty my lips once again by kissing her disgustingly filthy Wellington boots in an act of parting respect.

Quite right too – for my mistress Pamela’s second hand, pink leather boots are worth much more than a humble footslave like me!

I have to admit I had been somewhat sad and forlorn as I handled my mistress’s spike-heeled, pink, party-going ankleboots for the last time, but I was pleased that they were at least going to a good home. Just think – in a few hours’ time my mistress Pamela’s stale, ingrained foot-sweat on the black inner linings of those pink boots will be mixing with the fresh foot-sweat from their charming new owner!

Oh if only I could savour that heady mix!

I am equally forlorn as I watch the muddy backs of the young, black woman’s black, rubber Wellington boots turning and walking away from my mistress’s stall, side by side with her boyfriend’s feet, for I had very much appreciated the smell and taste of her black rubber boots.

But, after all that, my mistress Pamela decided to pack up and go. She had little or nothing left to sell. I am clearly not up for sale myself – although if I had been I would have hoped to have been sold as an accessory along with my mistress’s pink designer boots to that delightful, young black woman with the muddy, Wellington boots – even if my mistress had merely thrown me in as a goodwill gesture!

Or even as a freebie!

But it’s back to the boot of the car for me – the fickle, car boot slave, along with all the other unsellable bric-a-brac.

Sadly, as I lie in the darkness of the boot of the car, I am now surrounded only by the memories of my mistress Pamela’s pink, designer, spike-heeled ankleboots. Still, at least I shall have her dirty, muddy, flat, slip-on shoes to lick back to a shine when we get home, especially the one that’s been resting in the mud all afternoon.

I genuinely can’t wait!

 

Fable no. 6 – By the Waterfall

My blonde-ponytailed, fresh-faced mistress – 21 year old miss Angie – is sightseeing with her family and fiancé. They are all standing on a craggy ridge overlooking an impressive waterfall.

I, of course, am not permitted to observe the waterfall – I’m just a slave. My role is to prostrate myself humbly on the dirty ground behind my mistress Angie’s sneakered feet, observing only her shoes and socks.

But I am no less impressed by the sight in front of my footslave-eyes – a pair of heavy, clumpy, red and black buffalo-style sneakers with platform soles and thick, black laces, worn with a delightful pair of equally thick, calf-length, white, cotton socks.

My mistress’s white socks are particularly impressive to me, and themselves resemble a waterfall. For not only do they have lines and lines of thick, ripple-effect stitching running up and down the body of the sock; they are also seriously creased and folded on my mistress’s pretty, lower legs (she is wearing yellow shorts and is bare-legged above her socks). The socks, therefore, seem to flow down her shapely, white shin and calf muscles providing me with ample, feminine sockwear-material to study.

I can count the various creases in her thick, calf-length socks; I can count the individual stitches; I can see her soft, bare, white legskin peeking out through some of the individual stitches; I can even imagine running my nose down the cascade of fresh, flowing white sock!

At the same time I can contemplate how my mistress’s socks are higher and better than me since, thanks to the thick, wedged soles of her red and black buffalo-sneakers, her feet and socks are actually higher than my prostrate face. I must look up to them – literally as well as figuratively.

And I know their secrets too. I know that these seemingly fresh, white socks are not so fresh and clean inside my mistress Angie’s platformed, buffalo-sneakers. For she has been wearing them now for two days in a row. As a consequence, inside her heavy sneakers – and especially around the toe and heel areas of her snowy-white socks – there is yellow and brown staining. Her unwashed, unpedicured feet simply cannot breathe properly inside such heavy sneakers – and so they perspire; they sweat.

My blonde mistress’s precious, feminine foot-bacteria reacts with the inner lining of her sneakers and the cotton material of her socks, causing them to stain. I shall doubtless be required to suck out those yellowy-brown sweat stains from her pure, white socks later this evening, for I have never yet known my pretty, young, blonde mistress to wear the same pair of socks – however nice they look on her feet and legs – for three days in a row!

I know another little secret – there is also a small hole on the sole of the sock which today is gracing her left foot. The socks are not new, despite outward appearances, and are starting to wear away in places. The heel area on her other sock will be the next to go – in my humble opinion.

My mistress’s fiancé (my master-to-be) moves over to stand beside her as they watch the waterfall. He puts his masculine arm protectively around her, and they kiss. My mistress Angie’s socks crease and fold even further as she raises the back of her right, sneakered foot coquettishly off the dirty ground in front of my face in a subconscious, but pleasurable, reaction to her boyfriend’s manly kiss.

I am not jealous, for I know something he doesn’t. I know, intimately, the aroma of his blonde fiancée’s white socks! And besides, his macho kiss to her lips has indirectly afforded me a slavish view of the dirty, dusty, platform sole of my mistress’s right buffalo-sneaker.

In keeping with the clumpy style of the girl-sneaker, the sneaker treads on the dirty sole are thick; and they are full of gunk – gunk from the countryside where she has been walking. I must remember to lick out that gunk after I have sucked the sweat out of my mistress’s socks later this evening. For female shoe-gunk and foot-sweat are my bread and butter.

Suddenly my mistress and master laugh and scream. The backs of her soft socks temporarily brush against my slave-face as she takes an unexpected step backwards.

My superiors have both been sprayed by the waterfall, thanks to a sudden gust of wind. The water droplets are even spraying my mistress’s socks – almost as if they are attempting to wash them! But, mercifully, they cannot reach the dirtiest, sweatiest parts of her socks inside her shoes – thanks to the impenetrable nature of her thick-skinned buffalo-sneakers.

I really have a lot to thank those buffalo-sneakers for! They protect their mistress’s socked feet from the elements, keeping them warm and cosy – and sweaty! They ferment her feet and socks for me. God bless my mistress Angie’s heavy buffalo-sneakers!

Order is soon restored, and the backs of my mistress’s sneakers and socks are once again keeping their distance directly in front of my prostrate face. I must check the creases in her socks all over again – count them anew; for, with all that sudden movement, there may be several fresh creases and folds in the ribbed stitching of her white cotton sock material for me to worship and admire.

I contemplate, for just a brief second, towelling my ugly slave-face dry on the backs of my mistress’s voluminous white socks – for I too had been sprayed by the waterfall. But I refrain from so doing – for my lower-class face, I conclude, is not worthy to take such impertinent advantage of a superior young woman’s upper-class socks.

