Footslave Fables Volume 4

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

VOLUME 4 CONTENTS (scroll down for fables in reverse numerical order)

10. Sick!

9. Dumb Obedience

8. From a Footslave Forum

7. The Perpetuant Sock-Sniffer

6. The Gang(mis)stresses

5. An Unfortunate Misunderstanding

4. A Date With Her Socks

3. They Just Don’t Get It!

2. New Mistress; New Footsmells

1. Pretty, but Vacant

………………………………………………………….

Fable no. 10 – Sick!

I was feeling a bit under the weather – shivery; a headache; chesty cough; stuffy nose.

But a public shoelick’s work is never done, and I don’t exactly qualify for statutory sick pay! Nor am I eligible for any medical treatment on the Female Health Service. I’m just a male slave!

And so when I am ill I have no choice but to carry on working – to carry on licking female shoes and boots; no doubt spreading my germs as I do so, but at least comforted by the knowledge that none of my female customers are likely to catch my disease since they are all members of a superior species – the female species – and not prone to inferior maleslave illnesses.

And so I licked and tongue-polished feminine footwear as usual, even though I could not even taste the delightful, feminine footwear-leather in the way I normally can, since my tongue was covered in a thin film of mucus.

Looking on the bright side – at least I was obliged to work kneeling down. I really don’t feel I could have coped with my illness-induced fatigue if I were one of those poor slaves who has been sentenced to a lifetime of hard labour breaking rocks in the slave-mines! I wonder what they do when they are ill? For they surely can’t be exempted from male work, and the female whip, just because they are ill?!

Even being a young woman’s personal footslave would be a struggle for me at times of illness - having to keep up with her fast-paced bootheels as I feverishly crawled behind her along the crowded streets.

No – I’m in just about the best possible place a maleslave can be when he is ill – secured in a stationary position on my public shoelick stand, where my customers walk up to me and I don’t have to move a muscle – apart from my aching neck and tongue muscles.

I don’t know what happened exactly, but I’m ashamed to say I must have fallen asleep in the mid afternoon during a quiet patch on my shoelick-pitch, for the next thing I knew I was being awoken by a painful kick to my face from a plain, black ballet-flat belonging to a young, blonde woman in her early twenties. As I came round I could hear that she was with someone, and my sleepy eyes eventually detected another pair of black ballet-flats belonging to an Indian girl of a similar age.

The two young woman were, in fact, in uniform – for they were so-called ‘Female Street-Guardians’ – young, unemployed, volunteer-women who patrol the streets of the Gynarchy looking out for, and correcting, low-level criminal activity by recalcitrant males – mainly free males; but their powers, naturally, extend also to the activities of disobedient male slaves.

Their uniforms consisted of pale blue blouses with navy-blue epaulettes and navy blue trousers. Around their shapely waists they each wore a black leather utility belt which included a pouch for their notebook; some pepper spray; and a brown leather punishment strap.

The blonde girl was wearing a pair of short, black sneaker socks inside her plain, black ballet-flats – but her Indian colleague was barefoot inside her black ballet-flats, although her shoes were a bit more fancy than her blonde colleague’s having two fetching little pink leather bows over the rounded toe areas.

The pink leather bows contrasted so sweetly with her soft, brown footpores.

I gather that footwear is not supplied as part of the Female Street-Guardians’ uniforms, and so they can choose their own footwear to go with their navy and pale-blue outfits as they see fit.

The blonde girl with the plain, black ballet-flats and socks – who had just kicked me – was shouting at me, and exhorting me to wake up. She did not sound genuinely angry, though. More amused.

Her brown-footed Indian colleague was most certainly amused at my interrupted somnolence, as she was gleefully mocking me and making sarcastic remarks about me to her fellow female-guardian:

‘Ha! Ha! Do not be being too hard on this lazy fellow, Sarah. Perhaps it is being his day off? Ha! Ha!’

The blonde mistress – whom I now know to be called mistress Sarah – also laughs out loud at her Indian colleague’s witty remark. Both girls know full well that public footslaves never have time off – not even for good slave-behaviour. Ha! Ha! The very thought of it!

We must work 24/7; 365 days a year – for the state of ladies’ footwear is much too important to be left unattended at any time. If a lady’s shoes need licking she must be able to have them tongue-shined – whatever the time of day or night; whatever the weather; and however under the weather the public footslave may be feeling!

Mistress Sarah expands upon her Indian colleague’s witty repartee by mockingly enquiring of me if it is indeed my day off:

‘Ha! Ha! Well, slave? What have you got to say for yourself? I do apologise if I have disturbed you on your day off, Mr slave sir, but I was under the impression that you were supposed to be a slave, and that you were therefore supposed to be licking ladies’ boots and shoes clean – not skiving! Please correct me if I am wrong, Mr slave sir?’

The Indian mistress, whose name I still don’t know, is in hysterics:

‘Ha! Ha! You are being so polite and generous towards the dirty slave, Sarah. I am thinking we should just be whipping him instantly. He is, after all, being breaking the female law by sleeping on duty! Ha! Ha! ...’

And with that the Indian guardian-mistress starts to unhook her brown leather punishment strap from the black leather belt around her shapely, Indian waist.

Mistress Sarah, meanwhile, was taking out her notebook, ready no doubt to record my feeble excuse for falling asleep on the job prior to her colleague quasi-judiciously applying the strap to my sweaty, bare, naked back.

The blonde mistress had by now positioned her right, ballet-flated foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling, fevered brow – almost as if she were a customer herself. So I instinctively lowered my lips to the rounded and slightly scuff-marked toe of her outstretched, black leather ballet-flat and humbly kissed the soft, black shoeleather – in an effort to ingratiate myself with the seemingly kindlier of the two guardian-mistresses:

‘Oh pray officer-mistresses... kiss…kiss... if it pleases you officer-mistresses ...kiss…kiss… please forgive this slave for his impertinence and apparent disrespect for the female foot …kiss…kiss... by falling asleep in the course of his humble, public duties, officer-mistresses …kiss... kiss. This slave truly apologises for his behaviour, mistresses. ..kiss…kiss... and praises and blesses the mistresses for kicking him awake again... kiss…kiss… if you would both be so kind officer-mistresses…kiss… kiss…Oh pray mistresses… kiss...kiss... oh pray…please don’t beat me, officer-mistresses... kiss…kiss.’

Those last two kisses were actually to officer-mistress Sarah’s exposed, black sock on her outstretched , right foot as I reckoned that the feel of my penitent lips through her soft, cotton sock might help to ingratiate me still further with the attractive, young, blonde officer-mistress.

However, the equally sweet Indian girl – whose brown, bare feet inside her pink bow-themed, black ballet-flats remained sadly out of reach and therefore singularly unimpressed by my lazy, footslave-lips – was having none of it:

‘Ha! Ha! Move aside, Sarah, so that I can be getting a good swing at him with my strap, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’

And with that my blonde-sympathizer, officer-mistress Sarah, duly withdrew her black sock and ballet-flat from my penitent lips whilst she continued to scribble down my pathetic, slavespeak ramblings into her semi-official notebook – thereby leaving the way clear for the much less sympathetic, Indian-girl officer-mistress to apply the physical discipline to my back which she, at least, clearly felt I richly deserved.

She gave me 6 stinging strokes of the punishment strap. Six of the best for being the worst - for being a lazy and disrespectful male footslave who selfishly falls asleep on the job!

I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies, for the Indian officer-mistress could, of course, have been even more cruel towards me – and used the long, thin, single-tailed, public-use whip which hangs on the wall behind my head for any dissatisfied customer to bring down on my bare back and shoulders. My God, that public-use whip cuts like a knife – and I can assure you it stings much more than any guardian-mistress’s brown leather punishment strap, however expertly the strap may be wielded!

But the Guardian-mistresses are generally not cruel women. They are just bored, female volunteers who want to record another petty crime being dealt with and cleared up thanks to their personal vigilance - and six strokes of the strap is considered a perfectly (or even prefectly) reasonable punishment for the crime of public footslave-laziness.

My petty misdemeanour duly recorded and dealt with by the ever vigilant female vigilantes, I made strenuous efforts to make sure that I did not fall asleep again. I concentrated on the stinging pain in my back as a means of keeping myself awake – even though every aching bone in my feverish body was urging me to relax and go to bed.

If only my body understood that it was a slave’s body – and had no bed to go to!

The next disaster happened, however, just a few miserable hours later when I was attempting to tongue-shine the smart, shiny black leather, pointy toed and stiletto-heeled, zip-up ankle boots of a young woman in her mid to late twenties who was being escorted by her free boyfriend on what I presume was going to be a night out on the town.

I have to admit, my heart wasn’t really in it, even though my tongue very much was. I was finding it difficult to concentrate as I had a splitting headache to accompany my back pain. And that despite the fact that the young woman concerned was particularly beautiful, with long, dark hair and what appeared to be oriental features – though she spoke with a Gynarchy accent.

She looked hot – almost as hot as my fevered brow which I only wished I could wipe on her bootleather! She was dressed in a revealing yellow and blue blouse; a black leather miniskirt; and dark nylon stockings – the suspendered tops of which would probably have been visible to me beneath the hem of her ultra-short, black leather miniskirt had I had the energy to look up.

As it was, however, I could only look down – not exactly a problem as my only legitimate sphere of interest was, after all, the young Asian woman’s pretty, black ankleboots.

But then, whilst the free man watched me going through the motions of tongue-shining his pretty girl’s second boot, her left one, disaster well and truly struck! In an effort to avoid sneezing I somehow entered into a sudden and uncontrollable coughing fit! I may not have sneezed all over my customer-mistress’s boot, but instead I regret to say that I coughed up mucus all over it – all over the superior young Asian woman’s smart, black, patent leather boot!

Understandably shocked and dismayed – she immediately withdrew her slavegerm-soiled boot from the footblock with a girlish squeal.

The master, her boyfriend, was justifiably incandescent with rage!

‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING SLAVE? COUGHING UP YOUR DIRTY PHLEGM AND SPLUTTERING YOUR GERMS ALL OVER MY GIRLFRIEND’S BOOTS! MY GOD I’M GOING TO TEACH YOU A LESSON! I’LL SOON SHOW YOU WHAT HAPPENS TO ANY SLAVE WHO DISRESPECTS MY GIRL’S BOOTS!’

And with that he grabs the aforementioned public-use whip and adds as many as two dozen thin, bitingly painful stripes to the 6 thick, red stripes already decorating my back thanks to the earlier efforts of the Indian guardian-mistress and her brown leather punishment strap.

It’s true what they say – pain is the best medicine; or rather pain is the only medicine if you are a male slave. The master’s stinging whip-strokes certainly took my mind off my illness – albeit temporarily – and cured my coughing fit, although I’m ashamed to say that the young woman was too disgusted with me to place her left, stiletto-heeled ankleboot back onto the footblock for me to apologise to it and clean off the remains of my coughed up mucus with my face!

Instead she felt the need to cleanse her boot herself using a paper tissue.

Oh the shame of it! I felt such a footslave-failure!

…………………………………………………………………..

The couple did return a few days later, however, ostensibly so that I could make amends for my earlier shameful behaviour; but in reality, probably just so they could admire the master’s handiwork on my still-striped back.

Whatever their motives, I was just pleased to be feeling much better by then, and to have the opportunity to thank and bless the master and mistress for having disciplined me so effectively and for having thereby cured me of my inconvenient illness!

I also apologised, of course, most profusely to the young woman for having coughed all over her boots (boots which she was wearing again – in fact her whole outfit looked similar to the last time), and humbly begged the master for the honour of licking his girlfriend’s boots sparkling-clean; and properly this time, without any unfortunate, illness-induced interruptions!

The master consulted his girlfriend, who, being a sweet and kind young, dark-haired, Asian woman, duly acceded to my humble request, and bravely placed her left, black-leather stiletto-ankleboot back onto my wooden footblock – the boot I had so scandalously mistreated just a few nights before!

