Footslave Fantasies Volume 4
The fourth volume in a collection of pure fantasies from footslaves – or are they?
VOLUME 4 CONTENTS (scroll down for fantasies in reverse numerical order)
10. Down Before Prison-Governess Mistress Marion (and junior prison-officer mistress Sakti)
9. So Rude!
8. The Kindly Cane-Mistress
7. The Household Ornament
6. A Thing of Great Beauty
5. The Whipping-Slave
4. The Armenian-Girl’s Ropey-Sock Nuzzler
3. Where’s the Catch?
2. The Airport-Footpig
1. The Suffering Slave-Face
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Fantasy no. 10 – Down Before Prison-Governess Mistress Marion (and junior prison-officer mistress Sakti)
I am appearing before prisoner-governor mistress Marion, in her opulent office, on a charge of male-prisoner insubordination towards one of her junior officers – 20 year old officer-mistress Sakti.
Miss Sakti, my accuser, has been asked to wait outside whilst the prison governess finds me guilty. I am already secured prostrate over the bare, wooden punishment trestle in the governess’s office, ready to receive my punishment. The purpose of my private hearing before the governess is really just for her to explain to me the exact details of my forthcoming punishment.
43 year old, bleached-blonde, bespectacled prison-governess mistress Marion is seated on the raised chair, where my accuser will soon be seated, in front of and above me, her feet resting on the metal footplate directly below my prostrate face. Unlike the rest of the female staff , governess Marion never wears a uniform, and so she is dressed in her middle-aged and somewhat frumpy ‘civvies’, consisting of a frilly, white blouse; a beige coloured jacket and skirt (respectably knee-length, of course); tan-coloured nylon tights; and dark brown court shoes with sensible one-inch heels.
I like seeing, and smelling, her brown leather courts close-up because they have a particularly fetching flowery pattern in the stitching over the rounded toe-areas; plus her middle-aged toe-cleavage is nicely enmeshed in flesh-coloured, finest denier nylon. She may look middle-aged and frumpy, but I still have to admire prison-governess Marion for looking so smart!
I stare at her governess feet directly below my prisoner face as she informs me, in her trademark snooty and authoritative tone, of the ordeal which I am about to undergo in her office by way of a penance for my heinous crime of talking back to a junior officer-mistress (all I said was, ‘Don’t you have any fresh water, miss Sakti?’, when the latter had been feeding me my daily dose of bread and water in my dingy, windowless, basement-cell! Being a young and keen prison-officer mistress, miss Sakti had immediately reported me to her superiors, and hence I now find myself in my current unfortunate, but I suppose well-deserved, predicament).
But back to governess-mistress Marion, and her scolding lecture:
‘Prisoner-slave no. 67543A’, (I’m actually quite impressed that she knows my name!), ‘I hereby find you guilty of the offence of insubordination towards a female officer. I have already discussed your punishment with your accuser, junior officer-mistress Sakti, and she has requested that you be punished as follows:
1. That you be confined at her feet over the wooden punishment trestle – as you are now;
2. That she be permitted to sit over you in judgement whilst your punishment is being administered;
3. That you plead and beg for clemency from her, and apologise profusely for your insolence and insubordination prior to the infliction of punishment;
4. That you also be required to kiss her feet 1200 times in total immediately prior to the infliction of punishment – specifically 200 times on each shoe-toe; followed by 200 times on each of her two shoelaces; and then 200 times on the outer side of each of her anklesocks;
5. That you then be caned with 40 strokes of the female cane, well laid on, across your bare buttocks whilst you remain staring at her feet;
6. That immediately after the infliction of the 40 cane-cuts, you remain secured to the punishment trestle whilst you praise and bless her for not showing you any clemency, and that you again apologise for insulting her young-womanly authority;
7. That immediately following your grovelling apology you then repeat your kissing of her feet in a similar manner to that which preceded the infliction of punishment, but that this time your 200 kisses be to the insteps of her shoes, rather than her shoe-toes, and to the inner sides of her anklesocks; you must still kiss her shoelaces 200 times each also, as before.
8. That you then be put back into your solitary confinement cell with no further bread or water for a period of at least 3 days.
Do you understand the terms and conditions of your punishment, prisoner-slave no. 67543A?’
All the while I was listening to the prison governess delivering her verdict I was admiring the tiny movements and involuntary foot-spasms in her middle-aged, nylon-covered feet as she clearly took great pleasure in pronouncing all the details of my humiliating and degrading, but totally justifiable, forthcoming punishment. I mean, asking for fresh water! Just who, or what, do I think I am? A free human being? A hotel guest? When I am actually nothing more than a dirty, maleslave prisoner who is detained ‘at the supreme goddess-mistress Julia Caesar’s pleasure’!
I feel so ashamed of myself that I just want to lower my head to prison-governess mistress fancy-stitched, brown leather court-shoe toes and humbly and contritely kiss them.
But even the taste of prison-governess Marion’s middle-aged shoe-leather is to be denied to my dry and parched mouth, since I am now about to be punished at the much younger feet of 20 year old junior officer-mistress Sakti!
I respectfully answer governess Marion’s rhetorical question about my understanding the terms and conditions of my punishment:
‘Yes, goddess-mistress Marion. If it pleases you, goddess-mistress prison-governess Marion.’
She sighs satisfiedly, and continues:
‘Very well then, prisoner-slave no. 67543A. Your contrition and punishment shall now begin. I shall invite junior prison-officer mistress Sakti to enter my office and take up her position in this seat of power in front of you. You may now brace yourself for your forthcoming ordeal!’
The unkissed, but deeply admired, brown middle-aged shoes and tan nylons climb down from the raised chair in front of me leaving the metal footrest beneath my face temporarily vacant until such time as the low-heeled, black leather, lace-up, uniform-brogue shoes of junior prison-officer mistress Sakti climb up onto it.
I must say, the petite, dark-haired Indian girl looks resplendent in her smart, female prison-officer uniform consisting of her white blouse; her navy-blue officer’s jacket with one pink stripe of female authority on each of her epaulettes; her bootcut-hem, navy blue trousers; and the aforementioned, regulation, black leather, lace-up, brogue shoes. (I happen to know that officer-mistress Sakti often comes to work in her non-regulation, pink and white, scruffy, lace-up trainers, but I’m not exactly going to squeal on her to the governess in my current predicament, am I? I shall be doing more than enough squealing in a moment, when the female punishment-cane starts to bite!)
As she gloatingly settles into the raised chair in front of me I initially think that a tiny flash of red near the top of her shoe on her right instep is a label on the inside of her shoe; it is only when she hitches up the hems of her bootcut trousers - in order to make herself more comfortable and, of course, to increase the accessibility of her socks to my penitent lips – that I realise the red flash was actually part of a red rose motif on the side of her otherwise pure, black anklesock. It was one of the upper petals of the sock-flower, and the surrounding petals can now also be seen. The rose covers the outer side of her socked anklebone, and has a matching one on the outer side of her left sock. This must be why the junior officer-mistress wished to specify, in very particular detail, which areas of her socks she wanted kissed before and after my punishment; she wishes me to kiss both the black of her socks (covering her shapely inner anklebones), and the red-rose sock-motifs (covering her equally shapely and prominent outer anklebones!)
And why not? Is she not now the one in charge of my pitiful fate?
She certainly seems to be relishing her punishment-supervisory role:
‘Ha! Ha! Now we will soon be teaching you how to properly respect your prison-officer mistresses and betters, dirty prisoner-slave, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! Please to be beating him most severely with the cane, madam!’
She is addressing the prisoner-governess, of course, who is the only official in the prison authorised to deliver more than 10 strokes of the female cane in any one punishment session (though the rest of the female officers, junior and senior alike, often get around that stipulation by simply waiting five minutes in between each ‘bout’ of strokes, thereby recording a punishment of 30 strokes as, officially, 3 separate punishment sessions of 10 strokes each!)
But there will be no 5 minute respites during the caning which is about to be expertly delivered by frumpy-looking, but strong-armed, prison-governess mistress Marion!
I hear her reassure the Indian, junior-officer mistress with the pretty, red-rose socks that she will spare no effort in fustigating my bare buttocks – all for the delectation of the aforementioned, slightly-built and petitely-framed, slighted Indian girl!
But first, of course, there is the small matter of my begging 20 year old junior officer-mistress Sakti for clemency, and then kissing her shoes and socks in the prescribed manner.
I begin with my pitiful and pathetic pleas for sweet young Indian woman mercy:
‘Oh pray, junior officer-mistress Sakti; if it pleases you, junior officer-mistress Sakti; please have mercy on this dirty, insolent and rebellious prisoner-slave, sweet and kind officer-mistress! Truly this slave does not know what came over him, mistress, and apologises most profusely for his outrageous behaviour in requesting fresh water to drink, as opposed to the tepid and stale water he so richly deserves, being a permanent prisoner of the Gynarchy! Oh pray, officer-mistress Sakti! Oh pity pray! Mercy mistress! Mercy!’
Junior officer-mistress Sakti is clearly unimpressed:
‘Ha! Ha! Shut up, dirty prisoner-slave! Be shutting up now, and respecting my feet by kissing them. Be first of all kissing the toes of my shoes 200 times each, and then be moving your lips onto each of my shoelaces 200 times; then be finishing by kissing the sides of my socks 200 times each – be kissing the red roses on the outsides of my socks, and be making damn well sure that I am feeling your dirty lips through my socks, otherwise I shall be increasing your number of cane-strokes, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
I suppose not having my punishment increased – providing I kiss her socks palpably and effectively – is a clemency of sorts! I am, in any event, confident that my humble, female-sock kissing abilities will not let me down on this occasion – given what’s at stake (i.e. the well-being of my buttocks!)
I duly desist from my verbal whining, and put my mouth where my moaning is – by beginning my first 200 penitent kisses to the, slightly scuffmarked and weather-beaten, reinforced rounded toe-areas of junior officer-mistress Sakti’s relatively dainty, black leather, regulation-uniform, brogue shoes.
Despite the rough, grey-leather scuffmarks greeting my lips, the black leather brogues smell freshly polished – no doubt in an effort to impress governess-mistress Marion, rather than through any attempt to augment the flavour of miss Sakti’s shoeleather for my remorseful benefit!
