Footslave Fantasies Volume 3
The third volume in a collection of pure fantasies from footslaves – or are they?
VOLUME 3 CONTENTS (scroll down for fantasies in reverse numerical order)
10. The Superior Gene Pool
9. Deaf & Dumb
8. Grubby & Dirty?
7. Don’t F*** With Me Shoes!
6. Showing Me A Dirty Pair Of Heels
5. The Information Booth
4. A Day in the Life of a Blonde Girl’s Personal Footservant
3. Beneath the Burka
2. The Girls’ Queer Sock-Sniffer
1. Bi-Beating in the Barn
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Fantasy no. 10 – The Superior Gene Pool
I am completely besotted by her – 24 year old, Korean customer-mistress Eun Sun!
I know it’s wrong – I mean, a public shoe and bootlicker should never lust after a superior customer-mistress, no matter how stunningly beautiful she is; no matter how long, dark and shiny her hair; no matter how deep and sultry her eyes; no matter how slim and svelte her figure; and no matter how crisp and white her socks inside her black leather, zip-up ankleboots!
But I just can’t help myself – I’m in total awe of her, petite, oriental beauty; and she knows it!
Luckily, miss Eun Sun is not offended by my unseemly man-lust for her, and, in fact, finds it funny. As the following discourse between us clearly demonstrates:
My maleslave heart is all of a flutter as she climbs up, as per usual, onto the public bootlick-throne in front of my kneeling face and rests her dainty, block-heeled, anklebooted feet on the two metal footrests level with my nose and mouth. I inhale deeply through my nose, that I may better absorb the smell of her wonderful, well-worn bootleather.
And – again as per usual – she flirts with me, hitching up her scruffy and frayed, blue denim jean hems to reveal the tops of her seemingly pure, white anklesocks inside her boots; her favourites, and mine!
She once told me that these are the very same socks she used to wear when she was a traffic-cop back in Pyongyang. I’ll bet she must have looked the business in her bright, blue traffic-cop uniform and matching, peaked cap; her shiny, black, low-heeled, authoritative, police-uniform, lace-up shoes; and her crisp, white, uniform-anklesocks as she robotically directed all the non-traffic in the centre of that great town with her police baton and whistle!
I am fervently hoping that, some day, she will permit me to kiss or nuzzle those ex traffic-cop socks inside her refugee, student-girl ankleboots. Can you imagine just how pleasurable that would be – for a pathetic, down-at-heel, public bootslave like me?!
She giggles as I start to fantasise and salivate at the sight of her pure white, elasticated socktops:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave like what he see? Slave like Eun Sun smelly, white sock on nice, North Korean girl ankles?’
I remember where I am – and who I am – and lower my gaze in shame from the tops of my North Korean customer-mistress’s socks to where they should be; down on the scuffmarked, rounded toe areas of her boots – for I should be seeking out streetdirt and grime, to lick away from the lower parts of her boots; not lusting after superior, Korean-girl, white cotton, upper bootsock!
But, as I have already said, miss Eun Sun is a very kind and forgiving customer-mistress, which is one of the reasons why I admire her so much! She is relaxed – not insulted:
‘Ha! Ha! You lick now, slave! You lick shine Eun Sun dirty boot! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, goddess-mistress Eun Sun! At once, goddess-mistress Eun Sun!’
I apply my tongue to the rough, scuffmarked boot-toe on her right foot. My God, the boot tastes even nicer than it smells; bitter; foul; demeaning. It is the dirty, used bootleather of a Korean-refugee goddess!
She laughs at me from on high in the boot-throne heavens as her lowly subject and worshipper lickshines her common-or-garden, student-girl, cheap leather boot:
‘Ha! Ha! You like me, slave? You want marry me and be with me?’
My heart skips a beat – though my well-trained tongue doesn’t miss any dirt as I continue to lick Korean-girl boot.
What is she suggesting? A slave marry a mistress? Ha! Ha! Now I’m the one who is laughing! She must be kidding?
Besotted and in hopelessly in love I may be, but I haven’t taken complete leave of my senses! I realise this may well be a trap, designed to earn me a public flogging. For if I confess to my North-Korean, refugee customer-mistress that I would, indeed, like to marry her and ‘be’ with her, she will most assuredly report me for insubordination to the Gynarchy’s Female State Police – and rightly so! And yet, if I deny my perverse and socially unacceptable (in the Gynarchy), maleslavish lusts she may take that as an insult too!
I must be careful what I say, therefore, and say it in a suitably humble and forlorn manner, whilst I carry on bootlicking:
‘Oh pray, customer-mistress Eun Sun…lick…lick… if it pleases you, divine and most beautiful customer-mistress Eun Sun…lick…lick… oh mistress!...lick…lick…lick… oh mistress!...lick…lick…Oh truly this slave is admirous of the Korean mistress and her great, oriental beauty …lick…lick…lick… if it is so pleasing to you most blessed, North Korean mistress…lick…lick…lick…lick….but this dirty slave could never aspire to be the consort of such an august and superior, female being such as your divine self …lick…lick… if you would be so kind and understanding to a worthless human being, most beautiful, young and strong customer-mistress Eun Sun?...lick…lick….’
That’s the other point, of course – she’s so much younger than me, being in her twenties whereas I am in my fifties! It’s unthinkable!
She gaily laughs down at me as I eagerly move my self-deprecating, worshipful mouth over towards her matching, left ankleboot and white, elasticated socktop:
‘Ha! Ha! I glad you say that, slave…for I met someone else! Ha! Ha! He a real man – not like you! Ha! Ha! He kiss women on lips – not on boots like you! Ha! Ha! He strong and mighty – not weak and feeble like you. He handsome and rich – not ugly and poor like you! Ha! Ha! I in love with him; we get marry next month! Ha! Ha! I already pregnant by him! I happy have his genes inside me – make handsome baby with him! Ha! Ha! I not want your dirty genes inside me – you just a dirty, lowlife slave! You a nothing! Ha! Ha! You not even worthy touch my sock with ugly slave mouth or nose!’
This is devastating news – not that miss Eun Sun has found the man of her dreams; or that she’s going to get married to him next month; nor even that she’s pregnant; but that she considers me unworthy even to kiss or nose her on the imported, North Korean, policegirl-uniform, white anklesock!
In fact – I am left speechless on her scuffmarked, left ankleboot-toe!
She laughs with entirely justifiable, young-womanly glee at the evident disappointment etched onto my wizened, old footslave face:
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! You a loser, slave! You not even get to marry my sock! Ha! Ha! I laugh at you! I spit on you!’
And with that she noisily and ostentatiously gathers up some North Korean-girl phlegm in her pretty, oriental mouth, and expels it down onto my balding head!
She then rubs in her contempt for me even further – figuratively, if not literally:
‘Ha! Ha! I come back with husband after we marry; make you kiss dirty ground in front of his feet! He your god – for he better man than you! He get to fuck Eun Sun nice, soft body! Ha! Ha! You not even get to sniff Eun Sun nice, soft sock! Ha! Ha!’
Now do you see why I love her so much? Such class! Such attitude! Such grace! The perfect mistress!
I wish her, and her husband-to-be, well. He is truly a very lucky free man to be mixing his male genes in her superior, female gene-pool!
Fantasy no. 9 – Deaf & Dumb
My 25 year old, brunette-haired, white-European mistress – miss Katherine – is deaf. She has been from birth. But that doesn’t hinder her in any way from leading a full and active life, or from being a fully effective slave-mistress!
She is happily married to a free man – master Peter sir – and holds down a full-time, office job. She is, rightly, much admired by all around her – not just for her great physical beauty (she is blessed with a shapely body and extremely pretty face), but for her ability to overcome her genetic disability and lead a totally normal life; she communicates totally effectively with other free persons, including her handsome and wealthy husband, through a mixture of sign language and lip reading.
Her communication with me, her personal footslave, is, of course, somewhat more restricted, since both sign language and lip reading would require me to look her in the eye – something which is forbidden by law in the Gynarchy, since a personal footslave must only ever look his mistress in the foot. My mistress Katherine therefore communicates her mistressly requirements to me primarily through the use of her single-tailed whip, and I must convey my submission and obedience towards her through the judicious kissing of her feet, socks and shoes.
I am, in fact, what you might call a ‘semi-perpetuant’ footslave – required to kiss my deaf-mute mistress’s feet repeatedly throughout the day, but not quite continuously in the way a fully ‘perpetuant’ footslave would be required to do. That’s because my mistress Katherine has made it known to me, through her whip, that she doesn’t like the annoyance of feeling my lips continuously on her feet and footwear as she is very sensitive to touch; ticklish even. She does, nevertheless, require me to kiss her feet anything up to fifty times every five minutes (if her feet are stationary during that time) by way of a reminder to her of my footslavish presence and as a repeated demonstration of my undying respect for her, and her female power and authority over me.
That may sound like a lot of footkisses in a short period of time, but it’s actually only about one footkiss every six seconds or so i.e. at suitably respectful intervals!
She has other set rules as well – enforced by the whip – as to exactly where I am to place my lips on her feet at any given time. As I have just explained, I am only required to kiss her feet when they are stationary on the ground, such as when she is standing or seated – not when she is walking, or out jogging (my mistress goes for a jog along with her husband most mornings as they are both keep-fit fanatics).
Whenever my mistress Katherine is walking, or running, I am merely required to follow her on my hands and knees to heel, and to study the backs of her shoes, sneakers and/or socks (if she is wearing any socks and if they are visible inside the backs of her shapely, white heels; those are big ‘ifs’, as my mistress Katherine has a penchant for going barefoot inside her sneakers, boots and socks – sweaty feet do not appear to embarrass her in my humble presence!).
If my beloved mistress Katherine deliberately presents her feet to me for kissing, there are very fixed rules as to exactly where I may place my footslave lips:
- If her dainty, unshod foot is purposely stretched forwards for kissing I must cup it respectfully in my slave hands, and kiss her on the toe-area – whether or not those toes be bare or socked; pedicured or unpedicured; washed or sweaty.