I knew I was well on the road to recovery now as I could actually taste the young woman’s boot leather on my tongue – and I have to confess I also managed to cop a sneaky peak at those dark, nylon stocking tops as I attended to her stylish bootwear.

Yes – I am clearly fully recovered, and back to my old footslave-self!

I feel good, and it just goes to show that my humble life as a public footslave, whilst it may not be to everyone’s taste, is most definitely not to be sneezed at!

 

Fable no. 9 – Dumb Obedience

I am kneeling in front of my new mistress on the floor of her living room, my head humbly bowed over her feet, as befits a humble footslave.

My new mistress is seated imperiously above me in her armchair, her feet resting side by side on the opulent, fluffy white carpet. She is wearing black, bootcut slacks, dark nylons, and black leather ballet-flats with rose-shaped bows on each of the, somewhat weathered, rounded toe areas. I have no way of knowing whether her dark nylons are ankle, knee, or thigh length beneath her black trousers – nor, if the latter be the case, whether they are stockings or tights.

What I do know is that my new mistress is Asian in origins – Indian, I believe; that she has long, black, curly-permed hair; that she is facially very beautiful with piercing, dark eyes; and that she is in her early forties and happily married. I am about to find out a lot more about her, though, and what my relationship with her as her personal footslave will be like, as she lays down her laws to me.

She begins by ordering me to remain silent and to kiss her feet. She instructs me to keep on kissing her feet, whilst she is speaking to me from on high. Worryingly, she has not specified any particular area of her feet that she wishes me to kiss, but I decide to pay oral homage to the decorative, black leather, rose-shaped bows over the rounded toe areas of her otherwise plain, black ballet-flats, as this seems to me to be the most respectful thing to do. I kiss her right and left feet alternately.

Her voice sounds clear and authoritative, and she speaks with a Gynarchy accent; no hint of an Asian sub-continental accent – so she must have either been born in the Gynarchy, or have lived here for a very long time.

Whilst I am kissing her black, ballet-flat bows, my new mistress kindly informs me that her name is mistress Pramada, but that I am never to address her as such since I am to be her totally dumb footslave. I am forbidden to speak in her household!

This comes as something of a shock to me, since I am fluent in humble slavespeak, but my new, Asian mistress clearly thinks that personal footslaves should be seen, and not heard.

So that is how I must be from now on – completely and utterly dumb; unutterably dumb!

My new mistress Pramada further advises me that I am to be her ‘perpetuant’ foot-kisser i.e. I am to perpetually kiss her feet whilst I am in her superior presence and her feet are stationary – as they are now, resting side by side on the living room carpet beneath my kneeling face.

At this point mistress Pramada counsels me to kiss not just the toes of her black ballet flats, but also her nylon-covered feet and anklebones, as she informs me, at last, that she likes the whole of her feet to be kissed – not just her shoes.

I duly obey my new mistress by extending my humble and respectful footkisses to the dark-flesh-coloured nylons of my Indian mistress’s feet and ankles directly above her black leather ballet flats. The nylon material feels surprisingly rough on my petrified lips, despite apparently being of the finest-denier quality. On the plus side, however, I can not only see all the multitudinous tiny, individual stitches in my Indian mistress’s dark-toned nylons, I can also feel the warmth of her living, breathing, Indian feet through the ultra-thin, nylon material, and can even trace a prominent, dark blue, nylon-covered foot-vein with my lips on my new mistress’s right foot.

My new mistress has very shapely feet and ankles in line with the rest of her forty-something, Asian-woman beauty.

I hear her laughing at me as I obediently kiss her nylons. She says that she has read my file, and knows full well that I have a liking for ladies’ socks – however she never wears socks; only nylon tights. My mistress tells me I can either like it or lump it, but from now on I shall be obliged to kiss either her nylon tights or her bare feet, as she repeats – she never wears socks!

I must confess I am secretly disappointed at this news, since my mistress Pramada is quite correct – I do have a hankering for mistresses’ socks, be they cotton, cotton-polyester, or wool. But my new mistress says she will be damned if she will start wearing socks just to please me. I am her slave, and will just damn well have to get used to the feel of nylon on my footslave-lips.

Still, at least I now know that my new mistress Pramada wears full-length tights under her slacks – a humbling thought! And the equally humbling thought that I shall sometimes be permitted to kiss her soft, bare feet – including that beautiful, prominent foot-vein on her right foot – is more than enough by way of compensation for my sock-free future!

At this point my new mistress Pramada – the beautiful, middle-aged woman with a penchant for wearing nylons – produces her rod from a nearby drawer. It is a long, thin, dark brown, whippy-looking punishment rod, which she places gently over my bare, kneeling shoulder blade. Even the gentle touch of her rod on my bare and vulnerable back causes me to flinch.

That involuntary flinch, in turn, causes my mistress Pramada to laugh out loud. She gleefully informs me that if I ever fail to please her I shall be beaten with this rod, either by herself or her husband. She explains that she loves to whip – they both do – and she then proceeds to show me several photographs of her previous footslave’s whipped back. It looks very sore and red.

I kiss my new mistress’s soft, black leather ballet flats and rough, dark-nylon covered feet with renewed vigour, since I am now forbidden from verbally pleading for my new mistress’s goodness and mercy. I feel her divine, dark-nylon-covered foot muscles flexing beneath my lips in a gleeful, mistressly reaction to my slavish fear and humility under the threat of her whippy punishment-rod.

Mistress Pramada laughs again, before mercifully withdrawing the rod from my back and putting it back in its drawer. She seeks to reassure me that I shall only be beaten if I displease her, and that the simplest way to avoid the terrible pain of the rod is to be unquestioningly obedient towards her.

I express my willingness to comply with my mistress’s sound advice by respectfully kissing the outsides of both her nyloned anklebones in turn.

My new mistress then details my regular duties as her personal footslave:

• Perpetually kneeling at and kissing her feet, as she has mentioned before;
• Perpetually staring at and admiring her feet, even when I am crawling behind her to heel;
• Washing and pedicuring her bare feet in the mornings, including filing and painting her toenails, and removing her dead footskin with a pumice stone (she also mentions at this point that I shall be required to swallow her toenail-clippings and dead footskin-filings);
• Smelling her sweaty, bare or nyloned feet on command;
• Tongue-polishing the outsides of her many pairs of boots and shoes every day, whether she intends to wear them or not;
• Lick-cleaning the inner linings of her recently-worn shoes or boots;
• Smelling the insides of her sweaty shoes or boots on command;
• Eating her shoe and boot insoles when they have reached the end of their natural life;
• Smelling her sweaty, discarded nylons on command – the reinforced toe-areas only;
• Mouthwashing, and then handwashing the foot areas of her dirty, sweaty nylons;
• Putting her shoes and/or boots on her feet, and taking them off her feet, on command;
• Kissing the feet of her female friends and relatives on command;
• Showing proper, slavish respect to my male betters, including her husband, by only ever looking them in the foot and by kissing the ground in front of their feet (kissing male feet per se is illegal in the Gynarchy – thank goodness!)
• Sleeping at the foot of her marital bed, with my head underneath the end of the duvet acting as a humble foot-warmer for my mistress’s bare, unwashed, night-time feet.

My mistress Pramada then says that, providing I basically obey everything she says, she is sure we shall get along just fine, and all will be well with me. She goes on to explain however, that she does not believe in indulging a slave and that I shall therefore only be fed bread and water – occasionally spiced up with her personal toe-jam and/or her discarded and worn-out shoe-insoles (as mentioned previously).

Furthermore, she will insist on me wearing a heavy, wooden footslave-collar – or ‘cangue’ – around my neck, as she believes this will serve as a constant reminder to me of my lowliness, and will therefore induce appropriate humility in me. She explains that her manly husband will have to fit the wooden slave-collar onto my scrawny neck when he comes back from work later that afternoon, as it is currently outside in the garage and is too heavy for her to lift.

Having given me my induction into my enslavement to her and her feet, my new mistress Pramada then doesn’t proceed to ask me whether I have any questions – since I am forbidden to speak. In any event, I don’t have any questions. I am a blank canvas, ready for my mistress to do with me she wills; even to mark with her painful rod, should she so desire it. For I am now well and truly enthralled by her!

I continue to shower worshipful kisses on the decorative, black roses of her sweet, leather ballet flats and on her shapely, dark-nylon-covered anklebones.

 

Fable no. 8 - From a Footslave Forum

The following extracts are taken from a footslaves’ on-line discussion board based in the Gynarchy of Barbaria:

New Thread: Punishment!

Posted by: Sockboy731

Q. I have been found guilty by the Female Court of disrespecting my mistress’s feet and socks, and have been sentenced to a public caning of 7 strokes at my mistress’s feet which will take place in the town square next Tuesday. I am absolutely terrified at what is about to happen to me as I have never been publicly caned before. Can anyone please advise me on what to expect and what I should do to prepare myself for my impending punishment?

Replies: Re: Punishment!

From: Footslave574C

Hey Sockboy731! Sorry to hear about your conviction and punishment!

First up, you’ve gotta realise that it ’aint gonna be pretty! That cane is gonna sting, so you’d better get yourself into the right mindset for that!

I was publicly caned last year and I’ve still got the marks to prove it! It sure taught me a valuable lesson – never to disrespect or disobey my mistress ever again!

Like you I was terrified before the day of the caning, but you just gotta face up to it – there’s nothin’ you can do to get out of it.

On the actual day a couple of uniformed, female guards will escort you from the holding cells – butt naked on your hands and knees– out into the town square. If it’s a nice, sunny day – like it was for me – there’s likely to be quite a crowd gathered to watch you gettin’ caned; female tourists and the like, but some locals too. And the press will probably be there also – Gynarchy TV and all that.

Everyone’ll be jeerin’ at you as you’re bein’ led out like a dog, and some women might even spit on ya’. All you’ll be able to see is their feet – coz you’ll be forced to crawl behind your female escorts’ bootheels on your hands and knees, yeah? Just suck it all up, for answerin’ any of the women back will only make it a whole lot worse for ya’!

My advice is just to let the female guards do what they gotta do. Be compliant and co-operate as they drags ya’ over to the punishment trestle; focus on the backs of their heels, and that; and remember that at least one of them same two female guards is likely to be the one wieldin’ the cane onto your sore butt!

They’ll attach you to a wooden punishment trestle so that your butt is exposed upwards in the air. Your face will be at ground level so that your mistress whose feet and socks you dissed can sit in front of you wit’ her feet directly in front of your face.

Ya’ll will be chained up so that you can’t move a muscle – however sharp the pain!

Like as not your mistress might already be sittin’ there when they brings you out. Mine was. I suggest you try kissin’ her feet before the punishment begins. It can only help to ingratiate you to your mistress and the female cops if they sees that you’re truly sorry for your crime. But don’t bother pleadin’ for mercy – you won’t get none! The female courts have spoken and you will get what’s comin’ to ya’!

I suggest you also trys to focus in on your mistress’s feet. Just ignore everythin’ else that’s goin’ on around ya’ and concentrate on her shoes or socks. It’ll help ya’ to deal with the pain.

My mistress was wearin’ pink and white sneakers and a cute pair of matchin’ pink ankle socks on the day, so I focussed in on her socks as soon as they had me bent forwards over the trestle. Her socks were creased, so I started countin’ the creases and the stitches in her right sock. I don’t even remember hearin’ the female announcer detailin’ my crime and punishment over the tannoy ’cause I was so focused on my mistress’s pink socks!

I sure enough felt the first cut though! My God! The pain!

But listen mate, you’re just gonna have to accept that it’s gonna hurt! Do what I did – scream into your mistress’s socks. It’s the only comfort you’re gonna get, cause you can’t exactly run away from the punishment trestle! LOL!

Oh – and one final piece of advice, mate. Make sure you use the loo before leavin’ your cell on the big day. Don’t want you messin’ yourself on national TV, do we? LOL!

From: Mistress Caroline

LOL! 7 strokes of the female cane! Cool! That’s gotta smart!

Hey Sockboy731, when and where exactly is your punishment due to take place? I fancy watchin’ some of that!

