Footslave Yarns Volume 5

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

VOLUME 5 CONTENTS (scroll down for yarns in reverse numerical order)

10. Shona ♥ Darren

9. Miss goody-two-hundred-shoes

8. Fall-Out

7. Blinkered Vision

6. Mistress’s Foot-Forecast

5. My Fair-Minded Footmistress

4. Modesty Forbids!

3. The VIP

2. A Visit from the Jailer’s Daughter

1. The Bootsocks and the Stick

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Yarn no. 10 – Shona ♥ Darren

My 19 year old, pale white, Goth-mistress – mistress Shona – is very much in love with her current boyfriend of 3 months, so much so that she has written ‘Shona ♥ Darren’ in felt-tip pen along the side of her grubby, white keds; well, one of them anyway.

I am less enamoured by mixed-race master Darren – a weaselly and snidey, 22 year old, little runt of a man is how I would best like to describe him! Except, of course, that I can’t – because, for better or for worse, he is the chosen boyfriend of my mistress Shona, and is my superior and better in the eyes of the Female Law, being a free man. He is, therefore, by law, deserving of my respect.

Besides, he is quite handy with my mistress’s female whip, and often likes to leave his mark on me. And so I must constantly bite my footslave-tongue and honour and obey the ‘little runt’, as well as my beloved mistress Shona.

I am not her legitimate slave, of course. Legitimate mistresses have to be at least 21 years of age in the Gynarchy before they can legally own a personal slave. But she picked me up on the black market when she ran away from home. Or more accurately, master Darren picked her up – on the streets – and then did a deal with an illicit, backstreet slave-trader in order to supply me to his newly acquired asset, my beloved mistress Shona, as a kind of ‘sweetener’ to persuade her to go out to work for him.

I too am a runaway, you see – a fugitive from my previous, cruel mistress Alison who beat me mercilessly. And since I am on the run from the female law I can hardly complain if I end up having to slave for another young woman outside of it! At least it means there is an emotional bond between myself and my mistress – both being ‘runaways’ – in addition to my physical bondage to her, of course, courtesy of master Darren and his shady, backstreet deals.

And I share another bond with my mistress Shona – for we both, effectively, are employed by master Darren. Master Darren, you see, is, technically, her pimp – though I don’t think my insecure mistress Shona sees him that way. She works the streets for him because she ‘really loves him’, and he ‘aks’ her to do it for him. As we have already established, it is written on the keds for all to see – ‘Shona ♥ Darren’.

Because I am an illegal slave I am not allowed to accompany the happy, young couple outside their dingy, bedsit-squat. I would risk arrest by the Female Police. And so I must stay at home of an evening and humbly wait up for my master and mistress – for there will be work for me to do when they get back; slave work.

Sure enough, shortly after 4 A.M. I hear the front door opening and lower my head humbly to the ground to see master Darren’s feet entering the squat followed by the felt-tip covered, grubby, white keds-sneakers and black denim, skinny-jean hems of my low-self-esteemed, Goth mistress Shona.

Master Darren has decreed that whenever mistress Shona enters the squat I must kiss her well-worn sneakers once each on the holey toe areas, once each along the grubby insteps, and finally once each along the street-soiled outer sides. Because I am a well-trained slave I therefore do as I am told – right now – taking great care, of course, not to smudge the declaration of love written in felt-tip pen along the outside of the mistress’s right ked, for that would be sure to earn me the indignity of a severe whipping at the hands of master Darren.

Having kissed the keds-sneakered feet of my mistress Shona I must then follow them, on my hands and knees, into the unkempt living room of the squat and kneel beside them as she takes up her seat on the flea-ridden sofa.

Master Darren is evidently in a good mood tonight:

‘You done well tonight, babe! Forty Fems! Ha! Ha! Sweet!’

I can sense my mistress Shona blush with misplaced pride. I really don’t know what she sees in this little runt! I mean, I know he’s arrogant and self-confident and all that, but he’s not exactly what a privileged young, white woman, brought up in the Gynarchy with a silver spoon in her mouth, would normally call ‘a good catch’. I’m sure her parents wouldn’t approve of him – if they knew about him. But as their daughter is a runaway, they presumably don’t.

As I have indicated before, I think my young mistress is just lacking in self-confidence, which is why she lets master Darren walk all over her – if not literally, then figuratively. Yet, she has no need to be lacking in confidence – she is a very beautiful and intelligent young woman, if much too thin; jet-black, shoulder length hair; pretty eye, nose and mouth piercings; a ‘Goth’ in her musical, as well as her sartorial, tastes – albeit a scruffy and somewhat bedraggled Goth, with pockmarked skin up and down her shapely legs (hence her fondness for wearing skinny jeans in order to hide her unsightly leg blemishes; they must be bad for business!).

But – and this is her one, big failing if I may humbly say so – she is completely and utterly besotted by master Darren! She really is not behaving like a free young woman brought up in the Gynarchy should do – with female dominance and decorum. Something has gone badly wrong here, somewhere along the line!

But I digress. The master is now addressing me:

‘Yo – slave-boy! My girl’s feet are hot and tired. Take off her sneakers and rub her sweaty feet, yeah?’

‘Yes master Darren sir. At once master Darren sir.’

As always, I have to bite my tongue as I verbally grovel and fawn to the master, for I am not a ‘boy’! I’m 44 years old! Master Darren is the ‘boy’ by comparison, being barely in his twenties.

But mistress Shona clearly doesn’t see it that way:

‘Aw, thanks babe!’ she flutters – not at me; but at her beloved Darren, the instigator of her hard work on the streets and therefore the indirect cause of her ‘hot and tired’, sweaty feet!

She kindly shuffles forwards on the sofa in order to afford me easier access to her grubby-sneakered feet as I begin to unlace them. Once again I must face the indignity of having her misplaced love for the unworthy master-sir emblazoned in felt-tip pen directly in front of me.

The keds sneakers come off her feet with a warm and stinky whoosh. Presumably, given the nature of her work, my most respected mistress Shona hasn’t exactly been on her feet all night! But I can nevertheless understand that her pretty feet may be hot and tired after walking the streets for several hours in between their brief periods of ‘bed rest’!

Tonight she is wearing her grubby, white towelling socks to match her grubby white sneakers, and she now swings her fluffy-socked feet up onto the end of the sofa so that she can lie back and think of master Darren whilst I massage her tired and aching tootsies inside her moist and sweaty socks!

I humbly shuffle forwards on my hands and knees keeping my eyes focussed firmly on my mistress’s white socks, for I know that the master-sir is watching me. Master Darren insists that I remain on my hands and knees in the squat at all times, with my head bowed over his girlfriend’s feet, as befits a personal footslave, albeit an illegitimate one. I must, therefore, remain squatting in the squat! That’s why I, quite literally, can’t stand up to master Darren. I’m just a down-in-the-dirt, runaway-girl’s footslave-squatter.

Or more accurately at this point in time, her sockslave-squatter.

I keep my face humbly bowed over the mistress’s grubby, and ‘fragrant’, thick white towelling socks, designed to fill-out her otherwise scrawny anklebones, as I start to gently massage them with my experienced, footslave-fingers. Always an honour! Always a privilege to touch beautiful-young-Gothwoman sock in this way, and to absorb her precious, young-womanly footsweat through my maleslave fingertips. My face is now completely enveloped in her heart-warming footstink, for I do not believe my mistress has bathed since yesterday morning. She’s been too busy, working for master Darren sir out on the cruel streets!

Just as he closely supervises her work outside the squat, he closely supervises mine inside. I am now acutely aware of him watching me as I obediently fulfil his ‘manly’ orders to massage his girl’s stinky feet with suitable humility and respect, and with an absence of unseemly maleslave lust etched on my face, whilst he rolls himself and his girlfriend an illicit joint. He’s good at multitasking, is master Darren – I’ll say that much for him! That’s why he makes such a good taskmaster.

He soon joins my slender mistress for a smoke on the sofa. She lies back in his lap whilst he lovingly shares the joint with her and fondles her greasy, jet-black hair. Meanwhile I concentrate on fondling the mistress’s grubby and stinky, impure white, towelling socks. It’s quite a touching scene, really – mistress Shona being tenderly cared for at both ends; the man taking care of her upper bodily needs, whilst the slave takes care of the lowest and humblest part of her body – her feet.

Perhaps master Darren sir isn’t such a bad man, after all. He clearly has some genuine feelings of affection for his beautiful, nose-pierced, hard-working ‘ho’. But he can also be very volatile – with her, as well as with me.

I’m just glad, therefore, that ‘Shona ♥ Darren’ is only written in felt-tip pen on her discarded and pungent, white sneaker lying on the dirty floor of the squat beneath me, for it could easily be licked off should the need ever arise! I mean, miss Shona has runaway once before – as have I!

 

Yarn no. 9 – Miss goody-two-hundred-shoes

On first impressions my new mistress – mistress Louise – seems to be a very self-confident, self-assured young woman, despite her somewhat dowdy and plump appearance.

She has shoulder-length, somewhat frazzled, mousey-coloured hair and is dressed rather frumpily in a plain, beige cardigan; a tweed, knee-length skirt; thick, black, woollen, knee-high socks; and a pair of flat, purple, loafers with fetching little, purple leather tassels over the slightly scuff-marked, rounded toe areas. At 21 years of age she should, surely, be more revealingly dressed than this? (I know she’s 21 because I heard her say to a friend that I was her 21^st birthday present from her parents). Especially as she has ample bosoms to be proud of! Breasts like those should not be hidden beneath a frumpy, beige-coloured cardigan!

Nevertheless, this is clearly a prim and proper, young woman who knows her own mind and who has her own sense of style, and I, as her newly acquired personal footwear-slave, shall just have to like it or lump it! So I am determined to like it, and to please my new mistress.

Mistress Louise is seated in a chair in her living from with me kneeling, head bowed over her outstretched feet in front of her, as befits a personal footwear-slave being introduced to his new mistress for the first time. She condescendingly explains, as she stares unsmilingly down at me through her thick, horn-rimmed glasses, exactly how she intends to familiarise me with her footwear:

‘Slave, you are now going to accompany me to my shoe-cupboard where you will place each and every one of my shoes and boots onto my feet and then respectfully kiss them 100 times each. Do you understand?’

It’s a no-nonsense, young-woman tone of voice; a female voice that must be obeyed:

‘Yes mistress Louise. At once mistress Louise. At it pleases you mistress Louise.’

She stands up – causing the leather tassels on her flat, purple shoes to swing and her unflattering, black, cable-knit woollen kneesocks to crease and fold around her fat ankles and calf-muscles directly in front of my kneeling face as she does so. But it is the backs of her shoes and socks that I must concentrate on as I crawl after my new mistress out of the living room and down the hallway towards her expansive shoe-cupboard. There, she pulls up a wooden chair and sits down directly beside the door to her shoe-cupboard. Through a click of her fat fingers she then signals to me to resume my kneeling and head-humbly-bowed position in front of her feet. She deliberately, and modestly, pulls down the hem of her tweed, knee-length skirt in order to cover the tops of her thick, black kneesocks.

