Footslave Fantasies Volume 1
The first volume in a collection of pure fantasies from footslaves – or are they?
VOLUME 1 CONTENTS (scroll down for fantasies in reverse numerical order)
10. Pint-Sized Power
9. The False Accuser
8. Drop & Collect
7. Watching Bootmud Dry
6. The Blooming, Young Black Woman
5. Flats vs Heels
4. Public-Footslave Assumptions
3. Following Her to Heel
2. Slave Sorry?
1. The Indian Gloater-Girl
……………………………………………………………………………
Fantasy no. 10 – Pint-Sized Power
She’s a pint-sized, slim, almost diminutive, customer-mistress. 20 year old miss Chandrabali, who must be all of 4 foot 11 inches tall and is of Bangladeshi origins – but is now a Gynarchy girl through and through – makes no secret of the fact that she visits my ‘stand-up’ public shoelick stand on a regular basis just so that she can, for a change, feel taller, stronger and better than someone else – that someone being me!
She doesn’t even go through the pretence of having me lickshine her ubiquitous, brown leather loafers in public; instead she merely requires me to kiss them, and to thereby big her up, though the term she actually uses is to ‘venerate’ her!
‘Be venerating me this instant by kissing me on the foot, dirty slave!’ is her normal command, delivered in a sweet, Bangladeshi accent, which she still hasn’t lost despite living in the Gynarchy for over 5 years now (I know all about her life history for she’s one of those girls who likes to tell me her affairs whilst I foot-worship her in full public view!)
Her Bangladeshi feet are so dainty inside her size 4 loafers. Just a plain, ordinary pair of brown leather, slip-on loafers, though decorated with fetching, little brown leather tassels on the rounded toe areas. To be honest, the tiny, whiplash-like tassels never bother my lips that much since she prefers me to kiss her on the matching, bare brown footflesh inside her musty-smelling shoes.
The venerable miss Chandrabali is some sort of nurse or home-help for the elderly, by which I mean free persons who are even older than me – I’m only in my late fifties, and in bondage, so her role is not to help me; if anything it’s to humiliate me!
Accordingly, she is invariably dressed in her attractive, agency nurse’s uniform consisting of a navy blue blouse with pale blue collar and cuffs and obligatory fob watch, and matching navy-blue trousers which are tapered at the ankles – almost a salwar kameez type of outfit, though she never wears a headscarf, and has happily informed me that she is, in fact, not a Bangladeshi Muslim, but from the minority Buddhist Faith in Bangladesh.
She has also proudly informed me she was born in Chittagong – a regional capital in south-eastern Bangladesh. As I said, her family emigrated to the Gynarchy some 5 years ago, and so she now admits to feeling very much like a native-born Gynarchy girl, albeit with a strong, Bangla accent!
I know, thanks to her disarming candour about her superior love-life, that she is very much in love with a young man of similar, Bangladeshi origins, who likewise belongs to her Buddhist faith – master Sanjoy sir. It sounds like a match truly made in heaven, though I have not had the honour of meeting him yet – the man who either is being, or soon shall be, sexually intimate with this highly attractive, young Bangladeshi woman with her black, bob-cut hair (something I shall never be, of course, because she couldn’t possibly fancy me – and not just because I am much too old for her, but primarily because of my lowly status as a mere public footslave!)
I also know, because she has unabashedly informed me of this, that she doesn’t like wearing socks or nylons inside her flats – even though her raw loafers often make her dainty, Bangladeshi feet sweat – precisely because she likes the feel of a humble, middle-aged, public footslave’s lips on her bare, brown, young-womanly footskin, though she is much too modest a young Buddhist woman to ever slip off her shoes and have me shrimp her bare, sticky, Bangladeshi-girl toes in public! The most I can ever hope for in that regard is a glimpse of her beautiful, bare toe cleavage.
On the other hand – to give her her mistressly due – she does not appear to be embarrassed or shy about imposing her sweet, feminine foot-stink upon me by removing her musty-smelling and sweat-saturated loafer-shoes in front of my kneeling face, presumably because I am the only unfortunate one who is ever close enough to her dainty, Bangladeshi feet to be able to smell them, and, as far as she is concerned, that’s what footslaves are for – to kiss and smell girls’ smelly feet and footwear in public, and make them feel good about themselves!
Recently however, and even more worryingly, she has taken to experimenting with the public-use whipping-stick which hangs over my head on my stand-up, public shoelick stand. She hasn’t actually beaten me with it yet, but has delighted in scaring me with some perilously close, practise strokes which swish just inches away from my prone and naked shoulderblades as I kneel in front of her, my lips fearfully ‘venerating’ her diminutive, outstretched, brown-loafered foot as she enjoys the, unusual for her, sensation of towering dominantly over another human-being – albeit a much lesser human-being!
She has also taken of late to threateningly fingering the thin, whippy, dark-brown-coloured, rattan stick above me whilst I am feverishly attending to her soft, sweaty feet, even using the stick to point to the particular soft, brown footpores she requires to be kissed.
Today, however, seems like it might be the dreaded day when she finally steps over the Rubicon and actually hits me with the stick, for she appears to be in an unusually tetchy mood this afternoon; perhaps it is her time of the month, or something, but the tone of her voice as she presents her right foot to me for kissing below her navy-blue-trousered, nurse’s uniform is quite evidently fractious, much more so than usual:
‘Dirty, f***wit of a slave, be kissing me on the foot this instant, and do not be ceasing in your veneration of my foot until I am telling you! Is that being clear, dirty slave?’
Swish…Swish…
Yes – those practise strokes with the swishy whipping-stick are definitely too close, and too venomous, for comfort! Plus I have never heard miss Chandrabali swear before! I begin to wonder if I have done something to upset her, but can’t for the life of me think of anything unusual that has happened since our last, routine ‘foot-venerating’ session which happened around about the same time yesterday afternoon!
However, none of that makes me any the less vulnerable to a pint-sized, customer-mistress’s capriciousness or cruelty, however sweet-natured she may normally be, and so, picking up on her bad temperedness, I humbly acknowledge her orders before promptly lowering my lips to the familiar, dark brown footpores of my venerable, young, Bangladeshi customer-mistress:
‘Yes miss Chandrabali. At once miss Chandrabali. Please don’t hurt me, miss Chandrabali!’
I threw that last one in just to make it clear that I am not, in any way, contesting her young-womanly power and authority over me, and that I am indeed at her mercy and the mercy of her stick; that I very much fear her as well as venerate her!
But it only seems to stoke her mystifying wrath even further, rather than placate it:
‘Why you are talking, slave? Why you are not just kissing me on the foot, like I am being ordering you to, gimp? Humph! You men, you are all being the same! Are you thinking you are being my better, or something, just because you are being male? Hah!’
Aha! So that’s it! I surmise that she must have had a barney with her betrothed, master Sanjoy sir, and fallen out of love with him – hopefully only temporarily, for I’m sure they must make a nice couple!
I wonder what he’s done to upset her?
Whatever it is, I must be ultra-cautious now in my dealings with miss Chandrabali and her cute, brown-leather-loafered feet – for a public footslave is like a vicarious, male whipping-boy for the female-offending, free male! Master Sanjoy sir, being a free citizen of the Gynarchy, albeit a second-class one as he is male, cannot be whipped! I, however, being of the maleslave class, can be – and miss Chandrabali is perfectly at liberty to take out her anger and frustration with the male of the species on my prone and vulnerable, bare back!
Foolishly – in my maleslave panic – I fail to actually listen to what miss Chandrabali has just said – and compound my error by verbally apologising to her:
‘Pray forgive this dirty footslave, mistress. This slave will obey the mistress and humbly kiss her foot.’
That’s it – the straw that broke the camel’s back; or, more accurately, the stick that nearly broke the footslave’s back, for miss Chandrabali now well and truly has the hump with me! Her whipping stick immediately comes crashing down upon my bare back with an almighty whack:
Swish…Crack!
‘Shut up, slave! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! … Be kissing my foot! Be kissing it this instant, you stupid and disobedient, dirty underling!’
Swish…Crack!
Swish…Crack!
Swish…Crack!
My God, this petite and delicate, young woman can fairly pack a surprisingly painful punch with the whipping stick! My back and shoulder blades are suddenly on fire, and no amount of reparative foot-kissing will put it out!
But kissing her soft, Bangladeshi footflesh inside her brown-leathery, musty-smelling loafers is now my only solace – her pungent, young-womanly, foot and shoe odour my only hope of a sweet anaesthetic against the pain!
For, one thing I do know, is that once a sweet, young woman has tasted the giving of pain, she will never look back! She will want more – and what a young woman wants in the Gynarchy, she gets!
I actually sob with the pain; miss Chandrabali has literally reduced me to tears with her stick! How strong and powerful she must feel, especially as a freeman passer-by utters words of masculine encouragement to her:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling! You give him what for! Ha! Ha! Beat the hell out of him, love!’
To my astonishment miss Chandrabali does not seem offended by the man’s interjection. She clearly doesn’t have it in for all men, as I had conjectured – just her unfaithful boyfriend and, by extension, his whipping-boy i.e. me!
She smiles winsomely at the free man, and takes him up on his manly advice:
Swish…Crack!
Swish…Crack!
Swish…CRACK!
‘Mercy mistress…kiss...kiss...Oh sweet feminine mercy mistress Chandrabali ...kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…Oh mercy, miss ...kiss…kiss...kiss…’
I crumple under her pint-sized power!
Fantasy no. 9 – The False Accuser
Being a public footslave, at the mercy of the female public, involves a number of routine, daily hazards – such as female stalkers, women who ‘adopt’ and then exploit a public footslave for their own ends, often engineering to purchase him as their own personal footslave; female gloaters, women who get their kicks out of tormenting and teasing a helpless, male footslave as he goes about his humble, daily business of tongueshining female shoes and boots on the street; and female false accusers, women who simply enjoy making false accusations of negligence or impudence against public footslaves in order to witness them being punished by the female authorities at their feet.
I have just fallen foul of one such false accuser. I know that because the moment I am led into the Female Court on my hands and knees and spot the feet and footwear of my accuser, I know that I have never seen her before in my life! I am, fundamentally, a good footslave – and I never forget a pretty foot; and I’ll swear that I have never met my accuser-mistress before!
She is very pretty, in a chubby sort of way – white; twenty-something; with shoulder-length, blonde, curly hair; wearing a dark top and black trousers with what appear to be thinly-stitched, black, cotton anklesocks inside a fetching pair of single-strapped, round-toed, black leather ballet-flats. The socks are quite creased, and the flats are in need of a good tongueshining – scuffmarked and dirty – which is why I know they have never been near my lips before; I would never leave such a pretty pair of fat-girl shoes in such an unkempt and scruffy condition!
And besides, I would never forget such a pretty shoe and sock combination!
The overweight wearer of the scruffy, black shoes and socks – my false accuser – is seated in the witness chair noisily eating some potato chips as I am led up to the feet of the good lady magistrate by the navy-blue uniformed, black ankle-booted court-usheress, a young, headscarfed, female police officer of Pakistani origins, who has already informed me, with great glee in her sweet, Pakistani voice, that she shall be presiding over my punishment once I have been sentenced.
The jubilant court-usheress is quite right to be confident of my summary conviction and punishment, since a male slave can never be found innocent when accused by a female; he either pleads ‘guilty’, and takes what’s coming to him under the Female Law; or he foolishly pleads ‘not guilty’, and takes what’s coming to him under the Female Law anyway – only 10 times worse, for he shall then receive additional punishment for the male crimes of accusing a superior female of lying, and consequent contempt of the Female Court!
The black leather, police uniform ankleboots leading me into the court are soon replaced in front of my kneeling face by the sandaled feet of the good lady magistrate who is also comfortably seated in the court-room, next to my female accuser, and to whom I have been led on a leash like a lamb to the slaughter!