Hope you suffer majorly, dweeb! LOL!

From: Sockboy731

Mistress Caroline, if it pleases you mistress Caroline, my punishment is scheduled for 3.00 P.M this coming Tuesday in the Central Town Square of Barbaria, most respected mistress.

From: Mistress Angelica

I second Ms Caroline! Creeps like you deserve all you get!

If you were my slave I’d wear my mankiest socks during your punishment, just to rub it in to you! LOL!

Suffer dude! Suffer and weep! I’ve put your flogging is (sic) in my diary!

From: Sockslave5697

Hey Sockboy731! Footslave574C is right. There ’aint nothin’ you can do to stop what’s comin’, so just get yourself ready for the pain and humiliation.

I’ve never been publicly caned by a female police-officer, though my own mistress has caned me herself!

Man, they say that those female cops sure know how to whip! I sure wouldn’t wanna be in your place come Tuesday!

Face it, dude! You’re ******!

From: Female Police-Officer Mistress Amanda

I carry out public canings all the time, and I can tell you that Footslave574C is talking a load of crap! You’re gonna suffer real bad no matter how much you focus in on your mistress’s sneakers and socks – and nothin’ is gonna ease the pain. Nor is kissin’ your mistress’s feet or lickin’ your punishment officers’ boots gonna soften anyones’ hearts; certainly not the hearts of we Female Police! LOL!

It’s true that some of my female colleagues like it when a male prisoner fawns and slobbers over their ankle boots in the cells before they lead them out, but don’t think that’ll make them go any easier on you! Remember – the whole world will be watchin’ your punishment; even in slow motion during the replays on Femdom Channel! So me and my colleagues aren’t about to embarrass ourselves by lettin’ you off with a few light taps! LOL! The Female Courts want you whupped – and whupped you will be!

We are fully trained professionals and when we cane we cane hard! We make damn sure that the will of the female courts is carried out to the letter, and that you feel the full force of the female law on your bare butt! LOL!

I’m not on duty myself next Tuesday (more’s the pity), but iffin’ I was I’d sure as hell make your ass sting for at least a week!

Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!

From: Mistress Zanna

LOL! Way to go, police-officer Amanda!

Wish it was you paddlin’ his butt on Tuesday! I love seein’ creeps like this suffer!

When’s your next public caning duty?

From: Female Police-Officer Mistress Amanda

Hi Zanna!

I’m away on a refresher course right now so it won’t be for a while.

But you can still catch me in caning action on the Femdom Channel’s catch-up service ‘Femdom On Demand’. Look under ‘September’, or just do a search under my name, or my warrant no. 666.

From: Mistress Zanna

Wow! Warrant no. 666 – the sign of the beast! How cool is that!

I’ve probably seen you caning male prisoners already then, since I watch that programme all the time!

Take care, honey! xxx

From: Mistress Zanna

Forgot to ask, Amanda hon! What do you police girls wear on your feet during a whipping or caning? Are they, like, special whipping boots or somefink with, like, a thick tread on them, or somefink? So that your feet can get good purchase on the ground while you’re carrying out the whipping, yeah?

Just (bi)curious!

From: Female Police-Officer Mistress Amanda

Hi Zanny! Mandy here again!

I personally wear my low-heeled, police-issue, black leather, zip-up ankleboots, with black socks – but some of the girls prefer whipping in heels and nylons.

I’m wit’ you, though. I think it’s important to get a good foothold on the ground when bringin’ down the female cane on a male butt – otherwise they don’t feel the full force of the female law, innit?

From: Mistress Zanna

Cool, Mandy! Never mind the full force of the female law! Sounds to me like you represent the long arm of the female law! LOL!

IMO, you should also make the bastards unzip your boots and kiss your socks after the whippin’! Make them taste your sweat, yeah?

If I was a female cop I’d smother the prisoners with my black socks in their cells after a beating – use my hot socks as a kind of anaesthetic for them to help dull the pain and that, yeah?

You see, I’m not a total bitch! LOL!

Take care, hon! xxx

From: Sockboy731

Thx to everyone who replied.

I guess I’m just gonna have to take what’s comin’ to me like the dirty slave I am – with humility and resignation.

I’m still **** scared though!

 

Fable no. 7 – The Perpetuant Sock-Sniffer

I am a perpetuant sock-sniffer. It is a most unusual thing in the Gynarchy – but my master and mistress have made me thus, as is their perfect right.

What it means in practice is that I must perpetually be sniffing my mistress’s socks – even whilst she is wearing them; both in public and in private. My ugly, slave nose must never be allowed to leave the soft, material of her socks – be they short, ankle-length cotton socks; thick, woollen calf-length socks; or sheer, nylon, knee-length trouser socks.

Whatever my mistress’s choice of sockwear I am obliged, by law, to continuously nose it – for that is what my superior master and mistress have decreed.

Of course, this can make my footslave-life quite difficult in practice. It is easy enough for me to perpetually nose my mistress’s socks whilst she is lying back and relaxing in the strong and manly arms of her husband, with her shoeless or bootless feet resting on the edge of the couch; then I can nose and sniff my mistress’s sweet feminine socks with abandonment!

But if she is walking down the street, in her blue denim jeans and white sneakers or black ballet-flats – or, even worse, in her blue denim jeans and brown leather, zip-up ankle boots – it can be well-nigh impossible for me to maintain nose-to-sock contact!

My master and mistress know this full well, of course, but that does not stop them from punishing me for my flagrant disobedience and disrespect in allowing my nose to leave the warmth and comfort of my superior mistress’s socks in such difficult circumstances.

Any excuse for a slave-whipping!

I am 50 years old. My mistress Isabella is a 23 year old, swarthy-skinned, Hispanic girl - slightly plump, but with a pretty face and beautiful, dyed-blonde, shoulder-length hair. Her husband David, ‘master David’ to me, is 28 years old. He is pasty-white; slightly built; and has greasy pockmarked skin and matching greasy, brown hair. I detest him, but my mistress loves him, and therefore I must respect him and his wish that I should pay homage to his pretty, young, Hispanic wife by perpetually sniffing her socks. It makes the young master feel all macho and strong – proud of his wife and proud of his delegated power to make me into her perpetual sock-sniffer.

Sniffing my pretty, plump, bleached-blonde, Hispanic mistress’s socks in public when she is wearing sneakers or ballet-flats is not so difficult – especially when she is stationary; for example seated on the bus, or in a bar, or at her office desk. For her trouser or jean hems will inevitably ride up to afford me a revealing glimpse of the elasticated top of her sock along the side of her pretty, if somewhat podgy, instep, just above the sneaker or ballet-flat rim.

Then I can place the tip of my nose on the soft cotton material of the sock, and audibly sniff it. My sniffs must be audible so that everybody around us knows that I am a sock-sniffing queer, humbly paying perpetual homage to my mistress’s superior socks.

White Worksocks

My mistress Isabella has a penchant for wearing very short, all-white sneaker socks with her plain black ballet-flats when she goes to work, so I can easily see any black dust or dirt stains on the elasticised rims of her white, cotton socks, and sniff it off. Sometimes she even wears short, white, ruffled socks with her office ballet-flats, thereby enabling me to bury my nose in the ruffled folds at the top of her sock; to truly immerse myself in white, female sock whilst she works at her computer above me!

But most days she wears just plain, ordinary, non-ruffled white sneaker-socks to work, though they are often slightly creased below her podgy, dusky-brown, Mediterranean ankle bones.

It is such an honour for me to be obliged to publicly sniff out loud, in front of all her work-colleagues - freemale and female - the upper rims of my mistress’s, nominally pure, white sneaker-socks, be they ruffled or plain, beneath her office desk whilst she is still wearing them inside her black officewear ballet-flats.

I say ‘nominally’ pure, because I know full well that inside her ballet-flats, around the toe and heel areas, my mistress’s seemingly pure, white office-socks will, in fact, be tarnished by the stale sweat stains from the inner linings of her well-worn office shoes. The ultra short, ultra-feminine, white socks will be brown and yellowy in places – brown and yellow from ingrained, stale, office-girl footsweat – and covered in tiny hairs and other detritus from my mistress’s living room carpet where she was walking about in her socked feet earlier that morning.

I know all that because I will have been perpetually sniffing her socks, watching the dirt and dust accumulating on them, whilst she wandered around the flat before breakfast in her freshly white-socked feet.

But for now – in public at any rate – the socks look clean. And they do, at this early stage of the working day, smell relatively nice. In fact, they smell of faint perfume, for my mistress likes to spray her feet with anti-perspirant before she has me don her socks of a morning. I don’t think for one minute that she does so out of regard for me and my feelings! She just doesn’t like her feet to feel sticky and sweaty first thing inside her warm and soft ballet-flats!

Black Leisure Socks

Some days, especially on non-working days, my mistress Isabella prefers to wear her short, plain black sneaker-socks out and about, usually inside her favourite pair of comfortable, low-cut, red and white striped, lace-up sneakers, instead of her white socks.

I do like it when my mistress Isabella wears her black socks with her white sneakers (or indeed her white socks with her black, office ballet-flats), as the contrast between the black and the white always makes it comparatively easy for me to concentrate on sniffing her socks, rather than allowing my nose to inadvertently stray onto the matching white leather material of her sneaker, which can sometimes, I am ashamed to admit, happen when she is wearing white socks with her white sneakers.

With black socks inside her sneakers I can be left in no doubt as to exactly where the sock ends and the sneaker begins. I therefore have absolutely no excuse for not perpetually keeping my nose attached to girlsock – at least whenever my mistress is standing still or is seated – however slender that slither of black sock may be below her dusky-brown, fleshy, Hispanic ankle bone.

Also, the black socks, whilst they may hide ingrained sweat stains more than my mistress’s white socks, do show up all the little pieces of white fluff that inevitably get attached to my mistress’s socks as she goes about her business during her off days. I like that, as it helps me to pinpoint the fluff with my slave-nose and sniff it off.

Yes, I do very much admire my mistress Isabella’s short, black socks when she wears them inside her red and white striped, lace-up sneakers, every bit as much a I appreciate her short, white socks inside her black, office ballet-flats!

Black Bootsocks

But, as I hinted earlier, if she wears her short, sneaker-style socks, black or white, inside her chunky-heeled, brown leather, zip-up ankle boots – I am done for! For, even if I can occasionally just catch a glimpse of the tops of my mistress Isabella’s short socks down inside her bootrims (for example when she is seated at a table or desk with her right leg crossed over her left), I cannot possibly hope to get my nose onto them!

Sure I can still sniff the top-insides of my mistress’s brown leather ankleboots, but it is her socks I am supposed to be sniffing – not her warm boot-air! I am supposed to be her perpetuant sock-sniffer; not her perpetuant boot-sniffer!

Mercifully, in the normal course of events, my sweet and kind mistress Isabella will take pity on me and deliberately wear her knee-high, dark nylon trouser socks inside her ankle boots, so that I can rest my weary nose on the nylon material covering her lower calf-muscle just above her booted anklebone, and thereby comply with her spotty husband’s wishes that I be her perpetual, 24/7 sock-noser and sniffer.

But if my mistress is feeling frisky, and if she wishes to turn her husband on, she will deliberately and obstructively choose to wear her short, white or black sneaker-socks inside her boots, as she knows that will give her manly, if greasy, young husband the excuse he is looking for to exert his macho freemale-authority over me later in the evening, and to punish me on behalf of his wife for not being able to nose her short socks deep inside her boots continuously throughout the day.

Sock-neglect, they call it!

It will happen like this. At the end of the long day my master and mistress will be cuddled up on their living room sofa watching TV. Typically, my mistress will be lying back on the sofa in her husband’s arms, whilst he is seated upright. Her Hispanic feet, now divested of her brown, leather, zip-up ankleboots, but still clad in her short, black cotton sneakersocks-cum-bootsocks, will be resting on the far edge of the sofa at which I am humbly kneeling – all the time audibly sniffing her sweaty, freshly-liberated socks, of course.

