The Backroom Bootboy

I am a backroom bootboy in an office full of beautiful, young women. My job, as my title suggests, is to spruce up, and otherwise honour, the footwear of the office ladies.

I don’t just deal with boots – I can tongue-shine ladies shoes or even sandals just as readily, but given that we are now in the midst of winter, ‘bootboy’ is an apposite title; as is the term ‘backroom’, since I must spend all my days, year in and year out, chained up on my hands and knees in front of the ladies’ ‘bootchair’ in the dimly lit, and somewhat dingy, office-basement where the superior, young office-women come to have their street-dirtied boots diligently tongue-cleaned.

 

The Snooty Fox

First up this morning is the snooty and cold, standoffish, office-mistress, mistress Wilhelmina. She is a very pretty girl; late twenties; dark, shoulder-length hair; bespectacled; but with a rather large, pointy nose. Her pointy nose actually quite suits her, however – for it only serves to emphasise her standoffishness and snootiness towards the likes of me – the down-in-the-cellar, backroom bootboy.

I very much admire her haughty, mistressful attitude, and always endeavour to give good tongue-service to her dirty boots in return – even though, of late, she has taken to wearing a brand new pair of dark blue, knee-high, suede leather stretch boots beneath the knee-length hem of her ubiquitous, black polyester office skirt.

Don’t get me wrong – I adore mistress Wilhemena’s knee-length stretch boots, almost as much as I adore the wearer of the boots herself. They almost seem to softly mould themselves to the contours of her shapely, white calf-muscles, and they tower above me most dominantly as she sits superciliously in the backroom seat of power with me kneeling humbly on the ground at her booted-foot level. But suede leather can be so difficult to clean once it gets dirty – certainly without any specialist treatments and brushes, and, being a humble office-bootboy, I am required to use only my slave mouth and saliva to clean my female betters’ boots.

Nevertheless, the snooty-fox mistress Wilhelmina has extremely high expectations of her lowly backroom bootboy, and insists on the highest standards of cleanliness on her beloved new boots – hence her unreservedly threatening tone of voice to me as she settles herself down into the raised bootchair and positions her boots onto their respective, metal footrests directly in front of my humbly kneeling face:

‘Shine them up, bootboy. I want to be able to see my face in them!’

I’m sure mistress Wilhelmina is not without a sense of humour, but the tone of her voice and the stony expression on her pointy face suggests she is not, actually, meaning to be humorous at this particular point in time. She really does expect me to ‘shine’ her blue suede bootleather with my tongue until she can see her pointy-nosed reflection in them!

What’s the point in her doing that, you may well ask; demanding the patently impossible? Well, I think she simply enjoys setting me impossible tasks, as she can then relish in her young-womanly power over me, invested in her by the Female State, and have me punished by my supervisor-mistress – the office cleaning-lady miss Adishree, who is currently relaxing with a cup of tea in the communal, office refreshment-room (a room I have often heard about but never seen since I am kept permanently chained up and confined in this backroom basement).

Speaking of reflections in boots and pointy noses, mistress Wilhelmina’s female voice sounds very nasal today. I hear her take out a paper handkerchief and blow her nose. Sounds like she may have a bit of a nasty cold!

I decide to try to ameliorate her impossibly-demanding mood by offering her my slavish concern and sympathy, after I have chosen to accept her mission impossible, of course:

‘Yes certainly mistress Wilhelmina. At once mistress Wilhelmina. This slave shall endeavour to gratify the mistress and her boots, if you would be so kind mistress Wilhelmina. Oh pray mistress, if you will forgive the intrusion, mistress, but is the beloved mistress suffering from a bad cold today, mistress?’

My insolence in politely enquiring after my snooty, bespectacled mistress’s well-being earns me a sharp kick with the pointy toe of her right, suede leather boot direct in the centre of my face:

‘No talking, slave! Just licking!’