I must say the good lady magistrate’s feet are quite informally attired for such an august place being in a pair of black, leather sandals consisting of a broad, leather strap between her big and second toes, and a totally flat, beige-coloured sole. They almost look like a pair of upmarket flip-flops, designed for the beach! I can even make out some ingrained toe-sweat stains on the upper surfaces of the sandal-soles.
Like my false accuser, the good lady magistrate is young, fat and white, and wearing black trousers, though with a crisp, white blouse. Her toes are correspondingly chubby and fat, and her toenails are suitably unpainted, though they look reasonably clean; little or no sign of any dark, feminine toejam beneath the rims.
Which is just as well since the Pakistani court-usheress who is now standing behind me orders me to kiss the feet of the good lady magistrate 20 times before the formal proceedings begin.
The good lady nonchalantly magistrate presents each fat, bare white foot for me to kiss in turn – 10 times on each foot – and, as I had already surmised from my visual inspection of her toenails, I can confirm that her feet aren’t at all sweaty and stinky; they are clean and washed, with just the inevitable, lingering aroma of permanent, residual footsweat to be found on any human-being’s feet, however clean (known amongst footslaves in the Gynarchy as ‘perma-footsweat’).
Feet duly respected, the good lady magistrate opens the kangaroo court proceedings by reading out the false charges against me in the presence of my, no doubt smugly smiling, accuser, whose scruffy, black ballet-flats and socks I can just make out in my peripheral vision as I kneel directly over the unpainted, bare toenails and sandals of the young, female judge:
‘Dirty slave, you are hereby accused of disrespecting the feet and footwear of miss Danielle in the course of your public duty by failing to properly lickshine her black, ballet-flat shoes and straighten her black socks. How do you plead, slave?’
‘Guilty, your honouress.’
As I’ve already explained, there is no point, in a Female Court, in a male footslave pleading his innocence. You will only make matters worse for yourself – and, besides, my young-woman, false accuser is wearing the evidence for the good lady magistrate to see – her scruffy and unkempt footwear!
And so I perjure myself, and plead guilty.
I can sense the soft, black leather ballet-flats and matching black, cotton anklesocks creasing with glee out of the corner of my eye as the informally dressed, good lady magistrate immediately passes down female sentence upon me:
‘Very well, slave. This is a serious offence which I intend to punish with the full rigours of the female law. You shall be taken from this courtroom directly to the punishment room by the court-usheress, where you will be secured prostrate on the ground, with your left cheek turned upwards. The woman whose footwear you have slighted, the delightful miss Danielle (she turns and smiles at my false accuser at this point), shall then be invited to sit over you with her right foot pressing down hard on your upturned cheek, and her left foot resting on the floor directly in front of your face.
Electrodes shall then be attached to your calf muscles in order to induce crippling cramps for 15 minutes at a time, with concomitant rest periods in between over a two hour period. During the rest periods you shall repeatedly kiss the side of your female accuser’s shoe as a demonstration of your contrition and humility.
At the conclusion of your punishment you shall then do what you earlier neglected to do; you shall dutifully lickshine miss Danielle’s shoes until they are sparkling, and properly straighten her socks inside her shoes.
Do I make myself clear, prisoner-slave in the dock?’
‘Yes, your honouress. Thank you, your honouress.’
No point in being surly about my sentencing. The good lady magistrate is only doing her job, and at least she has been a bit more inventive when it comes to the method of my punishment; it makes a change from the whip!
I suspect, actually, that she had already discussed my punishment with my false-accuser beforehand, and that the punishment of ‘cramping’ is down to miss Danielle. It’s an appropriate enough punishment when you think of what she had accused me of – effectively cramping her footwear style!
‘Court-usheress – take him down please!’ declares the smugly satisfied, good lady magistrate, as I kiss her fat, pasty-white, unpedicured – but disappointingly clean – feet one last time.
Then the heavy, chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots and blue, police-uniform trousers of the headscarfed, Pakistani-female court-usheress loom into view once more as I am ignominiously led, by a leash, on my hands and knees down a flight of stairs towards the punishment room.
………………………………………………………………………..
Once inside the bare punishment room the Pakistani-girl court-usheress wastes no time in securing me prostrate on my stomach to the floor, by means of the ankle, waist, wrist and neck shackles secured to the ground, and in attaching the dreaded, cramp-inducing electrodes to my bare calf-muscles on the backs of my legs.
She then places a chair next to my head, sits herself down upon it, and gleefully tests out my upturned, left cheek with the dusty sole of the heavy, black leather, zip-up, police-uniform ankleboot on her right foot – her left foot resting on the dusty, punishment-room floor directly in front of my face, as my accuser’s left ballet-flated foot soon will be.
The black leather, female police boot smells highly polished as it rests on the punishment room floor dust-stains next to my face!
‘Ha! Ha! Soon you will be experiencing many pain, slave, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! The pain of the cramps in your legs, isn’t it?’ she taunts.
I struggle to speak under the weight of her other dusty bootsole – even though she’s not a particularly big or heavy girl – unlike my accuser!
‘Yes, mistress-officer. Thank you, mistress-officer. As it pleases you mistress female-police usheress, madam.’
She laughs mockingly at me as she lifts her right, booted foot up off my face and no doubt admires the dirty treadmarks which I can now feel on the side of my upturned cheek. My only regret is that, despite the hem of her navy-blue trouser on her left leg riding up slightly in front of my prostrate face – thanks to her seated position – it doesn’t ride up high enough to reveal her upper ankleboot rim, and therefore any Pakistani-girl, police-uniform, female sock that may be within. Still, at least the creases in the dusty, black leather on the inner, zipper side of her ankleboot are a pleasing sight to behold this close up!
The pleasing-to-the-eye, Pakistani-girl, regulation bootleather promptly leaves my field of vision as she stands up on hearing the chubby, good lady magistrate, and my fat, female accuser, gingerly descending the stairs from the courtroom to the punishment room.
On entering the room the bare, sandaled feet of the good lady magistrate move over to the corner of the room, whilst the scruffy, black ballet-flats and creased, black anklesocks of my false accuser, the hitherto unknown miss Danielle, take up their seated position over my face.
She appears to have finished eating her large bag of potato chips now, as I hear her licking the salt off her fat fingers as she takes up her seat of power above me!
And I was right – even though the soles of miss Danielle’s ballet-flat shoes are much softer than those of the Pakistani police girl’s black leather, police-uniform ankleboots, her right foot weighs more heavily on the side of my upturned face because she is a bigger, much more stockily-built young woman!
I can forgive her that, however, given the ultra-pleasing sight that now rests in front of my prostrate eyes – that of the dust-stained, inner side of her black leather, single-strapped, left ballet-flat shoe, and its accompanying dusty, creased, black sock. This close up I can even see the fine, individual stitches in the creases of miss Danielle’s sock, along with some definite bobbling of the soft, cotton material, together with the numerous offending scuffmarks along the lower instep of her soft, plain black shoe.
The shoe leather smells decidedly musty.
The thought occurs to me that some male slave deserves to be punished for the unwholesome state of this sweet, young, blonde-curly-haired, fat woman’s footwear, and so it might as well be me – a vicarious, male slave being punished for the sins of his fellow footslaves. We have all let her down!
I feel very humble – and can’t wait to get my lips on the side of miss Danielle’s shoe; but then, who wouldn’t in my helpless position?
First, though, I must experience the terrible pain of the artificially induced cramps in my legs, as the good lady magistrate reminds me:
‘Usheress, begin with his left leg, please. 15 minutes of full-strength cramps!’
‘Yes madam!’ replies an enthusiastic, female-Pakistani voice.
The next thing I know I am in agony – the agony of having cramp in your left leg. You’ve all experienced it – though, hopefully, not in circumstances such as mine, where the cramp is cruelly induced by electrodes!
It’s all I can do to stop from screaming out. The shackles, thankfully, keep me from writhing about too much, and an audibly laughing miss Danielle helpfully keeps the dusty sole of her right, ballet-flated foot pressed down hard on my upturned cheek, so that my stupid, gormless, maleslave face is kept motionless, if etched in pain.
All I can do, in fact, is wince and bear it, and try to focus in on the scuffmarked side of miss Danielle’s left shoe. The creases in her black sock are, unfortunately, too high for me to concentrate on during such merciless pain!
‘Ha! Ha! Wow! This is so cool!’ exclaims my false accuser, miss Danielle, above me, enjoying my pain as I sweat beneath her shoes.
After what seems like an eternity – but must only have been 15 minutes – the electrodes are, temporarily, switched off, and the pain in my left, lower leg immediately subsides, leaving just a dull, residual ache.
‘Slave, you will now repeatedly kiss the side of miss Danielle’s shoe for 15 minutes during your respite from the pain,’ decrees the good lady magistrate.
‘Yes, your honouress. At once, your honouress.’
I don’t actually need any encouragement; the sweet, musty-smelling, black leather ballet-flat in front of my face is crying out to be kissed – as is the creased sock inside it. And so I pucker up my lips and start kissing – shoe and sock; shoe and sock – alternating humbly between the two.
The jubilant, blonde wearer of the shoe and sock laughs mockingly out loud at me from her comfortably-seated position high above me:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave. Show my footwear some respeck – like you should have done earlier when I was seated on your public shoelick-stand, yeah? You useless piece of filf!’
‘Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress. God bless you, blonde mistress Danielle!’
She’s still persisting with her false accusations against me, then? And why not? Is she not entitled to have a bit of fun – being a superior, chubby, young, blonde woman living in the Gynarchy? If this is how she gets her kicks, then so be it! I deserve all I get, for I am just a dirty, male slave.
And besides, the pain and humiliation I shall be having to endure over the next couple of hours or so shall be worth it for the honour of sprucing up my false accuser’s soft black leather, single-strapped, round-toed, neglected, ballet-flat shoes with my penitent tongue, and straightening her creased and bobbled socks with my penitent fingers, at the very end of my punishment session – as the good lady magistrate has sentenced me to do!
I might even get to kiss the besandaled, good lady magistrate’s podgy, bare toes again – and, who knows, even pay my maleslave, oral respects to the black leather, police-uniform boots of the modestly-headscarfed, Pakistani court-usheress who has so ably assisted with my punishment?
But first I must brace myself for yet more shocking pain…
Fantasy no. 8 - Drop & Collect
She was slightly on the plump side – but charming with it; mid twenties; blonde, shoulder-length hair framing her pretty, chubby-faced features; clearly dressed for work as she was in some sort of uniform consisting of a white blouse, a navy blue jacket, knee-length navy-blue skirt, and low-heeled navy blue, court shoes. A Gynarchy-Bank worker, or Gynarchy-Railways ticket clerk, I would have said.
She did have some sort of identifying name badge on her jacket lapel but, unfortunately, being on my hands and knees, and being a mere public shoelick, it would have been inappropriate for me to try to decipher the name on it by looking upwards at her superior, chubby, female personage.
‘Good morning, slave!’
She spoke with a soft, Polish accent which immediately put me at my ease. Being a public footslave can be nerve-wracking at the best of times as you never quite know the character of the customer-mistress you will be dealing with next - unless she’s a regular, of course - but this young woman, though not a regular, immediately put me at my footslave ease by her overall cheery air and good humour. She did not strike me as a sadist, or a ‘psycho-mistress’; they tend not to greet a slave with friendly words prior to using him to clean their public footwear!
‘Good morning, mistress,’ I politely replied.
She hitched up the hem of her modest, knee-length, corporate wear, navy-blue skirt as she raised her shapely, right ankle onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face. I say ‘shapely’ ankle, but it was, in fact, shapely in a podgy sort of way – not entirely shapeless like a cankle, but nonetheless fleshy and round. It was only now, due to the outstretched positioning of her foot directly below my kneeling and bowed face, that I could see she was wearing the finest denier, flesh-coloured, nylon tights on her Polish-girl feet and legs, as I could now observe the tiniest of wrinkles in the nylon material around her chubby, East-European anklebone.