I have to confess, I am eying up the Indian officer-mistress’s socks even whilst I am kissing her shoes – for those red-rose, petal motifs do look incredibly soft and inviting, especially since they are creased in places. I can’t wait to pollinate their nectar with my penitent lips!
But for now I must content myself with my ‘starter’ of musty-smelling, Indian-girl shoeleather, followed by my ‘second course’ of stringy, black shoelaces, before I get to my pudding of sweet, red-rose, Indian-girl anklesock! I have to admit I linger somewhat on the socks, not just because they feel so nice on my lips, but because I foolishly wish to delay the sting of the pain which I know will surely follow – like the sting of an angry bee whose rose has been pollinated by a lesser insect!
I am confident that junior officer-mistress Sakti is content with my sock-kissing self-humiliation, and was fully sentient of my lips on her outer ankles through the soft, cotton material of her young-womanly sock, for my quota of subsequent cane-strokes is mercifully not increased!
I shall self-censor all the gory details of my caning per se, if you don’t mind, since, by the end of the caning session, so ably administered by governess-mistress Marion with all her many years of experience in beating prisoner-slaves, my poor buttocks were in a truly sickening state – much too painful to describe!
What I can confirm, however, is that I still managed to find the footslave-prisoner strength to ‘praise and bless’ junior officer-mistress Sakti, in suitably humble slave-speak, and to thank her for having me disciplined for insubordination in such a lovely way, prior to delivering the remaining 1200 kisses to her shoe-insteps, shoelaces and socks (though, by way of an extra humiliation, only on the plain black inner sides of her anklesocks this time)- and all this in spite of the putrefying, pain-induced state of footslave-stupefaction in which I now found myself, thanks to my throbbing and lacerated, cane-cut buttocks!
How miss Sakti laughed at me as she led me back to my isolation cell on my penitent-prisoner hands and knees, my face crawling behind her brogued-heels as I caught only the occasional glimpse of red-rose sock motif beneath the hems of her navy-blue-uniform, bootcut trouser hems as she walked along. Truly I had learnt my lesson – the lesson that a lowly, male prisoner must never talk back to a young woman in authority, not even to request some fresh-tasting water, even if he will, ultimately, get to kiss the sides of her socks as a part of his terrible punishment!
Fantasy no. 9 – So Rude!
25 year old, blonde, lean and svelte mistress Shauna can be a bad-tempered, opinionated, foul-mouthed, whip-wielding harridan when it comes to her treatment of we poor, office footslaves. She is also of average intelligence and ability. But she is incredibly beautiful, and here in the Gynarchy of Barbaria that counts for everything – to be young, female and beautiful.
As a result she has just been promoted, and will soon be leaving for a well-deserved job in head office.
I, of course, am obliged to add my humble, office-footslave congratulations to those of her work-colleagues on her good news as she is now seated above and in front of me on the raised, office shoeshine-chair in the corridor, although, unlike her female work-colleagues, I do not have the relative liberty of delivering my congratulations through gritted teeth! I must be genuinely respectful of her female promotion, based on her physical beauty, since I am just an ugly, male slave!
As I kneel below her and lickshine her patent black leather, high-heeled, round-toed, single-ankle-strapped officewear shoes, I therefore dare to offer up my admiration and felicitations to stroppy mistress Shauna on her good news:
‘Oh pray, mistress Shauna, if it pleases you mistress Shauna, this slave has just heard about the mistress’s much-deserved promotion, mistress Shauna, and offers up his humble and heartfelt congratulations to the young mistress-madam, if you would be so kind, most beautiful mistress Shauna?’
She laughs down at me – a supercilious laugh; the laugh of a young, female winner, who is going places, over a middle-aged, male, loser-footslave, who shall be lickshining shoes in this same office-corridor for the rest of his natural life; though, sadly for him, not her shoes:
‘Ha! Ha! Yeah…I’m leavin’ tomorrow; goin’ up to f…kin’ head-office, innit though?’
I love it when mistress Shauna swears – for it reminds me of her freedom to speak as she pleases. I, of course, am most definitely not at liberty to swear, and must always use the ultrapolite and respectful form of parlance known as ‘slave-speak’. Slaves who swear get whipped, and sent to the slave-mines!
And rightly so!
‘Oh pray, mistress Shauna! Oh bless! Oh truly this slave will miss serving the mistress and her beautiful, high-heeled footwear, and regrets the mistress’s imminent departure, whilst at the same time rejoicing in the mistress’s good fortune, if you would be so kind and understanding to a humble, office-corridor footslave, young madam?’
‘Ha! Ha! Like I give a s..t about what you feel, slave! Ha! Ha!’ she replies, arrogantly and dismissively, as is her wont.
Suitably put in my place, I continue to respectfully lick the office-corridor dust off her, already quite shiny, office shoes:
‘Yes mistress! Of course mistress. Pray forgive me mistress Shauna for my foolishness!’
She doesn’t respond, or accept my apology for my rudeness towards her in bemoaning her departure, as her mobile phone suddenly rings. This is clearly someone she really does wish to have a conversation with about her promotion – a fellow free-person; one of her female friends by the sound of it. Although I can only eavesdrop on one side of the conversation – mistress Shauna’s – I gather the conversation concerns her farewell drinks-do which, needless to say, I am not invited to. Even if I was invited to it, I would have to send my apologies since I am unable to move from my office shoelick-stand in the corridor, being permanently chained to the side of the wall!
Mistress Shauna is oblivious to me now as she is engrossed in her superior conversation above me, which is actually a good thing, for it means I can now properly concentrate on admiring her shapely ankles inside her strappy, patent black leather, high-heeled, office shoes.
Mistress Shauna, being a particularly beautiful young woman, is, as always, immaculately turned out in her cream coloured, frilly blouse, and matching, above-the-knee-length, office skirt, with tan-coloured, sheer nylon stockings covering her shapely legs and feet – one of which, her right foot, has a fetching tattoo of a red rose on the outer anklebone.
Even through the fine mesh of her tan-nylon stocking the red rose is clearly visible. It adds even further female beauty and feminine dignity to her already well-turned anklebone. I also like the way the fine mesh of the tan-nylon fails to hide the various little skin blemishes on her lower leg and foot – the tiny, shaven hair-follicles on her shapely calf muscles; the blue veins running along the top of her foot; the little, black mole on the inner side of her right anklebone.
It is actually her un-tattooed, less skin-blemished, left anklebone which catches my eye, however, as I move my lips over towards the shiny, black, raised instep of her left shoe in order to start licking it and divesting it off its offending dust, for mistress Shauna has the makings of a tiny ladder in the fine, nylon material of her tan-coloured stocking just over her outer, left anklebone! What’s more, miss Shauna is subliminally twisting her left foot around as it rests on its metal footrest at my face-level, giving me a most welcome, close-up and personal view of some tiny wrinkles in her otherwise smooth and shiny, tan-coloured nylon, right where the ladder is on her stocking!
This is what I shall miss most when mistress Shauna departs up the career ladder to head office – the creased ladders in her stockings; the only ladders I ever get to climb – with my footslave-tongue – though I must always request mistress Shauna’s superior-female permission before touching her nylon-stockinged feet or ankles with my tongue, of course!
I would use the excuse of offering to divest her nylon stocking of some dust or detritus – maybe a foreign hair or a piece of fluff; I can’t simply tell her that I selfishly ache to kiss her creased, nylon ladder, of course! There must be some perceived benefit for the self-important, superior mistress in having her stockings kissed or licked!
But I can’t offer to do anything whilst she’s babbling away on the phone to her friend above me, nonchalantly twiddling her blonde locks and flexing her tan-nylon-covered foot muscles in front of my mesmerized face. It’s incredibly frustrating – but I must concentrate for the time being on lickshining mistress Shauna’s beautiful, black patent leather, left office shoe.
Never mind – I can ask her for permission to lick her ladder as soon as she finishes her conversation. I’m sure I can see a speck of dust stuck to one of the stretched stitches in that little ladder, which, of course, must be removed by mouth from the young mistress’s stocking!
But she abruptly finishes her phone conversation and jumps down from the raised shoeshine-chair, before walking away from me and out of my miserable life forever, without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’!
So rude! So haughty! I obviously mean nothing to her! Even though I have been steadfastly lickshining her shoes, and divesting her finest-denier, tan-nylon, office stockings of dust and detritus over the past 4 years of her employment here in the regional office, still she is happy to walk away from me without a word of thanks or a goodbye!
What I’m really upset about, of course, as her vertiginous high-heels click-clack down the corridor and out of my sight, is that my lips didn’t get that one last chance to touch her nylon stocking! So really, I’m just being selfish! Why should a goddess-mistress like mistress Shauna indulge me with her laddered nylons? She is my infinite superior and better, and now much too important to bother herself with a lowly, regional-office footslave like me.
God bless you, mistress Shauna! And best wishes for a successful and lucrative future in the boardroom! Truly you are better than me!
Fantasy no. 8 - The Kindly Cane-Mistress
Not all professional cane-mistresses are cold and heartless; some can be quite kindly and sympathetic, even if they really enjoy their jobs!
Take 27 year old officer-mistress Joanna, for example. We male prisoner-slaves all respect and admire her young-womanly compassion, as well as her great physical beauty (she is of mixed race Persian and French origins). It is her custom, for example, to visit an about-to-be-whipped slave in his lonely prison cell the night before his punishment is due to be inflicted, and to talk him through it; prepare him mentally for the pain ahead; show him the implement of punishment in great detail and give him some welcome tips on how to get through the forthcoming pain.
I myself have been sentenced to 25 strokes of the female cane tomorrow morning, and so I am ever so grateful when, the night before my punishment is due to take place, the black curly-haired and exotically brown-skinned, cane-mistress Joanna, as is her kindly, young-womanly wont, enters my cell to offer me some helpful words of advice as to how to endure my forthcoming suffering under her professionally wielded cane!
She needs no words of introduction as she enters my cell, even though she is wearing her name-badge, for I have been whipped by her before, and I know that she whips to cut, and she cuts to hurt. I respect that! I respect her – for she is only doing her job, and doing it well! What she doesn’t have to do is to counsel me the night before a whipping, like she is about to do now. She could just let me stew in my own fear and misery, but instead she has taken the trouble to come all the way down to my cell in order to show me the cane she will be using tomorrow, and talk me through her prisoner-punishment modus-operandi.
