The Outsider
The party is in full swing. I can hear the male and female laughter and frivolity coming from the living room window – the music; the dancing; the drinking; the fun.
I myself am not invited to the party, for I am just a male, household slave; an outsider. Literally an outsider – for I am outside in the freezing cold of the back yard, dressed in my slave-rags as opposed to my glad-rags, and down on my hands and knees diligently scrubbing the concrete of my mistress’s patio. She has banished me outside so that I don’t get under the feet of her party guests.
Which is a crying shame, as I love to be beneath my betters’ feet – especially the feet of my female betters. At least I got to kiss the feet of my mistress’s female party guests before my undignified exile into the back yard; so I can visualize in my mind what type of footwear they are all wearing – a nice and varied collection of knee, calf and ankle length boots, mixed in with some high-heeled courts and ballet flats.
One guest, whose name I don’t know, was even wearing a fetchingly tatty pair of greying-white keds sneakers on her student-girl feet. They had tasted particularly nice on my welcoming footslave-lips; nice and musty!
But, sadly, I won’t be seeing them again soon – not unless the young, blonde wearer of the sneakers turns out to be a smoker; for the party hostess – my Pakistani mistress, mistress Saalima – being a non-smoker herself, will not tolerate smoking in her house, and so even her most esteemed party guests (and her husband!) have to smoke outside in the same back yard where I am scrubbing the ground, if they wish to partake of the ‘evil weed!’
I can expect a succession of beautiful, young women to pop out into the back yard, whilst I am slaving away, for a quick, relaxing fag as the evening wears on, so I shall have the privilege of seeing their sweet smokers’ footwear once again, and possibly even kissing it – if they feel so inclined! But the footwear of the non-smoking guests will be lost to me, as I know from bitter experience that my mistress Saalima will be much too drunk to remember to call me back into the house in order to kiss her party-guests’ feet goodbye as they depart in the wee small hours of the morning!
My Pakistani mistress may be a non-smoker, but she sure as hell isn’t teetotal!
One of her non-smoking guest-mistresses is the truly delightful mistress Olivia – one of our regular houseguests, for whom, I must confess, I hold a bit of a slave-candle since she is so outstandingly beautiful, and has such a nice pair of well-worn and scuffmarked, black leather ankleboots on this evening.
Mistress Olivia is in her mid twenties and works as some sort of security guard at the airport; but in my humble slaveman-opinion she could easily find work as a top fashion model, so great is her beauty – long, naturally blonde hair framing a pretty, white face (albeit somewhat angular); a winsome smile (albeit a smile that is never directed towards me, presumably because I’m just a dirty slave); and a figure to die for (albeit a figure often dressed in surprisingly ‘frumpy’ clothes – typically jeans and an anorak – and those ubiquitous, scuffmarked ankleboots!).
Yes – mistress Olivia could make so much more of herself if she wanted to; in my humble, footslave opinion! But, frumpily dressed or not, it is her scuffmarked, black leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboots which get me every time she sets foot in my mistress Saalima’s household and positions them for kissing in front of my humbly kneeling face – especially when she is wearing them with her pale pink, cotton bootsocks (which I know for a fact she is tonight, though only because she had knowingly reached down to pull up her bootsocks beneath her dark blue, denim jean hems earlier this evening just before my mistress Saalima had ordered me to kiss her regular guest’s boots!)
How mistress Olivia likes to tease with her boots and socks, the blonde-haired minx! She knows full well that her scuffmarked boot-toes will taste so much sweeter on a household-footslave’s lips when seasoned by the sight of her pale pink feminine bootsocks inside them! That’s the main reason why I admire mistress Olivia so much – she is an inveterate socktease, and truly beautiful with it!
But, alack and alas, I shall not see those pale, pink socks and scuffmarked, black ankleboots again this evening as mistress Olivia does not smoke, and therefore will not venture outside into the cold for a crafty cigarette!