I’m assuming they are tights – and not stockings – for I just can’t believe that such a demure and seemingly self-effacing, young woman like this would wear slutty stockings beneath her corporate skirt!
‘Shine my shoes for me please! They are really wery dirty, and I don’t wish to be wearing dirty shoes to work!’
Not only does she greet me; not only does she say ‘please’ when ordering me about; she even offers me an explanation as to why I need to attend with my humble slave-mouth to her superior, feminine footwear! A truly charming, young, East European lady, if ever there was one!
Actually, her court shoes don’t look too bad from where I’m kneeling; just a little street dust and grime along the insteps and at the backs of the heels. But then, it is only to be expected that a winsome, young, self-conscious Polish woman such as this would have wery high standards and be quite fastidious when it comes to her office footwear.
Besides, I’m not going to argue! To lickshine the corporate, navy-blue courts of such an agreeable, young lady will be an honour and a privilege for a down-in-the-dirt, public foot-servant such as myself:
‘Yes, mistress. At once, mistress. This slave hears and obeys the pretty mistress!’
My fawning and flirtatious lips then turn their attention to her shoeleather, my eyes admiring the flesh-warmed, minute, individual stitches in her Polish-skin-toned nylons even more closely as I lickshine her cold, outer footwear.
Again, in keeping with her helpful and non-confrontational attitude, the young Polish woman assists me by graciously twisting the side of her chubby, nylon-stockinged ankle to one side so that my footslave-mouth can gain easier access to the lower side of her shoe – the part that probably needs licking the most. The dirt soon comes off the young lady’s corporate, navy-blue shoe and into my receptacle mouth – where it belongs – and so within a few minutes she has replaced her right foot with her left on my wooden footblock:
‘And the other one, please!’
She’s not even calling me ‘slave’ any more! It’s almost like a polite request, rather than an order – though it is, of course, still demeaning for a middle-aged man to have to be on his hands and knees before a pretty, young woman who is a complete stranger to him, and to lick her shoes in public.
But I’m well used to that humbling scenario by now!
If anything the nylon material on her left ankle is even more wrinkled and creased than that on her right, so I make the most of it, admiring it in great detail – particularly when she again twists her pretty, but fleshy, anklebone around in order to afford my tongue greater access to the instep of her navy-blue, court shoe.
‘Can I ask you something, slave?’ she suddenly pipes up above me.
Again, I’m impressed by her eccentricity. Actually seeking permission to ask me – a slave – a question! Like I’m in any position to respond ‘no, you may not ask me a question, mistress!’ She must be a very recent arrival in the Gynarchy, or something? As yet unspoilt and uncorrupted by absolute female power!
It’s still rather sweet, though, don’t you think?
‘Yes of course, pretty mistress…lick…lick…if it pleases you, most sweet and kind mistress…lick...lick…’
Well, my husband was saying to me that I should be bringing all my dirty shoes and boots to you for cleaning, and that I could be leaving them here and collecting them later. Is this correct?’
Damn! She’s taken! She’s a married woman – although I’m not sure why I find that such a disturbing thought, given that no woman, not even one so charming as this, would ever dream of dating a slave!
And her lucky husband is actually quite knowledgeable and correct – I do, in common with many public shoelicks, offer a ‘drop and collect’ service to my regular customers. The thought of this endearing, young Polish woman becoming one such regular customer – not to mention the opportunity to smell the insides of her discarded boots and shoes – thrills me to the core, and I as good as tell her as much:
‘Oh pray, mistress…lick…lick…Oh pray! Truly this slave would be honoured, mistress…lick…lick…to offer such a humble service to the divine mistress... lick...lick…if you would be so kind to a lowly and unworthy public footslave, most beautiful mistress…’
I don’t need to mention that such shoecleaning in absentia services, as they are more formally known throughout the Gynarchy, are free of charge, since I am a publicly-owned footslave already paid for by the young woman through her taxes! She must, surely, know that much?!
She laughs out loud at me as I finish off her left shoe with my tongue, while she is still wearing it on her pretty, chubby foot:
‘Ha! Ha! And what about my dirty socks and tights, slave?’ she pouts. ‘Will you suck them clean also for me if I bring them to you? Some of them are wery dirty and sweaty, I’m afraid! Ha! Ha!’
My heart leaps:
‘Oh yes mistress…No problem, mistress!...Truly it would be an honour for this slave to suck the stale sweat out of your dirty hosiery, most beautiful and kind, young mistress-madam!’
She appears content – both by my respectful answers, and with the freshly tongueshined state of her corporate shoewear, for she suddenly withdraws her left foot from my face:
‘Ha! Ha! Wery well! I shall bring you my dirty shoes and socks to clean tomorrow! Ha! Ha! By the way, my name is Agniewska, slave. What is your name please?’
I find the innocently naive question somewhat embarrassing:
‘Erm…I’m afraid I don’t have a name, mistress Agniewska, if you will forgive me, mistress Agniewska; I’m just a slave, miss!’
She doesn’t appear to be offended by my failure to supply her with a slave-name:
‘Ha! Ha! Oh I am so sorry, slave! Ha! Ha! How stupid of me! Ha! Ha! I’ll tell you what, why don’t I give you a name now…erm… How about “pathetic cleaner of a Polish girl’s shoes and socks”?
I like it! It’s a bit unwieldy for a slave-nickname, but it does, pretty much, sum me up at this moment in time!
I humbly thank the superior, Polish mistress for her kindness in christening me:
‘Oh pray, mistress Agniewska! Oh thank you, mistress Agniewska! Truly this slave is gratified that you have named him thus!’
She chuckles to herself and turns on her navy-blue, court heels to walk away from me:
‘Ha! Ha! Bye for now, pathetic cleaner of a Polish girl’s shoes and socks! See you tomorrow, pathetic cleaner of a Polish girl’s shoes and socks – and I promise I won’t forget to bring all my dirty shoes and socks with me in a bag! Ha! Ha!’
And your tights, mistress – and your tights; the flesh-coloured tights you have on today! I would just love to suck the sweat out of those also, mistress Agniewska, is what I feel like calling out after her.
But I am much more respectful than that:
‘Good bye, mistress. Thank you, mistress. God bless you, mistress Agniewska,’ is all I actually say. For chirpy and bubbly young woman though she may be, I am still her slave; and she is not my friend!
Like she says – I’m nothing but her pathetic, soon-to-be, hopefully regular, shoe and sock cleaner!
Fantasy no. 7 – Watching Bootmud Dry
She looked very attractive – in a harsh, punkish sort of way; mid to late twenties; short and stocky; with bright-purple-dyed, shoulder-length hair; several nose piercings; and dressed in purple and black – a purple blouse; black cotton jacket; and black, leather trousers tucked into a rather intimidating pair of calf-length, purple, fully-laced-up, flat-heeled, reinforced-toed Doc Marten boots!
I would have had her down as a possible lesbian were it not for the fact that she had been passionately snogging a free man in front of me (her boyfriend, presumably) prior to taking her leave of him and then making her way onto my ‘sit-down’, public-shoelick stall, via a pool of mud. She quite deliberately stepped in the mud, with her purple Doc marten boots, prior to coming over to me – even smearing the wet mud all over the lower surfaces of her boots with a nearby stick. A stick which she then brought with her to the shoelick-stand, perhaps to beat me with?
I braced myself in case the unknown customer-mistress with the bright, purple hair had a black heart to match her black, leather trousers; the signs were certainly not good.
As soon as she had climbed up and settled into the raised shoelick-chair in front of which I was kneeling on the ground, she pointed to both her boots in turn with the still muddied end of the thick stick as they rested just inches from my downcast face on their respective, metal footrests. The customer-mistress gaily asked me if I liked the look of her boots – covered in mud as they were – and then politely enquired as to whether I was ‘gagging’ for them i.e. keen to get my public-footslave mouth onto them, and clean them up.
I, of course, indicated that I was indeed gagging for them, since I am programmed to like girlboot-mud, especially purple-girlboot mud, but she just laughed at me and explained that I was going to have to wait, since she wanted the wet, sticky mud to dry first on her boots before I could touch them with my tongue. She explained that, in her opinion – which, of course, is the only opinion which matters in such a situation, since she is the superior customer-mistress, and the customer-mistress is always right – having to lick dry, caked-on mud off a lady’s boots is so much more humiliating and degrading for a dirty slave than having to lick already wet and sticky mud, since it is rougher to the tongue, and requires much more diligent bootlicking to get the boots clean!
She further opined that watching her bootmud dry would, in any case, be good discipline for me, as the anticipation of what I was going to have to do would make me all the more eager to do a good job on her purple, DM boots!
She then laughed, sat back in her chair, set down the muddy stick and took out her cell phone for some serious texting, whilst I, in accordance with her female orders, studied her deliberately sullied, purple leather, lace-up, calf-length boots, diligently watching her bootmud dry.
Fortunately it was a bright and warm, sunny day, following the earlier thunderstorm which had created the mud patch she had just walked in, and so the mud on her boots was starting to dry almost instantly. I watched, mesmerized, as it turned lighter in hue as the sun’s rays got to work and literally baked the young woman’s bootmud onto her remarkable, purple leather boots.
They say that there is nothing more boring than watching paint dry – but I can assure you that, if you are an inveterate foot and boot slave like I am, watching a feisty, young woman’s bootmud dry is a truly fascinating experience! She was right – it did all add to my pathetic, footslavish sense of anticipation, and I even started to salivate at the sight of the increasingly dry mud on the surfaces of her flat-heeled, laced-up Doc marten boots.
My only distractions were the elasticated tops of her plain, black cotton calf-socks over her matching, black leather trousers, and particularly the somewhat twisted top of her left sock – not just because it followed the contours of her lower trouser-creases so intimately, but because a globule of mud had also become attached to her sock. The mistress had clearly been somewhat careless when applying the mud by means of her stick to the tops of her DM boots – or was it yet another deliberate act of cruelty on her sadistic part? Did she expect me to divest her cotton sock-top of its dried on mud by mouth also?
Oh the anticipation was killing me! Having to lickshine a pair of muddy, female boots is one thing – but mouthcleaning a muddy sock, whilst the young woman is still wearing it, well, that would be the ultimate prize for a humble footslave!
Meanwhile the purple-haired punkette-mistress – who was clearly in no hurry – silently continued to text her mates, concentrating on much higher things whilst I concentrated on her rapidly-drying, boot and sock mud; as befits a lowly, public footslave.
At last, after what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only some 20 minutes or so, she put down her phone, cocked her pretty, purple-framed head to one side, and examined her matching purple boots from on high. The purple-haired boot-goddess opined, as she twisted her heavy boots round and round at the ankles in front of my kneeling and expectant face, that they were now ‘done’, and graciously gave me her female permission to start lickshining them.
She made no mention of her left sock, and so I made a mental note to raise it as an issue later on, should the need arise. I’m quite sure the customer-mistress would not wish to walk away from me with a dried-in mudstain on her precious, black cotton bootsock!
But for now my footslave mouth has plenty of mud to be getting on with – girl’s bootmud. The irony is, of course, that my mere act of licking the dried-on mud only serves to moisten it again, and initially return it to its original, wet-mud state – so I’m not entirely convinced by the punk-mistress’s theory that caked on mud is necessarily harder to lick off a young woman’s boots than wet mud!
Then again, she must be right since she is female, and young women, as we have already intimated, have vastly superior brains to we male footslaves.
What isn’t in any doubt is that the trickiest part of my job is divesting her black bootlaces of their caked-on mud. I must suck each lace in turn, and the most difficult parts of the laces are not the loose ends, but the taught bits running through the eyelets of her purple leather Doc Martens. I struggle to get my tongue underneath the tightly stretched laces in order to remove the flakes of caked-on mud beneath them.
But I persevere because I enjoy my work, and take a foolish, footslavish pride in swallowing all the self-inflicted mud from this superior, young woman’s boots!
