Footslave Fantasies Volume 2

The second volume in a collection of pure fantasies from footslaves – or are they?

VOLUME 2 CONTENTS (scroll down for fantasies in reverse numerical order)

10. The Unclean

9. The Human Moped

8. Gout

7. Prelude to a Whipping

6. Smart Casual

5. Cross Examination

4. Bird of Prey, or Cougar?

3. The Prurient Footslave

2. Excluded, Humiliated & Violated

1. Pleasing Herself

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Fantasy no. 10 – The Unclean

45 year old, petite and delicate, office-cleaner mistress, miss Bhuvana – who hails originally from India – unfortunately has a gammy, left foot. She gallantly trails it behind her wherever she walks, often using her cleaner’s trolley for extra support. Mercifully, I don’t think she’s in any pain, as such; it’s just a nuisance and something of an embarrassment for her!

I think she feels somewhat embittered by her handicap, and she certainly feels that I do not show her sufficient respect – in my capacity as the office-corridor footslave – whenever she stops by me in order to have her plain, black plastic, slip-on shoes thoroughly tongue-cleaned. She believes, erroneously, that I disrespect her on several counts:

• Because she is, reputedly, a low-caste, Indian woman;
• Because she is ‘merely’ the office cleaner;
• Because of her cheap, plastic shoes;
• Because she is in her forties;
• Because her English is still broken and imperfect;
• Because of her gammy, left foot.

Whereas, if anything, the complete opposite is true – I slavishly respect goddess-mistress Bhuvana all the more deeply precisely because of all the above!

But her haughty attitude towards me betrays her innate suspicion and doubt, and her absolute determination to have my unstinting obedience.

Her normal time to stop by for a ‘shoeshine’ is first thing in the morning – before she starts work, and long before any of the office-worker ladies have arrived with their smart, patent black stilettos or stylish, chunky-heeled, black leather, zip-up, officewear ankleboots!

It’s true that miss Bhuvana’s flat, shiny black, plastic shoes are cheap and uncheerful compared to some of the more exotic, feminine footwear I shall get to taste later in the day – but I nevertheless always look forward to miss Bhuvana’s black plastic shoes, and plain, black sneaker socks, waking me up first thing on weekday mornings!

She approaches me, as per usual, with her distinctive gait – pushing her cleaner’s trolley, with her left leg somewhat twisted and trailing behind her, but still elegantly clad in her cheap, black denim jeans.

As she stops in front of me I can smell the bleach from her trolley, ready to scrub the nearby ladies-toilet floor. But first, miss Bhuvana demands that I do some cleaning work of my own – on her cheap, plastic shoes!

Her shoes are never that dirty, in point of fact, and I assume her short, black sneaker-socks – only the elasticated tops of which are just visible above her black, plastic shoeline, and even then only along her soft, brown, Indian insteps as they sexily disappear beneath the shoeline altogether down at the heels – are likewise clean and fresh on her Indian ladyfeet this morning. But it’s the principle of the thing, of course – a lady likes to feel respected by an office underling, and therefore to have her shoes lickshined by him before she starts work of a morning; and, I must stress, I am everyone’s underling in this office, since my permanent, humble role is to kneel in the corridor, where I am chained to the wall, and lick whatever female shoes are arrogantly positioned in front of me!

I greet office-cleaner mistress Bhuvana enthusiastically, as befits the humble office-footslave eager to serve at the feet of his female superiors for, yet another, whole day:

‘Greetings, goddess-mistress Bhuvana; God bless you, goddess-mistress-Bhuvana! Oh pray let me serve your divine, feminine feet this fine morning, goddess-mistress Bhuvana!’

Miss Bhuvana never smiles as she raises her right foot – the good one – a few inches up off the office-corridor floor and onto the low-level, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face. I can forgive her for not smiling – she’s clearly had a hard life; polio as a child, which caused her problems with her left foot; and then having to flee India at the age of 42 in order to seek Female Asylum in the Gynarchy– something to do with an abusive husband. No wonder she likes to take out her sweet, feminine anger on me – the lowly, male office-footslave.

Kick a man when he’s down – that’s the Female Motto here in the Gynarchy. And miss Bhuvana is more than happy to metaphorically, and sometimes literally, kick me – even though she does have a gammy, left foot!

I only know about her life history because of the office gossip which I pick up from the other ladies (along with their shoedirt) – not because miss Bhuvana has deigned to tell me herself; she never converses with me, other than to bark down her orders at me in her delightful, broken English:

‘Dirty slave shut up! Clean Bhuvana shoe! Lick! Clean away dirt – now!’

As you might expect of a professional cleaning-lady, miss Bhuvana is obsessed by dirt; dirt is her enemy – and she clearly sees me as an offensive piece of enemy dirt beneath her.

And she’s quite right – for compared to her I am unclean, and a piece of dirt; and dirt is attracted to dirt; and so I make sure to seek out her elusive shoedirt on her shiny, black plastic shoe – inserting my tongue deep into the stitching all along her plastic shoesole, where any perceived dust and dirt is most likely to have accumulated, as I dutifully lickshine her shapely, black plastic instep. This also gives me the opportunity, of course, to admire close-up the tight stitching in miss Bhuvana’s short, black sneaker-socks.

You see? I am indeed a piece of dirt – morally filthy dirt, lusting after my Indian customer-mistress’s plain black, everyday sneaker-socks! No wonder the perceptive cleaning-mistress Bhuvana despises me!

It’s towards her left foot that I reserve the greatest, footslavish respect – given all that it has to go through, constantly trailing toe-first along the ground behind miss Bhuvana. Needless to say, the rounded toe-area of miss Bhuvana’s left shoe is always much more scuffmarked and dusty than the rest of her left shoe, and so as she somewhat awkwardly switches feet on the footblock beneath my humbly-bowed face, I ensure that my submissive and unworthy, male mouth tastes the damaged toe-area of her left shoe first.

Indeed, I embrace the entire rounded toe-area of her left shoe deep inside my mouth – gagging on it in order to give it a good, deep, tongue-cleaning. Miss Bhuvana likes that – penetrating and filling my mouth with her dirty, workaday shoe; although she never says as much. I can just tell!

Perhaps not unsurprisingly, given the permanently twisted position of her gammy, left foot, miss Bhuvana’s short, black sneaker sock below her left anklebone is always much more twisted than its sister-sock on her right foot, so I make it my business, after lickshining her left shoe, to straighten the twisted, elasticated top of her left sneaker-sock with my respectful, footslave-nose.

Being unclean, and a piece of male dirt, I’m not straightening her crooked sock with my nose for entirely altruistic reasons, of course! It does mean that I get to surreptitiously breathe in the aroma of her precious, black sock and inner shoe. But, as I have already intimated, there is never much of a sweaty odour emanating from miss Bhuvana’s clean foot this early in the morning. I sometimes wish she would visit me after her long, hard, working day mopping and cleaning the office – but dirty beggars can’t be choosers!

And, compared to miss Bhuvana, I am definitely a dirty beggar; a dirty, footslave-beggar kneeling by the side of the office corridor, begging for the privilege and honour of serving her imperfect, but nonetheless divine, Indian feet and footwear; the feet and footwear of my infinite better, whose very shoedirt and dust is too good for me!

She is the cleaner, and I am the unclean!

 

Fantasy no. 9 – The Human Moped

I am a human cleaning-utensil. I am just one of office-cleaner miss Dipan’s collection of tools which she uses to mop and hoover the dirty, female-office floors (and a not very important tool, at that!)

I am permanently secured – face downwards – on a low-level, wooden trolley which is on castors, with a collar and tube affixed to the back of my neck into which miss Dipan can insert a metal pole which she can then use both to push the trolley along and to direct my head towards various dirty patches on the floor.

Being a ‘mobile mop-head’ I am jokingly referred to throughout the office as ‘the human moped’ – (mop ‘ed; get it?) – which is quite a clever play on words, I think, by the ladies of the office. But then, why should I be surprised at that – since all ladies are cleverer than all men?

Miss Dipan, in recognition of the superiority of the female over the male, human ‘moped’, can also use the pole to direct my ugly, mobile head towards the feet of my female betters should she deem it appropriate for me to respectfully kiss or clean their dirty, office shoes or boots; miss Dipan deems that a lot! But the first female shoes I must kiss every weekday morning are none other than the feet of my operator herself – miss Dipan.

Miss Dipan is a youngish (thirty-something) lady of Bangladeshi origins; very short and petite, with jet-black hair – and when I see her (for my relationship with her is purely professional, despite the fact that I must admit to being totally captivated by her; literally so!) she is always dressed in her office-cleaner’s uniform consisting of a bright, shiny blue tabard; navy-blue denim jeans; black anklesocks with white star motifs on them; and plain black leather, slip-on shoes.

The shoes have seen better days, and have permanent scuffmarks around the rounded toe-areas – despite all my best efforts to lickshine them away on miss Dipan’s behalf. But they are Bangladeshi-woman shoes which are still much to be admired, since they grace the feet of my supreme, female master who controls my every, waking head movement.

Miss Dipan never says much to me, other than to boss and order me about – partly, I suspect, because she has not been living in the Gynarchy that long, and her English is still somewhat limited; but mainly because she sees me as being very much beneath her – both literally and figuratively – as, indeed, does everyone in the office.

Her custom is to therefore simply position her outstretched feet one at a time beneath my prostrate head first thing in the morning, when she opens my cell-door, for me to humbly kiss each tatty, black leather shoe once on the aforementioned, scuffmarked toe-areas – as a demonstration of my respect and admiration for her, and my readiness to serve as her human ‘moped’-cum- vacuum cleaner.

I should explain that I live, eat and sleep whilst confined face-down on my office cleaning ‘trolley’. I am never released from it – not even to be punished; for all my Bangladeshi cleaner-mistress has to do to discipline me is to reach down and whip me across the small of my bare back with yet another tool of her trade – her much feared, bull’s-pizzle whip!