Can you imagine having to watch her black leather ankleboot sole stubbing out a discarded cigarette butt on the ground beneath your kneeling face – with just a flash of pale-pink bootsock beneath her dark-blue, denim jean hem!
Oh why can’t she be a smoker! Why does she have to be so fit and healthy!
The Chain-Smoker
Instead, the first pair of female feet to grace my cold and lonely back yard belong to the unfit and unhealthy, chain-smoking mistress Arleta – another beautiful, young white woman in her mid to late twenties, but much more stand-offish than her fellow partygoer, miss Olivia. She is also brunette as opposed to blonde, and she wears glasses.
I recognise her straightaway from her footwear – footwear which it was my privilege to kiss in a respectful and welcoming greeting about an hour or so ago, when she had arrived at my mistress’s front door. She is wearing a pair of black, patent leather, flat, slip-on loafers and plain, black cotton, anklesocks beneath the hems of her matching black trouser hems – an almost ‘manly’ shoe-sock combination except that mistress Arleta oozes female superiority and young-womanly femininity from tip to toe, as evidenced by the insane shapeliness of her black-socked anklebones!
She steps out into the darkness of the back yard (it is already after dusk and the yard is lit only by a single spotlight) and lights up yet another sneaky cigarette.
As she does so she stretches forward her right leg as a signal for me to stop what I am doing (scrubbing) and pay my oral respects once again to her flat, loafer shoe – by kissing it.
That’s all she will do – stretch forward her feet, one after the other, for me to kiss – for mistress Arleta is much too ‘stuck-up’ to ever demean herself by talking to a mere scrubber. And yet, I feel truly honoured to be thusly demeaned by her, and treated with such contempt, for she is, as I have already said, a truly beautiful, young woman – maybe not in the same league as my beloved, blonde guest-mistress Olivia, but a brunette beauty nonetheless.
I hear mistress Arleta take a long, hard drag on her cigarette above me as my lips make their reverential contact with the rounded toe of her outstretched, right shoe. The black, female shoeleather feels quite cold to the lips, but I do get to admire the warming sight of some little areas of bobbling in the stitching of her partially exposed, black cotton anklesock beneath the hem of her black cotton trouser leg.
How that trouser leg seems to tower above me as I pay my homage to its humble cousin – her shoe! I feel truly humbled; and blessed.
The cigarette leaves mistress Arleta lips just at the precise same moment she withdraws her right shoe from my slave-lips, only to replace it with her left. This time it is a slither of dust I espy on the side of her black sock. It reminds me that most of my mistress’s guests will have been wearing the same shoes (or boots) and socks all day since it is now the middle of the evening, and most of them will have come straight from their places of work to the party. It’s not a fancy dress party – not by any means! Just an informal get-together really, celebrating nothing in particular!
I don’t know what job mistress Arleta does for a living – but she’d make a damned good librarian. Not only is she bespectacled, she is also very quiet! Like I said, not a word passes through her red lips down towards me; just her exhaled cigarette smoke.
Her left loafer-shoe, unlike her right, lingers somewhat beneath my lips – prompting me to kiss its blackness several more times as a mark of my maleslave respect; but then her phone beeps to indicate that she has received a text message from someone, and her left foot is suddenly withdrawn from my lips as she walks over to a more private area of the yard in order to compose her textual reply.
It’s as if she has suddenly forgotten all about me and my presence, and I take her indifference towards me as an implicit order to resume my floor scrubbing – a thankless task, but at least I have the pathetic, slavish satisfaction of knowing that I am scrubbing the ground beneath which my betters have previously walked – particularly my mistress Saalima whom I admire and respect very much as she is quick to anger and equally quick to whip!
When she has finished texting on her phone, and taken her last puff of her cigarette, mistress Arleta casually chucks the butt-end down onto the floor of my nice, clean yard, and scrunches it into the ground with the sole of her flat, right shoe. From my kneeling and scrubbing position nearby I can just make out the creases and folds in her right, black cotton anklesock as she does so.