And so I just kneel and admire the rippling folds in the hinterland of her socks. You see – I have no need of noisy waterfalls to impress me and broaden my horizons. I only have need of my superior mistress Angie’s clumpy, red and black, platform sneakers and thick, white socks!

 

Fable no. 5 – The Untouchables

Back in her own country of India she was considered ‘untouchable’ – a lower-caste ‘Dalit’ girl whose job had been to clean the latrines. But here in the Gynarchy my mistress Jogini is considered untouchable for the entirely opposite reason – because she is much too high and mighty to have her precious, Indian-female footskin touched by a down-in-the-dirt, lowly, male footslave such as myself.

I am allowed to touch only her outer footwear with my slave lips – her boots and shoes, and even then only when they are dirty. But even her sweat-moistened socks inside her shoes or boots are considered much too intimate for the likes of me to be worthy to kiss them!

My mistress Jogini still cleans latrines – but in a supervisory capacity: she watches over me whilst I scrub clean the female lavatory floors with my slave-mouthbrush. The only equipment she now needs is her thick-girthed bull’s-pizzle whip – to urge me on to ever greater efforts.

I, of course, am semi-naked in my flimsy, white slave-shorts as I mouth-scrub the white tiled, public lavatory floors of my female betters so that they might have clean floors to walk upon; but my Indian mistress Jogini gets to wear a nice uniform consisting of a black sweat-shirt with a red, cleaning-company logo on it; black trousers; black ankle socks; and black leather, round-toed, flat-heeled slip-on shoes.

I must respectfully kiss the dirty and scuff-marked toes of my lower-caste, Indian supervisor-mistress’s plain, black, slip-on shoes at the start and end of each shift, but, as I mentioned before, even though her enticing, black worksocks will be visible to me beneath the hems of her outstretched trouser-legs I must refrain from touching them with my lips. When it comes to my supervisor-mistress’s socks I can look, but not touch – under pain of the bull’s-pizzle whip. For I am not worthy.

My mistress Jogini delights in her newfound position of power in the Gynarchy. She bosses me about, treating me like the dirt that I am – the dirt beneath her, formerly lower-caste, Indian feet.

This morning, immediately after I have kissed her somewhat dusty, plain black shoe-toes, she sets about putting me in my place:

‘Ha! Ha! Dirty slave work hard today! You not a man – you a dog! You clean lady floors well or I whip! You not talk; only work! All the time you work and not rest, or you feel pain-sting of my whip, isn’t it?’

And with that she delivers the first of what will, no doubt, be many well-deserved ‘pain-stings’ courtesy of her supervisory bull’s-pizzle whip across my bare back and shoulders, eliciting my first impromptu cry of pain for the day.

She laughs in the face of my male weakness and suffering:

‘Ha! Ha! Pain, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’

I confirm to superior mistress Jogini that pain is indeed the order of the day, and assure her of my complete compliance to her superior, female will:

‘Oh pray mistress Jogini! Oh pity pray! Oh the pain mistress! Please don’t beat me mistress. This slave will be a good slave, mistress, and will indeed work hard for the mistress! Oh pray mistress Jogini! Oh pray! Truly I am in your power mistress!’

Mistress Jogini – she with the untouchable brown ankleskin and black anklesocks – laughs disparagingly at my cringing servility, as well she might, before completely ignoring my pleas for mercy, as well she might, and delivering another salutary blow of her whip across my bare back and shoulders, as well she might, in order to put me to my ultra-humble work.

For she is the one with all the might now:

‘Slave put brush in mouth! Start scrub floor! No talking! Only work!’

I stop my moaning, and insert the small brush into my mouth, though I’d much rather be putting a sock in it. I know the routine in the latrine well enough by now. I dip the mouthbrush, with my face attached to it, into the bucket of clean water kindly supplied by my untouchable and superior Indian mistress and then begin to humbly mouth-wash the public lavatory floor.

I’m just a dirty scrubber; a dirty mouth-scrubber.

As I start to scrub the first lady-customer of the day enters the public washrooms. I recognize her as the stunningly beautiful, if slightly podgy, Iranian mistress miss Moneereh – a somewhat plump, curly-haired office girl with a seemingly permanent smile on her pretty, Persian features.

The friendly smile is not for me, of course. It is for my Indian supervisor-mistress who now enjoys a position of respect and female authority in society since she is a supervisor of a male, public slave in the Gynarchy – a fitting representative of absolute female power over the lowly male.

No, mistress Moneereh reserves her alternative ‘smug’ smile for the likes of me as she enjoys watching me scrub the floor on which she has just been walking.

She too is wearing flat, black shoes – only the lace-up variety – with black, officewear socks beneath her smart, pinstriped trouser-suit. She will be on her way into work as per usual. But, as she greets my early-morning mistress Jogini with some polite and friendly small talk I can only look at mistress Moneereh’s shoes and socks. I cannot touch them – and not just because my dirty mouthbrush is in the way, but because I am considered unclean and unworthy to even touch the shoes of my customer-female betters with my dirty slave-lips – being a mere lavatory-floor scrubber. I am, quite rightly, thought of as dirty and potentially disease-ridden. After all, my potty mouth must be full of germs from the dirty floor!

As far as miss Moneereh is concerned I am just an untouchable underling – far beneath her and fit only to scrub the dirty marks left by the soles of her black, lace-up, office shoes on the lavatory floor where she has just been walking. And even then my mouth is unworthy to even have direct contact with her shoe-dirt; I must extract it from the tiled floor via my mouthbrush, for even mistress Moneereh’s shoe-dirt is too pure for the likes of me to have direct and unimpeded contact with it.

I am not some higher-class public footslave or shoelick! I’m a lower-class floor-scrubber!

The two young Asian women – one Iranian and one Indian; both refugees from male oppression in their own countries but now instigators of male oppression in the Gynarchy – chat happily above me to one another about banalities such as the weather outside (something I never get to see) whilst for my part I continue to diligently mouthscrub the dirty lavatory floor around their superior, untouchable, black leather-shoed and black-socked feet.

Oh how I ache to pay oral homage to those superior female shoes and socks – so tantalizingly near and yet, for social reasons, so far from my lower-caste, maleslave lips!

However my humble life down on the public lavatory floor isn’t all frustration! Occasionally – just occasionally – I do get to touch the shoes or boots of other women, notably those of my mistress Jogini’s female relatives when they pop in to see how their beloved daughter or sister is getting on with her career – for they all fled to the Gynarchy together as a family.