All the while the customer-mistress watches me at work with a smug expression on her pretty, nose-pierced face, though she does nothing to actually encourage or help me, like, for example, twisting her booted feet slightly to one side on the metal footrests so that my tongue might have easier access to her thick, black and brown, muddy bootsoles. I think she finds me disgusting, and despises me for licking her boots – hence can’t bring herself to assist me in my degrading task in any way!
Nor does she even say anything; she simply sits in silence having her boots licked clean by an inferior, public servant. This puts me in a quandary, for as her boots begin to look mudless and clean once more I still have the footslavish dilemma of what to do about her muddied sock. Do I raise it as an issue – and risk the wrath of her thick and heavy stick on my bare, exposed back and hunched-up shoulders? For she might not appreciate a public footslave’s feeble attempts to get his lips onto her intimate bootsock!
Or do I let the mud lie – on her sock – and swallow my professional pride? Allow a customer-mistress to walk away with sullied sock from my public bootlick-stand, just because I selfishly fear for the well-being of my back?
The answer is obvious to me – I have no choice in the matter; I must give the young woman the opportunity of having her sock cleaned by my mud-receptacle mouth!
I steal my footslavish nerves, take a deep breath (partly in order that I may smell her left boot and sock which are now directly in front of my face), and gush forth my humble request in the most obsequious and submissive of slavespeak that I can muster:
‘Oh pray mistress, if you will forgive this dirty slave his impudent intrusion superior, purple-haired mistress, but this slave has noticed a dried-in mudstain on the top of the mistress’s left sock, if you would be so kind mistress, and was wondering whether the mistress would require the slave to remove said stain from the surface of the mistress’s sock, so that her sock may be cleaned of its muddy defilement, if you would be so kind and understanding to a humble footslave, most glorious and respected, purple-haired, punk mistress-madam?’
She glares down at me like I am the dirt beneath her feet – which I am – and then casually twists her left foot to one side that she may observe for herself the hitherto unnoticed mudstain on the upper surface of her plain, black, calf-length bootsock.
She then delivers her considered, young-womanly response:
‘Nah, slave – you’re not worthy to touch my socks with your lips, seeing as how you’re just a dirty, public boot and shoelick! It’ll just have to wait ‘til I get home when my personal footslave can deal with it, yeah?’
And with that she nonchalantly climbs down from the raised bootlick-chair and leaves me without so much as a by-your-leave, my mouth still filled with the texture and taste of her purple-boot mud.
I am devastated at her rejection of my humble proposal to clean up her sock for her! My reputation shall be mud amongst my fellow public footslaves – allowing a young ladette to walk away from me with soiled sock on her lower leg! But what choice do I have in the matter?
And – looking on the bright side – at least she didn’t whip me for offering to suck clean her sock! She knows I only had her best interests at heart, and wasn’t merely trying to get my footslave-kicks out of touching a superior young woman’s outer bootsock with my mouth. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I realise what a wise decision the young punk-woman has made. My mudbath mouth may well have made the situation even worse on her pure, black sock – spreading the brown mud instead of removing it from the very fibres of her soft, female-cotton sock.
It would have been nice to try, though, if only to get my face even closer to her musty-smelling, black-leathery trousers!
Fantasy no. 6 – The Blooming, Young Black Woman
She looks absolutely blooming as she walks towards my stand-up, public shoelick-stall on the corner of the sink estate – a heavily pregnant, young African-Caribbean woman in her mid to late twenties, with shiny, straight, black, shoulder-length hair, and dressed in a sky-blue, knee-length maternity dress and navy-blue cardigan, neither of which succeed in concealing her bump.
She is accompanied by a black man – the presumed father of her soon-to-be offspring. I say that because they are walking hand in hand, and the man, quite rightly, looks very proud.
The closer they get to me, the lower I position my gaze, since I realise instantly I am not worthy to be in the presence of such black female fecundity and beauty. I therefore look only at the heavily pregnant, young black woman’s feet – fetchingly clad as they are in a pair of flat-heeled, beige-coloured, suede leather, desert-style, calf boots with thick, black laces and scrunched-up, navy-blue, thick cotton socks.
Footwear which is perhaps more practical, than flattering, on a pregnant black lady with swollen ankles, in that the boots and socks disguise the swelling, even if they do not constitute particularly feminine footwear!
She waddles up to my wooden footblock, still holding on to her ‘husband’s’ hand as he gallantly assists her with her balance as she raises her right, desert-booted foot onto the low-lying podium beneath my humbly-bowed face. I now have a close-up and intimate view of the pregnant, black woman’s beige-coloured, lace-up boot, and can see instantly how dirty and dusty the suede leather is – sullied by the streets of our fair Gynarchy which are pregnant with everyday dust and detritus.
I anticipate an order to divest the proffered, calf-length boot of its offending street-dust, but am soon disabused of my presumptuousness by a male voice speaking in a thick, Jamaican accent:
‘Yo, batty-bwoy…worship de shoe of my baby-mother! Kiss she on de foot an’ worship she, for she carryin’ my seed, yeah?’
I can sense the utter pride, tinged, perhaps, with an element of doubt, in the master-sir’s voice. I immediately seek to reassure him as to my readiness to worship his pregnant, female partner, who appears content, for the moment at any rate, to keep mum as to the provenance of her forthcoming offspring. Indeed, she seems content merely to chew gum, whilst the man does all the patois-talking for her.
‘Yes master-sir; at once master-sir. This impotent slave obeys the potent master-sir!’
It never does any harm, in such circumstances, to remind a fiercely proud master-sir of his masterful potency, as evidenced by his pregnant partner, in contrast to my lonely, footslavish impotence, and to thereby reassure him that I am no threat to his freemale masculinity! He has, after all, successfully impregnated a beautiful, young woman – or so we think; something we know for sure I shall never get to do – being a mere, public footslave!
I then immediately lower my lips to the musty-smelling, beige-coloured, suede leather of the pregnant black woman’s, rounded boot-toe and begin to repeatedly kiss it. I am specifically kissing it, and not licking it, because my orders are to worship the baby-mother’s shoe – not to lickshine it as I had first anticipated. There is a big difference, even though my lips still come into humble contact with a black girl’s boot-dust!
The happy couple start to laugh at me as I pay labial homage to the pregnant woman’s right boot-toe:
‘Hja! Hja! That right, batty-bwoy – spoon she boot! Hja! Hja! An’ praise an’ bless she while you is lappin’ at she foot, for she yoh better, batty-bwoy, yeah? You ain’t even fit look she in the sock, bwoy! Hja! Hja!’
The master-sir is very astute in his eloquent observations. I am acutely aware, whilst I am ‘spooning’ his girlfriend’s dusty, desert boot, that she is indeed my infinite better – being a fecund and fertile young, black woman who has clearly enjoyed sex, and is therefore better and more mature than me – a 50 year old, white, male virgin. Besides, she represents the pinnacle of superior womanhood – being an imminent life-giver and birth-goddess; whereas I am just a dead-end footslave.
Yes – the crowing, black master-sir is perfectly correct; his chewing-gum slapping baby-mother is clearly my better, and I am unworthy to even look her in the scrunched-up, navy-blue bootsock which towers above me in my peripheral field of vision whilst I pay oral homage to the dust-stained front end of her rounded boot-toe. On the master-sir’s helpful suggestion, I verbally praise and bless the black, heavily pregnant, goddess-mistress in between my worshipful kisses to her outstretched, desert-dusty boot-toe:
‘Oh pray, black mistress…kiss…kiss…if it pleases you black mistress… kiss… kiss… truly this dirty slave is honoured…kiss…kiss…to be in the presence of such female fecundity and beauty, mistress…kiss…kiss…and offers his wholehearted congratulations to both the fertile mistress-madam… kiss… kiss… and the potent master-sir…kiss…kiss…on their forthcoming happy event, mistress… kiss…kiss…if it pleases you both, superior master and mistress… kiss… kiss…kiss…’
The black goddess-mistress’s reaction to my eulogy is merely to switch feet beneath my face, still whilst chewing gum, so that her equally dusty and dirty left boot-toe is equally arrogantly presented to me for humble mouth-worship. I notice that her left, navy-blue bootsock is lower down her shimmering, black calf-muscle than her right one was, being considerably more twisted inside her beige-coloured desert-boot with its dusty, thick black laces.
The master-sir, however, appears angered by my lack of consideration for his heavily pregnant, common-law wife:
‘Yo, batty-bwoy…why is you makin’ my baby-mother stand while you worship she boots? Is you too high an’ mighty to let she sit down in front o’ you, or somefin’? Cain’t you see she pregnant, dumbass slave-bwoy? Is you lookin’ for a leatherin’, or somefin’, bwoy?’
I don’t know what to say to the Jamaican master-sir! Of course I am ashamed that such a heavily pregnant, superior young black woman is obliged to stand in front of me whilst having her pregnant boots worshipped – particularly since I have the ‘luxury’ of resting on my knees before her! But what can I do – mine is just a humble, suburban, shoelick-stall on the edge of a sink housing estate. There are no seating facilities!
I certainly don’t wish to receive a ‘leathering’, as I make clear to the insulted master-sir (still whilst repeatedly kissing his insulted baby-mother’s dusty, left boot-toe):
‘Oh pray master-sir…kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe…kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe…Oh pray!...kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe...kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe... Please don’t beat me master-sir…kiss black female, dusty boot-toe…kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe...Truly this slave is ashamed of his rudeness, master-sir…kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe…kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe…and apologises to the black master-sir and the black mistress-madam for the lack of facilities on his humble, public shoelick-stall, master-sir…kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe…kiss black-female, dusty boot-toe…’
The owner of the black-female, dusty boot-toe now speaks up the first time, in between masticating noisily on her chewing gum:
‘Whup him, Deron! He’s disrespectin’ me by makin’ me stand over him an’ that, innit though?’
‘Hja! Hja! Sho thing, honey! Hja! Hja! Stand back now so as I can give him a good, hard leatherin’! Hja! Hja!’ replies her claimed baby-father, master Deron, undoing the thick, brown leather belt around his muscular waist.
The pregnant, black woman then lazily removes her left, calf-length, laced-up, desert boot and navy-blue bootsock from my face in order to selflessly make room for her husband to discipline me for showing her such wanton disrespect at my seatless, public shoelick-stand. The soon-to-be propagator of life is now a propagator of pain as she enthusiastically urges her baby-father on to ever greater efforts across my prone and vulnerable, bare back with the buckle-end of his thick, leather waistbelt. Indeed, I think she would rather be wielding the strap herself, were it not for her unwieldy condition:
‘Hja! Hja! Go for it, honey! Whup him! Hja! Hja! Yeah man! Whup the dirty, disrespectful slave-bwoy! Hja! Hja! Wound him, though! Bruise him, though! I ain’t standin’ for his disrespec’ no more, though! Beat him, man! Yeah! Hja! Hja!’
I don’t know whether or not she is being intentionally ironic when she says she isn’t standing for my disrespect any more! All I do know is that she is my infinite better, and I fully deserve my punishment – for a blooming, young, black woman like this shouldn’t, by rights, have to stand in my presence just to have her dusty street-boots suitably kissed and worshipped!
With each blow of her husband’s leather belt across my bare, kneeling shoulders I cringe with caddish shame, as much as with slavish pain.
Fantasy no. 5 - Flats vs Heels
It’s the age-old, public footslave dilemma – which sort of shoes do you prefer serving on a lady-customer’s feet? Flats or heels?
I’ve thought about it a lot, and can see several advantages and disadvantages to both:
Flats – The Advantages:
1) There is, perhaps, no more beautiful sight than a pair of scruffy, flat sneakers or ballet-flats, worn with socks, resting expectantly on the wooden footblock beneath one’s humbly kneeling face. So many potential different colour combinations between shoe and sock, from bright and cheerful, ‘sporty’ combinations of sneakers and sport socks - such as pink sneakers with white, ‘no-show’ socks or yellow sneakers with red anklesocks - through to more formal darker-coloured combinations of flat footwear such as black, office ballet flats accompanied by short, plain black sneaker-socks.