- Similarly, if she presents me with her fully-shod foot, I must specifically kiss her on the scuffmarked, rounded toe-area of her pink and grey, lace-up sneakers; or on the equally broad and rounded toe-area of her plain black leather, low-heeled, slip-on office shoes; or on the chiselled toe-area of her favourite pair of brown leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboots.
If, however, I am required to kiss her feet merely because they have been stationary for 5 minutes, I must do so in even more prescribed ways, even though she has not formally presented them to me for kissing:
- If she is seated at home in her bare feet I am to repeatedly kiss her bare, white, veiny insteps, irrespective of whether her bare feet are clean or dirty.
- If she is wearing only socks, I must similarly kiss the insteps of her socks until she moves from her resting place, however damp and sweaty her socks may be.
- If there are special patterns or logos on the sides of the socks I must ‘have regard’ to them, which normally means paying extra labial attention to them rather than to the plainer sock-stitching surrounding them (It’s common sense really – it’s an acknowledgement of the individuality of my mistress’s chosen socks, and my footslavish admiration and respect for them!).
- If she is still wearing her sneakers or shoes, but the elasticated tops of her socks are visible and accessible to my footslave-lips, I must again kiss them repeatedly along each instep, paying particular regard to any, even only partially visible, sock logos.
- If she happens to be wearing ultra-short, so-called ‘secret socks’ inside her outer footwear (which are my sock-ambivalent mistress Katherine’s favourite style of sock, given that she is a very hip and modern, fashion-conscious, young woman who likes to show off her shapely, bare anklebones to the world), and if only one of those socks is accessible to my lips due to sock-slippage inside the other sneaker or shoe, I must repeatedly kiss the sock instep which is visible, and refrain from touching the bare, white instep on her other foot – though my mistress will take note of my failure to prevent the unfortunate slippage in one of her socks and shall sorely punish me for that with her single-tailed, brown leather, cowhide-whip later in the day when we get home!
- If neither sock is visible, either because she isn’t wearing any socks, or because her tracksuit/trouser hems are obscuring them, or because she is wearing her full-length ankleboots, I must repeatedly kiss the insteps of her outer footwear – up to fifty times every 5 minutes, however dirty or muddy her stationary shoes, sneakers or boots may be.
- On no account am I to kiss the toe-areas of her feet or footwear whilst she is sedentary – not unless she deliberately projects her feet up to my lips, as described in the first set of bullet-points above.
- All of the above stipulations have been ably whipped into me, and any breach of such footslave-protocols on my incompetent part is dealt with by the harsh sting of the female whip!
My mistress Katherine is, naturally, very fond of her whip – her main communication tool with her dirty footslave. And, of course, there is no point in my crying out for sweet feminine mercy under the whip, since my mistress cannot hear me.
I’m afraid she has to whip me often – for she is a very clever and demanding young woman who knows her own mind, and who can consequently be very difficult to please. Also, although I myself am not deaf (I am just dumb – being a dumb, male footslave) my mistress Katherine is of the firm opinion that the sting of the female whip is the only language I can ever truly understand! Moreover, that’s what my mistress’s ultra-protective and manly husband – master Peter sir – also firmly believes, and, with the full approval of my mistress, he cruelly doubles my number of whip-stripes at the end of each day, for disrespecting and/or upsetting his wife thereby ‘forcing’ her into whipping me!
I therefore do my footlevel-best always to be pleasing and obedient to my mute, white mistress, and to anticipate her footwear desires and needs through a kind of sixth sense; for I very much fear the whip – and I very much admire my deaf-mute mistress’s feet and footwear, and wish to be a good and obedient servant to them!
Oh – my mistress has been seated at her office desk for some five minutes now; time for me to kiss the elasticated tops of her short, light-grey sneaker-socks along her shapely insteps above the upper rims of her black leather, slip-on office shoes!
Kiss…kiss...kiss…kiss...kiss…
And along her other sock:
Kiss…kiss…kiss...kiss…kiss…
And back again!
Kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…
Luckily both my mistress’s short, grey-cotton sneaker-socks are still accessible to my footservant-lips above her black shoe-rims, and are therefore eminently kissable at the moment, though I’m a little bit concerned at possible further slippage on her left sock if she moves about a lot later on during the day. Still, no point in worrying about that now – it might never happen!
What will happen for sure is the cracking of the whip across my footslave-back if I don’t concentrate on kissing my mistress’s short, grey socks below her ankles and beneath her desk. You nearly made me miss my first, stationary kissing of her socks since she came into work! So, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll get back to my early-morning duties of kissing the twisted, elasticated stitching along the tops my mistress’s sedentary, light-grey, sneaker-style socks!
Until such time as she moves from her desk to the office kitchen for her early morning cup of coffee!
Fantasy no. 8 – Grubby & Dirty?
My 23 year old, white mistress Melanie is seated on a barstool in the outdoor, smoking area of her local pub, surrounded by her mates, and enjoying a drink of lager and a fag.
I, of course, in my capacity as her devoted, personal footslave, am required to dutifully kneel by her feet, with my face behind her heels, unobtrusively admiring her feet and footwear. I do not drink or smoke – for I am just a slave, but it is considered an honour and a privilege for a personal slave like me to accompany his mistress to such social events, even if I am really little more than a status symbol for my working-class mistress from the local sink estate.
Actually my mistress Melanie does not work, and probably never will. She is a young lady of leisure, and rightly so; for in the Female State if she does not want to work, she does not have to. Unlike we male slaves – we have no choice in the matter, once we are embondaged by the Female State; again, rightly so!
To me, my mistress Melanie is a beautiful and divine being; I won’t hear a word said against her! And yet, I’m afraid I frequently do hear unkind words said by other, free persons with regard to my mistress’s personage; they cruelly say that she is amongst other things:
Fat – It’s not true! My mistress may be a little on the squat and chubby side, but that’s because of her DNA inherited from her parents; not because she is gluttonous or overeats all the time! In fact, if anything my mistress Melanie often neglects to eat regular meals (preferring to consume alcohol or drugs instead), as I know to my cost, since I am reliant on my mistress’s leftovers for my own sustenance. I frequently go hungry!
Lazy – Again, not true! My mistress goes to a lot of effort to supplement her meagre income living off the Female State Benefits’ System – such as dealing in drugs on the streets on behalf of her husband-boyfriend (she’s not formally married to him, but has been going out with him steadily for more than 3 years now, when he’s not banged up inside, which he happens to be at the moment), and even prostituting herself on the streets when the need arises – all to better herself and her living standards. Would you call that being lazy?
A slut – Yet again, this is a lie! My mistress only ever sleeps around for money, as a professional whore. She won’t just jump into bed with any old Tom, Dick or Harry – unless they’re paying! And she would certainly never lower herself to having sex with the likes of me – i.e. with a dirty, male slave!
Grubby, and a bit of a ‘skank’ – This is the accusation against my mistress which riles me the most, and it is almost always directed at her by other, free women! It’s just downright catty and racist, in my humble opinion, not that I would ever dare say so to another mistress to her catty face, not even to defend my mistress Melanie’s reputation and honour! I’m too much of a coward!
But, just because my mistress Melanie has pockmarked skin; somewhat inelegant nose, eyebrow, and lip piercings; and greasy, dyed-black, shoulder-length hair – it doesn’t make her ‘grubby’ or ‘skanky’!
I do have to admit that my mistress Melanie can sometimes have a bit of, what you might describe as, a ‘slovenly’ appearance; she could, perhaps, dress in a more fashionable and up-market manner sometimes, but then again the ‘grunge’ look is all part of her natural style and personality. Just who do these female critics think they are, denigrating my beloved mistress Melanie simply because of her lifestyle choices?
Indeed, I think her outwardly ‘slovenly’ appearance can actually be quite ‘classy’, if seen with the right attitude i.e. the attitude of a humble slave! Take her footwear preferences, for example. This evening – in front of my humbly kneeling face – she is wearing her sexy, black opaque, nylon kneehigh-popsocks and plain, black ballet-flats on her pasty-white feet and legs beneath her black leather miniskirt. The nylon popsocks are, as far as I know, deliberately uneven below her kneecaps, by way of a fashion statement; certainly not through any neglect on my part, I hasten to add!
I must admit, I do prefer it (though it’s really none of my damn business!) when my mistress Melanie wears her black, nylon kneesocks nicely straightened at the tops, and for three main reasons:
1) They accentuate her chubby calf-muscles in front of my face, when they are fully stretched over her sexy, white calf-muscles;
2) They seem to tower above me as I kneel at my mistress’s feet, and are a constant reminder to me of my lowly station in life;
3) They happen to contain chevrons in the pattern of the stitching – chevrons which not only reveal tiny slithers of my mistress’s pale, white legflesh beneath the otherwise opaque, black nylon of her socks, but which are also, helpfully, pointing downwards, as if reminding me where to look i.e. downwards, as befits a humble footslave; down at the lower backs of her nylon-covered heels, and at the somewhat misshapen backs of her admittedly grubby and well-worn, soft black leather, ballet flats.
But none of that means I disrespect my 23 year old, ‘skank’-mistress’s penchant for wearing her knee-high nylons uneven and twisted on her lower legs (especially since I am the one who gets to straighten them up again if and when they become uncomfortable to her as they slip down her bare, white legs!). There are, after all, certain positive advantages to her ‘slovenly’, casual look:
1) They reveal even more of my skank-mistress’s precious, bare legflesh, including her shapely tattooed anklebones. My mistress Melanie has two words tattooed on either ankle – ‘Girl’ and ‘Power’ – each word surrounded by a depiction of a single-tailed whip dangling between a pair of shapely, female legs in stiletto heels; which is somewhat ironic given that my mistress Melanie, though she has what I would regard as shapely legs, never wears high-heels! Definitely a ‘flats’ girl – be they her favourite pair of scruffy, black leather ballet-flats such as she has on now; or her flat-heeled, brown leather, lace-up ankleboots which she likes to wear on special occasions (such as when she, or her boyfriend, are appearing before the Female Court), often with the selfsame black, chevron-patterned, knee-high, nylon popsocks that she has on now – though they would always be fully pulled-up when worn with her brown ankleboots to Court; no point in appearing overly-slutty before the female judge!