And luckily for me my mistress Jogini’s elder sister has decided to pop in to see her younger sibling today. Miss Saiamma, unlike her younger sister, does not have a job requiring her to wear an all-black uniform; she is, in fact, unemployed – a young lady of leisure. And so she is wearing her Indian-lady clothes consisting of a brightly-coloured red and yellow sari with matching yellow dupatta-headscarf.

On her feet, however, she has dispensed with her normal, brown leather, Indian sandals and is instead wearing a pair of somewhat incongruous-looking, black leather, calf-length biker-boots.

She wears them to make her look stronger, since miss Saiamma is very petite and slight in stature - even more so than her beloved, younger sibling – and the heavy, black leather boots certainly help to fill out her otherwise slender, delicate Indian ankle-bones.

Her boots certainly grab my attention as I mouth-scrub the floors around them. I can see them quite clearly through the semi-diaphanous veil of her bright yellow sari-hem. They look quite dirty, and appear to be depositing a goodly amount of street-mud on the floor beneath my face.

My heart-rate rises as I know what will be coming next! Because miss Saiamma is a blood-relative of my supervisor-mistress Jogini, I shall be required to stop what I am doing (mouth-scrubbing the dirty lavatory floor) in order to pay my respects to mistress Saiamma’s lower-caste, Indian-female, biker boots. But there will be no time for me to extract the tool of my humble trade – the mouthbrush – from my ignorant, slave mouth; instead I must show my respects for my mistress’s elder sister’s boots by merely touching the street-soiled, reinforced, leather toes with the tip of my nose – once on each boot.

Mistress Saiamma kindly facilitates me by hitching up the yellow hem of her sari and stretching forth each booted foot – one after the other – in front of my kneeling face, in order that I may smell it and nose-touch it.

It’s quite a touching scene!

I love the smell and feel of mistress Saiamma’s dirty, black bootleather on my nose as she superciliously adjusts her silken, dupatta-headscarf above me almost embarrassed at being touched by a lowly floor-scrubber like me. Still, she knows it is only right and proper that the lowly, male slave should show his respect and adoration for the superior, Indian female above him by nose-touching the toes of her dirty, calf-length boots.

I have no way of knowing, of course, whether or not mistress Saiamma may be wearing socks deep down inside her calf-length biker-boots, but even if she is I would not be permitted to nose-touch them, for, like her younger sister’s socks, they would be considered much too intimate an item of feminine footwear for my lower-caste, maleslave mouth or nose to touch!

Having nosed my respects to miss Saiamma’s boots I resume my humble floor-scrubbing around my Indian-female superiors’ feet – prompted by another sharp blow from my supervisor-mistress’s bull’s-pizzle whip – as my mistress and her sister chat away happily to each other in Hindi above me, ignoring me now as they would a mangy old dog beneath their rich and powerful, Indian-lady feet.

How the tables have turned! The Dalit ladies are now the aristocracy, and I can only lick the ground on which they have been standing and walking.

And to think, I used to be their employer, back in India!

Oh… didn’t I mention that?

 

Fable no. 4 – The Wind-Up Merchant

It is the third and final night of my public punishment in the stocks. It is the small hours of the morning, and the rest of the town square is deserted. A single spotlight highlights me in my kneeling confinement and shame.

As I stare contritely down at the ground through my wooden windowsill I can see frost on the tarmac below me. I shiver, for I am naked apart from my flimsy, white slave-shorts. I had been given a rough blanket to cover my aching back and shoulders by the Prison Authorities, but some yobs had seen fit to steal it. And so I am almost fully exposed to the elements.

It is too cold to sleep, and my neck is too stiff.

Still – only a few more hours to go, and then I am due for release; back to the warm feet of my mistress - the one whom I had sinned against. I am lucky she has agreed to take me back.

Nevertheless, I am feeling somewhat sorry for myself as I wallow in my confined self-pity.

Suddenly I hear someone approaching me from across the square – a lone female; a black girl – early twenties; well wrapped-up against the cold in a bright red hoodie, with black leggings and heavy-looking, black leather, calf-length biker-style boots with lots of buckles and straps on the outsides. Inside her boots, and over her black, cotton leggings, she is wearing a fetching pair of thick, dark grey, calf-length, woollen bootsocks.

I wonder what a nice, young woman like this is doing out here all on her own on a cold and frosty night like this? Why isn’t she tucked up at home in bed like everyone else?

I can be terribly naïve at times!

She comes right up to me – her heavy biker boots now looming large in my consciousness as my face is confined at her calf-length boot level:

‘Yo slave! How’s it hangin’?’ she asks me.

For a moment I am dumbstruck and confused. The black mistress is actually talking to me!

She has a Jamaican accent. And she sounds friendly. But is she really concerned about my welfare – the welfare of a punished, male prisoner in the stocks? Is she really concerned about how I am ‘hangin’? Or is she just seeking to take the mickey out of me?

I remember my slave-manners and answer the mistress in suitably respectful prisoner-slavespeak:

‘Oh pray mistress. Good morning mistress. God bless you mistress.’

I am aware that I haven’t really answered the Jamaican, red-hoodied mistress’s question as to my current state of well-being, but I’m not sure what the correct answer is! What does she expect me to say in such humiliating circumstances?

The black girl just laughs at me, and the various straps and buckles in her biker boots shake with laughter in unison with their pretty owner:

‘Hja! Hja! Bit nippy tonight, innit though slave?’

Now the mistress is asking me about the weather! What’s going on here? Is she just making polite conversation? Or is she genuinely concerned to know my slavish opinion on such matters?

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress. If it pleases you mistress.’

It’s a ridiculous response I know – but the young black woman is making me nervous. I am not accustomed to being spoken to in such a casual and friendly manner by a superior mistress. I am, after all, just a slave.

She laughs out loud again as she stands in front of me, her heavy, reinforced-toed, calf-length biker boots standing black and proud amidst the hoary-white frost on the ground directly below my face:

‘Hja! Hja! You looks freezin’ slave, innit though? Woulds you like me to sit on you, bwoy? Help warm you up, an' that?’

I can hardly believe my frozen ears! The mistress is actually offering to sit on top of the wooden crossbeam which is confining my disobedient neck in order to help warm me up with her superior, Jamaican-female body heat!

There must be a catch!

But what can I say? I can’t possibly turn down an offer like this at 3 o’clock in the morning!

‘Oh pray mistress. Yes please mistress. If it pleases you mistress!’