Whatever else I’ll be doing over the coming months I fancy I won’t be accompanying my mistress to any hip and happening nightclubs! The local library, perhaps?

She speaks again:

‘You may now open the door to my shoe-cupboard slave, and look at my shoes.’

She says it like it will be an honour and a privilege to observe her many pairs of fat-girl shoes and boots. Which, of course, it is – since they are the shoes and boots of a superior, young, fat woman in her physical prime. I am not disappointed when I open the cupboard door – there must be literally dozens of different pairs of mainly flat-heeled boots and shoes; mostly dark in colour; sober – rather like the dowdily-dressed young mistress herself.

Unsurprisingly, there is a strong smell of musty leather emanating from the cram-packed shoe cupboard:

‘Begin with those black courts, slave. Bring them out and place them onto my feet.’

Mistress Louise may be overweight and too lazy to fetch her own shoes out of the cupboard, but she does, helpfully, stretch forward her chubby, right foot somewhat, whilst maintaining her young-womanly modesty and dignity by again straightening the hem of her skirt, in order that I may better remove the current, purple, slip-on shoe which she is wearing on her right, black-woollen-kneesocked foot.

I carefully and respectfully cup my hands around the back of my new mistress’s proffered foot and slip off the flat, purple loafer. It comes off with a gentle whoosh of warm, fat-girl footair – my first taste of my new mistress’s freshly liberated foot-odour.

It smells good – warm and subtle. Not too overbearing, but pungent enough to be a humiliation for me.

She coyly wriggles her black-socked toes under my nose as if to release yet more of the stink through the cable-knit, woollen stitching, before withdrawing her right, socked foot across the dusty floor only to replace it with her still fully shod, left foot.

Again I perform the humiliating and degrading ritual of having to remove another human being’s shoe from her fat foot – and not because she is incapable of casually slipping off her own shoe, but because I am her personal footwear-servant, and must get used to such indignities.If anything, the left socked foot smells even warmer than the right, and the black leather interior of her left purple shoe looks rather moist (well, it is now 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and mistress has had a long, busy day travelling to and from the footslave auction-house!)

I respectfully and neatly place the left, purple loafer shoe down on the floor beside the right one, and pick up the waiting pair of matt-black, leather court shoes from the nearby cupboard. Unlike the black, inner linings of the now temporarily discarded purple loafers, the beige inner linings of the court shoes looks dry – dry but stained; stained dark brown by the stale sweat from previous repeated wear. Perhaps these are miss Louise’s favourite pair of work shoes – the shoes she wears to the office; for she must surely be an office-worker, or a librarian by profession? She doesn’t strike me as being a student – though I’m sure she must be clever, since she wears glasses; cleverer than me, at any rate!

She is certainly thoughtful and considerate, as she holds her right, socked leg fully forwards once again, and slightly off the ground, in order to better facilitate me in slipping the black, low-heeled, court shoe onto her black-kneesocked foot. I first straighten the lower end of her thick, woollen sock, for it looks slightly wonky around her toes. Unpainted toenails, I’m guessing.

She seems pleased with my sock-straightening initiative – or, at least, she doesn’t chide me for fondling her sock. It feels moist and damp under the sweaty, reinforced toe area. I am humbled by the thought that her superior, librarian-girl sock-DNA is now saturating my male-footslave fingers.

The first court shoe slips on nice and cleanly – thanks to my prior straightening of my new mistress’s lower sock (though the upper part of the black, woolly sock covering miss Louise’s fleshy calf-muscle looks like it could also do with a twist and a turn. Not yet though, eh? I must concentrate on the task in hand – of donning her court shoes!)

The left sock needs less straightening, sadly, and the left, court shoe therefore slips onto mistress Louise’s other foot even more smoothly and quickly.

She places her dowdy-girl feet demurely on the floor side by side and leans forward in her chair as if inspecting my handiwork on her feet down past her kneesocks and through the magnification of her thick, horn-rimmed glasses:

‘Now do like I said and kiss each shoe 100 times, slave; that’s two hundred kisses to each of my one hundred pairs of shoes! Ha! Ha! Kiss them alternately – starting with my right shoe. Kiss each shoe on the toe area, and make sure your mouth doesn’t touch my socks.’

‘Yes mistress Louise. As you command mistress Louise. This slave obeys his mistress.’

No sign of a whip yet – but every household in the Gynarchy has one, and I’m sensitive to pain; so I intend to be a jolly good footwear-slave to my kindly, new mistress!

Mustn’t touch the sock! Mustn’t touch the sock! is all I am thinking as I lower my lips the few inches or so to mistress Louise’s now demurely outstretched right, court shoe. Her thick, black sock, I notice, is slightly creased again around the front of her lower ankle, despite all my best efforts. I think it’s just the shape of her somewhat podgy, white feet – tantalizing glimpses of which I can see through the wide cable-knit-patterned stitching of her thick, black woolly kneesock!

But I must not think of sock! I must concentrate on shoe, as my mistress’s authoritative voice once again reminds me from high above the socks:

‘Wait a few seconds in between each kiss, slave. I want to see your ugly head bobbing up and down and moving from side to side in a regular rhythm over my two shoes. And make sure your lips touch the shoeleather simultaneously; I want your upper lip to touch my shoe each time slightly before your lower lip, so that your dirty slave-lips don’t leave any marks on my nice, clean shoes!’

‘Yes mistress Louise. As the mistress wishes, most beautiful mistress Louisa.’

Miss goody-two-hundred-shoes, it seems, has some very fixed ideas as to how she likes her footwear to be kissed! Good! I like that in a young woman! It means I know exactly where I kneel!

I start to kiss my fat, dowdily-dressed mistress’s office-footwear in the manner prescribed; first the right, upper lip making contact with the rounded toe a split second before the lower lip; then, after a few seconds, the left shoe-toe, in exactly the same manner; then the right again; then, after a few seconds, the left again; and so on, and so forth – on my way to my first 200 kisses to just the first pair of mistress Louise’s one hundred pairs of everyday, common or garden shoes and boots.

Erm...needless to say, this could take all day, as I have literally hundreds of flat, feminine shoes and boots to place on my new, bespectacled mistress’s fat, besocked feet, and then to pay oral homage to, including –

• A pair of brown, lace-up brogues
• A pair of mauve, T bar, mary-jane style, buckled sandals
• A pair of black and white checked ballet-flats
• A pair of brown leather, open-toed, strappy sandals (will find it difficult not to make mouth-contact with sock when kissing those!)
• A pair of flat-heeled, light-brown leather ‘granny boots’ with dark brown toecaps
• A pair of pointy-toed, fancy-stitched, calf-length, brown-leather cowboy boots
• A pair of beige coloured courts with fetching, white, string bows on the rounded toe areas (mistress Louise does seem to like her beiges and browns!)
• A pair of pale yellow sneakers with thick, orange laces (by far the brightest, and yet scruffiest-looking, items of footwear in her librarian-mistress closet. I hope she lets me save them to last, for they will look well with her thick, black kneesocks!)…

And so the list goes on!

But the sight of me kissing all these individual pairs of female shoes and boots would be incredibly boring for you, so you might as well leave us now. Leave me to get to know my new mistress’s footwear, and pay my humble respects to it. For this shall be my humble life from now on – caring for, and worshipping, a fat girl’s frumpy, footwear collection!

 

Yarn no. 8 – Fall-Out

Autumn – season of mists and mellow fruitfulness as the great poet once said. And leaves; dead leaves; lots of them – strewn all over the streets of the Gynarchy where my female masters and betters deign to walk!

Dead leaves throw up a particular challenge for we on-street, public footslaves. When it is wet, they stick to the soles of the boots and shoes of our female betters. Even when it is dry and windy, they blow into the buckles of their shoes, clinging to their nylons or socks.

And such offences against female footwear must be removed – promptly, and preferably by footslave-mouth. Dead vegetation must not be allowed to sully the fine footwear of the superior female. Instead, it must line the male slave’s stomach – where it belongs.

As free men are wont to say – the male slave must eat up all his greens; even if they are dead and brown, and flavoured with female foot and shoe dirt! Ha! Ha!

This morning was a good case in point. A young, Pakistani couple in their early to mid twenties approached my public shoelick stand with a problem – a stray leaf had been blown onto the young, Muslim woman’s shoe!

She was wearing a black, dupatta-style headscarf to protect her modesty, as well as her pretty head, from the biting cold, autumnal wind; and a warm anorak, and thick, black denim jeans to protect the rest of her beautiful, svelte body from the chill in the air. But her white anklesocks were pleasingly exposed to the wind inside her flat, shiny black, patent leather, slip-on shoes, and the whipped-up, dead leaf had somehow lodged itself in the gap between her pure, white sock and shiny, black shoe along the instep of her dainty, right, Pakistani-girl foot.

She could, of course have simply lent down and picked the offending leaf out of her shoe with her own, dusky-maiden hands. Or her manly, young, Pakistani husband could have done it for her. But that would have meant demeaning himself at his wife’s feet – and why should he have to do that when there is a dirty, public footslave stationed on every street corner for just such an eventuality?

And so he instead gallantly leads his young, Muslim wife over to the public shoelick-stand, and orders me in his strong, Pakistani accent to do that which neither of them is prepared to stoop down to do:

‘Slave, be removing the filthy leaf from my wife’s shoe this instant! Be touching it with your mouth – but do not be touching her shoe or her sock. Otherwise I will be most severely whipping you!’

‘Yes master-sir. At once master-sir. This slave obeys the master and mistress.’

The Pakistani girl giggles as she imperiously stretches forth her right foot, with the leaf attached, onto the wooden footblock beneath my face – ready for me to eat up my dead greens.

Extracting the brown leaf is easy in and of itself; I simply grab it at the curled-over top with my lips. The only thing I must be careful of is not allowing those same, unworthy maleslave-lips to inadvertently brush against the Pakistani mistress’s soft white, feminine sock or shiny black, feminine shoeleather, as the Pakistani master-sir – her protective husband – has made clear that I shall do so under the pain of the nearby, public-use whip!

Fortunately, I do succeed in avoiding Pakistani-girl sock and shoe with my mouth, and have soon digested the bitter tasting and dried up, crumbly old leaf. As I do so I am conscious of the fact that at least some of the leaf must have been contaminated by the Pakistani mistress’s precious, female sock-bacteria – though sadly it cannot be tasted by the footslave-mouth.

Nevertheless, I relish the thought! A loose-leaf salad with female sock-relish! Mmm! Tasty!