Respect!
I crawl forwards as far as my wall chains will allow and shower her dusty, black leather, loafer shoes in penitent kisses just as soon as she enters my cell. She is wearing her female prison-officer uniform consisting of a smart, light blue shirt with epaulettes on her shoulders (indicating that she is a fully qualified and experienced cane-mistress – so I am in good hands!) and her bootcut, navy-blue trousers – though worn today, as I have already indicated, with flat-heeled, slip-on, black leather shoes, and not boots.
I am grateful that she is wearing shoes and not boots today, for it means, as she stretches forwards her right foot on the dusty floor of my punishment-cell, that I can get to kiss the sides of her socks, as well as her shoes – and, as we footslaves all know, the feel of a trembling and fearful slaveman’s lips on the side of her sock is much more likely to elicit sweet feminine mercy and compassion in a mixed-race, young woman than the much less intimate feel of a frightened man’s lips on just her outer footwear. Kissing sock is so much more intimate and intense!
Not only that – but her dusty and bobbled, well-worn, black anklesocks also have a fetching, pale pink, chevron pattern in the stitching running down the sides, meaning that I can engage in what we call ‘intelligent’ kissing of her socks, by humbly tracing the pink chevrons all the way down the side of her socked anklebone as far as her upper shoe-rim with my feverish, footslave lips, and thereby demonstrating the thought that I am putting into the worship of her all-powerful shoes and socks!
Part of the reason for my feverishness, and my determination to show abject penance and remorse for my crime, is that officer-canemistress Joanna has brought the fearsome, obedience-inducing punishment cane with her. As I indicated earlier, it is, hopefully, just to show me the implement of pain that she will be using on me tomorrow; to familiarise me with it – hopefully only aesthetically at this stage, and not literally, for I am far from mentally ready for its biting sting this sorry evening!
But you never know – miss Joanna might just be inclined to give me a ‘taster’ of the stinging, female cane tonight, and so I kiss her dusty, black, prison-officer shoes and black and pink socks beneath her navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems with genuine fear and respect, in the hope of convincing her that tomorrow’s pain will be sufficient to teach me the lesson I so richly deserve (I won’t reveal my petty crime against femininity, if you don’t mind; I’m too ashamed and embarrassed to talk about it now. Suffice it to say, I deserve to be caned!)
I don’t mind that officer-mistress Joanna’s shoes and socks are covered in prison-floor dust, and nor, it seems, does she. She cares not that my lips and mouth are obliged to touch and swallow that dust and dirt from her footwear, as we both know that is where it belongs – inside my prisoner-slave mouth and stomach!
She therefore laughs at me as she switches dusty, loafered feet beneath me, so that I may pay equally feverish lip and mouth homage to her left shoe and sock.
I verbally praise and bless her as well, of course, in between kissing her shoe and sock:
‘Oh pray, goddess-canemistress Joanna…kiss…kiss… if it pleases you, goddess-canemistress Joanna…kiss…kiss…kiss… God bless you for honouring me with your presence tonight, mistress…kiss…kiss…kiss… Please don’t hurt me mistress!...kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…’
Again, she laughs at me – full of her sense of absolute, young-womanly power and authority over me (for I must be at least twice her age!):
‘Ha! Ha! Keep kissing the side of my sock, prisoner-slave!’ is all she says. She must be liking it – the feel of my quivering lips on the pale pink, chevron pattern down the side of her black sock, so I kiss her socked ankle all the harder.
Eventually she withdraws her dusty left shoe and sock from my face, and confirms to me the reason for her current visit to my dank and dingy cell:
‘Ha! Ha! I’m the one who is going to be administering punishment to you tomorrow morning, prisoner-slave! Ha! Ha! Won’t that be nice?’
I mustn’t be rude – not whilst she’s holding that cane over me. I remain kneeling, head bowed, staring at her feet:
‘Oh yes, mistress! Oh thank you, mistress! God bless you, mistress Joanna!’
She moves the tip of the cane forwards and rubs it softly, and teasingly, along my downcast chin:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave – and this is the cane I’ll be using on you! Ha! Ha! 25 strokes, isn’t it?’
I gulp; even at rest, the dark brown, female rattan cane feels harsh:
‘Yes, officer-mistress Joanna; if it pleases you, officer-mistress Joanna.’
‘Ha! Ha! It does please me, prisoner-slave; and it should please you too! I mean, look on the bright side – I’ll be delivering all the strokes to your bare buttocks whilst you are bent over the wooden punishment trestle, so at least you’ll be able to focus on my shoes and socks while I’m punishing you! Ha! Ha!’
Officer-mistress Joanna is very astute! This will be an enormous psychological help to me! Not only will I have something to help take my mind off the terrible pain being inflicted on my poor buttocks, as I shall be able to admire my female punisher’s dusty shoes and socks behind me during the punishment, but I shall get a forewarning of each and every cutting stroke of the cane as I shall be able to observe miss Joanna’s right ankle twist upwards inside her shoe as she raises the cane high up behind her in the air and then brings it swishing down onto my naked flesh. The creasing of her sock shall be my humiliating cue to brace myself for the next, biting stroke!
I do hope she is wearing the same pair of bobbled, black socks tomorrow morning, for getting a flash of that fetching, and very distinctive, pale pink chevron pattern on the side of her sock whilst she is beating me would truly be a distraction for sore eyes, and therefore a comfort to me.
Well, a comfort of sorts – for, as professional cane-mistress Joanna goes on to gleefully explain to me, she applies the cane to a footslave’s buttocks every bit as thoughtfully and intelligently as he, for his part, kisses her socks:
‘Ha! Ha! I’ll be starting by giving you 5 sharp cuts of the cane to your upper buttocks, slave; then we’ll have a little rest, so that you can catch your breath and absorb the pain, before I move on to deliver the next five cuts lower down; and so on and so forth!’
‘Yes, mistress Joanna. Thank you, professional cane-mistress Joanna!’
You see what I mean – such a kind and considerate caner! A consummate professional – no hint of vindictiveness on her part, just a desire to ensure that the full force of the female law is duly applied to my bare, male buttocks! She will even permit me to catch my pained breath after every 5 strokes!
I can’t help myself – I throw my mouth once more down onto her dusty, lecturing feet, and embrace her shoes and socks, even though I now have to raise the bootcut hem of her right, navy-blue trouser leg with my fevered forehead in order to gain access to the side of her manky old sock!
She indulges me, and tacitly permits my unsolicited sock-kissing to continue:
‘Ha! Ha! But be warned, slave – I shall make sure the last 5 strokes of the cane are all overlays; right in the centre of your buttocks! Ha! Ha! You’ll really feel those, I can assure you! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress Joanna …kiss…kiss… Thank you, mistress Joanna ...kiss…kiss…kiss… God bless you, mistress Joanna! ...kiss…kiss…’
She deserves my humble expressions of gratitude, for at least she is being kind enough to forewarn me of her intention to add to my distress tomorrow by deliberately overlaying the final 5 strokes!
As I said at the beginning, she may be a professional cane-mistress, who really enjoys her job; but I, equally, enjoy kissing her shoes and socks – for I am a professional wimp, who craves that which he fears the most – the unforgiving sting of the female cane!
I move my mouth over to kindly cane-mistress Joanna’s left foot, humbly raise her navy-blue trouser hem again with my face, and feverishly kiss the pink-patterned side of her otherwise common or garden, black anklesock once again:
‘Oh pray, mistress! ...kiss…kiss… God bless you, mistress! ...kiss…kiss...kiss… I am in your power, and at your mercy, mistress! ...kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss….’
Or I will be tomorrow!
Fantasy no. 7 – The Household Ornament
Time was when only the very richest inhabitants of the Gynarchy could afford to employ a purely ornamental footkisser-slave in their opulent homes; either that, or you would only see such oddities in public places, such as the entrances to museums, or at exhibitions devoted to the history of footslavery. But nowadays you can find us just about anywhere – at the entrances to the meanest cafes; and in modest, everyday, working-class homes.
I am employed by one such, immigrant, working-class family – the Banepalis – who originate from Nepal, but who emigrated to the Gynarchy several years ago. The Banepalis have actually done quite well for themselves, owning a successful convenience store next to their terraced home – but the very nature of the hard work they have put into their business still makes them very much ‘working’ class by my reckoning!
The family consists of Mr and Mrs Banepali, and their two daughters – 23 year old miss Anuja, and 19 year old miss Pima. The two girls help out in the shop from time to time, but both are now full-time students at college. Miss Anuja is studying to be a doctor; and miss Pima is studying fashion design and marketing.
They are the apples of their proud parents’ eyes – and rightly so!
Mrs Banepali’s elder sister, the girls’ aunt – madam Sagarmatha – also lives in the three bedroomed, terraced house. She recently arrived from Nepal on a visitor’s visa, but appears to be minded to settle here in the Gynarchy with her sister and her family. I’m not quite sure what madam Sagarmatha’s marital status currently is – but I gather from her perpetual moodiness and surliness that something must have gone badly wrong in her life out there in Nepal!
Put it this way – she now looks like she’s here to stay!
Not that any of that is any of my damn business, of course! I am, as I have already indicated, just a common or garden, ornamental footslave located in the draughty, front-door porch of the Banepali family residence. My role is to be a dumb piece of Nepalese-feet-kissing furniture as my Nepalese betters, and their friends and acquaintances, enter or leave the Banepali household. I basically just kiss their feet – if they are female (if they are male I am forbidden by law to actually kiss their feet, but I must nevertheless look humbly and respectfully at the feet of my freemale betters as they enter and exit the terraced house).
Yes – that’s just about all I do; humbly admire and/or kiss the feet of my betters. I’m not allowed to lick feet; or to clean shoes, or boots; or to straighten socks or tights; or even to talk in a slavish and servile manner to my Banepali betters. Nor do they deign to talk to me – mainly because they view me, quite rightly, as a mere object; a thing; a piece of unobtrusive footslave-furniture in the porch which automatically kisses their feet (if they are female) as they enter or leave the building.
But, for all that, my life is far from being boring, I think! There are just so many people entering and exiting the Banepali family household on any given day, and amongst them so many different pairs of female shoes, sandals and boots to kiss and admire! I sometimes wonder if I kiss nearly as many pairs of feet on a typical day as my ornamental-footslave colleague who is employed at the entrance to the Banepali’s neighbouring shop?!
