Footslave Yarns Volume 4

The fourth volume in a collection of yarns and tall-tales from women’s footslaves, believe it or not!

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

10. You rang, my lady?

9. Aftermath of a whipping

8. Nudge, nudge; stink, stink; say no more!

7. Take a closer look

6. A Glossary of Commonly-used, Gynarchy Terminology

5. A crush on me?

4. Posh Sock & Frock

3. Jerk-in-the-box

2. Going places!

1. Heroine-Chic

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Yarn no. 10 – You rang, my lady?

22 year old Lady Georgia was bored. As she lay on her bed, fully clothed, flicking through the pages of her favourite music magazine, she became increasingly annoyed by the heat inside her room. I mean, that was precisely why she had decided to stay indoors – because of the baking heat outside! And now even the sanctuary of her expansive and luxurious bedroom was becoming unbearably stuffy – a bit like the spoilt and arrogant miss Georgia herself.

She languorously tossed aside her magazine and dragged herself up out of her four-poster bed in order to go to the window – as if to remonstrate with the sun. Such a delicate, pale-skinned girl. A Goth. She hated the sun. Indeed, she rarely went out at this time of day – especially at this time of year, the summertime – preferring instead to watch the outside world from behind her gothic bedroom window until nightfall.

Her window overlooked one of her father’s fields – where the slaves worked, which was why her father’s slaves nicknamed her ‘the ghost’. She knew all about their insolence and disrespect; she may have been pale and reclusive, but she wasn’t stupid. She had deliberately chosen this room as her own – precisely because of the pleasant view; the view of slaves toiling under the whip, whilst she relaxed. And she didn’t much care if her father’s slaves gave her a somewhat disparaging nickname – for she had the last laugh, watching them toil in the unrelenting heat under the whip!

Even in the height of summer the slaves had to work hard; and even in this heat. Especially in this heat! And if they didn’t work sufficiently hard enough, they were whipped by the overseers; big, burly men – unlike the slaves themselves. The slaves were scrawny by comparison. Lady Georgia always thought that was funny – the wrong way round! Surely the slaves should be strong and muscular, so they could do more work? And the overseers should be the weaker men – albeit empowered and emboldened by the whip.

Lady Georgia would have quite liked to be a whip-wielding overseer herself, if she wasn’t a member of the Female Aristocracy, and if such a position wasn’t considered beneath her. Shame really – for Georgia would have made a good and unforgiving overseer; she loves the sight and sound of the whip cracking on male flesh! Even the feel of the whip stimulated her – in her hand, that is; not across her delicate, aristocratic back (she, of course, had never felt the whip cracking across her delicate, feminine bare back and shoulders, but she imagined it must be very painful!)

She was half hoping, as she surveyed the slaves and the burly overseers in the field from her bedroom window that she might be able to observe some slave or other being whipped – especially by John, her favourite overseer. John was young and handsome; Georgia herself had helped to persuade her father to employ him, even though he lacked any previous experience as an overseer. Lady Georgia had simply liked the look of him!

But, sadly, there was no sign of John with his single-tailed, black leather whip in the field today. It must be his day off! And, what’s more, none of the slaves were currently being subjected to the whip – despite the crushing heat. They were all working hard to their freemen-overseers’ satisfaction. B-o-r-i-n-g!

One thing caught the petulant lady Georgia’s eye, however – a funny-looking, middle-aged, flea ridden, half-starved-looking slave whom she could not recollect ever having seen before. Ha! Ha! He looked fit to drop, even though he was clearly trying his best to perform his backbreaking toil under the hot, summer sun. That was why the overseers weren’t whipping him. They were keeping an eye on him – ready to whip if he should start to flag in the baking heat; but they knew that any whipping of the old man right now would just be counterproductive as he was doing his lily-livered best.

Georgia smiled smugly to herself. Ha! Ha! How humiliating for a man of that age to end up as a work-slave in her father’s farm. Most slaves over the age of 40 had at least progressed to being public footslaves; or had even managed to reach the ‘lofty’ position of personal footslave to a young woman – such as miss Georgia’s own personal footslave, slave Thomas, who was currently down in the basement laundry-room mouthwashing her dirty socks under the supervision of the Chinese laundry-mistress, miss Lee Fung.

But for an elderly manslave in his late forties to still be hand-ploughing the fields! Ha! Ha! How humiliating for him! How degrading!

The smile on her pretty, pale, Gothic face turned to cruelty as a wicked idea entered into miss Georgia’s pretty, gothic head. She quickly turned to ring the bell and summon house-servant Edward, the liveried housekeeper.

Georgia didn’t much like Edward; he always seemed a bit ‘uppity’ to her; needed a good whipping to bring him down a peg or two. But, unfortunately, Edward could not be whipped as he was a servant, not a slave. He was protected by law from the whip – and even allowed to walk about on his two legs like a freeman or an overseer! Georgia resented that; but at least servant Edward always did what he was told, even if he sometimes had a somewhat supercilious expression on his liveried face:

‘You rang, my lady?’

Georgia looked the manservant in the eye:

‘Yes, Edward… come over here a moment please,’ she responded, beckoning the liveried flunkey over towards the bay window. She then pointed with her gothic, black-painted index finger towards the white, middle-aged workslave in the field below:

‘That old slaveman down there – bring him to me. I have need of him!’

Servant Edward, as usual, looked somewhat bemused by his young mistress’s request – especially since he himself must have been a good ten years or so older than the slave who was being pointed out to him. Did the young madam really see the workslave as being ‘old’?! Ha! Ha!

But it was not servant Edward’s place to argue with the young mistress. For all his smugness and sense of superiority, he knew who was boss – the young mistress was boss:

‘Yes, my lady. At once, my lady!’

He bows to the lady Georgia and exits the room backwards. Even a liveried servant is not permitted to turn his back on a superior young lady!

The lady Georgia watches from her bedroom window as an underservant (one of Edward’s house-minions) is despatched across the field to convey her young ladyship’s request to one of the burly overseers. She witnesses the overseer walking over to the confused and perplexed, middle-aged, scrawny workslave and the shackles being put upon his aching arms and hands.

Ha! Ha! The old slaveman looks frightened! What has he done wrong? Where are they taking him? Oh the power! A wave of absolute, female pleasure courses through the lady Georgia’s blueblood veins!

……………………………………………………………………

Workslave no. 667543D – for even workslaves had to have names – was indeed scared. He turned white as a sheet and felt the blood draining from his face when the burly overseer informed him he was being summoned to the lady Georgia’s boudoir! Not ‘the ghost’! Such a cruel young woman – or so he had heard! Being a mere workslave he had, of course, never met the lady Georgia before, even though he had worked on her father’s estate for over 25 years – since before she was even born!

But her Gothic reputation preceded her. They said she was fascinated by whipping and torture! That slaves were summoned to her room and never emerged again – they just ‘disappeared’! (It was all an exaggeration of course, but workslave no. 667543D wasn’t to know that!)

The burly overseer wasn’t helping matters much by deliberately winding the workslave up:

‘Ha! Ha! I wonder why her young ladyship has summoned you to her room, workslave? Reckon you’re for the whip! Ha! Ha! Her ladyship likes to whip! Ha! Ha! She won’t even need to borrow mine – she has her own, stinging, two-tailed whip! Ha! Ha! And boy does she know how to use it! Ha! Ha! Be afraid, slave no. 667543D! Be very afraid! Ha! Ha!’

Workslave no. 667543D was sweating profusely by now. The thought occurred to him that he should really take a bath before seeing her young ladyship in person. He was aware that he was dirty, and stank. What would she think of him in his smelly, workslave rags, being dressed herself, no doubt, in her aristocratic finery in the luxury of her Big House bedroom?

As he shuffled on his hands and knees into said bedroom, however – followed by the mocking overseer – workslave no. 667543D was not greeted by the anticipated sight of a young woman clad in aristocratic finery. Instead he saw an eccentrically dressed Goth-girl, with jet black, shoulder-length hair; nose and lip studs; a frilly, white blouse; a black and red puff-ball miniskirt; and pale, bare, white legs terminating in a pair of black leather, calf-length, biker-style boots worn with thick, red, scrunched-up, calf-length bootsocks.

She looked the business – whatever the business of a 22 year old Goth-girl might be! No wonder her father kept her hidden away!

Workslave no. 667543D looked anxiously around the opulent, young-womanly bedroom; no sign of the dreaded two-tailed, black leather whip the overseer had mentioned – thank God! But why was he here? Why had he been summoned here, if not to be whipped for the entertainment of ‘the ghost’?

Mind you, the overseer still had his single-tailed whip to hand!

Speaking of which, the burly overseer now unceremoniously kicked workslave no. 667543D forwards so that his kneeling face suddenly landed on the scuff-marked toe-areas of the lady Georgia’s black leather biker-boots. The boots smelt strong and musty, rather like the young woman herself:

‘Your slave, madam! I believe you summoned him from the field?’

The lady Georgia doesn’t dignify the overseer with a response. She might have to converse politely with the house-servants – like the liveried servant Edward – but she decides which, if any, of the overseers she speaks to, and when – for they are one degree below the liveried servants on the social scale, though still immune from the whip.

She looks down instead on the lowest of the low – the scrawny old workslave whose face is now resting downwards on her boots, below her thick, red bootsock-tops:

‘What is your name, workslave?’ asks the goddess to the amoeba.

The latter raises his lips off the lady-goddess’s boots in order to respond to her ladyship, though he continues, of course, to look her in the boot:

‘Oh pray mistress-lady Georgia, if it pleases you your young mistress-ladyship, this slave’s name is no. 667543D, sweet and kind miss lady Georgia.’

He is trembling with fear below her. Lady Georgia likes that. If only she could get servant Edward to tremble like that in her presence!

She examines the old man cringing at her aristocratic, booted feet in more detail. She is gratified to observe several painful-looking, if fading, whip scars along his dirty, mud-encrusted, shoulder blades, and the sight of his scrawny, sunburnt ribcage almost makes her laugh out loud. But most of all – he stinks!

She turns her pretty nose up at him – as well she might – and imperiously stretches forth her right leg a few inches in front of her left, her taffeta, puff-ball miniskirt rustling as she does so:

‘Straighten my sock, dirty workslave.’

The overseer chuckled to himself from the corner of the room to which he had respectfully withdrawn – firstly because miss Georgia had seemingly already forgotten the common-or-garden workslave’s admittedly somewhat complicated name; and secondly because it was now clear to him that her young ladyship had dragged this middle-aged and fatigued old workslave all the way up to her bedroom just so that he could straighten her wonky bootsock for her!

Such delightful, young womanly petulance! Such arrogance in the face of maleslave helplessness and powerlessness! The overseer was glad he wasn’t a slave!

For his humble part, however, workslave no. 667543D was just relieved and grateful that her young ladyship, miss Georgia, appeared to want nothing more than her sock straightening. That was okay – he could do that, even if it was designed to be humiliating; deliberately humiliating for him.

In actual fact, he felt honoured. How pathetic is that?

‘Yes, your mistress-ladyship. At once, your mistress-ladyship. Thank you, your mistress-ladyship. God bless you your young mistress-ladyship!’ he fawned in the face of beautiful young Goth-woman boot and sock.