Miss Dipan may be small and petite, with dainty Bangladeshi feet to match, but she can sure pack a severe punch with her thick and bruising, bull’s-pizzle whip; and she is not squeamish about using it!

This morning, as I kiss her dusty, scuffmarked shoe-toes, I am pleased to see that she is wearing her aforementioned pair of distinctive, full-length, black and white anklesocks – the ones with the little white stars festooned all over them, though many of the stars are currently hidden beneath her navy-blue denim jean hems, despite the outstretched positioning of each beautiful Bangla-lady foot in turn for me to humbly kiss.

I am, I must confess, familiar with all my controller-mistress’s socks, since I spend so much of my time observing them inside her shoes whilst I work (I only hope and pray miss Dipan never takes to wearing sock-hiding ankleboots to work, for that would be a devastating blow for me – never to see my female master’s pretty, female socks!)

I do particularly admire these full-length, white-star-patterned anklesocks of hers, as I get to see all the little creases and folds in the white sock-stars and in the surrounding, black cotton (representing the night sky?) as they come and go throughout the day whilst she walks along beside me, directing my humble headwork. Sometimes my mistress Dipan wears ultra-short sneaker-style socks inside her flat, black slip-on shoes, and those give me much less sock-material to observe and admire – though, to compensate for the loss of sock I suppose I do get to see more of her shapely, soft brown, bare, Bangladeshi-woman ankleflesh.

Still less interesting and humiliating than sock, though, in my humble opinion!

Having made me kiss her feet, my Bangladeshi operator then barks her first orders of the day down at me from on high in her sweet, Bengali accent:

‘Filth keep head low; look only at Dipan socks and shoes today; many hard work today; many floor to clean!’

She then spits on me, her spit consisting of her thick and gooey, early-morning mucus.

As you can see, miss Dipan, quite rightly, utterly despises me – to the extent that she not only feels compelled to expel her mucus on me, but has christened me as ‘filth’ – ‘filth, the human moped’ I suppose should be my full, ignominious title!

Not only that – but I am strictly forbidden to speak to my mistress Dipan, or to any superior office mistress for that matter, since my Bangladeshi mistress views me as just a object – just another tool in her armoury of cleaning implements. She doesn’t even feel the need to ‘fuel’ me or feed me (though I happen to know she is given a budget to purchase me a daily ration of slave-gruel) as she is satisfied that I can survive on the scraps of discarded lady-food I find lying around on the kitchen floor; old apple cores; squashed chocolates; breadcrumbs etc. I am, in effect, a scavenger, and miss Dipan gets to pocket my slave-gruel allowance money – as is her womanly right!

Anyway, I must remain silent and uncomplaining as miss Dipan screws the metal pole onto the tube on the back of my neck-collar ready to manoeuvre me out of my overnight slave-cell.

Kindly, we head straight for the office kitchen, so that I can scavenge for my breakfast on the female-kitchen floor. Sadly, this morning there is a paucity of material for me to scavenge – only the remains of a dirty sweet-wrapper which was presumably inadvertently walked into the office on the bottom of an office-lady’s boot or shoe; it certainly looks and tastes well street-soiled, having lost its original fruity flavouring in favour of the taste of black boot-polish and muddy rainwater. But I consume it gratefully nonetheless – being extremely hungry and ravenous for shoe-soiled food.

I receive some further crumbs of comfort in the far right-hand corner of the communal lady-kitchen – in the form of some lady-biscuit crumbs – but, other than that, there is not much in the way of food on offer on the tiled, kitchen floor this morning; only dirt – the dirtmarks from the soles of the various office ladies’ shoes (it had been raining heavily yesterday, so significant amounts of mud and dirt were walked in on the soles of the ladies’ shoes and boots).

At least the copious amounts of walked-in shoedirt help to fill my empty stomach as my mistress Dipan manipulates my head around the kitchen floor – hurting my strained neck as she does so, though I would never dare to complain about her rough treatment; not when she’s wearing such a sweet pair of socks which crease behind me with the female effort of every push she makes on the metal pole manoeuvring my mop-head.

We ‘head’ next to the ladies’ toilets on the same, ground floor. I’m less likely to find any food in here, though I do occasionally encounter a piece of discarded chewing gum which a lady can’t be bothered to put into one of the waste bins provided.

As I lickshine the linoleum of the lady-lavatory floor the first office-mistress of the day appears in the doorway:

‘Alright if I come in, Dipan?’

I recognise her from her boots, more than her voice – the stylish, chunky-heeled and chisel-toed, zip-up, black leather ankleboots of 23 year old miss Xiao-Li from Accounts, worn, as ever, beneath the hems of her equally stylish, black cotton, bootcut trouser hems:

‘Yes please, madam!’ responds my Bengali mistress.

My controller-mistress immediately, and painfully, manipulates my head with the metal pole over towards the waiting, booted feet of the delectable miss Xiao-Li.

The latter, almost subconsciously, extends each chiselled, black leather boot-toe beneath my face for respectful kissing as she continues to chat to my Bangla operator-mistress above me:

‘Sorry – but I really need to go, Dipan! I think I may have eaten something that disagreed with me last night! Ha! Ha!’

Miss Xiao-Li speaks fluent English, with no hint of a Chinese accent. I believe she was born and bred in the Gynarchy!

‘No problem, madam – please to go ahead. You want me to remove male mop from room?’

‘Would you mind? Sorry to be a pain!’

‘No problem, madam. Just mind floor please – floor wet with dirty-slave saliva!’

‘Okay – thanks!’

And with that miss Xiao-Li’s freshly kissed boots nevertheless move expeditiously towards one of the nearby cubicles to do her urgent business, whilst I am equally urgently ejected by neck-pole out of the hallowed ground of the ladies’ lavatories in order to continue to lick the floor outside whilst miss Xiao-Li answers her call of nature.

Well, they do say that discretion is the better part of varletry! No superior woman should have to put up with a dirty, male presence during her most private, feminine moments – not even with a meaningless, male mop-head!

I am obliged to kiss miss Xiao-Li’s chisel-toed boots once again after she has finished her business, washed her hands, adjusted her make-up, and eventually exits the communal lavatory – less hurriedly than she had entered it! My operator-mistress then forces me to lickshine everywhere on the floor where miss Xiao-Li’s bootsoles have just been, just in case the Chinese-Gynarchy girl has walked in any streetdirt from outside.

I cannot taste any such Chinese-girl bootsole-dirt – more’s the pity!

And so we proceed – my mistress Dipan and I – up to the first floor offices where my dirty mouth must change from being a mop to a vacuum, ready to suck the ingrained, lady shoe and boot dirt out of the carpets.

I must confess, I hate doing this! It’s my least favourite aspect of my job, since it makes my mouth and throat very dry. But my Bengali operator-mistress, miss Dipan, doesn’t give a damn about that, of course! Indeed, she is fully cognisant of the need to brush my face all the harder back and forth along the carpeted floor in order that I can successfully suck out all the deeply ingrained carpet-dirt surrounding the office ladies’ feet – for there are a number of them seated at their desks by now.

My biggest fear whilst sucking the female carpet is that I shall one day inadvertently cough or sneeze over a lady’s boots or shoes. I am, ironically, allergic to dust and to dust-mites – though I must consume them – and my nose and throat often get very ticklish whilst I am carpet cleaning!

Thankfully, though, my biggest nightmare hasn’t happened yet, and I have found a trick to help me stifle any sneezes or coughs – I just concentrate on my mistress Dipan’s white-star, sock creases as she manipulates the metal pole above me, and that helps to take my mind of my allergies. That’s why I particularly like it when she wears full-length anklesocks like the ones she has on today; you’re always guaranteed a glimpse of creased, black and white-motifed sock beneath the flapping hems of her navy-blue denim jeans, especially as the jeans are probably a half size too short for her!

Thank God I’m not allergic to my mistress Dipan’s socks! Then I would be in trouble!

Of course, my head is frequently dragged away from my operator-mistress’s socks in order to pay its respects to a neighbouring pair of office-lady shoes or boots. Right now my head and mouth are being forced down onto the sweet, black leather, ballet flats and multicoloured, stripy anklesocks of miss Piyal – a compatriot of my Bangladeshi mistress – though considerably younger (miss Piyal, an office junior, must be all of 19 years old).

Miss Dipan always stops by miss Piyal’s desk for a chat in Bengali, and so I always get to pay my respects to the office junior’s shoes and socks. And very nice they are too – very varied. Indeed, miss Piyal never seems to wear the same shoes and socks two days in a row – unlike my mistress Dipan! Miss Piyal’s feet always smell scented as well – though I doubt she uses foot-spray for my benefit. She is hardly even aware of my humble existence – having never spoken to me, not even to order me to kiss her on a particular area of her shoes or socks!

She leaves that to my mistress Dipan, having no doubt discussed the matter with her in Bengali first:

‘Filth kiss miss Piyal on stripy sock; kiss brown stripe first – twenty times; then blue stripe; then green stripe; then yellow stripe…’

I am actually quite grateful for this break from carpet-sucking; girlsock-kissing beats girlcarpet-sucking any day of the week!

Meanwhile, as I kiss miss Piyal’s exposed, multicoloured, stripy socks to order inside her soft, black, office ballet-flats, the two Bangladeshi ladies chat happily away to each other in Bengali above me; possibly about me, and my sock-kissing abilities, but, more likely, about their own, superior lives as free women living and working in the Gynarchy.

I, for my part, study the younger woman’s stripy socks assiduously, since it is an honour for me to be so close to, and to touch with my dirty, maleslave lips, the sweet socks of such a superior, female being – whilst she is wearing them on her pretty, Bangladeshi feet!