The young, black woman sniffs loudly – I think the cold is causing her nose to run – and moves round behind me before slipping onto the crossbeam, and then wrapping her long legs around the sides of my face. She is now literally sitting on top of me, and I can feel her young-womanly warmth through her black, cotton leggings on the sides of my bare cheeks.

Even more heartening is the sight of the ribbed tops of her thick, dark grey bootsocks which are now directly below my kneeling face! I can also now see deep down inside her biker boots as she flirtatiously tucks her ankles around each other below me. It truly is a sight for sore eyes – for a sore footslave-prisoner’s eyes.

How can something that looks so cool, be so hot and warming?

I hear the red-hoodied mistress light up a cigarette above me. I can smell it too.

The mistress is being very naughty – for my stocks are not a designated smoking area. She is breaking the law – and that makes me nervous again, for if she is caught you can bet that I shall be the one to be punished for her misdemeanour!

I hear her take a long, languorous drag on her cigarette:

‘What is you in for?’ she asks me nonchalantly, her black leather biker boots and dark grey bootsocks swinging subconsciously below my face as she does so.

I’m assuming she is referring to my being in the stocks?

‘Erm…If it pleases you mistress... I’m being punished for the theft of one of my mistress’s socks… if you’ll forgive me, most sweet and kind black mistress?’

The young woman laughs:

‘Hja! Hja! Forgive you? It ‘ain’t my place to forgive you, batty-boy, innit? You is bein’ punished by the Law, innit?’

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress. God bless you mistress.’

I’ve already decided that I must agree with everything this young woman says, for I am very much at her mercy, stuck here as I am in the stocks. She is most definitely the one with all the power and authority in this humbling situation.

And she knows it.

I can’t take my eyes off the tops of her dark grey bootsocks whilst she is speaking to me:

‘So why did you steal her sock, an’ that, batty-boy?’

Even though my cheeks are now surrounded by soft, cotton, black-girl black legging, they turn crimson with shame:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, I wanted to smell my mistress’s dirty sock, if you would be so kind most respected mistress.’

She laughs out loud again, causing her boots and socks to shudder beneath my face:

‘Hja! Hja! You is truly pafetik man! Hja! Hja! You is worse than a dirty ho bwoy, innit?’

I humbly and contritely acknowledge the veracity of the mistress’s astute observations on my inferior character:

‘Yes mistress. If it pleases you mistress.’

She continues to laugh at me – the petty sock-thief, trussed up in the punishment stocks:

‘Hja! Hja! Innit though?...Yo, batty-man, listen up! I has an idea…why doesn’t you an’ I run away together? Hja! Hja! I could, like, release you an’ that from these here stocks, and you coulds become my personal slave, innit? I has lots of pairs of socks an’ boots an’ that, and you coulds become my personal, batty-boy sockslave or somefink, yeah? Hja! Hja!’

I don’t know whether to be shocked, or humiliated! Is the young, black mistress being serious? Is she really suggesting that we elope as mistress and sockslave?

I have to admit that, whilst a part of me quite likes the idea of being this strange, young black woman’s personal sockslave – given her excellent taste in feminine sockwear as evidenced by her beautiful, thick, grey bootsocks now dangling beneath my face inside her sexy biker-boots – I could never contemplate leaving my own sweet mistress Felicity. I am her slave for life – or at least until such time as my mistress Felicity decides to dispose of me! I could never contemplate being disloyal to her – even if I had contemplated surreptitiously sniffing one of her dirty socks!

I feel I have to – politely – nip this crazy suggestion from the strange, young black mistress in the bud – just in case she is actually making a serious proposal that we ‘run away’ together:

‘Oh pray mistress! Please forgive me mistress. The mistress is very beautiful and very kind – but this slave could never leave his own mistress, if you would be so kind and understanding to a helpless prisoner-slave at your mercy, most sweet and kind black mistress!’

The young hoodie-woman’s mood appears to darken at my rejection of her proposal:

‘What’s that you sayin’ batty-boy? Is you rejectin’ my kind offer? What’s up? Don’t you wanna be my slave? ‘Aint I good enough for ya, or somefink? Is it ‘cos I is black?’

She moves her head from side to side in seemingly shocked outrage at my slavish rejection of her mistressly advances.

This is agony – because the more the mistress talks to me like this the more I actually find myself wishing I could be her personal slave! Imagine being the personal footslave of such a sweet and kind, independent young black woman – responsible for taking care of all her dirty socks and boots! It really would be an honour and a privilege, and I instantly seek to disabuse the young, black woman seated above me of her mistaken perception that I somehow think she is not good enough for me:

‘Oh pray mistress! God bless you mistress – truly this slave is honoured by the mistress’s sweet and kind proposal to take him as her personal sockslave, but this slave regrets that he is not at liberty to leave his own mistress at this point in time. Oh pray, black mistress! Oh pray! This slave fears his own mistress, and the dreadful sting of her whip, and if he was caught running away he would surely be caught and sorely whipped! Oh pray sweet mistress! Please understand this weak and timid slave, and have mercy on him most beautiful and respected black mistress!’

There is a pause. The superior, young black woman sniffs out loud again, and then gathers up some snot in her shapely, feminine mouth before expelling her mucus directly onto the ground next to my face.

I watch the warm, freshly-expelled mucus material melting the frost around it.

I am humbled by this superior, young woman’s sweet, feminine gentility and grace. She could have spat right into my face!

Snot free, she suddenly bursts out laughing again:

‘Hja! Hja!...Don’t fret yo’self, batty-boy!...I was only pullin’ yoh plonker, innit?...Hja! Hja!...Like I’d wanna run away wit’ a raggedy-assed slave-bwoy you!...Hja! Hja!...You is much too old and ugly for the likes of me, innit bwoy?...Hja! Hja! I is a young and beautiful black woman! ... I wouldn’t be seen dead wit’ a ugly old dumbass-slave like you as my personal footslave, innit though? Hja! Hja!’

I feel an enormous sense of relief at the revelation that the superior, young, black woman had only been ‘pulling my plonker’, as she so delicately put it.

I can relax! It was all a wind-up!

But perhaps I relax too soon.

The young woman unfurls her legs from around my kneeling face and stands up. She then makes her way round to the front of the wooden stocks and stands in front of me – hands on hips. Looking very dominant in her black leggings and red hoodie-top.

Her right, biker-booted foot initially covers her area of spit on the ground, but is then suddenly thrust forwards and upwards until the somewhat scuff-marked, rounded, reinforced-toe is touching my dry and chapped lips:

‘Kiss my boot, batty-boy! Kiss it all over!’ she barks down at me.