And with that he actually reached out and touched the top of her young ladyship’s calf-length, red bootsock on her smooth, pale, right leg – with her full permission, and whilst she was still wearing the sock inside her heavy-looking, multi-buckled and strapped, calf-length, black leather, biker boot!

Bizarrely, the pitiful, old workslave found himself wondering if the superior, young mistress actually had a motorbike, and an image flashed into his head of himself riding pillion on her bike – with his face resting humbly on the foot-well behind her Gothic, black leather, biker-girl boot .

His wrinkly old fingers deftly straightened the top of the young woman’s red bootsock without touching her soft, pale white skin. He had to admire the young mistress, for her sock had definitely needed straightening – and who better to straighten it than a raggedy-assed, old field hand like him?

She arrogantly switched booted feet beneath him:

‘And the other one, slave! And make sure the socks are nice and even on my legs!’

‘Yes your young ladyship! At once, most blessed sock-mistress Georgia, miss!’

Having completed his suitably humiliating and degrading task for the lazy, spoilt, young woman who could not be bothered on this hot, summer day to reach down and straighten her own bootsocks, workslave no. 667543D politely lowered his humble gaze once more to the scuffmarked, rounded toe of her black leather, biker boot.

He was ready to kiss the reinforced toe area of Goth-girl boot, if she ordered him to, but she never spoke to him again. Instead she addressed the nearby overseer (because it was now her choice to do so):

‘Take him away and put him back to work. We are done here!’

‘Yes your ladyship. At once your ladyship,’ smiled the burly overseer, impressed at her young ladyship’s absolute, female power over the fieldhands – even to the extent that she can summon their hands to straighten her bootsocks!

Workslave no. 667543D once again feels the burly overseer’s boot up his backside as he is hustled out of the lady Georgia’s bedchamber. But he doesn’t mind! Just wait until he tells the other workslaves about this! He has actually seen ‘the ghost!’ And not only that – he has served her in person by straightening her socks!

And she is not such a cruel and vindictive young woman as her reputation suggests – she is sweet and kind; for she didn’t have him whipped, even though he was a stinking offence in her divine, Gothic presence! Truly she deserves the position of power she had been born into – for she is manifestly his superior and better. Born to rule! Born free! Born better!

Workslave no. 667543D knew his brush with the lady Georgia’s red bootsocks was the highlight of his slave-career. He never washed his wizened, old slave-fingers again, for they had touched a superior, young, aristocratic, Goth-girl’s socks!

 

Yarn no. 9 – Aftermath of a whipping

It is dusk.

The exhausted, freshly-whipped, elderly-looking slave is hanging slumped in his bonds at the unforgiving, wooden whipping post on his young mistress’s vast, country estate. Only the steel shackles around his wrists are preventing him from collapsing into the dirt.

As he hangs there for all to mock, his breath heavy and laboured, the following words adequately sum up his feelings:

Pain…humility…pain…contrition…pain…stinging…pain…beg…pain…sorrow… pain…regret…pain…red socks… powerlessness … pain… defeated… pain… inferior…pain… agony…pain…respect…pain… loser… and more pain…

The smugly satisfied mistress, a young, raven-haired, Goth-woman in her early twenties who goes by the name of miss Georgia, is standing behind the anonymous slaveman’s whipped back, coiling up her double-tailed, black leather punishment-whip. She too is breathless, but merely from her exertions with the whip.

As she observes her handiwork, the following words sum up her feelings:

Joy…excitement…joy…arousal…joy…triumphant…joy…amusement…joy… superior…joy…victorious… joy…no pain… joy … masterful… joy… contempt… joy…power…joy…authority…joy…winner… taught him a lesson…and more joy…

Whip still in hand, she gleefully moves forward to unshackle her whipped slave from the whipping post, that he may pay due homage to his female punisher’s feet. She stretches forth her right, booted foot in the dusty ground beneath his face as he collapses onto his hands and knees.

The slave instinctively lowers his dry and parched lips to the outstretched dusty, rounded, reinforced toecap of his young mistress’s black leather biker-boot, and kisses it. He kisses the dustiest part, as a mark of his undying respect for his female better. As he does so he observes a flash of thick, red bootsock above her upper boot-rim, well below the hem of her puff-ball miniskirt – red sock to match the red pain on his bare back.

Inspired by his female whipper’s sock he somehow finds the strength to raise his ugly, male head forward and kiss the feminine sock’s red, cotton material also, for it seems only right to him, in his abject misery and defeat, that he should pay homage to the humblest item of his beautiful tormentor’s attire as a means of demonstrating his public penitence and submission to his female better’s will. Specifically, he deliberately kisses one of the creases in her sock-top – as if by way of an apology for its crookedness, and as a demonstration of his respect and admiration for both his punisher, and her socks.

The crowd of onlookers – the mistress’s many friends and supporters – jeer and mock him as he kisses his young, female conqueror’s bright, red sock. Meanwhile, the twenty-something owner and wearer of the sock smirks as she feels the slave’s trembling lips on her innermost footwear, and she imperiously withdraws her dusty, right boot and sock from his lips that he may pay similar homage to her left side.

She then has mercy on him – at last! She leaves him to sob contritely in the dirt, whilst she retires to her opulent boudoir in the Big House in order to freshen up. She has a hot date this evening with her manly, fellow-gothic boyfriend, Damian, who will be picking her up in his car in some two hours’ time. She is now very much in the mood for dancing and romancing with her beloved in their local, goth night-club. She truly comes alive at night!

Her friends and neighbours leave too – now that the fun of the public whipping is over.

The freshly-whipped slave can remain alone, cowering in the dirt of her father’s estate – where he belongs!

 

Yarn no. 8 – Nudge, nudge; stink, stink; say no more!

My 21 year old mistress, miss Beatrix, is feeling horny. She is clearly up-for-it as she canoodles with her 22 year old boyfriend in the seclusion of her friend Annabelle’s expansive, back garden whilst the sounds of Annabelle’s own 21^st birthday party can be heard in the background emanating from her house – young, happy voices; laughter; music; drinking; dancing.

But my mistress Beatrix and her boyfriend, master-sir Hugh, have escaped from the happy tumult inside the house into miss Annabelle’s secluded, back garden for some privacy – and in order to do what they both do best; making love. As miss Beatrix’s personal footslave I, of course, am obliged by law to accompany my mistress to heel – almost like a kind of impotent chaperone; some might say ‘gooseberry’!

But I don’t really get in the way, since I mean nothing to either of them, being a mere down-in-the-dirt footslave.

I have to admire my mistress and her boyfriend, and not just because they are my youngers and betters, but because – even though I am twice their age – I myself have never had sexual intercourse, or had the opportunity to procreate. And I never will. Slaves don’t do sexual intercourse – at least, not here in the Gynarchy they don’t! I mean, what self-respecting woman would want the offspring, or even the sexual attention, of a slave?

And so, as a celibate, middle-aged manservant I kneel unobtrusively by my flame-haired mistress Beatrix’s matching flame-motifed, red and white, chunky, high-top, buffalo-style sneakers with their fashionably thick, white laces and broad, leather tongues, whilst she avariciously links tongues with her manly, young boyfriend above me – the potent, master-sir Hugh – in her college-friend’s back garden; and as she does so I simply gaze with footslavish awe and wonderment at her increasingly dirtied and muddied sneakers beneath the draw-stringed hems of her loose, white, student-girl, calf-length leggings.

And it is not just her muddy, flame-patterned sneakers that I admire so much as I kneel humbly in the dirt at her sexually-aroused, young-womanly feet, but also her bright, pink-and-orange-striped, ankle-length, cotton socks peeking out from inside her chunky, red and white sneakers; how neatly they frame my young mistress’s shapely, white anklebones, especially the left, tattooed anklebone which is closest to my kneeling face. My mistress Beatrix has a cute, black rose tattooed up her left ankle, its thorny stem emerging from the softness of her orange-topped sock and rising up to the blooming, black flower on her lower calf-muscle just below the dangling draw-string of her white cotton legging.

Truly my mistress Beatrix is a wealthy young woman in her prime, of absolute power and great beauty, whose fit and lithe body deserves to be worshipped – if not by me, then by her masterful, young boyfriend who is also my better as he gets to admire her luscious breasts and thighs whilst I am restricted to her muddy, sneakered and socked feet and ankles.

Although, at intimate moments like this, its almost as if I don’t exist to my mistress and master, I can nevertheless unobtrusively assist my superiors in their lovemaking by, as it were, nudging them along – or, more accurately, by nudging my mistress’s sweet socks with my footslave-nose!

I know she secretly likes the feel of my submissive nose on the side of her brightly-coloured, pink and orange, anklesocks whilst she is making love to a real man above me. My humble and respectful socknose stimulates her; it tickles her fancy, so to speak – before she gets down to the main business of full-on, no-holds-barred, sexual intercourse with a super-stud like master Hugh (though it could equally be with any other man at the party tonight – my mistress Beatrix, it has to be said, has a very strong libido and is not that fussy who she sleeps with, providing it is a freeman and not a slaveman like me; even my gregarious and giving mistress Beatrix draws the line at sleeping with dirty, male slaves!).

And so, choosing my moment carefully, I begin to rub the tip of my nose along the elasticated, orange top of my mistress’s left, pink and orange-striped sock – the one closest to my face. I hear her sigh and moan with pleasure, though it’s difficult to tell whether her lustiness is being stimulated more by the master-sir’s gentle fondling of her exposed breasts beneath her grey, hoodie top than by my equally gentle and respectful nuzzling of her exposed sock above her muddy, high-top sneaker-rim.

Either way things must be building to a climax, for the next thing I see is an empty condom wrapper falling onto the ground beneath my face, and I can hear the master-sir undoing his zip! Soon the happy couple are semi-naked and lying on the wet ground in each other’s arms (it has only just stopped raining!), whilst I remain discreetly kneeling at my mistress’s still sneakered and socked feet.

Mistress has evidently decided to keep her sneakers and socks on during this impromptu love-making session in her friend Annabelle’s back garden, possibly for my benefit since she wouldn’t want her manly boyfriend Hugh getting jealous over her aged footslave’s proximity to her soft, bare footflesh. How considerate of her!

I must say, it’s just as well there is a din coming from the back of the house for my mistress is not shy about shouting and groaning with joyful abandonment during her wild and free love-making session in the great, suburban outdoors!

Throughout the ‘act’ I continue to humbly nudge the side and top of my flame-haired mistress’s deliciously soft, pink and orange, stripy anklesock – admiring as I do so the creases and folds generated in the sock by the involuntary spasms in her foot-muscles caused by the delightful orgasm now rippling through her young-womanly body.

Only when she, and the master-sir, are fully spent do I desist from my respectful sock-nuzzling, lest I disturb the mistress in her post-coital relaxation.

The mistress and master-sir are now sitting up on the muddy ground as they readjust their clothing, redoing up zips and pulling up trousers or leggings. Then the master-sir offers my mistress a shared, celebratory, post-coital cigarette. He whispers something in her ear, and she giggles – but whatever master Hugh said to my mistress is no business of mine. My business is to continue to stare at the side of my superior mistress’s mud-stained, left sneaker and sock – for yes, during their vigorous lovemaking on the dirty ground even my mistress’s pink and orange anklesock got seriously muddied inside her red and white sneaker-top!