All too soon, however, I am dragged away from miss Piyal’s exotic, ballet-flat socks, and back to the more mundane material of the office carpet. I’d much rather continue to suck up to miss Piyal – but I have work to do and dust-mites to collect in my mouth.

I comfort myself with the thought that some of the dust I am swallowing may have fallen from miss Piyal’s socks as she moves around the office. I am, possibly, feasting on her Bengali-girl sock-lint!

As I feel my throat getting ticklish again, I once more try to focus in on my mistress Dipan’s creased, black and white-starred anklesocks, and her scuffmarked, round-toed, black leather, slip-on shoes, as she walks along dominantly beside me, intermittently urging me on with a rustle of her bright blue tabard followed by a well-placed blow to my naked back from her bull’s-pizzle whip!

Such an efficient and diligent, office cleaning-lady! I only wish she could ride me like a moped – sit astride me as I lick the floors, her black, leather loafers digging into my bare flanks; for I am such a sad, human tool!

 

Fantasy no. 8 – Gout

My mistress Caroline has the misfortune to occasionally suffer from gout in the big toe of her right foot.

She is, needless to say, not your typical sufferer from gout i.e. an overweight, middle-aged, dissolute man – overindulging in alcohol and rich foodstuffs! She is, in fact, a still very beautiful, redheaded woman in her early forties – slim(ish), and actually quite abstemious. I understand, however, that she broke her big toe several years ago (thankfully before I became responsible for it as her personal footslave), and that, apparently, is the root cause of her problems.

Normally, my office-worker mistress likes to wear her black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots and matching, black cotton, ankle-length bootsocks beneath the bootcut-hems of her smart, black, office trousers and, like most mistresses, she demands that I kneel at her feet beneath her office desk and concentrate on the zipper-side of her right boot (or I may focus in on her black, cotton sock-top inside her upper boot-rim if her trouser-hem has ridden up sufficiently to expose her precious sock).

Whenever she experiences an attack of gout, however, my life changes dramatically:

• First of all, my normally placid and reasonable mistress Caroline will be in a foul mood – due to the acute pain in her big toe joint, and she will, justifiably, take out that feminine anger and upset on me. It is justifiable on my mistress Caroline’s part to do so because – even though I am not responsible for causing her gout – I am legally liable for it, as I am her personal footslave and therefore responsible for the well-being of her feet in general. It is, therefore, only right and proper that I should be punished for my mistress’s suffering.

• We now go into a well-rehearsed routine as soon as my mistress feels an attack of gout coming on. She will first order me to, carefully, remove her boots and socks from her feet – both of them – if she happens to be wearing them at the time, and to change her into her emergency pair of navy-blue coloured, flip-flop sandals!

• I must then blow gently on the burning joint in her foot whilst the female doctor is summoned. If my mistress happens to be at work at the time we shall retire to the first aid room where I must soothe her sore toe-joint with my unworthy maleslave-breath; or if we are at home she will merely lie back on her sofa to await the lady doctor’s arrival.

• Whilst I must make sure my mouth and face are very close to my mistress’s inflamed big toe at such times, woe betide me should my lips inadvertently touch my mistress’s sore toe-joint – for a slave causing additional footpain to his mistress has committed a serious offence in the Gynarchy, and is likely to be summarily dismissed from her service and sent to the underground slave-mines for life! It is therefore always a time of extreme tension – both for the mistress and the slave – whilst we await the attendance of the good lady doctor. I do my best, however, to expend all my breath in seeking to ease my mistress’s toe-pain, and cool down the inflammation in her diseased, big toe joint. I only wish I could simply kiss it better! (I have to confess, I do at such times, somewhat selfishly, tend to admire the residual tank-tracks on my mistress’s pasty-white ankleskin, caused by my mistress’s black anklesock-elastic – but don’t tell her that, for all my focus and attention is supposed to be on her sore big toe!)

• As soon as the lady doctor arrives she provides some immediate relief for my mistress Caroline by first anaesthetising her inflamed toe joint with a spray, directly in front of my at-foot-kneeling face, and then injecting it with some sort of steroid. The female doctor then supplies her with long-lasting, painkiller drugs. She will also arrange for a female ambulance to take my mistress home from work if applicable (my mistress normally travels to work by train). I, of course, get to travel in the back of the ambulance with my mistress – though only on my hands and knees next to her outstretched, freshly-treated foot.

• The good lady doctor has one other important thing to do, however, before she leaves us – she must inject my right foot with a pain-causing ‘slave serum’, so that I may suffer along with my mistress! It’s the law – the law of the Gynarchy; a slave must be made to suffer in tandem with his mistress, since it is inconceivable that a superior woman should be in pain whilst an inferior, male slave is free from pain!

• I have no problem with that – but I do have a problem with the intense nature of the pain caused by the ‘slave serum’; it is truly acute – and immediate – and will continue until such time as my sweet and kind mistress Caroline applies the antidote (kindly supplied to her by the good lady doctor) which she will only do, of course, once her own foot is back to normal and she herself is no longer suffering. That can be anything up to 5 or 6 days!

• Whilst everyone, myself included, will be fussing over my mistress Caroline during her period of convalescence, seeking to ensure she is relaxing with her foot up and is as comfortable and pain-free as possible, my own right foot shall be throbbing in agony as I kneel next to her big-toe (which now smells of the soothing anaesthetic); but no-one will pay any attention to me, or give a damn about my simultaneous foot-suffering! In fact, if anything, they are pleased to see me suffering – and urge my mistress Caroline to hold back on applying the antidote to me as they think I should be punished for allowing her to suffer from the attack of gout in the first place! As I indicated earlier, I am not just legally, but morally, responsible for the well-being of my mistress’s feet, and so I can hardly expect any sympathy from my masters and betters!

• Whilst I must spend much of my time kneeling beside my mistress’s gout-ridden foot during her sick-leave at home, continuing to blow on her red-sore joint, I am not absolved from my other footslave duties – such as taking care of her footwear. Her hastily discarded office boots and socks, for example, must be dutifully sniffed and cleaned.

• Since my mistress Caroline needs my slave-breath to help soothe her sore toe-joint during the daytime, I can only really attend to her boots and socks during the night-time when, thanks to a heavy dose of painkillers, she manages to get some sleep. Her loving husband, master Paul sir, will make sure I kneel in the corner of their master bedroom and mouthwash his wife’s dirty, black cotton, office anklesocks, and lickshine her dirty and dusty, black leather, office ankleboots, throughout the night whilst they are both sleeping. I therefore suffer from a lack of sleep during my mistress Caroline’s bouts of gout – as well as the synthetically-produced, empathetic, throbbing pain in my own foot. But that’s okay since I would be unable to sleep anyway due to the constant, burning pain in my slave foot – no painkillers or sleeping pills for me!

• To be honest the taste of my sleeping mistress’s sweaty, black socks and dirty, black boots in my mouth helps to take my mind off some of the pain, and I always make sure to respectfully sniff them all first as the smell of my mistress’s sweat-laden bootsocks and moist, inner boot linings does, in fact, act as a kind of footslave-anaesthetic, somehow dulling the pain for me!

• The master-sir makes sure I have other pairs of my mistress’s boots, shoes and socks to suck and lick at night, even if they are already clean, as he cannot bear the thought of me ‘skiving’ during his wife’s period of convalescence. I know he blames me for his wife’s condition – and he always finds some excuse in the days afterwards to administer a severe beating towards me; and rightly so, for I have patently failed in my duty of care towards his beloved wife’s foot.

When it’s finally all over, and my mistress has fully recovered from her bout of gout, the master-sir reluctantly watches whilst my merciful mistress Caroline injects me with the antidote to my own agonizing foot-pain. Some mistresses conveniently ‘forget’ to inject the antidote into their footslave’s foot, sometimes for days on end; I suspect they do so out of revenge towards their incompetent footslaves, who allowed the gout to take hold in the first place!

But my sweet and kind mistress Caroline, who will have lost all her tetchiness and bad humour as soon as her precious, feminine foot is better, is not one to hold grudges, and injects me straight away. I always make a point of respectfully, and worshipfully, kissing her fully recovered, no longer swollen toe-joint 1000 times by way of an apology to my mistress, and as an expression of my gratitude for her kindness and mercy in relieving my own artificially-induced pain so swiftly.

As I said, it’s her husband, master Paul sir, whom I must be wary of from now on – for he shall be looking for any excuse to beat me; a scuffmark on his wife’s boot; a sock not properly pulled up on her ankle; a disrespectful glance towards the feet and footwear of another, perhaps younger, woman who has caught his own wandering eye!

Yes – being the personal footslave of a married woman who suffers from gout is an existence fraught with pain and danger. But I wouldn’t change my humble life for the world. I love my mistress Caroline and her feet – gout and all!

 

Fantasy no. 7 – Prelude to a Whipping

My mistress Mei-Ling has come to taunt me in her back garden. I am tethered, on my hands and knees, to the whipping post – bare backed – anxiously awaiting the return of her husband, master Christopher sir, who has gone to fetch the punishment whip.

My 23 year old, dark-haired, Chinese mistress moves to stand in front of me in her revealing, pink blouse (which delightfully exposes her slender, Chinese midriff); her pleated, black cotton miniskirt (which delightfully exposes her smooth, Chinese legs); her scuffmarked, black suede leather, pixie boots; and her dark grey, feminine-cotton anklesocks inside her boots – socks which contain many slovenly furrows and folds.

Hands on hips, she verbally mocks me from above in her cute, oriental-girl accent – the superior mistress looking down on the helpless, about-to-be-whipped slave:

‘Ha! Ha! Mei-Ling husband – your master – go to fetch whip! Ha! Ha! Now you shake with fear – soon you cry! Soon you in pain! Soon you beg over Mei-Ling feet for mercy! Ha! Ha!