But I am not considered worthy enough to serve the Banepali family’s shop-customers; I’m too old and wizened, and, besides, I am now firmly encased in the concrete wall of their household porch. I must, therefore, be content with my lot, and rejoice that I am, at least, in a humble position to serve the feet of many strangers (the Banepali’s friends and acquaintances) as they visit my Nepalese masters’ modest home – and, of course, to serve the feet of the Banepali family themselves!
The following is a description of an ornamental-footkisser’s typical morning serving feet in the Banepali family household porch:
First to exit the household in the morning is always Mr Banepali sir – naturally enough as he has to open up the shop bright and early – so I don’t have to actually kiss the first feet of the day which pass me by; but I do have to observe them contritely and respectfully, especially since they are the feet and shoes of the man whose female family members I am lawfully embondaged to!
To be frank, I have little choice but to observe the feet of anyone who passes through the front-door porch – since I can hardly turn my face away! My head, you see, is encased in concrete and protrudes down from the inside wall of the cold and draughty porch – at foot level, and looking downwards – whilst the rest of my miserable, male body is enclosed in a special, concrete aperture in the wall, out of sight of my free betters (I’m quite sure they don’t want to see my puny, elderly, maleslave torso day in and day out; even my ugly, old face must be an affront to them!)
I therefore have no option but to stare at the imprints made by Mr Banepali’s, working-class shoesoles on the dirty doormat as he rushes past me on his way out to work.
The next person to leave, however, is required by law to have her feet respectfully kissed by me, though she does so almost subliminally and subconsciously. Mrs Banepali follows on about half an hour or so after her husband, as she too works in the adjacent convenience store on a daily basis.
As per usual, Mrs Banepali is wearing her silken, multi-coloured, ankle-length sari with flat, brown leather, strappy sandals on her bare, brown, unpedicured Nepalese feet, so I am, as always, confronted by her chubby, unpainted, big toes for kissing – one after the other – first thing in the morning as she stops in the porch, checks her appearance in the mirror, and then briefly presents each middle-aged, Nepalese female foot for me to respectfully kiss.
I do love the feel of Mrs Banepali’s bare, Nepalese toeskin on my footslave-lips, even though her feet always smell disappointingly fresh and clean first thing in the morning after she has just showered. In the evenings, after she comes home from work, those same brown-sandaled, shopkeeper feet will have the added bonus of being ‘fragrant’ with the sweat of the day, and black toejam will have inevitably accumulated beneath her toenail-rims – so at least I shall have all that to look forward to, as I kiss them back in again!
Although I can never see it, since my eyes must remain permanently downcast, I can always sense a smug and supercilious grin on Mrs Banepali’s pretty face as she presents each sari-covered ankle in turn for me to kiss her on the bare big-toe. How she despises me – a non-man; grovelling at the feet of herself and her daughters, and their female guests and friends. Not at all like her own manly, Nepalese husband! You wouldn’t catch him bowing down to kiss a woman’s feet!
Just one, quick kiss to each of her big toes will suffice for Mrs Banepali. Like most of my encounters with female feet it must be brief – for she has a job to go to (or, in the evening when she is coming home from her work next door, a meal to cook!). And so, all too soon for my liking (not that anyone gives two hoots about my likings), the exotically-saried and plain-sandalled feet of Mrs Banepali are gone – gone out the door; and next door – to the family shop.
There will then be a bit of a gap until 23 year old miss Anuja – the trainee doctor – exits the family home. Although she will not yet be wearing her white, doctor’s coat, miss Anuja will nonetheless be stylishly dressed in her black, traditional, salwar-kameez style trouser suit with smart, black leather, high-heeled pumps on her otherwise bare, brown, Nepalese feet. Shapelier feet and ankles than those of her mother, but also, curiously, veinier – or perhaps that’s just caused by the unnatural elevation of her sweet, Nepalese feet in their three-inch-high heels?
Shouldn’t a doctor know better than to subject her feet to such unnatural and unhealthy footwear? Again, none of my damn business! If miss Anuja feels good in heels, then heels it is! Perhaps she enjoys the way they elevate her feet above my lips, so that I would have to strain my neck impossibly high upwards in order to reach her veiny, bare feet? Perhaps she hasn’t even thought about that, and doesn’t choose her footwear-styles to either please, or humiliate, me! After all, I’m just a piece of furniture!
Whatever, miss Anuja’s feet always look like they mean business. These are the no-nonsense feet and heels of a serious-minded and ambitious, young Asian woman – who barely has time to give a second, or even a first, thought to the loser ornamental-footkisser in her front door porch. Indeed, I sometimes detect that miss Anuja regards me as nothing more than an irritant and an inconvenience as she is rushing out to work/college, but she nevertheless is gracious enough not to ignore me completely, and to stop and have the pointy toes of her black patent leather, high-heel pumps duly kissed. Again – just once on each imperiously pointed-forwards toe.
She may well be a bit more relaxed on her way back in from work this evening – even allowing my lips to linger somewhat on her pointy, and oftentimes street-sullied, shoe-toes. I love the way her foot once again wobbles in its three-inch-high heel as I kiss the pointy front part of her shoe; and those prominent, blue foot-veins twitch beneath the brown skin of her arches as I make silent and respectful lip-contact with her superior, young-womanly, patent leather footwear beneath the tapered hems of her equally stylish, matching black , salwar-kameez trouser legs.
Like her mother before her, miss Anuja despises me as a total and utter footslave-loser; and, again like her mother before her, her feet will smell warm and fragrant, but only in the evening-time after she has spent a long hard day on her high-heeled feet, click-clacking up and down the wards of the university hospital!
I suspect – though I don’t know – that the stylish miss Anuja’s toenails are properly painted and pedicured within those pointy, patent black leather shoe-toes, but, sadly, only her upper toe cleavage is visible to me.
Such dainty, feminine toes – and shoes!
Her younger sister, 19 year old miss Pima, it has to be said, is much more likely to have her feet up all day long – even when she’s nominally ‘working’ at her fashion college. She does not appear to have inherited the traditional work ethic of the rest of the Banepali family, and her slovenly nature is often matched by a suitably slovenly appearance – in frayed jeans and dirt-stained, ankle-length Ugg boots.
Being a student of fashion, however, miss Pima still somehow manages to look sexy and stylish – in a slovenly sort of way! Her misshapen and street-soiled, beige-sheepskin Ugg boots, for example, will always be ultra-stylishly worn with just a hint of bright purple or green sock peeking out from underneath the thick, furry-white, upper rims of her sheepskin boots – purple or green socks to match whatever colour of top she happens to have on that particular day (at least, I’m guessing that’s what influences her choice of sock-colour, since I am unable to look at her, or anyone else for that matter, above the knee).
Needless to say, kissing the Ugg-booted feet of a rebellious teenager is a whole different experience from kissing the traditional, open-toed, flat leather sandals of her Nepalese mother; or even the stylish, black patent leather, high-heeled pumps of her much more sophisticated, elder sister!
For a start, there is so much more Ugg boot material to kiss – the misshapen boot-toes are so broad and rounded; and, in miss Pima’s case, covered in ingrained street-dirt. It’s a real privilege and an honour for a lowly ornamental-footkisser such as myself to have so much feminine boot to kiss.
And then there is the unique feel of the dirty, sheepskin material on one’s lips; so rough; and at the same time so pungent – a heady mixture of well-worn, sheepskin mustiness, and ingrained, young-womanly foot and sock sweat, from previous outings!
What I like most of all about kissing miss Pima’s dress-down Ugg boots, however, is that – even in the morning on her way out to college – she lingers in the porch, often presenting each rounded boot-toe to my confined and bowed face several times over for respectful kissing. Miss Pima never seems to be in a hurry, unlike the rest of the family! She is always chilled out; she takes her time; and she seemingly has enough free time in her busy, female day to afford me the honour of showing some proper, footslavish respect for her beige-sheepskin boots, by kissing them not just once, but repeatedly, and worshipfully – the way a fully-westernised, Nepalese girl’s dirty, calf-length boots should be kissed!
I audibly breathe in the aroma of her well-worn, sheepskin boots as I kiss them reverentially on each misshapen, rounded toe-area, admiring the scrunched-up sock-top that peeks out from inside the boot and covers her fashionably skinny, blue denim jean-hems (today it’s blue sock).
Yes – I love that lingering, musty smell in my nostrils, and the lingering, musty aftertaste in my mouth, every time I pay my considered and unhurried, ornamental-footslave respects to miss Pima’s sheepskin Ugg boots!
Laid back though she is, miss Pima has still never spoken to me, though. Her father forbids it.
Last to exit the house of a morning – if indeed she bothers to go out at all – is the unemployed madam Sagarmatha, mysterious Nepalese sister of my mistress, Mrs Banepali. She may be going out to do the family shopping (I wonder if she does it in the convenience store next door?!); or she may just be going out for a walk. Either way she will be feeling the cold (being a recent arrival from warm and sultry Nepal), and as a consequence she will be wearing her red, salwar kameez trousers with plain, black loafers and thick, black woollen socks, even on a relatively warm spring morning like this!
I love kissing her on the cold sock – for there is nothing, in law, that says I have to kiss only bare foot, or shoe or boot surface. If a lady is wearing hosiery, and if it is accessible to my lips, it is fair game – and a moody, middle-aged, Nepalese lady’s thick, black anklesock is very fair game indeed! It even smells gamey, as mistress Sagarmatha is not so fastidious about her personal foot-hygiene as some of the other members of the family. But that only adds to its appeal to me – the fragrant, sweaty sock, inside the plain, flat, loafer shoe, of a sullen and surly, disillusioned, middle-aged, Nepalese lady, who is, by my calculations, technically an illegal overstayer on her 6 month visitor’s visa, having been here for some 8 months now!
Never mind, if she can’t go back for whatever reason to Nepal the Gynarchy authorities are bound to grant her female asylum here, so it’s only a technicality. I hope and pray that she is allowed to stay – for I could worship those thick, woolly socks all day and every day! They make me feel so humble, being such an ordinary and unremarkable pair of dull, everyday socks. They don’t even beautify mistress Sagarmatha’s feet and footwear – unlike the bright-blue socks of her niece, miss Pima! They’re just a dirty pair of manky, old woollen socks – designed to keep her middle-aged feet cosy and warm. And yet I am obliged, by law, to show profound, footslavish respect for them – for they are the socks of a woman!