I shall be concentrating on sniffing up all the day’s dust and detritus attached to the now moist and musty-smelling soles of my mistress’s short, black socks, including the lots of little hairs – some of which, I am convinced, must come from my master David’s greasy head (or even pubes!)

As I sniff girlsock, I hear the master speaking softly and lovingly to his pretty wife at the other end of the sofa:

‘Did Sockboy do his humble duty today, sweetheart?’

‘Sockboy’ is their degrading slave-nickname for me.

The master knows full well, of course, that I could not possibly have done my duty today (i.e. kept my nose firmly attached to the material of his wife’s socks) as she was deliberately wearing her sock-inhibiting ankleboots over her short, black boot-socks all day long!

But he still needs to hear my mistress confirm my disobedience, for in the Gynarchy of Barbaria a man – even a free man; even a husband – cannot punish a male slave without a mistress’s say so.

Because my mistress is feeling horny (and has been all day, hence her very deliberate choice of sock-access-denying footwear this morning) she is happy to seal my sock-sniffing fate:

‘Um…no, not really, David my darling… in fact, his nose hardly managed to touch my socks all day!’

As I listen in to my two superiors’ wicked conversation above me, I attempt, pathetically, to sniff my mistress’s short, black, cotton socks all the harder and louder – as if sniffing them vigorously now that they are free of boot-obstruction can somehow make up for ‘neglecting’ them whilst she was wearing them deep inside her brown, leather ankleboots!

But, of course, it makes no difference. The master feigns indignation at my disobedience to his standing orders, and immediately offers to discipline me:

‘Would you like me to whip him, Isabella honey?’

Mistress Isabella sighs wistfully, and casually wriggles her podgy, dusky, Hispanic toes inside the reinforced stitching of her socks, causing her moist, black cotton, sock material to crease and fold around my nose:

‘Oohh…yes please, darling! Whip him for me! Punish him!’

That’s it! I shall now be whipped for my sock-mistress’s pleasure – punished for failing to carry out my mission impossible of nosing and sniffing a young, fat, blonde-haired yet swarthy-complexioned, Hispanic woman’s short, black sneaker-socks whilst they were deep down inside her brown leather, zip-up ankleboots!

I am, of course, whipped whilst I am still on my hands and knees at the end of the sofa, desperately sniffing my mistress Isabella’s odorous black socks. Somehow, nosing her stinky socks during a whipping always helps to take my mind off the pain. They act like a kind of footslave-anaesthetic!

All the while he was whipping me, master David was asking me (no doubt primarily for his amused, young, Hispanic wife’s benefit) why I had failed to perpetually keep my nose on her socks as I had been ordered to do? Did I not like her socks, or something? Or did I think I was just too high and mighty to be a beautiful, young woman’s perpetual sock-sniffer?

I tried, through my sock-muffled screams, to reassure the master-sir that I did indeed admire his most beautiful wife’s short, black socks; that I most definitely did not think of myself as being in any way above her socks; and that it had been my fervent wish and desire to pay homage to her socks with my ugly slave-nose continuously throughout the day; but that the mistress’s pretty, brown leather ankleboots had unfortunately gotten in the way of my inadequate nose.

I also sought to assure the master that, even though my nose had not been able to perpetually maintain physical contact with his wife’s socks inside her boots, I had nonetheless been perpetually imagining myself sniffing her short, black bootsocks throughout the course of the day.

But the master-sir, quite rightly, was having none of that – and he continued to soundly beat me with his wife’s black leather whip.

After the whipping my master and mistress, both stimulated by my righteous chastisement, retired to the bedroom where they made mad, passionate love. I was required to kneel in the corner of the master bedroom, sniffing and sobbing into my mistress’s now crumpled up and discarded, black, sneaker-style bootsocks on the bedroom floor whilst my youngers’ and betters’ noisy lovemaking carried on for two whole hours!

Oh the vigour and vitality of youth!

Pink Bedsocks

But don’t think for one moment that this is the end of my demeaning, sock-sniffing day! For, after my mistress Isabella has cleaned her teeth and performed her night-time ablutions in the ensuite bathroom, I am ordered to my usual, night-time position – kneeling at the end of her marital bed with my head under the duvet, my nose resting on the soles of my mistress’s fuzzy, pink cotton, calf-length bedsocks.

This is how I shall spend the entire night – with my nose quite literally embedded in the stinky creases and folds of my fully spent mistress’s thick, warm, pink-fluffy bedsocks, audibly sniffing them whilst she lies in the arms of her manly and protective, greasy-haired husband.

Even when I drift off to sleep I must be breathing in her sock-smell.

Oh if only she had worn these fuzzy, calf-length, pink socks inside her brown leather ankleboots earlier today – maybe then I could have fulfilled my humble role as a perpetuant sock-sniffer, and my nose could have succeeded in being humbly attached to female sock all day long, so that I wouldn’t now be kneeling here, pink fluffy girlsock in face, but with such a deservedly sore and smarting, stripy, whipped back for unwelcome company!

 

Fable no. 6 – The Gang(mis)stresses

My 18 year old, mixed-race mistress, miss Chantelle, is a leading member of a particularly vicious girl-gang.

There are lots of girl-gangs in the big cities of the Gynarchy – no boy-gangs, of course. Young men, even free men, are not permitted to associate in gangs, though they may be adopted as ‘honorary’ gang members by their young women.

But only young women as such may legitimately form gangs – and that is not so much because girlgang membership is actually legal or encouraged by the authorities; it’s just that women, all women, are above the female law and can live their lives however they wish. This is a Gynarchy after all!

Certainly, my young mistress’s activities within the girl-gang are not, strictly speaking, legal: she does drugs; she deals in drugs; she robs free males (not a crime, as such, in the Gynarchy – but nevertheless not exactly what you would call ‘sociable’ behaviour); and she gets into cat-fights with other girls, usually with girls from rival girl-gangs.

Even my personal enslavement to miss Chantelle is not, strictly speaking, legal – since she should be at least 21 years old in order to own a personal slave in the Gynarchy. But the authorities turn a blind eye towards me. The law finds it difficult to deny such a strong-willed and uneducated young woman the pleasure in owning a personal footslave. She is, after all, clearly mature enough to manage a slave of her own – my whipped and bruised back bears eloquent testimony to that!

So there is much to admire about my mistress Chantelle. She is, fundamentally, a feisty, young woman who is above the law. And all this is in addition to her great physical beauty – slim; dark-skinned; her dyed-red hair tied back in a tight ponytail; a pockmarked face, and scarred arms, from regularly shooting up with drugs.

She looks, and is, ‘fly’, and I regard it as a great privilege to be her personal footslave, even though she, quite rightly, treats me like the dirt beneath her superior, ugg-booted feet.

My mistress Chantelle likes to wear her calf-length, beige-brown, sheepskin Ugg-boots whatever the weather – winter, spring, summer or autumn. They are a kind of ‘badge’ for her; a symbol of her girl-gang membership, and nearly all the young women in her particular gang wear copycat Ugg boots – hence the gang’s none too flattering nickname out on the mean streets, ‘The Uggly Girls’.

My personal mistress likes to wear her Ugg boots with brightly-coloured ankle socks and black leggings. She has such a sense of girlgang class and style! Today, for instance, she is wearing calf-length, multicoloured, striped socks, with the hems of her black, cotton leggings stylishly stuck into the tops of said socks.

The stripy, calf-length, girlgang-member socks and musty-smelling, beige brown, sheepskin ugg-boots seem to tower above me as I kneel, humbly and respectfully, behind my girlgang-mistress’s feet, whilst she smokes some weed along with some of her female mates down a dingy alleyway on her local sink estate.

I can smell the weed, of course, but even the strong smell of cannabis cannot mask the even stronger smell of well-worn, sheepskin ugg-boot that is assailing my footslave-nostrils. That’s the only ‘high’ I need – the sweet smell of superior young, mixed-race woman ugg boot! And, of course, I get to admire the sight of the ingrained dirt-stains in the backs of my mistress Chantelle’s somewhat misshapen ugg-boot heels as she leans against the wall, happily doing dope.

It is a calm and peaceful scene until, suddenly, my mistress’s bitterest enemy from a rival girl-gang, miss Queisha, storms into the alleyway accompanied by some of her own female cohorts.

Miss Queisha is my mistress Chantelle’s enemy not just because she is the leader of a rival girl-gang, but because she and my mistress are both currently ‘courting’ master Winston – a free man whom they both fancy. Master Winston is even an ‘honorary’ member of both gangs – mainly because he can supply the girls with most of their drugs.

I think I know why mistress Queisha is so angry – my mistress Chantelle slept with master Winston last night. I know that because I was there – at the foot of their bed, lying on my back with my face covered with a pair of miss Chantelle’s dirty, stripy socks. Master Winston had even seen fit to shove one of the sweaty, discarded girlsocks into my mouth – crusty toe-end first – as he said he didn’t want the sound of my slave-breath disturbing their lovemaking.

Miss Queisha must have got wind of master Winston’s unfaithfulness towards her (though she didn’t hear it from me; I am the sock-sole of discretion!), and is clearly jealous, particularly because she has been feeling horny and frustrated of late!

I’m ashamed to say that, for all my footslavish devotion to my mistress Chantelle and her ubiquitous ugg-boots, I do very much admire her female enemy and rival, miss Queisha, as she storms into the alleyway – tall, black; long, straggly dreadlocks; and dressed in a fetching red leather miniskirt with black woolly tights and dirty, scuff-marked, black leather biker boots on her shapely, Afro-Caribbean calve and leg muscles.

She is, at one and the same time, frightening, and yet feminine; rapacious, and yet somehow vulnerable!

Miss Queisha immediately squares up to my own mistress Chantelle in the back alleyway, egged on by her fellow girl-gang members from the rival gang (known as ‘The Gynarchy Sistas’ – since they are all black). There is lots of unladylike language as miss Queisha remonstrates with my mistress, although my mistress gives as good as she gets in that regard. The dope she has taken is clearly not strong enough to make her chill out and laugh off miss Queisha’s unkind assertions to the effect that my beloved mistress Chantelle is some sort of slut!

There is clearly going to be a fight, and I brace myself accordingly. For my role in any fight is to use my head to try to protect my mistress Chantelle’s shins from any kicks from whichever opponent she is struggling with. As the two young women grab each other by the hair I look with some fear and apprehension at the reinforced, rounded and scuff-marked toes of miss Queisha’s black leather biker boots, for I know those boots are going to greatly hurt my face.

But I must protect my mistress’s delicate, girl-gangster shins!

Oh if only I was miss Queisha’s slave – selfishly I would much rather be receiving blows to my face from the toes of miss Chantelle’s soft, sheepskin ugg-boots!

Sure enough my nose is nearly shattered by a dizzying blow from miss Queisha’s heavy, right boot. For a second or two I see stars, before my vision clears again and I see the much more mundane, wet street-dirt on the toe of miss Queisha’s right boot (it has been raining all morning).

My injured face has done its job, however. That particular kick to my face would have undoubtedly been most painful for my beloved mistress Chantelle had it managed to make contact with her soft, feminine shinbone. I am glad, therefore, that my nose and face took the full force of the blow – for my maleslave face is much less important than my girl-gangster mistress’s shins.

Indeed, I’m honoured to say that my 50 year old face becomes a most effective shinguard for my mistress Chantelle’s 18 year old shins throughout the three minute catfight, deflecting many painful kicks from her soft and delicate legs, and enabling her to kick back (mistress Queisha doesn’t have a protective footslave-shinguard of her own – another perennial bone of contention between the two girls!)

The irony is, of course, that just a couple of hours or so after the female ruckus between the Uggly Girls and the Gynarchy Sistas, the two young leading-women, and their respective girlgang-members, will all be the best of friends again, until the next fight. These young, female gang-members have much more in common with each other (drugs; strength; power), than that which divides them (men). In fact, if the two girl-gangs would only merge they could become ‘The Uggly Sistas’!

