Under The Counter Service

I am an ‘under the counter’ slave for a row of five female bank clerks in one of the Gynarchy’s major, high-street banks.

My humble role is to kneel behind the feet of my bank-clerk mistresses – three black ladies; one Pakistani lady; and one white lady – as they sit at their respective counters, and to await their haughty instructions to bring them various forms from the pigeon holes behind me. I am nothing more than a kind of ‘gofer’, and my role means that the superior clerk-mistresses do not need to get up off their lazy, swivel chairs in order to fetch the requisite forms.

Whilst I am waiting for one of the teller-mistresses to summon me over, I must kneel with my head bowed and humbly stare at their shoes or boots – specifically at the backs of the shoes or boots of the last mistress to summon me (at the very start of the day I begin by kneeling behind teller no. 3 – so that I am in the middle of the row).

Whilst I am kneeling and waiting to be used as a slave-gofer, I like to fantasize about what it would be like to be the personal footslave of whichever female bank-clerk whose footwear is occupying my vision and my thoughts at the time.

 

Counter no. 3 – Bank-teller mistress Rochelle

This morning I am beginning my long, working day kneeling behind black mistress Rochelle who happens to be seated at the middle counter – desk no. 3 – today.

Mistress Rochelle is a very pretty, but harsh, African-Caribbean lady in her mid to late forties. Even in her fetching bank-teller’s uniform, consisting of a navy-blue jacket, a blue and yellow patterned blouse (the bank’s corporate colours) and her modest, knee-length, uniform skirt, she looks quite staid and frumpy – especially in her flat-heeled, broad-toed, navy-blue, slip-on shoes and dark, nylon tights.

Her thick, horn-rimmed glasses do nothing to lessen her somewhat frumpy image. She is also the most humourless of the mistresses, with never a good word to say about me, or my work. I think she sees herself as someone in a position of respect and authority – and she therefore despises me all the more since I’m just her down-on-the-dirty-floor gofer, constantly at her Caribbean beck and call. In fact, I think she would happily have me as her personal gofer, and that she quite resents the fact that her colleagues on the counter get the use of me as well – though she gets on well enough with them, and is always perfectly polite to the bank’s customers.

It’s just me that she is sullen and surly with.

Indeed, she makes me feel like dirt – and I should be grateful to her for that; for, at the end of the day, I am nothing more than dirt; the dirt beneath her nyloned and shoed feet.

This morning, as I kneel unobtrusively behind her, I admire her thick, dark-nyloned heels and ankles above the upper rim of her flat, plain, slip-on, navy blue shoe. The nylon of her dark tights is starting to fray and split on the backs of her middle-aged, African-Caribbean heels, and I can see that the skin on her heels is actually quite chapped and rough beneath the thinning, almost laddered, nylon.

It’s such humble sights which fire-up the natural footslave in me, and I start to daydream as to what it would be like being mistress Rochelle’s personal footslave:

‘Bleak’ pretty much sums it up. No love; no joy; no sexy, foot-flattering high-heels. Just plain old brogues and tights, and a requirement that I focus on my middle-aged, Caribbean mistress’s chapped heels at all times. I imagine she would work me hard, requiring that I tongue-polish each and every pair of her sensible, flat shoes – including the work shoes she has on now, and her Sunday- best church shoes (for a superior, black woman as righteous as this must surely go to church on a regular basis?). I’m sure she would require me to lickshine all her shoes every single day, whether she is planning to wear them or not.

Similarly I have no doubt that she would require her personal footslave to mouthwash her dirty tights – and woe betide me if I ladder the tights, especially around the already thinning heel area! For the only ladder she wants to see is the career ladder, which she is still determined to climb.

I imagine that the sullen and sulky mistress Rochelle would be quick to whip any personal footslave who fails to safeguard the wholesomeness and integrity of her middle-aged, black-womanly footwear. Indeed, she would probably regularly whip me anyway – just to remind herself of her absolute, bespectacled, black-woman power and authority over me – the older, more lowly white man – and my helplessness and powerlessness at her feet.

I always sense that mistress Rochelle likes the fact that I am frightened of her – more frightened than I am of some of her mistress-colleagues on the bank-counter; that I always crawl over to her feet just that little bit quicker when summoned by her; that I am shaking with fear lest I have brought her the wrong form, and she then shouts at me and berates me in front of anyone for being such a stupid idiot!