She sounds angry. She certainly isn’t laughing any more.

I nervously pucker my lips around the front of the toe area and kiss it, before raising my mouth up towards one of the leather straps that runs along the side of her calf-length boot as she takes another drag on her illicit cigarette above me. It’s the highest part of the delectable blackgirl boot that my mouth can reach, although my eyes are now level with the ribbed top of her thick, woollen bootsock as I taste her black leather boot-strap.

‘What’s yoh mistress’s name, slave-bwoy?’ asks the dominant wearer of the thick, grey bootsock from on high above me.

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you black mistress, my mistress’s name is mistress Felicity, if it is so pleasing to you most respected, black mistress.’

‘Ooohh…mistress Felicity…’ repeats the young, black woman in a mockingly plummy accent, as she breathes her Jamaican cigarette smoke down onto me. ‘…She sounds well posh though, innit batty-boy?’

‘Yes mistress. If it pleases you mistress.’

I really don’t know what else to say! I suppose my mistress Felicity is quite posh! Well…white, upper middle-class anyway!

She certainly wouldn’t be seen dead in a hoodie!

But the black, hoodie-wearing commoner-mistress continues:

‘Well, how’s yoh mistress Felicity gonna react when I tells her about you propositionin’ me to runs away wit’ you, an’ that? Hja! Hja! How’s yoh posh mistress gonna feel about that though, batty-boy? Is she gonna whup you, though? Hja! Hja! I’ll bet she’ll even give me a reward for tellin’ her about yoh dirty proposition though, innit batty-boy? Hja! Hja!’

This has all turned rather nasty now. The black mistress is threatening to lie to my mistress about me – to claim that I was the one who suggested eloping with her!

In spite of the freezing cold I start to sweat – for I know the black mistress will be believed, and not just because her story would be entirely credible (she is a beautiful young woman, after all, whom any male slave would be proud to serve).

No – she will be believed because, according to the laws of the Gynarchy, a mistress can never lie. It will be her word against a slave’s.

I’m doomed!

I throw myself on her, still outstretched, right boot, and on her mercy:

‘Oh pray mistress…kiss…kiss… please don’t tell on me…kiss…kiss…most sweet and kind mistress…kiss…kiss…please don’t have me whipped, mistress…kiss…kiss… this slave throws himself on your sweet feminine mercy, black mistress…kiss…kiss…’

You will notice that I don’t challenge the black mistress’s version of events. That’s because if she says it happened that way – that I propositioned her – then it did!

A mistress is always right!

The young black woman, clearly enjoying her absolute power over me, withdraws her right biker-boot from my face, only to replace it with her left.

It’s a good sign, for it indicates that she is at least prepared to permit me to beg her biker boots for mercy.

I feverishly kiss the buckles and straps at the top of her left boot. I even manage to brush my lips against the top of her grey, woollen sock.

She laughs:

‘Hja! Hja! Relax, batty-bwoy! I was only pullin’ yoh plonker again, innit? Hja! Hja! God – you is such a dweeb, man! … It’s so freakin’ easy to freak you out, an’ that! Hja! Hja! Poor little batty-boy, innit?’

I continue to kiss the black mistress’s boot and sock – but now with a sense of relief and gratitude for the fact that the mistress had, once again, only been winding me up; toying with me:

‘Oh thank you mistress! God bless you mistress. This slave truly praises and admires the mistress!’

The beautiful, young black woman laughs out loud again, throws her cigarette-butt down onto the ground beneath my face, and stubs it out by teasingly twisting her heavy, biker-booted right foot over it before walking triumphantly away from me.

I am left with the sight of black-girl, discarded cigarette butt in a rapidly freezing pool of black-girl spit.

…………………………………………………………………………

Later that same day, just minutes before being released from the stocks, I was publicly whipped by a uniformed, Female Police officer at my mistress Felicity’s pink-sneakered and white-socked feet for the additional crimes of unlawful smoking, and of plotting to run away with another mistress.

At the back of the jeering crowd of onlookers I spotted a smiling young black woman, in a bright red hoodie.

 

Fable no. 3 – What’s in a footkiss?

My 26 year old mistress, mistress Toni, is standing in the middle of her hallway, her right foot outstretched, waiting patiently for her foot to be kissed.

Despite her western-sounding name, she is Asian – Indian, in fact. But she is Euro-Indian having lived in the Gynarchy for many years. She is about to leave for work, so she is smartly dressed in her white blouse; her dark grey, pinstriped trouser suit; her soft, black leather, single-strapped ballet flats; and her plain black, cotton, low-cut sneaker socks.

The turned-up hem of her right trouser leg falls to just above the elasticated top of her short, black sock – thanks to the outstretched positioning of her foot – so I can observe at close-quarters the fetching sight of my mistress’s soft, brown, Indian ankleskin as I kneel with my head bowed over her right foot, ready to kiss.

I slowly lower my parched and dry lips to the sock area between the broad strap of her black, leather ballet flat that crosses the middle of her foot and the edge of the rounded toe area of her sweet, feminine shoe. It is the designated area of sock that I have just been specifically ordered to kiss.

My lips make soft contact with the exquisite girlsock – but what’s in this footkiss? What does it signify? What is its import – both for the female footmaster and the male footslave?

Well, superficially, it is a kiss goodbye, for I shall not be permitted to accompany my young, Indian mistress to her place of work. I have work to do back here – in her home; her other shoes and boots need to be tongue-cleaned; a pile of her dirty socks need to be sniffed and then mouth-washed; some of her discarded toenail clippings need to be chewed on and then swallowed.

But my sock-kiss is much more than just a kiss goodbye. It is, fundamentally, all of the following:

· It is an acknowledgement of my Indian mistress’s superiority over me – a demonstration that she is better than me. For the act of kissing another human-being’s sock, whilst she is wearing it, can only be interpreted as the act of a male inferior towards his female superior. It is thus, simultaneously also:

· An acknowledgement of my complete and utter submission to my female better’s natural power and authority over me. It is an act of overt submission; of contrition; of humility; of obedience. It is an imperial act – of the female conqueror demonstrating her victory over the male conquered;

· It is an expression of my total, footslavish admiration for my mistress and her sock; an act of worship towards an inanimate object – my mistress’s sock. Her sock is my fetish, imbued, as it is, with mystical, feminine powers, as well as the very essence of my Indian mistress’s foot – her personal and unique, bacteriological foot-matter; her very DNA;

· It is an act of fear – of respect for my mistress’s absolute, female power and authority over me, the helpless, male slave cringing at her feet;

· It is an act of frustration and sadness – for I do not wish to be parted from my Indian mistress’s shoes and socks. I am their slave, and live only to serve them. But the choice is not mine. I am powerless to object – a disenfranchised sock-servant, who must only obey the superior will of his omniscient mistress.