However, be that as it may, my bruised and battered, middle-aged, male face will certainly retain the scars of the scary girlfight for much longer. Indeed, to my mistress Chantelle’s great amusement, as she and her erstwhile opponent subsequently smoke conciliatory weed together just a few hours after their ruck, the treadmarks from the soles of miss Queisha’s heavy, black leather biker boots are, apparently, still visible on my ugly, male footslave-face.

Miss Chantelle even orders me to kiss miss Queisha’s reinforced boot-toes, and to thank her for decorating my face with her biker-boot treads. I can smell the strong smell of miss Queisha’s black, wet, Rastafarian bootleather through my broken nose as I do so.

How all the girlgang members laugh at me – and master Winston laughs at me too when he joins his army of female-admirers in the alleyway, and puts his manly, protective arms around both my mistress Chantelle and mistress Queisha. He mocks me for literally having had my face kicked in by a girl; by his girl – or, at least, by one of his girls!

And rightly so, for my face bears the marks of where an angel has dared to tread.

 

Fable no. 5 – An Unfortunate Misunderstanding

There is certainly much for a slave to admire about my mistress Suzanna: tall; slim; brunette; averagely pretty and of average intelligence; volatile, and quick to whip; unforgiving and cruel.

Her volatility, in particular, normally keeps me on her toes, but the other day there was a serious and most unfortunate breakdown in communication between mistress and slave.

My mistress Suzanna had ordered me to lick clean her dirty kitchen floor, and I was two hours into this task, on my hands and knees on the black-and-white checked linoleum of her kitchen floor, when she suddenly stormed into the room with a pair of her chunky-heeled, brown leather, knee-high, zip-up boots in her hands.

She angrily chucked the boots down onto the freshly licked floor beneath my face and kicked me hard in the buttocks with the pointy toe of her stylish, creamy white leather, high-heeled, single-strapped shoe on her right foot:

‘Slave! I thought I told you to tongue-polish these boots? Just look at the state of them – they’re filthy!’

She kicked me hard again, in the same place, and with the same pointy leather toe.

Mistress Suzanna may have thought that she had ordered me to tongue-clean her brown leather boots, but I am sure I received no such orders. The only orders she had given me recently were to tongue-polish her kitchen floor, which I have been diligently doing! But she is spitting menstrual blood, and shaking with uncontrollable rage, at my perceived lack of obedience, and when mistress Suzanna is in such a mood there is only one thing for her slave to do – kiss her livid feet and beg for mercy.

I immediately move my mouth and lips over to the pointy toe of her right, high-heeled shoe – the one that has just kicked me on my now painful backside. Mistress is wearing a short, black skirt with thick, black, woolly tights on her shapely legs, so I kiss her tights over her anklebones as well in a pathetic attempt to elicit sympathy and compassion from my capricious, excitable and much mistaken mistress:

‘Oh pray mistress Suzanna …kiss…kiss…oh pray mistress …kiss…kiss…please have mercy on this stupid, disobedient slave, mistress…kiss…kiss…and beat him with the whip, mistress…kiss…kiss…Teach me a much needed lesson mistress! …kiss…kiss…Please whip me mistress!’

Now, let me make one thing perfectly clear – I do not like to be whipped! And especially not by my highly-whip-skilled mistress Suzanna – a young woman who knows how to extract the maximum amount of pain from a slave by means of the dexterous and efficient application of the female whip!

But the absolute worst thing I could possibly do in these circumstances is to seek to argue with my superior mistress; to even suggest that she is wrong, and that she had given me no such orders to lick-shine her dirty, knee-length boots.

Her thick, woolly tights feel incongruously soft on my lips over her bony ankles as I am subsequently forced to listen to her harsh words of female criticism, and feel yet more kicks from her dainty, but pointy, feminine footwear to my vulnerable ribs and buttocks:

‘Oh, so you admit it, then, dirty slave?... kick…kick…Fool! …kick…kick…Idiot! …kick…kick…Lazy, no-good, dirty, stinking footpig!.... kick…kick…How dare you disobey me and ignore my orders?... kick…kick… Go and fetch my whip this instant! ... kick…kick’

The last two kicks from her shiny, white shoes are particularly severe to my buttocks, and send me on my ignominious way on my hands and knees towards her upstairs bedroom and her sock-drawer where she also keeps her much feared, single-tailed, brown leather, punishment whip. Such a cruel instrument of suffering always seems so out of place surrounded by her sweet and soft, ultra-feminine socks and tights. Even at rest the whip feels rough in my shaking hands.

But I must put it into my disobedient mouth and crawl back downstairs with it to my mistress’s feet – for I am about to be whipped!

I am duly whipped – on my bare, slave back; and expertly so. Fifteen punishing lashes, each accompanied by the equally stinging blow of a harsh word from my mistress:

‘Fool! ... whip … Moron! ....whip …Dirty…whip… stinking …whip…disrespectful …whip… lazy…whip… pig! ... Filthy…whip…footwhore! …whip… I’ll…whip…soon… whip … teach…whip… you….whip… through the whip!… whip…whip…whip!’

My incandescent, brunette mistress is quite breathless by the time she has finished beating and berating me, for she is not in the best of health, physically or mentally.

Needless to say, I am not in a good place either, physically or mentally, following my punishment. I am on my hands and knees at her feet, sobbing with shame and pain – shame at having displeased my mistress; pain from the sting of her righteously-feminine whip.

It is with equal breathlessness, therefore, that I pay further homage to my mistress Suzanna’s woolly-tighted, whipping feet. I do not speak now – just kiss – for I am in no position to answer my mistress back, not even to thank her and bless her for disciplining me. All she wants to hear now is my respectful and contrite silence, and all she wants to feel are my penitent lips on the soft material of her black, woolly tights – just above the toe-cleavage area and below the single, thin, white leather strap that crosses beneath her outstretched, bony, right ankle.

As I pay homage to her female whip-power and her woolly tights, I can see the offending boots lying nearby where she threw them down on the kitchen floor, looking crumpled and dirty. It has all been a terrible misunderstanding. I misunderstood my mistress Suzanna’s order to tongue-shine her boots to be an order to lick-shine her kitchen floor. But my mood-swinging mistress has justly corrected me, and I now see, and feel, the error of my ways.

The more I kiss her black, woolly tights, the more my mistress Suzanna calms down, and the more the smarting in my back seems to ease. It is a cathartic, healing process for both of us – kissing one’s mistress’s feet after a fully deserved whipping.

I concentrate on kissing a particularly alluring crease in the black, woolly material of her tights just below the fetching, little white strap that crosses the bottom of her ankle area on her right foot. Her foot wobbles in its creamy-white, patent leather, high-heel shoe as I repeatedly apply my lips to the creased, woollen material of her tights, a sure sign that my mistress is taking justifiably smug pleasure and satisfaction in my slavish contrition and humility.

I then turn my attention to the neglected brown leather, zip-up boots, and tongue-polish them up a treat.

Mistress is always right. Yet again she has won the argument, has had her way, and the last word.

And that word, if you care to check back, was ‘whip’!

 

Fable no. 4 – A Date With Her Socks

My 23 year old, blonde-ponytailed mistress, mistress Brianna, and her stud-boyfriend, master Michael, came back to my mistress’s home somewhat squiffy after their hot date at the nightclub. It was about 2.00 A.M but, of course, I had to wait up for my mistress’s return, for, as I am her personal footslave, I am responsible for undressing her feet before she gets into bed with her boyfriend, my nominal master.

They were both giggling and laughing at me as I humbly knelt at my mistress’s feet whilst she sat on the edge of her bed, and respectfully undid the zip of her black, leather, pointy-toed and spike-heeled ankle boots to reveal her pretty, white anklesocks with the row of bright red lips running along the tops. My mistress nearly always wears these fun socks when she goes out clubbing and is in a flirtatious mood. She actually refers to them as her ‘kiss-socks’ because of the fun and flighty lips-motif, but, of course, I am obliged to kiss all her socks on a regular basis – even her plain black, sober officewear socks.

It was the drunken master who set the ball rolling when he mockingly said that he felt sorry for me as, being a house-slave, I never got to go out on a date with a beautiful young woman like my mistress Brianna; that I never got to kiss a woman on the lips, or caress the softness of her smooth, womanly body; that I was obliged to stay at home all the time and to work hard at tongue-shining my mistress’s shoes whilst she went out and had a good time with the likes of him – a real man.

The dominant, young drunken couple laughed at me as I continued to meekly unzip my mistress Brianna’s boot on her somewhat wobbly left foot when, through her drunken haze, my mistress Brianna suddenly had a bright idea – she suggested to master Michael that I might like to go out on a date with her kiss-socks! After all, she opined, I would never be good enough, or successful enough, to date a woman as such, but I might just be able to successfully woo and court a pair of girls’ socks?

How the dominant couple laughed at the humiliating and degrading suggestion, and at my evident, pathetic excitement at the tantalizing prospect of a ‘date’ with my mistress Brianna’s white socks, etched large on my gormless footslave-face!

Master Michael said he loved the idea, and duly commanded me to ask out his girlfriend’s socks – whilst she was still wearing them on her now fully debooted feet. He advised me to do so with a degree of nervousness and trepidation, as the female socks might reject my advances, since I am such a lowly and despised creature.

I humbly thanked the master for his sound advice, and then proceeded to ask out my mistress’s red and white kiss-socks using the humble and respectful language of a would-be anxious suitor of female socks:

‘Oh pray mistress Brianna’s socks, if it pleases you mistress Brianna’s white socks, this slave thinks you are looking truly beautiful on the mistress’s feet this evening with your pure white cotton and ruby red lips, and humbly begs the mistress’s superior socks for permission to take them out, so that he may have the pleasure and honour of your company, if you would be so kind and gracious to a lowly and respectful footslave, mistress Brianna’s pretty socks?’

The dominant couple seated above me on the edge of the bed roared with laughter at my pathetic and feeble attempt at wooing my mistress’s warm and sweaty bootsocks. Even the bright, red lips on the tops of her socks looked as though they were laughing at me.

But they also, it seemed, took pity on me, and didn’t reject my advances, for their spokesperson and chaperone, my mistress Brianna, kindly informed me that her socks had decided they would deign to go out with me on a date, but they wanted to know where exactly I was proposing to take them, since I was permanently confined to my mistress’s home?

Master Michael kindly stepped in to help me out again at this point, as he suggested that I could take his girlfriend’s dirty socks out on a date to the kitchen. He urged me to ask his girlfriend’s socks if they would like that.

I humbly thanked the master once again for his kind suggestion, and duly asked my mistress’s red and white kiss-socks, whilst they were still on her drunken, post-clubbing feet, whether they would do me the honour of accompanying me to the mistress’s kitchen?

An hysterical mistress Brianna informed me that her socks were indeed prepared to go out with me on a hot date to her kitchen, and she then kindly lay back on the bed and stretched out both her socked feet into the air in front of my kneeling face so that I could pull her moist, ankle-length, clubbing socks off her sweaty, white feet.

At this point the master counselled me to first kiss each of my mistress’s white socks – on the sides (or the ‘cheeks’ as he put it) as it was only a first date, and much too early for me to be thinking about kissing my new ‘girlfriends’ on the lips. He did ‘congratulate’ me however, on pulling two hot socks on one date!

Once my mistress Brianna’s socks were successfully pulled off her sweaty feet and lying on the bedroom floor beneath my humbly bowed face, master Michael laid down some ground rules for me, almost as if the socks were his beloved daughters whom he wished to protect:

1. I was to treat his girlfriend’s socks with respect during my date with them in the kitchen;
2. I was to continue to verbally woo and court them whilst in the kitchen, and keep the socks entertained with some witty banter, as female socks, he gleefully informed me, appreciated a male slave with a sense of humour;
3. I was to bring them back by 03.00 A.M at the latest;
4. I wasn’t even to think of performing any kind of sexual act with them, as they were pure and innocent socks, with a reputation to keep intact!

I assured the master that I would never dream of defiling my mistress Brianna’s good-girl socks and thanked him for his kind words of advice. How the master and mistress laughed at me and mocked me mercilessly! The mistress, in particular, said she was confident that her socks would be perfectly safe with me since I was just an impotent footslave.