But the sock-soiled leaf is, it seems, just to be my humble starter, for the observant Pakistani mistress has now noticed a problem with her white anklesock:

‘Oh look, Rashid! The leaf has been leaving a dirty mark on my nice, clean white sock, isn’t it? Please to be having the dirty slave licking it off for me, husband!’

Though the happy, dominant couple are clearly speaking English to one another primarily for my benefit – in order to humiliate me verbally as well as physically – the young man appears to speak slightly better English than his beloved wife; certainly with a less pronounced accent. I surmise from this that she is the one who has recently emigrated from Pakistan to join him here in the Gynarchy – a somewhat unusual arrangement for our Femdom society!

Either way, he’s a lucky man – to have such a beautiful and modest young woman as a wife!

And he seems to know it:

‘Yes of course, my darling! You down there – the dirty slave; be cleaning my wife’s sock with your mouth this instant, and be making damn well sure that every last trace of that filthy leaf-mark is being removed from my wife’s sock or I will soon be marking your bare back with the whip!’

‘Yes master-sir! At once master-sir! Please don’t beat me master-sir! This slave respects your wife, and her white socks, if it is so pleasing to you master-sir!’

Best to pander to the young, Pakistani man’s machismo in front of his pretty wife – even though I must be almost twice his age! He is the man, and I am the boy in this situation – since he is a free man, and married with a beautiful, young wife, and I am but a humble, celibate, public footslave who will never be permitted to ‘know’ a woman in the biblical sense of the word!

So – from being expressly forbidden to touch his wife’s white sock, I now, somewhat bizarrely, have the master’s explicit permission to actually apply my mouth to her sock in order to repair the damage to its pure whiteness caused by the former, dead leaf, the remains of which now reside, somewhat uncomfortably, in my footslave stomach. Such are the vagaries and whims of a superior and all-powerful, young Pakistani couple. Mine is but to obey!

Now this could prove to be a bit tricky! Sock-cleaning by mouth – especially white sock-cleaning by mouth – is almost always problematical. The issue is how do you remove the dirt by mouth, without actually spreading it and making the stain even worse? It takes skill; it takes care; it takes suction; it takes a bit of luck!

Although the young woman herself has indicated, via her husband, that she wishes me to ‘lick’ the dirt-mark off her sock, I know from previous, bitter footslave experience that licking her sock-mark would be the worst thing I could do; I would inevitably smudge it!

No – the secret is to suck on the Pakistani girl’s sock; to suck the dirt out of the very fabric of her white sock.

Fortunately for me there are a number of things going in my favour on this particular occasion:

1. The sweet and kind, demurely headscarfed, young, Pakistani wife-mistress is, helpfully, keeping her outstretched foot perfectly still beneath my humbly-kneeling face – a great assistance to me;
2. Her plain white, cotton sock is obligingly creased just at the point where the tiny trace of leaf-dirt is situated, meaning that I can easily get my lips around it and isolate it from the rest of the pure, white, feminine sock;
3. The stitching in the white sock is trellised, and quite wide – affording glimpses of her bare, smooth, brown Pakistani footflesh underneath, but, more importantly, preventing the dirt from spreading from stitch to stitch;
4. The dirt has not yet had a chance to ingrain itself into the fabric of the soft, white cotton sock, making it easier to lift off cleanly, by suction, from the surface of the superior sock.

But time is of the essence, and so I dive straight in with my experienced footslave-mouth, isolate the sock-crease, and audibly suck on Pakistani-girl sock. When I lift my mouth (reluctantly) off the sock, it looks pure and white again.

Good job! The offending sock dirt has been lifted successfully off the superior girlsock and into my mouth! I feel quite smug, and satisfied with my work as a Pakistani-girl’s humble, public sock-sucker!

But, of course, it is not I who needs to be satisfied; it is the female owner and wearer of the white sock. Is she satisfied with my efforts, or can she find fault with them?

Her husband politely asks her that very question:

‘Ha! Ha! Well, my darling, are you being satisfied with the dirty slave’s work? Is your sock being sufficiently clean for you now, my dear?’

The black-headscarfed, Pakistani mistress ostentatiously twists her right foot from side to side on the wooden footblock beneath my face in order to inspect the cleanliness of her white sock inside her black, slip-on shoe. She then passes her considered, female judgement on me:

‘Erm…the stupid fellow appears to have been removing the muck from my sock, but in so doing he is being making the sock all creased and uncomfortable on my foot, husband!’

I could protest my innocence at this point, of course! That sock had already been creased; that was precisely why I had been able to stop the muck from spreading!

But I know that remonstrating with a mistress, especially such a pure and justifiably self-righteous, young mistress, would be futile. I am just a humble slave and she is a superior, Pakistani-girl mistress. In the eyes of the Law, and certainly of her doting husband, if she says I creased her sock, then crease it I did!

And accordingly I must be punished!

The master-sir has already unhooked the vicious, single-tailed whip from the nearby wall and readied himself to deliver several stinging blows to my prone and vulnerable footslave back:

‘Stand back, my darling! I am not wanting you to be being hurt by the whip while I am punishing this dirty, incompetent sock-servant!’

The Pakistani girl dutifully takes several steps back, superciliously adjusting her black dupatta-headscarf in victorious pleasure as she readies herself to witness the wholly-deserved (in law) punishment of a public sock-servant by her strong-willed and strong-armed, young husband. So, I won’t even have the comfort of observing close-up the Pakistani mistress’s now perfectly clean, but undeniably creased, white, trellis-stitched anklesock inside her shiny black, flat, slip-on shoe whilst I am being so ignominiously whipped!

Such is the terrible fall-out from just one dead, autumn leaf!

At least the sting of the whip will help to warm the cockles of my bare back against the distinctly autumnal chill!

 

Yarn no. 7 – Blinkered Vision

My mistress Sarah-Marie is angry with me. She thinks I have a wandering eye, and don’t concentrate on her feet and footwear when we’re out and about the way I should do.

I think yesterday evening was the last straw for her. We were on the train on her way home from work and I was, as usual, kneeling on the train floor beneath my mistress Sarah-Marie’s bony, white feet. She was wearing her usual navy-blue, knee-length office skirt; low-heeled office courts; and dark nylon stockings, and so I should have been focussing my footslave attention on the tiny wrinkles in her somewhat skinny and veiny, nylon-stockinged anklebones as well as the residual office-dust along the insteps of her navy-blue courts. But instead she caught me glancing over towards the sneakered and socked, smooth feet of a much younger woman.

My mistress turned forty this year, and I think she is a bit sensitive about getting older – though she is a good ten years younger than me. But, lecherous old foot-fool that I am, I just couldn’t help myself from glancing over at the feet and footwear of the twenty-something student-girl on the train. She was pretty, with dyed-red, shoulder-length hair and ripped jeans. But it was her scruffy, white keds-sneakers and multicoloured, flowery anklesocks which really caught my eye.

The student-girl’s socks, in particular, were exciting because they weren’t only very feminine – being all flowery and that; they were also worn at an angle, leaving the trendy, young mistress’s bare, white heels exposed at the back. And that combination of student-girl ripped denim jean-hems; bare, pink heelflesh; grubby white canvas sneaker; and multicoloured half-sock just sent my footslave pulse all a flutter!

Much more intriguing than my own mistress’s relatively boring and plain, dark nylon stockings and navy-blue court shoes!

I had thought I was being discreet in my footslavish disloyalty, but my mistress Sarah-Marie is very egocentric, and unbeknown to me she was keeping a beady, middle-aged eye on me as I knelt on the dirty floor of the commuter train, whilst she was ostensibly devouring the contents of her evening newspaper.

As soon as we got to her home she remonstrated with me in the privacy and comfort of her living room; reprimanded me; whipped me 17 times with her black leather, single-tailed, cowhide whip; ordered me to kiss her slighted, nylon-stockinged feet and court shoes 100 times each by way of an apology for my disloyal behaviour; and then gaily informed me that she was taking me to the optometrist’s the following day in order to have me permanently blinkered:

‘I’ll soon see to it that you learn how to focus properly on my feet and footwear, you dirty, impudent cur!’ is what she declared as she left me sobbing in my dingy, basement house-cell that night, licking my whip-wounds.

Blinkers! How humiliating! I, and everyone else in the Gynarchy, tends to associate them either with mere rookie-footslaves (which, after 25 long years of personal foot-servitude I most definitely am not!) or with disobedient and disloyal footslaves – those who need to wear the blinkers in order to stop them from being distracted by the feet and footwear of other women; who need to be constantly disciplined by their superior mistresses because they lack the footslave self-discipline to focus on their own mistress’s precious feet and footwear.

I suppose however, on reflection, that’s precisely what I am – an undisciplined and disloyal footslave! But the thought truly smarts – almost as much as the smarting in my freshly-whipped back!

……………………………………………………………………….

It is the following day and I am on my hands and knees in the optometrist’s shop, my penitent and frightened, maleslave face directly behind my mistress Sarah-Marie’s navy-blue, court heels as she explains the problem to the sympathetic, female optometrist:

‘I’m just sick of his wandering eye! Every time a pretty girl walks by I can sense his eyes straying away from my feet, and no matter how much I whip him and beat him he still does it – every blinking day!’

The optometrist, who has a sexily husky voice, sounds disgusted at my behaviour – as well she might do:

‘Tch! I am sorry, madam! I’m afraid it’s very common; male footslaves of a certain age are all the same, or so I’m told! But we’ll soon put a stop to his shenanigans! If you’d like to follow me down to the fitting room, please?’

The irony is, of course, that as I am kneeling with my face behind my mistress Sarah-Marie’s familiar, dark-nylon-stockinged ankles and navy-blue court shoes, I can’t help but admire, out of the corner of my wandering footslave-eye, the plain black ballet flats and matching black socks of the young, female optometrist – an Asian girl in her early to mid twenties with pitch-black, shoulder-length hair. She is wearing black slacks and a white coat, but her slacks are fashionably flared at the bottom meaning only a slither of short, black, Asian-girl sock is visible beneath the hems of her trousers.

On one of those socks – the right one – however, I can observe a tiny speck of white fluff! There is nothing wrong with my eyesight as such – I just can’t keep my eyes from wandering to the socks and shoes of younger, more attractive women, like those of the optometrist.

Not that I find my mistress Sarah-Marie’s footwear unattractive! Just very familiar – and therefore boring!

The pretty, Asian optometrist is not my mistress, however – not in any sense of the term! Right now, in fact, she is, if anything, my female enemy, determined to put a stop once and for all to my disgusting, disloyal, male-footslave eyes from wandering away from their legitimate field of vision – that of the backs and sides of my own mistress Sarah-Marie’s plain and ordinary, court shoes and dark nylons!