As she sits up on the wet grass, resting on her elbows behind her, with her pretty feet stretched out directly in front of her, my mistress Beatrix spots the muddy stains on her party sneakers and socks for the first time. She is not best pleased, for she will have to go back into the house at some time, and she won’t want to be spreading muck all over her friend Annabelle’s nice, clean carpet!

Even though she is now sexually fulfilled (until the next time) she takes out her frustrations over her muddy footwear on me – her helpless and impotent footslave – egged on, of course, by the fully sated master-sir:

‘Tch! Look what you’ve done to my nice clean sneakers and socks, cretin! You’ve allowed them to get all muddy and dirty! F***ing idiot!’

You might think that my mistress was addressing her boyfriend, but you’d be wrong. She is, of course, blaming me – her personal footslave – for the dire state of her erstwhile relatively clean buffalo-sneakers and socks, as evidenced by the fact that she leans forwards in order to slap me hard across my kneeling and gormless right cheek at her feet with the unforgiving palm of her left hand (my mistress is not left-handed as such, but she has to use her left hand to discipline me on this occasion as her right hand is holding the cigarette!)

The feminine face-slap stings mightily on my male face, and I hear the master-sir laughing at me in my unmasculine distress:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right honey! You give him what for! Would you like me to whip him for you with my belt?’

It’s his turn to take a long, indolent drag on the shared, lovers’ cigarette as he awaits his sexual partner’s considered reply:

‘Nah, babe – it’s alright. I just want this stupid dolt to do something about the state of my sneaks and socks! ...Hey you, the dolt head, f***ing lick that muck off my sneakers and socks, yeah? F***ing, no-good idiot-slave!’

‘Yes mistress Beatrix. At once mistress Beatrix!’

I feel guilty. Whilst my master and mistress had been making love on the muddy grass I had neglected the well-being of my mistress’s sneakers and socks – but only because I had not wanted to intrude on their lovemaking too much. I had thought just a gentle nuzzling of my mistress’s socks was all that was required of me – but now, it seems, I was expected to fully protect her sneakers and socks from the surrounding mud!

The master-sir laughs at me again as I immediately seek to rectify matters by placing my mouth onto the muddy instep of his girlfriend’s left, red and white, high-top, buffalo sneaker:

‘Ha! Ha! How’s he gonna get all that thick mud off the sides of your socks, darling? He’ll have to take them off and soak them inside his fat, ugly mouth! Ha! Ha!’

‘I don’t give a f**k, honey! If that’s what it takes then that’s what he’ll damn well have to do! I’m not gonna wear f***ing muddy socks and sneaks inside Annabelle’s nice, clean house, yeah?’

Such foul language from such a pretty mouth! And the irony is, of course, that my mistress Beatrix did give a f**k – just now, here in the garden!

Fortunately for me the wet mud is coming off my potty-mouthed mistress’s sneakers and sliding down my footslave-throat quite easily, since it has not had a chance to ingrain itself into the fabric of her leather sneakers. But I have to agree in at least one respect with the perceptive, young master-sir – I’ll never be able to ‘lick’ that mud off the sides of my mistress’s pink and orange anklesocks. They do indeed need a good soaking – deep inside my unworthy mouth if necessary!

My mistress-madam also appears to agree with master Hugh, for as soon as her sneakers are licked up-to-scratch she curtly orders me to pull them off her (no need to untie the thick, greying laces – they’re just for show), and then peel off her pink and orange, muddy socks in order to soak them inside my ‘f***ing ugly, slave mouth’, as she so delicately puts it!

As I pull off her left sneaker my nostrils are suddenly assailed by a ‘whoosh’ of warm, pungent, young-womanly, foot-air – the result of an energetic evening’s dancing and making love, no doubt! The stink of young, sexually-voracious, sweaty, female foot is quite overpowering, and I remember that my mistress could not be bothered to bathe her feet before getting ready for her friend’s birthday party this evening.

Mind you, the master-sir appears to have had no complaints about the heavily-perfumed smell of her upper body just now. It appears it is only her sneakered and socked feet which are malignantly odorous – a reflection of the utter contempt in which she holds her down-at-heel, personal footslave. No sweet-perfumed body parts on my sweet and kind mistress for me!

We all head back into the house with my mistress now bare-footed inside her buffalo-sneakers, her muddy socks residing inside my mouth. You might think that no-one would notice the difference in my mistress’s humble foot attire, but her friend Annabelle soon remarks upon it:

‘Ha! Ha! Have a nice time with Hugh in my back garden, did you honey-Bea? Ha! Ha!’

For my humble part I’m keeping shtum. Quite apart from the fact that I don’t have much choice in the matter since my mouth is full of sexually-active, young-woman, dirty socks, it’s hardly my place to betray my feisty, redheaded mistress’s confidences, even though I’ve just spent the last 30 minutes or so nudging the sides of her stinky, pink and orange socks whilst she made love to a much better man than me.

Nudge, nudge; stink, stink; say no more! It sums up eloquently my pitiful footslave-existence, don’t you think?

 

Yarn no. 7 – Take a closer look

Look over there, free man – look at that young, black woman sitting on the park bench eating her sandwiches and chatting away without a care in the world on her mobile phone.

Tell me, what exactly do you see? You see a pretty, Afro-Caribbean girl in her mid to late twenties – you’re guessing a shop-assistant of some sort – innocently eating her packed lunch; wearing a stripy, multicoloured T shirt which exposes her pierced belly-button, and ultra-short, navy blue hotpants, with her long, black legs tucked in beneath her; her pretty, black feet clad in a pair of pure white, lace-up keds and matching white anklesocks in the shadows underneath the wooden, park bench.

What else do you notice about her, apart from the fact that she is eating sandwiches and speaking sloppily with her mouth full whilst on her mobile phone? That she appears totally engrossed in her telephone conversation? That she is twiddling coyly with the pretty dreadlocks in her long, black hair whilst she is talking? That the person on the other end of the phone doesn’t seem to be able to get a word in edgeways? That the young, black woman has ‘nice tits’ and looks extremely fit and healthy – as, indeed, any young, black woman would at her age?!

Anything else?... No?.. What about that thing cringing on its hands and knees on the dirty ground beneath the park bench directly next to her white-sneakered and socked feet?...That’s right – there in the shadows! Her personal footslave – can you see him now?

Well, I am that selfsame, dirty footslave, and shall I tell you what I can see?

I don’t see pure, white ked and pure, white sock on a fit-looking black girl like you do. I am much closer to my black mistress’s feet than you are. Therefore I can see all the little imperfections in her sneakers and socks, as they dominate my humble, footslavish field of vision down on the dirty ground beneath the park bench on which my mistress is so imperiously seated.

So whilst you are admiring my black mistress’s shapely, scantily-clad body from afar, I must admire the various little imperfections in her footwear from anear. Imperfections such as the following:

· The stubbornly ingrained street dirt and dust marks along the insteps of her dirty-white, well-worn, keds sneakers;

· The blade of blackened and dead grass stuck to an old piece of female chewing gum on the flat, rubbery sole of her left heel;

· The tiny hole on the lower side of her right sneaker (the one closest to my face as she is seated with her ankles folded coquettishly around one another) where the rubber sole is starting to become detached from the canvas upper – a tiny hole through which I can even see a slither of black-female, inner, white sock!

· The ribbed, vertical stitches forming the elasticated, upper rim of her right sock;

· The tiny tear at the very top of one of those ribbed, white sock-stitches as it flutters against her soft, bare, black legskin in the gentle, summer’s breeze;

· The contrasting, trellis-patterned stitching of the main body of the white cotton anklesock immediately below the ribbed, elasticated rim;

· The stretching of that white, trellised stitching on the area of sock covering my black mistress’s well-turned, right anklebone;

· My superior mistress’s bare, black ankleskin underneath the widened holes in the stretched, trellised stitching of her cotton sock;

· A miniscule piece of foreign, black sock-lint stuck incongruously to one of those tiny, white trellis-holes (representing some cross-contamination from her sock-drawer);

· An equally alien, male, pubic hair stuck to my black mistress’s outer, white-socked anklebone (presumably belonging to her black boyfriend, for my mistress is very religious, and totally faithful to her long-term boyfriend);

· The tiny movements in her white anklesock as it creases and folds in reaction to her subconscious, pleasurable, foot-muscle movements as she eats and talks;

· The yellowy-brown staining on her right, white sock just visible inside her lower, keds-sneaker rim – caused by the warmth and moisture from the inner lining of her sneaker after repeated wear (and despite all my previous best, mouthwashing efforts to cleanse both my mistress’s once pure, white anklesocks of such deeply ingrained sweat-stains).

· The ingrained, brownish-grey dirt stains in her nominally-white, keds shoelaces, which are somewhat sloppily done-up; deliberately so – by me – since that’s the way my black mistress likes them; it’s a slovenly fashion statement on her part!

What’s more, I know intimate things about my mistress’s feet and footwear that you could not possibly know about. I doubt even she herself is fully aware of all of them:

· That her unvarnished and chipped, big toenails inside her hot, white socks need cleaning out, as they each contain a greasy film of black, sweaty toejam underneath. I noticed that first thing this morning when I was dressing my mistress’s feet in her sneakers and socks as she got ready for work;

· That her feet, generally, could do with a good wash (my mistress has not showered or bathed properly for two days; she’s been too busy out clubbing and dancing with her boyfriend);

· That her unwashed, unpedicured feet, and by extension her nominally white socks inside her scruffy keds-sneakers, smell somewhat cheesy and vinegary (though all I can smell at the moment is the pungent, outer rubber in her grey-white sneakers);

· That she has the makings of a small bunion on her right, big-toe (her bunion is literally just inches away from my face, albeit currently hidden beneath a protective layer of thick, cotton sock and white, canvas sneaker);

· That she has a prominent, blue vein running all the way along the top of her left foot from big toe to lower anklebone – a vein I have traced with the tip of my footslave-tongue many a time; always with my black mistress’s full, female permission, of course!

· That she has two small, black moles about an inch or so apart on the soft, black-skinned instep of her left foot – moles I have respectfully kissed many a time, always with my black mistress’s full, female permission, of course!

· That she has a small hole on the bottom of her left, white sock just below the ball of her black foot – a white sock-hole I have respectfully kissed many a time, be it on her right or left foot, always with my black mistress’s full, female permission, of course!

· That both socks, though ostensibly thick, are starting to wear thin through repeated wear and tear at the backs of her heels below my young black lady’s frayed, canvas sneaker-rims;

· That, as a result, the black skin on the backs of my mistress’s heels is somewhat rough and chapped, unlike the silky smoothness of the rest of her beautiful, soft, black footflesh;

· That her left sock has slid down inside her keds-sneaker a centimetre or so more than the sock on her right foot – a seemingly inconsequential event to the rest of the world – but something which looms large in my pathetic, girlsock-obsessed, footslave consciousness, and which shall, doubtless, have dire consequences for the well-being of my bare, slave back later in the day. For I am responsible for my mistress’s socks, and the protection of her bare, black heelskin, and by allowing her white, cotton anklesock-material to wear and thin, and to slip down at the back of her left heel, I am guilty of two serious footslave-offences!