Power of master whip make you beg Mei-Ling boots and socks for stop pain of whip! Ha! Ha! You slobber over Mei-Ling boot; you fawn; you praise Mei-Ling for fact she better than you! Ha! Ha!

But you not get Mei-Ling pity! Mei-Ling like see you whipped! And Mei-Ling husband very strong man – he whip to hurt! Ha! Ha! You cry out, but he ignore! Ha! Ha! He cruel – like Mei-Ling!

Ha! Ha! After we pain you, Mei-ling and husband go make love. Ha! Ha! We make love while you rot in pain at whipping post! Ha! Ha! Even dirty flies come and bite you on sore back while we make love inside nice, comfortable house!

Ha! Ha! After we make love we look out at you from window – laugh at you; we leave you rot all night at whipping post out in cold while we go sleep in nice, warm bed! Ha! Ha!

Then, in morning, master make you kiss Mei-Ling dirty boots and socks again – beg Mei-Ling for release. Ha! Ha! I not care; I not show mercy – I tell husband we leave you there more twelve hours! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

I hear husband come now – come with whip! You get ready, slave Under-Ling – ready for many pain! Ha! Ha!’

Her dark grey, anklesock-creases go into overdrive as she positions herself with her seemingly innocent, suede leather, pixie-booted feet coquettishly, and uncaringly, twisted around one another at the socked anklebones directly beneath my kneeling face – safe from the whip, but subjected to my wretched tears of maleslave fear and humiliation as I sense the master-sir take up his dominant whipping position behind me…

 

Fantasy no. 6 – Smart Casual

My Chinese mistress, mistress Mei-Ling, and her husband are going out for a pleasant, evening meal in a relatively swanky restaurant with some of her friends and colleagues from work. I’m not invited to the meal – since I am merely miss Mei-Ling’s personal footslave – but, by the same token, I am obliged, by law, to accompany my mistress Mei-Ling to heel to the restaurant, where I must kneel dutifully underneath the table at her feet whilst she dines.

I am pleased to be going out to heel tonight as my slim and svelte, dark-haired, oriental mistress is wearing a particularly foot-fetching combination of shiny, black, single-strapped, one-inch-heeled pumps with short, red sneaker socks on her pretty feet and ankles below her calf-length, black cotton leggings.

In short, she looks the business – even though she is now at play!

Of course, my mistress Mei-Ling remembers her table-manners, and politely introduces her husband, and rudely introduces me, to her diner-friends at the start of the evening as they all meet up in the restaurant.

She begins with a petitely-built Sri Lankan girl who looks to be in her mid twenties, and who is casually dressed in a black bomber-jacket and blue denim jeans, with black ballet-flats and black socks. The Sri Lankan girl is accompanied by a white, male partner – an older man in his late forties or early fifties:

‘Sevanthi; Patrick – this my husband, Christopher!’

The superior, free human beings smile and politely shake hands with one another above me, as I continue to focus on my oriental mistress’s shiny black pumps and short, red socks – admiring, in particular, the way the somewhat incongruous sneaker-socks barely reach as high as the single, thin, anklestraps on each smart, black patent leather, feminine shoe, thereby revealing my mistress Mei-Ling’s precious, oriental ankleflesh in all its smooth-feminine glory!

I only take my obedient eyes of my mistress’s smart, black shoes and casual socks, to focus on the plain, black ballet flats and black anklesocks of Sri Lankan mistress Sevanthi, when I am introduced by my mistress to the latter by a disparaging prod of her pointy-toed, black patent leather pump to my kneeling flank:

‘And this my slave – Under-Ling. Slave – you kiss feet of miss Sevanthi, and show respect for her husband!’

Under-Ling; get it? Quite a clever slave-name, really, devised by my clever slave-mistress Mei-Ling!

The pointy, female-shoe prod is my ignominious signal to move my humbly bowed-to-the-floor face over towards the Sri Lankan girl’s soft, black shoes and to kiss them – just once each, on the rounded toe areas, which, I can’t help observing are somewhat dusty and scuffmarked this evening:

‘Greetings, mistress Sevanthi, madam…shoe-kiss…shoe-kiss...God bless you, mistress Sevanthi, madam…shoe-kiss…shoe-kiss...shoe-kiss…’

Mistress Sevanthi doesn’t ‘present’ her feet to me for kissing by stretching them forwards beneath my kneeling face – as an ‘experienced’ mistress would do – which is somewhat disappointing as, had she stretched forward each foot in turn, I am entirely confident her plain, black anklesocks would have creased most alluringly in front of my hangdog face below her tatty, blue-denim jean hems; always a pleasing and humbling sight for a footslave – a creased girlsock. As it is, however, her young, Sri Lankan woman feet and socks remain perfectly motionless.

Still a very nice sock/shoe combination though – soft, black ballet flats with matching, black socks!

Needless to say, miss Sevanthi doesn’t respond verbally to my words of humble slave-greeting, since I am beneath her in every sense of the word. Instead she just looks disparagingly down at me – like I’m something disgusting that is stuck to the bottom of her well-worn, ballet-flat shoe; which – to all intents and purposes – I am!

She then looks lovingly and admiringly towards her middle-aged husband as I demonstrate my slavish respect for him by kissing the ground directly in front of his feet (kissing male feet or footwear per se is outlawed here in the Gynarchy – thank the Goddess!):

‘Greetings master Patrick sir…kiss to dirty floor...kiss to dirty floor…God bless you, master Patrick sir…kiss to dirty floor…kiss to dirty floor…’

(Disclaimer: the floor in this restaurant is not that dirty; it just feels dirty to me, given that I am having to kiss where previous masters and mistresses have been walking!)

Master Patrick sir also says nothing and looks disdainfully down at me as I prostrate myself before his feet; it’s nothing more than polite female society expects from me – slavish respect for the freemale, sexual partner of a superior, young woman!

Having greeted the first of my mistress’s friends à-la-slave, I dutifully return my face to the side of my mistress Mei-Ling’s own shoes and socks, and am pleased to note a little slippage in her right sock, causing a tiny crease in the bright red, cotton material of the sock just below her shapely, outer anklebone.

Meanwhile, focussed on much higher things, she introduces her husband to the second couple who are joining my master and mistress for dinner this evening:

‘Fiona; Paul – this my husband Christopher!...’

‘Pleased to meet you both!’ smiles the master-sir, shaking both their hands. He doesn’t yet know mistresses Fiona or Sevanthi well enough to kiss them on the cheek, even though I get to kiss them both on the shoe!

A slave’s life is full of irony!

‘…And this my slave – Under-Ling! Again, slave Under-Ling, you show respect for betters!’

It’s amazing how my mistress Mei-Ling’s broken English can change from polite, to rude, in the same breath – polite as she addresses her equals; rude as she addresses me – her ‘Under-Ling’.

Once again I must pull my face away from my own mistress’s smart-casual shoes and socks, and this time towards the more formal shoes and nylons of miss Fiona (I must always greet the female before the male, since the female is more important even than her freemale husband or partner!)

Miss Fiona is a blonde, white girl; late twenties – with her hair tied back in a fetching ponytail. She too is slim and svelte, though considerably taller than both my Chinese mistress Mei-Ling and her Sri Lankan counterpart, miss Sevanthi – with correspondingly bigger feet! She is also much more smartly dressed than the other two women in a black, cotton trouser suit, and with an expensive-looking pair of black leather, kitten-heeled, court shoes on her feet.

Unlike her Sri Lankan counterpart, miss Fiona would also appear to be a more experienced mistress, as she casually stretches forth her right foot on the restaurant floor for me to kiss and pay my humble respects to, without even looking at me. It is only because she kindly stretches forth her foot that I can catch a glimpse of her dark-nylon-covered, prominent anklebone below her now slightly-raised, black cotton trouser hem, and I can even make out the delicious stretching in the finest denier, nylon stitching over said anklebone!

Not a casual scuffmark in sight on these smart, designer shoes!

‘Greetings mistress Fiona…kiss rounded toe of first shoe…kiss rounded toe of first shoe…(Pause while miss Fiona switches feet beneath my face) …God bless you mistress Fiona, madam…kiss rounded toe of second shoe… kiss rounded toe of second shoe…’

Sadly, neither black trouser-hem rides up sufficiently to reveal the blonde-haired, athletic mistress’s no doubt shapely, nyloned calf-muscles, but the mere presence of her nylons sends my footslave imagination into overdrive! I wonder if the nylons are knee or thigh length? And, if the latter, are they stockings or tights? And, if they are stockings, are they self-supporting or suspendered?

Such lustful and inappropriate thoughts are now racing through my footslave mind (mainly because I am starved of everyday nylons, since my own mistress Mei-Ling is very much a ‘socks’ girl!). Indeed I have to tear myself away from blonde mistress Fiona’s dark-nyloned feet and ankles in order to pay my respects to the floor in front of her partner, master Paul’s, ugly-shoed, male feet:

‘Greetings master Paul, sir…kiss to dirty floor...kiss to dirty floor…God bless you, master Paul sir…kiss to dirty floor…kiss to dirty floor…’

‘Ha! Ha! What a dork!’ exclaims master Paul sir, referring to me, I assume, and not to my mistress’s husband, master Christopher sir!

Once again, I humbly resume my kneeling place beside my delighted mistress Mei-Ling’s shiny-black-shoed and red-socked feet.

The restaurant door opens and yet another happy couple enter, this time already known to my master and mistress – and to me; I recognise them from the mistress’s footwear – it is brunette mistress Hayley and her husband, master Edward sir (Eddie to his friends – but I’m not his friend; I’m his wife’s friend’s footslave!)

Because this couple are already known to me my mistress has no need to introduce them to me (or her husband), but she does introduce them to the other couples, before miss Hayley, almost subconsciously, presents her outstretched, right foot for me to kiss.