Once we are in the fitting room, the fully qualified, Asian-girl optometrist politely invites my mistress Sarah-Marie to take a seat in a comfortable chair, and then curtly orders me, the slave, to kneel beside my mistress’s feet. The sexy, young, Asian optometrist is standing behind me now, so I can sadly no longer admire her soft, black leather ballet-flats and matching black socks.

I can, however, feel her soft, young-womanly, Asian-girl hands manoeuvring my face closer to my mistress’s nylon-stockinged ankles and shoes, as she grabs me roughly by the head and positions my face at the optimum distance for foot-admiration. Then I feel the first set of blinkers being fastened tightly onto my temples and forehead. Suddenly my peripheral vision is more or less completely gone!

I then hear the optometrist explaining the various styles of footslave-blinkers to my bemused mistress:

‘These are the cheapest type, madam. They do the job perfectly well, forcing your slave to look only at your feet – as you can see – but they aren’t the most heavy and uncomfortable. You may wish to humiliate your slave further by having him fitted with a heavier pair?’

‘Ha! Ha! You bet! I want him to really suffer – all the time! Have you got any that will permanently dig into his temples and give him a constant migraine? Ha! Ha!’

The white-coated optometrist laughs:

‘Ha! Ha! Well, I don’t know about causing him migraines, madam, but this next pair will certainly give him cause for thought!’

The experienced, young, dark-haired, Asian optometrist, who herself wears black glasses, isn’t lying – the next pair of blinkers she fits are made of thick, heavy, black leather, and appear to have metal studs on the insides. The slightly-built, but surprisingly strong, young, bespectacled Asian woman gleefully tightens them around my forehead until I start to think my temples are about to burst under the pressure!

I can feel the blood throbbing through my forehead – and the leather blinkers are longer at the front than the previous pair; they leave me with absolutely no choice but to concentrate on my mistress Sarah-Marie’s nylon-stockinged anklebones and navy-blue courts directly in front of me. I know the blinkers must be working because for the first time I notice the tiny detail of a stray, curly, pubic hair stuck to the outside of my mistress’s left, nylon-stockinged anklebone. One of her husband’s – master-sir Paul’s – pubic hairs, I presume!

How humiliating! How degrading – for me!

I hope my mistress opts for the earlier, cheaper blinkers. But my hopes are soon dashed as I hear her voice light up at the optometrist’s next, cruel suggestion:

‘Ha! Ha! I can see that madam likes the anguish on her footslave’s face! Perhaps madam would like to see her slave try on our deluxe blinkers? They are made of wood – solid oak, in fact – and are ultra heavy and rough on the inside, digging constantly into the slave’s temples and forcing him through their sheer weight to keep his head bowed and low over your feet – almost like a heavy neck-cangue!’

‘Oh…oh…oh yes please, miss! I’d love to see my slave in those! Ha! Ha! Oh…solid oak slave-blinkers! Whatever next? Ha! Ha!’

My mistress Sarah-Marie’s dark-nylon-stockinged ankles wrinkle and crease with undisguised delight beneath my prone and vulnerable, kneeling face as the heavy, leather blinkers are removed and replaced by an even heavier pair of thick, wooden blinkers – blinkers which, as the young, female optometrist had so gleefully pointed out are not only incredibly rough and pain-inducing on the insides, but also force me to lower my footslave gaze even further by virtue of their sheer weight!

I am weighed down – literally – by the overwhelming power of the heavy, wooden blinkers as the optometrist attaches them to my forehead:

‘I can arrange for these to be permanently affixed to your slave’s forehead if you would wish madam – although I’m afraid that would cost extra!’

‘Ha! Ha! Hang the cost! These are brilliant! Ha! Ha! Just look at the pained expression on his face! Ha! Ha! He looks so depressed! Ha! Ha! Oh…It’s really quite arousing, don’t you think?’

The optometrist clearly agrees with my mistress Sarah-Marie, and thinks the heavy, wooden blinkers are well-suited to me:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes indeed madam! They certainly seem to go with his dumb-ass face, madam! Ha! Ha! He won’t be looking at other women’s feet with those things attached to his ugly, slave forehead! Ha! Ha!’

‘Ha! Ha! What do you think, slave? Are you liking them? Are you liking your new, wooden blinkers? Ha! Ha! Do they fit you alright?’ enquires my gloating mistress Sarah-Marie of me.

I am flattered, of course, that she is asking my opinion – but I am experienced enough a slave to know also what my opinion must be; my mistress clearly likes the heavy, wooden blinkers on me; the optometrist is recommending them; and so I too must declare them fit for purpose – even though I hate them:

‘Oh pray mistress Sarah-Marie; if it pleases you mistress Sarah-Marie; this slave believes that the wooden blinkers are indeed fit for a dirty, disobedient and disrespectful slave such as myself, if they would be so pleasing to you my mistress.’

My mistress claps her hands in delight:

‘Ha! Ha! I’ll take them!’ she declares.

The female optometrist is equally delighted:

‘Very good madam! And the option for a permanent fitting?’

‘Oh yes please!’ responds my mistress, without the slightest hesitation. She’s not short of a bob or two – my mistress Sarah-Marie – and I can tell by the triumphalist tone of her female voice that the mere thought of condemning me to a lifetime of restricted and painful, male vision at her feminine feet thrills her to the core!

The permanent fitting process only took 30 minutes or so. It was as if the wooden blinkers were being moulded onto my forehead. My head now felt like it weighed a ton!

As we left the optometrist’s shop – with me crawling behind my mistress Sarah-Marie’s middle-aged heels as per usual – I could hear, but not see, the black leather ballet flats and sweet, black socks of the young optometrist as they accompanied my mistress to the door, even though they were walking right beside me.

The blinkers were doing their job!

 

Yarn no. 6 – Mistress’s Foot-Forecast

Here is today’s forecast for my mistress’s feet:

It will be a cold start, with some early morning moisture spreading through my mistress’s black-socked toes and insteps inside her black leather, slip-on, office shoes.

High pressure developing over the bunion on the big toe of her right foot, in sharp contrast to the low pressure spreading across her dry and chapped heels.

The warm, foot-air front will move steadily throughout my mistress’s shoes during the course of the day, with accumulations of black, sticky toejam developing underneath the chipped nails of her big and second toes.

The outlook is generally warm and sticky.

 

Yarn no. 5 – My Fair-Minded Footmistress

My stunningly beautiful, slim and svelte, 27 year old, blonde-ponytailed mistress – mistress Suzanna – made very clear to me from the outset of my future, lifelong, adult bondage to her the behaviours that she finds acceptable and pleasing in a personal footwear-slave:

1. That I should remain cowed on my hands and knees at all times, with my neck permanently bowed, and never even so much as contemplate walking upright, or looking up at her, ever again.

2. That my facial demeanour should, at all times, be that of a downcast and downtrodden slave (smiling or joy, for example, would be inappropriate facial expressions for a humble footwear-slave, whereas pain and fear etched onto my features would be considered acceptable).

3. That I should only ever look her in the foot – specifically in the shoe or boot, unless even the merest slither of her sock or nylon stocking is visible on or below her ankle, in which case I am to focus all my attention on that.

On weekdays, for example, my mistress Suzanna tends to wear closed-in, black leather, flat, loafer-style shoes or chunky-heeled, zip-up, black leather ankleboots, and plain, black cotton anklesocks with matching black slacks or trousers, to her place of work, so visual access to her socks during the daytime is strictly limited and, therefore, a real treat for me; something to really study, appreciate and admire, perhaps when she is seated at her office desk.

In the evenings, however, she will often wear revealingly short miniskirts with her strappy, stiletto high-heels and flesh-toned, nylon stockings whilst she is out clubbing or boozing with her mates, and so at such times I must focus on the very fine, but stretched, nylon stitching over her shapely, young-womanly anklebones, especially if my mistress is ‘on the pull’ and looking to cop off with a free man (I must make doubly sure, at such times, to only focus in on my mistress’s nyloned feet and ankles as she wouldn’t want the object of her young-womanly lust and desires, the free man, getting jealous as I admired my footmistress’s shapely, nylon-covered, lower calf-muscles, or, even worse, as I furtively glanced up her miniskirt!).

At weekends, when she is not out clubbing, my blonde mistress Suzanna likes to slouch around in her pink and white tracksuit with matching, scruffy, pink and white, low-top, lace-up sneakers and short, white sneaker-socks, so sweet feminine sock is often, once again, on the agenda – albeit only the elasticated tops of her pure-white socks below her shapely, bare, tracksuit-bottom-covered anklebones.

4. That I should repeatedly kiss the rounded toes of her leather boots or shoes, however comparatively plain and unflattering they may be (i.e. I am not just to pay labial homage to her sexy, high-heeled, night-clubbing footwear, like a kinky lover might do, but also to her plain and ordinary, workaday or casual footwear, as befits a working footslave), in all the following circumstances:

• On putting on her item of outer footwear;
• On taking off her item of outer footwear;
• When she deigns to enter my presence;
• When she deigns to leave my presence;
• When she specifically desires me to pay oral homage to her footwear;
• When in the company of others, by way of a public demonstration of my respect and admiration for my mistress;
• When the toe areas of her leather shoes or boots, or the straps on her high-heeled sandals, are dirty or dusty and could do with a discreet tongue-polishing;
• When she is admonishing me and pronouncing sentence of punishment upon me;
• Immediately following the application of punishment upon me, by way of demonstrating my contrition and gratefulness for her taking the time to correct me.

5. That I should kiss the toe-areas of the shoes, boots or sandals of her female acquaintances on my own mistress’s command, and that all such footkisses, whether to the footwear of my own mistress, or that of her female acquaintances, should be crisp, concise, respectful, and repeated until I am ordered to desist by my mistress. Lecherous or amorous kisses to a lady’s footwear are never acceptable in a slave, and will be severely punished.

6. That I should show my respect for my mistress’s male acquaintances, be they her long-term boyfriends, one-night stands, or just male friends or relatives, by kissing the ground in front of their feet, again upon my mistress Suzanna’s command (kissing actual male feet or footwear is unlawful in the Gynarchy, but a male slave must still show respect for his freemale betters).

7. That I should perpetually sniff my mistress’s black anklesocks after work when she is relaxing at home with her shoes off and her feet up on the sofa; such sock-sniffing should be both audible and tactile, with my nose making constant contact with the cotton material of my mistress’s black socks, particularly any moist, sweaty or thinning areas of her socks; if nosing the elasticated tops of her socks my nose must not stray onto her soft, bare, lily-white legskin – under pain of the whip!

8. Whilst I am being whipped I must not cry out in pain; any involuntary, unmanly screams of pain will result in the stroke being repeated. However, my sweet and fair-minded, fair-haired mistress Suzanna has undertaken to always gag me with a pair of her dirty socks during whipping in order to facilitate me in my silent, maleslavish stoicism under the female whip, and I am permitted to moan quietly into her socks whenever the pain becomes unbearable – a gracious concession to my male cowardliness and weakness which not all footmistresses would grant to their slaves, by any means!