Normally, I am not forbidden to converse with my female superiors. I am not one of those ‘mute’ footslaves you read about who has had their right of speech taken away from them either by virtue of a Female Court Order, or just because their personal mistress has forbidden them to speak. In fact, quite the opposite. My supervisor-mistress, miss Adishree, when she is not scrubbing the floors or emptying the bins (or, indeed relaxing with her feet up in the communal refreshment-room like she is now) would normally encourage me to converse with my office-mistress customers in such humble slave-speak. But the cold and standoffish mistress Wilhelmina, no doubt due in part to her head cold, seems in no mood for a conversation with the lowly, office bootboy today!

And so – suitably chastened by supercilious, young-woman, suede-leather, pointy boot-toe – I get down to work with my tongue on her dark blue boots.

The stretch suede-leather feels quite rough under my tongue, but my oral organ does not appear to be picking up much in the way of dirt and dust particles. This is ominous, for if the boots are relatively clean before I lick them, and yet aren’t ‘shining’ to the mistress’s satisfaction by the time I have finished, how can they possibly be made to shine enough to reflect mistress Wilhemena’s snootiness through my simply licking them? Sure, they might glisten somewhat beneath the single, bare light-bulb hanging from the basement-office ceiling – but only with my footslave-saliva. And mistress Wilhelmina won’t exactly be able to observe her pretty reflection in my saliva!

I suspect that the sharp pain in my face, which is still throbbing from its brief encounter with the toe of mistress Wilhemena’s right, blue-suede boot, is just the start of my physical pain and suffering at her bad-tempered toes today. I therefore brace myself mentally for yet more physical chastisement.

First, however, I must continue with my nugatory work of endeavouring to tongue-shine mistress Wilhemena’s suede-leather boots; the boots, the whole boots, and nothing but the boots.

As my tongue reaches the upper rim of her knee-high stretch boot on her right leg I can now observe that she is wearing dark-coloured nylons inside her boots today – nylons which disappear right up beneath the hem of her knee-length, black, office skirt. I’m guessing they are nylon tights, rather than stockings – for I cannot envisage the cold and frigid, spinsterly, young mistress Wilhelmina ever choosing to wear foxy, nylon stockings!

Not that she isn’t foxy to a down-in-the-dirt bootboy like me, but that’s because, for all her innate young-womanly modesty, she is still way out of my league, being a free and superior young woman, who is entitled by law to walk proud and upright on the goddesses’ earth – as opposed to an enslaved and inferior, elderly, male slave like me, who is required by law to remain at all times on his hands and knees, so that his slave face and mouth are ever close to his female betters’ shoes and boots and ready to serve them at the click of a feminine finger, or the bark of a feminine voice.

At least, I’m sure that’s how mistress Wilhelmina sees me.

Having, inevitably, failed to tongue-shine her boots to the point where mistress Wilhelmina can see her angular face in them, I equally inevitably get my kicks from her – literally so; about a dozen times to the face, and with both her pointy boot-toes! Sharp kicks. Angry kicks.

My face is quite bruised and smarting by the time she stops kicking my head in, but I suspect it would have been even worse if she had not been feeling somewhat weak and under the weather due to her nasty cold!

So I suppose I got off lightly!

 

Black Beauty

Next to regale me with her superior-female presence in the backroom office is the astoundingly beautiful, African-Caribbean mistress, mistress Grace, from Accounts.

Tall and handsome, mistress Grace turns freemale heads wherever she goes thanks to her voluptuous figure, her proud and haughty Afro-Caribbean features, and her customary bright-red lipstick. Equally, her boots are wont to turn down-in-the-dirt footslaves’ heads – for she is accustomed to wearing the most fetching pair of flat heeled, shiny black rubber, knee-high riding boots – even to work.

And not only that, but peeking out from the tops of those boots are invariably a pair of navy-blue, or sometimes rich black, knee-high woollen bootsocks!

This morning they are navy-blue, however, and remind me of the previous pair of blue suede boots which have just decorated my face. I can see goddess-mistress Grace’s blue, woollen kneesock-tops as soon as she sits down in the bootchair and shamelessly hitches up the hem of her black, calf-length skirt in order to shamelessly display her riding-style boots to me in all their glory.

