Footslave Chronicles Volume 5

The fifth volume in a collection of essays chronicling the experiences of humble footslaves, both public and private.

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

10. A slip(per) of the tongue

9. Love Letters

8. The Maid’s Servant

7. Counselling Service

6. Kissing One’s Would-Be Whipper’s Feet

5. Infuriatingly Forgiven

4. Life on the Treadmill

3. The Know-It-All, Office Footslave

2. My Warm Place

1. The One Wearing The Tapered Trousers

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Chronicle no. 10 – A slip(per) of the tongue

27 year old, regular customer-mistress Paarika is a stunningly beautiful young woman of Tamil origins, with long, dark, hair and a bright and cheery smile. I’ve heard rumours to the effect that she has psychiatric problems, but I’ve always found her to be a very polite and pleasant mistress to deal with.

She has her own , unique sense of style – often wearing quite outlandish footwear beneath her ubiquitous, navy-blue, boot-cut, security-officer trouser hems. For example, bright orange, zip-up, knee-length boots with 5 inch stiletto heels – hardly practical for chasing after would-be thieves and shoplifters at the nearby shopping mall where she works, and most definitely not uniform-compliant! But she knows the bright orange, stiletto-heeled boots make her look good, and turn freemale heads wherever she goes, and so she wears them purely for reasons of her own, personal vanity.

And why not? If you’ve got it – flaunt it; and miss Paarika has definitely got it!

Today, however, as she cheerily approaches my sit-down, public shoelick stall, she appears to be wearing boots under her trouser hems which demonstrate the other extreme – broad-toed, flat-heeled, soft, black furry ‘ugg-style’ boots – all misshapen and wonky at the backs; and covered in ingrained street-dust.

I can see – as she settles herself down into the raised chair in front of which I am kneeling, and places her two feet on the respective, metal footrests directly at my face-level – why she would need to have such a dusty pair of furry, black boots licked, or more accurately sucked, clean. But it’s not like a style-conscious young lady such as miss Paarika to wear such a pair of flat-heeled, and it must be said rather unflattering, soft, furry boots. They make her dainty, Sri Lankan Tamil feet look enormous – like two, great shapeless blobs! No well-turned, booted ankles on view today!

She seems in her usual, cheery mood, however, as she delivers her orders down to me in her delightful, Tamil-girl accent:

‘Good morning, slave. Please to be licking all the dirt and dust off my thick, furry boots, isn’t it? And be being damned quick about it also, you ignorant fool, for I am already being late for my work, isn’t it?’

‘Good morning, mistress Paarika. Yes, mistress Paarika. This slave hears and obeys the mistress!’

I can tell, even though she has used fairly rude language, for a girl, and there is a hint of genuine concern about being late for work in her Sri Lankan Tamil voice, she is nevertheless more concerned to have her filthy, dusty, black Ugg-boots cleaned. And so I don’t feel my public-footslave back is in any immediate danger of being whipped by the public use whipping-stick resting by the side of the raised, shoelick chair.

Indeed, if my memory serves me well, miss Paarika has never seen fit to strike me in anger with the stick in all the months she has been using me, though she does occasionally use the stick to point to a particular area of her footwear which needs some extra sprucing up.

Today, however, her black, furry boots appear to be dusty all over, and so there is no need for her to highlight any particular areas on which my tongue should begin its humble cleaning work (she may need to point with the stick later, however, if I have inadvertently missed a bit!)

Without any further ado I start to lick – and soon realise that I would do better to suck; to try to keep the dust dry so that it can literally be sucked off the broad, rounded boots and into my mouth and throat. It will leave my mouth and throat feeling parched and dry – ticklish even, as the young Sri Lankan woman’s extracted bootdust starts to irritate the back of my gullet. But I don’t expect miss Paarika will be too concerned by that!

Not that she is an unfeeling or uncaring mistress. As I indicated earlier, I always get along fine with her, and she is one of those mistresses who is always happy to sit and chat with her public footslave whilst he is attending to her boots – even if she is, ostensibly, in a hurry!

Since I am curious about this particular pair of black Ugg-boots, which I have never seen her wearing before, I decide to politely enquire as to their provenance. In so doing, I lie about the boots’ aesthetic attractiveness on her dainty, Sri Lankan girl feet:

‘The mistress’s boots are very nice looking, mistress Paarika…suck...suck… but very different from the mistress’s usual, orange boots…suck…suck…if you would be so kind, mistress Paarika…suck...suck…Are they a new pair, mistress?… suck… suck…’

I know full well, of course, that they can’t possibly be new – not in this condition! If they were, she’d qualify for a refund!

They could be second hand, I suppose?

Delightful and charming mistress Paarika flicks back her long, black hair and laughs at me:

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t be so silly, slave! Do they look like they are being new? Ha! Ha! No – they are being my big sister’s boots; I am being borrowing them for the day, isn’t it?’

Ah – borrowed boots! I was nearly right!

‘Oh I see, mistress...suck…suck…For a minute there I thought maybe the mistress had inadvertently stepped outside in her slippers, mistress!… suck… suck…Ha! Ha!...suck…suck…’

It’s not often that a slave can have a laugh at the expense of his customer-mistress, but in mistress Paarika’s case I think I can get away with it!

Within seconds, I realise I can’t – as her tone immediately darkens:

‘Why are you being laughing at me, slave? Are you thinking that I am being some stupid object to be being made fun of, or something?’

I feel sick in the pit of my stomach! I’ve unintentionally upset the young, Tamil mistress with my unfunny joke. I must immediately seek to make amends:

‘Oh pray mistress Paarika…suck…suck…oh pity pray, oh pretty mistress…suck…suck… this dirty slave meant no offense by his foolish remark, mistress…suck…suck…suck…please don’t beat me mistress!… suck… suck…suck…suck…’

You will notice that I am sucking on Tamil-girl boot all the more vigorously now, in the desperate hope that my mouth can get me out of the footslave-hole my tongue has seemingly dug me into!

But there is no consoling a now uncharacteristically livid miss Paarika. She grabs the nearby whipping-stick:

‘For your kind information, slave, I am being wearing my sister’s soft boots because I am being spraining my ankle! I suppose you are thinking that is being funny, isn’t it you impertinent slave-boy?’

Although I’m a 50 year old man, and not a boy, I feel like a naughty boy right now – a rude, impudent boy who is about to be spanked by a female prefect, although since I am a male, adult slave the ‘spanking’ will actually mean a severe flogging across my bare back and shoulders with the terrifying, public-use cane!

I again gush forth my humble apologies to the sensitive, Sri Lankan-girl mistress for my insensitive remark:

‘Oh pray mistress Paarika…suck...suck… oh pray… suck…suck…suck… Truly this slave throws himself at your sweet, feminine mercy, mistress… suck… suck… suck…and apologises most profusely to the mistress…suck…suck…for his impertinent and inappropriate remark, mistress…suck…suck...suck…Truly this stupid slave was unaware of the mistress’s unfortunate ankle-sprain, miss Paarika …suck…suck… and begs for the mistress’s permission to try kissing it better, mistress…suck…suck...if you would be so kind and forgiving, most respected customer-mistress Paarika, mistress!…suck…suck…suck…’

It’s a long-shot, but I’m just hoping against hope that the offer of a respectful and penitent kiss to the mistress’s sprained, Ugg-boot- covered anklebone might elicit some deep-rooted feminine mercy in her. I will, however, need her explicit, young-womanly permission to kiss her bad ankle, since I don’t yet know which ankle it is. I must say, I hadn’t noticed any limp as she had earlier approached my shoelick-stall!

My plea for clemency backfires, however. My offer to kiss Sri Lankan girl, sore ankle only makes her even more angry! She whacks me hard several times in rapid succession across both cheeks with the long, thin whipping stick! Most unusual that - to be whipped across the face. 99.9% of customer mistresses prefer to punish a public footslave’s prone and vulnerable, bare back or shoulders. But then, as we’ve already established, miss Paarika is a one-off:

‘Whack…whack…whack…Stupid, ignorant slave!...whack...whack…Are you really thinking that I would be letting your impudent lips to be hurting my ankle even more? … whack...whack …whack…Do not be touching it with your dirty, slave mouth, imbecile … whack …whack…whack… just be gently sucking the dirt out of my boots; or my ‘slippers’ as you have so impudently described them!... whack…whack…whack…’

All that whacking across the face with the whipping-stick is making me feel quite dizzy – and my face is now very sore. I could bite off my tongue for my earlier, flippant remark about mistress Paarika’s borrowed boots resembling a pair of comfy, old slippers. I have clearly touched a nerve – a nerve which reveals her sensitivity to any perceived criticism of her fashion-footwear choices. It was just a slip of the tongue, directed towards a slip of a Sri Lankan girl – but I can assure you I shall never make the same mistake again!

Always respect the mistress’s chosen footwear – however bizarre or unflattering it may appear; it’s the very first lesson they teach you in footslave training-college!

I again beg for Tamil-girl mercy, and resume my sucking on the misshapen, flat heels of miss Paarika’s furious, black furry boots.

 

Chronicle no. 9 – Love Letters

23 year old Mongolian customer-mistress, miss Noyon, is the oriental light of my life! I so look forward to her visits to my public shoelick-stand. I think I can honestly say that I am besotted by the extreme beauty of her young-womanly, far-eastern features – including her cute, round face; her dark, piercing eyes; her jet-black, shoulder-length hair – as she towers above me in the seat of female power having her dirty, overseas-student-girl shoes attended to by my eager and willing, maleslave tongue.

Unfortunately for me, however, miss Noyon only has dark, sultry eyes for master Adrian – an office manager – whom she sees as an ideal partner since he is, by all false accounts, extremely wealthy. I myself think he is rather ordinary and unprepossessing – and just not good enough for her, being bald and somewhat scrawny in his white, middle-aged-male physique.

However, try telling that to the lovestruck miss Noyon! All she sees with her beautiful, dark Mongolian eyes is a rich and available free man of power – just as all she sees in me is a whip-marked, down-on-his-knees, powerless and weak footslave; someone to merely spruce up her footwear for the better man to see.

Talking of which, miss Noyon’s footwear is particularly nice today – a stylish pair of flat-heeled, black leather, pointy-toed shoes decorated with lots of little metal studs; very sharp-looking studs; very distinctive – rather like the delectable and exotic miss Noyon herself!

And those sexily studded, flat black shoes are set off a treat by the plain, black anklesocks she is wearing beneath the hems of her black, denim jeans. I am particularly admiring of the bobbling on the cotton of my young, Mongolian lady-customer’s black socks as I deftly dart my tongue in and around the metal studs on the top of her black leather shoes – for such bobbling indicates repeated wearing and washing of the socks, meaning that they must be well and truly saturated in her exotic, Mongolian-female foot-DNA. No amount of vigorous sock-washing can completely eliminate the essence of her oriental feet from the cotton sock-material – I know that much about forensic science!

She seems preoccupied with something as she sits on the public shoelick-throne above me having her tiny, metal-shoestuds lickshined. She appears to be writing something in a notebook. Although I am wondering what it is – it’s none of my business, really. My business is to divest her student shoes of all their street grime and dust, and to consume that dirt and dust so that it is no longer a threat to the cleanliness of her superior footwear.

But miss Noyon, though she utterly despises me, is nothing if not a gracious and kindly, young woman, and she politely asks my humble slave-opinion on her written work:

‘Ha! Ha! I writing love letter to master Adrian, slave! You tell me what you think in between lickshine my shoes. I not very good write English – you tell me any mistakes, or I have you whip! You understand, dirty slave?’

I do indeed understand! Whilst I am diligently tongueshining the metal studs on miss Noyon’s shoeleather she expects me to help her compose a love letter to another kind of stud – or at least to a weaselly, balding, middle-aged man who is a stud in her, money-clouded eyes! I am, in effect, being asked to proof-read a love letter written by the love of my life to one of my male rivals! How quaint – but then, a system of slavery such as exists here in the Gynarchy does oftentimes throw up such quaintly odd scenarios!