9. I am not permitted to speak unless spoken to by my mistress Suzanna, or by another mistress, or by a superior free male. In replying I must only look my female betters in the foot (or, in the case of my freemale betters, the ground in front of their feet), and must employ humble slave-speak in suitably submissive and downcast tones. At such times I am to praise and bless the mistress or master-sir for deigning to speak to me, and must never argue or disagree with the opinions and commands of my betters.

10. I must never initiate any kind of conversation with anyone else, slave or free, with two notable exceptions: immediately prior to a whipping I may beg my mistress Suzanna for mercy, and express my fear of her whip; and immediately following a whipping, once my sock-gag is removed, I may praise and bless the mistress for correcting me, though impromptu footkisses to my mistress’s shoes or boots are equally acceptable in both such circumstances as an alternative to verbalising my slavish contrition and distress (as noted earlier in paragraph 4 above).

11. In short, my perpetual servitude and bondage at my mistress Suzanna’s feet must be a mixture of the public and the discreet; I am to be seen, but not heard – save in the limited circumstances outlined above.

My mistress Suzanna has counselled me that all of the above stipulations, designed to keep me humble and in my place at her feet, can be easily achieved if I remain firmly focussed on my demeaning role, and remember that she is my supreme female master and better. There should be no need for the whip’s sting on my back if I am obedient to her will. It is not the application of the whip as such that brings her pleasure, but the unquestioning obedience and submission of her footwear-slave to her female will, and so my slave fate is, despite my legal state of utter helplessness and powerlessness, very much in my own hands.

It is up to me to be suitably pleasing to my beautiful, blonde-haired, fair-skinned, fair-minded mistress Suzanna, or to suffer the consequences; and you really can’t say any fairer than that, can you?

 

Yarn no. 4 – Modesty Forbids!

My new owners – an Arab couple – have just transported me to their opulent and expansive home in an extremely wealthy suburb.

The mistress, an attractive, but modestly dressed, young, Arab woman in her early twenties, is just showing me around my accommodation – a rundown shed at the bottom of their back garden, fitted with chains on the walls and a hole in the ground for my toilet.

I also can’t help but noticing that there is a nasty-looking, coiled up, single-tailed, brown leather, cowhide whip hanging from a hook on the inside of the shed door.

My modestly dressed Arabic mistress is explaining to me in her broken English that this is where I shall eat and sleep when I am not serving her as a footslave. It is wintertime, with frost on the ground outside, and she is well wrapped up in a pretty, purple, hijab-style, cotton headscarf; a black, knee-length overcoat; black denim jeans; and thick, purple woollen socks (presumably to match the colour of her hijab) inside a pair of low-heeled, black leather, mary-jane style shoes which have a rather fetching little, black leather button-strap crossing the upper crown of her warm-socked, Arabian foot.

As per my instructions I am kneeling on the dusty, bare wooden floorboards of my insalubrious prison-shed in front of my divine, Arab mistress, and staring at her common-or-garden-shed, black shoes and purple socks whilst she painstakingly delivers her introductory lecture to me, baring her nicotine-stained teeth in righteous, young-womanly disgust at me as she does so:

‘Hah! You a dog. You a dirty slave; you here for work and obey. You slave to me and my husband all day and all night. You never be free; not even while sleep. Even while you sleep in dirty shed, you work – you wash my dirty socks in slave-dog mouth! Ha! Ha!’

I must say, my new, Arab mistress’s thick, purple socks don’t look at all ‘dirty’ inside her low-heeled, black, strappy leather shoes. Even the shoes themselves look remarkably clean, considering the dust and dirt that surrounds them in the ramshackle shed, including myself.

She seems to be a very fastidious and clean-living, young Arab woman – albeit a secret smoker!

My upright, Arabic mistress continues:

‘Hah! You only ever look me in sock, slave! You a dirty dog – you not worthy look mistress Jalilah in bare foot. You never touch Jalilah bare feet. You unclean. You kiss only Jalilah sock on foot; worship sock! Hah! I better than you; I pure. You not obey me and please me, my husband whip! Very pain! Very sore! You understand, dirty slave?’

She glances over to the brown leather cowhide-whip hanging from the hook on the shed door – as do I, albeit briefly, before lowering my gaze once again to my new mistress’s purple, woollen socks beneath her black shoe-straps.

‘Yes mistress Jalilah. This slave understands, and obeys the mistress and master. Please don’t have me beaten mistress, for the whip will fairly hurt me, mistress.’

She snorts derisorily down at me again, as if she doubts my ability to be truly submissive and obedient towards her socks without the inspiration of her husband’s cutting whip across my bare back:

‘Hah! You show respect now; you kiss Jalilah on purple sock. You kiss sock now – many times!’

And with that she adjusts her pretty, purple, hijab head-covering and imperiously extends her right, denim clad leg forwards, causing the hem of her black jean-leg to ride up and reveal yet more of her thick, purple, woolly sock covering her shapely, Arab-girl anklebone.

I note that the sock is fully pulled-up; modesty, no doubt, forbids that I, her dirty slave, should be afforded even a furtive glimpse of her soft, bare, brown, Arabian, ankle flesh underneath. That is for her manly, Arab husband’s eyes only!

As my lips obediently lower themselves towards the outstretched, upper surface of purple girlsock between the rounded toe area of her right shoe and the single, broad shoe-strap, I notice too that the tight weave in the stitching of the thick sock equally does not allow for any hint of visible, happily-married, Arab-woman, bare footflesh beneath the sock material. Again, I conclude, this must be a deliberate ploy by my modest, Arab mistress – to deny me any sight of her precious and superior, bare feet.

How can I not respect such modesty in a sock?

I kiss my chosen area of Arab-girl purple sock – repeatedly as ordered, and out of respect for her superior, female personage – whilst humbly waiting for her to switch feet beneath me and present her other foot for kissing. It is not too long in coming, and I repeatedly kiss the same area of sock as I had on her right foot.

Mistress Jalilah laughs down at me, as she nonchalantly readjusts her modest, purple hijab-headscarf high above me whilst I continue to demean myself by kissing female sock:

‘Ha! Ha! You a Arab woman sock-kisser! Ha! Ha! I show my husband now! He laugh at you! Ha! Ha! He spit on you! He a strong man, and you nothing but his wife sock-servant! Ha! Ha!... Masrour! Masrour!’

Master Masrour comes immediately when summoned by his wife. I wonder who really wears the trousers in this Arab household?!

Mistress Jalilah beams lovingly at him as he enters the shed:

‘Ha! Ha! Look Masrour – new slave kiss me many times on sock! Watch!’

My mistress Jalilah promptly withdraws her left foot from beneath my kneeling face and once again stretches forth her shapely, right, sock-covered foot, and I kiss it repeatedly again on the upper surface twixt shoe-toe and strap; respectful, worshipful kisses, of course, in the presence of my new master – her husband; not lascivious kisses!

The master-sir laughs at me, just as his wife had predicted, as I abase myself at his wife’s, fully-clad feet. And also as she predicted, he spits on me as I proceed to reverentially kiss his beloved wife’s outstretched left foot again:

‘Ha! Ha! That right slave! You show respect for my wife! You kiss her on sock, and praise and bless her. She own you now; you a Arab woman footslave! Ha! Ha! You my wife slave, and I your master! Ha! Ha! You dirt beneath our feet! Ha! Ha!’

My Arab mistress joins her Arab husband in his mocking laughter, and they then have a fluent conversation in Arabic before he leaves the shed again to resume whatever it was he was doing before his wife had summoned him to witness the new slave kissing her socks.

I am now alone again in the shed with my Arab mistress and her modest shoes and socks. Somewhat curiously, she now closes the shed door after her husband has bolted. I am still, of course, prone and vulnerable on my hands and knees, at her mercy and at her socks. I watch intently as her purple socks and black shoes move freely through the dust of the shed floor as she picks up a wooden stool and positions it in the middle of the shed before sitting down on it directly in front of my still kneeling and bowed face.

She then bends down and speaks to me almost in a whisper. Her breath reeks of stale cigarette smoke:

‘You want take off Jalilah shoes and socks and kiss Jalilah bare feet? You like taste Arab woman soft, bare feet while husband not here, yes?’

I am slave-speak speechless! After what she has just said to me not five minutes previously – all that stuff and nonsense about my not being worthy to touch an Arab woman’s bare feet; about only ever looking her in the sock!

Ha! Ha! My new mistress is such a hypocrite! Not only is she a dissolute smoker; as soon as her husband is away, she wants to play!

I’m not complaining though:

‘Oh mistress Jalilah…oh pray mistress…oh yes please mistress…please may I indeed have the honour of kissing and licking your superior, bare feet, most respected Arab mistress?’

She throws back her purple-scarfed head with girlish, Arab laughter, and holds her dusty, right foot up to my face. I can smell the musty aroma of her plain, black shoe-leather:

‘Ha! Ha! Very well, slave…I let you kiss and touch Jalilah bare foot. You take off Jalilah shoe and sock – but be quick! Jalilah husband might come back any moment!’

My fingers are trembling with excitement as I waste no time in unbuttoning the single strap on unfaithful mistress Jalilah’s proffered, mary-jane style, black leather shoe. My nose is greeted by the warm aroma of moist, sweaty-socked, female foot as the shoe slides off with a whoosh – and, I must say, the outwardly clean, purple anklesock now looks much more worn and sweat-stained below the shoeline. Let’s just say the sock appears to have done its job of not just protecting the modesty of its mistress’s Arab foot, but also of absorbing her precious, Arabian-girl, inside-shoe footsweat!

I instinctively kiss the sweaty, faded-purple, reinforced toe area of her thick, woolly sock out of sheer, slavish humility and respect. Mistress Jalilah giggles, and then prods me in my face with the grubby and bobbled toe-area of her purple sock in order to spur me on into pulling her sock completely off her foot:

‘Hurry up, dirty slave-dog! Take off Jalilah sock; kiss Jalilah bare foot!’

‘Yes, mistress Jalilah. At once, mistress Jalilah madam!’

I gently reach up inside her black denim jean-hem to find the elasticated top of the purple sock just above her shapely, Arabian-girl anklebone, and carefully start to peel off the thick, purple foot-covering. I cannot believe what I am doing – for this is such an unexpected honour and a privilege! To divest a beautiful, young, married Arab woman of her sweaty, purple sock and see and touch her inestimably precious, soft, brown, bare, Arabic foot! This is such a rare treat!

And my God that Arabic ankle feels warm and soft on my footslave-fingertips; so womanly! So gentle!