Now, if you think mistress Wilhelmina sounded bad-tempered and volatile, just wait until you hear mistress Grace:

‘Yo bootboy-battyboy! Clean up them boots now, innit? They is filfy, yeah? They is mingin’ yeah? And you is gonna swallow that bootmuck wit’ yoh ugly mout’, yeah? Otherwise I is gonna whup you, bwoy! You hearin’ what I’m sayin’, boot-battyboy?’

‘Yes mistress Grace. God bless you mistress Grace. And God bless your beautiful, black riding-boots, mistress!’

She clicks her teeth disparagingly at me, as if to say in her own sweet, Jamaican way – get on with it, useless battyboy!

Her riding boots are, as per usual, filthy with mud, for miss Grace, by all Accounts, likes to go horse-riding before her hard day’s work in the office. And it’s not just her fellow female colleagues in Accounts who have confirmed that to me; the presence of her black leather riding-crop confirms it too!

I don’t know whether or not she uses the whip to urge on her horse; but she certainly is not averse to using her stinging, black-leather riding crop on my bare back and shoulders to help me overcome any hurdles I may face in tongue-shining her filthy, black rubber riding boots.

Hurdles such as a particular heavy lump of sticky mud stuck in the rubber treads of her boots, which I might involuntarily baulk at this early in the morning after I have just had my nourishing breakfast of stale bread and water (kindly supplied to me by my supervisor-mistress, miss Adishree, before she retired to the refreshment-room for her own early-morning cuppa).

As far as miss Grace is concerned, however, every last morsel of her dirty, ridingboot-mud, however thick and gooey, is good enough for the likes of me, and I am good enough (just about) for the mud from her boots. And so she likes to see and hear me, quite literally, lap it all up! And if I’m not performing enough laps to her liking, she gleefully licks me with her whippy riding-crop!

The irony is that the more she graciously stoops from within the raised bootchair to beat me, the more fervently I find myself being distracted from the mud on her boots by her navy-blue woollen socktops, for their soft and welcoming appearance reminds me of mistress Grace’s innate grace and femininity, and of the softer side of her nature. Oh if only I could muffle my screams of pain in the scrunched-up and uneven tops of her soft and inviting, navy blue bootsocks!

But I mustn’t! My mind, and my mouth, must remain solidly on Afro-Caribbean-girl muddy, black bootrubber until every last trace of feminine bootmud has disappeared down my male, bootslave-gullett - where it belongs; for it matters not if it soils my worthless innards, providing it is no longer sullying the outsides of mistress Grace’s precious, black rubber riding boots!

Some day – some hallowed – day there will be a mud stain on the top of one of miss Grace’s black or navy-blue bootsocks, and then I shall have my longed-for, pathetic excuse to mouth her woolly socks. But that day has not yet happened, and so I must once again make do with the bitter flavour of muddy, rubbery boots, all seasoned by some stinging cuts from her leather riding crop across my naked, upper body!

 

Man the Pumps!

As I indicated during my introduction to you, being a backroom-office ‘bootboy’ does not only entail servicing boots. At certain times of the year it is primarily shoes I must service – and even now, in the bleak mid-winter, I get the occasional pair of stylish, courts or pumps to honour and serve.

Next to grace me with her front-office presence is the office receptionist – sweet and kind, blonde mistress Louise; only 22, and madly in love with her firefighter-boyfriend. She can’t stop talking about him; sharing her experiences with him, not just with her female colleagues, but even with me – the humble and lowly, back-office bootboy!

I honestly think that she does it out of the very best of motives – to enable me to share in her superior, free-young-woman life by telling me all about her experiences, since she knows my only experiences revolve around the sights, smells and tastes of female boot and shoewear, stuck as I am in this windowless, backroom-hellhole!

Miss Louisa is a truly sexy little minx – petite and svelte but with nice bosoms and great legs – and she knows it. She likes to wear her seductive, ultra pointy-toed, high-heeled pumps to work along with her sheerest-denier, flesh-coloured, nylon stockings – all paid for by her firefighter boyfriend, as she loves to point out to everyone who will listen; or who, like me, has no choice but to listen!