It is clad in a chunky-heeled, square-toed, brown leather, zip-up, calf-length boot whose taste and smell are very familiar to me. Less familiar – but no less pleasing to the eye – are the thick, plain grey, woollen sock-tops peeking out from beneath the upper rims of miss Hayley’s brown leather boots. I thank the Goddess for this cold spell we’ve been having, for miss Hayley has clearly decided to don her winter socks along with her winter boots!

Yet another, pleasing example of the smart casual style of feminine fashion in the Gynarchy nowadays!

I silently, and unobtrusively, kiss each square-toed, feminine calf-boot in turn – beneath the grey, woolly socks – whilst a waiter helps to takes off miss Hayley’s knee-length, fur coat to reveal her above-the-knee, black leather miniskirt.

Hmm…not so cold then that she is afraid to go bare-legged?! Miss Hayley always dresses stylishly and sexily – a bit like my own mistress Mei-Ling, though I have to confess my loyalties are now torn between the black, patent leather pumps and red sneaker-socks of my own, Chinese mistress; the smart, black, kitten-heeled courts and dark nylons of blonde mistress Fiona; and the intriguing brown leather, calf-length boots and thick, grey, woolly socks of brunette-haired miss Hayley.

Even the plain, black ballet flats and frustratingly uncreased, black anklesocks of miss Sevanthi will be worthy of a second glance as I kneel dutifully beside my own mistress Mei-Ling’s shoes and socks beneath the restaurant table – especially if the Sri Lankan girl relaxes her foot muscles a bit and swivels her feet around inside those hitherto boring socks! For there is arguably nothing nicer on a young woman’s foot than a creased, black sock inside a matching black, and equally creased, soft leather ballet flat!

Introductions over, we proceed to the meal – or rather my masters and mistresses do. I shan’t be dining this evening – though I do now have a feast of feminine footwear to admire underneath the table.

I ignore the male feet throughout my superiors’ meal, of course. I mean, what possible interest could I (or you) have in them? Ha! Ha!

 

Fantasy no. 5 – Cross Examination

My fiery, 23 year old, redheaded mistress – mistress Josephine – is cross with me. She wants to know what the hell gives me the right to repeatedly look at the top of her pretty, pink bootsock, instead of the lower side of her black leather ankleboot, when she has issued me with strict, mistressly instructions to always focus in on the base of her ankleboot zipper-track, where it joins the curvy, black leather bootsole.

She points out to me that it is a great privilege, and an honour, which she has bestowed upon me – to look her in the zipper of her right boot as it hovers in the air (as opposed to the zipper on her left boot, which is the boot remaining static on the ground) whenever I am humbly and submissively kneeling by her side as she is seated, cross-legged, at her office desk. But it is an honour and a privilege which I have clearly abused – taking advantage of her raised, black cotton trouser-hem on her crossed-over, right leg to focus instead on the intimacy of her pale pink sock-top against the background of her smooth, white legflesh.

Some footmistresses, confusingly, actually encourage their personal footslaves to admire their sock-tops inside their boots and, indeed, would reprimand their personal footslaves for not focussing on their socks! But my mistress Josephine takes the opposite viewpoint, and believes that a slave should only ever be permitted to stare at the lower bottom side of a superior, female boot. And whatever a mistress believes, is her personal footslave’s law; so I have, effectively, broken the law!

I decide there is no point in denying my crime, since my fiery-redheaded mistress Josephine has clearly caught me redhanded, and so I humbly confess my sins, and implore her to beat me and correct me with the female whip!

She assures me that I shall be beaten, and severely so, but first she wants me to explain my actions, and account for my blatant disobedience of her crystal clear, female orders. She wants to know, for example, if I find her black leather, office ankleboot boring, or something? Is her boot not stylish enough for me to study it whilst she is wearing it on her shapely, right ankle?

I immediately seek to reassure my ginger-haired mistress that this is not the case (since a footslave must always respect and admire his mistress’s chosen style of outer footwear – and besides, I do genuinely admire her chunky-heeled, square-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots!). I explain to my mistress Josephine that it is purely and simply my maleslavish weakness for superior, female sock that has led to my fall from grace, especially since it is such a nice pair of socks she has on inside her boots today – pink, thinly-stitched cotton, with ribbed, elasticated trims at the tops! I explained it was that alluring combination of pink, feminine sock and white, feminine legflesh which had distracted me from the pure black of her lower, leather ankleboot, but that I can make no real excuses, and fully deserve to be severely punished.

So pray bring on the whip, mistress! I must be punished!

My mistress Josephine is even more livid now. She angrily points out the following home truths to me:

• Firstly, that I have no business looking at her bare legflesh, even the relatively demure, bare skin of her lower calf muscle immediately above her sockline, since I am her slave, and not her lover. She also threatens to tell her lover, master Thomas sir, of my libidinous and unseemly behaviour in lusting after her bare flesh, and assures me that for every punishing lash of the female whip she is about to apply to my disobedient back, master Thomas sir will apply double the number with his great, masculine force when he gets home from work!

• Secondly, that my only business with her socks, as far as she is concerned, is to smooth them onto her feet at the beginning of the day before I zip-up her ankleboots; to then straighten them inside her boots throughout the day, if required – AND ONLY ON HER EXPLICT, FEMALE COMMANDMENT TO DO SO; to humbly sniff her used, sweaty socks on her feet after she has debooted and is relaxing on her sofa at the end of the day in front of the television, lying back in the arms of her manly boyfriend; to then peel her sweaty socks from her feet before she retires to bed with her boyfriend, and to mouthwash them throughout the night whilst I am sleeping. SHE DOES NOT, REPEAT NOT, REQUIRE ME TO STARE AT HER SOCKS INSIDE HER UPPER BOOTRIMS THROUGHOUT THE DAY. Rather, she reiterates, my kneeling instructions as her personal footslave are to focus, at all times, on the lower instep of her right ankleboot, where the felt zipper-track joins the stitching of the black leather bootsole. THAT is to be my default slave- position, and my God she’ll whip me hard, AND send me to the underground slave-mines, if I ever deviate from it again!

• Thirdly, that it’s not as if, in any case, there isn’t a lot to see and admire on the instep of her black leather ankleboot – the contrast between the soft felt of the zipper-area and the harsh leather of the surrounding boot; the inevitable little bits of dust and detritus which attach themselves to the felt zipper-area of her boot as she goes about her daily business above me; the splashes of wet streetmud from the muddy puddles she has walked through on a wet and windy day like today; the black stitching securing her boot’s upper to the curved sole; the very shape of that curved sole, raising her goddess-like instep above the level of my lowly face; the multitudinous creases in her bootleather, including the various contours in the black leather which are moulded to the shape of her dainty foot after repeated wear and tear; the occasional glimpse of the dirt she has walked in underneath – on the thick sole of her boot; not to mention the very smell of her musty, wet bootleather, so close to my gormless, bootslave-face; and so on and so forth…

As the mistress points out all three of these Gynarchy-home truths to me, her slave, I feel increasingly ashamed of my blatant disobedience towards her, and shower her boots with penitent and sorrowful kisses, imploring her to delay no further in whipping me and punishing me. I can bear to wait no longer for the punishing sting of her wraparound whip – the only female embrace I ever receive!

My mistress Josephine duly obliges me, standing up to walk behind me, to slowly unfurl her three-thonged, brown leather, punishment whip, and then to apply a dozen good, hard strokes to my bare and penitent, kneeling back and shoulders.

With every cutting stroke I seek to concentrate on the movement in her right boot, for, as we’ve just established, my kneeling instructions are to always look her in the side of her right boot! And in any case, it is yet again the relatively exciting boot, with its chunky heel twisting up off the ground with every stinging stroke to my back (unlike the left boot which remains fixed to the ground in order to give the mistress more purchase as she swings down the whip!)

Ironically, that very whip-movement in her mobile, right boot is causing the black polyester, bootcut trouser-hem on her right leg to swing up around her leather-booted anklebone, thereby affording me the occasional glimpse of the deliciously girly-pink, elasticated sock-top on her well-turned, right anklebone whilst she is in the very act of whipping me!

There you are – you see? I’m doing it again! Distracted by pale pink girlsock – even in the midst of a punishment whipping!

I am truly an incorrigible sock-slave!

 

Fantasy no. 4 – Bird of Prey, or Cougar?

My new mistress – mistress Moira – is a sharply-dressed, pint-sized, forty-something, young(ish) white woman with mousey, permed hair.

She is circling around me like a bird of prey in her sharp businesswoman suit consisting of a light grey pinstriped jacket over a white blouse; matching, light grey pinstriped trousers; and flat, black, pointy-toed, slip-on shoes over flesh-coloured nylons.

The flat shoes and skin-toned nylons eventually come to rest on the carpet directly below my face as I kneel, with my head humbly bowed, in the centre of her living room – presumably so that I can get a better, close-up view of her petite feet and footwear which it shall be my inestimable privilege to serve from now on!

I hear her laughing at me as I instinctively lean forwards to kiss her feet, and she then even facilitates me in my humble gesture of slavish respect by extending first her right, and then her left, foot for me to repeatedly kiss. After the first few frightened kisses on each pointy, black-leather, feminine shoe toe, I even make so bold as to kiss her on the exposed area of nylon stocking covering her dainty, middle-aged toe-cleavage – not out of lustfulness or lasciviousness (though I must admit the rough nylon does feel suitably stimulating on my dry and parched lips), but out of my sheer respect for her middle-aged, business-womanly power over me, and her complete, legal ownership of me.