2) I can admire the chapped and wrinkled hard skin on the backs of her exposed pinky-white heels through the nylon chevrons;
3) The untidy nylon-popsocks do seem to attract the free opposite sex – judging by the amount of wolf-whistles my mistress will attract from passing free males whenever she is wearing her scruffy, nylon popsocks. I suppose they suggest a ‘devil-may-care’ attitude which appeals to the freemale psyche, and I must, somewhat begrudgingly, admit I do admire my mistress for having the balls to dress so sluttily in public, even when she’s not ‘working’. Furthermore, the slovenly, well-worn nylons seem to somehow complement the scruffiness of her well-worn and scuffmarked ballet-flats.
4) Finally, and perhaps most importantly of all from my lowly, personal-footslave perspective, the insistence on wearing nylon popsocks on her black-ballet-flated feet does cause her toes to build up more of a sweat – particularly on a warm and clammy evening like this evening! I know from bitter experience that, despite the chevron-patterns, the nylon material will not allow my mistress Melanie’s feet and ankles to breathe properly, and will instead capture her foot moisture for posterity – or, at least, for me, later on, when I am required to divest my beloved mistress’s feet of her scruffy, street-soiled ballet-flats and stinky, chevron-motifed nylons, and humbly vacuum them with my nose before washing them inside my mouth – both the leather shoes and the nylon stockings, that is! Such soft, minimalist, cheap ballet-flat shoes fit neatly into my washing-machine mouth, one at a time, as I endeavour to suck all the street grime and dirt and sweet feminine foot-moisture out of them, ready for fresh wear again the following day; and the nylons provide my bitter aftertaste as they fester in my mouth, their white-girl, daily foot juices sliding down my receptive, footslave-throat and into my footslave-stomach!
Needless to say, I don’t resent the stinky aroma, or the salty taste (though it is an acquired taste) of my mistress’s sweaty, discarded ballet-flats and nylons; when it comes to the latter, in particular, she has to wear them to protect the inner linings of her delicate ballet-flats from becoming saturated with her precious, young-womanly footsweat. And the dark nylons have, when all is said and done, helped to beautify my mistress’s feet and legs throughout the day – even if they have not been fully pulled-up and accentuating her shapely calf-muscles as I would prefer them to be; even when twisted and untidy on her lower legs they have, at least, been accentuating the natural, feminine beauty of my mistress’s white legs by hiding their innate pastiness, whilst at the same time providing an intriguingly nylon-tinted hint to the world of her well-considered and thought-out philosophy of ‘Girl Power’, thanks to her semi-hidden ankle tattoos!
As she consumes her fag and beer outside the pub, my carefree mistress suddenly bursts into laughter at some funny joke uttered by one of her mates, causing the backs of her twisted, dark-nylon stockings to crease and fold most fetchingly in front of my face around her shapely heel-tendons as she subliminally flexes the muscles in her otherwise stationary feet on the circular metal base-rim of the outdoor bar-stool. At one point the back of her right heel even pops out of the misshapen back of her right ballet-flat, revealing the thinning, dark nylon material covering her pinky-brown, upper heel-flesh, and a slightly ripped chevron on the dry-skinned base of her heel.
I am glad she is happy and laughing. How can anyone possibly describe my mistress Melanie as being dirty or grubby? As some sort of ‘skank-mistress’?! She is clearly a very beautiful and sophisticated young woman, who knows her own mind and is simply enjoying life – albeit often at my expense as she neglects to properly feed or water me.
But who can even blame for that? I’m just a ‘trophy-footslave’, supplied to her free of charge by the Female State as she is living on State Benefits and can’t afford to buy a footslave of her own. If anything I’m the one who is a little bit grubby – lusting after her chapped and dried heels and yearning to taste her salty, moist, knee-length nylons!
I’m the one everybody should be denigrating – for if my beloved mistress Melanie is indeed a dirty ‘skank’, then I’m just a dirty skank’s personal footslave, fit only to sniff and suck on her sweaty, black nylons and scuffmarked, black leather ballet-flats after she has gone to bed; that’s if she does decide to go to bed tonight, either with or without a paying, freemale client!
Fantasy no. 7 – Don’t F*** With Me Shoes!
30 year old, off-duty, prison-officer mistress – miss Victoria – is sullenly beautiful.
Indeed, it is her very sullenness and perpetual lack of a smile that makes her so beautiful; she is, otherwise, I suppose, what you would call a ‘fairly plain-looking, white girl’; of average build; with dirty-blonde, often greasy, shoulder-length hair; a blemished complexion; and to bottom it all she would probably appear flat-footed were it not for her black leather, pointy-toed, three-inch, high-heeled shoes which delightfully arch her plain, white-girl feet and calf-muscles into the seductive shape of a beautiful, white goddess’s feet and legs!
Admittedly she’s not all dull and plain without her shoes – she does have an intriguing little tattoo of a multicoloured butterfly on her veiny, outer-right anklebone, suggesting she has at least a spark of individuality and personality about her somewhere! And her ankle-tattoo is always visible, since I have never known her to wear socks or nylons on her bare, white legs beneath her short, grey, female-prison-officer miniskirt whilst she makes use of me on my public shoelick-stall which is situated perilously close to the entrance to the male prison where she works (occasionally there are the tell-tale signs of little, ultra-short, dark nylon, secretive ‘footie’ socks just inside the upper rims of her black-leather, high-heeled courts, but not today; today she appears to be genuinely barefoot inside her everyday stilettos!)
But blonde-haired, high-heeled, bare-legged, tattooed young lady though she may be, it would be a brave, free man (or indeed male prisoner) who wolf-whistled at mistress Victoria as she click-clacks confidently, if sullenly, along the streets, or the prison corridors, in her three inch heels; or, even worse, who referred to her as her ‘darling’!
For one of her prisoners the consequences of such inappropriate behaviour would, no doubt, be swift – a sharp taste of her brown leather prison strap on their prone and vulnerable bare backs! But even free men behaving badly out on the streets are not immune from summary justice under the Female Laws of the Gynarchy if they are convicted of disrespecting a female – especially if she is an off-duty prison-officer mistress, used to being treated with some respect!
I’m sure they could at least expect an on-the-spot fine for impertinence towards a female!
As for me – a humble, down-in-the-dirt, male, public footslave – well, needless to say, I must treat regular customer-mistress Victoria with the greatest of respect, for the sanctions I would face for disrespecting her would doubtless be a severe, public whipping, followed by a highly uncomfortable and lengthy spell in miss Victoria’s personal, custody suite; not just a measly, on-the-spot fine!
I always make sure to gird my loins, therefore, when I see, and hear, greasy-blonde prison-officer miss Victoria approaching my stand-up, shoelick-stall in her click-clacking high-heels. If I am feeling content inside (for example if I have just done a particularly good job on an especially beautiful customer-mistress’s shoes or boots, and been complimented by her for it) I hide it – lest my contentment offend the sullen miss Victoria, since she herself appears to be so perennially unhappy.
Perhaps it’s her job that gets her down?
Actually, they do say that she is never happier than when having her shoes lick-shined by a dirty, helpless, male prisoner; or, indeed, by an even more helpless male streetslave, such as myself! If that’s the case I’d hate to see her when she is in a really bad mood!
But, happy or not as she sullenly approaches my public shoelick-stand, one thing I can definitely guarantee you is that miss Victoria will not be exchanging any pleasantries or happy chit-chat with me as I attend to her public-shoeshine needs; she will merely require me to keep my head bowed and get on with my work – my humble and demeaning work of lickshining the street and prison dirt and dust off her high-heeled pumps. Miss Victoria likes to keep our relationship purely professional – the customer-mistress and the public shoelick! I am not her friend!
I’m not even one of her male prisoners; they, at least, have some rights – such as the right to rehabilitation after they have served their sentences. I am just a slave – with no rights, no remission, and no remedy to my permanent, footslavish plight!
And the sullen miss Victoria knows it!
Her greasy-hair-framed face remains sombre and surly as she marches up to my wooden footblock and work-wearily stretches forth her right leg, the one with the fetching, butterfly-themed, ankle-tattoo, so that her matt-black leather, high-heeled shoe is now wobbling on its axis directly beneath my hastily-bowed face:
‘Shine!’ is all she says. A one-word command for a one-trick pony (after all, all I do is lickshine ladies’ shoes; I have no other specialist skills or responsibilities as a public footslave!).
Mistress Victoria – though she is, as I mentioned earlier, not particularly tall and of merely ‘average’ female build – now seems to tower over me like a veritable colossus, ominously blocking out my sunlight with her sultriness and sullenness, as she tosses back her greasy, shoulder-length hair with a haughty flick of her blonde-girl head, her well-used, prison-officer, brown leather, punishment strap dangling down by her bare, white thigh beneath the hem of her short, grey uniform-miniskirt.
Her sullenness is all-pervasive as she lords it over me.
You don’t have to be intelligent, of course, to be sullen; and mistress Victoria has never struck me as being particularly bright. She certainly isn’t what you would describe as a bright and cheery mistress, and I suspect that, unlike me, she never went to university (I was a college lecturer before being sentenced to public footslavery some 10 years ago!). But, be that as it may, she is still my infinite better – being female, and a prison-officer mistress – and I must therefore afford her the proper, maleslavish respect which she completely deserves.
That means not responding to her sullen, curt, one-word command, with an equally sullen and curt ‘Yes, mistress.’ I must go the whole hog, being a mere down-in-the-dirt, footslave-pig, and grunt out my sense of slavish humility and honour at being ordered to lick-shine such a greasy-haired, female divinity’s shoe:
‘Oh pray mistress Victoria...God bless you, most beautiful and erudite mistress Victoria…Thank you for visiting my humble shoelick-stand once again on your way home from work, mistress, and for giving me the opportunity to freshen up your most supremely beautiful footwear for you, if it would be so pleasing to you most esteemed and respected mistress?’
The sullen, off-duty, blonde prison-officer mistress tuts impatiently:
‘Tch! Just get on with it, footslave, yeah? I haven’t got all day!’
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress!’