As you can probably tell, I am completely enraptured by the whole female cigarette-extinguishing process, and as soon as mistress Arleta has disappeared back into the warmth of my mistress’s party-house I crawl over on my hands and knees to the discarded cigarette butt and literally lap it up – not because it is sullying my mistress Saalima’s nice, clean back yard; not even because it contains traces of superior and beautiful miss Arleta’s white saliva and red lipstick; but because it contains traces of dirt from the sole of her flat, leather shoe!
That’s my idea of party food – female-shoe-soiled cigarette butt!
I can confidently predict that mistress Arleta will be back out in the yard again in an hour or so’s time – simply because I know she is a chain-smoker – and we shall have to go through that same old silent ritual yet again, with me kissing her feet, one by one; and then admiring her sock as she stubs out her cigarette.
But I’m not complaining!
Happy Talk
The next smoking-mistress to grace me with her presence is my mistress Saalima’s 21 year old niece, miss Jehan (my mistress Saalima is a fine-looking Pakistani woman in her mid forties, I should explain!)
I always think that miss Jehan is a fragile-looking thing, although she seems very happy and healthy (despite being a smoker). She is so petite and delicate in stature, and such a sweet-natured girl, you sometimes get the impression she wouldn’t say boo to a goose – unlike her aunt Saalima!
But having said all that, even the delicate-natured miss Jehan has enough contempt in her brittle bones for a dirty and lowly scrubber-footslave like myself.
Indeed, she mocks me as she lights up:
‘Ha! Ha! Is the slave being liking it out here alone in the cold? Ha! Ha! Are you being enjoying your humble yard-work, slave-coolie?’
Miss Jehan herself is well wrapped-up against the cold in a red, woolly hat and thick, dark-coloured, bomber-style jacket and matching jeans – so she has every right to mock me in my flimsy slave-rags as I scrub the ground she walks on; walks on in a delightful pair of calf-length, brown leather, biker-style boots which are clearly intended to augment her otherwise slender and dainty, female-Pakistani anklebones; anklebones covered in glorious, white cotton bootsock – for I can just make out the elasticated tops of her pure, white socks inside her calve-hugging, biker-boot rims!
Soft, white socks, inside chunky, brown leather, biker boots, on a mocking young Pakistani woman’s slender, Asian anklebones – it really doesn’t get much better than that, does it?
And at least she is deigning to talk down to me!
I offer up my humble response to her mocking question, though I would much rather that my mouth was making immediate contact with the chunky toe-end of her heavily strapped and buckled, right, brown leather biker-boot:
‘Oh pray miss Jehan, if it pleases you miss Jehan, truly this slave is honoured to scrub the boot and shoe dirt from your aunt Saalima’s yard, if it would be so pleasing to you most respected miss Jehan.’
Miss Jehan laughs out loud, and takes a drag on her freshly-lit cigarette (which, no doubt, would earn her her aunt’s instant disapproval, were she to be made aware of it!):
‘Ha! Ha! Be crawling over here and licking my boots, fat slavey-boy! Be licking them nice and clean for me, for they are being wery dirty, isn’t it?’
And with that she casually rests her pert behind on the nearby living-room window ledge, as if turning her back on the party as she happily watches her aunt’s dirty, household slave tongue-polishing her young-womanly, Pakistani biker boots.
She gives my tongue specific directions as she does so:
‘Ha! Ha! Be making damn well sure your tongue is getting beneath each of the leather straps on the outsides of my boots, bootboy-coolie! I am not wanting to see any dirt or filth being left underneath the straps, isn’t it?’
‘Yes miss Jehan. This slave hears and obeys the superior mistress, miss Jehan! Enjoy your cigarette, miss Jehan!’
I do so love being bossed about by petite and delicate young, Pakistani women in big boots – and miss Jehan clearly loves bossy-booting her aunt’s middle-aged slaveman; and all in her thick, Pakistani accent – I think she’s only been in the country a few months, on some sort of student visa. I wonder if she knows the blonde student-girl with the scruffy, keds sneakers, and could introduce me to her later? She must be about the same age as her!