She mockingly praises me for being a ‘good slave’, before withdrawing her feet from my lips and urging me to listen carefully to what she has to say:

She confirms that her name is Moira, but that I must always address her as ‘master’ – never as ‘mistress’; or ‘mistress Moira’; or even as ‘master Moira’. Just ‘master’. She explains that it’s just one of her little quirks which I must get used to and comply with, and she warns me that any infringement of this stipulation will lead to a severe whipping. She furthermore promises to inform me in more detail about the nature of her whip in due course.

First, however, she wishes to appraise me of my new slave-name, which she has decided shall be ‘slave Pugface’, on account of my pug-ugly, but simultaneously ‘cute’, face! She then imitates the bark of a pug puppy-dog in order to mock me still further, and laughs at me.

She then goes on to explain that she will shortly be purchasing a heavy, wooden slave-collar known as a ‘cangue’, which she will have engraved with my slave nickname on it, along with her home address, so that everyone will know I belong to her and am her property. She explains that the heavy cangue will force me to keep my head low at all times, and thereby to concentrate on her feet and footwear – since that is the reason she has purchased me: as her personal foot and footwear servant.

My new, female master goes on to explain the fresh wounds on either side of my temples. She explains that she has had me fitted with an electronic ‘concentrator’ device, which she will now switch on. She warns me, before she does so, that the cruel device will supply me with a sharp, and extremely painful, electric shock to the temples should I fail to concentrate my mind, and/or focus my attention, on her feet and footwear – and she then commands me to test it out by looking away from her feet for just one second.

I reluctantly obey, for I am a weak and feeble maleslave, and terribly afraid of pain, but I know I have no choice but to obey my mischievous, female master. Though it pains me to do so, therefore, I briefly look away for a split second to the lime-green carpet surrounding my female master’s shoes, and, sure enough, my temple-lobes experience an almighty, sharp shock which has me reeling and groaning in pain on the floor.

My master claps her dainty, feminine hands above me with undisguised glee, laughs, and informs me she is glad to see that the device is working. She counsels me never to look away from her feet again, and never to let my mind wander from her feet – unless I want to experience another such shocking headache!

Master then goes on to present me with her whip. She first teasingly dangles it in front of my still-recovering-from-shock, kneeling face in order to show me that it contains five, black leather lashes all studded with metal balls. She explains that such a whip is barely legal in the Gynarchy, but that she likes it because it will enable her to cause my enslaved body the maximum amount of masculine pain and damage with the minimum amount of feminine effort. She explains that she suffers from a frozen shoulder, and so can’t always swing the whip as vigorously as she would like to – but that the studded, metal balls, though round and not jagged, will fairly make up for any lack of power in her whipstrokes!

She asks me if I believe her? I reply that I do, and seek to assure the master that I shall both admire and fear her whip. But she says she doesn’t believe me, and that she is therefore going to give me a sample stroke of her five-thonged lash.

I then watch as her flat, black leather, pointy-toed shoes and flesh-coloured nylons move around to stand behind me (I make sure to keep my attention humbly focussed on my new master’s feet as she walks behind me, as I don’t want to experience another terrible shock from the concentrator device in my temples, though it is hard for me not to nervously eye-up that other source of impending pain – the studded lashes on the five-tailed whip!)

When she is directly behind me my mistress stops, and positions her dainty, female feet with her right foot in front of her left, ready to strike. I notice, curiously, how the concentrator device seems to enable me to magnify my female master’s shoes and nylons in my mind, so that, even though her fully-shod feet are now some distance away from me, I can clearly observe the fine, individual stitches in her flesh-coloured nylons just above the pointy-toe areas of her shoes around her stretched toe-cleavage. Furthermore, as her left foot twists upwards in preparation for delivering the promised, feminine whipstroke down onto my kneeling and exposed back, I can observe all the concomitant creases and folds in the nylon stocking around her shapely, white, middle-aged anklebone.

The sight makes me feel truly humble – the sight of my female whipper’s business shoes and nylons, about to mean business!

But soon all thoughts of my female master’s nylon-stocking creases are banished from my mind as there is a terrifying swishing noise behind me, and the sudden, searing pain of the multithonged whip spreads ferociously across my bare back and shoulders – causing, as an unfortunate by-product, the cerebral pain of the concentrator-device to kick in, and thereby assaulting my pain-receptors on two different levels; in my back and on my brain.

I scream in pitiful agony!

My master – her left, businesswoman foot coming to rest again on the ground – laughs at me in my suffering. I brace myself for a possible second stroke, but my new master is nothing if not merciful. A single, sample stroke is what she had promised me; and a single, sample stroke is all I damn well get!

Prompted by the concentrator device, I subconsciously absorb the stinging pain in my back, and watch as my master’s feet once again circle round me – coming to rest in front of my kneeling, and now sobbing, face.

Once again the master smugly extends her feet in front of me on the floor, one after the other, for respectful kissing on the pointy shoe-toes and nylon toe-cleavage, and asks me if I think I’m going to like being her slave?

I reply, in between lapping on her fully-shod feet, that I am indeed very much looking forward to being of foot-service to my new master!

For my new, female master is like a bird of prey (or should that be a cougar?), encircling her wounded quarry, and cruelly toying with him. I clearly have no choice but to submit to her experienced mastery over me – body, mind and soul!

 

Fantasy no. 3 – The Prurient Footslave

Okay, so I freely admit it – I am an incredibly prurient footslave! I just love to ask my regular customer-mistresses, or at least the ones whom I think I can get away with it, all about their sex lives as I minister with my footslave-tongue to their dirty footwear at my humble, ‘stand-up’, public shoelick-stall (It’s too risky with the stranger-mistresses; you never quite know how they might react to such seemingly impertinent questions from a lowly, public foot-servant!)

I think it’s because I don’t have a sex life of my own – being a mere slave; I’m just fascinated by the pleasures of the flesh as they exist for superior, free people, like my sexually active customer-mistresses above me!

Take miss Lisa, for example, who is making her way towards me, as per usual, after her long, hard day at the office. Now she really is a beautiful and sexy, young woman – a real head-turner! Mid twenties; slim and svelte, with her long, blonde hair tied back in a fetching ponytail; and always immaculately dressed, as she is now, in her smart, young-womanly business-suit consisting of a black jacket over a frilly, white blouse and matching, black, boot-cut trousers over her stylish spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up, black leather, businesslike ankleboots.

I can also 100% guarantee you that she will be wearing a pair of black, cotton anklesocks inside those boots – for miss Lisa is nothing if not predictable when it comes to her workday foot-attire!

More to the point, she has had lots of lovers, and is always happy to tell me about them; even to boast about them! I think she feels completely uninhibited talking openly about such matters whilst I tongueshine her boots, precisely because she knows I am a sexless being – and therefore lesser than her. Her sexual exploits remind her that she is better than me, as she is clearly a desirable, young woman, and yet she knows I personally can never have her, due to my lowly position as a bonded, male slave.

She is, therefore, essentially mocking me when she informs me in great detail about her sex life, but I don’t mind, as hearing about her sexual enjoyment with other, free men is the closest I will ever get to understanding what it means to have sex with, and satisfy, a beautiful, young woman!

And so our kinky conversations are a kind of mutual self-gratification, if you like.

Here’s how it goes:

Miss Lisa, always bright and cheery, presents her right, booted foot onto my wooden footblock whilst simultaneously hitching up the hem of her right, bootcut trouser leg to reveal the elasticated top of her black, cotton anklesock inside her upper bootrim. She knows I like that!

She then delivers her customary, disparaging order down to me:

‘Shine it up, slave!’

She then opens up her evening paper on the pretence of ignoring me whilst she reads the important, financial news items inside.

‘Yes mistress Lisa. At once most beautiful and respected mistress Lisa, madam.’

Just because I know everything about her sex life it doesn’t mean I don’t genuinely respect my feisty and flighty, blonde customer-mistress. She’s a very successful young businesswoman – as well as being highly successful in bed!

I go through the motions of lickshining her black leather, office ankleboot for a few seconds, whilst focussing on the thin slither of soft, white, blonde-girl legflesh just visible above her teasingly creased, black cotton sock-top.

Then I pop the prurient question:

‘Oh pray, mistress Lisa, if it pleases you, mistress Lisa, the mistress is looking very beautiful this evening, young mistress! Will the mistress be enjoying sexual intercourse perchance this evening, mistress?’

She’s not shocked – nor is she upset by my interruption of her faux newspaper-reading above me. In fact, she wants me to ask her such an impudent question, since she loves informing me of her planned sexual conquests in the full knowledge that I shall never be getting any!

‘Erm…I think I probably will, slave. I’m seeing Marcus again tonight, and I know he’ll be up for it!’

Throughout our conversation of unequals I continue to lickshine the exteriors of miss Lisa’s street-dirtied ankleboots, for she may, of course, be wearing these selfsame boots during her date with master Marcus sir, and it’s important, therefore, that I shine up miss Lisa’s boots so that they look nice and clean for him:

‘Oh congratulations, mistress! Truly this slave is pleased for the mistress! And pray, what nice things will the master and mistress be doing to each other during their happy and joyous lovemaking, mistress?’

She rustles her paper, making out that she’s trying to read when, actually, she just wants to talk to me about how she will be making out tonight with lucky master Marcus sir:

‘Oh, well he’s very good at stimulating me orally, and I know he also likes me to give him head!’

Miss Lisa subconsciously, or is it consciously, changes booted feet below me at this point, knowing full well that I shall never in a month of Sundays experience the delights of a superior, young woman ‘giving me head’, since I’m just a slave!

‘Oh how wonderful, mistress! It sounds like the two of you are just made for each other in bed, mistress?’

‘Yes, I think we are, slave. I do like real men – and Marcus is a real man who knows exactly what he likes; but he can be very tender and giving too in bed. I really like him! …Oh, you missed a bit there, dirty slave, on the back of my heel!’