Then again, a maverick, casually-dressed, young woman might choose to throw caution to the wind and combine the two differing, flat-footwear styles – for example, plain black office ballet-flats with multicoloured, cartoon-print socks designed specifically to mock and humiliate the public footslave – as was the case with the multicoloured, ‘fun’ socks I had to service the other day belonging to a blonde, spiky-haired, leather clad ‘punk’ girl with tartan leggings and black ballet-flats, whose ankle socks had a cartoon on each side of her shapely, socked anklebones depicting a male slave being mercilessly whipped by his mistress at the whipping post, and the words:
‘Respect the sock, or feel the whip, slave!’
emblazoned immediately below each of the cartoons in big, bold, red letters! The dominant punk-girl was informally warning me, through her socks, to respect her seemingly casual feet and footwear, or face the seriously painful consequences!
Needless to say, I did show her black ballet-flats and message-socks the utmost respect!
2) Flats indicate youth – and youth equals beauty and power, at least it very much does here in the Gynarchy. Nowadays flats seem to be the natural, day-to-day footwear-style of choice for most young women – be they university students; foreign tourists; office girls; or shop assistants. The feel comfortable in them, and are so confident of their innate, female superiority over the male that they don’t need to wear heels in order to make themselves look taller and more feminine. After all, even in flats the most petite-in-stature of young women seem to tower over their public-footslave charges – and, believe me, the lowly slave is fully conscious of his innate, male inferiority as he places his tongue and lips onto the instep of a haughty, young woman’s scruffy, flat shoe!
3) Flats collect more dirt on the soles. Of course they do – by definition a high heel will lift at least part of a lady’s shoesole up off the ground so that it is not in constant contact with the dirty pavement. Flats, on the other hand, be they smooth-soled ballet-flats or thick-treaded sneakers, are in constant contact with the dirt on the ground through which their esteemed owners are walking, and therefore accumulate street-dirt and detritus on the soles. And that is a good thing – for a public footslave; for it means a young lady has more frequent need of one’s services – in order to have her disgustingly dirty shoesoles diligently licked clean; and, of course, you will inevitably get to see and admire the many extra creases and folds in her socks as she graciously raises her pretty foot up onto its flat heel in order to afford your slave-tongue greater access to the very bottom of her shoe!
Flats – The Disadvantages:
1) Serving flats isn’t all good, however! They often smell more, since so many flats amount to a favoured pair of daily-use, young-womanly, scruffy, casual footwear; unkempt sneakers and scuffmarked ballet-flats – even those ballet-flats worn to work – are pretty much the norm nowadays. And even though it is rare for a public footslave to be ordered to remove a lady’s sneakers or ballet-flats and smell the insides of her socks, her warm and moist, socked-foot aroma can often be detected through the very canvas or leather fabric of her flat shoe, particularly if she is wearing sneakers with holes in them! Nice if you like the aroma of sweaty girlfeet; nasty if, like me, you could happily live without it!
2) They often taste bad – particularly musty, sweat-laden ballet-flats that may have been worn on many previous occasions without socks. Generally speaking, I have grown to like the taste of female shoe-leather, although it is very much an acquired taste! However I have to confess that I baulked at the bluemouldy taste of a young student-woman’s extremely scruffy and scuffmarked, navy-blue ballet-flats the other day, and I’m only talking about the outside of her flats! God only knows what the inner linings of her flats must have tasted like – even though the poor girl was wearing a nice pair of fresh, bright yellow sneaker-socks inside her mouldy old flats!
3) Flats can, if you’ll forgive the pun, look rather ‘unflattering’ on a more obese young woman’s fat ankles. A nice pair of heels might actually give a young woman with fat ankles some shape and style to her ankles and calves – raising them up and therefore tightening the tendons in her foot-muscles as they do so. I sometimes find that a pair of sneakers or ballet-flats worn on a fat mistress’s feet just look misshapen and squashed – though that, in itself, can be curiously appealing at times to the pathetic footslave-eye; it’s almost as if there is more sneaker or shoe to lick, though it is, of course, just an illusion!
Heels – The Advantages:
And so onto the advantages of their ‘arch’ rivals – high-heeled shoes!
1) Heels are, undoubtedly, a universally recognised symbol of female power, beauty and authority. They are instantly recognisable as exclusively feminine footwear (men generally don’t wear high-heels, unless they wish to be women!). And a spiked heel, in particular, is a symbol of all that is good and powerful in a woman – of her right to trample a man underfoot; to do him damage even, should she see fit!
2) A pair of heels, as I have already indicated earlier, will often augment a woman’s natural, physical beauty, accentuating her curves as they force her to adopt a more graceful posture, and raising her even higher out of the dirt in which we male slaves must live and grovel with our downcast, downtrodden faces. A high-heel on a lady’s foot is making a very definite statement to the down-in-the-dirt footslave:
‘My foot is higher than your dirty, male face, slave. You must look up to my foot, and admire it, for shod as it is in my high-heeled shoe it is clearly your female better, and I can spike you underfoot should I so wish, for you are nothing but a creeping, crawling bug beneath my feet, waiting to be crushed into the earth by my ultra-sharp heel!’
You have to admire a subliminal message like that!
3) A high-heel will often cause a lady-customer’s foot to wobble as it positions itself onto the wooden footblock beneath one’s face – and if she is wearing flesh-toned, finest-denier, nylon stockings with her shiny, high-heeled, black patent leather, court shoes, as one particular young, brunette woman was doing on my shoelick-stand just a few days ago, you will then have the inestimable honour of witnessing, close-up and personal, all the little creases and folds in her stockings as her foot gently steadies itself; creases and folds without which you might not even be able to tell that the young businesswoman customer-mistress was wearing nylons, so sheer and fine is the thin, nylon material covering her shapely, young-womanly leg and anklebone! And, of course, there is nothing to stop a young woman from wearing socks with her high-heeled shoes these days! So ‘high-heels’ doesn’t necessarily have to mean ‘nylons’, if, like me, you are partial to a bit of sexy girlsock!
Heels – The Disadvantages:
1) I have already mentioned the ‘clean sole’ syndrome of a high-heeled shoe. Not only that, but the thin, spiked heel – whilst it is eminently suckable, and it is always, of course, nice to have one’s mouth symbolically penetrated by a lady’s high-heeled shoe – is nevertheless often relatively clean, since only the lowest tip of the spiked heel is in constant contact with the dirty ground. And clean shoes always disappoint a public footslave – for we do grow accustomed to the taste of dirt. In fact, many of us rely on our lady-customers’ shoe-dirt to supplement our meagre diets of slave-gruel. It’s fine of course, if the lady has been walking in her heels through some muddy grass, for then there may well be a thick globule of wet mud and dead grass stuck to the very bottom of her heel! But nine times out of ten, at least in my humble experience, a pair of high-heels is a clean pair of heels!
2) Heels tend to be less scruffy than sneakers or ballet-flats – since they are more associated with formal wear; going out to a cocktail party; or to the theatre; or to a dinner date. I’m generalising, of course, but the point I’m trying to make is that, in my humble experience, heels tend to already be fairly well-kept and clean when they are presented for licking – and more often than not the lady just wants a quick lick and a polish for show. Fine, if her male dinner-date happens to be watching – for then the whole experience becomes much more humiliating for the enslaved male at the free man’s girlfriend’s feet, and particularly if the free man is personally directing the slave’s tongue-work on the lady’s patent leather, high-heeled shoes. But if the lady is on her own it is much less fulfilling for the slave – a mere ‘sprucing up’ of a young, smartly-dressed young woman’s, fashionable and already perfectly clean, high-heeled shoes for the benefit of some unknown, and in absentia, free man. Yes, it’s much better if the free man can be present to witness the degrading task you are performing on his female partner’s footwear on his manly behalf (or, even better, at his macho behest!)
But how often does that happen? Not a lot!
3) Heels, if worn regularly, can distort and even injure a young woman’s feet. They are traditionally worn to please free men, who like a ‘nice bit of skirt in a high-heel’ – but we footslaves would be mortified to think that our superior customer-mistresses were suffering on our behalf! And besides, no footslave worth his salt would take any pleasure in servicing a young woman’s bunions or blisters. At the end of the day we slaves exist for the comfort and protection of our ladies’ feet, and the well-being of the mistress and her humblest body parts must be of paramount importance to us.
Conclusions:
That’s why, on the whole, I personally prefer to serve a young woman who is wearing flats. I know that the only discomfort being experienced is by me – as I am forced to attend with my mouth to her scruffy, smelly, casual footwear whilst the customer-mistress herself is standing in perfect foot-comfort.
At the end of the day, though, it’s none of my damn business what type of footwear a superior customer-mistress chooses to wear! I’m just a slave, and must respect the chosen footwear of my mistress whatever her footwear preferences.
And by the way – all the above arguments are almost completely reversed when it comes to a lady’s boots! Nothing beats a spike-heeled or block-heeled boot!
Curious that!
Fantasy no. 4 – Public-Footslave Assumptions
A public shoelick such as myself is, technically and legally, never off duty, and so I can be approached by any mistress, wearing any type of footwear, at any time of the day or night.
If I am asleep, she is perfectly entitled to wake me up – by kicking me in the face!
Early this morning – at 4 A.M – I was legitimately awoken by a kick to the face from a Korean tourist-girl. And it was an almighty kick – for, although she was your typical, slightly-built and petite in stature, young, dark-haired, oriental woman – she was wearing a pair of oversized, white and blue coloured, platform sneakers.
I have no doubt that she likes wearing them because they raise her up and help her to stand tall and proud above the likes of me – a cringing, kneeling, public footslave. And such platform sneakers also beautify her petite, oriental feet, of course – making them look and feel much stronger and mightier than they actually are (as my poor, bruised face can now testify!).
But, cruel or not, I very much appreciate such stylish, young-womanly sneakers for a number of reasons:
1) They give me plenty of rubber sole and canvas upper to lick on the superior, young woman’s shoe; therefore my footslave-tongue can really go to town, with long, unimpeded and sweeping licks of the Korean girl’s footwear, and with absolutely no danger of inadvertently touching her precious, bare footflesh, which is generally prohibited to a public footslave like me;
2) The sheer amount of rubber and canvas so close to my kneeling face means that the air I breathe is dominated by the aroma of rubber and canvas shoe, and my field of vision is likewise filled with the sight of superior, young oriental-woman, casualwear shoe;
3) The deep, platform sole means that the young customer-mistress’s foot and sock, once they are positioned on top of the wooden footblock beneath me inside her sneaker, are higher than my face – which is a timely reminder to me that this attractive, young, nocturnal woman is my superior and better; even her sock is higher than me!
And speaking of sock, this particular, platform-sneakered oriental mistress is wearing a pair of short, navy-blue socks, to match the four, thin, navy-blue lines running along the thick sides of her platformed soles. I can just see the, slightly twisted, elasticated tops of the short, navy-blue socks peeking out above the upper rims of her otherwise pure-white sneakers on her bare, oriental legs (the young woman is wearing a fetching pair of white shorts).
My still sleepy eyes are soon put in their place, however, as miss Korea suddenly barks her earlybird orders down at me as she presents her right, platform-sneakered foot for kissing on my wooden footblock (I’m only assuming she is Korean because there is a tiny label on the outer side of her right sneaker which says ‘Made in South Korea’!):
‘You, slave – wake up and shine sneaker! Lick side of sneaker; heel; toe. You not look at sock – only sneaker – or I whip!’
I immediately lower my gaze to her large, navy-blue-striped, sneaker sole. I’m afraid that she has made it perfectly clear that her short, navy-blue anklesock must remain only in my peripheral field of vision, though it would be impossible not to have its elasticated top loom large in my footslave-consciousness, so beautiful is the sock!