I hear my mistress Jalilah sigh, with apparent libidinous pleasure at the seeming gentility of my experienced, footslave touch – though I am no gentleman; I’m just a dirty slave.

Then, just as the sock comes off her purple-painted, outstretched toenails, she suddenly withdraws her foot from my fumbling fingers and screams out loud:

‘MASROUR! MASROUR!’

Master Masrour bursts instantaneously through the door of the shed to see the dirty, infidel slave kneeling in front of his beloved wife’s fully exposed, pedicured, bare foot!

‘MASROUR, THE DIRTY SLAVE IS FAILING THE TEST WE ARE SETTING FOR HIM! HE IS TRYING TO SEDUCE YOUR WIFE BY REMOVING HER SOCKS FROM HER FEET! HELP ME, MY DEAR HUSBAND! HELP ME! PROTECT YOUR WIFE’S MODESTY!’

Master Masrour – downright fury etched on his manly, Arabian features – grabs the single-tailed whip from the back of the shed door and sheds me of my skin as he beats me repeatedly across my bare, kneeling back, whilst my mistress Jalilah hurriedly puts her dirty, purple anklesock back onto her pure, Arabian foot – a supercilious grin etched on her pretty, hijab-framed, Arabian face.

A test? I had failed a test?!

How stupid could I have been? Of course my upright and modest, morally superior, young Arab mistress was never going to permit a dirty heathen-slaveman like me to lick or kiss her bare, Arab foot! It had all been a set-up, cruelly concocted by my new, Arab mistress and her husband; and now I am paying the price for my attempted sin.

Spare the rod and spoil the slave, as the saying goes! Well, master Masrour certainly did not spare me the whip that afternoon! And I’m pleased to say that, thanks to his expertise and generosity with the whip, I won’t be succumbing to that particular temptation again – the temptation to fondle and kiss his wife’s bare feet. From now on it will be strictly his wife’s, my mistress’s, socks – and her socks alone – that I shall aspire to honour, worship and obey.

For, as she tried to explain to me right from the outset, being a dirty dog, and a humble slave, I am just not worthy to touch her bare, Arabian feet.

Modesty forbids!

 

Yarn no. 3 – The VIP

I hadn’t seen mistress Karen in nigh on 15 years – when she used to work at the airport where I am still based as a courtesy-footslave. Mistress Karen had moved on – on promotion – to work in one of the Gynarchy’s main Female-Government Departments, whilst I had remained in my lowly post, courtesy-kissing the feet of important and rich, female passengers in the VIP Suite at Barbaria International Airport.

In fact, my role as a ‘courtesy-footslave’ in the VIP suite involves very little else; it’s not exactly what you would describe as a ‘skilled’ job. I merely kiss foreign-female feet as directed by the VIP suite hostesses, of which mistress Karen used to be one. It was therefore with a great sense of excitement that I encountered mistress Karen again after all these years, for such unexpected occurrences are the only things that brighten up my otherwise extremely dull and mundane existence as an airport footslave!

I didn’t recognise her at first; she recognised me – but then, that is perhaps unsurprising given that I am the one who hasn’t changed; who hasn’t been able to go anywhere or do anything, with my life – unlike the successful, upwardly-mobile mistress Karen.

She greeted me with righteous contempt:

‘Ha! Ha! Hi there, dirty slave! Remember me?’

As soon as she spoke I recognised her voice – for she had spent many hours bossing me about in the VIP suite all those years ago.

I didn’t recognise her footwear, however, as she was now approaching middle age (early forties, I would say) and was wearing a pair of sensible, flat, black leather, slip-on shoes on her bare feet beneath her smart, grey-pinstriped trousersuit hems.

I was somewhat disappointed by her middle-aged choice of footwear, despite my joy at seeing miss Karen again, as I have particularly fond memories of being down on my hands and knees in the dirt, diligently tongue-shining miss Karen’s youthful, black leather, round-toed, chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots which she used to wear with her smart, navy-blue, bootcut trousers as part of her VIP suite hostess uniform back in the day!

I used to love licking the airport dirt and dust off the bossy miss Karen’s boots – mainly because she always used to hitch up her navy-blue trouser hems and display the tops of her black, cotton bootsocks to my kneeling face as I did so. I’m sure she only hitched up her outstretched trouser-legs in order to afford my slave-tongue unimpeded access to the tops of her black leather ankleboots, and not for my personal bootsock-delectation, but the close-up sight of her smooth, white leg contrasting with her rich, black cotton sock always used to drive me wild with submissiveness towards her!

Of course, my primary role was then, as it is now, to humbly kiss and greet the feet of the foreign, female VIPs – not to tongue-polish the navy-blue uniformed, VIP suite hostesses’ black leather ankleboots – but even the hostesses were expected to keep their uniform boots looking shiny and clean, and poor miss Karen always seemed to come into work with her boots looking filthy.

I sometimes wonder, with hindsight, whether she may not have deliberately muddied-up her boots every day on her way into work – just to experience the sweet, feminine pleasure of having a helpless, male footslave lick the dirt and grime off the outsides of her dirty boots whilst she was still wearing them! For miss Karen always loved both lording it over me, and having her chunky, black ankleboots lickshined!

And she worked me super hard! She brooked no nonsense or slacking on my part. I always knew I was in for a busy shift kissing female feet when VIP Suite hostess-mistress Karen was on duty. She never turned down a request from an airline for assistance, often dragging me all the way out to the aircraft itself so that I could be made to kiss the feet of the eminent, first-class, female visitor just as soon as she had disembarked! I would then have to crawl behind the same female VIP visitor’s smart high-heels whilst miss Karen escorted her to the limousine which would take our honoured guest to the VIP Suite proper!

Ah…such happy memories came flooding back on hearing the sound of mistress Karen’s voice, despite her rather plain and matronly, flat, black leather, slip-on shoes:

‘Oh pray mistress Karen…God bless you mistress Karen…To what do we owe the pleasure, mistress Karen?’

I think I’m entitled to ask what my erstwhile hostess-mistress is doing back at the airport, given that she hasn’t, to my knowledge, set haughty foot in the place in over 15 years!

She laughs at me:

‘Ha! Ha! All in good time, dirty footslave! Aren’t you going to kiss my foot first, or have you now lost all the manners I beat into you all those years ago?’

Oh yes – the beatings! I’d forgotten about those! Mistress Karen was always very handy with the whip. She has certainly left her mark on me, one way or another.

I apologised immediately for my rudeness towards the mistress:

‘Oh pray, mistress Karen…please forgive me, mistress Karen! This slave apologises profusely for his male rudeness!’

I then put matters right by lowering my impetuous, and in her eyes impertinent, lips to the rounded toe of her now arrogantly outstretched right, black, slip-on shoe. It was musty-smelling, and quite dusty – but nothing like as dirty as her stylish, young-womanly ankleboots used to be.

She laughed at me out loud as I humbly and contritely kissed the dusty toe of her proffered shoe:

‘Ha! Ha! What a loser! Still kissing female feet to order after all these years, eh slave? Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress Karen…kiss…kiss…if it pleases you mistress Karen…kiss...kiss.’

What else can I say? I am a footslave-loser. She is the one who is going places; I am the one who isn’t going anywhere - still living on his knees, kissing the dirty shoes and boots of superior women!

She switches her middle-aged feet beneath me. I am intrigued to see her bare footflesh beneath the hems of her grey pinstriped trouser hems, since I never got to see her bare feet all those years ago, as they were always covered in regulation black, cotton bootsocks. Her bare feet actually look quite pale and veiny. No wonder she used to like wearing boots and socks!

I suppose she cares less about her appearance these days – probably settled down with a husband by now, I should think!

She makes fun of me as I pay my similar respects to her now stretched forwards left shoe-toe:

‘Yes mistress Karen…if it pleases you mistress Karen…’ she mimics like a mocking-bird. ‘Ha! Ha! What a dork! What a dud! It’s like time has stood still for you while I have gone on to much greater things, slave! Ha! Ha! Don’t you envy me, slave? Don’t you wish you were me?’

It’s a strange proposition to put to a male slave – asking him if he wishes he was a superior, free woman! I really can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to be a free man, let alone a free and successful woman!

But I do know that mistress Karen is my better, and tell her so:

‘Oh pray mistress Karen...if it pleases you mistress Karen…this slave could never be worthy to be free like the mistress, since you are my infinite superior and better, mistress Karen. Even the dirt beneath your feet is better than me, mistress Karen!’

She clearly agrees with my assessment of her innate, feminine superiority, judging by the smug and self-satisfied grin on her pretty, 40 year old face, which I can only see out of the corner of my downcast eyes.

Seeing how downcast I look, mistress Karen decides, at last, to put me out of my misery, and to explain what she is doing here:

‘I’m actually here today to meet a guest of the Supreme Mistress’s Government, if you must know, dirty, inferior slave! My department has sent me down here specifically because I used to work here, and know all the ropes. So, I’ve spoken to the head hostess here in the VIP suite and arranged for you to accompany my feet down to the aircraft – just like the old days – where you will humbly and respectfully greet our honoured guest’s feet! Ha! Ha! What do you think of that, stupid slave?’

I am, needless to say, delighted by this news, and to have the privilege of crawling behind mistress Karen’s feet again. As she says – it will be just like the old days (except that she isn’t wearing her chunky-heeled ankleboots!)

I kiss her replacement, plain, black, flat shoes in gratitude for this honour:

‘Oh pray mistress Karen… God bless you mistress Karen! It will truly be an honour to accompany the beautiful mistress to heel once again!’

She laughs:

‘Ha! Ha! But that’s not the best bit, slave – the best bit is that our honoured guest is a young woman from Jamaica! You’re going to kiss a black girl’s feet – and I remember how much you like kissing black women’s feet!’

My erstwhile hostess-mistress Karen does indeed remember me well! She knows I have always had a penchant for black, feminine feet. I have always especially admired the way they change in hue from dark brown to light brown – almost pink – along the soles. Oh I do hope the honoured, female guest is wearing sandals with bare feet! Coming from Jamaica there’s a good chance she will be – given the hot and sultry, Jamaican climate!

I express my joy and anticipation by daring to kiss the tops of mistress Karen’s pale and veiny, bare white feet:

‘Oh pray mistress Karen… kiss…kiss… Oh pray…kiss…kiss…a black mistress’s feet!...kiss…kiss… Oh pray mistress…Oh joy!... kiss…kiss…Truly it will be an honour!...kiss…kiss…Oh deep joy!’

…………………………………………………………………………

It was an honour, as it turns out; for the honoured guest, whose feet I had to humbly kiss as soon as she stepped out of the aircraft and onto the jetty, was a truly beautiful, tall and svelte, young black woman – the daughter of an ambassador I believe – and she was wearing sandals on her otherwise bare, Jamaican feet! Specifically, a stunning pair of silvery, diamond encrusted, high-heeled, open-toed sandals on her soft and smooth, bare, black feet!