Without further ado I go down on her shoe with my tongue, admiring on the way down the impatient twitching in her bare, right foot-muscles which cause her tattoo-butterfly wings to vibrate as if it is ready to take flight from her blue-veiny foot! If I were that butterfly I would never leave the softness and warmth of goddess-mistress Victoria’s right anklebone, since her pale, veiny, white skin always looks so warm and inviting, even if the owner of the blue-blooded anklebone is herself cold and harsh! Such a smooth, hairless calf and ankle muscle; she must surely shave her beautiful legs regularly?
I also wonder if her, no doubt, tired and aching feet are as greasy inside her warm, high-heeled shoes as her greasy-blonde hair is after she has been pounding the corridors of the dirty, male prison in her elegant high-heels for a whole shift?
I somehow doubt it! I suspect a sophisticated young(ish) woman like miss Victoria would have properly pedicured toes inside her shoes, and protect them from any natural sliminess with an antiperspirant foot-spray, though I have never been privileged to either see her toes (beyond her bare toe-cleavage), or to sniff them! Her pointy shoe-toes always remain firmly on her veiny, white feet!
But I’m getting above my station, here! My job is not to focus on sullen goddess-mistress Victoria’s off-duty toes; on her delectable, tattooed, upper anklebone; or on her soft, bare, lower legskin and varicose veins; but rather on the grimy, outer surface of her black leather pump – concentrating first of all on the pointy toe-area; then on the instep; and then on the spiked heel at the back, removing from each and every aforementioned area any offending dust and detritus with my public-shoelick tongue!
And so I dutifully concentrate on licking the outsides of her off-duty, prison-officer shoes; literally on the outside!
I’ll say one thing for her – customer-mistress Victoria does like to watch closely whilst my footslave-tongue gets to work on her dirty shoeleather – even occasionally twisting her tattooed, veiny anklebone to one side in order to sullenly afford my tongue greater access to the side, or bottom, of her street and prison sullied shoe. Not for her a carefree cigarette; or a distracting chat on her mobile phone with one of her workmates, whilst being only subconsciously aware of my humble tonguework on her meanest, dirtiest parts beneath her! Officer-mistress Victoria supervises my every lick intently!
Then again, I doubt that the sullen and surly miss Victoria has many mates to ring up. She’s certainly never mentioned any – nor any boyfriend; though she’s hardly the type of mistress to tell a nosy, public foot-servant all about her private life. I very much doubt the prisoners in her charge would be any the wiser either!
I can tell she is ‘happy’, or at any rate as happy as she can be, given her joyless personality, with my humble work on her right foot only when she abruptly withdraws it from my tongue, and promptly replaces it with her left on the well-worn, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face:
‘And the other one!’ she barks unsmilingly down at me, once again not even doing me the indignity of addressing me as ‘footslave’, or even ‘slave’; it’s like she’s ordering about a robot or an automaton – someone with no feelings or emotions; a bit like her! I wonder if she talks like that to her prisoners?
‘Yes mistress Victoria! At once, goddess-mistress Victoria!’
I wonder if they respond to her as I have just done – with politeness and respect? They would if they know what’s good for them!
This is now, of course, her left shoe – on her left, un-tattooed foot; the ‘plainer’ of the two feet, I suppose you could say, though again there are a goodly amount of magnificent, feminine foot-veins, and I do also get to admire a sinister, little pink blotch in her otherwise pasty-white skin around her outer left anklebone. That looks like some sort of developing rash or insect bite! I’ve not seen it before!
Gosh, that looks itchy! Maybe that’s why she is particularly irritable and sullen today?
Perhaps, after I have lick-shined her dusty and dirty, left shoe, I should offer to lick-soothe her itchy anklebone! Hah! Now that would be rash! We can’t see goddess-mistress Victoria being amused by that! Can we now?
Fantasy no. 6 – Showing Me A Dirty Pair Of Heels
My 26 year old, chubby, blonde mistress Barbara delights in showing me a dirty pair of heels!
She cares not one iota that I have the constant indignity of having to stare at the dirty street-mud and grime attached to the backs of her black leather bootheels as I crawl, or kneel, behind her fat, booted ankles in public!
It’s not that she herself is unclean, or tarty, or some such like – it’s more just a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’ on her superior part. She can’t physically see the offending mud on her bootheels whilst she is wearing them, since her bootheels are literally beneath and behind her, and most of the time she can’t see me either since I too am physically beneath and behind her at ground level; and so, the end result is that she just doesn’t care – either about me, her dirty bootslave, or about the unsightly street-dirt on the backs of her black leather boots!
And very nice boots they are too – I must say! Plain, common-or-garden, black leather, zip-up ankleboots with blocky heels; with lots of space inside for her fleshy feet and ankles to ferment; and lots of space outside for mud and grime to stick to.
I constantly yearn, of course, to lick the mud off her chunky, black bootheels – though admittedly my motives are not entirely altruistic and born of a desire to clean the backs of my fat-bellied, mistress Barbara’s muddy boots for her; I am, somewhat selfishly, just as keen to fill the gnawing pain in my own empty stomach, even if it is just with a bolshy, blonde girl’s bitter-tasting bootmud! But I am completely forbidden to touch her boots with my mouth! That’s because she views me as being unclean, and worries that my dirty slave-saliva will do more damage to the reputation of her boots than even a slither of the slimiest streetmud!
And she cares not one jot about my empty stomach!
It’s not that my corpulent mistress Barbara is a particularly cruel young woman who deliberately sets out to starve her personal back-of-boots slave to death; it’s more a case of blonde-girl forgetfulness on her part – she is just so laid back (both about the streetdirt on her boots and her personal bootslave’s wellbeing) that she conveniently ‘forgets’ to feed me my daily ration of tasteless slave-gruel. Or perhaps she just can’t be bothered – so long as her own fat, wobbly belly is full of food? Perhaps she simply doesn’t much care about anything or anyone else?
Apart from her fat husband, that is – who spoils her rotten, as well he might! He even bought me for her, as a Christmas present last year! He also had my back professionally decorated for her with some supposedly ornate, but nonetheless painful, whip-stripes in the shape of a pink bow! How she had laughed on first seeing me cringing at her booted feet – her whip-wrapped, personal footslave – and how wildly she had made love to her generously-proportioned husband that Christmas night!
But someone must have forgotten to tell my mistress Barbara that a personal footslave is for life, and not just for Christmas, for after a few weeks of using and abusing me in some extremely inventive ways (such as making me smell her sweaty, black bootsocks in front of her husband and others from amongst her close circle of friends; making me handwash her stinky socks, again often in public and for the amusement of others; making me trim her dirty toenails with my footslave-teeth; making me chew, savour and swallow her greasy toejam-fat etc.) she then quickly lost interest in me as the novelty of having her very own personal foot-servant wore off, and she consigned me to the backs of her boots, where I have pretty much been ever since!
I now only rarely get to see her podgy, bare feet or sweat-stained socks. My mistress Barbara never wears skirts, you see – only trousers; whether she is at work or at play! And so the most I can normally hope for now is a quick flash of blonde-female, black bootsock as she is walking, somewhat clumsily, up a flight of stairs; or perhaps whilst she is seated at her desk in the office – though it is by no means automatic that her plain black socktops will be visible just because she is seated; those navy-blue, bootcut office trousers of hers do a frustratingly damn good job of hiding her socks from public view deep inside her chunky, black leather ankleboots – more’s the pity!
And as for her sweaty, bare, white feet and toejam-laden toenails – I am, sadly, rarely called upon to attend to them nowadays. At home, my overweight mistress prefers to simply bathe and pedicure her feet in private every morning. My household duties are restricted to staring at the backs of her booted feet underneath the breakfast table in the mornings after she has got dressed for work, and then kneeling and staring at her discarded, muddy boots, usually in the corner of the kitchen, once she has taken them off in the evenings after she gets home from work, whilst she and her husband meanwhile relax on the sofa in front of the TV in their cosy, warm living room.
The mere thought of her sweaty, black-socked feet dangling over the end of the sofa in the nearby living room is enough to drive me wild; it’s just so cruel for a young woman to deny her personal footslave the smell of her warm socks, freshly-liberated-from-boots, whilst she is still wearing the socks on her fat feet!
But, it is not my place to bemoan my mistress, or complain to her about my treatment! Such an attitude would merit the whip! I am therefore left alone with my mistress’s muddy boots of an evening in the cold kitchen, without even her sweaty socks for company – and, in addition, I am callously forbidden to lickshine, or even sniff, the discarded, female boots lying on the kitchen floor in front of my face; I am merely permitted to stare at them, humbly and admiringly, as befits a young woman’s personal bootslave (again, largely because of my fat mistress’s aversion to slave-saliva, and the ‘damage’ she believes it may do to her precious bootleather!).
Of course, I very much concentrate at such times on the muddied backs of my mistress’s boots – much as I do throughout the day whilst she is still wearing them – for the mud and dirt stains on the blocky heels do make them, by far and away, the most interesting and humbling parts of her boots to look at.
Things might be very different if I were permitted to study the sweaty insides of my mistress’s boots – to seek out, and taste, traces of sweaty, black bootsock-lint on the inner linings etc! But I am under strict, kneeling instructions merely to admire the outsides of my mistress’s boots, and to look for traces of where she has been walking – particularly on the soles and the heels – and try to identify the source of that mud, be it the pavement; the grass in the park; or the floor of the train on which she commutes to and from work. I am then to think about the fact that I am not worthy to touch the mistress’s bootmud with my lips, since it has become priceless by virtue of its attachment to the mistress’s superior bootsoles and heels. The master-sir stipulated all that!
The master-sir did once, graciously, inform me that I do have his manly permission to surreptitiously smell the outsides of his wife’s discarded, muddy ankleboots whilst I am admiring them on the kitchen floor – but not in an ostentatious or lustful way; only discreetly, and with humility – as another means of quietly and unobtrusively demonstrating my undying respect for the mistress’s street-sullied boots (sometimes my mistress and master are still eating dinner in the kitchen when I must begin to study her discarded boots, as they both like to eat heartily before sex, so it is only right and proper that my outer-boot sniffing should be respectfully quiet and unobtrusive).