Now fully awake, I verbally acknowledge the sleep-disturbing, oriental mistress’s commands:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. This slave obeys the beautiful, Korean-goddess mistress!’
Her heavy, rubber-platform-soled sneaker suddenly leaves the block and makes rapid, and very painful, contact again with the front of my face, before coming to rest on its temporary wooden platform once again:
‘Slave not talk! Only lick! You a foot-whore! You not worthy talk to mistress Jung-Hye!’
I am then showered in her early-morning spit. I hope miss Jung-Hye remembered to brush her Korean-girl teeth!
My own, fetid slave-mouth soon tastes of bitter sneaker-rubber!
………………………………………………………………….
Next to grace me with their presence, after a gap of some two hours during which I manage to get some more fitful sleep, are a pair of exceptionally scuffmarked and well-worn, brown leather, low-heeled, Chelsea boots belonging to a splendidly dark-haired, white girl.
The weather-beaten boots are complemented a suitably ropey-looking pair of plain, black anklesocks, which, like their navy-blue, oriental predecessors, are somewhat twisted and wonky at the top. Once again, I find it hard to take my eyes of the girlsocks, since they seem to tower above me as each stylishly-feminine, booted foot is presented for licking on my early-morning, wooden footblock.
The smell of rubber-sneaker is now replaced by the smell of well-worn, leather boot, but I strongly suspect that inside that brown leather boot is the aroma of sweaty, unwashed sock, if the ropey and dishevelled appearance of the plain, black femsock is anything to go by!
Once again those sock-tops adorn bare legs – for this young woman appears to be wearing a very short skirt.
Heavenly!
‘F***ing clean up my boots, s***face!’ barks the pretty, dark-haired, white girl down at me.
Despite my previous reprimand for talking back to a customer-mistress, I have no choice but to verbally acknowledge my new customer-mistress’s orders, since I am obliged to do so by law. If she doesn’t wish me to talk, the arrogant and foul-mouthed, young white woman will no doubt, like her oriental predecessor, kick me in the face with the chiselled, scuffmarked toe of her now outstretched, right Chelsea boot:
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. This slave obeys the beautiful, white mistress!’
I have no real way of knowing if my customer-mistresses are truly beautiful or not, since I never get to look them in the eye. I must merely assume they are beautiful based on their footwear – and even if they appear not to be traditionally ‘beautiful’ (for example, if they have fat cankles or ugly footwear) I must still refer to them as beautiful as a sign of my maleslave respect for their superior, female personages!
But this girl does appear to be genuinely beautiful – given her short skirt, dark hair, and potty mouth! A real stunner!
Stunning miss Chelsea-Boots lights up a female cigarette above me – another sign of feminine beauty – as my humble, maleslave tongue starts its well-nigh impossible task of lickshining away the ingrained scuffmarks on her right boot-toe! The best I can really hope to do is to darken the light brown scuffmarks with my footslave-saliva, thereby making the scuffmarked toe-areas temporarily resemble the darker brown of the rest of her boot.
‘F***ing lick harder, f***wit-slave!’ she exhorts me, in between puffing on her unhealthy, but cool-looking, cigarette.
The astute, young, brunette, white woman clearly realises the enormity of my task, and is graciously giving me her female permission to lick her dirty boot-toe with abandonment.
Yes – I do like a bit of rough, and this young woman, and her heavily scuffmarked Chelsea boots, are undeniably a bit of rough!
………………………………………………………………..
In total contrast, it must be said, to my next customer-mistress of the early morning – a much more delicate flower, in red plastic, high-heeled sandals and pastel-yellow socks.
This young, blonde-haired, white woman appears to be much more demure and modest than her two, early-morning predecessors. For a start, she is wearing a calf-length, flowery-patterned, summer dress with a lacy, white hem; secondly, she appears much more diffident in her approach to me; and thirdly she’s wearing sandals and socks, which can only mean one of two things:
1) Either she is a street-walker (they often wear socks with high-heels in my humble, public-shoelick experience);
2) Or, conversely, she is a sweet and demure young woman who lacks the confidence to display her unpedicured feet to the world!
I this case I am assuming it is the latter for, even though she is in cheap, red, strappy high-heels, this shy, young woman does not give off the vibes of being a street-prostitute – not given that modest, calf-length dress!
And besides, she doesn’t speak like a prostitute. Her predecessor, miss Chelsea-boots, spoke down to me like a prostitute – but miss Sandals & Socks is almost embarrassed to impose her footwear upon me. She even, effectively, asks my permission before stretching forth her right, sandaled foot onto my awaiting footblock:
‘Erm…good morning, slave! Would you mind giving my red sandals a quick lick and a shine, please?’
I can scarcely believe my ears! Such a polite ‘request’ from an all-powerful, young, blonde woman! Doesn’t she realise the legal power and blonde authority she has over me?
Actually, it’s such a refreshing change from the norm – to be spoken to almost as if I was a fellow human-being, instead of just a down-in-the-dirt, public footslave – even if I am still being asked to lick dirty shoe!
‘Of course mistress. As it pleases you mistress. This slave obeys the beautiful, blonde mistress!’
I sense her blush at the word ‘beautiful’ – though I have no doubt, in this case, that she is pretty; she must be – in such a pretty, lightweight, summer dress!
‘Thank you’, she responds before stretching forth her demure, socked and sandaled, right foot onto the footblock beneath my kneeling face.
As she does so, the frilly hem of her summer dress rides even further up her shapely, white calf-muscle to reveal even more of her young-womanly charm. But it is the pale yellow anklesock which, once again, catches my eye – mainly, this time, because of the latticed stitching in the pattern of the sock which allows for intriguing little glimpses of her soft, bare, female foot and ankleskin underneath.
These socks – like the girl herself – look clean; even the bright red, plastic, strappy high-heeled and peep-toed sandals which cover the socks look clean. Curious, therefore, that such a diffident young woman would feel the need to have them lickshined in public by a footslave!
Maybe that’s why she has come to me so early in the morning – whilst there aren’t many people about to gawp at her, and, of course, shortly after she has showered so that her feet don’t smell! I rather suspect a young woman like this would be mortified if her socks smelled – even in front of a footslave like me!
Cheap they may be, but these strappy, red-plastic sandals are actually the most difficult footwear I have been called upon to attend to hitherto this morning. I need to have all my public-footslave wits and experience about me as I run my tongue along the various intricate curves and straps on miss Unassuming’s plastic, high-heeled sandals, as touching a girl’s sock with one’s mouth without permission is considered a serious crime here in the Gynarchy!
I proceed with particular tongue-caution around the peep-toe area of her sandals, since the reinforced stitching of the pale-yellow sock covering her delicate toe-area is particularly tempting. However, for all my cautiousness, I can’t help feeling that even if my tongue did inadvertently, or even deliberately, stray onto this demure, young woman’s sock she probably wouldn’t have me whipped. I suspect the mere thought of physical violence – even against a slave – would be abhorrent to her!
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when the next thing I know my right shoulder blade is on fire, and feel like it has just been seared by a red hot iron!
Miss Unassuming has just whipped me with the public-use whipping stick!
‘Stop admiring my sock, slave, and get on with your work!’ she barks down at me in a most unexpectedly derisory tone!
‘Aoww!...Y…Yes mistress…Oh pray m…mistress…M...mercy m...mistress!’
As I refocus my efforts on her plastic, red sandal, she shamelessly picks her nose and casually flicks the sticky contents of her inner, nasal passage down onto my kneeling head.
It just goes to show – a public footslave should never rely on first impressions; and never make foolish assumptions!
Fantasy no. 3 – Following Her to Heel
It makes me so proud to crawl behind my mistress’s heels out on the streets – flat heels, normally, for, despite being petite and short in stature, my 22 year old, dark-haired, Chinese mistress, miss Ming-Huá, doesn’t usually wear high-heels – certainly not on her way into work, as she is now.
We are both heading for the local train station which is within walking (or crawling in my case) distance of her house. Miss Ming-Huá is attired in her usual, shop-assistant outfit consisting of a smart, black jacket over a crisp, white blouse; a modest, black, knee-length skirt; black woolly tights; and flat, black, slip-on shoes with rounded toes.
I suppose, in some ways, she looks quite ordinary; hardly a ‘glamour model’, being rather flat-chested and plain. But to me she is nothing less than an oriental goddess, and it makes me so humble to be obliged, by law, to crawl behind this superior, young, Chinese woman to heel out on the dirty streets of our fair, feminine capital.
Male humility and pride simultaneously – go figure!
And speaking of figures, what makes me particularly proud/humble at the moment is the fact that my mistress Ming-Huá is 6 months’ pregnant, and her bump is starting to show.
She’s not pregnant by me, of course! Ha! Ha! I’m just her personal footslave! No – she has been impregnated by her manly husband, 24 year old master Paul sir. But what makes me so proud about that is that everyone can now see that she is a young woman who has had sexual intercourse, whereas I am just a middle-aged, virginal manservant obliged to concentrate on the dusty backs of his Chinese footmistress’s flat-heeled, black leather shoes as she walks along the city pavements.
How everyone must be laughing at me above my naked back! Indeed, I know for a fact they are, for my mistress Ming-Huá, despite being rather a plain and unremarkable-looking, Chinese girl, gets many complimentary comments from passers-by as I follow her to heel along the street – particularly when we are stood at pedestrian crossings, or in queues for train tickets etc.
They compliment her on the fact that I appear to be exceptionally well-trained, and constantly focussing on her feet and footwear – despite all the many distractions going on around me, not the least of which are the feet and footwear of other (arguably more beautiful) women! The strangers talk about me with my mistress as though I am a dumb animal who cannot answer for himself – which, to all intents and purposes I am, since my mistress Ming-Huá has a strict ‘no talking’ rule for her personal footslave whilst we are out and about. I am only permitted to respond verbally to my mistress when we are inside the house – and even then only to pray to her for mercy (say, prior to a beating); or to thank her for her kindness towards me (say, following a beating); or just to generally praise and bless her for being my Chinese, female better.
It’s just one of her many little quirks.
This morning, as we make our way along the pavement towards her local train station, the sun is shining brightly, which makes my humble task of admiring my mistress Ming-Huá’s feet and shoes all the easier, as the sun’s beaming rays are highlighting the various contours in her black leather shoes and black woolly tights right in front of my crawling and mesmerized face.
I particularly like the way the backs of her woolly-tighted heels pop out of their leather casings every time she takes a step forwards as her flat, black leather shoes are perhaps a half a size too big for her. Let’s just say they’re ‘roomy’ – despite the fact she wears insoles. I find this particular vista so fascinating purely because the thick, black, woolly tights show distinctive traces of thinning and greying below the shoeline; you could almost run your nose along the dividing line between lower, bobbled-grey tight, and upper, smooth, rich-black tight at the backs of her still shapely, Chinese-girl, pregnant heels!
I have to keep an eye on that bobbling for two reasons:
1) I am obliged, by law, to observe whatever parts of my mistress’s hosiery are visible below the anklebone, however fleetingly they may make an appearance;
2) Once the bobbling gets too much, and the woolly tights are too holey to be worn any more, they shall have to be disposed of and replaced by newer tights, at which point I shall be whipped for ‘allowing’ my mistress’s tights to become well-worn and bobbled.
I should count myself lucky, really – some mistresses dispose of their footslaves when they dispose of their tights, throwing both out into the Gynarchy’s rubbish at the same time! It’s hardly surprising – given that the average, male slave costs less than a pair of ladies’ tights here in the Gynarchy. But I think my mistress Ming-Huá would rather keep me because of all the time and effort she has invested in training and whipping me. And, let’s face it, she’ll have enough on her plate when she gives birth in 3 months’ time without having to worry about getting a new footslave as well.
At least, that’s what I hope she is thinking, for at 55, I’m still too young to be cast onto the footslave-scrapheap, in my humble, and admittedly somewhat biased, opinion!