Which I most humbly do!
All the above feet I will see pretty much every day – but, of course, as I mentioned before, the Banepali family also have frequent visitors to their happy home, and I must greet the footwear of their female visitors and guests with equal humility and respect. And so, I will often find myself kissing:
· The sandaled or court-shoed, bare feet of Mrs Banepali’s many, middle-aged, female acquaintances and neighbours (mistress Sagarmatha does not yet appear to have any visitors or friends of her own, but it can only be a matter of time before she truly settles in to female life here in the Glorious Gynarchy!);
· The designer, cork-soled, wedged sandals, or brown leather kneebooted legs and feet, of miss Anuja’s fellow, female student-doctors on their days off;
· The scruffy ballet-flated, sneakered or anklebooted feet of miss Pima’s many fashion-student girlfriends. Miss Pima must belong to a ‘bright socks’ club, or somefing, for her friends, like, always seem to wear brightly-coloured socks with their well-used ballet flats, sneakers and ankleboots, and that? And they, like, make sure their sock-tops are always on display, and that (rather like miss Pima does herself in her ubiquitous Ugg boots) even if one sock is, like, casually higher than the other one, and that?
After a while, I get to recognise many of these beautiful and exotic visitor-mistresses to the Banepalis’ humble abode from their footwear alone – though, again, I never get to talk to the owners of the footwear. Remember – I’m just an ornament; a footkissing ornament, in an everyday household, in an everyday front-door porch. Why would anyone see fit to converse with me?
I’m just a nothing and a nobody.
As for my masters - the Banepali family - they, on the other hand, are clearly going places and, who knows, some day they may decide to move out of this small, terraced house and into a bigger, more spacious property? But I shall, unfortunately, have to remain here, in this humble porch – since I am built permanently into the property and am very much regarded as part of the fixtures and fittings!
What’s that you ask? Who feeds me and shaves me on a daily basis?
That would be the uniformed, family housemaid – miss Wanet – of course; a delightful Filipina girl who always wears her low-heeled, black leather courts and dark nylon stockings with her black and white, pinafore dress. Didn’t I mention her feet before? How remiss of me! I get to respectfully kiss them every day as well, and she kindly deigns to talk to me – even though I am forbidden to answer her back!
She talks to me in order to mock me, and to make fun of me – because she knows she is my superior within the household, being the family’s prized maidservant.
I hope she doesn’t move out along with the Banepali family, if and when they go, for I adore the feel of those finest-denier, dark nylons on my ornamental-footkissing lips!
I suspect, however, that Mr Banepali sir would miss her nylon stockings also – if you catch my drift?
Fantasy no. 6 – A Thing of Great Beauty
She’s a
skinny,
pig-ignorant,
23 year old,
impetuous,
arrogant,
dirty,
foul-mouthed,
drugs-addled,
drunken,
street-walking,
white-trash skank with long, straggly, blonde-braided hair.
But, ‘She finks she’s all that, though, innit?’.
And when she haughtily places her pockmarked, tattooed anklebones – along with her dirty-white, keds sneakers and equally grubby, short, white, cotton-fibre sneaker-socks – onto my back-alleyway, wooden footblock for respectful kissing, I must worship them with every fibre of my public-footslave being!
For she is young, free and female, and therefore a thing of great beauty; whereas I am old, enslaved and male, and therefore a thing to be despised.
She towers above me like a veritable skank-goddess – my infinite superior and better, for all to see.
How everyone laughs at me, and mocks me – the proud footslave of a straggly-haired skank.
Even the mistress herself has a little chuckle!
And rightly so.
Another haughty and arrogant customer-mistress for the poor backstreet-bootlicker!
Backstreet Bootslave
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Fantasy no. 5 – The Whipping-Slave
I have done no wrong to the short and squat, blonde-curly-haired, thirty-something woman who is now seated above me on the raised chair in front of which I am kneeling – chained up and with my back bared, ready to be whipped.
Indeed, I am 100% sure I have never met this young(ish) white woman before. I can tell by her low-heeled, round-toed, black leather, lace-up ankleboots and black cotton sock-tops that I have never met her before, for there is a very distinctive scuffmark on the rounded toe of her right boot – and I never forget a scuffmark in front of my face!
So it is not out of vengeance, or correction for some misdemeanour on my part towards her, that my chubby, blonde mistress-tormentor is about to have me whipped; it is purely for her public pleasure and entertainment – because she enjoys seeing slaves whipped at her feet, as is her perfect, young-blonde-womanly right, of course! She will, after all, be paying good money for her experience – 100 Fems is reputedly the current going-rate for a fully-fledged, footslave-whipping – and, besides, a lady does not have to have any particular reason for having a male slave whipped here in the Gynarchy of Barbaria.
This will be my third whipping in three weeks – since I am employed as a permanent whipping-slave; part of the Gynarchy’s entertainment industry! And the professional whipmaster who shall be whipping me today in the public whipping-house for the curly-haired, young woman’s cruel pleasure is, most unfortunately for me, the gruff and brutish master-sir Rufus – a strong and muscular, if somewhat sweaty and overweight, bald black man; a highly professional whipmaster, it must be said, who is never one to disappoint the ladies when it comes to showing off his prowess with the brown leather, single-tailed, cowhide whip!
Ugly, fat brute that he is, he will be delighted to know that his fellow-fat, blonde customer-mistress madam has chosen to have me beaten with a full 100 lashes of the whip. She obviously wants him to go the whole hog – and if I know whipmaster-sir Rufus, fat pig that he is, that’s exactly what he will do, grunting like a hog with the effort he puts into each and every whip-stroke as he leathers my back for the delectation of the mistress seated above and in front of me.
I only hope she knows what she’s letting herself in for, and that she’s not too squeamish, for there is likely to be a lot of unmanly writhing and groaning on my part – groaning into her blonde-girl, black leather ankleboots (as an experienced recipient of the whip I’ve learnt not to scream into a lady’s boots during a whipping; but I’m afraid I lack the manliness and fortitude to take my whipping in total, abject silence, though they do say that a bit of moaning and groaning on the part of a slave undergoing the whip is a good thing in any case, as it helps to satisfy the mistress that the whipped slave is truly feeling it!)
Yes, I know from previous, bitter-back experience that I can take the whip; but can the customer-mistress take watching me take it? That is always the real question!
Somehow I get the impression that this particular fat, young, blonde woman won’t blanch or back down at my suffering in front of her booted feet! She will want her money’s worth!
Public whipmaster-sir Rufus, as is his usual way, demands that I kiss the customer-mistress’s scuffmarked, black leather ankleboots 100 times before he even begins to apply the cruel whip to my kneeling, naked back. If she had ordered me to receive 30 lashes, it would be 30 kisses to her boots – always in proportion to the number of whip-lashes she has paid for – so I’m lucky, in a sense, to be permitted to have such prolonged lip-contact with the mistress’s boots on this unhappy occasion!
Sometimes a particularly fragile mistress will even get cold feet at this stage in the proceedings, and back down altogether from having me whipped – once she feels my supplicatory lips on her footwear, praising and blessing her, and begging her for sweet, feminine mercy. This is particularly so if my lips can somehow make contact with the woman’s stockings or socks – or even her bare feet – since a lady’s soft and warm, nyloned, socked or bare foot is, obviously, even more sensitive than her cold and harsh outer footwear, and therefore much more likely to be merciful. I’ve noticed this works particularly well on foreign mistresses – overseas visitors to the Gynarchy who feel somewhat guilty at taking the, for them strange and unusual, pleasure in a man’s physical chastisement!
But, even though I’m convinced this particular blonde-curly-haired, short and squat mistress is an out-of-towner; and even though I do manage to place some opportune kisses onto her exposed, black cotton sock-tops just above the upper rims of her black leather, fully straitlaced ankleboots (sadly her bare, white legskin is still covered by her black, bootcut trouser hems, and therefore unattainable to my lips), she appears to be a naturally cruel dominant, and if anything to be turned on by the pathetic sight and feel of my begging her ankleboots for sweet, feminine mercy.
Much to master-sir Rufus’s approval, the curly-haired customer-mistress confirms that my ‘punishment’ is to proceed as directed, after my forlorn attempt at eliciting sweet elusive, feminine mercy from her booted feet. He grinningly takes a few steps back, uncurls the dreaded, brown leather, cowhide whip, and I brace myself for the first of many harsh strokes as the young woman’s scuffmarked ankleboots twitch expectantly in front of my kneeling and gormless, footslave-face…
I’m not allowed to describe the pain of the first 25 lashes in detail, since the Gynarchy authorities take the view that such pain should be truly indescribable. They’re not wrong!
Suffice it to say that, by the time whipmaster-sir Rufus stops for his first, quarterly breather, I am in a place and time where all is pain – pure pain.
Or rather – pure pain and boot, for I am not yet so insentient that I cannot still appreciate the sight of a pair of beautiful, and excited, scuffmarked, female ankleboots in front of my pained face! In fact, the boots have helped me through the pain, as I have been able to study them in more detail during my ‘punishment’ – thereby going some way to taking the biting sting in my bare back and shoulders off my pathetic, footslave mind.
I have now noticed, for example, that one of the black bootlaces is somewhat frayed just below the third eyelet on the left hand side of the jubilant customer-mistress’s left boot; it must surely be in danger of breaking altogether if she pulls on it, or gets her personal bootslave, if she has one, to pull on it too vigorously whilst lacing up her boots. I feel I should warn the blonde customer-mistress, not by verbalizing my concerns, of course – I’m in too much pain to talk – but by kissing the frayed lace repeatedly, since whipmaster-sir Rufus insists that I continue to kiss his female customers’ boots or shoes during each pause-period in the whipping, though only in proportion to the overall number of stinging lashes I am still to receive (thus 75 at this early stage of the whipping), whilst he takes stock of my partially whipped back and catches his breath.