No wonder she is always cheery, and I get my first female smile of the day as she slinkily takes up her seat in the bootchair above me, taking care not to spread her legs too wide open as she does so, lest she inadvertently rip her narrow, knee-length, grey-pinstriped, pencil skirt.

Her high-heeled, tan-nylon-stockinged feet rest coquettishly, and yet simultaneously demurely, on the two separate footrests in front of my kneeling face, as miss Louise endeavours to pull down the hem of her pencil skirt over her shapely knees out of a sense of false modesty – for she actually loves having men lusting after her legs.

Or even below them, as I must do!

‘Ha! Ha! How are you this morning, bootboy-slave? Ha! Ha! I see miss Grace has been painting your back and shoulders all nice and red with her riding crop again?’

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

Her left foot wobbles slightly on its metal footrest in its high-heel, causing the fine, flesh-coloured nylon material to wrinkle somewhat around her otherwise perfect left anklebone:

‘Ha! Ha! Gosh, that looks sore, bootboy! Oh well, never mind! Perhaps cleaning my shoes will help to take your mind off the pain, yeah?’

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

Such a sweet and kind, young, blonde woman indeed! Always thinking of others; anxious to take my foolish mind of the stinging whip-pain in my back by offering me her pretty, high-heeled shoes to tongue-clean!

Not that they appear to need much of a cleaning – smart, shiny, black patent leather, high-heeled pumps. Now a young lady really could see her pretty face reflected in these if she so desired!

But miss Louise is not concerned to have her pumps all nice and shiny for her own benefit. Rather, she wants them cleaned for her beloved firefighter-boyfriend’s benefit, as she soon makes clear to me:

‘Ha! Ha! I’m meeting Mike for lunch later this morning, slave, so make sure you do a good job on them. I want them to glisten for him, since he bought them for me! So shine them up nice and clean for my boyfriend, yeah? Or I’ll have to borrow miss Grace’s riding crop!’

It is, in all probability, an idle threat. I’m lead to believe that miss Louise doesn’t get on all that well with miss Grace from Accounts. They are office rivals for the attention of the proper menfolk i.e. the free men. And besides, sweet and kind miss Louise does not strike me as the kind of young lady to strike me. Then again, for all I know her beloved, firefighter-boyfriend might have a fiery temper on him, and may come after me with his rubber hosepipe if I fail to lickshine his girlfriend’s expensive, high-heeled pumps to his complete satisfaction!

Speaking of hose, I can’t help but notice the makings of a tiny ladder in the nylon toe-cleavage covering miss Louisa’s dainty toe-area on her left foot. Beautiful! Quite beautiful – for it indicates that the nylons are probably not brand new! They have been worn before! And whilst I have no doubt that her flesh-coloured, nylon-stockings are fresh on her feet this morning having been previously washed, for miss Louise is anything but dirty, they must nevertheless be saturated with the indelible traces of her young-womanly DNA from previous outings on her shapely feet and legs.

Her boyfriend, master Mike, can keep his firefighter ladders! The tiny ladder in his girlfriend’s stocking is the only ladder I would wish to climb – with my tongue!

But, sadly, it’s shoe I must attend to – not stocking – albeit a truly gorgeous, black leather, high-heeled shoe!

Miss Louise’s nylon-stockinged ankles twitch as I tongue-attend to her shiny, black shoeleather, removing every last vestige of street dust and dirt that I can find; my tongue so frustratingly near – and yet so far – from that intriguing little nylon ladder over the centre of her left toe-cleavage!

Her pink-painted, right index fingernail suddenly descends from on high in order to point me away from her stocking-fault and towards the high-heel of her left shoe:

‘You missed a bit, slave!’ she snaps, her voice sounding like an unexpected firecracker.

I must be careful not to inflame miss Louise’s anger, for if I upset this particular young woman in any way I can be sure she will set her manly boyfriend onto me; her hero.

I’m just her zero!

 

Feeling Sockish!

I have to admit I am feeling a bit sockish today, for I do like to kiss and worship a bit of office-girl sock before lunch, if at all possible. Today, however, most of the office ladies seem to be wearing knee-high, sock-hiding boots, or, as in the case of misses Wilhelmina and Louise, impure nylons with their footwear. Even in the case of the volatile mistress Grace the woolly socks, though partially visible at the very tops of her black rubber riding boots, remained infuriatingly out of bounds to my salivating, footslave mouth!