I am conscious also that this gossipy, young, dreadlocked black woman is my infinite superior and better; she must be, since I am her slave – obliged by law to kneel humbly and unobtrusively in the dirt beneath the park bench and concentrate thusly on all the aforementioned tiny, little imperfections in her black feet and white footwear.

And furthermore, I have the dubious pleasure of knowing that I shall be soundly whipped this evening, by her doting boyfriend, and not just because of the inadvertent sock-slippage inside one of her white sneakers, or the thinning of her white socks, but because she is busy complaining to her man on the phone (in between munching greedily on her sandwich) of the increasing pain in her poor bunion!

So take a closer look, my friend! For there is a lot more going on in and around that ordinary park bench than just an attractive, young, scantily-clad, black female shop-assistant with dreadlocks eating a packed lunch and talking besottedly to her manly, black boyfriend on the phone. There is a beautiful, black mistress and her downtrodden, male footslave, living their separate, yet strangely interconnected, lives – those connections being through her superior feet and footwear; and her boyfriend’s punishing whip!

Don’t you feel like you’re missing out on something, nominally free man? Don’t you wish you were living a shadowy existence beneath her, and staring humbly at her dirty shoes and socks whilst preparing yourself mentally for a severe whipping – like me?

 

Yarn no. 6 – A Glossary of Commonly-used, Gynarchy Terminology

The following terms are used frequently in day-to-day life throughout the Gynarchy and their definitions may, therefore, be helpful to regular readers of this blog:

Barbaria – Capital city of the mainland Gynarchy, and seat of the Female Government.

Black Gynarchy – A semi-autonomous island off the South Coast of the Gynarchy, whose population is comprised primarily of women and free men of African and African-Caribbean descent.

Cangue (or ‘Heavy Cangue’) – A heavy, wooden slave-collar designed to compel a male footslave to keep his head low and close to his mistress’s feet.

Celibant Footmistress – A mistress who requires her personal footslave to abstain from kissing her feet (and thus to attend orally to only her discarded footwear).

Concentrator – A fiendish device consisting of an electronic chip placed inside a slave’s temples, with a corresponding chip inserted into or onto his mistress’s ankle or item of footwear, and which delivers a painful electronic shock to the slave should his concentration on his mistress’s foot lapse in any way.

Domina-Island – A wholly autonomous island to the north of the mainland Gynarchy run by a female-domination, religious sect known as ‘The Righteous’, and named after the sect’s term for a married mistress – a ‘domina’.

Fem – Unit of female currency (equivalent to 100 female scents).

Female Army of Barbaria (F.A.B.) – The Gynarchy’s, exclusively female, and much feared, armed forces.

Female Asylum – The irrevocable, feminine protection status given to female refugees to the Gynarchy.

Female Coastguard of Futurosa (F.C.F.) – The Female Coastguard Service patrolling the Female Waters around the autonomous Gynarchic-Islamic Island of Futurosa.

Female Courts – Courts set up to impose the Female Law on males, and encourage compliance with the Female Law on the part of Females who are, nonetheless, above the Law.

Female Government – The government of the Gynarchy (members of the government are voted into office exclusively by the female population).

Female Guardians – A uniformed, vigilante group, encouraged by the State, who help to protect the Gynarchy’s streets for women in collaboration with the Female Police.

Female Health Service (F.H.S.) – Providing free health care for all females in the Gynarchy.

Female Law – The jurisprudence of the Gynarchy, designed to protect and enhance the Female, and denigrate and punish the male.

Female Police – The much respected and admired, exclusively female Police Force of the Gynarchy; upholders of the Female Law.

Female State – Another name for the Gynarchy.

Female Welfare – The State Welfare System for Females (there is no such equivalent for males).

Female Whip – A particularly brutal whip used to punish male slaves.

Femina – Second city of the Gynarchy (located in the north of the country).

Foot-fool – Another derogatory term for a footslave.

Foot-fool mask – A (usually rubber) maleslave-mask comprised of often garish colours, decorated with miniature items of feminine footwear, and emblazoned with derogatory words, all designed to humiliate and denigrate the slave in public.

Footmistress – A mistress who owns a personal footslave, or makes use of a public footslave.

Footslave – The lowliest of male slaves, required to live life on his hands and knees close to his mistresses’ feet. A footslave may be ‘personal’ (i.e. privately owned) or ‘public’ (i.e. communally owned and paid for by the Female State).

Freemale (or Free Male) – A male citizen of the Gynarchy who is not enslaved (thus a second-class citizen, with no voting rights, and subject to the Female Law, though not the whip).

Futurosa – The autonomous Gynarchic-Islamic island off the south-eastern coast of the Gynarchy, inhabited mainly by female emigrants from Islamic countries.

Girlsock – A female sock (Common Variants: Girlshoe; Girlboot).

Gynarchy Airlines – The official State airline of the Gynarchy.

Gynarchy of Barbaria – Full title of the mainland Gynarchy (after the capital city – Barbaria).

Gynarchy Bread – A woman’s insole.

Gynarchy Bread & Butter – A woman’s insole seasoned by her footsweat.

Gynarchy Gimp – Another (derogatory) term for a male footslave living in the Gynarchy.

Gynarchy Gimp-Mask – Another name for a foot-fool mask (see above).

Heavy Cangue – See ‘Cangue’.

Intermittant Footmistress – A mistress who requires her personal footslave to only intermittently kiss her feet, usually on command.

Kneeling Stocks (aka Punishment Stocks) – A low-lying set of wooden stocks in which the male victim must kneel, thereby compelling him to look at the feet and footwear of his female betters.

Maleslave-Pass – A pass or chit permitting a privately-owned, male slave to be outside without his mistress being present.

Mistress-speak – The curt, abrupt language used by a mistress to give orders to her male slave.

Perpetuant Footmistress – A mistress who requires her personal footslave to perpetually kiss her feet.

Public Shoelick – A public footslave specifically employed by the Female State to lick clean ladies’ shoes on the street (Common Variant: Public Bootlick).

Slave Gruel – The standard food given to male slaves; generally a bland, tasteless and unappetizing, though nutritional, mush. Sometimes deliberately embittered as a punishment.

Slavespeak (aka Humble Slavespeak) – The wordy, obsequious language of a humble, male slave when addressing a mistress, or a free male.

The Righteous – A Female-Domination, Religious Sect, primarily occupying Domina Island to the north of the mainland Gynarchy. The Righteous enjoy a considerable degree of autonomy, and are noted for their use of archaic language and lack of public footslavery. They are sometimes jokingly referred to as ‘The Tighteous’, due to their perceived prudery and the preference amongst the married women (or ‘dominas’) for wearing thick, black-woollen tights!

Whipping-Stick – A female rod used to fustigate, particularly public, slaves.

Young Ladies’ College of Central Barbaria (YLCCB) – A college of higher education exclusively for women; there is no male equivalent in the Gynarchy.

 

Yarn no. 5 – A crush on me?

I rather fancy that one of my regular customers – 18 year old miss Penelope (Penny to her friends) – has something of a crush on me!

It’s perhaps not all that surprising – given that I am just 25 years old and quite good looking, for a slave. But it is still most unusual for a free, young woman of the Gynarchy to feel any kind of affection for, or attraction towards, a dirty, lowlife, public footslave such as myself!

Here she comes now – on her way into college as per usual. Watch what happens and judge for yourself! Am I right? Does she indeed hold a candle for me? Or am I just being self-delusional?

She approaches my sit-down shoelick-stall, as per usual, with a happy-go-lucky and friendly smile on her pretty, white face. Her soft, natural-blonde, shoulder-length, curly hair flaps around her prominent cheekbones as she flicks her head flirtatiously at me prior to climbing up onto the raised shoelick-chair in front of which I am kneeling. As she is quite petite in stature, she actually needs me to lower my enchained head onto the ground so that she can use my upturned, left cheek as a stepping stone on which to climb up into the chair – an extra service I am more than willing to provide for such an esteemed customer!

She is dressed fairly typically for a first-year, undergraduate student-girl on her way into college – a purple T shirt with the initials of her college on it (‘YLCCB’); frayed, blue denim jeans; and a somewhat scruffy-looking, but familiar, pair of pale green, low-cut, converse style sneakers. The white laces are quite greying and dirty even though I have strenuously endeavoured to suck them clean many a time.

Miss Penelope plonks herself gaily down into the seat above me, her dainty, green-canvas-sneakered feet now coming to rest on the two metal footrests at my kneeling face level. As soon as she has made herself comfortable she greets me.

Yes – greets me!

‘Hi slave! How’s it hangin’?’

Now, on the extremely rare occasions that a superior, young mistress enquires as to the well-being (sexual or otherwise) of a mere public footslave the correct response from the slave should really be restricted to something like:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, the mistress is very kind. This dirty slave is feeling fit and well, and eager to serve the mistress, if you would be so kind most respected and superior mistress...’

However, as this is sweet and kind mistress Penelope seated above me – the girl who I believe is quite sweet on me – I shamelessly decide to milk the situation:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress Penelope, this slave is feeling somewhat under the weather this morning, and has a bit of a headache, if you would be so kind and understanding to this unworthy slave, sweet and kind mistress Penelope.’

I know what you’re thinking – there is nothing more sickening than a self-pitying footslave looking for superior, young-womanly compassion and sympathy! But it is all true – I do actually have a bit of a migraine and a headache this morning. And besides, as I suspected she would, miss Penelope falls for it – hook, line and sinker!

‘Aww, I’m sorry to hear that slave! But I expect you’ll just have to work through it, yeah? I mean, after all, a slave can hardly take a day off as a sickie, can he though? Ha! Ha!’

Despite my pounding headache, I too cannot help but smile at the concept of me, a public footslave, actually having a day off sick – even though smiling is illegal for male slaves under the Female Law, since it conveys pleasure and/or contentment; qualities deemed inappropriate in a downtrodden, male slave!

But I can’t help it – miss Penelope is just so witty, and I tell her so:

‘Oh pray mistress. No indeed mistress! The mistress is very humorous, if you would be so kind mistress Penelope!’

Miss Penelope – being such a sweet and good-humoured, flaxen-haired girl – does her best to alleviate my cerebral suffering. She gently hitches up the torn and frayed hems of her blue denim jeans:

‘Ha! Ha! Maybe this will cheer you up, slave, and make you feel better, yeah? I’m wearing my nice white sneaker-socks just for you today – can you see? I know you like them, yeah?’

My head is now no longer the only part of my anatomy that is pounding – my heart is pounding too, as are my lower parts, for miss Penelope is quite right! I do very much like it when she wears her plain, white, low-cut sneaker-socks inside her pale-green, low-cut, converse sneakers. They are such soft and pure-looking, white, cotton socks; they enhance the blonde mistress’s already shapely, and softly beautiful, pinky-white anklebones!

I feel truly honoured and privileged that the thoughtful and generous, blonde-airhead mistress Penelope is wearing them just for me – her public footslave! And all because she is sweet on me!