Imagine my own distress and hunger pangs at such times as I can smell, not only my two betters’ delicious food, but also my mistress Barbara’s precious bootheel-mud, and yet I cannot touch either with my slave-mouth. It is pure agony, I tell you – having to watch the dirty street-mud crumble and dry on the backs of my mistress’s discarded, black leather ankleboots, and yet not be able to consume it!
Such a waste of good, honest, feminine bootmud!
But that’s not the worst thing of all – the worst thing of all is when I am dutifully crawling behind my mistress Barbara’s chunky, ankleboot heels along the street, as she strolls lovingly hand in hand with her husband, and the backs of her boots carelessly splash mud and rainwater into my face. At such humiliating times my face can end up covered in the mud from the backs of mistress’s boots – yet I am still forbidden to lick it off; even from my own gormless, footservant-face!
So near, and yet so far, from female bootmud-sustenance!
Even a flash of black cotton, female bootsock as she walks along the rain-soaked pavements with her manly husband isn’t enough to take my mind off my unmanly hunger and thirst for sweet feminine bootdirt at such ignominious times!
My master and mistress will later laugh at me and mock me when they see my face covered in the mistress’s bootdirt at the end of the day; and then they will scold and whip me – for having such a dirty face. So I can’t win – if I lick clean the outside of my face I shall be whipped for disobedience and greedily seeking to fill my empty stomach with the dirt-splashes from the backs of my mistress’s boots without permission; and if I don’t lick my face I am whipped for allowing my face to get dirty in my mistress’s divine presence – albeit slightly less severely whipped, since negligence is considered a less serious crime in a slave than downright greed and disobedience!
I therefore choose the lesser of the two evils, and let my face be the receptacle for my mistress’s bootheel-mudsplashes.
The irony is that, despite all the mistreatment and slave-abuse I must endure, I constantly hope and pray that my fat, blonde and uncaring mistress Barbara will not some day show me a clean pair of heels – and chuck me out onto the streets! That would be my ultimate nightmare – to be mistressless, and left out on the streets to rot like some feral footslave!
At least I have the backs of my mistress’s muddy boots to look forward to every day – literally so; and it is such an honour and a privilege to admire them from anear. For they are the unremarkable, black leather, zip-up, chunky-heeled ankleboots of a superior human being to me – of a 26 year old, married, self-centred and selfish, blonde-haired, overweight female; and both she, and her bootheel-mud, are rightfully deserving of my maleslavish admiration and respect at all times!
Fantasy no. 5 – The Information Booth
It’s an everyday information booth in a busy shopping mall.
My humble role, however, is not to give out information to the general public as they go about their retail therapy, but rather to kiss the backs of the female information assistants’ heels as they sit on the swivel chair inside the booth and do their best to answer all the enquiries from the mall’s busy, female customers.
The designated assistant’s pretty feet are resting directly in front of my kneeling face on a the circular, metal footrest at the base of the swivel chair – and the natural, default position for the assistants seems to be to instinctively tuck their pretty feet around each other at the ankles.
My role, thankfully, as I indicated before, is not merely to kneel, stare and admire the backs of those pretty, tucked-around, feminine heels – but to repeatedly kiss them, as a subliminal reminder to the information-assistant mistresses, who are all student-girls in their early twenties, of their sweet feminine superiority over the male.
And such maleslave respect is due whatever form of feminine footwear they choose to wear!
Pregnant Sneakers
First up onto the swivel chair this morning is 19 year old miss Jessica, who is heavily pregnant. I expect she will be going on maternity leave soon, both from college and from her part-time job in the shopping-mall information booth. I therefore make a point of showing particularly submissive respect for the backs of her tucked over, heavily-pregnant heels, as she is an unmarried soon-to-be mother; a young woman who is fecund; who has evidently experienced the joys of sexual intercourse, unlike me; and who is therefore my infinite better (I’m just a washed-up, unloved and unlovable, middle-aged, male footslave, whom no woman in her right mind would ever look at sexually; literally so, since I am permanently confined at the base of the information booth, and none of the information assistants ever looks at me or addresses me – I’m just a ‘thing’ kissing the backs of their heels, which they are only vaguely aware of at the base of their high-rise, swivel stool!)
Miss Jessica, a natural blonde, is wearing a red and white shell suit with matching red and white striped, low-cut, lace up sneakers and plain white sneaker socks on her pregnancy-swollen feet and ankles. As she tucks the backs of her sneakered feet beneath her in front of my face, the elasticated hems of her shell-suit bottoms ride up to reveal the wrinkled, pink skin on the backs of her otherwise pasty-white, blonde-girl heels above the thin, elasticated stitching of her short, greyish-white, sneaker-sock tops.
These ultra-short socks, I surmise, have been worn, and washed, many times before – and not washed separately with her other whites, as they should have been, but carelessly chucked in with their brightly-coloured sister socks, thereby discolouring the once pure whiteness of the current socks! Miss Jessica will have to learn how to wash clothes properly if she is soon to become a domestic goddess!
Another pleasing sign of her innate carelessness and devil-may-care attitude is that her socks are uneven on the backs of her heels. The heel-end of her short, grubby-white sock on her left foot has slipped considerably further down the back of her flaky and scuffmarked, white sneaker heel than the one on her right foot, meaning that – whilst I can see the whole of the elasticated top of her right sock – the left sock-top disappears completely down the middle of her left heel, thereby exposing even more pregnant-blonde-girl, pink heel-flesh!
I kiss the back of whatever grubby, white-cotton sock material is visible on each heel before progressing up to the yummy, young mum-to-be’s bare, exposed, pink heelflesh, out of respect for her carelessly washed and carelessly worn socks. But the real prize, of course, is the ultimate feel of her dry and chapped, unprotected heelskin on my quivering footslave lips. I only wish I had permission to lick her chapped heel-flesh with my tongue – to soothe and soften the rough redness and pinkness at the back of her feet with my footslave saliva!
But I am strictly forbidden to lick female foot or heel flesh – only to respectfully kiss it! And my lips must not tardy too long on her bare heelskin, for having paid my respects to her socks and bare heels, there is the small matter of her scuffmarked, white leather sneaker-heels. They too are deserving of my repeated respect, being the sneaker-heels of such a delightful, young, blonde pregnant woman, who has ‘known’ a real man, in the biblical sense of the term, even though she may not be very religious!
I am religious – I religiously worship the backs of my young female betters’ heels!
Climbing the Ladder
The next information-booth mistress to grace me with her tucked over feet and ankles is miss Paula – a slightly older, dark-curly-haired, white girl in her mid to late twenties; a ‘mature’ student, from a modest background, who has gone back to college after leaving school with virtually no academic qualifications (I only know all this because I overheard her chatting to one of her mates who had come to offer her moral support in her new part-time job in the shopping mall shortly after she started work here some 6 months ago).
You have to admire miss Paula for all the adversities she has overcome in her young life; marriage at the tender age of 18; divorce a year later; a hastily arranged abortion; a succession of dead-end jobs (though not as dead-end as mine!); and now, at last, the opportunity to better herself at college, funded in part by the generous Female State, and in part by her own hard graft, such as this pat-time job in the shopping-mall information booth.
Another reason for admiring mistress Paula is her rapid weight loss over the past 6 months. I understand she has been on a special diet, losing three stone! The transformation in the backs of her heels is certainly most remarkable – I remember they were quite podgy when she first took up her seat in the information booth those 6 months ago – but her heels and ankles are now nice and svelte!
As per usual, curly-haired miss Paula is wearing her navy-blue leather courts with one-inch heels, and dark nylons. I don’t know whether they are tights or stockings, because I am unable, and forbidden by law, to look up her legs and underneath her navy-blue, knee-length skirt; my face is designed only to look straight ahead at the backs of female feet.
Not that I would want to look up mistress Paula’s legs in any case – since there is so much to see and kiss on her tucked-over, nylon heels! I particularly like the way a tiny ladder is developing in the sheer, dark, finest-denier nylon at the base of her right heel – caused, no doubt, by the constant rubbing of her navy-blue, court shoe-heel on the fine, mesh material of the nylon. It is starting to expose her pinky-white heelskin underneath – a vivid contrast to the darkness of the thinning nylon around it.
I shall make sure my humble, heelslave lips climb that tiny ladder, endeavouring, discreetly, to touch the exposed flesh beneath the thinning and worn nylon, though I shall equally make sure not to neglect the rest of her nylon-covered, shapely heels. I love the sensuous feel of feminine nylon on the lips – so much coarser and rougher than cotton or woollen sock; even the finest denier nylon such as that contained in miss Paula’s stockings/tights has a coarseness about it!
What I would really love, of course, is for her to inadvertently heel-pop; to expose the even darker, reinforced nylon on the backs of her lower heels inside her shoes, but for some reason mistress Paula is not for popping today! Her navy-blue courts remain firmly on the backs of her heels, meaning I must kiss the, slightly scuffmarked, back of her navy-blue shoeleather, rather than the black of her reinforced heel-nylon!
Oh well, you can’t have everything in life – unless, like miss Paula, you work hard for it, and are a free, female human being with the opportunities to better yourself.
I am not.
The Backs of Beautiful Boots
The final information-booth assistant-mistress to grace me with her heel-presence this morning is miss Sabah.
Miss Sabah is quite different from her two predecessors this morning in the booth for a number of reasons:
- She is Asian; Pakistani, I believe, judging by her modest, black silken, dupatta-style headscarf (and her accent when she speaks to the customers);
- She is not a student, but a married woman – even though she is still only 20 years old. I think it may have been some sort of arranged marriage, but by all accounts it is a very happy one. I understand miss Sabah’s husband is a highly successful businessman, and that she doesn’t particularly need her part-time job in the information booth, but she does it just to get herself out of the house and meet people;
- Although she habitually wears a modest, traditional, Muslim-woman headscarf, she is also wearing a pair of trendy, calf-length, heavily-buckled and chunky-heeled, black leather boots beneath the hems of her stylish, black cotton, designer-bootcut trouser hems;
- Goddess-mistress Sabah is wont to sit with her booted feet resting side by side on the metal footrest in front of my face, rather than the more normal ‘default’ position tucked round one another at the ankles like the other girls. I suspect that may be because her biker-style boots are just so heavy and chunky, it would be uncomfortable for her tuck them over at the ankles;
- On the plus side, she tends to sit with her booted feet girlishly turned in towards each other at the thick, rounded toes, which does cause her black bootleather to crease and fold on the backs of her heels – a truly awesome and wonderful sight to behold at close quarters; believe me!