Miss Lisa is referring to a mud-stain on the lower tip of her spiked-bootheel, which she helpfully reaches down to point out with her scarlet-painted fingernail as she twists her dirty, left bootheel helpfully towards my face.

The metal zip-pull on the side of her boot flaps with the movement in her black bootleather, catching the late afternoon sunlight; it reminds me that I too must shine – but not in bed; I must shine miss Lisa’s boots with my tongue, out here on the street. For I exist only at her boot-level.

‘Yes miss. Sorry miss!’

‘You know, you really should try it sometime, slave – oral sex I mean. Oh – wait a moment! Sorry, you can’t, can you? Since you’re just a chained-up, down-in-the-dirt, asexual, public foot-servant! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress Lisa. Indeed mistress Lisa.’

I can’t help wondering, as I lick away the offending mudstain on mistress Lisa’s black leather bootheel, and confirm my enforced celibacy to her, whether that same painted fingernail will be providing master Marcus with additional sensual pleasure this evening, just as it has just, effectively, scolded me for not doing my bootlicking job properly, and mocked me for being impotent at the anklebooted foot of a young woman!

It’s a timely reminder to me that I have a job to do – to beautify miss Lisa’s boots for the benefit of a real man, master Marcus sir; for no free man worth his salt would surely want to be seen going out with a girl who is wearing dirty boots!

I suppose it’s the closest I shall ever get to joining in with mistress Lisa madam and master Marcus sir in their erotic foreplay – by lickshining her boots. And that slither of soft, bare, feminine legskin just above the sock is the closest I shall ever get to a naked, young blonde woman’s soft flesh. I’m just not worthy to see anything more!

Miss Lisa knows it; master Marcus sir (wherever and whoever he is) knows it; and I know it.

And so, as she haughtily steps away from my shoelick-stand, her boots suitably gleaming with my saliva, I wish libidinous, regular-customer miss Lisa well in her raunchy sex life:

‘Thank you, mistress Lisa. God bless you, mistress Lisa. Have a nice time with the master-sir this evening, miss Lisa madam!’

For her part she says nothing. She’s said all she has to say – until the next time!

 

Fantasy no. 2 – Excluded, Humiliated & Violated

My 48 year old, blonde mistress, mistress Amanda, is still a stunningly attractive woman who can turn freemale heads – tall; svelte (apart, perhaps, for her posterior which is rather on the rotund side); a snappy dresser, always attired in designer clothes which are entirely appropriate for her age – smart, crisp trouser suits etc.

Above all she is blessed with a pretty face – and with great skin; hardly a wrinkle or line in sight! Plus, she may have had a little bit of plastic surgery on her nose. In all honesty, she could easily pass for a sexy woman in her mid thirties!

Unsurprisingly she has lots of friends, and tonight she and her husband, master-sir Peter, are holding a little soiree in their rather opulent home. I am excluded from the festivities, of course – confined in their back garden in the set of genuine, antique, mediaeval kneeling stocks which they purchased several years ago at auction.

Already the ancient wood weighs heavily on my neck, after just two hours in the stocks; but so it should – for I am being punished. Punished for allegedly ‘giving lip’ to my mistress Amanda’s twenty year old daughter, miss Kelly. I say ‘allegedly’ because I had actually intended no disrespect. I had merely sought to point out to miss Kelly that her precious, pink socks were uneven inside her high-top, lace-up, black and white converse sneakers as I was ‘lickshining’ the dirty, rubber soles of said sneakers – but I think my audacious comment embarrassed miss Kelly in front of her boyfriend, master-sir Paul, and so she promptly complained about me to her mother, who duly sentenced me to 24 hours in the stocks.

She’s a chip off the old block – miss Kelly – and the apple of her mother and father’s eyes, so I must always tread very carefully where she is concerned. I do try, very hard, to please her – for I’m hoping, given the good-looking genes that she has inherited from her mother – that I may, in the fullness of time, be passed on to miss Kelly as her personal footslave, perhaps when she eventually marries master-sir Paul and moves out into her own place; that would surely guarantee me the honour of serving yet another, beautiful, blonde woman for the rest of my footslave days, since miss Kelly is some 40 years my junior!

But she’s a sensitive and belligerent, young woman – and I don’t think she likes me; she certainly enjoys getting me into trouble – as evidenced by today’s events!

I can hear laughter and joy coming from the house as I suffer, alone, in the heavy, wooden stocks at the bottom of the garden – but it isn’t too long before my middle-aged mistress Amanda, accompanied by two of her female guests, comes out to check on me; or should that be to ‘mock’ me as I languish in her antique, wooden stocks.

Actually, come to think of it, she probably just wants to show me off to her friends!

I recognise one of her guests – her neighbour, mistress Rachel; a slightly younger woman in her early forties who, unlike my stylish mistress Amanda, tends to be like ‘mutton dressed as lamb’.

Take this evening, for example. As the three ladies approach me, alcoholic cocktails in hand, you can clearly see that my 48 year old, blonde mistress Amanda is wearing a fashionable, bell-bottomed, beige-coloured, trouser suit with black socks and dark brown, tasselled loafers. That combination of black sock and brown shoe is so classy, don’t you think? Sophisticated – almost.

Whereas her neighbour, the brunette miss Rachel – no spring chicken herself – is wearing a revealing, purple blouse; an ultra-short, black leather miniskirt; black fishnet stockings; and shiny, black leather, high-heeled pumps with what must be at least 4 inch stiletto heels! Okay, she has the legs for them, but its patently obvious that she can hardly walk in them through the soggy garden (it had been raining heavily earlier this evening); or perhaps her unsteadiness is due to an overindulgence in alcohol – another trait for which miss Rachel is renowned throughout this posh neighbourhood.

But my mistress Amanda likes her, and gets on with her; hence her invitation to the party!

The third female in the group is an unknown quantity to me – a redhead; looks to be in her mid to late thirties, perhaps. Shorter and stockier than the other two ladies, and more casually dressed in tight, black jeans tucked into the tops of a pair of chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, calf-length, black leather slouch-boots.

Designer jeans and boots, I expect. Sadly, though, no sign of any socks peeking out the top of her slouch boots (that’s what I mean about classiness on the part of my beloved mistress Amanda – she would always show a modicum of sock if she was wearing them – whatever her outer footwear; if my mistress Amanda was wearing her black leather, calf-length boots, for example, the elasticated tops of a pair of matching black, cotton bootsocks would most definitely be on view over her black, skinny-tight, designer jeans!)

But there’s no accounting for female taste – and I must remember, as they approach me in the pleasant company of my mistress Amanda – that these two female guests are my masters and betters, whatever their chosen attire, for they are the esteemed houseguests of my master and mistress.

Tartily-clad miss Rachel is the first to laugh out loud at me as their three pairs of lady-feet come to rest in front of my bowed head in the kneeling stocks:

‘Ha! Ha! How’s it hangin’, slave? Your head I mean! Ha! Ha!’

‘Ha! Ha! You could hardly mean his dick, Rachel! I mean, he’s just a slave, and a bloody old one at that! Ha! Ha!’ chips in the unknown, thirty-something redhead in the slovenly, black leather boots. Such crude language for a young(ish) lady to use!

My mistress Amanda gallantly leaps to my defence – sort of:

‘Ha! Ha! I can assure you, ladies, that there’s life in the old dog yet – at least as far as licking dirty footwear is concerned! Ha! Ha! Here – Samantha – try him out! Make him lickshine your dirty boots!’

‘Don’t mind if I do!’ responds the short and stocky redhead in the – possibly sockless but more likely sock-hiding – calf-length, leather boots, whom I now know to be called mistress Samantha.

My humble view of miss Rachel’s black patent leather high-heels, and my own mistress Amanda’s dark brown leather loafers, is now temporarily blocked by the blocky, black leather boot on miss Samantha’s right leg as she literally shoves it, sideways first, into my face:

‘Ha! Ha! You heard your mistress, dirty old pig! Lickshine the side of my boot! Get all that muck and filth off it, yeah?’

She’s referring to the fresh garden-mud that has accumulated on the side of her creased-leather slouch-boot during the short walk down the soggy, back garden of my mistress’s far-from-humble abode. In fact, all three of the ladies’ footwear has been royally soiled by the wet, sticky mud!

As the owner of the boot now in my face had so delicately intimated earlier, I may not have much of a ‘dick’ on me, but my tongue sure knows how to please a lady and her boots, as my very own mistress Amanda had so graciously declared!

I am determined not to let her, or miss Samantha, down, and lick the female boot with all my footslave might.

Miss Samantha is clearly, mockingly, impressed:

‘Ha! Ha! His tongue tickles – even through my thick socks!’

Aha! So the redheaded mistress is wearing socks inside her boots; thick socks! But what colour? And what material – cotton or wool? My own mistress Amanda miss Kelly, would never leave me in such suspense about her socks! The latter, taking a leaf out of her fashionable mother’s book, had kindly ensured the elasticated tops of her plain, pink anklesocks were on display inside her converse high-tops earlier today – though, if truth be told, I’d rather not be reminded right now of miss Kelly’s pink socks, the authoresses of my current downfall!

After a few minutes miss Samantha’s formerly mud-stained, right boot is suddenly replaced in front of my face by the twisted side of her equally mud-stained left boot. There is no footblock out here on which the boot can rest beneath my kneeling face, and so it hovers somewhat unsteadily in the air whilst my obedient and diligent footslave-tongue dutifully attends to it.

After some minutes miss Samantha addresses her fellow guest, miss Rachel:

‘Hey, Rach, why don’t you give him a go? Have him lick off the crud stuck to your stiletto heels! Ha! Ha! Deep throat him with your heels! Ha! Ha! That should make him gag!’

My own mistress Amanda stands by and watches as her slutty, forty-something neighbour in the black leather miniskirt, black fishnet stockings, and patent black leather high-heels then smilingly moves forwards, holds up her right foot in the air, and penetrates my kneeling, gaping mouth with her spiked-heel.