Of course, I must complete my humiliating, proof-reading task with good grace, since master Adrian, being a free man, is my better – and much more deserving of the delightful miss Noyon’s affections than I could ever hope to be! After all, he can offer her a good life since he has lots of money. He can even have sex with her – whereas I can only offer her diligently shined footwear and freshly-mouthwashed socks!

I therefore indicate my readiness to comply with miss Noyon’s wishes, and to proof read her love letter to another man:

‘Oh pray miss Noyon …lick…lick… if it pleases you miss Noyon …lick…lick… this slave would indeed be honoured to assist you with the composition of your intimate letter to the fine master-sir… lick…lick…if it would be so pleasing to you most respected mistress Noyon?…lick...lick...lick...’

‘Ha! Ha! You shut up and keep lick shoe while I read out letter, dirty footslave…’

‘Yes, mistress Noyon... lick…lick…’

She clears her throat, simultaneously causing the muscles in her right foot to flex inside the black cotton material in her sock, and begins to read out loud in her broken English and cute, Mongolian-girl accent, her heartfelt love letter to master Adrian sir:

‘Ahem!....

My dearest Adrian,

I want tell you all I feel about you.

You a real man to me. When we make love I feel like I in heaven. You have body like a god. You my god and my master!

When we apart, I feel so lonely. I hate when you away on business and I not see you for several days! But I like hear your voice on phone – chat to you for hours. When we finish talk I cry – want to hold you and kiss you; want you to hold me in strong arms.

You my one true love. I want be with you forever. Please say you have me. I make good, obedient wife for strong, handsome man like you.

You everything I ever want in a man!

Your lover,

Noy. xxx…

Well, slave, what you think? You think he like it? You think it make him want me for wife?’

She is such a sweet girl! And so beautiful! How could any man not want to be with her?

I tell her so:

‘Oh pray mistress... lick…lick…oh pray…truly it is a wonderful and touching letter to the master-sir, miss Noyon…lick...lick…and I am sure he will be most enamoured by it…lick…lick…and will surely propose marriage to you, young mistress…lick…lick…if you would be so kind mistress Noyon?… lick…lick…’

She seems encouraged by my response, judging by the movement in her feet and socks which virtually dance a jig of joy on the metal footrests in front of face.

Part of me is glad for her; the other part just wishes her Mongolian feet would stay still so that my tongue can make a start on shining her left shoe!

She sighs wistfully, and leans back in her comfortable chair above me:

‘Ha! Ha! What about you, slave? You ever been in love?’

Such a sweet and naïve question from an overseas, Mongolian mistress! I must remember that she did not grow up in the Gynarchy – but only moved here from Ulaanbaatar some two or three years ago, so she doesn’t yet fully understand the social restrictions of being a lowly, male slave here in the Gynarchy!

I must humbly enlighten her:

‘Oh pray mistress Noyon…lick…lick…if it pleases you mistress Noyon… lick…lick…lick…this dirty slave is not permitted to have a personal life, mistress Noyon…lick…lick…since he is just a dirty slave…lick…lick…if you would be so kind and understanding, miss Noyon?…lick…lick…’

She laughs out loud at me – even louder than she had done before:

‘Ha! Ha! I forget – you just a ugly, whipped slave! Ha! Ha! No woman find you attractive! Ha! Ha! You not like master Adrian – he free; he handsome; he rich! You a nothing! You a nobody! Ha! Ha! You just a dirty pig who lick and smell women shoe all day! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress Noyon…lick…lick…Thank you mistress Noyon…lick…lick… God bless you mistress Noyon…lick…lick…’

As she mocks me and compares me unfavourably to the love of her superior life – master Adrian sir – I silently contemplate the love letter I would like to compose myself to the supremely beautiful miss Noyon, and her Mongolian shoes and socks.

It would go something like this:

‘Oh pray mistress Noyon, if it pleases you mistress Noyon,

Truly this humble and dirty, public footslave is most enamoured by the mistress and her beautiful shoes and socks!

Oh pray, mistress, I kiss you in the sock, and humbly beseech you to implore the master Adrian to employ me as your personal footslave when you start your married life together with him.

Oh pray, sweet mistress, truly this slave will be a good footslave to you, and to your shoes and socks! He will tongueshine your dirty shoes and boots every day, and take care of your smelly socks by mouthwashing them in your superior presence, and that of the superior master-sir.

Oh pray mistress, this slave pledges that he will only ever look you in the sock, and yearns for nothing more than to be your dutiful footwear-servant, to be severely chastised by you should he ever be failing in his duty to foot-please the mistress.

Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! Pray overlook my animalistic tendencies and take me under your Outer-Mongolian foot, for this slave will serve at your feet until his dying breath, if it would be so pleasing to the most glorious and beauteous mistress Noyon, and to the most handsome and respected master-sir!

Your obedient foot-servant,

slave Patheticus Minimus (The Pig-Poet).’

Of course, such a letter would never be delivered to her, for it is an offence to send indecent material through the Gynarchy post – and what could be more indecent than a public footslave lusting after the feet and footwear of one of his superior customer-mistresses, especially one who is already spoken for by a real man?

It would never get past the female postal censors!

 

Chronicle no. 8 – The Maid’s Servant

I am somewhat confused.

The lady who has just purchased me at auction is a beautiful, dark-haired Oriental lady in her early to mid twenties – but she is dressed in a maid’s uniform consisting of a black and white pinafore; knee-length skirt; dark nylon stockings; and a pair of shiny black plastic, high-heeled shoes each with three narrow, buckle-straps running across the top of her dainty, nylon-clad feet.

Has she purchased me for herself? Or on behalf of her mistress?

As I lie at her feet in the back of the chauffeur-driven car I can only speculate, but as soon as we arrive at our destination all is revealed. The maiden bundles me out of the car and orders me in her thick, Oriental accent to follow her to heel into a barn where the male chauffeur forces me into a set of wooden, kneeling stocks before leaving me alone with his female-servant colleague.

I then watch the maid’s shiny, buckled and strapped, high-heeled shoes moving through the dust on the barnyard floor as she unhooks a multithonged, black leather whip from the wall and moves round the set of kneeling stocks to stand behind me – in the female whipping position!

I brace myself, and my naked back…

Twenty painful lashes later the uniformed, Oriental maidservant repositions herself to stand triumphantly, her shiny-high-heeled feet askance, in front of me. The knotted thongs of the terrible female-whip which have just painted my back ribbony red-raw are now dangling between her legs below the hem of her black cotton, knee-length maid’s skirt.

She catches her Oriental breath and laughs at me:

‘Ha! Ha! You like sting of Fang-Hua whip, slave? Ha! Ha! Pain nice and smart? Ha! Ha!’

It’s hard to know what to say in such circumstances when you are confronted with a brand new maid-mistress! Does she want me to like it? Or does she want me to grovel and plead for mercy?

Say the wrong thing, and I could be receiving a repeat prescription of 20 stinging, female lashes!

I decide to grovel towards her and pray for mercy, for most women, Oriental or otherwise, in my slave-experience like to hear a man plead for their sweet, feminine mercy when they have him in their absolute, female power:

‘Oh pray miss Fang-Hua…Oh pray sweet and beautiful, Oriental mistress…Pray have mercy on this poor slave’s back, mistress…Oh pray, mistress!...Oh the pain!...’

I made the right decision, for the Chinese maidservant laughs heartily and delightedly:

‘Ha! Ha! That right, slave – you pray miss Fang-Hua mercy! You in my power! You my slave! Madam buy you for me – say you do all my work! Ha! Ha! She say I too good for menial work, since I a woman! You just a man; you dirt; you filth! Ha! Ha! I work you hard! Make you clean all Madam dirty shoe; wash all Madam dirty socks; scrub all Madam dirty floors! Ha! Ha! I Madam maid, but you Madam scrubber! Ha! Ha! I whip you hard if you not work like a pig! You a dog! I your female master! Ha! Ha! You kiss master feet…’

And with that she lifts her shapely right leg up into the air until the dusty, pointed toe-end of her shiny black plastic, high-heeled, strappy shoe is probing my dry and parched, maleslave lips.

I can’t help but notice, even through my physical pain and mental curiosity as to what work pigs ever do, how her finest-denier, dark-nylon stocking creases and folds around her shapely, outstretched, Oriental-girl anklebone as she positions her now hovering foot in front of my face.

I kiss the toe of her shiny shoe – or, more accurately, suck off the barnyard dust. I have little choice in the matter since the maid’s pointy, black plastic shoe is now penetrating deep inside my mouth.

As I suck on Oriental-maidservant dusty, black shoeplastic I reassess my life. I appear to now be an Oriental maidservant’s personal slave – purchased for her by her beneficent, female employer, known only as ‘madam’, in order that she, the maid, can take things easier, and have a male slave do all her work. Miss Fang-Hua, it seems, is therefore to take on the new role of a uniformed slave-overseer, whilst I carry out all the menial household tasks, such as cleaning madam’s shoes, washing her socks; and scrubbing the floors on which she walks.

I am an Oriental maidservant’s servant - that’s if I’ve understood the situation correctly?

One thing I certainly do understand is the stinging, burning whip-pain that is still coursing through my bent-over back – and so I humbly suck on my female whipper’s dusty, cheap, plasticky shoesole, by way of demonstrating my respect for her whip-power, and my fervent, male desire to avoid any further cuts of the maid’s multithonged, female whip! I will kiss her dark nylon stockings also, if that’s what she wishes – anything to avoid yet more of the terrible, female pain she has just inflicted on me!

But miss Fang-Hua, it seems, does not require her dark nylon stockings to be worshipped at this early stage in our relationship of unequals – just her shoes, for she deftly withdraws her sucked-shiny right shoe-toe from my mouth only to replace it with the still dusty toe of her left shoe; dusty from her exertions with the whip!

I suck on it for all I’m worth – which seemingly isn’t all that much since I sold at auction for just 3 Fems earlier today!

Still, that’s well beyond a maid’s normal, weekly salary! I must, indeed, be a gift to her from her mistress – from this mysterious, as yet unnamed ‘madam’.

Maidservant Fang-Hua laughs at me again as she penetrates my mouth with her dirty shoe-toe. Again those wrinkled, nylon stockings around her shapely, young-womanly anklebones. Her Oriental skin gives her dark stockings a truly delightful hue! But the sexy nylons, it seems, are just to tease me – I can look but not touch whilst my mouth is full of maidservant shoe.

She pushes out my right cheek from inside my mouth with the sharp, pointy toe of her left shoe, and laughs at the sight of my consequently malformed face – as well she might:

‘Ha! Ha! You suck Oriental-girl dirty shoe! Ha! Ha! You a slave! You a whore! You look like shoe-sucking whore! Ha! Ha!’

Suddenly, she withdraws her left, plastic shoe from my mouth and stands to attention before me.

I hear another, slightly older, female voice laughing behind me – a distinctly black, female voice:

‘Hja! Hja! You carry on, Fang-Hua! Don’t you be stoppin’ none on my account! Hja! Hja! Reshape his face wit’ your shoe, an’ that, iffin’ you wants to, girl! Hja! Hja! God knows, it could do wit’ some plastic-shoe surgery, an’ that, for it’s a downright, pug-ugly male face, innit though? Hja! Hja!’

Miss Fang-Hua’s nyloned feet visibly relax in front of my kneeling frame, as a pair of smart, black leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboots beneath the hems of some equally smart, black cotton, bootcut trousers loom into view beside them.

The female boots and shoes turn towards one another as the two women embrace above me – passionately!

‘Ha! Ha! Thank you for slave-gift, madam. I take good care of him – I whip him every day! Give him many pain; make him many work! Ha! Ha!’