Ha! Ha! Dream on, slave! These young women have much better things to do than spend their time getting to know you – like drinking; and possibly snogging with one of the many free men invited to the party. It wouldn’t be the first time I have had the indignity of having to scrub clean my mistress’s yard whilst some scrubber hit it off with a free man in the nearby bushes!
Not that I’m in any way jealous – of course; I only want intimacy with the blonde student-girl’s scruffy old keds; not with her sweet feminine body. I’m not worthy enough to do that!
A sharp kick to my daydreaming face from the rounded, reinforced toe of miss Jehan’s left biker-boot brings me back to my current reality:
‘Be licking my left boot also, you stupid idiot-slave! Are you being so stupid that you are forgetting I am wearing two boots, you damned ignorant coolie?’
‘Ouch!... N…No mistress Jehan. Please forgive me mistress Jehan,’ I splutter, nursing a sore jaw.
She laughs as I immediately transfer my tongue onto her hitherto neglected left, brown leather biker-boot:
‘Ha! Ha! You slaves really are so damned incompetent! No wonder my aunty is forever being having to whip you, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes indeed miss Jehan. Thank you miss Jehan. God bless you miss Jehan.’
Best just to agree with everything a young, Pakistani woman in a position of absolute booted-power says – particularly when she speaks the truth, and even more so when she has just reminded you of the stinging power of her aunt’s whip!
Still, I do like my occasional conversations with petite and slim miss Jehan, in between my licking of the outsides of her oversized boots.
Killer Heels
The deadly miss Cathleen is next to grace me with her presence.
I describe her as ‘deadly’ because I always feel like my life may be in danger whenever I am alone with her. She’s stark raving mad – in my humble opinion – and seems to have this ‘thing’ about me; wanting to own me – to ‘steal’ me from my mistress Saalima and make me her own personal slave. I don’t think my mistress Saalima realises just how dangerous miss Cathleen is!
And when hard-faced miss Cathleen is a bit the worse for drink the situation becomes even more fraught! And she is often the worse for drink – as she is now!
Mistress Cathleen ambles out into the back yard which miss Jehan has just vacated (sadly without chucking her cigarette butt onto the ground, but placing it in the nearby dustbin – as she probably should!), with a wine glass in one hand, and a newly lit cigarette in the other.
Miss Cathleen is of a similar age to my mistress Saalima, but unlike my mistress is a spinster. As her name suggests she is of Irish descent – and still has a great figure for a woman of her age (unlike my somewhat podgy, middle-aged Pakistani mistress!), even if her face shows a few wrinkles and signs of aging. Her hair is dyed bright red, and tied back in a severe bun – quite spinsterish, but probably designed to try and iron out some of her facial skin-wrinkles by pulling them back.
Miss Cathleen does, actually, like to look younger than her age by wearing short skirts, such as the black leather miniskirt she is wearing to the party this evening, and finest denier, tan-coloured nylon stockings on her shapely, Irish legs – legs finished off by a nice pair of black, patent leather, high-heeled, court shoes.
Irish mutton dressed as lamb, some might say; I couldn’t possibly comment!
The three-inch spiked heels don’t exactly help her to clip-clop her drunken way towards me across the concrete surface of the back yard, but they do have the advantage of making her stockinged heels and ankles wobble in front of my kneeling and bowed face as I dutifully scrub her hostess’s yard – thereby causing her sheer, nylon stockings to crease and wrinkle around the ankles in front of my very eyes.
The right, Irish-woman foot is somewhat precariously lifted up off the ground onto my lips:
‘Stop scrubbing and start licking, dirty slave!’ she barks in her somewhat gravelly, smoker’s voice with its contrastingly soft, Irish lilt. ‘To be sure, I want to see my face in them!’
‘Why mistress?’ I’m tempted to ask. ‘It’s not a particularly pretty face, is it?’