I express my sincere gratitude to the mistress by overtly fawning over her sweet feminine sneakers and socks, showering them unreservedly in unsolicited kisses, so confident am I in her love struck, young-womanly indulgences towards me:

‘Oh pray mistress Penelope…kiss…kiss…oh pray mistress…kiss…kiss…your white socks!...kiss…kiss…Oh pray mistress…kiss…kiss…truly they are beautiful to behold mistress Penelope…kiss...kiss…and are just the tonic this dirty footslave needs, mistress!…’

Once again, I am not lying! The mere sight of the elasticated tops of the 18 year old, blonde girl’s sweet, white sneaker-socks, and the feel of them on my lips, has perked me up no end, and has almost made me forget my migraine. Kissing them and worshipping them is the only tonic I need – which is just as well as it is the only tonic I am likely to get! Dishing out medicines to male slaves is completely forbidden here in the Gynarchy. If a male slave falls ill he must simply continue with his work, under the sting of the female whip if necessary, and allow nature to take its course! The FHS (Female Health Service) is not for the likes of us!

Miss Penelope laughs at me as I slobber slavishly over her green sneakers and white socks:

‘Ha! Ha! Thank you for the compliment, slave! But that’s enough kissing sock for now. Remember, you need to keep working in order to drive away your headache, so you’ve still got my dirty sneakers to lick clean! Ha! Ha! I want you to lick away all the filth off the soles and uppers, yeah? Come on now! Stop dilly-dallying, yeah? Get to work, slave! Ha! Ha! I don’t mind if you keep on looking at the tops of my nice, white socks while you lick clean my sneakers, but you must get on with your lowly work. Come on!…Chop! Chop!...Work!’

And with that she claps her pretty, white hands above me – twice in quick succession, like an Egyptian queen – in order to spur me on to my slavish work of licking clean her dirty, green-canvas, scruffy-student-girl sneakers. I must give her her due at this point – miss Penelope only ever uses her hands to spur me on; she has never, to date, laid a female whip-stripe on my bare and bended back, even if she does, occasionally, lay a finger on me (or, more accurately, a collection of fingers when she feels compelled to face-slap me for some perceived slight or misdemeanour!).

That’s because she cares about me – I think!

‘Yes mistress…sorry mistress… at once mistress!’

Prompted by her impatient words, I remember my place, and my lowly station in life, and promptly begin licking the dirty, white rubber of her sneaker-soles below the green-canvas insteps, albeit maintaining worshipful eye-contact with the thin, white slither of exposed sneaker sock above her green sneaker-rim.

Miss Penelope giggles as I do so, even though my tongue cannot possibly be tickling her foot through her shoe and sock!

‘Ha! Ha! Tell me, slave, do you like me?’

See what I mean? This young woman, bizarre though it may seem, clearly has a crush on me – a crush on a slave! Ha! Ha!

I try to keep a straight face and not to display happiness, for fear of being whipped:

‘Oh yes mistress Penelope, if it pleases you most sweet and kind mistress Penelope, this slave truly adores the beautiful mistress seated above him, mistress Penelope!’

‘Ha! Ha! And so, what is it that you like most about me, slave?’

I start to sweat a little – and not just due to my continuing mild fever; but because I must be ultra-careful and respectful with my responses to the young mistress’s probing questions. Sweet on me though she may be, and speaking to me in an unthreatening tone, this is still, self-evidently, a conversation of unequals, and we all know a mistress can turn on her slave at any time. Hell hath no fury like a mistress scorned, as the saying goes here in the Gynarchy!

So I choose my weaselly slave-words carefully; they are designed to flatter a young, blonde woman’s fragile, angst-ridden ego – as well as inform her:

‘Oh pray mistress Penelope…lick...lick…if it pleases you mistress Penelope… lick…lick…this slave truly adores being in the mistress’s power and at her mercy as she is seated regally above him, mistress Penelope…lick…lick… for the mistress is infinitely better than the slave, mistress…lick…lick…and he is not even worthy to lick the dirt from the sole of her shoe, mistress…lick…lick…if you would be so kind mistress Penelope.’

You see, I haven’t fallen into the classic maleslave-trap of merely praising and blessing the mistress for her undoubted physical attributes; her shapely white claves and anklebones; or her delicate foot and sneaker aroma; or even the pure whiteness of her short, cotton sneaker-socks! Instead I have focussed on her superior personality-traits – her young-womanly power and authority over me. On throwing myself on her mercy at her feet, symbolically as well as literally.

She will like that! All young women do!

She laughs happily to herself and coquettishly twiddles with her curly-blonde locks:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave! I do have power over you – and don’t you forget it, yeah?’

‘Yes mistress Penelope…lick…lick…Indeed mistress Penelope… lick… lick… lick…’

Emboldened by her positive response to my footslave-flattery, I then make a fatal error. I reach up with my slave-lips to kiss the young mistress’s bare, white ankleskin above her soft, white, cotton sock-top.

She quickly pulls her foot away from my face, and lets out a startled scream:

‘Oi!... What the hell do you think you’re playing at, slave? Are you trying to come on to me, or somefing?’

I can tell by the radically different tone in her sweet, young voice that she is now genuinely offended at my footslave-impropriety in touching her bare ankle-skin with my dirty and unworthy footslave-lips without her express permission!

I humbly beg for her sweet, feminine forgiveness, my headache suddenly returning with a vengeance to torment my birdbrain-temples:

‘Oh p…pray…m…mistress…P…Penelope! P…Please forgive this dirty, no-good slave for his impertinence and indiscretion, mistress! Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray!’

‘Hah! Dirty, impudent slave! Just you wait ‘till I tell my boyfriend what you’ve done! He’ll skin you alive, yeah?’

It seems entirely appropriate that miss Penelope’s free boyfriend (I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend) should ‘skin me alive’ for violating his girlfriend’s precious, white footskin with my dirty, footslave mouth! A punishment to fit the crime!

I shiver with both fever and fear, whilst miss Penelope, still shaking with young-womanly rage, jumps down from the raised shoelick chair, slaps me hard across the left side of my face with the palm of her right hand, and then barks at me to lay my head flat down on the dirty ground again – just as I must do when she needs a footrest to stand on when mounting the shoelick-chair.

She then crushes the unslapped side of my face into the harsh and cutting stones on the ground beneath her with the freshly licked-clean, white rubbery sole of her right, green-canvas sneaker. I can feel the dampness of my saliva on the side of my upturned, and still stinging, left cheek:

‘Never take me for granted again, dirty slave, yeah? Like you said, I have absolute power over you, and can crush you underneath my sneaker anytime I choose to, yeah? God – you slaves are all filth! Filthy, dirty pigs, yeah?’

‘Aoww!...Y...yes…m…mistress Penelope! …Mercy m…mistress!...I obey you…m…mistress Penelope! …P…Pray forgive me…m…mistress Penelope!...I am indeed a piece of filth, m…mistress!’

You see – I was right all along. Miss Penelope does indeed have a crush on me – the crush of her rubbery sneaker-sole on the side of my face as she grinds my arrogant and disrespectful, barefaced cheek into the dirty ground on which she walks, where it truly belongs!

 

Yarn no. 4 – Posh Sock & Frock

I am a street-corner shoe and bootlick.

It is, however, a very posh street – in a very posh part of town – so it is quite an upmarket shoelicking-booth as public shoelicking-booths go: comfortable surroundings (for the seated lady); sheltered from the elements; and even a privacy door which the lady can lock from the inside if she so wishes. It’s a proper, private cubicle!

As you might expect in this area of town, my female clientele are all up-market as well; posh girls; Sloane Rangers; laden with designer goods in their eco-friendly shopping bags, as they load up their 4 X 4s (or have their butlers do it).

Many of them could be described as spoilt and mollycoddled rich girls – never done a day’s work in their lives, because they don’t need to. ‘Pater’ takes care of all their monetary needs – they can twist him round their little fingers; fingers covered in designer bling.

One of my regulars – miss Arabella, or ‘Lady Arabella’ to give her her correct title – is one such spoilt brat. 20 years old; slim and pretty, albeit in a slightly ‘horsey’ sort of way; stand-offish and cold towards me, as she has every right to be, for in her posh eyes I am very much one of the under-class, being a mere street-corner, girls’ public bootlicker. I am certainly lower than the Lady Arabella – and doesn’t she just know it!

Sometimes I think she can barely bring herself to look at me – or to have my under-class tongue licking her upper-class ankleboots. But she grins and bears it – for what else is an ‘it girl’ to do? I mean, a posh girl and leading socialite like the Lady Arabella can’t be seen around town in dirty, designer ankleboots, can she?

She most frequently calls into my booth on her way to or from the shops. Today it appears to be from the shops – judging both by the amount of shopping bags she has with her, and her excited conversation on her mobile phone which appears to consist of her bragging about her latest purchases, and how much they cost.

Just think, the contents of just one of her shopping bags is probably worth more than me on the open market!

As always Lady Arabella’s designer sunglasses are up in her mousey-blonde hair, giving her an undoubted air of posh-young-woman sophistication. She is wearing a smart, black leather jacket over a frilly, pink and white blouse, and skinny, designer, black denim jeans tucked into the tops of her matching, designer, black leather ankleboots.

I know the boots are designer because they aren’t merely your common-or-garden, pointy-toed, spike-heeled, cheap, mass-produced, zip-up ankleboots that you could see any day of the week on a typical student-girl’s feet; these boots have distinctive, decorative buckles and straps on the sides over the brown-felt zipper area. These are posh boots, on a posh bird – sorry, on a posh mistress – to whom I must show the utmost respect and doff my working-class cap.

If I had one – of course. But being lower even than working class, as I am but a slave, I’m not allowed to wear headgear of any description – unless it’s a rubber footfool-mask, and I am currently an unmasked slave. All I can do, therefore, is show my respect for her young Ladyship by humbly looking her in the pointy, black leather, designer boot-toe as she climbs up onto the plush, leather seating in front of me, still engaged in her shopping-related telephone conversation, and deftly rests her designer-anklebooted feet onto the two metal footrests directly in front of my humbly kneeling and bowed face.

The boots have already been freshly-polished; I can smell the boot polish. Presumably she had her butler do it before she left home on her latest shopping expedition – for Lady Arabella, at just 20 years old, is still legally too young to boss about her own personal footslave, though I’m sure she has all the character needed to be an effective, personal slavemistress. Her finishing school will have taught her all about proper slave-husbandry.

I had thought she hadn’t even noticed me as she climbed up onto the seat of shoeshining power, but I suppose she must be vaguely aware of the piece of lower-class, human junk kneeling in front of her upper-class feet as she briefly interrupts her joyful telephone conversation with a fellow, female Sloane to curtly bark down her orders to me in her plummy, English accent:

‘Shine them up, boy!’

The good Lady Arabella can’t have looked at me very hard – for I am far from boyhood. I’m now 55 years old, but I suppose she means it as a term of my lowly, servile status vis-à-vis her young-ladyship feet. I mean, to give her her due, she could hardly think of me as a man, since I live my life, quite literally, on my knees – licking female footwear!

Indeed, Lady Arabella – though she is, as I said, one of my regulars and hence I know her sweet, feminine name – has never bothered to enquire after my slave-name. I am clearly just a thing to her – a bootlicking object and piece of street-furniture – as she resumes her animated and excitable telephone conversation above me just as soon as she has issued her orders; orders which she knows will be humbly obeyed; otherwise she’ll tell Pater, and her Pater will inform the Female Police, and the Female Police will come and whip me!