It is therefore with a deep sense of pain and humility that I set about ‘warning’ the beaming, and not at all squeamish, blonde customer-mistress of her impending bootlace-disaster by kissing the frayed area of black bootlace just below the third eyelet on her left boot 25 times (I would not be permitted to kiss just one part of her boots the full 75 times; that would be considered insulting to the customer-mistress, as if I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing and where I was placing my lips – but 25 kisses to a single boot-eyelet should be enough to send the desired message to even the dullest of mistresses that there is something amiss there which has caught my trained, bootslave-eye!)
I’m sure the blonde customer-mistress got the subliminal message about her dangerously-fraying lace on her left boot – it’s such an odd area of a lady’s boot for a slave to repeatedly kiss – but she nevertheless doesn’t seem to care much about the state of her bootlaces! She is all fired up by the sight and sound of the whip, and my concomitant suffering, and is anxious for the whipping to resume!
So resume it does…
A further 25 lashes later, and I too need a breather from the whip. I’m too weak during this second whip-pause to raise my lips high enough to reach the third eyelet on the mistress’s left boot, and so my 50 kisses during this second pause in the pain-proceedings are directed almost exclusively to the dusty, lower soles of her ankleboots and her scuffmarked, rounded boot-toes.
Meanwhile the delighted customer-mistress is tucking in to her mid-whipping meal, supplied as part of her entertainment package, above me. She really is slapping heartily on her delicious hot pastry, whilst I desperately try to tuck into her boots, though I am fast losing my appetite for female boot as the pain of the whip is making me feel sick!
The customer-mistress also appears to be very much enamoured by the brutish manliness of my public whipper – master-sir Rufus – as she invites him to partake in a bite of her pastry whilst he regains his freemanly bad-breath and strength in readiness for delivering the next 25 strokes to my naked, maleslave back. She is also, clearly, curious to know more about what it’s like to whip a slave – though I suspect she would be much too ladylike a young woman to ever dream of taking a whip to a maleslave herself. I doubt this young, blonde woman from abroad has ever even touched a whip before – certainly not at the sharp end!
She does now, though, in between chewing on her nice, warm pastry, as master-sir Rufus lets her fondle the business-end of the whip, where my back has just been, and feel how ‘warm’ it is – all whilst I continue to, humbly and weakly, kiss her black leather boot-toes in admiration and respect for her young-womanly whip-naivity.
And she is asking some terribly naïve questions of the master-sir:
How long has he been a professional whipper?
Does he enjoy his job? (!)
Where’s the best place to whip on a slave’s back – the bit that will cause him the most pain?
What would he do if the stupid slave fainted in the middle of the punishment?
Is there any way he can revive a slave who is beginning to flag under the whip, as I clearly am now?
On this last point the master-sir offers to demonstrate his favoured technique of reviving a slave to his full pain-receptor senses, by inviting the curious customer-mistress to take off her boots and shove her stinky-socked feet in my floundering face! The master-sir explains that the stink of a lady’s sweaty, black bootsocks is guaranteed to revive a midway-whipped slave!
The young, curly-haired woman chuckles, and agrees to do so – after she has finished her complimentary meal, of course – and so a few minutes later, long after I have finished my midway 50 kisses to her scuffmarked boot-toes, she is reaching down with her podgy, white fingers to undo the laces on those same, slave-saliva-glistening, black leather ankleboots.
Be careful not to damage that left bootlace any further, sweet mistress, I feel like crying out, for I would be truly mortified if a mistress’s bootlace broke in front of my face during my punishment! But, happily, the boots come off without a hitch, if with a creasing of her plain, black bootsocks – bootsocks which are then shoved most crudely onto my kneeling nose and face, and rubbed ignominiously all over them.
The clever whip-master is quite right, of course, and the young woman’s warm and moist bootsock-smell soon revives my senses and readies me to experience the full force of the next 25 lashes in all their agonizing detail – as well as leaving my face covered in white-girl, sweaty-black socklint!
She actually remains sexily unbooted as the next 25 lashes are delivered to my back in front of her now purely-socked feet. The continuing smell emanating from her freshly liberated bootsocks does go some way to ensuring I remain fully conscious of the pain being inflicted on my hinter region, although I do find the various movements and wrinkles in her black socks, as she subconsciously flexes her feet and toe-muscles in tandem with the whip-strokes, somewhat distracting.
Furthermore, it has to be acknowledged, by professional whipper and whippee alike, that there does come a point in a whipping when, having felt one whip-cut, you’ve felt them all; and during this third set of 25 lashes I’m ashamed to say that even my groans of pain begin to lack the vigour and enthusiasm they once did at the beginning of the whipping. The whip has done its job, and my latest customer-mistress appears to lose interest in my now muted suffering after a total of 75 lashes. She therefore, somewhat to my surprise and disappointment, graciously absolves me from the final 25 lashes – though I rather suspect the urgent phone-call she received from her boyfriend whilst I was feebly kissing her raw socks during the third quarterly break may have had something to do with her desire to suddenly cut short my fustigation at her feet.
An equally disappointed – but still fully paid – whipmaster Rufus gallantly helps her down from the raised chair as soon as her dainty, black-socked feet have been rebooted (by the blonde mistress herself; shamefully, I am too weakened by the whip to do up a lady’s bootlaces!), and the young woman who has so cruelly had me whipped purely for her own delectation and entertainment, but against whom I can have no feelings of resentment since I am just a whipping-slave, walks out of my life forever, leaving me with only my painful memories of her scuffmarked, leather boots – in particular her fraying left bootlace, and her personal, unique sock-smell, which still clings to my stinking face!
It will be a while before I am fit to be whipped again, so I shall have plenty of time to reminisce about my short and stocky, blonde-curly-haired customer-mistress, and her black, lace-up ankleboots and socks, as I lie on my stomach in my windowless recovery cell awaiting the next unknown customer-lady to come and smilingly take up her place in the whipping seat of absolute female power above me!
Fantasy no. 4 – The Armenian Girl’s Ropey-Sock Nuzzler
My 27 year old mistress of Armenian origins – fat and beautiful, dark-curly-haired, goddess-mistress Azniv – is a very clever, as well as a very attractive, mistress. Although she always looks smart and clean in her appearance, she likes to deliberately degrade and humiliate me – her personal footslave – by wearing particularly manky old pairs of shoes and socks on her podgy, Armenian-girl feet.
In any other society people would gossip about her maliciously behind her back – saying that her grubby socks and shoes let her down and sullied her otherwise stylish appearance. But here in the Gynarchy, of course, she is positively admired for her dirty-footwear fashion statement, as everyone understands it is simultaneously a public declaration of her utter contempt for her personal footslave, and of her unconcerned imposition of filthy and dirty footwear on his perpetually kneeling and gormless footslave-face.
And my oh-so-clever, overweight Armenian mistress doesn’t just leave it at that (like many lesser mistresses would!). She goes even further, and insists that I respectfully and worshipfully nuzzle the sides of her ropey and dishevelled-looking anklesocks whilst she is wearing them on her fat feet inside her equally scruffy, black leather, flat-heeled, slip-on, loafer-style shoes in each of the following, highly demeaning circumstances:
· Whenever she is seated, and her anklesocks are visible thanks to the riding up of her trouser-hems;
· Whenever she is standing still (for example in the queue at the bus-stop), even if only a tiny slither of her sock material is visible beneath her bellbottom trouser-hems and above her stretched shoe-line (my mistress never wears skirts or dresses; only trousers. I believe she may be embarrassed by her rather podgily-shaped legs and calves, though I find her fat, lower limbs very beautiful!)
Similarly, I must respectfully nuzzle her socks – though this time the whole of the socks and not just the sides – whenever she has kicked off her manky and scuffmarked, black leather, slip-on shoes and is relaxing with her ropey-socked feet up on the end of the sofa after a long, hard day at the office. She cares not if I too am tired after a long, hard day of sock-nuzzling the sides of her socks whilst she had been seated at her office computer; a sock-nuzzler’s humble work is never done!
But, despite the inherent cruelty of my existence, my Armenian mistress Azniv is nothing if not kind and considerate to her pathetic, full-time sock-nuzzler in other respects:
· For a start, she has drummed into me, by means of her whip, that is a great honour for a lowly, down-in-the-dirt, male footslave like me to be allowed to touch a superior, and very beautiful, exotic, young mistress’s ropey, old socks with his nose, whilst she is still wearing them inside her grubby unpolished shoes! The mistress’s socks may be the lowliest items of her clothing, on the lowliest of her body parts – her feet – but they are still infinitely better than me, being the foot-coverings of an intelligent and superior, young, Central-Asian woman;
· Again, thanks to the residual sting of her whip, I can fully appreciate that it must, at times, be incredibly annoying for my swarthy-skinned mistress Azniv – ticklish even – to feel my eager, sockslave-nose constantly rubbing against her socked anklebones, yet she indulges me and tolerates it, up to a point. Sure, she will, at times, have me soundly whipped if my nose goes too far and inadvertently brushes against her bare, Armenian cankle-skin; or if she just happens to be in a bad mood (which seems to happen on a fairly regular basis about once a month?). But a slave can hardly expect not to irritate his footmistress at some time or other through his sheer, slavish incompetence and brutishness, and, in any case, what male slave can expect to avoid the sting of the female whip completely? Ha! Ha! I personally have never heard of such a thing as a totally unwhipped slave – not here in the Gynarchy, at any rate!
· My sweet and kind mistress Azniv, for all her cruelty and lack of compassion, never wears totally plain, ropey old socks on her fleshy, Armenian feet. They are certainly always dark and sober in colour, predominantly black, to match her infamous, feminine mood-swings, as she, quite rightly, does not believe in injecting any joy or brightness into her pathetic sock-nuzzler’s life; but they invariably contain some sort of non-fun, patterned motif or logo on the sides – a gracious concession to my footslave face and nose since it gives me something extra not only to think about and admire, but also to intelligently nuzzle as I kneel by the sides of her ropey-looking socks.
Take today, for example. Whilst my mistress Azniv is seated comfortably at her office desk, her right leg dominantly crossed over her left, I have the inestimable privilege of kneeling on the floor with my face beside her upper, right shoe and sock as they hover in the air (It is an inestimable privilege because my Armenian goddess-mistress could, of course, condemn me to kneel and admire her left shoe and sock – the ones resting on the floor – where I would have much less visible sock-material to work on; but instead, my giving and gracious mistress Azniv permits me to kneel and nuzzle her uppermost socked and shoed foot as it subliminally hovers and twists in the air beneath her office desk).