The irony is that, on a nice, bright sunny morning such as today, the bobbling on the backs of my pregnant, Chinese mistress’s black woolly tight-heels looks absolutely stunning – shown up as it is in such stark relief in front of my face, not that anyone else will notice it; you have to have your face very close to a young, pregnant, Chinese-woman’s opaque, black woolly tights to observe such seemingly insignificant little flaws in her otherwise smart, shop-assistant hosiery.
Of course, it’s not just bobbling I get to see – but the many creases and folds in my mistress Ming-Huá’s woolly tights coming and going as she walks along, particularly around her shapely anklebones. It never ceases to amaze me that, no matter how hard and diligently I seek to smooth those black, woolly tights over my Chinese mistress’s lower legs every morning (my mistress takes care of her tights above the knee, of course!), they still look creased and wrinkled after just a few minutes of walking.
I could understand it if it only happened later in the day – after my mistress Ming- Huá has been on her feet for several hours – for then her inevitable, daily footsweat inside her thick woolly tights and closed-in, black leather shoes would inevitably cause some slippage in her woollen hosiery. I can tell you that my mistress Ming-Huá’s woolly tights are often quite dampened and moistened around the toe and sole areas when I remove her shoes at the end of the working day in order to let her woolly-tighted feet breathe all over my face – in the privacy of her own home, of course! But why are the tights slipping down inside her shoes even now – when they are still dry? She only put them on some 25 minutes ago!
It’s just one of life’s great mysteries – but a not unpleasant one, since it means that when her feet come to rest whilst she is standing on the platform, or seated on the train, I can start to count the crease-damage, and admire the various differing lengths and shapes in the woollen wrinkles around her sweet, oriental anklebones (not yet fattened by pregnancy – unlike her stomach!).
Of course, my mistress Ming-Huá doesn’t work all the time; she has some days off – unlike me! And when she does she likes to go out with her husband to the shops as a customer – looking for good deals on second-hand baby clothes or maternity wear. At such times I have the inestimable honour of following my pregnant, Chinese mistress to heel whilst she is wearing her cheap, non-designer-brand, purple and white, low-top, lace-up sneakers and short, black anklesocks beneath her rest-day, black cotton, calf-length leggings.
My oriental mistress has such shapely calves – which is why she would never dream of wearing a full-length dress or skirt. She may be happily married to master Paul sir, and heavily pregnant, but she still likes to show off whatever young-womanly physical attributes she has – and, you won’t be surprised to hear that, in my humble opinion, her feet and legs are her best features!
I particularly like the way the backs of her short, black sneaker socks disappear down the backs of her Chinese sneaker-heels, leaving only the elasticated sides of her black socks on display. I’m sure it’s quite deliberate, as such short socks can only enhance the beauty and shapeliness of her Asian-girl heels and ankles.
And, of course, it gives me much more bare, feminine skin to look at – albeit the slightly cracked and hardened skin at the back of a young, Chinese woman’s heels whose ill-fitting, workday shoes often rub against them through her bobbled and greying, black woolly tights!
What really takes the biscuit is when my mistress and master embrace above me, however – for at such times she is obliged to stand on Chinese-sneakered tippy-toe, given how much taller master Paul sir is than both of us, and, as a result, the elasticated sides of her short, black socks crease and fold most enthrallingly in front of my gormless, kneeling footslave-face.
At such times my mistress Ming-Huá is thanking him for being a real man; for honouring her with his body and making her pregnant, thereby providing a future heiress to her female dynasty; whereas I remain on my hands and knees as her impotent foot, sneaker and sock slave, honouring her only with my pathetic footslave-mind, and worrying about a hitherto unnoticed tiny tear in the elasticated stitching at the top of her left sneaker-sock, just in case the socks have to be thrown out and I get the blame again!
For then, master Paul sir will no doubt honour his lovely, Chinese wife by severely whipping me on her behalf, and I shall be following her to heel for the next few days with a sore and stripy back. I shall have to beg for mercy tonight, if my Chinese mistress deigns to notice the newly developed flaw in her short, black sneaker-sock.
Oh pray, pregnant mistress Ming-Huá madam! Oh pray, potent master Paul sir! Please don’t beat me! I’m just an impotent and sterile, sock-obsessed footslave!
Fantasy no. 2 – Slave Sorry?
She looked quite fit in a slutty sort of way – black; early to mid twenties; tall and slim; East African, I would say – Somalian or Ethiopian – with long, slender, bare legs beneath her cut-off and frayed-at-the-hems, blue denim shorts; plain, black leather, low-heeled, court shoes; and the most delightful, but somewhat incongruous, pair of dusty, white sneaker-socks inside her smart, black courts, with a single, blue line running along the elasticated tops of the short, ankle-revealing socks.
She also had bright red hair – dyed obviously – and two huge earrings; oh – and a nose piercing! Plus, she was sucking quite noisily on some sort of fruit-flavoured popsicle (it is, admittedly, a warm and sultry day). Clearly, therefore, a laid back and fully ‘gynarchised’, East African girl in both her demeanour and attitude!
Her right foot was presented somewhat languorously onto my wooden footblock at my suburban, ‘stand up’, public shoelick stall, her African foot muscles stretching most fetchingly inside her grubby, white sock as she did so.
Her skinny, bare, brown ankle-muscles above the short sockline twitched also in an equally delightful manner, as she curtly barked down her orders at me in her pidgin English and with a strong, East African accent:
‘Slave shine shoe!’
In all my excitement about her dusty, white sneaker-socks, I had quite forgotten to study her black leather, court shoe in any detail – even though I’m a public shoelick; not a socklick (though there are such mundane things here in the Gynarchy!) But I now humbly notice that the neglected African-girl shoe is equally dusty – naturally enough – given that this feisty, young, black woman has, in all probability, been walking the streets for some hours in the bright sunshine! She has no shame – and no need to be ashamed. She’s a veritable black goddess.
I tell her as much:
‘Yes mistress. At once, most respected and beautiful, black goddess-mistress!’
Always best to acknowledge a customer-mistress’s ethnicity, as well as her goddesshood, at an early stage of the proceedings, by way of a demonstration of ones slavish attentiveness to such important details – and, of course, out of sheer, maleslave respect for her ethnic origins and female divinity.
I lower my lips to the dusty and scuffmarked, rounded toe of her low-heeled, black leather, street court-shoe – so much more practical than walking the streets in uncomfortable high-heels, don’t you think? Clearly a clever streetwalker, this young, black woman!
Or is it just that she can’t afford a pair of sexy high-heels?
Her white-socked instep twitches again – I would like to think in a pleasurable reaction to my submissive mouth-ministrations to her street-dustied shoe. Try as I might, I just can’t get my mind off her sock! It’s something to do with that thin, blue line around the top – it makes all the difference; it marks the boundaries, so to speak – the boundary above which black foot ends and black leg begins; the boundary between my legitimate field of vision – her foot – and the parts of her body which are none of my business – everything above her shapely, brown anklebone.
Even the prominent anklebone itself is above my sphere of influence, if the blue sockline does indeed represent the ‘border’ – for this short, slutty sock finishes well below the soft, brown-skinned anklebone, leaving it fully exposed to the Gynarchy elements.
The black mistress’s feet actually look quite big in their black, court shoes and grubby, white socks – oversized, as it were, for her rather skinny, if admittedly long, African legs.
I’ll bet she’s an athlete in her spare time – a sprinter; she could easily catch up with any runaway slave and give him a good hiding; not that any slave in his right mind would attempt to run away from such a beautiful mistress!
But a cheating punter, perhaps?
The ‘athletic’, white sock is continually twitching below my shoe-licking face now, curiously in rhythm with her popsicle-sucking! No – it’s no use! I just can’t ignore the sock any longer! That short, feminine sock requires proper slave-worshipping; I must kiss it in all its dustiness and grubbiness – out of my sheer, public-footslavish respect for the haughty and arrogant African-girl and her equally haughty, white and blue, cotton sock.
I daringly raise my lips temporarily to the outer surface of the sock; choose a particularly dusty area just below the blue line on the elasticated top; and kiss it – before lowering my face again to the surface of the superior, young woman’s shoe leather.
She continues sucking on her popsicle, so that I think I’ve got away with it – until she suddenly speaks again:
‘Why you are kissing my sock, slave? Why you are not licking my shoe, like I am ordering you to?’
My heart pounds – for this could presage a severe whipping! The young, redheaded, popsicle-sucking, East-African, black woman is clearly upset at my impudence in kissing her grubby, white sock without permission – as well she might be! A working girl’s sock should be sacrosanct – until her public foot-servant is given explicit permission to touch it with his salivating mouth!
I immediately seek to apologise for my unsolicited and impromptu act of sock-worship:
‘Oh pray, black mistress…oh pray! Pray forgive this slave his insolence, mistress! Oh mistress…your sock! It is just so pretty, mistress! Oh pray have mercy on a weak and feeble slave, sweet and kind, black goddess-mistress!’
She snorts derisively down at me:
‘Slave sorry? Bah – I whip you! You dirty; you not worthy kiss Amina on sock!’
And with that, mistress Amina (as I now know her to be called) withdraws her sock-slender, right foot from my footblock and turns to unhook the public whipping-stick which is hanging from the wall next to my public shoelick stand. I then observe her shoes and socks moving languorously again in order to stand behind me – this time ready to whip!
Out of the corner of my kneeling eye I can just see her right foot and sock twisting up into the air as, popsicle lodged firmly in mouth, she brings the thin and whippy, rattan, punishment stick down harshly across my bare, exposed shoulder blades – with African-female grace and athleticism.
Swish…Crack!
Now this slave truly is sorry – and not just because of the biting pain he is suffering, but, more importantly, because he has blown the opportunity to admire this young black woman’s grubby, white socks in more detail. She will never trust me with her left shoe now.
I’m sorry, folks – I’ve well and truly blown it!
Fantasy no. 1 – The Indian Gloater-Girl
Part 1 - Picnicking
They call them ‘gloater-girls’ – young women who get their kicks out of teasing and tormenting male criminal-slaves who are awaiting punishment (usually a public flogging) in the public kneeling stocks in one of the many town squares of our glorious Gynarchy.
I am such a criminal, and I have one such gloater-girl approaching my set of stocks right now. I can tell she is a gloater by the fact that she is carrying a foldaway chair to sit on as she torments me in the stocks – female gloating can go on for hours, and a girl can get tired just standing over a slave all that time!
I don’t know her from Adam – or should that be from ‘Amba’, for she has the appearance of a fully-westernized, Indian girl. Long, dark, below the shoulder, jet-black hair framing a dark-complexioned face with big, brown, aroused eyes; a pert and shapely body; mid to late twenties, I would say – and wearing some sort of pink, hoodie top (but with the hood pulled down); black cotton leggings which are elasticated at the well-turned, Indian-girl anklebones; a pair of high top, black and white, mudstained chucks with rather dirty, grey laces; and a nice pair of what appear to be plain black, cotton anklesocks – the elasticated tops of which are only just visible twixt cotton legging-hem and converse-sneaker upper.
I get a good look at her footwear as she adjusts her portable chair, and plonks herself down on it in front of me, stretching her shapely, tight-cotton-clad legs out before her so that her high-top-sneakered feet are resting on the dusty ground, casually curled over one another at the ankles, directly below my confined-in-wood and kneeling face.
The female chucks – the white areas at any rate – look well worn and dirty; I can smell their rubbery-canvas mustiness as they settle themselves down in front of my face – ready to gloat mercilessly over my male-criminal misfortune.
Having made herself comfortable, the Indian girl begins her well-rehearsed gloating by reading out the public information plaque on the wall directly behind my kneeling frame:
‘Slave Thomas
Crime: Criminal neglect of his mistress’s foot well-being
Punishment: 36 lashes of the Female Whip
Time/Date: 15:00 hrs Tuesday 25 June
Ha! Ha! Golly gosh! What a terrible pickle you are being in, slave, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
Her Indian accent makes her mockery seem all the more intense, since she should be a submissive and respectful Indian girl – at least in my antiquated book! Aren’t Indian girls supposed to be respectful of their elders? And I must be at least twice her age!