She appears to be looking disdainfully down her snooty, aristocratic nose at me as I interrupt her superior phone conversation in order to respectfully indicate my absolute determination to obey the rich customer-mistress, and satisfy her every boot-cleaning desire:

‘Yes, Lady Arabella. At once goddess-mistress Lady Arabella.’

She doesn’t seem at all fazed that I know her name. After all, she will be famous some day – a supermodel, or some such like. She’s got the looks for it (or so she thinks).

She certainly has the money to buy fame!

But Lady Arabella isn’t here to converse with the likes of me! She’s here to have her boots divested of their recently acquired traces of street-dirt and dust, for even posh pavements contain dirt – despite all the best efforts of the streetlicking-slaves. (I’m glad I’m not one of those – at least I get to taste young ladies’ bootleather, and not just the residue from their boots where they have been walking!)

Lady Arabella’s posh, designer boots taste, as you would expect, like gourmet boots. This is expensive leather – no doubt about it; most palatable to the footslave-tongue, even if the taste of the leather is somewhat drowned out by the bitter taste of the still-fresh boot-polish applied by her butler.

But it’s the designer buckles and straps which really get my tongue going. Not only do they trap dust and dirt – dust and dirt which I need to supplement my meagre slave-diet – they also present a real challenge to even the most experienced of footslave-tongues. I mean, how am I supposed to divest the Lady Arabella’s brown felt ankleboot-zipper-tracks of street-dust and grime when those decorative, black leather bootstraps are in the way?!

That, of course, is my problem – and not the Lady Arabella’s. She doesn’t pick and choose her footwear to facilitate me. She simply wants her boots to be nice and clean – including, I am sure, the felt zipper-tracks – and so cleaned they must be. Otherwise it will be the whip for me – for what Lady Arabella wants, Lady Arabella gets!

And rightly so – for she is my upper-class better.

Her lack of concern about exactly how I am supposed to clean up her boots with all the decorative distractions on them is eloquently evidenced by her continued concentration on her unrelated telephone conversation above me as my tongue wrestles with her bootstraps:

‘Yah!...OK…They’re, like, bright green with a 3 inch heel and little silver bows over the toe areas!...Honestly, Lucinda, they’re, like, to die for!...Oh my God I can’t wait to wear them tonight!...Ha! Ha!..Yah!...They’ll, like, go perfectly with my green ball-gown, or something…?’

I must admit, my own ears prick up at what is obviously a description of a freshly-purchased pair of bright green, designer, high-heeled shoes. I must admit they do sound nice – and I would dearly love to see them on the Lady Arabella’s upper class legs and feet when she steps out in them this evening! Normally, I only ever get to see her feet in boots and daytime casual wear, even though I gather she only lives round the corner. She never seems to visit my booth in the evenings.

A wicked thought springs into my lower-class mind – why don’t I try and engineer a visit by the young Lady Arabella in her posh, green ball-gown and matching designer green shoes this evening? She may be posh – but she’s still a bit thick, in my humble opinion. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to tongueshine the sexy, designer, high-heeled pumps of a young, titled-lady on her way to the debutantes’ ball? It would be an honour and a privilege for the likes of me!

Yes, I must try to arrange such an encounter. I must slow down on her designer ankleboots, and await her to finish her telephone conversation, so that I may put my caddish proposal to her.

I therefore lick slower, and take more time to admire the hint of elasticated, black sock-top just above the upper rims of her designer ankleboots – the black, cotton bootsocks of a privileged, young, upper-class woman who is my infinite superior and better. Even her socks look posh!

Luckily for me, the good Lady Arabella doesn’t appear to notice that my tongue is slacking on her boots and that my eyes are wandering onto the tops of her designer socks, and some five minutes later I hear her winding up her mobile phone conversation:

‘OK Yah…Yah…See you honey…Chow for now!...’

She flips her phone back into her designer, black leather jacket pocket, and I make my move quickly before her phone, inevitably, rings again (she must have lots of friends, a rich young lady like the Lady Arabella!):

‘Oh pray, mistress-Lady Arabella, if you will forgive me the intrusion, most beautiful and respected young mistress-Lady Arabella, but this slave couldn’t help overhearing the mistress describing her new shoes, if you would be so kind and forgiving mistress-Lady Arabella. Truly they sound beautiful, good Lady-mistress, and this dirty slave was wondering if her sweet and kind ladyship would do the humble footslave the honour of showing him her new shoes, if you would be so kind to a humble and helpless footslave at your feet and at your mercy, most kind and generous Lady Arabella?’

It’s a gamble – but a calculated one! I just know that a self-centred and narcissistic young woman like the spoilt and pampered Lady Arabella won’t be able to resist showing off her new shoes – even to a down-in-the-dirt, public footslave like me!

She claps her pretty, aristocratic hands with glee:

‘Yah – they are very nice, and they’re worth a lot more than you, slave-oik!’

I then hear her rumble through her bags until she finds the shoes in question. Ah – the unmistakeable smell of brand new shoeleather! It assails my nostrils as she condescendingly holds the shoes down in front of my poor-man, kneeling face for me to extol and admire.

And admire them I very much do – posh, green, high-heeled shoes, with little silvery bows on the pointy-toe areas; just as the Lady Arabella had described them to her friend. They even still have the labels attached to the black, leather soles, and the gold lettering on the white insoles is, as yet, unfaded by posh-girl foot wear.

She holds one of the shoes up to my nose:

‘Here – you can smell them, if you like, oik?’

Such a kind and generous, young woman – permitting me to smell the fresh insides of her new, designer shoes. She probably thinks that’s the sort of thing we footslaves like to do, and is therefore doing her best to show some sweet, feminine compassion towards the pathetic underling at her feet – though she is clearly naïve enough not to realise that I would prefer to smell the insides of her green leather, high-heeled shoes after she has been wearing them all night to the ball!

Speaking of which, I must say my manipulative piece now, or forever regret what might have been:

‘Oh pray Lady Arabella, if it pleases you goddess-mistress Lady Arabella, the shoes are truly beautiful both to the sight and to the smell, if it is so pleasing to you most admired Lady Arabella. Oh pray, your ladyship! I beseech you – pray permit this slave to tongueshine your shoes for you later this evening on your way to and from the ball, if you would be so kind to a wretched, public footslave most esteemed and respected Lady Arabella? Truly it would be an honour for this dirty slave to enhance the beauty of your ball-gown-shoes for you, most beautiful Lady Arabella!’

She laughs – a snooty, horsey kind of laugh – as she withdraws the inside of her green, high-heeled shoe from my nose:

‘Haw! Haw! Don’t be silly, footslave – they’re brand new! They don’t need a lick and a shine! Haw! Haw!’

She’s perhaps not as stupid as she looks after all – this spoilt Lady Arabella! Damn! I must think quickly on her feet:

‘Yes, your ladyship, this is true, your ladyship, but I was thinking that her young-ladyship would look very cool sitting down and having her shoes licked clean in public by this dirty, wretched slave whilst she is wearing her long, flowing ball-gown, your ladyship. You could leave the door to the public shoelick-booth wide open, and everyone would surely see you, and admire you, and your power over me, if it would be so pleasing to you most kind and beautiful Lady Arabella!’

I can tell instantly that I’ve pushed the right buttons. Flattery will get me everywhere – or, at least, it will get my silvery slave-tongue onto the vain and self-centred Lady Arabella’s bright green and silvery, high-heeled shoes later this very same evening; to, or from, or, if I’m very lucky, to and from, the debutantes’ ball!

…………………………………………………………………..

Sure enough – she couldn’t resist it!

At about 7.00 PM, when it was already dark (for it is still wintertime), she stepped out of her designer-flat in the city and into my designer, public footbooth in her long, flowing, ankle-length ball-gown and matching green, high-heeled pumps on her bare, freshly-waxed legs.

I must say, she looked the business – every inch the lady! And she knew it, for she took my advice and left the door of the booth wide open so that everyone could see her having her designer shoes licked clean by the dirty, public footslave on her way to the ball.

She even hitched up the hem of her ball-gown so that her shoes were fully on display, as I tried, in vain, to find any dirt to lick.

What I did spot, however, were the fading tank-tracks caused by the elasticated tops of her former, black bootsocks just above her shapely, bare, white anklebones. The very thought that the lady Arabella’s debutante-ankles still bore the marks of her casual-wear bootsocks – the very same socks it had been my privilege to admire at close quarters earlier in the day whilst I was less-than-diligently tongueshining her black leather ankleboots – filled me with awe and humility; awe – that this bright, young thing would deign to spend some of her precious time in my presence; and humility – that I alone in the world was aware of the residual sockmarks on her soft, young-womanly, upper-class ankles, for your face had to be very close up to them to see them!

I kissed those sock marks – totally unsolicited; as a mark of respect for the mark of her sock, and out of my sheer, slavish respect for the superior female personage of the lovely, young Lady Arabella seated above me.

Sadly, she didn’t stop off on the way back from the ball. By all accounts, she was too drunk! So I never did get to smell the used insides of her designer, high-heeled shoes.

 

Yarn no. 3 – Jerk-in-the-box

My 25 year old, Jamaican mistress, mistress Tanisha, has a new toy to play with – her ‘jerk-in-the-box’.

I am the jerk, and the box consists of a wooden box with two leg-sized holes on the side and a single, head-sized hole on the bottom, through which she can insert her rather large, Jamaican feet and my rather small, stupid head respectively whilst she is relaxing in the arms of her manly husband – my master Winston – with her feet up on the edge of the sofa.

‘Jerk-in-the-box’ is just my mistress’s witty nickname for this cruel device. Its actual name is a ‘foot-box’ – and they are currently all the rage here in the Gynarchy. The idea is that a mistress can relax her stinky, sweaty feet at the end of a long, hard working day on her personal footslave’s face, without having to look at him as she does so; and without the danger of having to inhale the unpleasant, aroma of her own sweaty feet, of course, since her hot and tired feet are safely ensconced inside the box.

The stinky foot-box has the added advantage of forcing the young woman’s footslave to concentrate on her feet, and her feet alone – since his head is equally confined inside the wooden box. The rest of the world is effectively dead to him as his senses are dominated by the mistress’s pretty feet. He has no choice but to concentrate on serving his superior mistress’s feet with his stupid, ugly, male head – thinking only inside the box.

The foot-box has several other features, including a soft, felt, purple, inner lining to gently cushion the mistress’s feet against the wood, and a tiny, inner light-bulb over which she has total control from the outside via a remote controlled switch. Furthermore, a tiny microphone and an equally tiny camera enable the mistress to direct her footbox-slave’s foot-worship inside the box should she so wish to. The box is soundproofed so that the slave can only hear his mistress’s voice when she deigns to bark her orders at him via the microphone. There are no other sounds to distract him from his humble work. The mistress has, therefore, effectively ‘boxed his ears’!

This evening my mistress Tanisha is relaxing her feet inside her personal foot-box after a busy day at the office. She still has her office clothes on, consisting of her frilly, white blouse, her short, black skirt, and, crucially, her thick, black, woolly tights. They are ‘crucial’ because it is her woolly tights that are now dominating my senses inside the stinky foot-box.

My mistress has lazily kicked off her black, leather, high-heeled, office courts before stretching out her large, black feet into the box, and so my confined face is now confronted by the sight and smell of her black-woolly-tighted feet as she casually wriggles her freshly liberated, Jamaican toes around my entrapped and imprisoned slave-nose.