Even her bright-red, toenail varnish smelt and looked expensive. She reeked of wealth, and just the tiniest hint of sweet, feminine foot odour after her long plane journey from the Caribbean to the Gynarchy.

Having kissed her respectfully and professionally on the big toes, I then had to follow behind her click-clacking, silvery high-heels as the flat-footed mistress Karen escorted her guest to the waiting limousine for the short journey to the VIP Suite. I’m pleased to say it was my honour and privilege to act as a humble footrest for the young, black lady in the back of the car.

Once there, whilst the honoured, Jamaican guest-mistress was freshening up in the VIP Suite washrooms, one of the regular hostess-mistresses asked mistress Karen if she still needed me.

‘Nah…you can do what you like with the sad loser, now. I’ve finished with him thanks.’

I felt gutted. Mistress Karen, it seemed, did not even require a farewell kiss to her pale, white feet or flat, black shoes from me – not even for old time’s sake!

Or even for old ankleboots and socks’ sake!

But I shouldn’t be surprised, really. I mean, mistress Karen is an important Female-Government official now – way too good for my lowly, airport-footslave lips. Why should she do me the courtesy of letting me kiss her feet farewell, when she is clearly a sweet VIP in her own right, whereas I am just a common-or-garden, lowly courtesy-footslave working at the airport’s VIP Suite?

Always have been, and always will be.

I watch the backs of mistress Karen’s flat, black slip-on shoes disappear out of my life, probably forever, alongside the wobbly, click-clacking, diamond-encrusted, silvery stilettos of her black, fellow-VIP guest as they joyfully exit the VIP suite together.

At least I still have some of the residual street-dust from mistress Karen’s musty-smelling shoes inside my mouth. I’ve saved it there, so that I may fully savour it later!

 

Yarn no. 2 – A Visit from the Jailer’s Daughter

I heard the door to my basement cell clanking open behind me and could sense her entering. I knew it was miss Esmeralda – the prison governor’s 19 year old daughter, even though I could not turn round to see her due to my being permanently confined in the wooden, kneeling stocks facing the outer wall of my cell. But I knew it was miss Esmeralda by the shadow her somewhat plump frame cast on the bare, concrete floor beneath my inalterably bowed face.

My suspicions were confirmed just as soon as her familiar, electric blue ankle socks and dusty, dark blue leather, single-strapped, round-toed, chunky-heeled shoes walked into view in front of me. I would recognise those plump shoed and socked feet anywhere – but especially here where miss Esmeralda is my only regular female visitor.

She doesn’t come to comfort me in my imprisoned distress, of course. Quite the opposite! She has come to tease and torment me – as she does all the male prisoners held in solitary confinement in her father’s isolated prison. It’s how the 19 year old gets her kicks. Not much else for her to do around here, I suppose; and so her father indulges her – even encourages her, it is said – to take out her young-womanly boredom and frustrations on the helpless and hapless, male prisoners in his charge.

Miss Esmeralda, I notice, is wearing a fetching, blue-floral-patterned, summer dress to complement her bright blue anklesocks this afternoon. It reaches down to her plump knees and upper calves. Very pretty. Very feminine. But now that she is standing directly in front of the only, metal-barred, ground-level window into my basement cell she does cast something of an ominous, female shadow over me.

At least I can still clearly see her socks and shoes in front of me and beneath my face – if only because they are now so close to my face! I can even see the prison floordust particles stuck to them, and I feel ashamed that such a delightful, young woman should have to sully her bright, feminine footwear by walking through the dusty corridors leading to my cell just in order to visit me and keep me company.

I am truly humbled by that thought!

Meanwhile, miss Esmeralda is laughing at me and my hunched-up, bare back as I kneel at her shoed and socked feet in her father’s wooden stocks:

‘Ha! Ha! How are you liking it, dirty prisoner-slave? You are enjoying my papa’s hospitality in stuffy, hot prison cell? Ha! Ha!’

As you can see, miss Esmeralda speaks quite good English – albeit with a strong, South American accent; hardly surprising since she and her family originate from Colombia. I expect that explains why they settled in the far south of the mainland Gynarchy – where the weather most resembles the hot and sunny climes she is used to in South America; certainly during the hot and sticky summer months, at any rate. And today, as miss Esmeralda has so kindly pointed out, it is exceptionally hot and sticky – especially here in my claustrophobic, concrete cell (miss Esmeralda’s father has not yet seen fit to install air-conditioning in his prison’s cells!)

Although miss Esmeralda is mocking me and laughing at me – the imprisoned hunchback of her father – in my confinement and distress, I must be ultra polite and respectful towards her. You might think I would have little to lose in just telling her to ‘sod off’, but you’d be wrong. Even though I have permanently lost my liberty – being sentenced to rot for life in these wooden stocks – I still have some skin on my back to lose. One word of complaint to her doting father and miss Esmeralda can have me sorely whipped.

And she knows it! She clearly revels in her power – the power of knowing that I can’t talk back to her, except to praise and bless her as my manifest better:

‘Oh pray miss Esmeralda, if it pleases you miss Esmeralda, God bless you and your father for sparing my life and keeping me confined in the stocks, if you would be so kind to a dirty, criminal footslave, miss Esmeralda.’

You’re probably wondering what heinous crime I committed to have been handed down such a harsh life sentence of confinement in the wooden, kneeling stocks! But, actually, you don’t have to commit much of a crime to receive such a cruel and unusual punishment here in the rural Gynarchy. All I did was ladder one of my erstwhile mistress’s tan-coloured, nylon stockings whilst rinsing them out in a bowl of water!

But miss Esmeralda doesn’t even know, or care, what I’m in for. She only knows that I’ve been stuck down here in this basement cell for most of her privileged life (some 18 years I’ve been confined in this bare, concrete cell now!), and that I shall never be free, unlike her. That’s what tickles her young-womanly fancy – my eternal bondage; that, and my obsequious and fearful response to her mocking question.

She laughs at me again, a portly young woman’s laugh, causing her fat belly to wobble above me and her blue, floral dress to sway over my head – at least providing me with a temporary chilling effect from the hot and sticky sunlight. That’s why, incidentally, my set of kneeling stocks are facing the cell window which is just above my head – so that my bald patch catches the sun when it is at its zenith in the sky, thereby making me sweat, as well as making me a laughing stock for the general populace, of course, who can all look down and see me from the street outside. I only get to see their feet.

It’s a deliberate curse – not a blessing – to be facing the bars of the prison-cell window!

But sweet and kind miss Esmeralda is kindly shielding me from the sun – momentarily at any rate – standing as she is between the cell window and my wooden punishment frame as she towers over me in her blue floral, summer’s dress; giggling and laughing at me.

As is her wont she next coquettishly turns her podgy, right foot inwards and stretches it forward through the dust of my concrete-cell floor until the dusty and scuffmarked, rounded toe of her single-strapped, blue leather shoe is pointing directly towards my prostrate lips:

‘Ha! Ha! Kiss my foot, you the prisoner-slave!’ she commands, lowering her voice as much as she can to give her an air of young-womanly authority.

She need not worry her pretty, fat, dark-haired head – there is no way I would pass on this rare opportunity to exercise my neck; it is, after all, the only regular exercise I get – lowering my confined neck a few further inches towards the ground in order to kiss miss Esmeralda’s shoes and socks!

Delicious though her bright blue, cotton anklesocks look today, I remember my prisoner-slave manners and lower my confined lips to the dusty toe of her dark blue shoeleather first. Kissing her on the sock is a privilege I have yet to earn today. I must first pay prisoner homage to my jailer’s daughter’s dusty shoe. It’s an unwritten rule of the jailhouse!

I can feel little particles of prison dust coming off in my mouth as I admire the way the outstretched and slightly twisted positioning of miss Esmeralda’s fat foot has caused her bright blue anklesock to crease and fold around her fleshy, outer anklebone. I am thirsty, and the blue ripples in her sock remind me of water – not that miss Esmeralda would ever indulge me with thirst-quenching water. The sweat from her socks is the only moisture I am ever likely to receive from her! She wouldn’t even spit on me if I was on fire – which I virtually am!

She squeals with young-womanly delight as my lips make humble contact with the dust of her outstretched shoe. Her scream echoes around the bare cell walls:

‘Ha! Ha! You in my power, slave! You at my mercy! Ha! Ha! You my prisoner! Now you will be kissing me on the sock, my prisoner-slave!’

She’s playing right into my lips, for this is the command I’ve been waiting for; touching her soft, warm socks with my prisoner lips is the only comfort I ever receive in this harsh place – the only softness in an otherwise hard place.

I suppose you could say I’m caught between a sock and a hard place!

I eagerly obey the young mistress, both in word and in deed:

‘Yes, miss Esmeralda. At once miss Esmeralda. This prisoner-slave is indeed at your sweet, feminine mercy and in your sweet, feminine power!’

‘NO TALKING – JUST KISSING, YOU THE DIRTY PRISONER! YOU ONLY TALK WHEN ESMERALDA SAY YOU TALK! BAH!’

Her fat foot promptly curls up its toes inside her leather shoe and kicks me painfully in the face, leaving a palpable dust stain on the bridge of my nose!

I only wish I could kick myself! I have almost blown it – the chance to kiss some soft, blue girlsock – and all because I couldn’t just get on with it! I just had to express my respect and adoration for the mistress in humble prisoner-speak, instead of simply letting my lips do the talking by kissing female sock!

But, fortunately for me, miss Esmeralda likes having her blue socks kissed as much as I like kissing them, and soon her punishing, fat foot is back on the dusty ground beneath my face awaiting its prisoner-labial homage.

My God that sock tastes good! So soft and feminine; and fragrant too! As I indicated earlier, it is a hot day – perhaps too hot for socks! Indeed, I expect miss Esmeralda is only wearing socks in order to protect her modesty and her precious, bare ankleskin from the dirty prisoner’s salivating lips!

I don’t care – because her warm, cotton sock is now seeped in her South American foot-essence; her foot DNA. And I love it! I bury my lips in the numerous, sweaty folds of her creased, blue anklesock!

She laughs out loud at me:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave like Esmeralda sock? Want sniff sock? Ha! Ha! You like I take off shoe and let prisoner-slave sniff Esmeralda dirty, stinky sock-toes?’

I can hardly believe my ears! What an unutterably kind offer on the part of my female jailer – the opportunity to overtly sniff her sweaty, inner sock! She has never offered me this before! I gush my gratitude towards the sweet and kind mistress and her socks:

‘Oh pray mistress Esmeralda…Oh pray!...Oh yes, miss Esmeralda…Oh, your sock!... Oh yes please miss…Yes please!’