Then again, she may well be an upper-caste Indian, and I’m just a sub-caste footslave.
Because of our respective social positions – mine as a criminal-slave suffering in the stocks; hers as a free and beautiful, young woman living in the Gynarchy – I must answer her respectfully, and humbly, however much it pains me to do so:
‘Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress. God bless you, sweet, Indian mistress!’
Her high-top-sneakered feet twist subconsciously with delight directly beneath my confined face at my ultra-submissive response, causing her black socks to crease and fold in front of my eye-level – a truly humbling sight, robbing me of any dignity I might have left.
‘Ha! Ha! Yes indeed, slave! Soon enough from now you will be feeling the sting of 36 harsh lashes of the whip on your bare back, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress, if it pleases you Indian goddess-mistress. Thank you, Indian goddess-mistress.’
She won’t mind me calling her an Indian goddess-mistress – girls like this never do, for they see themselves as perfect goddesses, rather than flawed human beings, and they invariably like to be worshipped!
‘Ha! Ha! Yes – slave! 36 cuts of the whip! You must be being very frightened of what is to come to you tomorrow?’
Me – a man – admit to fear before a mere slip of an Indian girl? Too right I will! For I am very afraid of the female whip, especially as laid on by a professional, female police officer whipmistress – which it most assuredly will be!
I wonder if this Indian girl is any good with a whip herself?
‘Y…yes mistress…if it p…pleases you mistress...this s…slave is indeed very afraid, mistress!’
Her chucks, and socks, crease and fold again with sadistic, young-womanly pleasure beneath my kneeling features, as she leans forward to gloat directly into my close-up imprisoned face, her own sweet face so close to mine now that I can smell her last meal of curry on her breath:
‘Ha! Ha! You’re going to be whipped!…you’re going to be whipped!…you’re going to be whipped!…you’re going to be whipped!...Ha! Ha! Ha!...’
Her stale breath gets ever spicier as she gloats increasingly loudly over me, revelling in my forthcoming, public flogging!
Normal volume is then resumed as she smilingly leans back again, her chucks and socks readjusting themselves on the dusty, town-square ground beneath my face:
‘Ha! Ha! I and my husband shall be enjoying watching you being whipped tomorrow, helpless slave! We will be being having a nice picnic here in the town square – a punishment picnic, isn’t it – while you are being suffering under the public whip! Ha! Ha!’
I am genuinely delighted to know that this beautiful, young Indian woman and her freemale husband won’t go hungry or thirsty whilst they are uninvited guests to my public flogging. It’s good to know that at least they shall be enjoying all the bodily comforts of food and sustenance, whilst I experience naught but bodily pain!
The Indian girl suddenly changes tack:
‘Tell me, about-to-be-being-whipped slave, are you liking my socks?’
She gaily twists her right, high-top-sneakered foot in the air beneath my face, causing the aforementioned black sock-top to crease and fold most mesmerizingly in front of my lowly footslave-eyeline.
It is a stupid question from a girl, really – of course I like her socks! What male footslave wouldn’t? Do they not beautify an already beautiful, young Indian woman’s beautiful, sneakered feet? Therefore, they too must be beautiful!
Respectfully, I tell her so:
‘Oh pray, mistress…if it pleases you Indian goddess-mistress…truly this slave does indeed admire the mistress’s plain, black socks inside her black and white, high-top sneakers, if you will be so kind and forgiving, Indian goddess-mistress?’
I have to be a bit careful here, for whilst admiring and honouring a Gynarchy-girl’s socks is not only permissible, but encouraged, in a prisoner-footslave – lusting after them most definitely is not!’
‘Ha! Ha! You really are being most impudent, slave, isn’t it? Can’t you see that they are not being plain black socks, but are having little purple flecks in them? Look closer at them, you impudent fool!...’
And with that she unceremoniously shoves the exposed sock-top on her outstretched, right foot directly below my eyes. As I hastily refocus I do indeed – to my eternal shame – notice for the first time that the socks do, in fact, contain lots of little, almost imperceptible, purple flecks throughout the narrow, black, lattice-patterned stitching. Moreover, they appear to be thickish, woollen socks – and not pure cotton socks – as I had earlier assumed.
I feel so ashamed at my earlier inattentiveness to the purple flecks in the superior, young Indian tormentress’s socks. I apologise immediately, and crave the mistress’s mercy and indulgence, for I really am kneeling at her mercy in these shoulder-aching stocks:
‘Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! Pray forgive me mistress! Truly this slave is distraught at his error! Oh pray, sweet Indian mistress! Oh pray! Please don’t hurt me! Please don’t have your husband hurt me! This slave meant no disrespect to the pretty mistress, or her socks!’
The pretend-surly Indian girl withdraws her right, sneakered foot somewhat from my face, and chuckles to herself:
‘Ha! Ha! I shall indeed be informing my husband of your impudence, slave, isn’t it? Especially since he is being the one who is buying me these pretty socks in the first place! Ha! Ha! But I am thinking that my kind and compassionate husband will not be having you beaten even more, since you are being nothing but an ignorant footslave, and cannot help being stupid, isn’t it?’
My heart leaps with gratitude towards the Indian gloater-mistress, and her in absentia husband! Right now, I want nothing more than to kiss her black and purple, woollen socktops:
‘Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! God bless you, Indian mistress, and your merciful husband! Oh relief, mistress! Oh pray!’
As if sensing my readiness to kiss slighted sock, the kindly Indian mistress duly obliges me, by once again moving her right socktop closer to my face:
‘Be kissing me on the sock, slave, and apologising to it for your impudence, isn’t it?’
I instantly obey the mistress:
‘Oh pray, Indian goddess-mistress’s pretty sock…kiss…kiss… Oh pray … kiss…kiss… pray forgive this ignorant slave for his impudence in failing to recognise your purple-flecked glory, mistress the sock… kiss…kiss…Truly this slave is ashamed, and begs the sock’s forgiveness, along with that of her sister-sock…kiss…kiss…if you would both be so kind and understanding, mistresses the socks… kiss... kiss… kiss... kiss…’
Yes – definitely wool; I can tell by the relative ticklishness on my lips!
Ticklish or not, the purple and black, female socks, like their Indian-girl wearer, seem to be magnanimous and merciful towards stupid and ignorant, old prisoner-slaves like me:
‘Ha! Ha! My socks are forgiving you, slave! Ha! Ha! In fact, they are even being kindly disposed to be helping you in your forthcoming hour of pain, isn’t it? They are saying that you may be studying them now, while I read my book, and be counting the purple flecks in them, so that you may be having something else to concentrate on other than the pain during your whipping tomorrow, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! Just think, slave – while you are being whipped, and my husband and I are being enjoying our picnic while you are suffering, you may be thinking about my pretty socks on my feet inside my dirty sneakers, and thereby taking your mind off your stupid pain, isn’t it?’
I am overwhelmed with gratitude to the Indian mistress for her immensely helpful and clever suggestion, and take her up on her kind offer to study her socks, by way of counting the purple flecks in them, whilst she reads her book.
What’s more – it worked! At least partially! The following day, with every cruel bite of the female lash wrapping around my kneeling torso, I imagined the Indian gloater-mistress’s muddy-sneakered and socked feet somewhere amongst the baying crowd of onlookers, splayed out in front of her on the dusty ground as she sat beside her husband on her portable chair enjoying her ‘punishment picnic’, and each mentally-counted, purple, woollen sock-fleck on my part went someway to taking my mind off the truly stupefying pain I was having to publicly endure!
So you see – not all gloaters are bad people! They’re actually here to help – if not others then themselves, as they tuck in to their tasty picnic treats, revelling in the sights and sounds of the nearby punishment whipping!
Part 2 - Nitpicking
Two days later, and she was back for some post-punishment nitpicking – the same, Indian gloater-girl with the same pink hoodie-top; same black cotton leggings; same black and white chucks; but different socks inside her high-tops this time – pink, to match her hoodie, no doubt; oh, and her white husband was with her this time also!
It’s not unusual for gloaters to return to the scene of their enjoyment, especially as they know it is customary for a criminal-slave to remain in the stocks for anything up to 48 hours after his public flogging. They like to inspect the whip-damage to his back close up – as is their perfect right as law-abiding, free human-beings living and working in the Gynarchy. I mean, it is their taxes which pay for my public punishment!
I recognised her from her chucks even before she deigned to verbally mock me again; she had evidently not had them cleaned since our last encounter, as they were bedecked in the same, dried-in mudstains as they had been prior to my whipping.
I quickly surmise, however, that this new encounter with my Indian gloater-goddess will be much briefer than the previous encounter, from the simple fact that she has not brought her foldaway chair with her. The Indian gloater-girl merely stands over me this time, lovingly holding hands with her manly husband, as they both peer down at my stripy, red back:
‘Ha! Ha! Golly gosh, slave – that is looking very sore, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! You must be feeling very humble in your pain and agony, isn’t it slave? Ha! Ha!’
No doubt about it – that same, soft, mocking, Indian-girl voice, spewing out such dark words of glee, even if her socks are much brighter and more lightweight than the ones she had on two days ago. I wonder if her beloved husband bought her these pink, cotton socks also? Better check for any miniscule, purple flecks in them – just in case! No – they appear to be pure, unsullied, pink cotton socks, judging by the vertical lines of stitching in the elasticated tops just peeking out from over the rims of her muddy, black and white, high-top chucks.
I thank the mistress for her post-beating observations, and confirm her suspicions regarding my public humility and pain:
‘Oh pray mistress…oh bless…bless you for visiting me again, for this slave is indeed suffering mightily in the stocks, with a very sore back, mistress…if it is pleasing to you Indian goddess-mistress…’
Her white husband, who looks to be considerably older than the young, Indian woman – about my age, perhaps – appears to be suitably impressed at my humility and contrition before his cruel, young wife:
‘Ha! Ha! The prisoner certainly seems to be fully whipped and penitent, Seetha darling! Ha! Ha! Why don’t you pick away at his wounds with your long nails, and open them up again to the elements, love? Ha! Ha!’
This is not an original thought on the part of the master-sir; it is not uncommon for gloater-mistresses to enjoy picking at the sores of freshly whipped slaves as they languish in the stocks post flogging. Indeed, the Gynarchy authorities actively encourage such torment, as it prolongs the criminal’s agony!
Miss Seetha (as I now know her to be called; not miss ‘Amba’ as I had first speculated!) smiles lovingly at her middle-aged husband and lets go of his hand in order to crouch down in front of me – her pink sock-tops creasing and folding most fetchingly below my confined face as she does so. To my horror I notice for the first time that she has long, pink-painted fingernails; this is going to hurt!
She kindly warns me to brace myself:
‘Ha! Ha! You are hearing my husband, slave! Be bracing yourself for some more pain as I am about to be obeying him and picking at your sores! Ha! Ha!’
Just my luck – an obedient, Indian wife who does everything her European husband asks of her!
‘Yes mistress…thank you mistress...God bless you mistress, and God bless the master-sir…’
Her pink cotton hoodie-top rustles softly as she then slowly and deliberately reaches forwards to gently start picking at a particularly sore whip-crust on my right shoulder blade. I cry out in pain – much to the gloater-gal, and gloater-guy’s, amusement:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, Seetha darling – open him up again! Remove the crusts! Ha! Ha!’
It’s almost like the cruel master-sir is referring to one of the sandwiches he shared with his beloved wife during their erstwhile ‘punishment picnic’!
But I’m nitpicking now! As I said before, this mixed-race couple have every right to torment me – and it’s not as if the Indian gloater-girl hasn’t changed her socks for me; feminine pink to match my pink-faced, male shame and embarrassment at being at the sock and sneaker mercy of such a bright, young, female-Indian thing who knows no mercy, and who has yet again come to publicly gloat!