‘Hja! Hja! Cool! I doesn’t want you liftin’ a finger no more in this here household, an’ that – exceptin’ to whup this ugly drudge, of course! Hja! Hja! You has worked real hard, an’ that, for me and my family over these past few weeks, innit Fang-Hua? Now it’s time for you to take fings a bit easier, an’ that, which is why I is promotin’ you to slave-overseer, yeah? Hja! Hja! Does you like your new whup, an’ that, sweetie-pie?’

‘Oh yes, madam! Whip suit me well! Make nice red marks on slave dirty back!’

‘Hja! Hja! Yeah man – so I sees! Hja! Hja! An’ tell me this, though, is the batty-bwoy a good shoe-sucker, an’ that?’

‘Oh yes, madam! You want me make slave suck toe of madam dirty boot?’

‘Hja! Hja! Er…no; not yet, but I wouldn’t mind havin' him sniff my socks, an’ that, iffin’ that would be okay wit’ you, my dear? I mean, he’s your slave now, for you to manage as you sees fit, an’ that – but since he’s goin’ to have to mout’-wash all my dirty bootsocks from now on, an’ that, he might as well git the scent of my socks and feet as soon as possible, like we was discussin’ earlier, innit though?’

‘Oh yes, madam! It be an honour for my slave to sniff madam socks while she still wear them on her feet!’

The Chinese girl isn’t wrong – sniffing a beautiful, nouveau-riche, Jamaican woman’s socks on her feet, fresh out of her zip-up ankleboots? And all whilst kneeling in pain in the stocks with a freshly-whipped back courtesy of her uniformed Asian maidservant?

How could any self-disrespecting, male slave not be honoured by such humbling circumstances?!

The youngish black woman, whom I would estimate from the sound of her voice to be in her mid to late thirties, turns to face me and lifts the inner side of her right, black-leather-anklebooted foot – the side with the zipper – up to my kneeling and confined-in-wood face.

The Oriental maidservant, being the newly-appointed slave overseer, gives the orders:

‘Slave pull down madam boot-zip with teeth; take off madam ankleboot with mouth and sniff madam sweaty sock! Slave smell madam foot, and praise and bless madam for make slave smell stinky feet!’

Madam doesn’t seem in the least bit offended by her maid’s rather unflattering assumptions about the state of her stinky, warm feet inside her boots:

‘Hja! Hja! That’s right, Fang-Hua darling! Hja! Hja! You go girl! You tell him how it is, an’ that! Make him work hard for his whuppin’, an’ that! Hja! Hja!’

I do as I am told – as all male slaves must always do in the Gynarchy. The black woman’s stylish, chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboot unzips and comes off in my mouth to reveal a plain black, ankle-length, cotton bootsock – somewhat creased and folded on the attractive, Jamaican mistress’s foot, and showing signs of repeated wear and tear along the lower instep; a certain greying and thinning of the cheap, black cotton material. But still, a very nice female sock to look at!

And to smell – for it smells of gentle, Caribbean-female footsweat; not too overpowering, but nonetheless warm and spicy, particularly when the beautiful, black mistress wriggles her toes inside the black, cotton hose in order to release yet more of the cheesy stink up my now smothered-in-black-girl-sock nose!

I can see her purple-painted, big toenail peeking out from underneath the reinforced-cotton toe area of the sweet sock.

The two women – black mistress and Oriental maidservant – laugh heartily and in lovers’ unison at the sock-mesmerized, pasty-white footslave as he is forced to breath in the contaminated air emanating from his mistress’s mistress’s unremarkable, plain black bootsock. So this is the smell I shall have to get used to from now on – the warm smell of freshly-liberated black girl sock (along with Chinese-maidservant, dark-nylon stocking, presumably?).

My kneeling back is suddenly subjected to fresh, Oriental whip-pain:

Swish…Crack!

‘Slave sniff harder! Praise and bless madam and madam sock! Madam better than slave! Sock better than slave! You nothing but dirty sock-whore! You obey miss Fang-Hua and worship madam out loud!’

In all my black sock reverie I had totally forgotten my earlier orders to verbally praise and bless my maidservant’s employer, and to thank her for letting me sniff her stinky-socked feet!

The sting of the uniformed maidservant’s whip is a powerful reminder to me, however:

‘Aoow!...Oh pray black mistress…sniff…sniff…Oh pray Madam …sniff …sniff… God bless you black Madam for letting me sniff your sock… sniff…sniff… and inhale your wondrous foot-scent, Madam …sniff…sniff…Truly I am not worthy of your sock-stink, most merciful Madam!…sniff…sniff…’

More whipmarks from maid-mistress Fang-Hua:

Swish…Crack!

Swish…Crack!

‘Call yourself “whore”, slave! You a dirty sock-whore for women! You say it!’

To be perfectly honest, I feel more like a ‘whip-crack whore’ right now, so powerful is the sting in my back. But I obey my belligerent, Chinese whipmistress:

‘Aoow!....Oh pray mistress!...Oh mercy mistress-Madam!...I am a dirty sock-whore for women, mistress…sniff…sniff…’

Meanwhile her lottery-winning, black employer rubs the bobbled sole of her soon-to-be-holey, black cotton bootsock all over my face, depositing her fresh, Caribbean footsweat into my facial pores.

Her maidservant, and lesbian lover, laughs at me and mocks me:

‘Ha! Ha! Stinkface whore! Dirty stinkface whore! Your ugly face now stink of superior, black Madam sock!’

And with that Asia embraces the Caribbean once again, whilst downtrodden male-European slavehood pays continued homage at the feet of its lipstick-lesbian, female betters.

 

Chronicle no. 7 – Counselling Service

Sometimes, believe it or not, we public footservants can end up acting as quasi-counsellors and relationship advisors to our esteemed customer-mistresses – if they so wish us to be. Which is ironic, when you think about it, given that public footslaves are almost invariably virgins, and certainly celibate from the moment they take office!

Mind you, if a celibate priest can do it…?

It all depends on the wishes of the mistress, of course. Not all, by any means, give two figs about a dirty, street-footslave’s opinions on how they should lead their superior, female lives – but the gentler ones, the lonelier ones, they may wish to have someone at least listen to their personal dilemmas, and to bounce their female thoughts off.

Take my regular customer-mistress Tracey, for example – a very sweet, young woman in her mid twenties who is desperate for love. In a non-gynarchial society she probably wouldn’t say boo to a gander; such a sweet-natured and gregarious young woman!

But in the Gynarchy she struggles with the whole concept of female domination over the male. She can handle slaves like me easily enough, since we cannot answer back. But free males, who need to be taken in hand sometimes – that’s quite another matter! I mean, she can’t whip them or punish them – only scold them and try to make them feel bad if they have messed her around.

I truly think that she would actually rather not have all the power in her relationships, and that she would much prefer to live in a land of equality between the sexes, or, who knows, perhaps even in a male-dominated society where the man has to make all the moves and decisions!

Part of the fragile miss Tracey’s problem is that she is just so physically attractive to the opposite sex. Even a celibate, down-in-the-dirt footslave like me can attest to that. She is slim, but with a gorgeous figure; bright, piercing eyes and long, flowing, natural-blonde hair into which she has added some fetching, bright red highlights; and above all she smells nice – even when she is sitting on my public shoelick-stand in her sweaty trainers and gym-socks after working out at the local gym! She simply oozes sex-appeal, and gives off pheromones which the opposite sex – man or slave – cannot help but pick up on; that, and her sweet, young-womanly, emotional vulnerability.

Tonight as she stepped up onto the raised chair of my public shoelick-stand after her regular work-out at the gym, her feminine pheromones were all over the place, along with her female hormones! I could tell instantly that she was preoccupied with something, despite her usual, faux-cheery greeting to me:

‘Hi, slave! How’s it goin’?’

She’s just making polite conversation, of course, for she knows that in my case it’s goin’ nowhere! I have been chained up to this same public shoelick-stand for over 30 years now – since my enslavement at the age of 21 – and so I am old enough to be this sweet, young woman’s father!

But she’s a good sport, as well as being ultra-fit and good at sports, and so she is relatively happy to have me tongue-shine her hot and sweaty gym-sneakers of an evening, despite my elderliness.

I respond most politely and respectfully to her casual greeting, of course. It’s the law:

‘Oh pray, mistress Tracey, how nice to see you again, most blessed mistress Tracey! This slave is feeling fine, thank you for asking, young goddess-mistress Tracey.’

I may be a chained-up footslave, and therefore in a position of enforced humility and celibacy, but I still have urges, and so I’m ashamed to say that even whilst I am making polite conversation with the young and attractive, sweaty, blonde customer-mistress Tracey above me, I am footslavishly lusting after her moist, white sports socks and perspiration-lined sneakers.

Her white socks, in particular, do look incredibly hot and sweaty beneath the teasingly unzipped hems at the sides of her navy-blue and red-striped tracksuit bottoms. I can’t help noticing, for example, that the pure, white sock on her left ankle needs some urgent attention as it is twisted and in danger of slipping down at the back of her grimy, white-leather sneaker heel!

And what a delightful pair of grimy, white sneakers they are – grubby, white leather, lace-up, low-top sneakers with two red stripes down each side to match the two red stripes on her otherwise navy-blue, tracksuit bottoms. And even more significantly, the sneakers are showing evident signs of young-womanly foot wear and tear – scuffmarks and the like – partly due to the vigorous workouts mistress Tracey gives them whilst she is exercising in the gym; partly due to the abrasions inadvertently caused by my tongue, as I have been obliged to ‘lickshine’ this particular pair of red and white sneakers on many previous, happy occasions!

That’s precisely why I feel like I know customer-mistress Tracey so well – I know the taste of the outside of her sneakers intimately, and I’m sure that’s why, for her part, she feels she can confide in me, her fatherly-figure, down-on-his-knees, public sneaker-shiner!

I breathe in the deliciously warm and musty, post-gym-workout, leathery smell of sweet mistress Tracey’s rather sour sneakers, and bask in its slave-humbling glory!

Meanwhile customer-mistress Tracey maintains her public façade of being in good humour and total control of her life:

‘Ha! Ha! Just the usual, please, slave – a quick lick and a shine!’

‘Yes mistress Tracey. At once, most beautiful and respected goddess-mistress Tracey – and may this humble slave also suggest that he attend to your left sock, mistress, as it looks to be somewhat twisted and creased on the mistress’s pretty, left ankle, if you would be so kind to a humble footservant, mistress Tracey?’

I might sound like a ‘gentleman’ – offering to straighten a young damsel in distress’s neglected, white sports sock – but I do, of course, have an ulterior motive for getting my wicked hands on this young woman’s sock; I want to feel its dampened sweatiness, and to transfer some of that fresh, female footsweat onto my slave-fingers, so that I can smell and taste them later in private after the mistress has gone. As I said before, mistress Tracey exudes sex-appeal, even in her sweaty, white sports-socks, and, like any other red-blooded male, I want some of it!

But, being a slave, I can dress it up as a selfless and gallant act performed by a public footservant for the benefit of his superior customer-mistress!

Mistress Tracey giggles at my footslavish ingenuity; she’s not that naïve! But she nevertheless indulges me – just as she seems to indulge all the men in her life, free or otherwise:

‘Ha! Ha! Very well, slave – but make sure your dirty, slave fingers don’t touch my bare skin!’

There are boundaries which one must not cross with mistress Tracey – and touching her bare skin is one of them. She cannot abide having a dirty, subhuman, male slave such as myself touching her superior, feminine legskin – and I fully understand and respect her feelings in that regard. It’s only her sock I wish to touch!

‘Yes mistress Tracey. Of course not, mistress Tracey! God bless you goddess-mistress Tracey!’

She sniggers again, and twists her left, grubby-sneakered foot around to one side as it rests on its metal footrest in front of my kneeling face, in order to afford my eager hands easier access to her twisted, white anklesock.

Such a kind and considerate mistress! Like I said – an all round good sport!

My pulse is racing and my trembling-with-excitement fingers experience something akin to an electric shock as they make contact with the soft, white, precious, young-womanly sock. It must be mistress Tracey’s electrifying, female personality – which can light up a room – coursing through my male veins!