She continues to laugh as she reaches down in order to undo the buckle strap of her blue, leather chunky-heeled, round-toed shoe with her podgy, South American fingers. I feel a mixture of helplessness, shame and excitement – helplessness and shame that I cannot assist the mistress with her unbuckling of her shoe; excitement at the imminent prospect of sniffing hot, fat, young-Colombian-woman, electric blue, inner anklesock!

But I am forgetting one thing – miss Esmeralda is a tease and a minx. A sock-tease. She suddenly stops unbuckling her shoe, and places her right foot back down firmly onto the prison floor, enveloping my face in dirty, prison cell floor-dust:

‘Ha! Ha! I change my mind! You not worthy smell Esmeralda sweaty sock! You just a prisoner! You a nobody – you just a dirty slave being punished for rest of your life! Ha! Ha! You can look at young woman dirty sock; you can kiss; but not sniff! Ha! Ha! You a loser!’

I feel instantly deflated – deflated; impotent; and humbled. And all because I am to be so cruelly denied a snort of purest Colombian-girl blue sock!

Could my life possibly get any worse?

Yes it could! For miss Esmeralda now decides to exit my cell, without even stopping to have her left shoe and sock kissed, her mocking laughter still ringing in my ears as she slams shut my cell door behind her.

I weep as yet another pair of unattainable, sweet feminine shoes and socks – green, buckled shoes with white socks – walk past my ground-level, cell window outside.

 

Yarn no. 1 – The Bootsocks and the Stick

My mistress Avril is a very beautiful young woman of Israeli origins, with long, dark, curly hair and a wheatish complexion; perhaps slightly overweight, but nevertheless shapely with it.

Above all, though, she is clever – and knows just how to inspire proper obedience and respect in her ignorant, personal footslave.

She uses two main methods – the bootsock and the stick.

The first is the reward of the bootsock. My Israeli mistress skilfully uses her thick, light grey, calf-length bootsocks to reward me, and thereby inspire footslavish devotion and obedience in me.

An ex-army girl, and perhaps a bit of a curly-haired tomboy, she invariably likes to wear trousers and ankleboots to her current place of work, which is a civilian office in the city but, unlike her former army boots, her city boots are not of the lace-up, heavy-duty, beige-coloured, combat variety; rather, they are a smart pair of chunky-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankle boots, which considerably flatter her somewhat podgy and fleshy, Israeli-girl anklebones.

The smart, city-girl office boots are almost enough in and of themselves to instil humble obedience in me – as I could, and do, spend hours kneeling by their side underneath her office desk, staring at them and the multitudinous little creases and wrinkles in the well-worn, black leather which is now moulded to the shape of my mistress’s somewhat chubby, civilian feet.

Yes – I do very much admire and respect the power of my mistress Avril’s chunky, black leather, office ankleboots, and fully acknowledge that it is a privilege and an honour for my unworthy, footslave face to spend so much time in their close vicinity! But my intelligent mistress knows it is her socks which inspire me the most as I kneel, unobtrusively, beneath her office desk – her delightful, thick, grey, scrunched-up, calf-length, cotton bootsocks atop her chunky, black leather, zip-up ankleboots. And so she wears them deliberately to work – to subdue and pacify me; to keep me humble and attentive as I while away the hours at her booted and besocked feet.

She knows her grey bootsocks keep me entranced for a number of reasons:

1) The soft greyness of her sock-tops complements so sweetly the wheatish-paleness of her smooth but fleshy calf-skin. My Israeli mistress’s plump, lower legs are, I must say, deliciously smooth and hairless – for she has me shave them regularly for her; smooth them and moisturise them with my legslave tongue. And she deliberately wears her black, office trousers at half-mast so that when she is standing up straight the hems barely cover her upper, ankleboot rims, and when she is seated I have a full and unimpeded view of her bare, Israeli calf-muscles atop her scrunched-up, grey cotton, sock-tops.

Such a kind and considerate, young mistress – to allow me to see her fat calves and ankles bathed in such subtle shades of grey, civilian bootsock!

2) The very fact that the tops of her plain, grey bootsocks are all scrunched up intrigues and fascinates me. Indeed, her scrunched-up and twisted sock-tops can keep me entertained for hours, for not only do I get to count the individual stitches in her socks; I get to follow the various ridges and folds in them with my hypnotised eyes – to trace each and every crease in each sock with my eyesight right the way around her lower leg muscle.

In fact, sometimes – when my mistress Avril is feeling in a very generous mood – she will even let me gently nose her socktops whilst she is seated at her desk; to run my slave-nose, in public, all along the creases and crevasses in her thick, grey bootsocks and de facto bury my face in her socks. Oh the joy of such moments – to have my face effectively buried in the tops of her warm, light grey bootsocks whilst she goes about her superior, feminine business above me! It is such a privilege for one so lowly as myself, and makes me the recipient of much mockery from her male and female, office co-workers – the fat Israeli-girl’s humble sock-sniffer!

3) And then, there is so much life in my mistress’s grey bootsocks! Not only are they constantly moving in tandem with the subconscious movement of her feet under the desk, along with each involuntary foot and ankle muscle-spasm, which cause those intriguing little sock-creases and crevasses to come and go around my sock-enthralled nose. Her socks are also alive with her sweet, feminine DNA; her sweat; her bacteria; her foot-ticks!

Don’t get me wrong, my mistress’s feet are always nice and clean – I must handwash them myself every morning. As I must handwash her dirty socks at the end of each working week, so that she has fresh and clean pairs of grey, office bootsocks to choose from each morning of the following week. But even the freshest, most fastidious, feminine feet and socks inevitably become moist and sweaty as the day progresses inside a delightful pair of feminine, chunky-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboots. Especially when they are worn by a fat girl like my mistress Avril!

Sadly, of course, I cannot see much of the microbiological life in her socks – only its effects; a dark and moist sweat-stain here; an accumulation of sock-dustmite there. But I can, at least, smell the life in her socks; the faint aroma of sweet, feminine, Israeli-girl foot perspiration mixed in with fresh, cotton, Israeli-girl sock and strong, black leather Israeli-girl ankleboot. Such a heady mix for a down-in-the-dirt, underneath-the-desk, office footslave such as myself! It transports me into another dimension – the dimension of humility and respect for my overweight, sock-wearing, female better.

4) Above all, though, there is the sense of male weakness and powerlessness that comes from having to keep one’s head lower than the top of a superior, female bootsock – for my head must always be kept parallel with the lower zipper-tracks on the sides of my mistress’s black leather ankleboots – however much of a constant strain that may be on my bowed neck.

The plain, grey girlsock, therefore, despite being only calf-length in its official designation, is permanently higher than me, peeking out from the upper rim of her precious boot. Indeed, the humble sock seems to tower above me, even when my mistress sweetly indulges me and allows me to nuzzle and nose her creased and folded socktop.

Her sock, you see, be it ever so humble, is still infinitely better than me – not just because it is taller, and more beautiful, but because it enjoys more intimate contact with my mistress Avril’s footsweat-glands than I could ever dream of! It absorbs her footsweat into its very essence; it immerses itself in her sweat. And I only ever get to taste and smell that precious sweat second hand, as I remove it by mouth at the end of the working week on sock-wash day by way of a prewash to the handwash. How I envy those sweet, feminine socks, and yet worship and respect them for being my manifest betters in having such close and intimate contact with the very essence of my superior, Israeli mistress’s sticky and warm foot-excretions!

…………………………………………………………………………………………

So, you see, my devotion for, and admiration of, my mistress Avril’s grey, calf-length bootsocks is more than enough reward to keep me obediently at her feet.

But, on those rare occasions when such reward just isn’t enough – when, for example, I allow myself to be distracted by the passing boots and socks of one of her female co-workers in the office – my mistress Avril will simply resort to the punishment of the stick (or her ‘rod’ as she sometimes prefers to call it).

It is always by her side – a thin, whippy, light brown, rattan punishment cane which my mistress Avril is adept at applying, with all its terrifying, female stinging power, to the backs of my disobedient and disrespectful, maleslave legs.

She likes to cane me specifically on the backs of my bare legs – just below my flimsy, white slave-shorts – in front of the entire office, as she wishes everyone to see her disciplinary handiwork on her recalcitrant bootslave’s vulnerable legskin. My mistress Avril is so adept with the female cane, she can create a single, thick line of stinging, red, maleslave flesh with as many as 12 accurately-delivered overlays at a time! It is truly mind-boggling pain, especially as I am obliged to watch the tops of her soft, grey bootsocks creasing and folding with every swipe of the cane behind my face as I lay prostrate over the office whipping chair - the very same, soft grey bootsocks I have slighted by glancing surreptitiously at another woman’s socks!

No wonder my mistress Avril’s grey socks seem to taunt me and mock me whilst I am being beaten, a constant, visible reminder to me of where my duty, and my face should lie – beneath the tops of my own mistress’s precious, pale grey bootsocks.

I must confess, when it comes to teaching me a lesson and instilling obedience in my stupid, maleslave brain I much prefer my mistress’s rewarding bootsocks, to her punishing stick.

That’s why I will always ostentatiously fawn over, and flatter, her stinky, grey-socked feet at the end of the long, working day when my mistress finally unzips and kicks off her ankleboots, relaxing with her fat, socked feet up on the sofa. At such times I openly nose and sniff her aromatic socks, and help my dark-curly-haired mistress Avril to feel superior and worshipped as I tell her how much I have been blessed to observe the tops of her grey bootsocks inside her boots all day long, and what a privilege it is for me to now nose and nuzzle the sweaty and warm, previously hidden-from-public-view, lower parts of her socks – the soles, insteps and heels! I verbally praise and bless my mistress Avril, and her stinky socks, for teaching me the true meaning of footslave-humility.

You might think that telling a superior mistress out loud her socks stink is very rude! But here in the Gynarchy quite the opposite is true – it is seen as a compliment from the slave to the mistress, as is the pained expression on his face as he must endure the deeply unpleasant, stinky aroma of her warm and sweaty socks!

However, I somewhat begrudgingly have to acknowledge that sometimes only the sting of the female rod can instil absolute humility in a slave! I’m afraid that true obedience and respect for my mistress Avril, and her feet and footwear, must oftentimes be beaten into me. That’s because I’m just a stupid, ignorant slave, and as many mistresses, including my own mistress Avril, quite rightly believe, pain is the only language a brutish, male slave truly understands! Only stink and sting combined can ultimately produce the perfectly obedient footslave!

At least my mistress Avril’s creased and wrinkled, discarded grey bootsocks will be a comfort to me at the end of the whipping and the end of the day, when I rest my weary, penitent head on them and fall asleep, semi-anaesthetised from the still throbbing pain of the female rod on the backs of my male legs by their pungent, sweaty, female-bootsock aroma!