Yes – my humble footkiss to my Indian mistress’s black-socked foot is all of those things.

But what, specifically, is in it for her?

Well, the mistress gains:

• A sense of her innate, feminine superiority, for – petite and delicate in physical stature though she may be – she is the one who is standing tall and proud in the hallway, having her sock humbly kissed by the inadequate, male creature at her feet. She literally looks down on him as she stands triumphantly, hands on hips, her right foot extended out before her – demanding homage;

• A sense of pride at her self-evident superiority; of being better than the pathetic, male creature whose lips must now make humble contact with her black-socked foot;

• A sense of absolute, female power, for it is the woman who is strong, and the man who is weak in this situation. He must repeatedly kiss the female sock until such time as the foot is withdrawn from beneath his kneeling face. The mistress decides when that shall be – not the slave;

• A justifiably inflated, feminine ego – for her ballet-flated, besocked foot is being fawned to and flattered; flattered by the awestruck and worshipful, male slave.

And what’s in it for the slave?

Not that anyone cares, but he gains:

• A sense of his innate, masculine inferiority, for the young mistress towers above him as her right foot is extended towards his humbly-kneeling frame. He looks up to her – though not literally (that would be a criminal offence on his part – looking his mistress in the eye!); but figuratively, since he must focus all his earthly senses on her short, black sock inside her low-cut, black, leather shoe;

• A sense of shame and humiliation at his self-evident unmanliness; of his being lesser than the stunningly-beautiful, female creature whose superior footwear he must now pay humble homage to on behalf of all malekind;

• A sense of absolute, male powerlessness and helplessness in the face of a female sock worn so exquisitely on a dainty, Asian-female foot – a foot that is, literally, in his face;

• A justifiably deflated, masculine ego as he must smell, taste, feel and see the warmth of his Indian mistress’s short, black sneaker-sock on his lips and mouth. He is the servant of her socked foot. Her very sock is better than him.

Eventually, of course, when the mistress is fully satisfied, the sock is withdrawn from underneath the slave’s face – only to be replaced by the sister-sock on her left foot.

And so the humbling process begins all over again, until the mistress decides to leave for work – leaving her slave bereft of freshly-worn female sock. He must now turn his humble attention to stale sock – to the unwashed socks she has been wearing earlier in the week, seeped in her DNA; for his orders today are to begin by mouthwashing his superior, Indian mistress’s dirty, stinky socks.

She therefore leaves him without a second thought for his feelings. She simply turns her back on him and walks out the door. It is unreciprocated admiration and love that we are witnessing. The slave is as nothing to her.

And rightly so, for this is a submissive relationship, not a romantic one. She is his mistress – but only in the sense that she owns him.

And therein lies the true essence of a footkiss. It is a demonstration of ownership on the part of the mistress, and of belonging on the part of the slave – of belonging to his superior mistress’s feet and socks.

He is just a down-in-the-dirt footslave paying homage to his mistress’s lower parts – her feet, shoes and socks.

All that, believe it or not, is contained in a simple footkiss!

 

Fable no. 2 – Fat Sock

I have always been a bit partial to fat mistresses in short socks.

Imagine my huge excitement, therefore, when I spotted a striking-looking, fat, white mistress with dyed purple and green hair, in her mid to late twenties, heading towards my public shoelick-stand in a pair of lacy, white anklesocks and turquoise-coloured, shiny patent-leather ballet-flats beneath her fat, wobbly calve muscles; thick, feminine calve muscles which were pleasingly covered in cellulite, highlighted by the bright, summer sunlight, beneath her knee-length, floral-patterned summer dress.

Not only that, she was eating a choc-ice, thereby adding to her already calorific presence – a presence which virtually blocked out the sunshine as she stood above me and languorously stretched forward her right, ballet-flated and lacy-socked foot onto my wooden footblock for licking and kissing:

‘Lick clean my shoe!’ she commanded, in between licking on her rapidly melting choc-ice. She apparently didn’t even have time to address me as ‘slave’ lest she miss a bit of melting choc-ice, and this was a young woman who was evidently determined that every last drop of chocolate covered ice-cream would go down her gullet and not end up on the dirty ground beneath her.

That would be a complete waste – a bit like my life!

She moaned out loud with sensual pleasure as she greedily devoured her choc-ice above me, whilst I, for my humble part, moaned internally with slavish pleasure at the sight now dominating my footslave-senses – the unrestricted and close-up view of her unnaturally-stretched, soft, white, lace-trimmed, cotton anklesock. In particular I was enamoured by a very distinct series of folds in the white cotton sock material just below the front of her lace-covered ankle – folds caused by the imperious, outstretched positioning of her foot presented for licking.

Furthermore, I was intrigued by the partial sight of a small, yellowish stain on the front area of white sock that disappeared under the rim of the rounded toe area of her turquoise ballet-flat. A fat-girl footsweat stain? I certainly hoped so!

I snapped out of my beautiful-sock induced reverie and remembered where I was, and who I was, just in time – verbally acknowledging the fat, purple-and-green-haired mistress’s order as I am required to do under the Female Law:

‘Yes mistress. At once, most beautiful and respected mistress.’

I have to confess, though, as I lowered my lips to the young woman’s shiny, turquoise, low-cut shoe I couldn’t help feeling that she would do better to have me suck that yellow sweat-stain off her sock than tongue-shine her shoe – for the shoe looked remarkably clean; just a few inevitable traces of street dust and dirt along the instep and heel areas. But the rounded toe areas were noticeably shiny and unscuffed – suggesting that these were a fairly new pair of ballet-flats on her fat feet.

Be that as it may – I am in no position to judge. I’m a slave, not a judge! And if the superior young woman wishes her shoe to be licked, then licked it shall be!

So we both licked – the mistress and the slave; she on her choc-ice; I on her shoe leather; and we both experienced tastes fitting for our respective taste buds – she the pleasurable and sweet taste of sugar; I the unpleasant, bitter taste of shoe leather and street-dust.