But I manage to maintain my composure, straighten the slipped-down sweatsock at the back of her left sneaker-heel, and then remember to thank mistress Tracey for letting me touch her humble foot garment in such an intimate way. Even though it was only the upper sock I got to fondle, my fingers do now feel somewhat sticky and damp with female foot and ankle perspiration!

Must have been a good work-out!

Having straightened young-blonde-woman, sweaty, white sock, I set about lickshining young-blonde-woman musty, white sneaker – beginning with the somewhat flaky-looking, rounded toe-area on her right sneaker.

It’s now that sweet customer-mistress Tracey decides to avail herself of my footslave-counselling services, as she towers above me whilst I kneel and attend to her sneakered feet:

‘Can I ask your advice about something, slave?’

Yes – you heard right! A mistress asking a slave for advice!

Risible, isn’t it?

But I can’t laugh – I must regard it as an order, not a request; for what a customer-mistress wants a customer-mistress gets, be it a sneaker-shining or some fatherly advice; or both:

‘Yes certainly, goddess-mistress Tracey…lick…lick…Please fire away, young mistress…lick...lick…’

It’s not every mistress I could get away with talking to so informally, in between licking their dirty sneakers!

‘Well, the thing is, I’ve fallen in love with this really cute older guy! He must be about your age! Ha! Ha! But he’s a free man – rich and handsome; not like you!..’

‘I see, mistress...lick…lick…’

‘..Well, the thing is, I’ve just discovered that I’m pregnant by him!’

There is a pregnant pause whilst I take in this earth-shattering revelation! Mistress Tracey! Pregnant! I would never have guessed – she isn’t showing at all; obviously she must only be in the very early stages of pregnancy!

‘Erm…Oh!...Erm…lick…lick…well, congratulations, mistress!’

Yes, congratulations on having had sexual intercourse, mistress – something I’ll never be in a position to do!

Somewhat embarrassedly I move my mouth over to her left sneaker, the one with the formerly twisted sock inside it.

‘Yeah…thanks…but, erm, the thing is that…well…he’s already married!’

Oh what tangled webs we weave – if we are free-agent human beings! Those of us who are slaves have no such complications in our humble, nondescript lives – regrettably!

‘Oh!...Oh, I see, mistress!...lick...lick...lick...lick…’

I lick her sneaker-toe on her left foot all the more vigorously now, for that’s what I do best – licking shoe – and I really don’t know what customer-mistress Tracey is expecting me to say!

I’m afraid she has to spell it out for me:

‘So, what do you think I should do, slave? Tell him about my pregnancy, and ask him to leave his wife? Or leave him happily married to this other woman?’

Oh please don’t ask me such searching questions, mistress Tracey! I’m just a raggedy-assed public footservant, qualified only to straighten young women’s anklesocks and lickshine their boots or sneakers – not to give out advice on extra-marital relationships! Now, if you wanted to know what I thought of the stitch-pattern in your socks; or how you could avoid excessive foot-odour after working out down the gym (not, I hasten to add, that I would want you to, mistress Tracey) – then, perhaps, I might be able to offer you some creditable advice! But advice on pregnancy? And infidelity? And adultery? I’m hardly best placed to be your agony uncle, mistress!

And yet, my not answering the customer-mistress’s question is not an option. I am a slave, and she is a mistress. By law, she can demand an answer.

I say the first thing which comes into my embarrassed head, which I fear sounds a bit lame:

‘Erm...I don’t know, mistress… lick...lick...lick…erm, maybe you should just follow your heart, mistress... lick...lick…lick... if you are in love with him, mistress?... lick...lick…lick..’

The irony is, of course, that I, secretly, am in love with regular customer-mistress Tracey – or, at least, with her sneakers and socks. But don’t tell anyone!

I brace myself for a possible cut of the public-use punishment stick which rests by the side of the shoelick-chair – for having uttered such lame and lacklustre advice! As I hinted earlier, miss Tracey may be kind-natured, but she is not averse to whipping male slave when it is called for!

But the stick never hits me on the bare shoulder blade. Instead, I seem to have actually hit the nail on the head – said exactly what my superior, young customer-mistress, who has already had much more experience of life than I have despite my seniority over her in terms of years, wanted to hear:

‘Yes – that’s exactly what I am thinking, slave…thanks for that! Ha! Ha! I’m glad I spoke to you about it!’

She now gaily inspects my tongue-work on her still grubby-white sneakers, and it is soon clear that I have passed muster on that aspect of my humble service towards her also! For she leaves me part of a half-eaten sandwich – a truly rare and considerate gift from a customer-mistress to a humble public foot-servant. Sloppy seconds, partially chewed and covered in her red lipstick, it may be, but it still beats the tasteless and unappetizing slave-gruel I normally have to live on; even though it’s a tuna sandwich, and I don’t really like tuna!

It’s the thought that counts – just as my thoughts have clearly counted tonight in helping mistress Tracey to make up her blonde-girl mind!

After she has gone to sort out her affairs, and I have forced the disgusting, half-eaten, female sandwich down my throat, I sniff and lick my feminine-footsweat-soiled fingers. I think that, tonight, I’ve earned that particular little footslave-privilege – don’t you?

 

Chronicle no. 6 – Kissing One’s Would-Be Whipper’s Feet

It’s the age-old conundrum of the about-to-be-whipped slave – to abandon any remaining dignity and kiss the feet of the one who is about to whip you, begging for mercy and compassion? Or to simply bear the brunt of the terrible whip on one’s naked back with slavish resignation and stoicism?

Not a difficult dilemma for a down-in-the-dirt footslave, however, since we already, by definition, live life on our hands and knees and have never had any slave-dignity to begin with!

And besides, when your would-be whipper is the tall and strong mistress Adrianna, you’d better kiss feet and grovel for mercy – unless you actually like the stinging, burning pain of the female whip?!

Which I don’t!

She is eagerly fingering her multithonged, punishment whip with the cruelly-beaded lashes above me as I throw myself on her feet – and very pretty feet they are too; large – in keeping with her height; but distinctly feminine and with well-turned ankles – in keeping with her great, female beauty. She is mixed race (Iranian/Italian), with dark, shoulder-length, braided hair. Her hair reminds me of her whip.

But it is her feet I must concentrate on if I wish to lessen the impending blows of her dreadful whip upon my kneeling back – her sweet, feminine, Persian-cum-Mediterranean feet clad in her modern, low-top, black leather sneakers with the two, pink Velcro-fastenings across the tops.

She calls them her ‘whipping sneakers’, as they give her feet good purchase on the ground whilst she is swinging the whip down onto my back, although she doesn’t just wear them to whip. In fact, she wears them oftentimes throughout the week, along with her black denim jeans, simply because she knows she looks super-cool in them; cool and youthful (my mistress is still in her twenties – but only just; the sneakers help her to maintain her youthful appearance!)

I actually quite like the strong, musty smell of her sneaker-leather as I repeatedly, and feverishly apply my penitent and supplicating lips to the somewhat flaky toes of her well-worn, beloved sneakers. The black sneaker-leather, even on the outsides, must be saturated in her foot DNA after all these years of wearing them, and whipping in them. For my mistress Adrianna is quick to whip, and therefore whips regularly and often – indeed, at the very slightest perceived insolence or disrespect on her put-upon, footslave’s part!

All I had done this time was to look at another young woman in the foot – albeit without my own mistress Adrianna’s permission. I will admit to the crime, but will also do anything to lessen the impact of the whip-punishment, including fervently kissing my mistress’s angry, sneakered feet – for I am a spineless, male coward when it comes to being on the receiving end of the female whip!

I therefore verbally beg and grovel for sweet, feminine, Iranian-Italian girl mercy as I kiss my mistress’s sneakers:

‘Oh pray mistress Adrianna…sneaker-kiss…sneaker-kiss…Oh pity pray!... sneaker-kiss…sneaker-kiss…Oh pray forgive this insolent and uncouth slave for his foot-indiscretions, sweet mistress …sneaker-kiss…sneaker-kiss…sneaker-kiss… and go easy on him with your righteous whip … sneaker-kiss ...sneaker-kiss…if you would be so kind to a worthless, dirty slave….sneaker-kiss ….sneaker-kiss…who throws himself on your abundant, young-womanly mercy, mistress… sneaker-kiss… sneaker-kiss…sneaker-kiss…Oh pray, mistress Adrianna!... sneaker-kiss… sneaker-kiss… sneaker-kiss…sneaker-kiss…Oh pity pray!…This slave throws himself on your pretty sneakers, mistress… sneaker-kiss… sneaker-kiss…Truly I am at your female mercy, and in your female power, sweet and kind goddess-mistress Adrianna!… sneaker-kiss… sneaker-kiss… sneaker-kiss…sneaker-kiss…’

You will note that I don’t pray to my goddess-mistress Adrianna – modern descendent of both the mighty Roman and Persian Empires – for complete absolution from the whip, but rather for her to ‘go easy’ on me with it. That’s because I have learnt, through bitter, personal, maleslave experience, that when she makes her mind up to whip – she will whip! But it is a question of degree – the number of strokes; that is what I am seeking to influence – to reduce my impending punishment from, maybe, 20 lashes to just twelve; if I am lucky!

My luck may indeed be in, for my mistress Adrianna is clearly in the mood to be grovelled and fawned to – she stretches forward her right, sneakered foot on the bare, wooden floorboards of the punishment-room floor beneath my face, and hitches up the dirty and frayed hem of her black denim jean-leg, thereby indicating her consent to my kissing her on the sock!

An unspoken invitation to kiss a young woman’s anklesock is always a good sign in such male-demeaning situations, for the feeling of my lips on her socked anklebone will be so much more intimate and soothing for her, and therefore more likely to elicit sweet feminine compassion from her.

She is wearing her nice, pale pink anklesocks today – pink to match the Velcro fastenings on her black sneakers (and her pink T shirt, I suppose!). I know they are nice, soft cotton lady-socks because I put them on her divine feet first thing this morning; it’s one of my daily footslave-duties – dressing my mistress Adrianna’s mixed-race feet. The only thing is that the pink socks are by now less smooth on her feet than they were when I gently applied them to her feet first thing this morning. There has, inevitably, been some sock-slippage inside her hot, leather sneakers due to normal everyday wear and tear on a busy, young woman’s sneakered feet.

But that’s alright – my slave lips can make an impact on creased and folded, girly-pink anklesock just as easily as they can on smooth, uncreased sock. In fact, I can use the creases to my advantage, and deliberately place my lips inside the folds and grooves of pink, cotton sock-material which are still touching my whip-fingering mistress’s, precious, bare footskin!

And speaking of her precious, pale brown, mixed-race footskin underneath her pink socks, I am lucky that she is wearing full-length anklesocks today, as opposed to her more usual, ultra-short sneaker-socks, for one thing my mistress Adrianna cannot abide is the feel of snivelling, maleslave lipskin on her soft, feminine footskin! I think it tickles her – but it certainly doesn’t tickle her fancy!

Only the vicious application of her multithonged and beaded, brown leather whip to my bare, white backskin does that!

Sock, however, I may kiss with abandonment – and would do well to do so, particularly when it is so graciously presented to me; and particularly on the cusp of a painful whipping!

I make it clear to my exotic mistress that I feel honoured to kiss her unremarkable, creased and twisted, pale pink anklesock whilst she is still wearing it inside her sneaker, as I hope this will ingratiate me further to her, and show her just what a pitiful, girlsock-kissing creature I really am:

‘Oh pray mistress…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…Oh pray!... sock-kiss …sock-kiss… sock-kiss… With your female permission, mistress Adrianna …sock-kiss…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…I kiss your pink anklesock, mistress… sock-kiss…sock-kiss… for truly I am honoured to be in its superior, feminine presence, mistress…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…as it graces your divine, female foot, most sweet and kind mistress Adrianna…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…who is slow to whip a disobedient and incompetent, male slave…sock-kiss…sock-kiss… and quick to show mercy and compassion to a humble and penitent, male slave, mistress….sock-kiss…sock-kiss... sock-kiss…sock-kiss’

That last part isn’t true, of course – not the bit about me being humble and penitent (for I genuinely am), but the bit about my mistress Adrianna being ‘slow to whip and quick to show mercy and compassion’! It’s a load of old bullshit, but I do find that a bit of female foot and sock flattery can go a long way in reducing a whipcount!