Yes, as mistress Rochelle subconsciously wraps her dark- nylon-stockinged ankles around each other at the base of her swivel chair – thereby causing the black, nylon tights on the backs of her chapped heels to crease and fold in front of my very eyes – I ready myself for a possible summons in her familiar, Jamaican-patois voice.

But, actually, it is her fellow black-woman colleague, mistress Ilene, whose voice snaps at me first thing this morning:

‘Yo slave! Come here!’

I immediately scurry on my hands and knees two desks to my right and to counter no. 1 where bank-teller mistress Ilene is seated.

 

Counter no. 1 – Bank-teller mistress Ilene

Mistress Ilene is of a similar age to her Caribbean colleague, mistress Rochelle, but I understand she is of Barbadian, as opposed to Jamaican, origins. Her accent is therefore more Bajan twang, than Jamaican Patois.

But its import is the same – rude; abrupt; curt:

‘Form 674B, slave!’

‘Yes mistress Ilene. At once mistress Ilene, madam.’

She doesn’t even look at me as I scurry over towards her bank-teller’s feet on my hands and knees, and then scurry away from them again in order to collect her requested, blank form.

Fortunately, I know where all the forms are kept now – so it doesn’t take me long to find the relevant form 674B in the relevant pigeon hole.

I humbly hand it up to Barbadian mistress Ilene whilst keeping my head bowed behind her feet. She too, for her part, doesn’t even give me a second glance as she reaches down to lift the form out of my hands. That’s because mistress Ilene is much too stuck-up and full of herself to ever bring herself to look at a mere ‘gofer’ like me. She sees herself as a beautiful, black, Barbadian princess surrounded by inferior underlings – well, by one such underling at any rate; me!

Having delivered the requisite stationery to stuck-up and haughty mistress Ilene speedily and efficiently, I take up my new stationary position directly behind her black-Barbadian feet and legs.

I use the word ‘legs’ advisedly, since mistress Ilene, unlike her Caribbean counterpart mistress Rochelle, likes to go bare-legged beneath her knee-length, navy-blue, uniform skirt. And why not? She does, after all, have very nice legs – for a woman of her age (again, mid forties); black and shapely legs, with a fine sheen on them beneath the lights of the counter.

Mistress Ilene is also what I would describe as a ‘heel-popper’. Unlike the frumpy mistress Rochelle at counter no. 3, mistress Ilene likes a bit of heel on her smart, black, patent leather, high-heeled shoe – a shoe so shiny I can sometimes see my gormless, gofer-face reflected in it!

But she also likes to sit on her swivel chair with her pink-black, bare Bajan heels popping out of the backs of her shiny, black shoes – and the startling contrast between the flawed pinky-black of her heelskin, and the shiny, flawless, smooth black of her shoe-heel, is truly a marvellous sight for a would-be footslave to behold!

Speaking of which, what would it be like to be the personal footslave of mistress Ilene? She would certainly keep me on her toes – her purple-lacquered toes, of which I get the occasional, fleeting glimpse when she subconsciously pops not just her bare heels but her entire, bare feet from her restrictive, warm and sweaty, feminine shoes.

I do love it when she does that – for I get to see the dark, footsweat stains all along the beige, inner linings of her high-heeled shoes when she does so. That’s hard-working, black-woman footsweat, for, unlike her indolent and stuck-up colleague mistress Rochelle, mistress Ilene does work relatively hard.

But, sadly, in my current position of slave-gofer, I can only get to see the Bajan, bank-teller mistress’s footsweat on her inner beigean shoe-linings. I am not allowed to kneel close enough to her feet to smell it, like a personal footslave would be; or, even better, to lick it and taste it!

My God, the number of times I have fantasised about what goddess-mistress Ilene’s Barbadian footsweat must taste like – be it raw, straight off her foot, or tempered by her soft, inner shoe-lining! Salty – I’m guessing; and the rawer and fresher – the saltier?

Oh but if only I were good enough to be her personal footslave! Then I wouldn’t have to guess! I would know!

Suddenly, a much younger, Pakistani voice, shouts out my name, breaking my footsweat-tasting reverie:

‘Slave!’

 

Counter no. 4 – Bank-teller mistress Nabeela

I scurry away from the popped out heels over towards the delightful, black leather, calf-length boots and navy-blue, bell bottom trousers of bank-teller mistress Nabeela on counter no. 4 – just the other side of sour and sullen, black bank-teller mistress Rochelle.