My main gripe with serving the backs of Muslim miss Sabah’s calf-length, biker-booted heels is that I never get to see her socks!
Well, I say never, but there was one precious occasion when she subconsciously reached down to hitch up her left trouser leg and straighten her black, cotton, calf-length bootsock inside the top of her left boot – right in front of my face! I shall never forget that happy, but all to brief moment of mystery, and ever since I have been tormented by the knowledge that this beautiful, dark-haired, slightly podgy, Pakistani Muslim-girl is wearing plain, black cotton bootsocks inside her boots over her soft, brown foot and calf skin!
As I repeatedly kiss the creased leather on the backs of her beautiful boots, I continuously wonder what the backs of her soft, cotton socks would feel like on my lips? Worn? Moist? Ribbed?
But, of course, I shall never know for sure, for the divine miss Sabah is never going to indulge me – a dirty, male slave – with the inestimable honour and privilege of kissing a practising, young Muslim woman’s superior bootsocks; not unless she gets an irritating stone inside her boot, and has no choice but to take off her heavy biker-boot to remove it!
She’s not thinking of me and my pathetic, footslavish desires; she’s barely even aware of my miserable presence, as my lips make little palpable impact on her married-Pakistani-girl heel-nerves through the thick and creased leather of her heavily buckle-ladened biker-boots!
But oh the very thought of those warm and sweaty, black, feminine socks trapped inside those clammy and moist, oversized girlboots! What wouldn’t I give to be one of her socks – a much more prestigious role than I have now, since my job would then to be to protect my Pakistani mistress’s priceless heelskin from the rubbing caused by the inner linings of her leather boots, and to constantly absorb her precious, hot footsweat!
But I’m allowing my feverish footslave-mind to wander! I must concentrate on the outsides of her boots, and respectfully kiss her coquettishly turned outwards bootheels, tracing each and every ridge in the creased, Pakistani girlboot-leather with my unworthy footslave lips!
I hope you have found your brief visit to the bottom of the information booth informative?
Fantasy no. 4 – A Day in the Life of a Blonde Girl’s Personal Footservant
My 21 year old, blonde-haired mistress, miss Chenise, is wearing her white cotton top; her matching white cotton, calf-length leggings; her grubby white, low-cut, lace up sneakers; and her ultra-short, equally grubby white sneaker-socks.
She is all in white.
She is seated opposite her live-in boyfriend at the breakfast table. I am kneeling beneath the table, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is walking towards the bus-stop, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is making her way into college on the bus, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is meeting up with her college friends, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is seated in the college lecture hall, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is enjoying her elevenses in the Students’ Union cafeteria, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is chatting to her boyfriend on her mobile phone, making arrangements to meet up with him in town later, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is studying alone in the college library, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is having a spot of lunch with some of her college mates, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is attending a tutorial with her college professor and two fellow student-girls – one in black ballet-flats and one in brown ankleboots – with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is running through the heavy rain and muddy puddles towards another bus-stop, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is standing on tippy-toe, embracing and French-kissing her boyfriend outside a pub, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is seated on a bar-stool drinking alcohol alongside her boyfriend, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is stepping outside the pub for a quick fag, alongside her boyfriend, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now the happy couple are heading towards a nearby restaurant, walking arm in arm along the still rain-muddied streets, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is seated at the restaurant table enjoying a sumptuous meal, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is seated in a darkened cinema next to her boyfriend enjoying a romantic movie, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is cuddled up in the arms of her boyfriend on the night bus home, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is fully undressed and climbing into bed with her boyfriend, with my face next to her discarded grubby white sneakers and socks…
Now she is making love to her boyfriend, with my face next to her discarded grubby white sneakers and socks…
My mistress Chenise has had such a productive and fun-filled day, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
Whilst I have spent my entire day on my hands and knees humbly waiting on her, with my face next to her grubby white sneakers and socks…
And so have you!
Fantasy no. 3 – Beneath the Burka
My 27 year old Arab mistress, mistress Bara’ah, keeps me enslaved at her feet beneath her long, black burka. I feel truly honoured and privileged to live my life in semi-darkness on my hands and knees below her long, flowing burka-hem – particularly as the burka cuts out all other unnecessary distractions for me; fundamentally, I can really concentrate on my superior, Arab mistress’s feet and footwear, and devote myself to them 100%, as befits a privately-owned footslave on the Islamic-Gynarchic Island of Futurosa.
Being an extremely wealthy, young Arab woman – married to an Arab oil-magnate – my mistress Bara’ah gets to wear all the latest, most stylish, designer boots, shoes and sandals beneath her black burka. Being fundamentalist, however, she never goes barefoot inside her outer footwear, ensuring that her precious, Arabian-female footflesh is suitably hidden from my impure view at all times either by opaque, dark, nylon stockings; or by thick, cotton socks; or by long, knee-length boots; or by her trouser hems, worn inside her burka, covering her designer, zip-up ankleboots (she sometimes even wears thick, blue denim jeans beneath her burka – for extra modesty’s sake).
That’s another thing I like about being mistress Bara’ah’s personal footwear-slave – no two days are the same when it comes to her choice of footwear! And, unlike many burka-footslaves, I am not confined to the house – my sweet and kind, Muslim mistress actually permits me to accompany her outside the home to heel beneath her burka, on the strict understanding that my ugly, maleslave face must never be visible to the outside world, but remain firmly fixed beneath her black burka-hem – on penalty of the whip!
I know my mistress Bara’ah finds me ugly because of her Arabic slave-nickname for me - وجه خنزير – which means ‘Pigface’. My mistress always addresses me in Arabic – bosses me about in Arabic; delivers her orders to me in Arabic; humiliates me in Arabic; reprimands me in Arabic; curses me in Arabic – so I actually know quite a lot of Arabic by now! It is only polite and friendly words that I don’t know.
Fortunately, I don’t have to speak Arabic to my mistress; just understand it – for I am forbidden to speak. I am a celibate, monk-like footslave – sworn to sexual abstinence, and to total silence at my mistress’s feet. I may not even cry out under the pain of the female whip – on penalty of more female whip!
My mistress leaves the actual whipping to her manly husband, but always with me lying prostrate at her feet, my naked back exposed to her husband’s wrath outside her burka, whilst my penitent face pays homage to her fully-clothed feet inside her burka. It is a highly effective form of footslave-discipline which works very well on me.
Today I am honoured to be accompanying my Arab mistress-madam and master-sir to a public flogging. My master and mistress love to watch slaves and criminals being flogged, and, I must confess, I enjoy listening to the floggings beneath my mistress’s burka – if only because each swish of the whip, and concomitant scream of pain, encourages me to focus ever more diligently on my superior mistress’s footwear beneath her long, black dress.
As my master and mistress walk into the town square where the public floggings are to take place, my mistress walks ten paces behind her husband, out of respect for him, and I, for my part – again out of respect for the person in front of me – am crawling along the dusty pavement with my face just 10 inches from the backs of my mistress Bara’ah’s anklebooted heels beneath the protective, but now street-dusted, hem of her long, black burka.
Mistress Bara’ah is wearing her favourite pair of patent black leather, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, designer ankleboots this afternoon, complete with thick, grey cotton bootsocks – only the scrunched up tops of which are visible above her upper bootrims. The socks look particularly crumpled and uneven as she has her blue denim jean hems tucked into them (she always likes to be ultra-modestly dressed whilst witnessing slave-floggings, for she is very much a practising, Muslim lady).
As she takes up her seat in the arena beside her husband, her anklebooted feet settle themselves on the dusty ground directly in front of my kneeling face below the hem of her burka, demurely tucked around one another at the ankles.
Fortunately, my heavy, wooden neck-collar with the Arabic word for slave (عبد) engraved on it, lifts enough of my mistress’s black burka-hem up off the ground to allow some light in, so that I can see all the tiny details of the backs of her boots and socks quite clearly – the dust particles stuck to the backs of her otherwise shiny, black bootleather; the beginnings of a scuffmark on the back of her black leather, metal-tipped, spiked heel on her right, anklebooted foot (must remember to lick that scuffmark away later this evening!); the individual, flowery-patterned stitches in the crumpled and misshapen tops of her light grey, thick-cotton bootsocks; a tiny, foreign hair stuck to one of the stitches on the back of her left sock (must remember to consume and swallow that offending hair later this evening – if it’s still there!).
Because my mistress is excited at the impending floggings, her ankles are subconsciously jiggling up and down as she waits impatiently for the first male slave to be brought out for public punishment.
Soon I hear cheers and jeers go up around the crowd from underneath my mistress’s burka, and I hear my mistress herself shouting obscenities at the prisoner-slave from behind her beautiful-face veil:
‘ها! ها! كذلك قد كنت أبكي، الرقيق الكافر! قريبا يكون ظهرك يكون البكاء من السوط!
My mistress is laughing at the terrified prisoner-slave, and exhorting him to weep, as soon his back shall give him something to weep about – thanks to the whip!
At this point I hear my master-sir speaking to his wife:
ها! ها! وسرعان ما فهم الكافر قوة السوط!
The master is remarking upon the efficacy of the whip in soon teaching the infidel-slave a lesson!
Such stern words are a reminder to me of my own vulnerability to the sting of the whip, and I start to concentrate with renewed vigour on the backs of my mistress’s gyrating ankleboots and socks, lest I be accused of neglecting my private footslave duties beneath my mistress’s burka!
To my consternation I notice that all the gyration and vibration in my mistress Bara’ah’s excitable feet has caused the aforementioned foreign hair to fall off her left sock and disappear, somewhere, into the dust of the ground beneath her boots. I shall never find it again now! I had been looking forward to consuming that hair whatever its provenance – on the grounds that it had graced my Arab mistress’s precious, grey bootsock!