As per usual my mistress Azniv is wearing a ropey old pair of predominantly black socks, but with a very fetching, pale blue, zigzagged pattern running down the sides of her socked, outer anklebone. The pale blue, zigzag motif runs all the way from the elasticated top of her full-length, cotton anklesock until it disappears down below the rim of her plain black, grubby and unpolished, flat-heeled, round-toed, officewear, slip-on shoe. Indeed, the lowest zigzag in the pattern is only partially visible on the side of her sock as its bottom-half disappears beneath the shoeline into the warm and moist clamminess of her hidden, lower-socked foot!
Not only that, but the pale blue stitching in the sock-pattern is intriguingly stretched due to the sheer fatness of my Armenian mistress’s ankles. The stretched sock-stitching is particularly pronounced over her outer anklebone, even to the extent of affording me a view of the faintest hint of her dusky, Armenian footskin-hue beneath the stretched surface of the sock!
And, as if that weren’t enough, the sock is also fetchingly creased in several places on the side of my mistress’s fat foot – again, particularly around the anklebone – and those sock-creases are constantly coming and going in tandem with my Armenian mistress’s foot movements as her foot swivels and twists subliminally in the stale air beneath her office desk. Such intriguing black-sock creases and involuntary, feminine foot-movements really do keep a humble, Armenian girl’s sock-nuzzler on his mistress’s toes – or rather on her socked ankles, since her sweaty toes are, sadly, hidden from me, for the time being at least, deep inside the recesses of her hot and steamy, unkempt, musty-smelling, black leather, loafer-style shoe!
The mere mention of my mistress Azniv’s socked toes reminds me that the otherwise black socks also contain pale blue reinforced toe areas (and indeed heel areas) to match the pale blue, creased and folded, zigzag pattern down the sides. Thankfully I shall get to nuzzle those sweaty, pale blue toe and heel areas of her socks later this evening whilst my mistress is relaxing with her feet up on the sofa, but for now, during office hours, I must dutifully concentrate on the pale blue, zigzag pattern covering her socked canklebone!
Not that I am permitted to exclusively nuzzle the pale blue parts of her socks; the comparatively mundane, surrounding black areas of sock must also be respectfully nosed and nuzzled, since they too are an integral part of my Armenian mistress’s humble, ropey foot-garment. Nevertheless, nuzzling the pale blue zigzag pattern is, of course, the highlight of my day, since I can conspicuously trace my nose up and down the zigzagged area of young-womanly, office sock, thereby demonstrating to all and sundry that I am, pathetically, actually thinking about what I am doing, and not just nosing a beautiful young, Armenian woman’s manky, old sock in a thoughtless and willy-nilly manner!
Having said that, the plain black areas of sock have their undoubted attractions too. For some inexplicable reason the black stitching of my mistress’s ropey, right anklesock appears to be more bobbled than the pale blue stitching contained in the zigzag pattern – or is that just my fevered sock-imagination at work? Whatever, like most professional sock-nuzzlers, I do love the feel of bobbled, female sock on the tip of my nose, as it reminds me that the sock is a truly well-worn and manky item of female underwear, as do the occasional patches of thinning sock which, like the areas of stretched stitching, reveal a tantalizing hint of my Armenian mistress’s dusky, bare footflesh underneath!
And so I have plenty of exciting things to keep my girlsock-obsessed mind preoccupied whilst I humbly, and as unobtrusively as possible, publicly demonstrate to the world my undying respect and admiration for my superior mistress, by dutifully nuzzling the side of her ropey, right anklesock from top to shoeline in a thoughtful and considered manner – the pale blue zigzag pattern down the outer side of the anklesock; the stretched stitching in said zigzag; the surrounding bobbled, black body of the sock; the constantly changing creases and folds in the main body of the sock – all whilst admiring the veiled hints of my mistress’s beautiful, dusky-brown, Armenian-girl footflesh underneath the sock, in the full knowledge that her sweaty toes and heels are covered deep within her musty-smelling, black leather shoe, by suitably reinforced, pale-blue areas of zigzag-matching sock!
Do you get a sense of how utterly degrading and humiliating this is for me? To be obliged to nuzzle, like a dumb animal, the manky-looking – and almost manly-looking – pale blue and black patterned anklesock of a fat and beautiful, young woman (who is ripe for the plucking, but who is considered far too high up the social scale for a lowly footslave such as myself to ever engage with sexually) whilst she is wearing said humble, common-or-garden sock inside her equally common-or-garden, plain black leather, slip-on shoe beneath her everyday, office desk – knowing all the while that the smelliest and most fragrant parts of her sock are frustratingly hidden from view, and from smell, deep inside her warm and musty shoeleather?
Speaking of smells, I do, of course, attempt to surreptitiously sniff my mistress Azniv’s sweaty, bare foot through her shoe and sock whilst I am nuzzling her socked anklebones. But, to be honest, there isn’t that much of a stink to smell. That’s because my mistress Azniv is actually a very clean and fastidious girl. As I tried to explain earlier, her preference for wearing dress-down footwear is really a fashion statement – designed to humiliate and degrade me, her low-life, personal footslave, by way of expressing her utter contempt and disregard for me.
Sure her feet and socks will smell – like any fat girl’s feet would smell after sweltering inside her clammy, black office shoes all day – but those smells will be for my footslave-nostrils to appreciate later on this evening, after my mistress has kicked off her shoes and is rubbing her now fully-liberated, sweaty-socked feet all over my face on the end of the sofa.
For the time being, here in the office, in public – with her shoes still firmly on her fat feet – all I can smell is the freshness of her upper, cotton sock and the mustiness of her unkempt shoe-leather, as I repeatedly, and lovingly, run my pathetic footslave-nose up and down the pale blue zigzag of her unremarkable sock.
Yes – I’m just an Armenian girl’s ropey-sock nuzzler; fully deserving of her superior-young-womanly contempt, and righteously despised by all and sundry around me. I humbly apologise to you all for my sock-nuzzling wretchedness!
Fantasy no. 3 – Where’s the Catch?
There must be a catch!
My extremely pretty – but extremely unforgiving – dark-haired, 23 year old, Pakistani mistress, miss Najjia, has summoned me to her bedroom where she is seated on the edge of her bed, her bare feet resting side by side on the carpet, but otherwise fully clothed and ready to head off to work in her black cotton, officewear trouser suit and crisp, frilly-white blouse.
I crawl over to her shapely, pale brown feet and toes where she promptly informs me of my terrible, footslave error – this morning, when she awoke from her slumbers and swung her feet out from underneath the duvet, her white, furry slippers were not waiting for her by the side of the bed! I had omitted to leave them out for her prior to retiring to my basement cell the night before!
Now, don’t get me wrong – I adore my young mistress, and praise and bless her at every opportunity, for she is my infinite superior and better, being young, female and Asian. But she is not one to suffer footslaves gladly, and there is no way she would ever let a crime like this go unpunished!
It is, therefore, with a sense of utter fear and foreboding that I now throw myself on her young-womanly non-mercy – and her bare, Pakistani-girl feet – as I literally shower them with penitent and worshipful kisses, begging her to be gentle with the punishment whip, and not to cut me up too badly, lest I be incapacitated for the rest of the day, and consequently unable to accompany her to heel to the office in order to serve at her office feet and footwear, as I would instead be languishing back here in her opulent home, in my dingy and cold basement-cell-cum-recovery-room!
I kiss her bare, fresh-smelling (for she has recently showered) but slipperless feet on the unpainted big toenails; on the cuticles; on the veins; on the insteps; on the wrinkly soles; even on the hard skin at the backs of her heels – even though I know I shall still be sorely whipped, for, omitting to place a young woman’s slippers by her bedside the night before is a truly unforgivable crime on the part of a personal footslave! What, is a mistress now expected to fetch her own slippers of a morning?!
I start to weep. I had just been so tired last night, and had so much to do – it was a Sunday night, the night when I must mouthwash all my mistress’s dirty socks and prepare them for the working week ahead. But I’m not making any excuses – I deserve to be punished; I deserve to be whipped!
I brace myself for the inevitable next commandment which will soon emanate from my long-dark-haired, fully-gynarchised, Pakistani mistress’s pretty, red lips – ‘Slave, fetch the whip!’ – when something truly remarkable happens. As I am applying my own dry and parched with fear lips, repeatedly, to the chapped skin on the back of her left, bare heel beneath the bootcut hem of her black cotton trouser-leg, my sweet mistress Najjia suddenly utters the following, unprecedented words:
‘Slave, you are forgiven! Now go and fetch me my boots and socks.’
I cannot believe my ears! Forgiven? By my unforgiving mistress Najjia? How can that possibly be? She never forgives a slave his errors and incompetencies!
There must, surely, be a catch? She must be playing some sort of cruel game with me!
My mind starts to race, even though, outwardly, I am praising and blessing her – replacing my penitent footkisses with footkisses of sheer and utter, slavish gratitude! Even the hard skin on her heels feels curiously softer on the lips now that my mistress Najjia has ‘forgiven’ me:
‘SLAVE – MY BOOTS AND SOCKS! FETCH THEM THIS INSTANT!’
This is more like the mistress Najjia I know – shouting at me in sheer, young-womanly exasperation and aggression; the threat of the female whip more than just implicit in her angry tone!
As I promptly desist from kissing her seemingly merciful, bare feet, and scurry over towards her boot-wardrobe and neighbouring sock-drawer, I still find myself wondering what my ostensibly sweet and kind, but in reality cruel and unforgiving, mistress Najjia is playing at?
Perhaps she intends to find fault with me as I boot and sock her this morning? Perhaps she will criticise me for the choice of boots and socks I am about to select? (I’m assuming, in the absence of any commands to the contrary, that she merely wishes me to fetch her normal, everyday, black leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up calfboots, and her matching black cotton anklesocks; but perhaps she will gleefully inform me on my arrival back at her feet that she actually wanted me to fetch her a pair of red socks this morning and will punish me accordingly?)
Or perhaps as I am nervously smoothing her innocently ill-chosen, black socks onto her freshly-kissed bare, Pakistani feet she will accuse me of scratching her precious, pale brown footskin – and call for her husband, master-sir Waheed – who is currently breakfasting downstairs – to come up to the master bedroom in order to ‘scratch’ my clumsy-slave back with the punishment whip!