I think my masters and betters were starting to get bored with me by now, and were eager to make love to one another, for they started kissing and canoodling lasciviously on the bed above me, and the master gave me his permission to pick up his girlfriend’s dirty socks in my mouth and transport them to the kitchen.

I, of course, obeyed the master - as I always do - and, crawling across the floor on my hands and knees, respectfully conveyed my two hot ‘dates’ in my footslave-mouth to the nearby kitchen, where I then placed them down gently on the tiled floor beneath my kneeling face and laid them out as neatly as I could, like I was showing them to their seats in a restaurant.

Then, mindful of my master’s clear instructions, I sought to entertain my mistress’s discarded socks through some friendly banter. It was, however, a rather one-way conversation, as the socks were not very talkative, and it was accompanied throughout by the somewhat distracting sounds of my master and mistress making wild, passionate love in the bedroom next door.

Nevertheless, I told the socks yet again that I thought they looked very beautiful tonight, and I particularly praised their ruby-red lips. I also told them that they smelt fragrant, and of the very essence of my mistress Brianna’s feet (which they did – for even lying on the cold kitchen floor they were still warm, having only recently been liberated from the confines of her hot, nightclubbing, stiletto-heeled, black leather ankleboots).

I asked the socks if they came here often, and even made so bold as to kiss them once or twice on the white parts – not on the lips, as master Michael had warned me in no uncertain terms not to try to take advantage of my mistress’s socks on a first date. I did, however, respectfully fondle the socks, and complimented them on how soft and smooth they felt.

The hour-long date passed quickly, as did my master’s lovemaking with my mistress in the room next door, and all too soon it was time for me to take the socks ‘home’ to my master and mistress who were waiting up for them.

I once again conveyed the grubby, white socks in my slave-mouth as I crawled back to the bedroom.

My master and mistress were by now sitting up in bed enjoying a post-coital cigarette as I humbly crawled into the master bedroom with my mistress’s socks hanging from my mouth. I deposited them safely by the side of the master bed.

My superiors and betters laughed down at me from the lofty heights of their extramarital bed and asked me if I had enjoyed my hot date with the mistress’s socks? I thanked the master and mistress, and replied that I had – very much so.

Mistress Brianna then addressed her socks, lying on the floor, and asked them what they had thought of their date? Were they satisfied with the way I had treated them? Would they be seeing me again?

I’m ashamed to say that the two red and white, feminine kiss-socks were apparently somewhat disappointed with how their date had gone, and thought that their escort for the evening had been totally lame and limp. They were not, according to my mistress Brianna, disposed to go out with me again, and in fact would not be upset if they never saw me again!

How master Michael roared with laughter at his witty girlfriend’s interpretation of her socks’ assessment of my lack of courting skills! He told me that I was weak and impotent, and couldn’t even satisfy a pair of girls’ dirty socks! He called me a loser and a wimp, and a pathetic excuse for a man – and then promptly made love to my mistress again, this time in my very presence, in order, as he put it, to show me how a real man treats his hot dates.

As my superior master and mistress made love for the second time that morning, I humbly and respectfully bowed my head over my mistress’s socks which were lying on the bedroom floor beneath my face, kissed them on the white ‘cheeks’ again, and apologised to them internally for disappointing them, whilst seeking to assure them that if they would only give me a second chance I would try to do much better next time.

Sadly, I never did get to take my mistress Brianna’s socks out again on a romantic date. My relationship with all my mistress’s socks – including her flighty kiss-socks – had to remain purely professional and platonic.

 

Fable no. 3 – They Just Don’t Get It!

I am just the lowly, office footslave – rightly despised by all the other employees in the office, male and female alike. That’s because I must exist permanently on my hands and knees, servicing and admiring the feet and footwear of all the females in the office, my scrawny neck kept permanently humbled and bowed over their superior, feminine feet by means of a heavy wooden neck-collar or ‘cangue’.

My freemale compatriots, in particular, despise me – and certainly don’t envy me – as I crawl at the feet of their female co-workers. I suspect they feel that I am missing out on so much:

• On the women’s respect;
• On their conversation and banter (a banter of almost-equals);
• On being able to admire and appreciate their pretty faces, and shapely, womanly breasts;
• On their female colleagues’ warm, soft, luscious bodies as they have office affairs and make love to them in the photocopying room!

But what my freemale colleagues don’t realize is that they are the ones who are missing out; that they are the ones who don’t get it!

Allow me to illustrate what I mean by way of a few examples:

Nylon-Stockinged Feet

Just the other day I was kneeling at the feet of the beautiful and tall Ukrainian mistress, mistress Marina, from Public Relations.

I was commanded by her to kneel beside her feet underneath her desk as she sat on her office swivel-chair working on her computer. I wasn’t required to do anything, as such, to her feet – just kneel beside them and admire them.

And I must say, there was much to admire, for mistress Marina is a truly beauteous young white woman – late twenties; long-legged and slim; with shoulder-length, auburn hair. And she was smartly and dominantly dressed in her grey, pinstriped, office trouser-suit, with neatly turned up hems on her pinstriped, bootcut trouser legs – although she wasn’t wearing any Cossack-style boots; instead she was wearing her familiar, very fetching pair of pointy-toed, one-inch heeled black leather office-shoes with a fancy, latticed pattern over the toe areas.

Through the gaps in that latticed shoe-leather over her toes I could clearly observe the thin, stretched, white-flesh-coloured material of her nylon stockings. Indeed, I was so close to her office feet that I could even make out the individual nylon stitches in her stockings over her pretty, Ukrainian toe-cleavage.

Moreover, as she sat with her right leg crossed over her left, her right foot was hovering in the air directly at my face level, and her flat, pointy, latticed shoe was dangling off the back of her nylon-stockinged heel – meaning that I could clearly see the dark marks from her inner shoe-lining on the material of her white-flesh-coloured nylon where the heel of her pretty shoe had been rubbing. Not only that, I could even make out a little red mark on her pasty-white, Ukrainian heelflesh beneath the finest-denier nylon, as the thin mesh of stocking was clearly not capable of affording mistress Marina’s heel much protection against the constant rubbing of her shoe-heel.

Of course, I wasn’t supposed to be looking at her higher foot! I was supposed to be concentrating my office-footslave attention on her lower, left foot which was resting flat on the ground. And, to be fair, my eyes were directed downwards towards her left foot by the heavy cangue around my footslave neck. But it was, nevertheless, well-nigh impossible for me not to simultaneously focus my attention on the pretty mistress Marina’s dangling right foot directly level with my footslave forehead!

Then, as I was kneeling and admiring flesh-coloured nylon foot, miss Marina’s colleague and current suitor Daniel (master-sir Daniel to me) came to sit on the edge of her desk and chat her up.

As he flirted with her above me her right foot was constantly flexing up and down with sheer-nylon, unadulterated pleasure, causing her pretty, feminine shoe to almost slide off her shapely, nylon-stockinged foot altogether. The coquettish movements in her foot also caused the thin, nylon material in her flesh-coloured nylon to crease and fold most appealingly in front of my mesmerized footslave eyes.

And it was all thanks to master-sir Daniel!

Of course, being a real man he will have been vaguely aware of the fact that miss Marina was wearing pretty, black leather shoes on nylon-stockinged feet beneath her pinstriped trouser-hems that afternoon, but he was missing out on so much detail – the foot-detail which only a down-in-the-dirt footslave can truly appreciate!

Not for master-sir Daniel the intriguing sight of the individual stitches in that fine-denier nylon – so close to my face that I can almost count them! Not for him the fascinating sight of her red-raw, peeling heelflesh beneath the flesh-coloured nylon at the back of her right heel; not for him the fetching sight of all the little creases coming and going along her exposed, nylon-stockinged instep as she subconsciously and flirtatiously flexes her right foot in the air beneath her desk.

He just doesn’t get it!

Sure, he gets to win her over; sure he will doubtless woo her into his bed again after work this evening, when he will get to explore mistress Marina’s soft, luscious, young-womanly naked body with his manly arms and lips. But he will do so after she is showered and fragranced. Not for him the faintly cheesy aroma of her workaday office feet inside her delicately moistened nylons.

Like all free men he must surely regard me as a total loser. But I ask you, who is the one who is really losing out?

Bootmarks

Then there was 20 year old, American mistress Lucinda, on Reception. Again I was merely required to kneel at her superior feet underneath the Reception Desk whilst she greeted and processed the various visitors to the office – including the more or less constant stream of motorcycle couriers.

Mistress Lucinda is a sweet and bubbly, rather plump, blonde girl from the mid-West of the United States. I believe she is working in the Gynarchy on a year long secondment. She is always smiling, and has just the right sort of ‘welcoming’ personality for her work-experience role on the front Reception desk. The male couriers all love their bit of daily banter with miss Lucinda.

But what they don’t get to see behind the Reception Desk is what I get to observe and admire – her round toed and chunky heeled, black leather, zip-up ankle boots beneath the hems of her navy-blue office slacks (or ‘pants’ as she prefers to call them).

The motorcycle couriers only get to see miss Lucinda’s pretty, plump face – but there is actually much to admire in her fat ankles and boots, especially when they are, literally, ‘in your face’!

The ankleboots contain scuff-marks, for example, particularly on the fronts of the rounded toe areas and on the lower backs of the chunky heels – just above the line of stitching that seals the upper heel area to the leather bootsole.

It’s not that mistress Lucinda’s black, leather ankle boots are unclean or unpolished, you understand – I must frequently tongue-polish them myself! It’s just that no amount of tongue-licking can ever completely eradicate ingrained scuff-marks on a young, blonde woman’s bootleather.

And those aren’t the only marks on mistress Lucinda’s boots which go unnoticed by the blissfully unaware motorcycle couriers – for all along the grey leather soles of her black ankleboots I can observe the scrapes and marks caused by general wear and tear on the streets. I can literally observe the traces of where mistress Lucinda has been, etched on the very soles of her office boots.

Most of all, however, I can appreciate a tiny, little loose stitch in the felt zipper area near the top of her left boot. It sticks out from the rest of the zipper just below her navy-blue trouser hem – crying out to be sucked and worshipped; not that I may do so without receptionist-mistress Lucinda’s express permission. And since she herself is blissfully unaware of such a tiny detail on the surface of her left boot-zipper, I am, sadly, unlikely to receive such a command.

My biggest regret is that mistress Lucinda’s navy-blue trouser hems always seem to just cover the tops of her boots, so that I never get to observe her bootsocks inside her boots. I’m presuming she does wear socks inside her boots.

But, pretty-girl sock or no pretty-girl sock, I still get more out of life from being in mistress Lucinda’s presence than the motorcycle couriers. They might get mistress Lucinda’s signature on their delivery slips, and her winsome smile; but I get to study all the tiny little marks and imperfections on the surface of her black, leather office ankleboots as I humbly kneel by her plump feet underneath the desk!

Oh well! You win some; you lose some. But who do you think is the real winner?

On your bike, mate!

Sock Fluff

There are, happily, lots of blondes working in this particular office block.

Mistress Samantha’s male work-colleague in Accounts – master-sir William – who sits beside her on an adjacent desk, is probably aware that his petite, blonde co-worker is wearing plain, black ballet flats with plain black ankle socks beneath her black, bootcut slacks. He is certainly aware that she is a very pretty girl for I can tell he fancies her; she is a quintessential, English rose – sweet, blonde and innocent!

But is he aware that stuck to the surface of her left sock, just above the upper rim of her low-cut ballet flat along her shapely instep, there is a tiny piece of white fluff?

I fancy not! He is not close enough to mistress Samantha’s socked and ballet-flated feet to observe such infinitesimally small details in the mistress’s footwear. And besides, he probably has better things on his freemale mind – such as how to get his female colleague to pop along to the photocopying room!

But he is missing out on so much, for I now know what he doesn’t – that blonde and petite mistress Samantha has a piece of foreign white fluff stuck to the surface of her short, black cotton sneaker sock! In fact, I strongly suspect that it may be the result of some cross-contamination in her sock-drawer – that this alien piece of white fluff may actually be a tiny piece of lint from one of her white sports socks.