When the whiplashes actually start to fall, my mistress – in common with most of the other veiled women in the audience – screams out her encouragement to the whipper: probably an Islamic Female Police officer:
‘ها! ها! سوط له أصعب! جعله الخام! تبين له قوة جلد النساء!
My mistress is exhorting the female police officer to whip the slave raw! She is not at all squeamish, my mistress Bara’ah – even if she is deliciously prudish!
I say ‘prudish’, but I know that when she gets home tonight, all fired up by the whipping she has witnessed, my mistress Bara’ah will cast off her burka, and her boots, jeans and socks, and make mad, passionate love to her manly, Arab husband – while I am consigned to the corner of the master bedroom, obliged to sniff the insides of my mistress’s freshly discarded ankleboots and socks, before tongueshining away that scuffmark on the back of her right ankleboot, and searching, probably in vain again, for that foreign hair which had been stuck to the top of her sweaty, left bootsock.
At least I have some little specks of my mistress Bara’ah’s stinky, salty toejam to grace my tongue – from the insides of her still warm and moist bootsocks – plus I have the relative comfort of knowing that it was not the sights and sounds of my back being sorely whipped which stimulated her and the master’s libidinous desires; not this time anyway!
Fantasy no. 2 – The Girls’ Queer Sock-Sniffer
‘Yo, you there! The queer, household sock-sniffer! Be crawling over here this instant and sniffing my socks!’
20 year old mistress Shevanti is showing off in front of her friends. In her father’s house there are many slaves, and so she can’t possibly be expected to address me by name! But she certainly does know my humble role in the household – that of pathetic sock-sniffer.
Her fellow, female-Indian friends point at me and laugh out loud as I immediately scurry on my hands and knees over the living room carpet towards the opulent sofa where the beautiful miss Shevanti is seated next to her manly, West African boyfriend. Her boyfriend laughs at me too as he continues to kiss his beautiful, dark-haired and wide-eyed, Indian girlfriend on the lips in front of everyone.
I quickly reach her pink and white sneakered feet at the base of the sofa. Her frayed and torn, blue-denim, jean hems have ridden up to reveal the sparkly pink tops of her otherwise pure white anklesocks – just a single line of pink-sparkle near the elasticated top of each sock, but enough to remind me that these are her birthday party socks; my master’s youngest daughter is 20 years old today!
I start to audibly sniff the pink tops of mistress Shevanti’s birthday-girl socks, much to the amusement of the assembled throng of similarly-aged young people, who have come to help her celebrate this milestone in her young life – mainly Indian youth; mainly female; but with a few boyfriends amongst them, like the birthday girl’s own boyfriend. All free males, of course; unlike me!
They don’t have to crawl around on the dirty floor sniffing girls’ socks!
The throng of, slightly inebriated, party-goers may be amused at my public sock-sniffing antics on miss Shevanti’s socks, but the owner and wearer of the socks, and by extension of me, the slave – since he is her father’s property – is not so amused.
She temporarily leaves the warmth of her masculine, West African boyfriend’s embrace to reach down and slap me hard across the face with the palm of her right, twenty-year-old, Indian girlhand:
‘Tch! What is it do you think you are doing, queer sockslave?! Are you being a damned idiot, or something? Tch! You must be taking off my sneakers and sniffing the smelliest, warmest part of my socks on the bottoms of my toes, isn’t it? You ignorant fool! Pathetic moron!’
And with that the rightfully arrogant, and totally spoilt (but all the more beautiful for that) birthday girl gathers up some deep phlegm and saliva in her pretty, Indian mouth – saliva which no doubt must be mingled in with her French-kissing, West African boyfriend’s superior, freemale saliva – and expels it disparagingly into my kneeling face!
There is uproar in the room as my mistress’s friends and admirers praise her for gobbing on me, and congratulate her on the particularly thick and green consistency of the young-womanly mucus now trailing down the side of my rebuked and slapped cheek.
‘Ha! Ha! Be having him flogged for his stupidity and impudence, Shevanti!’ exclaims one of her, seemingly outraged, Indian girlfriends. ‘Any slave worth his salt should be knowing that he must be smelling the smelliest part of your socks! Ha! Ha! What, is he being a total nincompoop, or something? Ha! Ha!’
Whilst I am grateful to this other, young Indian woman for her contribution – particular since her own short, black sneaker-socks and plain, black leather ballet-flats look so nice and sniffable beneath the hems of her black denim, student-girl jeans – I nevertheless wish she hadn’t mentioned the word ‘flogging’, since I know from bitter experience that my master’s youngest daughter is only too trigger-happy when it comes to applying the whip to the family slaves’ backs, and one such black whip is currently lying just a few feet away from her on the end of the sofa – waiting in the wings like a coiled cobra!
But, fortunately for me, miss Shevanti is too comfortable right now, resting back in her boyfriend’s arms, to reach over for the whip. She could, of course, have her bloodthirsty, Indian student-girlfriend fetch the whip for her – something I have no doubt the black ballet-flated and black-socked Indian guest would be only too happy to do – but then my mistress would have the effort of having to stand up in order to apply the whip to my cringing, bare back. One thing miss Shevanti would, thankfully, never do is allow someone else to whip a slave in her presence – not even her boyfriend. When it comes to whipping slaves – she’s the master!
Instead, therefore, she kicks me with the scuffmarked, rounded toe of her right, pink and white, lace-up sneaker, right in my face:
‘Were you hearing me, queer sock-sniffer? Be untying my laces this instant and removing my sneakers and sniffing my socks out loud in front of all my friends! We’re waiting, stupid slave, isn’t it?’
‘Aow!...Yes mistress Shevanti! At once mistress Shevanti! God bless you mistress Shevanti, and all your friends!’
Another of said friends, again a female, verbally mocks me by imitating my obsequious words of slavish reply in a deliberately whiny voice:
‘Yes, mistress Shevanti! At once, mistress Shevanti. Three bags full, mistress Shevanti! Ha! Ha! Why you are not standing up for yourself, dirty sockslave? Why you are not acting like a man, instead of a slave? Ha! Ha!’
Actually, this particular girl sounds, and looks, more Arabic, than Indian. She is certainly dressed as an Arabian girl in tapered, silken, yellow trousers with matching yellow stilettos on her bare, brown, Arabian feet.
I can’t believe that she actually expects me to dignify her rhetorical question with a verbal response. I mean, what can I possibly say in my defence – she’s got me down to a tee! I am not a man – I’m a wimp; a wimpish sniffer of young women’s dirty socks on their feet!
Fortunately, as I pull off my mistress Shevanti’s right sneaker – which comes off her dainty foot with a whoosh of warm, Indian-girl footair directly into my face – the fiendish generator of such smelly air answers her friend’s ridiculous question for me:
‘Ha! Ha! He cannot be behaving like a man because he is being nothing more than a queer sock-sniffing slave for girls, Fatima! Ha! Ha! He actually likes the smell of girls’ sweaty socks, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! He is being nothing more than a queer, manservant-fool!’
Everyone then laughs and jeers at me again as I start to audibly sniff the smelliest, dampest, underside of mistress Shevanti’s nominally white, but actually brown-stained, socks directly beneath her wriggling toes. The pink-lined party socks don’t look, or smell, quite so sparkly and exotic now – not this close up to my humble, chastened nose and face!
But I revel in the stink of sweaty girlsock now enveloping me – for I’m used to it; unlike mistress Shevanti’s manly, West African boyfriend who, to everyone’s even greater amusement, has to hold his nose and complains that he feels sick!
He is rewarded with a deep and loving kiss from the smelly-socked Indian girl above me, whose sweaty, damp and moist, birthday-socked toes now curl unfeelingly around my nose in libidinous, lustful pleasure as she shamelessly partakes of his manly, West African tongue once again in front of her envious friends.
For my part, I continue to sniff stuck-up, young Indian-woman white sock-toe – for, as practising heterosexual miss Shevanti has so publicly and eloquently pointed out to her friends and acquaintances, I am nothing but a girls’ queer sock-sniffer!
Fantasy no. 1 – Bi-Beating in the Barn
My 22 year old, slim and svelte, mixed race mistress – miss Alison – is, apparently, angry with me.
I don’t know what I’ve done to upset her this time – perhaps I nose-rubbed her socked foot up the wrong way; or I failed to lickshine her dirty shoes properly; or perhaps it’s just her time of the month to be surly and angry with me again!
But, whatever it is, it must be serious – for she has ordered me to the punishment barn on her father’s country estate where we live, and I am now confined, on my hands and knees, in the wooden, punishment stocks in said barn, awaiting her angry, female presence with fear and trembling – for my young mistress Alison, though an extremely beautiful mixed-race girl with long, dark hair, big brown eyes, and a soft brown complexion, can also be extremely cruel towards her inept and incompetent, middle-aged, personal footwear-slave, when the mood takes her!
The door to the barn suddenly creaks open, and my mistress Alison slowly enters, silhouetted by the bright, summer sunshine outside before she closes the rickety, barn door behind her. Two things strike me immediately as I kneel in male fear and trembling in the stocks, facing her in the dirt:
1) She is not alone; I can see the unmistakable silhouette of her next door neighbour, and best friend, miss Josephine, entering the barn beside her;
2) Both girls are carrying thin and whippy, rattan punishment canes.
I gulp, and lower my forehead to the ground in even more abject misery and terror. Looks like I’m in for a binary beating! What on earth could I have done to deserve a severe punishment such as this?
One thing is for sure – I know it will hurt! For I know from bitter experience that rough, 23 year old miss Josephine from next door takes particular pleasure out of applying the cane to a semi-naked maleslave’s back, and she will prove to be a most efficacious caning-assistant for my own, comparatively sweet and refined mistress.
Mistress Josephine always strikes me as being a particularly embittered young woman – a recent immigrant into the countryside from the inner city, and with a huge chip on her shoulder, for some reason! She does have some things in common with my mistress Alison, however, with whom she seems to get on like a country house on fire! For example, she too is physically very beautiful – but in a small and petitely-framed white girl sort of way, with her long, blonde hair normally tied back in a severe ponytail (as it is today, of course – to make sure her hair doesn’t interfere with her view of my kneeling back as she enthusiastically swings her punishment cane down hard upon it!)