But, of course, I say no such thing! What I actually say, with a fair degree of fear and trepidation, is:
‘Yes mistress Cathleen. At once mistress Cathleen. God bless you, most beautiful mistress Cathleen Madam.’
I do like the smoothness of mistress Cathleen’s black, patent shoeleather, even if it is to be spoilt by the reflection of her smoker’s prematurely-wrinkled face in it. And, whilst I might not admire the wrinkles in said middle-aged face, I do very much admire the wrinkles in the Irish mistress’s sheer, nylon stockings – all around her still shapely Irish anklebones. They remind me that, middle-aged or not; intoxicated or not; ginger-haired or not; raspy-voiced or not; barking mad or not – mistress Cathleen is still my female master and better, and is to be treated with the respect she deserves.
I can smell the alcohol on her breath as she precariously stoops down to admire my toungework on her wobbly, high-heeled shoe:
‘Ha! Ha! You’re a good little shoelicker, aren’t you slave? Ha! Ha! Why don’t you come and work for me? Ha! Ha! You could be my personal shoeshine-boy!...belch…Wouldn’t you like that, boy, eh? Ha! Ha! Licking clean all my nice, high-heeled shoes and boots day in and day out, instead of having to scrub clean this dirty, old yard? Ha! Ha!...belch…’
Again, I’m tempted to respond to the alcohol-breathed miss Cathleen as follows:
‘1. I’m not a ‘boy’. I’m 53 years old, miss Cathleen – even older than you; though you wouldn’t think it to look at me!
2. You’re the scrubber, mistress!
3. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m already spoken for. I am very happy serving my Pakistani mistress Saalima and her family. She whips me well, and a slave really can’t ask for anything more than that! So finish your cigarette and butt out, you drunken old bag!’
However, what I actually say after the above sentiments have been translated into humble slave-speak is:
‘Oh pray mistress Cathleen. God bless you mistress Cathleen, and thank you for your kind offer to make me your personal shoeshine-boy, mistress Cathleen. This slave is truly honoured to be offered such an august position, mistress Cathleen. However, this slave very much regrets that he is already spoken for, miss, being in humble and permanent bondage to his mistress Saalima and her household, and, much as he would like to, he is therefore unable to take the mistress up on her kind and generous offer – if you would be so kind and understanding most respected Irish goddess-mistress, mistress Cathleen.’
Mistress Cathleen, it seems, is not disposed to be ‘kind and understanding’ towards my rejection of her drunken offer of a permanent position at her feet, and she drunkenly throws the remains of her drink all over my humbly bowed head:
‘Pah! Sod you then, slave! You can go to hell!’
She then spits on me – a most gooey and unladylike spit for such a refined, middle-aged lady.
I thought I already was in hell – here, in this freezing cold back yard, alone with you, miss Cathleen?
But hell later turned to heaven when the delectable mistress Olivia made a completely unexpected visit to the back yard – specifically, I believe, to see me and to have her black leather ankleboots lickshined; or possibly even graciously show me a further glimpse of her pale, pink bootsocks as she helpfully hitches up the hems of her jean-legs in order to afford my tongue unimpeded access to her upper ankleboot-leather.
Such a kind and considerate socktease!
It’s moments like this that make my life as an oppressed and despised outsider truly worth living – moments when I get to pay my oral respects to a beautiful, young, blonde-haired woman and her everyday, weather-beaten footwear.
And, boot and sock smitten as I am, I am convinced that someday miss Olivia will be famous – a supermodel or a film star; or maybe both! And I shall be able to say with pathetic, footslavish pride:
‘I licked that blonde, superstar-girl’s scuffmarked, black leather, zip-up ankleboots back in the day before she was famous, and whilst she was still wearing them over her pale pink bootsocks! It happened whilst she was a guest at my Pakistani mistress’s party, in my mistress’s dark and dismal back yard, before miss Olivia was one of the in-crowd.
I was her personal outsider that night!’
The End