And what is true is my utter sense of sock and awe – of wonderment at being permitted to kiss such an intimate, feminine-pink garment on my mistress’s pink-and-black-sneakered foot, for the female sock feels warm to the lip; warm and soft. I only wish I could bury my face in the pink girlsock, like an ostrich buries its head in the sand. Perhaps then the threat of the whip would go away?

No chance! Mistress Adrianna doesn’t even wait for me to slavishly kiss her left sock, for she is anxious to whip and fired up even further by my pathetic, cringing obsequiousness and submissiveness.

That’s the problem, of course – you never know, as I hinted at before, whether you would do better to behave, for once, like a man, and take the sting of the female whip on one’s back with a sense of bravado and without complaint!

But alas and alack - we will never know! For I am incapable of behaving like a real man. I’m just a grovelling, weak-kneed, impotent footslave, begging in vain for mercy at a superior, young, mixed-race woman’s sexy, sneakered and socked feet!

 

Chronicle no. 5 – Infuriatingly Forgiven

My 28 year old, blonde-bimbo, trailer-trash mistress – miss Desiree – is angry!

How do I know she’s angry? Not because I can see the angry expression on her screwed-up-life face (I am not permitted to look up at her in the face!); not because she is shouting expletives and cussing and swearing (she is, actually, being perfectly calm and silent); but because, as I kneel, fearfully, beside her shiny-black-court-shoed feet, her right foot, which is crossed dominantly over the left, is tapping incessantly as it hovers in the air in front of my humble, footslave nose.

It is a foot which indicates young-womanly impatience; and frustration; and ire – not with me, I’m relieved to say, but with her live-in boyfriend master Delford sir, who has gone out and left her on her own again for the whole evening, and who is late coming home. She – we – fully expect him to arrive back at the trailer stone-drunk, having spent all their young-married-couple’s State Benefits on his regular, weekly, alcoholic binge.

And miss Desiree, understandably, is not best pleased – not least because she had been intending to spend the money on more fags for herself!

However, as she sits above me on the hard-backed, upright wooden chair, looking resplendent and trailer-trash-goddess-like in her tight-fitting, black cotton, ankle-length leggings and grubby, white blouse – and making the most of the one packet of cigarettes she has left – I cannot rest on my laurels (or even on my bare knees). For that impatiently tapping, court-shoed foot is perilously close to my footslave-face, and, even though I am not the cause of this superior, young blonde-ponytailed woman’s wrath, I sure as hell am in line to feel its effects, should my trailer-trash goddess-mistress finally snap and decide to take out her general anger against the selfish male of the species on me!

For that’s how a Gynarchic society works – the free man kicks the free woman (figuratively-speaking), and so the free woman kicks the male slave (literally speaking!). Or, at least, that’s the way things work in most Gynarchy households!

At least I’m not considered to be totally at the bottom of the food-chain, since my master and mistress kindly permit me to eat any dead cockroaches that I find lying around the trailer.

Goddess-mistress Desiree, it must be said, is such a slob around the trailer! No wonder it attracts cockroaches!

She is admittedly, quite pretty – albeit in a trailer-trashy sort of way – but she is not in the least bit concerned about personal hygiene, least of all the hygiene of her feet. Thus, whilst her black, patent leather, court shoes might look incongruously clean for a trailer-trash girl, on the insides of her shoes she is sweating like a pig! No socks, you see – not even a pair of those ‘no-show’, secret socks used by more refined, young ladies to line the inners of their shoes and absorb their naturally perspiring footsweat! Miss Desiree is properly barefoot inside her shoes – as evidenced by the occasional popping out of her right heel from the back of the shoe – a cracked and chapped, pink heel on an otherwise pasty-white, smoker’s foot, for she does not go in for pedicures, generally speaking!

She can’t afford to visit a chiropodist – on account of her neglectful boyfriend’s fondness for booze, and her own predilection for fags – and she certainly wouldn’t dream of letting me, her raggedly-assed, ‘batty-boy’ footslave (she picked up that particular epithet from master Delroy sir – along with her venereal disease, allegedly!) touch her bare feet with my dirty maleslave-fingers. I can look, but not touch, though she does, thankfully, require me to kiss her soft, bare feet from time to time. I say ‘thankfully’ because it’s the only direct contact I ever have with bare female flesh, and I’m extremely grateful for it – even if it is only sticky, sweaty, bare, female footflesh!

Not that I would exactly relish having to kiss her foot right now – it is liable to kick my eye out in its current agitated state! Best for me just to remain kneeling, silently and unobtrusively, beside it – and hope that my irritable, young mistress forgets I am here the more she ruminates on what she is going to say and do to her drunken man when he eventually returns home, legless and penniless!

Actually, I quite like it when my master and mistress fight, because my mistress always wins (she has a strong, right palm as I myself can attest to), and also because she invariably kicks off her shoes when tussling with her boyfriend, affording me an intriguing and intimate view of her unpainted, splayed toes as she digs her soft, bare white feet into the floor whilst wrestling her drunken, Caribbean boyfriend to the ground (like all young women in the Gynarchy she has had ‘premenstrual, personal safety training’, and can bring even a free man to his knees within seconds through a well-placed, feminine kneecap into the groin!)

It’s a similar story when the happy couple are engaged in sexual intercourse; I sometimes, if I’ve been good, get to kneel by the foot of the marital bed, with my head buried respectfully under the unwashed duvet, observing my mistress’s dainty, but sweaty, libidinous, bare feet as they intertwine with the master-sir’s big, ugly feet during their exciting, mutual climax!

That, incidentally, is why she sticks with master Delford sir through thick and thin, and won’t hear a word said against him on my humble part – because he satisfies her sexually; something I could never aspire to do – being a mere down-in-the-dirt, common footslave!

Perhaps if I could relieve her sexual tension – even with my mouth – blonde mistress Desiree’s right foot would even now not be so agitated as it swivels from side to side and up and down in the air, dragging my face with it as I pathetically attempt to focus on the concomitant bare-skin wrinkles on the side of her shapely foot and ankle above the shoeline – constantly-moving wrinkles which criss-cross her bright red coloured, prickly rose, ankle-tattoo on the outside of her prominent anklebone; a reminder, if one were needed, of her prickly character, and liability to lash out!

Suddenly she snaps an order down at me, in between gritted teeth:

‘Boy, go fetch me a glass of water!’

‘Yes mistress Desiree! At once, goddess-mistress Desiree!’

She calls me ‘boy’ partly because that’s what master Delford calls me, but also to emphasise my impotent and eunuch-like status within the trailer-trash household; only the drunkard man of the house – master Delford sir – is entitled to the epithet of ‘man’!

And, as you will also have noticed, miss Desiree doesn’t just use and abuse me as a personal footslave – I am her general dogsbody, fetching and carrying for her so that she doesn’t have to get up out of her chair to fix her own glass of water!

I could protest, of course, at this abuse of young-womanly power on her part – but, tell me straight, would you make a complaint in my position? I mean, disobeying a perfectly civil order from a superior mistress would be sure to lead to my having my face kicked in – first by those pretty, black patent leather court shoes, and then, in all probability, by the protective master-sir when he gets to hear about the slave’s rebelliousness (and once he has sobered up!)

I therefore drag myself away from her swivelling, tattooed anklebone and shuffle over on my hands and knees to the nearby trailer sink where I must reach up, get a glass tumbler, feel for the tap (because I am totally forbidden to look upwards in this trailer) and pour water into the receptacle.

Only – disaster strikes! The glass slips from my hands and shatters on the base of the sink!

Now I’m for it – this is just the excuse goddess-mistress Desiree has been looking for to let off some steam, and kick some ass!

She leaps up out of her chair and clip clops across the linoleum floor of the trailer in her low-heeled, black leather court shoes!

‘WHAT THE F**K’S GOIN’ ON, BOY? WHAT HAS YOU JUST DONE?’

I lower my face to her shiny black shoes and festoon them in penitent kisses:

‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Desiree…if it pleases you, goddess-mistress Desiree madam…this dirty, stupid, clumsy slave has just accidentally broken the glass tumbler, mistress!...Oh pray, mistress...It was an accident, mistress!...Pray have mercy on me, and forgive me mistress!’

‘FORGIVE YOU? FORGIVE YOU? HAH! … I’M GONNA F***IN’ DO YOU, BOY! YOU F***IN’ INCOMPETENT OAF!’

And with that the soon-to-be-scuffmarked, rounded toe of her right, court shoe – the same one I have just been kneeling beside and admiring in all its impatient glory for the past hour or so – finally gets to see some action, as it is quickly drawn back behind her and then swung forwards until the pointy toe-end makes an abrupt and painful connection with the bridge of my nose.

It kicks me several times on the same area of my nose – each angry, pent-up, female kick accompanied by a staccato rebuke:

‘F***IN’…KICK…LAZY…KICK…USELESS…KICK…DUMBASS-SLAVE!… KICK…KICK…KICK…’

My fully-deserved, impromptu punishment continues for some three or four minutes, before a tired and breathless mistress Desiree finally desists from kicking my face in (she’s really quite a fit girl, for a smoker, but anything strenuous does tend to leave her breathless after a few minutes; I too am quite fit, for my age (52), but am likewise left breathless – from the pain!)

Just at that moment the trailer door opens and in staggers a drunken master Delford sir. He laughs at the sight of my unprotected face lying broken and bruised on the floor, and at his breathless girlfriend standing over me in her black cotton leggings, red-rose tattoo, and shiny, black shoes, smouldering fag still resting between two fingers in her right hand:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s mah girl…hic…you give him what for, honey! Ha! Ha!...F***in’, good-for-nothin’, batty-bwoy loser!’ he proclaims, slumping himself down on the nearby, unmade bed.

You might think that, with her female adrenalin still flowing, goddess-mistress Desiree would now turn her righteous, female wrath and anger onto her long-awaited, drunken boyfriend – but, quite the opposite! Kicking my face in has made her feel horny, and ready for sex!

She climbs over on top of her alcohol-infused boyfriend on their rickety bed and starts to gently undress him:

‘Ha! Ha! What am I gonna do with you, honey-bunch?’ she purrs.

We both know what she’s going to do with him – she’s going to make love with him, if he can still manage it! And he probably will – for, even with 13 pints inside him, he’s more of a man than I’ll ever be, lying as I am on the trailer floor with my face all freshly bruised and battered by a mere slip of a blonde girl’s, angry, black leather, court shoes.

And, to add insult to injury, those self-same shoes are now ungraciously kicked off her feet behind her, and land with a thump on the floor in front of me, enveloping me in my blonde-bimbo mistress’s overpowering, sweaty, tattooed-foot smell – for, just as she hasn’t bothered to make up the bed since yesterday, nor has she bothered to bathe her feet!

At least the tart, vinegary smell helps to anaesthetise me from the throbbing pain in my face, as I breathe in the warm and moist aroma from the insides of her sweaty, punishing shoes whilst she enthusiastically makes love to the oftentimes infuriating man whom she has seemingly already forgiven for his failings, because, deep down, she really loves him.

Unlike me – the unforgivably infuriating footslave-failure, whom she rightfully despises!

My beaten head is not permitted underneath the duvet at my mistress Desiree’s unpedicured, lovemaking feet tonight! But then, the happy couple don’t even bother to get beneath their smelly, old duvet on this occasion; they unashamedly make love in front of me in the raw!