The contrast between mistresses Rochelle and Nabeela could not be more pronounced. Miss Nabeela is a stunningly beautiful, young Pakistani woman in her early to mid twenties – with long, dark hair and piercing brown eyes – not that I am ever permitted to look her in the eye; only in the eyelets of her calf-length, black leather, lace-up boots.

She is also of a much more cheery disposition than mistress Rochelle, though she maintains an air of professional, young-mistressly disdain for the humble, elderly-male gofer at her feet:

‘Be fetching form 865/A’, she barks down at me – though not in an unkindly way.

To be honest I think she finds it faintly embarrassing – having a semi-naked man old enough to be her father scurrying around on his hands and knees fetching paperwork for her that she would be more than capable of fetching for herself, being such a fit and healthy, young woman!

But then again, why bother, if you have a slave to do it for you?

I fetch the form, and hand it up – in the usual, submissive manner, with my head bowed – to superior, Pakistani goddess-mistress Nabeela, before assuming my kneeling position behind her boots.

She doesn’t thank me for fetching the form for her, of course; I’m just a slave.

As I kneel and stare at the delicious, creased, black leather in the backs of her calf-length, lace-up, chunky-heeled boots, my main gripe with superior bank-teller mistress Nabeela is that I never get to see her socks! Her calf-length boots are just too high, and the upper rims of her boots are always, frustratingly, covered by the hems of her navy-blue, bell bottom, uniform trousers.

It’s such a shame – for I would just love to catch a glimpse of her, presumably sweaty, Asian-girl bootsocks inside her boots!

If I were her personal footslave, of course, I would get to do just that! And not only that – I would also get to touch her socks, and caress them and smell them as I put them on, or take them off, her pretty, Pakistani feet prior to lacing or unlacing her boots.

For – just as in my current job – even though mistress Nabeela is perfectly capable of performing such menial tasks for herself, why would she if she had a male slave to do it for her?

I imagine her socks would be black inside her boots – smart and businesslike; like mistress Nabeela herself. I can confidently predict that this bright, young woman will go far up the career ladder – probably further than mistress Rochelle, and certainly further than the Female Bank’s gofer, who is suddenly summoned to the neighbouring desk no. 3:

‘Slave! SLAVE! Go git I form number five five t’ree, slave-bwoy!’

 

Counter no. 3 – Bank-teller mistress Rochelle

It is the dulcet, Caribbean tones of the aforementioned bank-teller mistress Rochelle – probably jealous of my infatuation with her neighbouring, Pakistani colleague’s, black leather, calf-length boots. Didn’t she say form 552? I’ll bet she doesn’t even really need it. It’s a very old form – rarely used nowadays!

Unlike me; I am also old – but still very much used and abused by my bank-teller mistresses!

No sooner have I dusted off and brought the form to the stolid, middle-aged shoes and feet of bank-teller mistress Rochelle, than I hear the call of duty from bank-teller mistress Aminata – on neighbouring counter no. 2:

‘Slave!’

 

Counter no. 2 – Bank-teller mistress Aminata

I scurry sideways to yet another pair of black-female legs and feet – only this time a much younger pair than those of her two Caribbean counterparts who are seated on either side of her; and this time pure, unadulterated, African legs and feet – straight from Ghana. In fact, braided-haired mistress Aminata has only been resident in the Gynarchy for some three years, and has retained her thick, West African accent, as well as her natural, unperfumed footsmells.

I reach her feet, and she does me the discourtesy of leaning back in her chair and looking down her beautiful, twenty-something, broad-shaped, West African nose at me:

‘795X’

Form 795X! Honestly – that’s miles away! Well, it’s at the other end of the counter, at any rate!

I go fetch!

When I return she, like all the other bank-clerk mistresses, takes it rudely from me in a stony silence, though I just have to admire her black-skinned, red-painted fingernails as her delicate, African-female hand reaches down to grasp the form.

That’s before I start to admire her shoes and feet, of course.

Luckily, I am granted quite a few minutes to kneel and stare at bank-teller mistress Aminata’s heels and ankles before my next summons.

And very nice young-black-womanly heels and ankles they are too, albeit curiously unpedicured! Like mistress Rochelle’s ankles they are encased in dark, officewear nylon; but, unlike bank-teller mistress Rochelle, bank-teller mistress Aminata is wearing finest denier, dark nylon stockings on shapely, young-womanly legs beneath her, much shorter, navy-blue uniform skirt.

Also unlike bank-teller mistress Rochelle, mistress Aminata is wearing a sexy pair of matt-black, double-strapped, block-heeled, mary-jane style shoes on her pert, black feet – and so I can play the game of trying to quickly count the stitches in her nylon stockings (for I can sense they are stockings and not tights) between the upper and lower straps on the tops of her mary-jane style shoes.