But I can always rely on the tall and ginger mistress Rebecca (Becky to her friends – but not to me, of course) to provide me with some sweet, feminine sock to kiss.

She is wearing her usual, somewhat scuffmarked and dusty, low-heeled, zip-up, black leather ankleboots; her black office, bootcut slacks (as part of a smart, office trouser-suit); and her familiar, plain black, ankle-length, cotton bootsocks.

The reason why I like serving mistress Rebecca so much as a backroom-bootboy is that she consistently, and unashamedly, has me unzip the sides of her ankleboots (after I have licked them dust-free from tip to toe, of course), and then orders me to kiss the sides of her black socks – as a mark of my footslavish respect for her. Furthermore, being a tall and mighty young woman, her feet are quite large – for a girl – and therefore there is a lot of ginger-haired girl, black cotton anklesock to kiss!

To mistress Rebecca, having her socks kissed whilst she is still wearing them, is the ultimate pleasure, as it inflates her not inconsiderable, young-womanly ego.

I concur with her sentiments, for it is a great pleasure for me also to orally pay homage to her socks – albeit a deeply humiliating one, especially when we are interrupted at the most intimate moments of sock-kissing, such as when someone else enters the room just as the side of her boot is fully unzipped and my lips are sealed to her sock!

As we are interrupted this morning – by my supervisor cleaning-mistress miss Adishree, who has decided to pop down to the backroom basement in order to check up on me before her lunchbreak.

Miss Adishree is a beautiful young Indian lady. Well, I say young – she is actually in her early fifties – but that’s young to me! I am in my early sixties!

The relatively young and sprightly miss Adishree is, as ever, dressed in her bright, shiny blue tabard and black cotton leggings. On her dainty, petite, middle-aged Indian feet she is wearing her favourite pair of cheap-looking, flat, shiny black plastic, slip-on shoes and short, grey and red patterned, sneaker-style socks which – though they may serve to garner the sweat from her shapely, Indian toes and insteps – fail miserably to adequately protect her precious, bare, Indian anklebones from the elements; in my humble opinion!

Miss Adishree laughs as she witnesses me kissing young, redheaded office-girl, black bootsock on command:

‘Ha! Ha! Madam is being pleased with the slave? Madam is being happy with the fool’s humble kissing of her socks?’

Miss Rebecca doesn’t seem in the least bit abashed at having her still warm, partially exposed bootsock kissed in public:

‘Oh yes thanks, Adishree. He’s doing a real good job on it! I’ve ordered him to show his respect and admiration for me by kissing me on the side of my sock 100 times!’

Miss Adishree is impressed – not with me, but with miss Rebecca’s ingenuity:

‘Ha! Ha! I am wery glad madam is being so pleased! I am making the slave into a jolly good ladysock-kisser, isn’t it madam? Ha! Ha! He is being nothing more than a disreputable, old fool! He is being a pathetic moron! Ha! Ha! …You, the slave, you will be continuing to kiss madam Rebecca most humbly on the side of her sock! You will not be stopping until you are reaching 100 kisses. Otherwise you will be feeling the cut of my whip on your back, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, supervisor-mistress Adishree…kiss…kiss…As it pleases you, supervisor-mistress Adishree…kiss…kiss…Please don’t beat me, supervisor-mistress Adishree…kiss…kiss…I am an obedient bootboy, mistress!...kiss…kiss…’

What wouldn’t I give to kiss miss Adishree’s manky old, red and black patterned socks right now?! Such power! Such authority! And she is a true expert with her supervisor’s bulls-pizzle whip!

But I am obliged, of course, to concentrate for now on the plain, black socks of mistress Rebecca! I mentally count each and every sock-kiss so that the two ladies present don’t have to do so themselves; they can chat away to one another about the world outside whilst I steadfastly deliver 100 kisses to the sides of both mistress Rebecca’s unremarkable, plain black anklesocks!