 

Chronicle no. 4 – Life on the Treadmill

I have been chained to the terrible, prison treadmill for over 35 years. I am now well into my sixties and would have retired several years ago were I a free man and not a prisoner-slave. But since I am serving a life sentence, and since there is no remission in the Gynarchy, I shall continue to work on the treadmill until the day I die.

I am awaiting my first prison-taskmistress of the day – hoping against hope that it will be a sweet and kind mistress, for having a relatively kind and gentle taskmistress at the start of my long 20 hour day of more or less constant toil on the treadmill can make all the difference to an elderly prisoner!

My prayers are answered as the door to my cell clanks open and I recognise the pretty feet of junior-taskmistress miss Leanne climbing up onto the mistress’s treadmill-seat in front of me.

It is often the junior taskmistresses who do the most unsociable shifts – including the early morning ones. It is only 4 o’clock in the morning outside – not that time has any meaning in my gloomy, windowless cell!

Miss Leanne herself will only work a 4 hour shift. She is then free for the rest of the day, so I think the younger ones don’t mind the unsociable hours so much. I suppose that junior taskmistresses like miss Leanne – whom I would estimate to be in her early to mid twenties – have got the young-womanly energy and stamina to start work at 04.00 A.M; finish at 08.00 A.M; go back to bed for a few hours; and then go out socialising with their free, unemployed boyfriends. Indeed, it wouldn’t surprise me if a pretty girl like miss Leanne has been out clubbing until just a few hours ago!

I, of course, haven’t been out of my cell in over 35 years.

I recognise miss Leanne, as I do all my prison-treadmill taskmistresses, from her feet and footwear as she sits above and in front of me, resting her pretty-young-woman feet on the footrest directly in front of my confined face. Like me, the wooden footrest is well worn with age.

Unlike most slaves in the Gynarchy, however, I am not actually kneeling in my superior, young taskmistress’s presence – for I have to be able to walk, even though all my walking efforts take me nowhere. I must have walked hundreds of thousands of miles in my bare feet over the 35 years of my incarceration on the prison treadmill – and where has it got me?

Nowhere.

But you don’t want to hear about me. You want to know about miss Leanne!

I’m afraid I don’t know very much about her. I can’t know all that much about any of my prison-taskmistresses since I am forbidden to speak with them. It is one of the stipulations of my lifetime-sentence that I must labour hard and in silence, and not communicate with any of my female betters and superiors. That’s because my original crime, all those years ago, was to be verbally rude to a mistress. I can’t remember exactly what I said to the young woman concerned, but whatever it was she was offended enough to report me to the Female Authorities for the crime of insolence – hence my lifelong sentence, handed down by the Female Court, of ‘hard labour in silence and in perpetuity.’

A steel bit between my teeth prevents me from talking anyway.

As I indicated before I recognise miss Leanne from her feet and footwear. In the year or so that she has been working here I have never known her to wear anything other than her flesh-coloured nylons and navy-blue, pointy-toed, single-strapped shoes with the chunky, one-inch heels at the back. Very stylish; very feminine; and very typical, young-womanly, workplace footwear!

She is, of course, in her prison-officer uniform consisting of a white blouse, navy-blue loupette, and navy-blue slacks – but the taskmistresses are allowed to wear whatever they like on their feet. That’s why I can easily identify them from their personal footwear styles and preferences.

What I don’t know is whether or not miss Leanne’s flesh-coloured nylons are stockings, tights or popsocks, for their length is hidden underneath her uniform, trouser-legs. I’m guessing knee-length popsocks, since the young lady has no need to wear full-length, nylon stockings under her thick and hard-wearing trousers.

What else can I tell you about miss Leanne? Not much – except that she is white, with pretty, shoulder-length, dark hair; is slightly portly, and perhaps getting portlier as the months go by (but then, as you will soon see, she is in a rather sedentary occupation!). She is also very quiet and unassuming; a rather shy girl, I would have said, and with a sweet and kind nature.

I only know the latter fact because she is not, unlike some of the other taskmistresses, a cruel and vindictive girl with the prison whip. Perhaps she feels sorry for me because of my advanced years, but she doesn’t whip me unnecessarily.

She will still whip me, of course, if I am slacking on the treadmill, or failing to please her with my efforts. But she won’t whip me just for the sheer-nylon-stockinged hell of it!

I say ‘whip’, but I am actually disciplined by means of a whippy cane which can be brought down rapidly across my bare, exposed shoulders by the treadmill-taskmistress as she sits above and in front of me. My bony shoulder-blades are now permanently raw, so it doesn’t take much of a blow to cause me considerable pain. Even a gentle tap with the cane is enough to instill greater efforts in me!

My bare feet too are shot to pieces after years of walking on the treadmill, but they are now pretty much numbed with pain.

Miss Leanne makes herself comfortable on the seat above me, and I get a nice, close-up view of her nylon-covered toe cleavage inside the pointy-toe area of her navy blue shoes. I particularly like the way that, on both her feet, the nylon material is stretched taut over the area of her pretty, if slightly plump, feet where her toes join the main body of her foot, for it means I can distinguish the individual stitches in the fine, nylon material of her flesh-coloured popsocks. The nylon popsocks are so well toned with the colour of her skin, I might not even realise that she was wearing nylons at all were it not for that slither of fine, nylon-material which is not directly touching the membranes of her soft toeflesh.

How I would love to kiss that particular, taut area of nylon, and feel my lips pressing the loose nylon down onto her soft, young-womanly toeskin!

But I am not permitted to touch my taskmistress’s socks, tights or nylons with my mouth, let alone their bare footflesh. They are too good for me. Prison etiquette demands that I pay my humble respects to my taskmistresses’ outer footwear only – to their shoes or boots, or even their sandals should they be wearing them on bare feet during the summer months.

I do not have to await an order from miss Leanne to kiss her shoes. It is a given that I will do so just as soon as she is settled into her chair, and, in fact, if I don’t kiss her shoes automatically after she sits down her whippy stick will soon remind me of my humble, footslave-prisoner duty!

I therefore kiss each pointy, navy-blue, leather toe in turn. Miss Leanne’s left shoe is, I notice, much more scuffmarked around the pointy-toe area than her right. It always is.

What I particularly like about kissing her shoes, however, is that, as my lips make humble and respectful contact with the pointy toe-area of each feminine shoe, my eyes are level with the single, thin blue, leather strap that crosses the crown of her pretty foot just below her shapely, young-womanly anklebone (for her ankles are still shapely despite the ever increasing fleshiness of her self-indulgent and indolent, white feet). I like the shoe-straps because they remind me that my taskmistress’s foot above the strap is higher than me; above me; better than me; and that I must therefore focus my humble attention on the area of her foot below that narrow shoe-strap.

It is a dividing line over which my prisoner-eyes must not cross, for I am being punished.

Miss Leanne likes to get me started on the treadmill by gently tapping me on the right shoulder with her stick and simply uttering the words:

‘Move, slave!’

Of course, as I said before, even a gentle tap on my permanently red-raw shoulders causes me considerable pain – but that’s not the point. She could make me begin by whipping me hard.

Many taskmistresses do!

I make a Herculean effort to get the treadmill started beneath my shot-through feet, since it is an almost unbearably heavy piece of machinery to have to move first thing in the early morning. But, like my elderly prisoner-bones, it slowly starts to creak and grind.

It is, of course entirely nugatory work – serving only to punish me by making me suffer. I don’t even have the luxury of crushing grain, like Samson! But that is what the Female Court, in its superior female wisdom, has decided I deserve – backbreaking, nugatory work.

Sweet and kind mistress Leanne watches me intently for a few moments to make sure I am putting all my effort into it, before getting out her book and starting to read. I think she is a very intelligent, young woman – and finds her job quite boring!

Who wouldn’t? I mean, neither of us is going anywhere despite all the energy I am expending on the heavy, wooden treadmill. We are both stuck here – mistress Leanne for the next 4 hours or so; I for the rest of my unnatural life.

As she concentrates on her book, I concentrate on her nylon-covered feet below her navy-blue shoe-straps. The movement of the treadmill is causing her feet to shake slightly, making it difficult to focus in on those delicate and ever so fine, individual, nylon stitches covering her toe-cleavage areas which I mentioned earlier. However, I am delighted to observe the way she subconsciously twists her feet inwards in a girlishly coy fashion as this causes her nylon stockings to crease and fold inside her navy-blue shoes in front of my very eyes.

Oh how I hunger and thirst for young-woman nylon stocking! It doesn’t matter to me that my next feeding time of prison slop will not be for another 20 hours – at the very end of my 20-hour-long working day. The merest brush of miss Leanne’s nylons against my parched and dry prisoner-lips would be enough to sate me!

But, sadly, it must remain a dream – for her nylons are so close to my mouth; and yet so far!

Speaking of food, miss Leanne curtly orders me to stop about half way through her 4 hour shift so that she can enjoy her breakfast consisting of a bacon roll and a flask of coffee. She needs me to temporarily stop work because the vibrations from the treadmill might otherwise upset her delicate, feminine stomach whilst she is eating.

I can smell the bacon roll and the warm coffee as she consumes her breakfast uncaringly above me, but all I can see are her flesh-coloured nylons and scuffmarked navy blue shoes. Her feet are resting flat on the footrest in front of my face once again. They are no longer coyly turned in towards one another whilst she eats, and so the creases in her nylon-covered feet are, sadly, all gone.

I can only hope they will come back later!

I take advantage of taskmistress Leanne’s breakfast-break to catch my breath. Unlike my taskmistresses, I’m not getting any younger, and I need to take advantage of every welcome break in my hard labour – however short.

Miss Leanne even hops down from the treadmill at one point and leaves the cell for a few minutes. Presumably she needs to answer a call of female nature. She should have gone before she came into work this morning!

When she climbs back up onto the treadmill I am acutely aware that I am now looking at the shoes and stockings of a superior young woman who has just relieved herself, and yet whose belly is now full of fresh, nourishing food and drink. Once again I must kiss her shoes, as I must do every time she takes up her seat anew in front of me. She is my female better, even if she has just been to the toilet.

She taps my bony, malnourished, red-raw shoulder-blade with her stick again and off we go! The ‘tap’ felt harder this time. She is more animated now, having just stocked up on energy by having her breakfast. That’s precisely why I am only fed at the end of each working day – so that I am lacking in energy as I push the wheel of the heavy, immobile treadmill with my raw and blistered feet. It makes my task all the harder, which is what the Female Prison authorities want.

I hear mistress Leanne licking her lips and picking her teeth as she removes some excess pieces of bacon from her pretty, feminine mouth, and flicks them carelessly down onto my dusty, cell floor, before she once again picks up her book.

Her next verbal, and physical, communication with me is about 3 hours into her shift, when she suddenly puts her book down and hits me quite hard across my grinding, left shoulder with her whipping stick:

‘Faster slave!’ she urges.

Miss Leanne is very astute. I had started to slack, mainly because her feet had once again been coyly twisted in towards one another and I had been attempting to count all the new, delicate little creases and folds in her tan-nylon stockings instead of concentrating on my work. The movement in her feet as she brings down the stinging prison-cane is a sharp reminder to me that I am not here to admire young-woman feet, but to work!

My gasp of pain in reaction to the stinging cut of the taskmistress’s cane is enough by way of an apology on my part for the kind and merciful mistress Leanne to relax back in her seat again, and resume reading her romantic novel (I’m assuming that’s what it is; I didn’t catch the title, but the cover picture is of a 17^th century woman swooning into the arms of a 17^th century cavalier. I wonder what miss Leanne thinks of my bald, round head beneath her feet?!).

She is now fully engrossed in her book again, and I hear nothing more from her until she orders me to stop walking at the end of her four hour shift. Only the constant grind of the heavy, wooden treadmill, and the occasional grunt and gasp of hard, physical effort on my part, break the silence in my cell – as they will continue to do throughout the long, working day, under the supervision of a succession of pretty taskmistresses.

I can only hope they will all be as sweet and kind – and as bored and disinterested – as junior-taskmistress miss Leanne!