As the two oppositely-attractive young women come closer I can see in more detail what they are both wearing. My dark-haired mistress Alison is wearing her white, frilly office-blouse (she works at an Estate Agent’s in a nearby village), and her usual pair of plain, black cotton slacks with shiny, black leather, flat-heeled, round-toed, slip-on, loafer-shoes. As she walks towards me I catch the occasional glimpse of plain, black anklesock beneath the moving-towards-me hems of her black cotton trouser legs.
Blonde mistress Josephine is also rather soberly attired in a light-blue blouse and similar black slacks, only hers are bootcut and cover a pair of pointy-toed, spike-heeled ankleboots. As she walks ominously towards me her bootcut trouser-hems flap around her ankles affording me occasional glimpses of the zipper areas on the sides of her matt-black leather ankleboots. I have no idea whether she is wearing any socks or not inside those boots – so don’t ask! (It wouldn’t surprise me if chav-mistress Josephine went unashamedly barefoot inside her boots!)
I’m not totally sure what miss Josephine does for living, but I understand she may be some sort of shop-assistant in the same village where my mistress works in the Estate Agent’s (as well as being her next-door neighbour; in fact, the two young women often car-share into work).
But apart from my mistress Alison’s socks, and miss Josephine’s boot-zippers, what really catch my eye are the two aforementioned dark, whippy canes being carried in each of their feminine right hands. Those canes are going to sting!
The two all-powerful young women stop in front of their male-weakling victim (me), their dominant feet now coming to rest in front of my face as I kneel, head humbly bowed, in the dirt and dust of the barn floor. Indeed, their respective, and most respected, shoes and boots are already quite dusty from the straw-strewn floor – even after such a short walk across it!
My dark-skinned mistress Alison (who is of Mauritian and Guyanese origins – very exotic!) is the first to speak, in her rather plummy voice:
‘Does one understand why one is about to be caned, slave?’
I’ll say one thing for my posh, and often unpredictable, mistress Alison – she always likes to give me an explanation for my beatings, and even, sometimes, give me the opportunity to explain myself, even though nothing I say would ever actually excuse me from the punishment she believes I am due.
Since I have no idea what it is I have done wrong this time, I have no choice other than to issue forth a mea culpa in the most general of terms (for one thing I know for sure is that I must have done something wrong, for my mistress clearly believes I have, and what mistress Alison believes is always right!):
‘Oh pray mistress Alison…oh pray…this slave apologises most profusely for upsetting the mistress, and begs her to discipline and punish him for his sins against her! Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! Pray beat some proper respect and obedience into this incompetent and disrespectful slave!’
I don’t actually wish to be beaten, of course – certainly not by these two, whippy canes and certainly not by such two aggressive and fit, young women as mistresses Alison and Josephine! But it would be churlish of me not to invite them to beat me, since they have clearly gone to the trouble of fetching their respective punishment canes from their respective bedroom drawers and taken time out of their respective, busy, young-womanly schedules in order to correct me for whatever it is I’m supposed to have done!
Mistress Josephine, who appears to be even more angry and upset with me than my own mistress Alison, is clearly anxious to get on with the beating. I watch her dusty, pointed, right boot-toe tapping impatiently on the dirty straw of the barn floor as she pipes up above me:
‘Let’s get on wit’ it, Ally! Let’s flog him, though!’
Ally is her nickname for my mistress – her current ‘ally’ in punishment, if you’ll forgive the pun! I, of course, would never dare to address my mistress Alison as ‘Ally’ – not even as ‘mistress Ally’ – for only her friends are allowed to call her that, and I’m not her friend; I’m her slave! Her personal footwear-slave, to be precise!
I yearn to kiss those neighbouring, impatient, dusty boots of mistress Josephine’s, in an effort to elicit some young, blonde-womanly compassion and mercy, but I can tell by the black boots’ demeanour that they are not for showing any clemency; and the rattan stick hovering above them is just itching to make rapid and fierce contact with my prone and vulnerable, wooden-stocks-confined, bare back!
My mistress Alison herself, however, ever keen to ensure her slave is aware of exactly why he is being punished, explains my actions, and their consequences to me first:
‘You should know that you have really, really upset me, slave! The other day, when I walked into the kitchen, you didn’t even desist from lickshining the dirty floor in order to kiss my superior feet! Do you not remember such insolence on your part? Are you stupid, as well as incompetent?’
To be perfectly honest, I must be stupid, as well as incompetent, for I can remember no such thing! However, this is a situation where honesty is, most definitely, not the best policy! To tell my mistress I don’t remember disrespecting her in that way would be tantamount to calling her a liar – and that would not be a terribly good idea when you are kneeling helplessly in the stocks at your angry accuser’s feet, and her friend’s feet, prone and ready for physical punishment at their cane-carrying, female hands!
Instead, I throw myself on my mistress Alison’s personal mercy (since there is no formal court of law in this situation before which I can plead for clemency):
‘Oh pray mistress!...Oh pray…Pray punish me for such insolence and disrespect! Oh please mistress, I implore you, please beat me and teach me a lesson I will never forget!’
To the untrained ear that might not sound like a slave begging for mercy! But such masochistic and self-deprecating words are my best hope of reducing my mixed-race mistress’s righteous wrath towards me! That, and my actions of now stretching forward my wooden-collared neck; throwing my face onto her dusty, flat, patent black leather shoes; and fervently kissing them on the scuffmarked, rounded toe-areas (for slavish actions always speak louder than slavish words, don’t you think?)
‘Ha! Ha! Now he’s keen to kiss your feet, an’ that, Ally! Now that you’re about to punish him with the cane, like! Ha! Ha! What a mutton-head, though! What a loser, though! Ha! Ha!’
There is undisguised glee in mistress Josephine’s chavvy, high-pitched voice, since she knows I am still going to be beaten, however much I grovel and fawn to my angry mistress Alison beside her. Her friend wouldn’t have dragged her all the way here to the barn if she wasn’t determined to provide some whipping-entertainment for her next-door neighbour!
Although I can’t see it, as I am concentrating, as I have already explained, on kissing her dusty, rounded shoe-toes, my mistress Alison now has a smugly satisfied smile on her pretty, mixed-race face. She stretches forth her right foot even further in the dusty straw directly beneath my face, whilst simultaneously hitching up the now equally barn-dustied hem of her black, cotton trouser-leg and pointing to her outer, black-socked anklebone with the tip of her rattan cane:
‘Kiss me on the sock, slave-oik! Kiss me 50 times on the side of my sock, right here, where that black crease is!’
I humbly, but gratefully, move my lips up from black leather shoe to black cotton anklesock (for it is much less of a strain on my confined neck) and feverishly kiss the cane-indicated, sock crease on the outer side of her shapely, right anklebone. Such an honour, and a privilege to kiss a young woman’s sock in any circumstances – let alone immediately prior to receiving a severe barn-beating!
Clearly frustrated by the delay in getting to beat me with her stick, blonde-ponytailed mistress Joanna gently chides her mixed-race friend:
‘God, you’re too nice to him, Ally, innit? Lettin’ him kiss your sock, an’ that! Let’s just, like, go ahead and beat the crap out of him, or somefing?’
My mistress leaps to my defence, figuratively speaking:
‘Ha! Ha! Let’s not be too hasty, Jo! Let’s give him a chance to demonstrate just how sorry he is before we beat him! After all, he’s only a stupid slave-peasant! And besides, you can have him kiss your socks as well if you like? I don’t mind!’
Aha! So mistress Jo (sorry, mistress Josephine) must indeed be wearing socks inside her dusty, but incredibly stylish, black leather ankleboots? Not sure how my mistress Alison knows that, but wouldn’t it be a treat to unzip the side of her neighbourly, dusty black ankleboots with my penitent mouth and kiss my second punisher’s sweaty bootsocks whilst she is still wearing them inside her, no doubt hot and sticky, black leather boots?
Sadly, it’s not to be – for the lady Josephine is not for sock-kissing:
‘Nah – I just wanna get on wit’ whippin’ him, an’ that Ally! How many strokes are we gonna give him, though?’
Strokes – it sounds like such a soft and kind word when uttered by a soft, high-pitched, feminine voice; but not when referring to ‘strokes’ applied quasi-judiciously with the female cane!
‘How about caning him the same number of times that he’s having to kiss me on the sock – 50? Perhaps 25 strokes each would be appropriate?’
‘Ha! Ha! Sounds good enough to me, Allikins! Does you wanna go first, babe?’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, let’s just wait a bit longer, shall we – until he finishes kissing the side of my sock? Then I’ll give him 5; then you can give him 5, and so on right up until the last 10 strokes which we’ll deliver to him simultaneously, laying on hard from both sides, ok yah?’
‘Ha! Ha! OK YAH, babes! Sounds like a good enuff plan to me, though, Ally!’ smirks mistress Josephine, already preparing her cruel whipping-stick by running it through her itchy, feminine fingers.
Meanwhile I am up to 20 sock-kisses to the side of my beloved mistress Alison’s partially exposed, right sock. Pathetically, I start to slow down – ostensibly in order to demonstrate my respect and humility for my mistress’s plain, black cotton anklesock-creases, but in actuality as a feeble attempt to buy myself more time! I know I’m only delaying the inevitable, but, since my mistress Alison has decreed that my punishment shan’t start until I finish paying my public respects to her sock a total of 50 humbling times, I can at least buy myself some more time to prepare myself mentally for the double-edged, caning onslaught that is about to come!
My exotically mixed-race mistress Alison, however, is clearly wise to my pathetic delaying tactics, and starts to tap out my sock kisses with the tip of her cane on the side of her sock, thereby controlling the humiliating speed at which I must honour and obey her plain and ordinary (albeit rich girl’s) sock. There shall be no rest for the wicked slave – only humility and pain, and in a time and a manner of her choosing.
She may be an angry young woman, but she is very much in control of her emotions, as befits the countryside aristocracy!
I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now – I’ve finished kissing my mistress Alison’s posh, black sock, and fantasising about kissing mistress Josephine’s, presumably also black, chavvy bootsocks inside her clammy, black leather ankleboots.
It is time for my bi-beating in the barn to begin!...