And just as the fat mistress above me could see and enjoy the pure white of her ice-cream beneath its chocolate covering, I could observe the pure white of her lacy sock above the low-cut rim of her ballet-flat shoe. Well, purish-white – for as I have already alluded to, there is a very definite yellowish sweat stain developing around the upper toe area of her right sock.

The folds in her sock also reminded me of the mistress’s ice-cream – like melting ripples; just crying out to be licked. Yet, sadly, I had not been ordered to lick sock. Not yet anyway!

After some 5 minutes of vigorously licking on her now perfectly polished right shoe, the fat mistress made the gargantuan effort of replacing her right foot with her left onto my wooden footblock. Her cellulite-and-varicose-vein-enhanced calf muscles wobbled as she did so, causing her short, white ankle sock to crease still further as her left foot plonked unceremoniously down onto the wooden footblock beneath my face.

Again I was greeted by the sight of pleated and folded white sock though, sadly, no yellowy sweat stains this time! As if to compensate for this disappointment, however, I noticed a slight tear in one of the lacy stitches on the upper rim of her white ankle sock – further confirmation that the shoes might be brand new, but the socks had been worn many times before. They are a favourite pair of fat-girl ankle socks – and justifiably so!

‘And the other one,’ barks the obese, young woman from above me.

I assume she is referring to her left shoe:

‘Yes mistress. At once most beautiful and respected mistress.’

She can tell from the tone of my voice that I am not being ironic. She is most beautiful, and I do respect her. For she is of the superior sex, and therefore my better. And she knows it.

Her ice-cream is nearly finished now as I start on her left, admittedly slightly dirtier, shoe. By the time I have finished tongue-shining her left shoe to her satisfaction, her choc-ice stick has been carelessly chucked down onto the dusty ground beneath my shoelick-stand. The Female Police will doubtless issue me with an on-the-spot fine for that litter later – and since I can’t pay the fine, since I don’t earn any money, I shall be whipped instead; an on-the-spot whipping for all the female passers-by to enjoy!

But my chagrin at the thought of an impending whipping caused by this fat, young woman’s unthinking carelessness, is soon dissipated by her next young-womanly utterance:

‘Now nose the top of my sock, slave!’

My heart leaps for joy! I thought she had finished with me – but she hasn’t! She wants me to humbly run my nose along the lacy top of her short, white anklesock! Oh bliss! Oh joy!

Okay – so it may not be the right sock with its yellowy, sweat stain; and I may not be being granted the privilege and honour of sucking the summer sweat out of her white sock; but at least my nose is receiving permission to touch her superior sock – to embark on a journey around its sockerific rim! A journey which may take some considerable effort on my part as there is a lot of ankle and sock to get my head around!

I do hope the young-woman wearer of the sock will assist me by twisting her foot to one side at the appropriate juncture when my nose reaches the side of her white-socked anklebone – otherwise I might have to admit defeat with regard to reaching the very back of her sock!

I know what you’re thinking! Why on earth is this sweet-toothed, sweet-natured, fat, young woman indulging me with her sock in this way? What’s in it for her – having her sock ‘nosed’ in public?

Well, you’ve just answered your own question! What’s in it for her is the fact that I am being forced to worship her sock with my humble nose in public! It’s such a demeaning, and degrading, thing to have to do – to be on one’s hands and knees running one’s nose along the top of another human-being’s sock in public whilst they are still wearing it! No wonder several nearby Japanese tourists are laughing at me and stopping to take photos and record my humiliation and degradation at the fat girl’s socked feet on their digicams!

As for the fat mistress herself she wipes her lips clean of chocolate and also laughs at me, not because my nose is ticklish on her sock, but because I am nothing but a public laughing stock; a fully-sated fat girl’s lacy, white sock nuzzler!

Who wouldn’t be laughing at me?

 

Fable no. 1 – East meets West

Miss Zaafira is a curious mixture of East and West.

Being a beautiful 23 year old girl of Pakistani origins she likes to dress conservatively in a dupatta-headscarf and salwar kameez outfit, but always with nice, bright colours. Today, for example, her semi-diaphanous, silken headscarf is bright yellow, and her salwar kameez is an equally bright, shimmering red.

She is also a very practical young woman, and since her job today is to supervise the male work-slaves as they plough one of the muddy fields on her father’s estate with their bare hands, she has elected to wear a seemingly incongruous pair of calf length, black leather, doc-marten style boots with thick, purple laces on her petite and delicate Pakistani feet – to protect her dainty, Eastern feet from the mud as she goes about her cruel business. They also protect the delicate, elasticated hems of her bright red, silken, salwar trousers which are fetchingly tucked into the tops of her heavy-looking boots.

The vicious, single-tailed, brown leather whip she carries in her dainty hands completes her colour-clash outfit, but only serves to emphasise her status as a taskmistress with absolute, capricious female power over her family’s down-in-the-dirt male subjects in the muddy field.

She frequently has to adjust her long, yellow headscarf over her long, dark hair as the loose, silken head-covering is disturbed by her repeated application of the whip to the backs of those slaves who are not, in her opinion, hand-ploughing hard enough. Miss Zaafira’s decision is final in such judgements – her father is happy to delegate such power to her, since he knows she enjoys her work so much - even if a few work-slaves are lost to exhaustion and fatigue each year.

It’s no great loss, however – since unskilled work-slaves are two a penny in the Gynarchy, and the field in question has, in any case, lain fallow for many years now. Mistress Zaafira has it hand-ploughed every day purely for her own delectation and amusement, and her father likes to indulge her in that.

As well he might!

I am, fortunately, not one of the unskilled, two-a-penny work-slaves. I am enslaved by miss Zaafira’s family, but in the capacity of a specialist footslave. I am, in fact, the family bootscraper, buried permanently up to my neck in the mud on the edge of the field where miss Zaafira is supervising, ready to tongue-clean her dirty, doc-marten boots, and have her scrape the dirt out of the thick treads on her bootsoles over my confined head and face, when she eventually finishes her taskmistressly role for the day.

It is considered a great honour to be a beautiful, Pakistani-girl’s field-bootscraper, even if my work is, in truth, equally as unskilled as those of my fellow maleslaves who must hand-plough the fields at her sweet, young-womanly behest.