 

Chronicle no. 3 – The Know-It-All, Office Footslave

My office footmistress, mistress Amelia, is deep in conversation above me with her Union Rep, the delectable miss Sravan, about the pros and cons of signing up to their employers’ new terms and conditions.

I am kneeling dutifully beside my office-mistress Amelia’s feet underneath her office desk, staring at and studying her ankleboots and socks as I am required to do by law, but with an eye also to the shoes and socks of her colleague and advisor, miss Sravan – for she is a truly beautiful, young, Indian woman whose footwear any whipped footslave like me would be honoured to be so near to!

Of course, the two young women are completely ignoring me as they discuss the important decisions they have to make above me – I’m just mistress Amelia’s raggedy-dumbassed office-footslave with bright, red whip-marks all over my back (my mistress is one of those office-mistresses who regularly whips her office-slave even if he has done nothing wrong – just to emphasise her female power and authority over him; as is her perfect right).

But if the two young women bothered to consult me about the new contracts of employment they are being asked to sign up to, I like to think I would be able to give them sound advice. After all, I used to be a fully qualified accountant before my enslavement to women for overstaying my male visa in the Gynarchy.

If my mistress Amelia were to seek my expert advice, I would very much counsel her to sign up to the new contract and take the package of remuneration on offer. At her age – 35 – she stands to gain from the incentive package of 1,000 Fems (approx US$ 2000) per year of service (10 years in total), and although she will be required to give up some of her flexibility under the new system of annualized hours which she will be required to sign up to, her salary should increase by some 5%, a decent pay rise in the current economic climate and at a time when most workers in the Gynarchy are experiencing a pay freeze (or even redundancy).

As far as miss Sravan is concerned, although she is quite junior compared to my mistress Amelia in terms of her age (23) and years of service (just 3), and therefore stands to gain less from the incentive package, I would strongly advise her to also sign up to the new package, if only to protect her job – though she too should gain from the 5% pay rise if she would be prepared to follow the more flexible working patterns proposed by her employers. I gather from the tone of her conversation with my mistress Amelia above me, however, that miss Sravan is deeply suspicious of the offer, and inclined to reject it, but that would not be my considered advice.

Not that my office-footmistress Amelia, or her Union Rep miss Sravan, are in the least bit interested in receiving any financial advice from me – they both despise me too much, and neither know, nor care, about what I did in my past life when I was still a free man. Indeed, I’m sure hell would freeze over before either of these superior, young women would consider taking financial advice from the mere, dirty footslave kneeling humbly beside their superior, young-womanly office feet!

I don’t think they would even be interested in hearing my opinions on my current area of study and expertise – their footwear.

But, for what it’s worth…

My mistress Amelia is wearing her favourite pair of familiar, black leather, block-heeled, zip-up ankleboots with the pink, inner linings, over an equally familiar pair of multicolour-spot-patterned, navy blue anklesocks beneath her navy blue, bootcut, office slacks. Miss Sravan is wearing plain, black cotton, bell-bottom slacks with shiny black, flat, slip-on shoes and plain, black anklesocks.

Both girls look the business, and, if truth be told, I am very much in awe of the two superior young women’s footwear surrounding my kneeling face.

If they were to ask my advice and thoughts on their footwear, I would advise my slim and svelte, red-headed, pasty-white-complexioned mistress Amelia accordingly:

‘I do very much respect and admire your boots and socks, mistress Amelia. I like the way your boots are well-worn and moulded to the contours of your feet and ankles; I like the various little creases in the matt-black, and in places scuffmarked, bootleather – creases which come and go in front of my face with your subliminal foot-movements as you flex your foot-muscles.

Those stubborn scuffmarks are, of course, a poor reflection on my tongue-shining ability, since I am your personal, office foot and boot servant, but I do try my humble best to lick them away every morning, mistress, even though I simultaneously sneakingly admire them – for they remind me that these are a well-worn and lived in pair of female boots, the outsides of which are street-soiled and battered, and the insides of which reek of your very, female essence!

I also like the contrast between the navy-blue of your bootcut trouser hems and socktops, and the matt-black of your ankleboots – particularly when I catch a glimpse of the pink inner lining of your boots every time you flex your boot in front of my face. Because of your current seated position at your desk, with your right leg crossed over your left, I can observe not only the top of your right boot and sock, but also your bare, smooth, flawless white ankleskin above the navy-blue, elasticated top of your cute anklesock.

But it is the spotty pattern on your socks which really grabs my undivided attention, for I am something of a mathematical genius, don’t you know? And I am therefore intrigued by your socks. I estimate, having studied this pair of socks in great detail over the past two years or so that I have been your personal, office-footslave, that each of these two socks contains about 10,000 individual cotton stitches, and I know for a fact that each navy-blue sock contains 9 different coloured, polka dot spots; 9 white spots; 9 red spots; 9 pink spots; 9 yellow spots; and 9 green spots. Now, that’s 45 spots on each sock, so if you were to make me kiss each and every coloured spot on both socks 1000 times (as a mark of respect for the 1,000 Fems you are due to receive for each year of service you have put in with your current employers) that would be a total of 90,000 respectful sock-kisses on my humble part to your superior, femsocked feet!

Of course, I would have to make sure my dirty, maleslave lips did not stray onto the surrounding, navy-blue sock material, otherwise you would doubtless make me start all over again, and rightly whip me for my spotty-sock-kissing incompetence!

Oh, I wish I could unzip your boots and kiss your socks 90,000 times right now, mistress Amelia, but I know you would be embarrassed by your sock-smell in front of your fellow-female, office workers, since it is already mid-afternoon and your socks have been stewing inside your boots since your home-footslave must have adoringly smoothed them onto your pretty, white feet first thing this morning. They may have been fresh on your feet back then, but they must surely be saturated in your daily footsweat-DNA by now, as evidenced by the noticeable sock-slippage and creasage on your right sock which I see is somewhat twisted inside your black leather ankleboot.

I can assure you, mistress Amelia, that if I were privileged to be your home-footslave as well as your office-footslave, I would rectify that sock-slippage and twisting just as soon as we got home tonight and I was granted your female permission to unzip your black leather ankleboots. I would then happily use my maleslave nose to straighten and smooth out your polka-dot bootsocks on both your feet, if you felt you could not abide the touch of my dirty maleslave-fingers on your precious socks (which would be totally understandable, mistress!)

In short, mistress Amelia, I truly admire you; your socks; and the boots that go with them. Thank you for wearing them in my humble presence today, goddess-mistress Amelia.’

And as for the divine and petitely-built, black-haired Indian girl, miss Sravan, if she were to ask for my expert slave-opinion on her less familiar footwear, I would respond as follows (using the humblest of humble slave-speak so as to please my mistress Amelia and not show her up in front of her Female-Union colleague):

‘Oh pray, mistress Sravan, if it pleases you goddess-mistress Sravan, this slave is truly admiring of your choice of shoe and sockwear today!

Your shiny, black patent leather, slip-on shoes reflect well on you, miss Sravan, enabling this humble footslave to see your pretty face in them as he respectfully tongueshines them further for you with his unworthy saliva.

And the contrast between the shiny black of your low-heeled shoes, and the matt black of your plain, black cotton anklesocks, is truly an awesome sight to behold, if it is so pleasing to you most respected mistress Sravan. Truly this slave is grateful to the young mistress for inflicting the sight of her shoes and socks upon him.

This slave is particularly enamoured by the plain stitching in the mistress’s black socks, and only wishes he could examine the no doubt reinforced stitching covering the sweet mistress’s toes and heels inside her shoes. Such an inestimable privilege would also grant the slave’s nose access to the inner aroma of the Indian mistress’s plain, black, office anklesocks, which would doubtless envelop him in a heady mix of her pungent inner shoeleather and warm, moist footair – air fit for a humble footslave to breathe!

I admire the bobbling on your socks, mistress, for it indicates that you have worn these socks many times before on your soft, Indian feet – a truly humbling thought for a pathetic footslave such as myself!

Oh pray mistress Sravan! Oh pray – pray let me kiss the very tops of your black anklesocks as a mark of my respect for your most beautiful, Indian feet and footwear. I shall, of course, avoid any lip contact with your bare flesh above your elasticated sock-tops, for my lips are most certainly not worthy to touch your naked, female skin, most kind and merciful miss Sravan. Whip me if I do not obey you, miss Sravan, and teach me ever greater respect for your shoes and socks, if it would be so pleasing to you most sweet, kind and clever miss Sravan. I am your humble foot-servant.’

But, of course, neither of these conversations will happen, since neither mistress is in the least bit interested in my opinions, either on their new contracts of employment, or on their boots, shoes and socks. I’m just an old, down-in-the-dirt, whipped, male criminal-slave, kneeling beneath the office desk at their superior, female feet.

What do I know?

 

Chronicle no. 2 – My Warm Place

It’s the place I call ‘my warm place’; the place where I feel safe and warm – like I am truly where I belong.

That place is lying face up on the living room floor beneath my mistress Whitney’s sweaty-socked feet whilst she relaxes in her armchair in front of the television, chewing gum. I am her human footrest, though since I am a submissive human I suppose I should describe myself as her sub-human footrest.

My mistress Whitney certainly thinks of me as sub-human, for she despises me with all her young heart and dirty socksoles. She is a very beautiful young, white woman of 21 – a trendy, second year, art-college student, with bright-red hair (dyed from black – her natural colour); nose, eye and ear piercings – including a fetching, decorative metal chain running between the respective piercings on her upper lip and right nostril; and always dressed sexily and casually in loose-fitting tops and baggy, khaki-coloured, combat-trousers.

On her feet she customarily wears her favourite pair of heavily buckled, calf-length, matt black leather, biker-style boots, with her baggy combat trousers tucked into the tops of them. But it is inside her boots that I find my pathetic, footslave solace, for it is there that she ferments her cheap, black and red patterned, cartoon anklesocks throughout the day – the socks now imperiously resting on my upturned face.

Her art-student socks certainly provide me with much to study and admire as they block everything else from my upwards view whilst they are covering my girlfootrest-face. The main body of the socks, including the soles, is black – thin, black cotton which shows up all the little specks of dust, and flecks of sock-lint, stuck to my punk-mistress’s dirty sock-soles (my mistress Whitney often wanders about the house in her cartoon-socked feet, so the bottoms of her socks pick up all manner of dust and debris, which sticks to the sweat).

Sometimes I even try counting the little flecks of sock-lint and the squashed dust-mites on her socks, for it is an honour to have my face covered in the detritus from her dusty, black socks.

But the black socks, though they are dusty, are far from being drab and colourless. As I have already indicated there is a fun, bright-red cartoon-character on the side of each black anklesock – a cartoon character which, admittedly, it is difficult for me to study from beneath her socks, but which I often get to admire at other times of the day – like, for example, when my mistress Whitney is having breakfast and I am dutifully kneeling by the sides of her cartoon-socked feet underneath the breakfast table.

In any case, to compensate for my inability to admire her sock cartoon-character from my humble, footrest vantage-point beneath her dirty and dusty socksoles, the clever, female sock-designers have made the reinforced toe and heel areas of my mistress Whitney’s otherwise black socks bright red to match the cartoon above, and so I will often amuse myself by counting as best I can the number of individual stitches in the respective, red toe and heel areas of her stinky, warm bootsocks.

And then, when my unthinking and immature, gum-chewing, student-girl mistress subconsciously flexes her socked toes downwards, I can see, and feel on my face, her bright purple-painted toenails prodding from within against the thinning and worn material of the toe-areas of her socks; reinforced red cotton it may be on the area covering her toes, but these are an oft-worn and favourite pair of my mistress Whitney’s bootsocks, and so the socks are inevitably beginning to show signs of wear and tear in all those areas subject to the greatest strain – the toes; the heels; and even the lower insteps, where the black cotton is beginning to fade and turn grey in places.