The reinforced toe-areas of the woollen tights smell poignantly warm and moist. Why wouldn’t they after a long, hot day on my beautiful, young, Jamaican mistress’s office-girl feet? But what really strikes me about them is the dust and detritus attached to them, highlighted by the internal light bulb – little black balls of woolly tights-lint; little pieces of foreign, white fluff; floor-dust; even a short, curly, black pubic hair. My mistress has clearly been walking around the house in her woolly-tighted feet!

Although the outside world is dead to me inside my box, I can nevertheless tell by the intensely sensuous movement of my mistress Tanisha’s dusty, wool-covered toes around my nose that she is experiencing a highly pleasurable embrace in master Winston’s arms as she lies back on the sofa with her feet resting inside the box.

That’s how it is – the master pleasures the mistress’s upper body whilst I must pleasure her sweaty, woolly-tighted toes with my imprisoned face. He has a choice, of course – being a free man; whereas my stupid, gormless slave-face has no choice – it is literally at the mercy of my mistress’s woolly-tighted feet. Inside this box it cannot move; my mistress can caress or kick me with her stinky feet as she sees fit.

And rightly so, for I am just the servant of her feet. My face is their plaything.

My Jamaican mistress briefly interrupts her snogging with her manly, Jamaican husband to bark down her orders at me through the microphone:

‘Slave-bwoy, rub your nose along the bottom of my toes, yeah? Sniff up all my sweaty foot-stink while I is worshipping my husband, yeah? Hja! Hja! You is a total jerk man, innit? Hja! Hja!’

I hear the microphone clicking off. She has said all she has to say to me.

There is no point in my trying to respond verbally to my superior, black mistress’s electronic commands, since, as I explained earlier, the box is sealed and soundproofed. I must let my nose do the talking as my mistress Tanisha feels my compliance and obedience to her Jamaican-female wishes by way of my humble nose resting on the underside of her woolly-tighted, right foot. I know that she can also observe me, if needs be, via the tiny camera inside the box, even though I can’t see her.

But I somehow sense that mistress Tanisha is otherwise preoccupied as she rubs her damp-tighted foot up and down my nose, thereby subconsciously facilitating me in my objective of hoovering up her stale, Jamaican-woman footsweat through my footslave nostrils.

The powerful aroma of confined and sweaty, Jamaican-girl feet makes me feel quite heady; and privileged – privileged to be a party to such an intimate smell from my black female superior and better.

I sniff vigorously on the lower, outer surface of the woolly-tighted foot – so much so that I even manage to dislodge the aforementioned black, pubic hair which had been stuck to the somewhat worn and thinning instep of her black tights. It must have disappeared up inside my nose! I can only hope and pray that it does not cause me to sneeze all over my mistress’s woolly-tighted feet, for that would be sure to earn me a severe whipping from the master, all whilst my head is still confined in the wooden foot-box covering his beloved wife’s feet.

I do so fear the master and his whip. Indeed, I am an invertebrate coward when it comes to the sting of the female whip as wielded by my master Winston – so much so that my mistress has mockingly written the words ‘Jerk Chicken’ on the outside of my box.

That’s how she sees me – as a coward and a jerk. A boxed head at her service, cowering under her strong and manly husband’s whip. A kneeling, cowardly jerk-in-the-box!

 

Yarn no. 2 – Going places!

I am a common, run-of-the-mill, suburban train-station footslave in a run-down part of town. My existence as a public footslave is relatively dull, serving a mixture of new and regular, street-soiled female feet on a daily basis – mainly regulars from the local estate.

But that’s not to say my regulars can’t surprise me from time to time, thereby enhancing my normally dreary existence with an extra dose of pain and humiliation.

Take sweet and kind mistress Libby, for example – a 24 year old, bespectacled, rather plain-looking, plain-talking, mixed-race girl (of Italian/Barbadian origins) who is a student at the city-centre, Female University. She always stops by my ‘stand-up’, public footlick-stall in the lobby entrance of her local train station during her morning commute into college.

Invariably dressed as any typical student-girl of her age would be – in a cheap-looking T shirt; scruffy, baggy, blue denim jeans; and with a scruffy pair of hole-ridden, dirt-stained, high-top, purple converse sneakers – the most excitement I can normally expect from miss Libby is a furtive glimpse of her white, student-girl socks through one of the several holes in her tatty old sneakers whilst I endeavour to tongue-remove the ingrained street grime and dirt from the outer surfaces of her grubby, canvas and rubber shoes.

She is always very friendly and chatty towards me, however, as she towers above me with one foot extended forwards onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face – letting me know how her media studies are progressing; all about her love-life (or lack of it!); her plans for the week-end; her medical ailments, such as thrush etc. Not that any of that is really any of my damn business, but I do appreciate her sharing such intimate and personal information with me, for it is nice to know all about the superior, free lives of one’s female masters and betters as one licks clean their dirty, outer footwear and admires the occasional glimpse of furtive, white girlsock.

Today at the train station, however, it was a case of ‘all change please’ as far as mistress Libby was concerned!

I hardly recognised her as she approached my humble, footlick stand, as per usual, at about 10.00 in the morning. For a start her gait had changed – not the usual, sluggish, casual approach in baggy jeans and scruffy sneakers, so typical of a happy-go-lucky student who very much enjoys her long lie-ins! No – today the first thing I was aware of was a smartly-dressed, young mixed-race woman striding confidently and purposefully up towards my wooden footblock in a short, black minidress and matching shiny black, patent leather, high-heels on her bare, light-brown, mixed-race legs. Also, she wasn’t wearing any glasses, and her normally scraggy hair was neatly tied back in a severe bun.

The main thing was those legs – however! Such a shapely pair of young-womanly legs – hidden, until now, under baggy, student-girl jeans. Who would have believed it? Miss Libby – the student-girl ugly-duckling; now turned into a beautiful and elegant swan!

As she swanned up to my public footlick-stand it was really only when she spoke to me that I was able to confirm that this was indeed my regular, student-girl, customer-mistress, mistress Libby, recognisable only from the familiar sound of her high-pitched, undergraduate-girl voice:

‘Lickshine my high-heels, slave!’

Her tone sounded somewhat harsher and more abrupt than usual, but other than that this was definitely the very same mistress Libby – or, if not, it must be her more successful, identical twin sister!

The now stunningly beautiful, young, mixed-race woman then imperiously presented her high-heeled, black patent leather, right foot for licking onto my wooden footblock, whilst simultaneously adjusting her expensive looking, matching shiny black leather, designer shoulder-bag over her right shoulder. Wobbling below my face on the one-inch-high, wooden footblock-platform was a shapely, brown anklebone in a three-inch heel. I could even see the outline of my ugly, distorted footslave-face reflected in the pointy toe of the stylish, black patent leather shoe.

What on earth is going on? Such a transformation!

‘Yes mistress Libby. At once mistress Libby’ I responded respectfully, as I always do after she has normally ordered me to lickshine her sneakers!

Mistress Libby may have undergone a makeover, but I was still the same, old humble public foot-servant, anxious to please.

I lowered my lips to the pointy toe of the high-heeled shoe and began to lick. It tasted ultra-smooth and dirt-free. Such a rare treat for a suburban train-station footslave where sneakers and ballet-flats tend to prevail! There aren’t many upper-crust businesswomen living in this particular area of town, nor are there many designer shoe-stores in the area!

As I turn my slavish attention to the raised instep along the inner side of miss Libby’s curvy, high-heeled shoe I feel I just have to ask her for an explanation as to her dramatic change of appearance. I’m sure she must be dying to tell me – for she is always such a friendly and outgoing young mistress:

‘Oh pray mistress Libby… lick...lick… if it pleases you mistress Libby…lick…lick…the mistress is looking very nice today, miss Libby… lick...lick… if I may be so bold, mistress…lick…lick…Is the young mistress off somewhere nice, miss Libby?….lick…lick…’

‘No talking, slave! Just licking!’

I am taken aback by her curt response. This doesn’t sound at all like the gregarious and friendly miss Libby I know! Perhaps it is her identical twin sister – one with a much harsher personality! At the very least I am seeing miss Libby’s alter-ego!

I humbly beg the angry, young mistress’s forgiveness, still assuming it is miss Libby:

‘Yes miss Libby. Sorry miss Libby. Pray forgive me miss Libby!’

Miss Libby (for it is indeed she) immediately reaches for the adjacent, public-use whipping stick and swishes it down hard across my naked shoulder-blades with a truly stinging cut:

‘I SAID NO TALKING SLAVE! GOD, ARE YOU FICK OR SOMETHING? DON’T YOU KNOW HOW TO OBEY THE SIMPLEST OF COMMANDS?!’

I let out an involuntary cry of pain as the full force of the cut from the wooden whipping-stick sears across my right shoulder. To be honest my gasp is as much from shocked surprise as it is from pain. This is so unlike the sweet and kind mistress Libby whom I have come to know and slavishly love over the months and years I have been stationed at the suburban train station:

‘Aoww!...Yes mistress... I mean, no mistress….I mean, sorry mistress!’

Mistress Libby goes berserk, raining blow after blow with the stick down upon my bended back:

‘SHUT UP, SLAVE! STOP BABBLING, THOUGH! SHUT UP AND LICK MY SHOE! LICK IT, THOUGH, YEAH?’

A smartly-dressed, older, Latino-looking man comes over towards the punishment scene and helps to calm down my uncharacteristically apoplectic-with-rage, mixed race customer-mistress:

‘Is everything alright, Elisabetta dear?’

Elisabetta dear! This man actually knows her! No hint of a foreign accent, though – despite his Mediterranean appearance. Who on earth is he?

‘Oh Felipe, darling, this dirty, public footslave won’t shut up and get on with licking my pretty shoe clean, though! He keeps on trying to speak to me, though, and I’ve specifically told him not to, innit though?’

If the free man hadn’t addressed miss Libby by the Italian version of her first name I would never have believed this was the same, good-natured student-girl in scruffy, purple, converse sneakers whose white socks I graciously get to glimpse every day through the holes in her canvas uppers. Such a transformation – in attitude as well as appearance!

‘Would you like me to whip him, honey?’ asks the man, obligingly.

Miss ‘Elisabetta’ swoons at his manliness:

‘Oh yes, Felipe ..Oh would you please?...Teach him a lesson, though…Teach him not to disobey his superior mistress, though!’

My former miss Libby then kisses her middle-aged, Latin lothario lovingly on the lips as she hands over the whipping-stick to the stranger master-sir. She then steps away from the footblock in order to give the free man more room in which to whip me.

And whip me he does …with mucho macho gusto!

Mistress Libby laughs at me out loud as I cower under the blows from her new boyfriend’s wooden-whip:

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t spare him Felipe, honey...let him have it, though! Ha! Ha! Give him what for, though! Ha! Ha! Teach him not to disrespect me, though – since I’m your new girl, innit though? Ha! Ha!...’

Master Felipe is quite breathless by the time he has finished beating me – as am I; breathless from being beaten.

Mistress Libby embraces him passionately when he has finally finished with the stick, her right, high-heeled ankle now tucking itself coquettishly in behind her left as she kisses him and thanks him for disciplining me. I can see the creases in her cracked, bare heel skin as she kisses him above me.