I have no evidence, of course, that mistress Samantha even owns a pair of white sports socks as she always wears similar black ankle socks with her ballet flats to work. But it is an intuitive guess on my part, for she looks like a ‘sporty’ type of girl, and I do know for a fact that she plays hockey for the office ladies’ team during the annual sports day.

I know that because I have heard her talking all about her jolly hockeysticks! Sadly, I am not permitted to leave the office and attend sports day myself; pity that – all those sweaty, feminine, hockey-girl feet to desock and gently soothe and massage with my footslave tongue!

But I digress. The point is that I am now the only person in the world who is concerned about, or even aware of, that tiny little piece of white cotton sock-lint stuck to the surface of blonde and sporty mistress Samantha’s plain, black sneaker-style sock. Even the owner and wearer of the sock is unaware of it – and unconcerned about it. For it is, after all, just a piece of white sock-lint on a young Englishwoman’s sock!

And her co-worker, master William, certainly doesn’t get it – or care about it. Even if he was a foot-fetishist he would probably be more interested in her deliciously soft looking, bare feet and ankles above the elasticated tops of her socks.

But a foot-slave like me (as opposed to a fetishist) must concern himself with the piece of white sock-lint, for if it were to be noticed by mistress Samantha I would almost certainly get the blame for it and be punished for allowing such a piece of alien, white fluff to sully the pure black surface of a superior, blonde mistress’s sock!

That’s why I am concerned with it – literally concerned!

Sneaker-Flakes

Just as I was later concerned with the flaky surfaces of curvy and buxom, Irish mistress Róisín’s, well-worn, pink and black leather, lace-up sneakers.

Mistress Róisín is a bit of an office rebel. She’s not supposed to wear sneakers into work. But she is a Goth, and therefore sees herself as outside mainstream society.

She has nose and lip piercings too – also a flagrant breach of the office dresscode. And as for her hair – well, her female line manager can often be seen pulling her own hair out, for mistress Róisín has bright pink highlights in her otherwise jet-black, shoulder-length hair.

In fact, I often think about how her pink-striped and black sneakers match her gothic hair! I’m sure it’s deliberate on miss Róisín’s part for as you can tell, she is a young woman with a true sense of individual style!

And, I’m pleased to say, that sense of style and individualism extends to her socks – for only miss Róisín would wear green and white, stripy, celtic anklesocks with her pink and black sneakers!

But not even her somewhat incongruous socks can deflect my office-footslave attention from the sheer flakiness of her well-worn sneakers, for I am acutely conscious of the fact that another small part of the surface-material on either of mistress Róisín’s scruffy, black sneakers could peel off at any time – leaving it, and me, exposed to her wrath.

In particular I have my eye on one of the pink stripes down the side of her right sneaker, for an area of pink leather near the top of the stripe is showing distinct signs of becoming dislodged.

The point is that these are a much loved, and much lived in, pair of favourite sneakers, and I see it as part of my job as the office footslave to preserve and protect those sneakers as best I possibly can. Therefore, whenever I am ordered to lick clean miss Róisín’s sneakers, as I frequently am throughout the working day, I take great care to skirt around the flaky parts, pink or black, with my tongue – lest they come off in my mouth!

Of course, it would be a great honour for me personally to eat and swallow the flaky leather from Goth-mistress Róisín’s tatty and well-worn office sneakers, but I just know that this girl wants her favourite pair of sneakers to last. She does not want them disappearing, piece by flaky piece, down my footslave gullet!

And so I am ultra careful when I pay my respects to her non-regulation office sneakers.

Needless to say, yet again, none of the free males in the office get it! They may comment on miss Róisín’s sneakers – tease her about her rebelliousness in wearing them to work against all the rules; playfully berate her for lowering standards within the office.

But do they take her sneakers as seriously as I do? No – because they just don’t get it! To the free men of the office, these are merely the scruffy, flaky sneakers of a somewhat dippy and eccentric goth-girl – a young woman whom they might well consider ‘shagging’, if she came onto them, in view of her ‘nice tits’; whereas to me these flaky, pink and black sneakers are the precious footwear of an Irish goth-goddess who knows her own mind, and whose mind, being female, is vastly superior to mine!

They are also, being in such a perilous state, the arbiters of my footslave-fate, and that’s precisely why I am the one who is obsessed by mistress Róisín’s flaky, feminine footwear, when all the other males in the office have their minds on much higher things, such as her ample bosoms.

Except, perhaps, for you. I think that you get it too!

You also wish to focus in on her flaky sneakers, don’t you?

 

Fable no. 2 – New Mistress; New Footsmells

As I crawled over the threshold of my new mistress’s front door for the first time, my face virtually glued to the backs of her brown, calf-length, stretch leather boots out of respect for both her and her footwear, I had a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach.

For I knew, from what we had been told at the Footslave Training Academy, that the first thing many mistresses like to do when they get their newly-purchased slaves home for the first time is to exert their female power and authority over them by whipping them.

I, of course, as yet knew little or nothing about my new mistress, but she struck me as being a potentially impulsive and violent young woman. She had blonde, spiky, shoulder length hair, and was wearing grey, denim jeans tucked into the tops of her powerful and dominant looking, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, calf-length, brown leather boots. She looked young and fit – early to mid twenties I would have said – and had already informed me that her name was Jane, but that I was to address her as ‘mistress Jane’ at all times.

She did stress that I was never to call her ‘miss Jane’ and, whilst she had not specified what the exact penalty would be if I ever slipped up in this regard, the ominous and humourless tone in her voice had strongly implied that I would be on the receiving end of some form of physical violence if I did. A strikingly pretty girl like this must surely own a whip – so I presume it would be the violent sting of the female whip that would correct any such perceived insolence on my part.

As soon as we entered the living room of her house, my new home, she ordered me, in her no nonsense voice, to kneel before her in the centre of the room. She was now standing, hands on hips, directly in front of and above me – eyeing up her new purchase; or should that be ‘prey’?

There was, in actuality, no sign of a whip, but I still had the strong feeling that if I was going to receive an ‘introductory whipping’ it would be now. I therefore lowered my frightened face to the front of mistress Jane’s dark brown, stretch boots and showered them with humble and respectful kisses, begging her not to whip me, and assuring her that I would be a good personal footslave to her.

I even attempted to polish the pointy toes of her calf-length boots by wiping them with my fevered brow!

She just ordered me to shut up, and advised me that I was never to speak in this household again unless I was specifically ordered to speak. She informed me that this rule applied whether I was in her, or her fiancé’s, presence – as he too was to be treated with the respect due to one of my superiors.

Ah, so I now know that my new mistress is single, but engaged to be married.

I apologised to the mistress, and promptly shut up as I realised I was in danger of breaking her ‘no-talking’ rule yet again! I was all of a fluster!

I continued slobbering over her round-toed, flat-heeled, stretch boots, however, as she seemed to like that, judging by the wry smile I could just make out on her pretty, blonde face from the corner of my footslave-eye. I slobbered and kissed female boot until she walked away from me, ordering me to remain where I was – kneeling with my head bowed over her cream-coloured living room carpet.

I tried to take this opportunity to absorb all the sights and the smells of my strange, new environment, but I was too nervous to be able to concentrate on my surroundings. Had mistress Jane gone to fetch her whip in order to punish me for speaking out of turn?

My cold sweat got worse!

She returned after an agonizing 5 minutes with what looked like a wicker basket in her hands. A basket of canes and whips?

She promptly sat down on a nearby, white leather sofa and ordered me to crawl over towards her outstretched boots, keeping my head bowed and close to the floor.

When I arrived at her brown, stretch-leather boots she opened the basket above my head and showered me in a pile of dirty, female socks! She laughed as some of the socks landed on the top of my head and neck, whilst others fell to the carpet below my humbly bowed face.

The socks I could see were now lying all higgledy-piggledy on the floor. They were not neatly divided into pairs, and many of them looked decidedly stinky and sweaty. I could see the yellowy-brown sweat stains on some of the lighter-coloured socks, and there were socks of all different types and styles – plain white socks; multicoloured, stripy socks; flowery-patterned socks; pink socks; black socks; socks with logos; thick cotton towelling socks; hand knit, woollen socks; ankle length socks; calf length socks; knee length socks; ultra-short sneaker socks; even some dark-toned, ultra-thin, nylon socks!

The only things they had in common were their obvious femininity, and the fact that they were all clearly unlaundered and unwashed.

Mistress Jane, my new mistress, kindly enlightened me. She explained that they were her dirty socks from the last two weeks or so. She explained that she nearly always wore socks inside her boots and sneakers, because her feet tended to sweat a lot, and that she had been saving them up for me – her new slave – as she wanted to degrade and humiliate me by making me sniff her smelly socks in her presence.

She then laughed at me, and raised her right, high-heeled, booted foot up onto the nape of my neck in order to force my nose right down into the pile of smelly, unwashed, feminine socks. Immediately she did so my nose was surrounded by the unfamiliar aroma of my new mistress’s stale footsweat.

My face was suddenly immersed in stink, and I must have involuntarily turned my nose up at the unpleasant, stale and sweaty smell of unwashed girlsocks, for I heard my mistress Jane laughing out loud above me and pushing my face down even harder into the cesspit of dirty, feminine socks.

At least the socks felt soft on my face and helped to cushion my nose from the carpet.

After a few minutes of grinding my face into her stale sockpile with the sole and heel of her brown leather, stretch boot my new mistress Jane allowed my head to come up for air, and asked me how I was liking it? Since she had asked me a direct question I assumed I had her specific permission to speak, and so I replied, in a somewhat muffled and breathless voice, that I was liking it, but not that much. I didn’t want my new mistress to be offended either by implying that her socks were not stinky enough to be a humiliating experience for me, or by suggesting that they were overwhelmingly, unbearably stinky.

Mistress Jane seemed to like my response, for she continued to laugh at me. She then went on to explain that I would soon get to taste her sweaty socks, as well as smell them, as she would have me mouth-wash them for her individually.

First, however, she wanted to know if I fancied smelling the socks she currently had on inside her boots? She gleefully informed me that her feet were feeling particularly hot and sweaty inside her boots today, and that she could sense how damp her socks were on the reinforced toe-areas deep inside her stretch-leather boots.

I knew full well, of course, that when a mistress asks you whether you would like to sniff the socks she is wearing, she is not really asking you; she is telling you that that is what you are going to do, whether you like it or not! But since I was already developing a nose for my new mistress’s sweaty sock-smell, I could quite honestly reply that it would be an honour and a privilege for me to sniff her fresh, warm socks which were still on her feet inside her boots.

Besides, I was curious to know what sort of bootsocks mistress Jane had on at the moment, given her obvious varied tastes in sweet feminine sockwear.

She laughed at my obsequious response, removed her right boot from the nape of my smelly-sock-covered neck, and promptly ordered me to pull off her boots.

As I pulled off each delightful, dark brown, calf-length, stretch-leather boot I was greeted by the sight and smell of two delicious, ultra-short, plain navy-blue sneaker socks. I hadn’t been expecting that! I had been expecting my mistress’s socks to be at least ankle-length inside her boots. She was, after all, wearing boots and not sneakers! (I wish she would show me her sneakers; I’ll bet she has lots of different pairs – from beat-up keds through to stylish, high-top converse!)

But, having said that, the unexpectedly short, navy blue ‘bootsocks’ made for a pleasing sight, for they left my mistress’s shapely, pale white ankle bones fully exposed beneath the hems of her grey, denim jeans – especially since my very act of clumsily pulling off her boots had caused the socks to slip somewhat down her feet, so that the crusty looking and damp toe-ends were now hanging off her wriggling toes.

My new mistress commented on my boot-removing clumsiness. She asked me if I thought it was acceptable for a footslave to partially dislodge a young woman’s socks from her feet whilst he was pulling off her boots?