I also enjoy the feel of her black and red sock-creases on my face, as my punk-girl mistress subliminally flexes her soft foot-muscles whilst she masticates noisily on her flavoursome chewing-gum. Those creases soothe me, helping to rub her stale footsweat into my facial pores – where it belongs. Her superior, feminine footsweat enters my own, inferior, male, facial sweat-glands, via her funtime socks, and becomes an integral part of me, deep-dirtying my face with her very personal, footpore excretions (no wonder I suffer from footslave acne!).

Above all, however, I am overwhelmed by the sheer stink of her warm bootsocks. The air that I must breathe is constantly warm and humid, and filled with the stench of sweet, but stale, uncaring, young-womanly foot odour.

My mistress Whitney cares not that her feet and socks are stinking after a long, hard day at the Art College trapped inside her heavy, black leather biker-boots. She can’t smell them, thanks to the blockages to her nasal passages caused by her nose chain and piercing. And there is nobody else in her bedsit living room to be offended by the stench of her pongy, sweaty-socked feet – no-one apart from me, that is, and, as I’ve already explained, I don’t count since I’m merely a sub-human.

A submissive, human sock-sniffer lying pathetically underneath another, better human-being’s stinky-socked feet, but one who nonetheless feels completely at ease in his ‘warm place’; who is honoured to have his young, gum-chewing mistress’s stale socksweat deposited and rubbed into his odour-eater face; who shuns clean air in favour of girlsock-polluted air; who yearns for nothing more than to taste and to swallow the sweat-dampened dust particles from the soles of his punk mistress’s cheap cartoon-socks; who delights in the nickname of ‘Sockface’, as he is thereby forever identified with his mistress’s lowliest and least attractive items of underwear – her humble socks.

Believe me, if you are a submissive male slave, it is indeed a pleasingly warm place to be – warm, stinky and moist!

 

Chronicle no. 1 – The One Wearing The Tapered Trousers

My 22 year old mistress – mistress Parvin – is most definitely the one wearing the long trousers in our relationship. That’s because she is the mistress, and I’m just her raggedy-assed male slave, obliged under the Female Law to wear humiliating slave-shorts at all times.

My mistress Parvin is a very beautiful and feminine young woman – from the waist upwards; plump, buxom, bespectacled, with long, dark, curly-permed hair beneath her ubiquitous, beige-brown headscarf, and a delightfully swarthy complexion to match. I believe she is of Persian ethnicity, though she was born and brought up here in the Gynarchy.

Unfortunately for me, however, she is prone to wearing Persian-style trousers (loose-fitting at the top and tapered at the ankles) on the lower half of her exotic, Asian body, along with boring old, lace-up brogues and equally uninspiring, dark-coloured socks – never short, feminine skirts or dresses with sexy and domineering high-heels!

She isn’t gay, despite her fondness for wearing trousers and sensible footwear – far from it! My mistress has a voracious, heterosexual appetite, and has had many freemale, sexual partners during the short time of my foot-servitude to her – as is her perfect right being a free and easy, young, female student of philosophy living in the Glorious Gynarchy. She is entitled under the laws of the Gynarchy even to have several husbands at the same time should she so wish to – polyandry, they call it – as all men, free or slave, are deemed to exist purely for women’s pleasure.

I think she probably will get married – to several men – in due course!

I digress slightly, but, if you are interested the social hierarchy of the Gynarchy is as follows:

• Female
• Freemale
• Slavemale

I am, as you already know, in the bottom category – a third class citizen – but even freemales are liable to be used and abused by women, since they are mere second class citizens.

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that my intellectual, mistress Parvin lives only to please herself; she has taken many freemale lovers over the months and years of her university study, and her choice of footwear may be somewhat disappointing, masculine-looking, lace-up brogues and dark anklesocks, but she dresses her feet how she damn well pleases – not to entertain her raggedy-assed, personal footwear-slave!

Attracted to men though she is, my mistress Parvin has absolutely no natural, feminine affection for me, her male slave. She doesn’t see me – through her dark, horn-rimmed spectacles – as a member of the opposite sex as such, but rather as a sexless, sock-obsessed, sub-human being (which is not far off the mark, if truth be told!). She therefore, righteously, regards me with utter disdain and contempt – as a purely functional ‘thing’ which is only good for taking intimate care of her footwear (lickshining her flat shoes and mouthwashing her dirty socks), since I am incapable of satisfying her sexually.

Indeed, she is so contemptuous of me that she does not even permit me to speak – only to obey. The only time I am permitted to utter any sound is whilst I am being whipped, when she quite likes hearing my anguished moans of helpless, maleslave distress and pain.

Other than that I live permanently as her totally dumb footwear-slave – the silent servant of her flat, brogue shoes, and equally uninspiring socks.

She is not a particularly wealthy, young woman – being an impecunious philosophy student living on a female-student grant – and so she has only two pairs of flat, lace-up brogue shoes, one brown and one black. That is the sum total of her outer footwear! And they aren’t even traditional ‘Oxford Brogues’ with fancy hand-stitching all along the uppers – just plain, ordinary, cheap, brown and black leather imitation-brogues. And, as I said before, she always wears them with leg-hiding trousers and socks – plain, dark-coloured, loose-fitting slacks and plain, dark-coloured, tight-fitting socks beneath the tapered hems of those slacks; usually grey or black socks (my mistress Parvin is nothing if not predictable: she wears grey anklesocks with her brown slacks and brogues, and black anklesocks with her black slacks and brogues; so she is, at least, colour-coordinated, to some extent; some of the time!)

Oh what I would give for a bit of sweet femininity in her socks, for she could be such a beautiful and exotic-looking, young woman from beige-headscarf-covered head to purple-painted toenail if she only tried! A sharp dash of pink on her socks; or a fun, cartoon sock-logo on the side of her sock; perhaps even just a little black-lace bow on the elasticated top of one of her plain, black anklesocks!

But no, my upwardly exotic and buxom, Iranian mistress Parvin prefers her low-lying footwear to look plain and masculine, and so I am perpetually condemned to kneel and admire flat, lace-up, closed-in shoes and plain grey or black socks on her somewhat flabby, Persian-girl feet. Just about the only reminder to me of her sweet femininity is her soft, middle-eastern legskin above the stretched, elasticated tops of her ankle-high socks – visible mainly when she is seated at her college-library desk, or on the train going to and from college, or at the dinner table.

Not that I am permitted to focus in on her exotic, if slightly chubby, olive-skinned leg-flesh above her plain grey or black anklesocks; I am under strict instructions never to raise my eyeline above my curly-haired mistress’s drab-coloured shoes and socks, and to facilitate me in this my beige-headscarfed mistress Parvin has kindly fitted my bald-headed brain with an electronic concentrator-chip set to ‘shoes and socks’, which therefore delivers a sharp, electrical shock to my temples should it detect my rebellious mind wandering away from concentrating on my Iranian mistress’s deliberately unflattering and unfeminine footwear.

As I said before, my mistress is not gay; just grey – indeed, she is completely dour when it comes to how she treats her down-at-flat-heel, personal footslave. She is never warm towards me in the way that she is to her many, freemale, mainly Muslim menfriends; she is always bitterly cold and unloving towards me – even whilst she is warming my bare back with the embrace of her cold, leather whip!

My mistress Parvin likes to whip – I think whipping me is the only pleasure she ever gets out of me; hearing my moans.

And so, you find me, as per usual, kneeling beside my exotic, Persian mistress’s dull, masculine footwear underneath her dining-room table, just as I have previously been kneeling beside those same shoes and socks throughout the academic day beneath her college-library desk.

She is wearing her brown leather brogues and plain grey anklesocks today; just about the only exciting thing about the socks are the various little creases and folds that have developed in them during the course of the student day – creases and folds which the cruel concentrator-device is now obliging me to study and count, along with the individual stitches in each fold.

I am terribly hungry, whilst my mistress and the free man she happens to be entertaining this evening – a fellow, middle-eastern, college student – are selfishly stuffing their fat faces above me. That’s because my mistress has forgotten to feed me my meagre ration of daily slave-gruel again. She often forgets to feed me, but never herself…

Aoww! The concentrator device has just kicked in on my disobedient temples – reminding me not to think about my stomach, but my mistress’s socks! I do apologise, for I know that you too are more interested in the state of my mistress’s plain, grey anklesocks than the state of my empty stomach!

You will be gratified to know, therefore, that I shall be obliged to wimpishly sniff those discarded, grey, Muslim-girl socks, inside her discarded, brown leather brogues, later this evening whilst my half-exotic mistress is inevitably making love to the masculine, young man seated above me. I shall be obliged to kneel in the corner of the master-bedroom, surrounded by her discarded clothes and beige-brown headscarf, with my middle-aged nose and face dutifully buried in the open tops of my mistress’s sweat-moistened, brown brogue shoes containing her scrunched-up grey anklesocks, inhaling her residual, daily footsweat whilst listening to the sounds of her libidinous lovemaking with the free master-sir behind my humbly stooped back.

How I don’t envy him – having to satisfy a voracious, young, Iranian woman sexually! It’s so much easier just to be her humble shoe-shiner and sock-sniffer. The most intimate thing I shall have to do this evening is to put her brown, lace-up shoes and short, grey socks back onto her well-padded, Persian feet after she has finished making love with the real man in the room, and has finally gotten herself dressed up to go out again.

I must await her peremptory and arrogant, female signal as she sits aloofly on the edge of the bed – usually a sharp, double hand-clap – which indicates that I am being summoned forth on my hands and knees with her shoes and socks again. She will then ignore me whilst she enjoys a post-coital cigarette as I smooth the still sweaty and damp, plain grey anklesocks onto her freshly perspiring feet beneath her plain brown, tapered, Persian-style, trouser hems, and then lace up her still warm and moist, brown leather, brogues over those selfsame grey socks – ready for her to head out for yet another night of incongruous, headscarfed debauchery on the town with her latest, temporarily sated manfriend. For the night, like the progressive, young, Muslim couple above me, is still young – it’s only 22:00 hrs!

As I humbly kneel on the bedroom floor with my head bowed, and smooth the plain grey anklesocks onto my sexually prodigious, Persian mistress’s slightly fatty feet, I can see the indelible tank-tracks along her soft, dusky-skinned, upper ankleflesh where the elasticated tops of her socks must always be positioned. My mistress Parvin is very particular about how she wears her socks, and expects consistency of length in them from her ever-attentive sockslave, even though she cannot abide having me actually nosing or nuzzling her socks whilst she is still wearing them.

I think she’s actually quite ticklish!

I shall, however, be graciously permitted to accompany my newly-headscarfed mistress and her latest beau to heel when they do eventually head out for the evening – but only in the capacity of my mistress’s humble footwear-slave, crawling on my hands and knees behind her flat, brown leather, lace-up brogues and plain grey anklesocks at a respectable and discreet distance, hoping against hope for the occasional glimpse of soft, swarthy, Persian-girl ankleskin atop those sweaty, plain grey socks.

When we get to the nightclub, all around me will be the dancing and romancing legs and feet of beautiful young women, sexily clad in their ultra-short miniskirts and with high-heels and sparkly-pink or pure-white socks on their shapely, young-womanly anklebones – or perhaps even with equally alluring dark, fishnet stockings covering their long, voluptuous legs! But I must remain focussed on my own, modest mistress Parvin’s plain and relatively unfeminine footwear, for it is the chosen footwear-style of my potentially polyandrous, Persian footmistress, and I am her personal footslave. She owns me, her nondescript footslave, every bit as much as she owns her similarly dull shoes and socks.

The highlight of my day – philosophically sniffing her student-girl shoes and socks whilst she makes love with abandonment to an equally dissolute and lecherous free man – is already over; unless you count the fact that I shall be obliged to sleep tonight with my nominally-Muslim mistress’s discarded, dirty, grey anklesocks stuffed into my mouth for an overnight sweat-soaking, whilst I use her discarded brown leather brogues as my shoe-lacy pillows?