Because my preoccupation must at all times be with mistress Zaafira’s boots, my eyes are fitted with a special pair of contact lenses which act like a pair of binoculars, giving me a close-up view of her dirty, muddy doc-marten boots as she goes about her whipping business in the field. Even when she is whipping a slave over at the far end of the field, I can see with crystal clarity each and every globule of wet mud which is stuck to the lower parts of her boots, as well as each and every ingrained scuffmark on the thick, reinforced, rounded toe-areas, for the boots are well used and virtually worn out – rather like the slaves they supervise.

I am particularly enamoured by the magnified sight of the young mistress’s muddy, grey, thick-treaded, leather bootsole as the back of her right booted foot temporarily raises itself up out of the mud in order to give its wearer feminine poise and balance whilst she brings down the stinging whip on the back of some unfortunate maleslave-slacker, whose fingers are deemed not to be digging hard enough or fast enough in her father’s muddy field.

I try to make a mental note of the exact location of the mistress’s bootsole-mud at such times, so that my face can better extract it from the mistress’s treads when she eventually finishes her work and comes over to my corner of the field in order to scrape clean her muddy, calf-length boots on my face.

At such moments I am equally captivated by the sight of mistress Zaafira’s doc-marten bootleather creasing and folding on the front of her boot beneath the thick, mud-stained, purple laces. I think the simultaneous swish and crack of the whip, followed by the scream of the slave, only serves to reinforce my respect and admiration for miss Zaafira’s reinforced, creased and folded bootleather.

I am, naturally, yearning to be of service to such an enigmatic and all-powerful young, Pakistani woman by the end of the day, and my heart invariably starts pounding as she marches towards me in her muddy, well-worn, doc-marten boots at the end of her supervisory session (the work-slaves shall continue to work in the neighbouring field for another eight hours under the supervision of miss Zaafira’s elder sister – miss Gulnar – but her muddy footwear seems much less ‘exotic’ as she always wears exclusively Western clothing when supervising the hand-ploughing of her field; none of that intriguing mix of East and West so beloved by her younger sister – just a plain pair of ripped, blue denim jeans tucked into an equally plain pair of black, Wellington boots; and no socks. Still very tasty though – those muddy, black rubber boots!)

You might think that as mistress Zaafira’s doc-marten boots march towards me from across the muddy field they become increasingly blurred and out of focus thanks to the magnifying contact lenses in my footslave-eyes – but you’d be quite wrong! I don’t know how they work, but the contact lenses merely continue to magnify mistress Zaafira’s doc-marten boots until each and every pore of the mud-encrusted bootleather looms large in my eyes with crystal clear clarity!

I suppose they have to, since it is important that the footslave-bootscraper should be able to identify every last, minute morsel of field-mud on his superior, Pakistani mistress’s work-boots so that he may lick it and consume it, and ensure that it no longer sullies the precious black leather of the superior taskmistress’s footwear.

My humble role is to first lick-shine the many-eyeleted uppers of the boots, and then suck-clean the muddy, purple bootlaces. Only after the boots’ uppers are polished and cleaned to the mistress’s complete satisfaction will she proceed to scrape her muddy bootsoles down my head and face. My hair helps to wipe some of the surface mud off mistress Zaafira’s bootsoles, but my nose and lips are needed to extract some of the more ingrained dirt in the thick, leather treads.

As she does when she is supervising the work-slaves in the field, mistress Zaafira will periodically straighten her diaphanous, yellow headscarf whilst I go about my work below her. Unlike the work-slaves, however, my back is protected from the whip by virtue of my being buried up to the neck in her father’s mud!

Mistress Zaafira can still discipline me, however, if I fail to please her. Her reinforced toecaps come in handy when my tongue is being lackadaisical or disrespectful in its boot-shining efforts, and my gormless, stupid maleslave face will bear the brunt of her thick toecaps’ wrath.

The greatest cruelty, however, is that, once my job is done, I must then watch mistress Zaafira change out of her erstwhile muddy, doc-marten boots and into her bright red, patent leather stiletto shoes. Now these really do match her bright red salwar kameez outfit, and demonstrate that she is most definitely not without fashion-sense.

Along with the boots she divests herself of a thick pair of plain black, calf-length bootsocks – bootsocks which have hitherto been hidden from me deep inside her work-boots, but whose individual, sweat-laden stitches I can now see in glorious close-up through my unnaturally-magnified contact lenses as she ties the dirty, feminine socks around my bootmud-stained head as a symbol of my helpless enslavement to her and her family.

Mistress Zaafira deftly ensures that the sweaty toe ends of her discarded socks are resting directly over my nose, as she simultaneously places her warm, empty boots on the muddy ground beneath my face so that I can clearly see down into the cavernous inners of her doc-marten boots – magnified what seems like a hundred times.

Her discarded boots and socks now dominate my senses, and the ultimate cruelty in all this is that I am powerless to assist my Pakistani mistress in removing her boots and socks from her precious feet, and replacing them with her bright red stilettos, since my hands and arms are buried in the mud of her father’s field along with the rest of my weak and feeble male body.

Oh the frustration of it – of not being able to touch one’s mistress’s footwear! For a down-in-the-dirt footslave like me it is the ultimate agony! Thanks to mistress Zaafira’s expertise and cruelty both her father’s field, and my footslave-brow, are now well and truly furrowed – the latter due to my unspeakable anguish at not being able to reach out and physically touch her magnificent boots and socks with my mud-incarcerated hands!

A brief peck with my lips to the pointy toes of the imperiously outstretched, shiny red stilettos which now adorn her bare brown Pakistani feet is the most I can hope for, as mistress Zaafira languorously drapes her warm, brown leather whip around my neck; adjusts her loose, yellow headscarf one last time; and then turns her back on me to leave – showing me a clean pair of shiny, red high-heels as she departs for a well-earned night out partying with her male and female friends; relaxing and enjoying their good company; enjoying the spoils of her father’s farm with Western decadence and abandonment whilst dressed in her fetching, Eastern garb.

Meanwhile, the only ‘spoils’ I have to look forward to this evening are her discarded, sweaty black socks and odorous doc-marten boots, followed, eventually by her sister’s musty-smelling, black rubber Wellington boots.

At least, as I stare humbly down into the warm and moist, magnified innards of my Pakistani mistress Zaafira’s heavy, doc-marten work-boots, I can see the marks of where her precious socked feet have been, and can look forward to serving her as a humble bootscraper again tomorrow, when the same work-slaves will also be re-ploughing the same field, under the supervision of the same exotic, Eastern taskmistress, wearing the same pair of Western, doc-marten-style boots.

Hopefully she will bring a fresh pair of socks with her!