It is, of course, a rhetorical question – for such clumsiness can never be acceptable on the part of a trained footslave. I therefore, given that I once again had been asked a direct question, apologised to the mistress; agreed with her implied criticism that it was totally unacceptable behaviour in a footslave; kissed the loose toe-ends of both navy blue, cotton socks; and braced myself stoically for a possible whipping – even though there was still no whip in sight!

The socks not only felt damp on my lips; they smelt damp – damp with young, spiky-haired, blonde-woman footsweat. It was quite overpowering and sickening, but this time I did not flinch as I was already becoming accustomed to my new mistress’s very personal footsmells; quite tart and vinegary compared to the footsmells of other mistresses I have been privileged to serve over the years.

However, mistress Jane, thankfully, did not punish me for my sock-clumsiness. Instead she merely ordered me to restraighten her socks, prior to ordering me to sniff them all over, out loud, whilst she was still wearing them. She counselled me to keep my nose attached to each navy blue sock whilst I was audibly sniffing it, as she wanted to feel my nose on her socks as well as hear it.

As I was thusly sniffing her navy-blue-socked feet I heard the front door open and then close behind me. A young man’s voice announced from the hallway that he was home, and enquired whether anyone else was at home.

My mistress replied ‘in here’, and soon I was vaguely aware of a young man standing behind me in the living room and laughing at me. I presumed that this must be my mistress’s fiancé, and that he was laughing at me having to smell his fiancée’s short, navy-blue, sneaker-style socks on her feet whilst I was kneeling on the floor surrounded by a pile of her dirty, stale socks.

I presumed right, for not only did the free man come over to sit beside my mistress Jane on the sofa, and then lean over to kiss her lovingly on the lips, he also spoke disparagingly of me, calling me a queer sock-sniffer, and asking her where she had obtained me?

They then both cuddled up on the sofa and continued to watch me sniffing my new mistress’s navy-blue socked feet for several minutes.

Eventually the master-sir said he was minded to go and fetch the slave-whip, as he thought I wasn’t sniffing his fiancée’s socks hard enough.

I desperately tried to sniff harder, for I would rather sniff female sock to my masters’ and betters’ satisfaction, than experience the wrath of their whips!

My renewed efforts worked – for the master-sir didn’t get up in order to fetch the whip; instead he made love to his beautiful, blonde-haired fiancée on the sofa above me, whilst I continued to familiarize myself with my new mistress’s personal footsmells.

Well, she kept her short, navy-blue socks on during sex – and I hadn’t been ordered to stop sniffing them!

 

Fable no. 1 – Pretty, but Vacant

My 22 year old mistress, mistress Tawni, is not exactly what you would describe as the sharpest pencil in the box!

She is, undeniably, a very beautiful girl – a tall, black girl; statuesque even, with a shapely, athletic figure and ultra-pretty, African-Caribbean features on her proud and haughty, Jamaican-girl face; beautiful, soft, young-womanly, brown skin; and she sure does know all about how to enhance her natural, black-beauty with make-up and fashion. Indeed, make-up, fashion and rap music are the three great loves of her life – with her Jamaican-gangsta boyfriend, master Deven, coming a close fourth, mainly because he satisfies her sexually and helps to keep her on drugs; though perhaps also because she is pregnant by him. Her ‘bump’ is just beginning to show!

But, for all her great physical beauty, my mistress is, it has to be said, a bit ‘intellectually challenged’. She talks in a mixture of street-slang and patois. She finks she’s all that, innit? And she finks her boyfriend is really fly, you know what I mean? She’s the bomb, and he’s bash, you know what I’m sayin’?

Yes – make-up, fashion, rap music, drugs and her strong, manly Jamaican boyfriend; that’s all my mistress Tawni is really interested in. She has little or no interest in the finer things in life and, to the best of my knowledge, she has no formal, educational qualifications.

I, on the other hand, prior to my enslavement at her feet, was a professor of Old Church Slavic at a prestigious university in the United States. That’s not to say I was incapable of being stupid – for the stupidest thing I ever did was to overstay my visiting academic’s visa in the Gynarchy of Barbaria. I hadn’t meant to do so – my mind was just so preoccupied with teaching mediaeval Russian to the beautiful young ladies at the ‘Young Ladies’ College of Central Barbaria’ (YLCCB) that I completely forget about renewing my visa. As a result I was arrested by the Female Police and sentenced to footslavery for life.

Just two days after my humbling appearance on my hands and knees in front of the good lady judge, I found myself on the auction block being purchased by master Deven, using the money from his ill-gotten gains supplying illegal drugs to his local neighbourhood to procure me as a personal footslave for his no.1 girlfriend, miss Tawni – a young woman who, somewhat ironically under the circumstances, was also an ‘illegal entrant’ in the Gynarchy having been smuggled over the border in the boot of master Deven’s Mercedes, but who unlike me, being female, could never be arrested or deported from the Female State and was therefore allowed to stay in perfect, female freedom!

I rebelled, of course, against my newfound bondage to a Jamaican Yardie-gangster and his ‘ho’ – but not for long. The whip soon tamed me and taught me my place, which is kneeling at my pretty, Jamaican mistress’s feet. The whip has taught me a valuable lesson – that she is my better. And so now, instead of worrying about the conjugation of mediaeval Russian verbs, I worry about the state of my superior, 22 year-old Jamaican mistress’s socks.

Take today, for example: my mistress Tawni is wearing a traditional, African style, leopard-print headdress (she is very proud of the noble, African side of her heritage, and justifiably so); dark sunglasses; a yellow and red T shirt; ultra-short, pale blue, denim hot-pants; and scrunched-up, light-grey, calf-length socks with beige-coloured, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, suede-leather, lace-up shoes on her pretty, Jamaican feet.

Being otherwise bare-legged, her socks are very much a fashion statement today; not hidden away inside her boots or beneath her trouser-hems as they sometimes are. And so, in my newfound capacity as her personal footslave I must be on my best behaviour – making sure that her light-grey, cotton-and-polyester socks are sitting nice and evenly around my mistress’s shapely, Jamaican anklebones. For though she often likes to wear her socks casually ‘scrunched up’ around her brown ankles, the number of creases and folds in her socks must always be equal on both legs.

The whip has taught me that also! Nothing about my mistress’s physical appearance is ever truly left to chance. They are, in effect, designer folds in her socks – designed to enhance the beauty of her bare, brown legs and shapely, Jamaican calve muscles; and woe betide me if I allow one sock to overcrease; or, even worse, to slip down visibly lower on one ankle than the other. For that, in my mistress Tawni’s estimation, begins to look just downright untidy; and she holds me personally responsible for the public appearance of her socks!

And not just her socks, of course – her feet and footwear generally. My humiliating duties include pedicuring her feet; extracting her sweaty, black toejam from beneath her carefully-painted and varnished toenails with my mouth; smoothing away by tongue any areas of hard-skin on the backs of her sweet, Jamaican, gangsta-girl heels; moistening and refreshing her black feet all over with my footslave-saliva at the end of each day; kneeling before her and washing her dirty, bare feet in a bowl of water as and when required, as well as washing all her dirty socks by hand in the same, humble footbowl.

And, of course, I must perpetually tongue-polish all my mistress’s high-heeled sandals, shoes and boots – and they are legion! She never wears flats, and loves her heels. Indeed, my mistress Tawni probably spends more on high-heeled shoes and boots than anything else. She doesn’t work – but she doesn’t need to; master Deven keeps her in shoes, as well as drugs. Which is why she loves and admires him so much; almost as much as she hates and despises me – her humble, down-in-the-dirt, ugly, middle-aged sock-washer and boot-licker.

Today, as I kneel beside my seated mistress’s sexy shoes and socks in the local cafe where she is enjoying a snack lunch with her boyfriend, I am reasonably relaxed about the current state of my mistress’s light-grey socks. Though they are scrunched-up at the tops, they are sitting nice and evenly on my mistress’s lower calves and ankles, and I am sure, therefore that she is pleased with me – her ‘sock batty-boy’, as she sometimes likes to call me.

However, a wet stain on the pointy, suede-leather toe of her right, high-heeled, beige-coloured, lace-up shoe is giving me some cause for concern. She had earlier inadvertently walked through a dirty street-puddle in the sink-estate where she and master Deven own their squat, and the result is now to be clearly seen on the toe of said shoe. It will dry in, of course, but if I just leave it to dry naturally it may well leave a muddy stain on my superior mistress’s shoe, and that would never do – for it would be sure to earn me a severe whipping from master Deven later in the day.

He didn’t spend his easily-earned drugs’ cash on me just to leave his ‘ho’ walking around in dirty shoes. He purchased me to ensure the constant well-being of his girlfriend’s feet and footwear!

I feel, therefore, that I have no option but to politely interrupt my superiors’ lovey-dovey, Jamaican-patois small talk above me, and offer to suck clean the toe of my mistress’s tarty, right, beige-coloured shoe. I may have no right to implore her not to do drugs whilst she is pregnant, for she is better than me and knows best. But it is, surely, my role to intervene when it comes to the well-being of my mistress’s footwear?

I’m pathetically proud of the fact that, in a relatively short period of time and without any formal tuition, I have learnt to address my masters and betters quite fluently in the fascinating language of humble slave-speak (being a cunning linguist I have always been interested in obscure and rare languages, though I don’t think my Jamaican mistress and master would appreciate it very much if I attempted to speak to them in Old Church Slavonic!).

I therefore steal myself and prepare for the possibility of stinging pain across my kneeling back - for the familiar, but terrible, sting of the female whip, as wielded by master Deven on his future baby-mother’s behalf, is always a possibility whenever I am obliged to interrupt the conversation of my superiors:

‘Oh pray master-sir, oh pray mistress-madam, please forgive this dirty slave’s intrusion whilst you are eating, most respected master and mistress, but this slave craves the master and mistress’s permission to apply his piggish slave-mouth to the toe of the mistress’s right shoe, if you would both be so kind and understanding most respected master and mistress, in order to remove the wet rainwater-stain from the mistress’s most precious and beautiful footwear, if you would both be so indulgent and forgiving to a contrite and humble footslave, most revered master and mistress. Oh pray master-sir, please don’t beat me, master Deven sir. Oh pray mistress-madam, please don’t have me beaten, mistress Tawni madam. This slave truly fears the master and mistress.’

The master and mistress both tut in unison at my unwelcome intrusion into their happy, lunchtime snacking and canoodling, but I know the consequences of my not intervening could have been far worse – both for the state of my bare back and, more importantly, for the state of my mistress’s right shoe.

It is the mistress who graciously responds to my rude interruption from on high above the café table, having first inspected the wet toe of her right shoe for herself:

‘Tch! Lick off the stain, slave batty-bwoy! And don’t be touchin’ my sock wit’ yoh dirty face, yeah? Otherwise yo is gonna be whupped by my man, innit though Deven?’

Master Deven adds his pennyworth to the conversation, in between slapping heartily on his beef-patty:

‘Obey she, bwoy. Do what she say, or I’ll hat yah real bad, yeah?’

‘Yes master-sir. Yes mistress-madam. Thank you master and mistress. God bless you both, master and mistress.’

They then laugh at me, before ignoring me again, as I place my potty mouth around the damp and muddy toe of my pregnant, Jamaican mistress’s suede-leather shoe and suck on the dirt – taking great care, as instructed by my master and mistress, not to inadvertently brush my face against the softness of her scrunched-up, light grey sock.

You see – I told you my mistress was happy with the way her socks looked on her ankles today! Not a word of complaint from her in that regard. I really am getting to know my fastidious mistress quite well – her footwear likes and dislikes – as I resign myself with humility to my lifelong bondage at her Jamaican feet.

Yes, I’m relieved to say that the Jamaican-female whip is cracking across my bare, male back less often these days as I humbly learn my slave-place, forget my previous life which is of no interest whatsoever to my Jamaican masters and betters, and concentrate on what I now realise is the most important thing in life – looking after my drug-addled, pretty, but somewhat vacant mistress Tawni’s feet and footwear, by tongue-cleaning her dirty shoes whilst dutifully applying my considerable, ex-professorial intellect to monitoring the designer folds in her stylish, scrunched-up, light-grey socks.