She does so extremely roughly, scraping and cutting the roof of my mouth with the mud-spattered, metal base of her stiletto heel. Fortunately for me, however, not even miss Rachel’s 4-inch heel is long enough to extend all that deeply down inside my throat, and so she pushes at the inside of my right cheek instead, making it look distorted and used from the outside – a fitting punishment when you think about it, given the ‘right cheek’ I had displayed to her hostess’s 20 year old daughter, miss Kelly, in criticising the unevenness of her pink sock-tops!

How the three ladies all laugh as miss Rachel thrusts repeatedly at the inside of my face – in and out; in and out:

‘Ha! Ha! See if you can’t push your heel right though his face, Rach! Make a hole in it! Ha! Ha!’ exhorts miss Samantha, the cruel redhead.

Mistress Rachel, to give her her due, does try her level best to puncture my cheek from the inside with her spiky stiletto heel, but not even a 4-inch spike can penetrate such elasticky, old, facial skin like mine, and my face remains intact – if sore.

When she has finished penetrating me with her heel, mistress Rachel steps back in order to allow my supercilious and smug-looking owner, mistress Amanda, to have her flat, brown leather loafers lickshined in front of her girlfriends by the oppressed and punished, household footslave. I feel I am on much safer ground here – for my mistress Amanda would never attempt to mutilate me with her footwear. She rarely even sanctions the use of the whip on me – though she is fond of confining me for hours on end in the stocks, as now!

Somehow the mud from my mistress’s classy, brown leather, tasselled loafers tastes better than that from her guests’, ostensibly sexier, footwear – perhaps because it is complemented by the sight of her modest, plain black cotton socks inside her shoes, beneath her beige-coloured, bell-bottom trousersuit hems! The black socks’ very familiarity (given I had dressed my mistress’s feet in them earlier in the day) is a comfort to me in my hour of public humiliation and pain!

Of course, all my diligent work in lickshining my visitors’ shoes proves to be entirely nugatory as they must walk back up towards the house through the very same, wet garden. But then, the purpose of their visit had not been to have their footwear cleaned, so much as to mock and humiliate me – and in that regard, it was mission accomplished!

As the rain starts to fall again, washing the residual dirt from the sides of miss Samantha’s black leather, calf-length boots off the outer surface of my nearly-punctured face, I savour the taste of my own mistress Amanda’s brown leather shoe-mud inside my still throbbing and violated mouth.

 

Fantasy no. 1 – Pleasing Herself

She looked for all the world like your typical, respectable, Chinese businesswoman – slim, dark-haired and petite; mid thirties; wearing a smart, grey-pinstriped, trouser suit over a crisp, white blouse; and patent black leather, pointy-toed, spike-heeled, zip-up ankleboots – though, on reflection, it was, perhaps, a rather unusual hour of the morning for such a hardworking businesswoman to be out and about, being 2 A.M.

In fact, apart from her Chinese presence, the town square was deserted, but a public shoelick is, technically and legally, never off duty, and so she had every right to awaken me with a sharp kick to the face from her pointy-toed, black leather, officewear ankleboot:

‘You wake up, slave! You lick!’

Yes – an unmistakeable Chinese accent, deserving of my undivided attention and respect:

‘Yes, mistress! At once, Chinese mistress!’ I mumbled into her right boot – the one that had just kicked me in the face – as it now rested, arrogantly outstretched, on the wooden footblock in front of which I was chained up (I am obliged to sleep in a kneeling position – like all public footslaves here in the Gynarchy – though I do, at least, have my shoesole-dirtied, wooden footblock as a makeshift pillow on which to rest my weary and chained-up head!).

Although the pinstripe-suited businesswoman’s right leg was now extended as she stood imperiously over me, her right trouser-leg had not ridden up high enough to afford me a glimpse of the upper rim of her stylish, patent leather ankleboot, so I had no idea, at this stage, whether or not she was wearing any socks inside her boots – though I hoped they’d be black in keeping with the rest of her no-nonsense, successful businesswoman attire.

As I lickshined the pointy toe of her Chinese ankleboot she admired, and laughed at, my recent whip-wounds, delivered to my bare back and shoulders by some of my previous, dissatisfied customers:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave back sore? Raw? Ha! Ha! Look all cut and red! Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes mistress…lick…lick…Thank you, Chinese mistress…lick...lick...if it pleases you, most gracious and kind Chinese mistress …lick …lick ...lick...’

She is a kind and gracious mistress! I mean, she may have just rudely awakened me from my much-needed slumber by kicking me in the face, and she may be forcing me to lickshine her dirty ankleboot at 2 A.M in the middle of the deserted town square, but at least she isn’t the one who applied the burning, stinging whip-marks to my back yesterday evening! (That was by cruel courtesy of two East-European customer-mistresses who were a bit drunk, if truth be told, and consequently made judicious use of the female-communal whipping-stick that hangs on the wall next to my head.)

At first, I take some foolish, slavish pride in having my freshly whip-scarred back admired by the seemingly respectable, booted and suited, Chinese business-mistress, until I start to hear some strange rustling noises and feminine groans above me. It’s then that I realise the Chinese mistress is actually rubbing herself on her private parts inside the upper hem of her smart, businesslike, bootcut trousers!

‘Oooh!...Ha! Ha! You lick Mei-Ying boot, dirty whipped slave!.. Oooh!...You a nothing; you a nobody…You in pain! Ha! Ha!...I better than you!...Oooh!...I not whipped; my back soft and smooth! Ha! Ha!...You lick filthy boot of Chinese-female better, dirty whipped dog, or I add to your pain – give you more whip! Ha! Ha! ...Ooooh … Aahhh!...’

‘Yes mistress! As it pleases you, most respected Chinese mistress!’

Just because she’s pleasuring herself, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t respect her! She is, after all, a free woman living in the Gynarchy – she is perfectly entitled to a sex life. Unlike me – a mere, impotent male slave! Indeed, I’m the one who should be ashamed – of the female-arousing state of my back!

I dare not look up at the mistress’s face, but if I could have seen her I have no doubt her oriental face would have been contorted with sweet, feminine lust!

Instead I just concentrate on the, now somewhat restless, ankleboot in front of me – until, that is, the libidinous customer-mistress decides to take things to another level:

‘Ha! Ha! You – whipped slave – you undo zipper on side of Mei-Ying boot now!...Ooooh!...Aaahh!...Ha! Ha! You pull down zip with mouth and kiss Mei-Ying on sock!...’

Socks – on a first date!

I must confess, I was starting to feel aroused myself, even though there was damn all I could do about it! I found myself praying that her socks would be black – as I indicated before – for it would truly be an honour to kiss the black, cotton bootsock of such a lusty and powerful, young Chinese businesswoman, whilst she is taking such pleasure at my pain and humiliation beneath her!

‘Y…yes, mistress…At once...Ch…Chinese m...mistress Mei-Ying!’

I always start to stammer and get nervous before sox.

I moved my mouth over to the, now writhing, black leather ankleboot and grabbed hold of the side-zipper with my teeth, audaciously pulling it down like a free man might do to a stripogram-girl on a stag night, to reveal a delightful, short, black, feminine anklesock with a row of fetching little pink hearts along the elasticated top!

The sock looked well-creased and worn inside the sharp-suited, business-lady boot:

‘Ha! Ha! You like sock on Mei-Ying pretty ankle, slave?’ asked a practically breathless miss Mei-Ying.

‘Oh y…yes, m…mistress M…Mei-Ying...This dirty slave admires the m…mistress’s bootsock very much, if it would be so p…pleasing to you, most respected and beautiful m…mistress Mei-Ying!’

She laughs at me, and seems to increase the pace of her self-frottage above me:

‘Ha! Ha! Well, what you wait for, dirty whipped slave?...You kiss Mei-Ying on pretty sock!..Oooh!...You start with side of sock!...Kiss black part of sock on Mei-Ying anklebone!...Aahhh!...You not touch Mei-Ying pink hearts at top of sock!... Ohhhh!’

‘Y…Yes m…mistress Mei-Ying! At once, m…mistress-madam!’

I can hardly believe my luck – or my ears, as there are now a series of squelching noises emanating from mistress Mei-Ying’s intimate parts above me! I think she is actually reaching a self-induced climax as I start humbly kissing her on the side of her naughtily, exposed sock:

‘Ooohh!...Aaahhh!...Ha! Ha! You frightened of me! Ha! Ha! You so frightened – you kiss Chinese girl on dirty, sweaty sock!...Ha!...Ha!...I better than you!...Ha! Ha!...You in my power!...Haaaaa!’

Miss Mei-Ying is very astute in the midst of her feminine, power-trip arousal! I am indeed frightened of her, and what she might do to me if I fail to satisfy her female, soxual lusts!

But I need not have worried. ‘Ohh…Ohhhh!...I coming!...I coming!....Haaaaa! Yeesss!’ she finally grunts, as my humble slave-mouth kisses her superior, socked anklebone for only about the fifteenth time!

Her mood then instantly changes as she withdraws her now sticky fingers from her grey-pinstriped, trouser waist, composes herself and comes back down to earth:

‘Dirty slave, zip up side of mistress Mei-Ying boot again! You a dirty sock-whore! You filth! You close up Mei-Ying boot again – quick! Or I whip!’

‘Yes mistress! At once, mistress Mei-Ying!’

Pleasure-time is over, it seems! And so is my stammer!

I was hoping the Sino-sadist mistress Mei-Ying might order me to lick her sticky, gooey fingers clean, but instead she chose to bend down and wipe her slimy, feminine spendings off her dainty Chinese fingers directly into my still-raw, whip wounds!

Talk about rubbing it in – boy does that smart!