Master Felipe indicates that he is off to buy himself a bottle of water as all that whipping has made him thirsty! He asks his young girlfriend if she would like one, but she indicates that she is okay and just wishes to stay with the footslave for a few more minutes so that ‘he can finish his job’.

As master Felipe then heads off victoriously to a nearby kiosk, miss Libby, a smug grin of young-womanly satisfaction and triumph on her own, mixed-race face, now stretches forth her left, high-heeled foot onto my wooden footblock for cleaning:

‘Ha! Ha! Smarts a bit does it, footslave? Ha! Ha! Let that be a lesson to you, though! Ha! Ha!...Now stop blubbering and get on with lickshining my other shoe, yeah?’

Tempted momentarily though I am to verbally thank the mistress for correcting me and to acknowledge her new order, I have indeed learnt my painful lesson, which is now writ large on my bare back, and I restrict myself to quietly sobbing as I lick the already perfectly clean and shiny left shoe of the totally transformed beyond all recognition, mistress Libby.

A part of me would quite like the old miss Libby back – those scruffy, purple sneakers and white, student-girl socks; if only because they were much gentler and kinder to me. But the new miss Libby is clearly a young woman who is going places far beyond this suburban train station. She is going up in the world – a power-dresser who now revels in her female power! The formerly baggy-jeaned student appears to have bagged herself a rich sugar-daddy, who buys her nice clothes and beats public footslaves on her capricious behalf. She has no need to continue with her media studies course. Nor does she have any more need of my loser-footslave, polite conversation and lowly friendship.

I’m just a thing to her now – a piece of street furniture which shines her expensive, designer shoes, bought for her by her rich and successful, Latino boyfriend. The old mistress Libby terminates here, at this very, suburban train station, and the new, exotic mistress Elisabetta (as she no doubt will wish to be addressed by the likes of me from now on) demands my total and utter respect.

She has it! For she is clearly, unlike me, going places – and I don’t mean into her former college on the local, suburban commuter-train!

 

Yarn no. 1 – Heroine-Chic

Because my beautiful, 23 year old, black mistress – mistress Giselle – works as a street prostitute she has lots of pairs of high-heeled shoes, boots and sandals for me to keep clean. Indeed, her dingy, basement flat in the heart of the city is quite cluttered with numerous pairs of her well-worn shoes, boots, sandals and socks – since my mistress’s preferred footwear-style is to wear socks with her stilettos. She says her punters like her to wear socks with high heels, as they make her look even more ‘tarty’ (?)

I just think she looks like a stiletto-heeled, sock goddess!

This evening, for example, my mistress Giselle is out on the streets in her goddess-like, short, black and white, polka-dot minidress; long, red, knee-high, woollen socks; and white leather, strappy, sandals with cork, wedged heels.

Okay, so she’s not wearing stilettos tonight – as such; but those thick, cork, wedged heels still gave her feet and legs that characteristic, feminine wobble as she walked around the room!

Before leaving her basement bedsit she had ordered me to make sure her red, woolly socks were fully pulled up and straightened on her long and thin black legs as I had slavishly helped her on with her footwear.

Sometimes she chooses to wear those very same red kneesocks all scrunched up and slovenly-looking around her somewhat scrawny and pockmarked black calve muscles and ankles, to help ‘fill them out’ a bit. Personally I just wish she would eat more, and do less drugs. But it is clearly my mistress’s decision how she wears her socks on any given night. It mainly just depends on her mood – and tonight she was clearly in a scrawny-legged, heroin-chic, ‘straight, woolly kneesocks’ sort of mood!

Sadly, I am not allowed to accompany my esteemed mistress-heroine out on the streets whilst she plies her trade, for three main reasons:

1) I am an illegal-footslave, embondaged to my mistress unlawfully by her Jamaican gangster-boyfriend who, for his part, had stolen me in an audacious raid on the slave auction rooms several months’ ago. I understand he wanted to give each of his ‘girls’ their very own footslave, but didn’t want to have to pay for it! My mistress Giselle is, therefore, effectively handling stolen goods – and as far as I am aware the Female Police are still looking for me. My God, the punishment I shall be in for if ever they do catch me doesn’t bear thinking about! ‘Escaping’ from a slave auction room is considered right up there with the most serious of crimes a male slave can commit in the Gynarchy! So, to be honest, I’m glad my mistress keeps me permanently locked up indoors with her tarty shoes and socks.

2) My mistress Giselle feels I would, in any case, be bad for business out on the streets – bound to put her free, male punters off as they would either see me as competition for her attention (unlikely, in my humble opinion, given that I can hardly have sex with my mistress, being a mere women’s footslave! Ha! Ha! A footslave having sex with a superior woman – who ever heard of such a thing! Ha! Ha!’); or because she fears they would be jealous of my proximity to her socks (more likely, I think, given that my mistress always wears very nice socks, whether they be fully pulled-up thigh-length or knee-high socks; scrunched up calf-length socks; or cute little ankle socks. As her personal footslave I would be duty bound to kneel behind her on the corner of the street and stare at her socked feet as she touts for business, and I can see how at least some of my mistress’s more perverse punters would resent and envy that!)

3) My mistress Gisele, quite rightly, feels that I have enough work to do back in her dingy flat in any case – since she requires each and every pair of her sexy shoes, boots and sandals to be tongue-polished every twenty- four hours, regardless of whether or not she has been wearing them out on the streets in the interim; and because, likewise, she requires all of her multitudinous pairs of brightly coloured socks to be mouth-washed every twenty-four hours – again regardless of whether or not they have been adorning her pretty, black, prostitute-legs and feet in the intervening period.

I do, of course, very much miss my mistress’s divine, black presence when she is out working the streets, but at least I have her residual foot-tastes and smells on her soiled footwear to keep me company. And sometimes she throws caution to the wind and breaks all the rules by actually inviting a punter back to her cluttered flat for loveless sex!

At such times I must be on my very best footslave-behaviour, and be as discreet and inconspicuous as I can be, kneeling in the corner of the room attending to my prostitute-mistress’s freshly discarded socks and sandals whilst she entertains her client on her rickety bed.

This evening is one such august occasion, as my mistress has brought home a rather portly, middle-aged, white man in order to ‘entertain’ him. He glances down at me disparagingly as he somewhat drunkenly and unsteadily enters her run-down and messy flat – like I was something stuck to the sole of my mistress’s shoe!

Which, I suppose, in many respects I am – being the illicit, down-on-my-knees, down-on-my-luck, personal footslave to my superior, black prostitute-mistress.

The master-sir (I have to address all my mistress’s clients whom she deigns to bring home and introduce to me as ‘master sir’) is evidently more than just a little bit drunk – and in the mood not just for sex, but to tease and torment a helpless, down-in-the-dirt prostitute’s footslave such as myself, by way of some sort of macho-male foreplay. After a few minutes he comes over to me in the dirtiest corner of the room and crouches down to speak to me.

I can smell the stale booze on his middle-aged breath:

‘Ha! Ha! And how are you this fine evening, whore’s footslave? Ha! Ha! Are you enjoying the taste of your mistress’s dirty boots and socks?’

He is, of course, referring to the many pairs of my mistress’s previously discarded boots and socks which I have been dutifully attending to with my mouth and lips all evening, and amongst which I am now humbly kneeling – though not, I regret to say, the fabulous, strappy, wedged sandals and red, knee-high socks she is currently wearing, for she has not yet undressed for sex. My still partially-clothed mistress Gisele is actually fixing herself a stiff drink – for fortitude, I think. For the man is not in the least bit what you would describe as ‘handsome’ or ‘attractive’!

Be that as it may, he is still worthy of my respect, being my free and easy better:

‘Oh pray master sir…oh yes master sir…if it pleases you master sir…’

I am also being ultra-polite towards the drunken mater for my black mistress’s sake. After all, I don’t want her having to deal with an angry or disgruntled punter. And besides, mistress Giselle will whip me hard if I am at all rude to one of her favoured clients whom she has selected for the inestimable honour of accompanying her back to her dank and dingy, bedsit-boudoir.

‘Ha! Ha! I know your type, whore’s footslave!’ continues the man. ‘I’ll bet you’re hopin’ to get a sniff of your mistress’s nice, red kneesocks while I’m makin’ love to her, aren’t you boy? Ha! Ha!...’

‘Oh pray master sir…if it pleases you master sir… that would indeed be most edifying for this humble, dirty footslave most respected master sir…’

The alcohol-stinking man guffaws with laughter:

‘Ha! Ha! Ha!...Well, get this whore’s footslave, you’re not gonna get a chance to sniff those nice red socks, and do you know why, boy?...Ha! Ha!...Cause I’m gonna pay your mistress to keep them on her pretty legs while I make love to her, yeah?...Ha! Ha!...What do you think of that, boy?...Ha! Ha!. I’m gonna make love to your mistress whilst she’s wearin’ those same, pretty, red socks on her legs! Ha! Ha!...’

I am truly gutted, for one of the few, if not the only, consolations of being a prostitute’s personal, live-in footslave is the honour of smelling her freshly-discarded, streetwalking socks whilst she entertains a punter on her well-used and creaking bed. But I know there is no point in remonstrating, or rather pleading, with the drunken and arrogant master-sir to change his mind – not least because he has already offered to pay my mistress Giselle extra cash to keep her red, woolly knee-high socks on during their imminent ‘lovemaking’ session; and my mistress Giselle would never turn down the opportunity to earn a bit of extra cash from a punter, however bizarre or kinky the request!

And so I acknowledge the white master-sir’s gloating cruelty over me with humility and resignation:

‘Oh pray master sir…as it pleases you master sir…this slave is at your mercy and the mercy of the mistress, master sir…’

The man stands up again, albeit a bit unsteadily on his feet, and victoriously continues to laugh out loud at me:

‘Ha! Ha! Too right you are, boy! Ha! Ha! …Aww, but don’t be too upset, whore’s footslave!...I will let you smell and lick your mistress’s pretty, wedge-heeled sandals while I make love to her…Ha! Ha!...’

‘Oh pray master sir…oh thank you master sir. God bless you master sir…’

I know my black mistress will be proud of my slavish humility towards the white master-sir. She has instructed me to always do everything in my slave non-power to keep those favoured punters whom she brings back to her flat happy. Her prostitute’s motto is that the punter is always right – until he pays up and leaves!

True to his drunken word the master-sir does indeed callously throw over my mistress Giselle’s street-and-sweat-soiled, wedge-heeled, white-strapped, cork sandals before taking off his own clothes and climbing into bed with my semi-naked (apart from her red socks) mistress – so I can at least smell and taste where her red woolly kneesocks have been previously residing whilst she and the master have intercourse; on the well-worn, inner soles of her cork-heeled sandals!

The traces of heroin on my mistress’s sandals – excreted from her black footpores – are too impure to get me high, mixed in as they are with her precious, black footsweat; so I remain lowly.

Meanwhile, my two betters’ sexual encounter doesn’t last long, and just as soon as the master-sir is spent my mistress, as is her wont, promptly gathers up his disgusting clothes and chucks him out. Now, at last, she can take off her sweaty, red kneesocks and stuff them into my mouth for cleaning.

‘Asshole!’ she spits as she does so.

I think – I hope – she is referring to the recently departed master-sir, and not to me!