If I were bank-teller mistress Aminata’s personal footslave I wouldn’t have to rush my mental arithmetic, of course. I would have literally all day to admire her dark, nylon stockings on her shod feet, and to count the individual stitches in the nylon at my leisure; count them, and then count them again; and again; and again – just to double and quadruple check that my initial findings were correct!

And then, at the end of the long, working day, I would get to unbuckle my West African mistress’s mary-jane shoes and to smell, and count, the stitches in her lower stockings – below the shoeline. For there would be nothing more important to me than knowing the exact number of tiny nylon stitches in my West African mistress’s dark nylon stockings covering her stinky, sweaty feet; moreover, there would be no aural distractions, such as the following:

‘Slave! Over here!’

 

Counter no. 5 – Bank-teller mistress Karen

It is the posh, English accent of the only white girl on the counter – blonde-ponytailed, thirty-something, bank-teller mistress Karen.

I scurry over from Africa to England in about 3 seconds flat!

‘No. 87B’

At last – a bit of luck! Form 87B is right behind bank-teller mistress Karen (in fact, it’s in the same block of pigeon holes as form 795X which I have just fetched for bank-teller mistress Aminata!). Bank-teller mistress Karen is so close to the blank form she could probably just swivel round in her chair and pick it up for herself. But bank protocol, and female laziness, demand that I must do it for her.

A split second later and she has her form. But I’m glad she summoned me all the way over to her counter to fetch the nearby form for her. That’s because bank-teller mistress Karen is, in my humble opinion, absolute footmistress-perfection!

She is seated, cross-legged, on her swivel chair as I assume my humble kneeling position behind her. Like the Pakistani bank-teller mistress Nabeela on counter no. 4 beside her, English mistress Karen is wearing her navy-blue uniform trousers, but, thanks – and I do mean thanks – to her cross-legged seating position, her right, black-leather-anklebooted foot is hovering in the air, and as a consequence her right trouser-hem has ridden up to reveal the very top of her short, dark grey, cotton bootsock.

It looks like a somewhat ropey and twisted, grey sock – with thick stitching; but how it contrasts so sweetly with the pale, pasty white of her smooth calf-skin.

Now – don’t get me wrong. Blonde-ponytailed mistress Karen is a beautiful, young woman – and her freemale customers must love staring into her pretty, English-rose, facial features (not to mention her boobs!) as they deal with her over the counter.

But for me, as an under-the-counter, would-be footslave, I would much rather stare at her boot and sock all day – particularly when she subliminally twists and swivels her beautiful, besocked anklebone inside her somewhat scuffmarked, pointy-toed, spike-heeled, zip-up, black leather ankleboot.

Being so close to such a moving – in every sense of the word – female ankleboot is utter footslave-heaven. I defy you not to be moved by it – if you are genuinely a footslave!

But, of course, sadly I am not a footslave! I am no-one’s footslave; not the personal footslave of heel-popping, bare-legged Barbadian bank-clerk mistress Ilene on counter no. 1; nor the footslave of sheer-nylon-stockinged, chunky-shoed, Ghanaian African bank-clerk mistress Aminata on counter no. 2; nor the footslave of thick-nylon-stockinged, flat-shoed, Jamaican bank-clerk mistress Rochelle on counter no 3; nor the footslave of calf-booted, Pakistani bank-clerk mistress Nabeela on counter no. 4, she of the hidden bootsocks; nor even the footslave of anklebooted, grey-anklesock-revealing, blonde English-rose, bank-clerk mistress Karen on counter no. 5!

I’m just a common or garden gofer – fit only to dream of being a woman’s personal footslave, who would be laughed out of court shoe should he ever apply even for the relatively lowly position of the bank-teller mistresses’ official shoeshine-boy. I’m just not good enough, and there are too many forms to fill out. I’m no good at filling out forms – only fetching them!

And sometimes I can’t even get that right, it seems:

‘Slave! Come back here, bwoy! And bring I the whip! Tch!’

Once again, it’s the dulcet, Caribbean tones of bank-teller mistress Rochelle! I’m sure she asked for form 552, although I must admit I had been somewhat distracted at the time by miss Nabeela’s Pakistani, calf-length boots on the neighbouring counter!

The female whip will soon be teaching me to pay more attention to my betters’ verbal orders, whatever accent they are delivered in!

The End