After miss Becky, if I may call her that, has climbed down from the raised bootchair, her two black leather ankleboots once again fully zipped up thanks to my humble bootboy-mouth, I find myself staring longingly at the, as yet untouched, red-and-grey patterned, sneaker-socked feet of my Indian supervisor-mistress, mistress Adishree, looking resplendent, and yet simultaneously somewhat manky, in their cheap, black plastic slip-on shoes beneath the elasticated hems of her black, cotton leggings; and, truly pathetically, I find myself hoping against hope that the elegant, hard-working, Indian-female wearer of the cheap socks and shoes might find it in herself to order me to kiss her rather grubby-looking socks 100 times each before lunch!

But instead my ever-vigilant, Indian supervisor-mistress focusses on the red stripes currently adorning my bare back, courtesy of mistress Grace’s black leather riding-crop:

‘Why you are getting whipped this morning, dirty slave? Why is one of your mistresses feeling the need to be whipping you already?’

The disappointment, and anger, in her middle-aged Indian, female voice is palpable. I have let her down, by requiring to be whipped. After all, I am in her charge!

I make my excuses, and don’t leave; because I can’t:

‘Oh pray mistress Adishree, if it pleases you blessed mistress Adishree, this slave required to be whipped by the mistress Grace, on account of the sheer volume of mud and dirt that required to be removed from her black rubber riding-boots, if it is so pleasing to you mistress Adishree.’

She bends down to run her slightly wizened, Indian-cleaning-lady fingernails slowly and painfully along the fresh, red whip-ridges on my prone and vulnerable bare back.

Then she notices, with dismay, the marks on my face from the kicks delivered to it by the pointy-toed, navy blue, suede-leather stretch boots of the foxy, but snooty, miss Wilhelmina. My Indian supervisor-mistress crouches down to my kneeling-face level, her face looking like thunder, and I can smell her bad breath up my boot-damaged nostrils.

I should explain at this point that poor mistress Adishree is unfortunately afflicted with bad teeth and gum disease, but her resultant halitosis only makes me all the more humble in her divine, female presence – for it reminds me that I am in the power of, and at the mercy of, an imperfect human being who is, nevertheless, my ultimate female master and better; the one with all the power over me, who can cause me to be in a great deal of pain, and who is therefore most deserving of my respect.

She is evidently dismayed not at the damage to my face, but at the lack of such maleslavish respect on my part that must have elicited such violence from another superior-mistress, or mistresses:

‘And why is your ugly face being all kicked in, dirty filth? Who are you being upsetting in this way, you insolent boot-coolie?’

‘Oh pray mistress Adishree, if it pleases you mistress Adishree, this slave earned the righteous feminine wrath of his mistress Wilhelmina, for failing to properly tongue-shine her suede leather boots so that she could see her most beautiful face in them, should it be so pleasing to you mistress Adishree.’

Of course, such failure on my part will be far from pleasing to my non-supervising, supervisor-mistress! She angrily gathers up some mature-womanly phlegm in her pretty, but odorous, mouth and spits it out directly into my face:

‘Hah! You are being a stupid and dirty, useless slave! Hah! I am spitting on you, isn’t it?’ (she duly does so again). ‘I shall not be punishing you this time by paining you myself. Instead I will be starving you, dirty slave. You shall not be getting any more nice food today, isn’t it? There will be being no more bread, and no more water. You shall not be eating again until tomorrow. I will be damn well teaching teach you obedience towards your superior mistresses, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! You shall be damn well tasting only superior office ladies’ socks and boots until tomorrow morning! Ha! Ha!’

She then deposits yet more infected phlegm from her superior, gum-disease-ridden mouth onto the boot-bruised and battered outside of my face.

‘Yes mistress Adishree. Thank you mistress Adishree,’ I gush, my bowed and contrite head dribbling perilously close to her socks with her self-righteously expelled, Indian-woman mucus.

Satisfied that she has indeed taught me a much needed lesson in humility and obedience, mistress Adishree then goes off for her well-earned lunchbreak, leaving me hungry for more female sock and boot. For that, it seems, is the only sustenance I shall now be receiving until breakfast time tomorrow morning!

And rightly so.