Or she will find fault with the condition of her boots – accuse me of not having tongueshined them sufficiently the night before; of leaving an ingrained scuffmark unpolished?
Whatever, I am convinced that my mistress Najjia’s ‘forgiveness’ for my earlier slipper slip-up is only a temporary respite – designed to prolong my fear and trembling, and to give her the excuse to eventually have me punished as never before! I just can’t believe that she would overlook such a crime on my part! There must be a catch!
I arrive back at her bare feet by the side of the bed in fear and trembling just as my mistress Najjia, a heavy smoker, is lighting up her first of many cigarettes throughout the day. Hey – it’s her master-bedroom, and she is the Pakistani lady of the house; so she can smoke in it if she damn well pleases, even if her husband, master Waheed, hates the smell of cigarette smoke (like me!)
Because I am so nervous, not to say suspicious, of my mistress’s seeming mercy and forgiveness this strange and unusual morning, I fumble somewhat as I roll her black anklesocks up over her feet. I can sense her watching me intently as she smokes her cigarette above me – enjoying my fear and consternation. But even now she is being unusually obliging – even lifting her bare, brown feet up off the carpet one after the other in order to facilitate me in besocking her.
Similarly with her calf-length boots. As I zip them up over her freshly smoothed-on socks she obligingly keeps the zipper side of each black leather boot next to my face, so that I can clearly see what I am doing, and make doubly sure I don’t catch the cotton material of each ankle-length bootsock in the zipper! I always hate this bit – the bit where I must say goodbye to my mistress’s black socks for the rest of the office-working day, for with her black leather boots being fully calf-length I have absolutely no chance of catching a glimpse of her short, black anklesocks inside her boots throughout the day; especially since her bootcut trouser hems will never ride up above her upper bootrims, not even when my mistress Najjia is seated, cross-legged, at her desk, with my face dutifully kneeling beside her right, booted foot as it hovers and swivels subconsciously in the air.
Still, at least, as I stare at the creased and folded, matt-black leather on the side of her chunky-heeled, calf-length boot, I, unlike everyone else in the office, know that her socks are there inside her boots – garnering my Pakistani mistress’s priceless footsweat as she goes about her business throughout the day – and that those socks will, eventually, adorn my face as I sniff their sweatiness whilst she lies back in the arms of her manly husband with her socked feet up on the end of the sofa at home later this evening.
Perhaps that is how she secretly intends to punish me – by denying me the smell of her stinky, moist bootsocks at the end of the working day?! My heart sinks at the very thought! I would, in some ways, prefer to be whipped – rather than to suffer the indignity of not being allowed to sniff my Pakistani mistress’s sweaty, black, office anklesocks whilst she is still wearing them on her de-booted feet at the end of the long, hard day!
It’s not that I don’t trust my mistress Najjia – I trust her implicitly! It’s just that – I must be punished for failing to leave out her slippers the night before! There must be a catch!
I kiss her thick, rounded boot-toes, and follow her to heel outside the front door and towards the train station where she will soon catch her early-morning commuter train into work. Once on the train, I kneel on the dirty floor by the side of her boots, admiring her now dusty bootsoles.
Yes – everything appears to be normal. But where’s the catch?!
Fantasy no. 2 – The Airport-Footpig
It has been a long, tense day in the Airport Departure Lounge where I am employed as a courtesy footslave for the female passengers awaiting their international flights (sometimes referred to in the vernacular as an ‘airport-footpig’). Lots of flight delays and disgruntled, frustrated passengers – especially the smokers who were gasping for a cigarette, but unable to leave the Departure Lounge in case their delayed flights were suddenly called down to the Departure Gates.
I, of course, in my capacity as a polite and courteous footslave, had to bear the brunt of the airline customers’ frustration, since it was deemed to be my fault that the weather outside was foggy and leading to such long delays and cancellations!
I hadn’t stopped licking impatient and angry, female boots and shoes all day long when, late into the evening, I suddenly found myself at a loose end. There were still plenty of delayed and frustrated, female (and male) customers in the Departure Lounge, but nobody, it seemed, was in immediate need of my footwear-shining services.
The bulk of them had had their flight-delayed footwear lickshined to death!
I therefore retired to my default position, kneeling in a corner of the Departure Lounge facing outwards from the wall, looking down at the well-worn carpet, and awaiting my next customer-mistress to summons me. Sadly, my brief respite was all too brief, as within 5 minutes or so I heard a young, female voice calling me over from one of the nearby benches:
‘Yo footpig! Get your f***ing, lazy ass over here now!’
I looked up from my default kneeling position to see a charming, young, dark-haired, white woman of about 20 years old sprawled along the airport bench in a most unladylike manner, her head resting on her black manfriend’s lap as he sat reading a paper. The young woman – presumably his sexual partner or wife – was fetchingly dressed in a pink and black T shirt; black cotton, bootcut slacks; and a pair of black leather, chunky-heeled, pointy-toed, zip up ankleboots. I could tell they had zippers because the hems of her bootcut trousers had ridden up to the very tops of her boots, revealing the stylish zipper-track in all its glory. No sign of any socks, though – just a slither of bare, white ankle flesh on her right foot which was lazily crossed over her left.
Even from a distance I could tell that the boots had seen better days – with beige patches on the weather-beaten soles where the original, grey, toughened leather had worn off through repeated walking. So, they were clearly a pair of boots in dire need of some footslave attention, and I wasted no time in obediently scurrying over towards the arrogant, young, foul-mouthed mistress on my customer-service, hands and knees.
When I got to her booted feet she remonstrated with me about my perceived laziness:
‘F***ing good-for-nothing footpig! What the f*** gives you the right to slack over there in the corner when I need a f***ing footrest? I’m tired lying down, but need somewhere to rest my feet while I’m sittin’ up, yeah?’
‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. Pray forgive me mistress!’
Whilst I am somewhat disappointed that I am not to get a taste of her boots – for they do look like they could do with a good, cleansing tongue-shine – another part of me is relieved that I am merely required to serve as a footrest for her young ladyship. It’s an easy enough task even for a footslave-simpleton like me – I just have to lie under her weather-beaten ankleboots, in a manner to be determined by the young lady, and, literally, take the weight off her feet!
I therefore, in the absence of any female instructions to the contrary, assume the most commonly-known footrest position – lying prostrate and face down on the dirty, airport-lounge floor – expecting the profane, young woman to swing her booted legs round onto the small of my naked back as she sits up properly beside her manfriend on the bench. I prepare myself – psychologically – for some possible heel-digging with those chunky, black leather, scuffmarked bootheels into my back, as the young woman does not strike me as being a particularly considerate and kindly mistress. But, to be fair, she has every right to be angry and inconsiderate with me, since her flight has been delayed for so long.
My presumptuousness, however, seems to inflame her even more, as she raises herself up out of her boyfriend’s manly arms and swivels round irritably on her seat:
‘Not like that, stupid f***wit slave! Wiv your face, yeah? Turn round so that I can rest my dirty, f***ing boots on your stupid, f***wit slave-face, yeah? Like I aksed you, slave! F***ing, stupid moron!’
Actually, I’m sure she didn’t ‘aks’ me, or give me any definitive instructions as to the type of footrest-position I was to adopt, but a customer-mistress is, of course, always right in the eyes of the airport authorities, and so I immediately apologise to the incensed, young, white woman for my maleslave stupidity and humbly turn over to lie on my back beneath her:
‘Oh pray, mistress! Pray forgive me, mistress! Please don’t beat me, most kind and forgiving, young mistress!’
She looks quite tall, and her face is now visibly contorted with anger, as she towers over me on her airport-lounge bench; I feel very low and vulnerable as I try to avoid eye contact with the superior, young, dark-haired woman, and instead focus in on her boots – the boots that are, no doubt, about to descend onto my gormless, upturned face!
But the young woman has, apparently, spotted another flaw in my footslave-performance:
‘What the f**k are you doing, f***wit-face? Can’t you see my socks need to be pulled up inside my boots first? Jeez!’
Her black boyfriend, who up until now had appeared engrossed in his newspaper and disinterested in his stroppy, white girlfriend’s petulant demands and protestations towards me, now puts down his paper and comes over all protective of her:
‘Everyting all right, honey? Does you want I to whup him for ya?’
He speaks with a heavy, Jamaican accent, but is clearly much more politely-spoken than his female partner:
‘I just can’t seem to get through to this f***wit of a stupid footslave, honey! All I wants is for him to straighten my socks and then act as a footrest for me, yeah?’
The black man seems genuinely annoyed at me, as well he might be:
‘Tch! Do as she say, bwoy – or I’ll take the whup to you, you hear?’
The Jamaican master-sir is referring to one of the many public-use whips dotted around the airport lounge in special whip-stands – ready for use on any ‘courtesy-footslave’ who fails to live up to the airport customers’ high expectations!
I immediately seek to reassure the black master-sir of my compliance with his, and his white girlfriend’s, orders, which are now crystal clear to me after all the initial misunderstandings:
‘Yes, master-sir! At once, master-sir! This stupid, dirty slave now finally understands his orders, if you will forgive me most respected master-sir and mistress-madam, and will obey the master and mistress forthwith!’
I clearly need to get up off my back and down onto my hands and knees again in order to reach down inside the tops of the young white woman’s black leather ankleboots with my now trembling-with-fear fingers, find the tops of her bootsocks, and pull them up. It would actually have been much easier for the indolent young mistress to simply reach down and straighten her own socks – but that’s hardly the point. Such mundane tasks are, quite literally, beneath her – especially when she has an underemployed airport-footpig to carry them out for her!
And so I beg her young-mistressly pardon as I lift her right trouser hem back up over the top of her upper bootrim and fumble inside the boot for the top of her slipped-down anklesock. Pleasingly, it turns out to be a very nice, plain black anklesock, even greying in places where the black dye has run out of the sock material due to repeated wear and sweat! And when I pull the lightweight sock fully up the young, white woman’s anklebone, the thin and narrow stitching still reveals veiled hints of her pasty-white and pockmarked ankleskin underneath – almost like dark nylon would do, though the sock is definitely made of cotton and not nylon; it’s much too ‘ropey’ and bobbled to be made of sheer, finest-denier nylon!
The young, dark-haired, white woman does nothing to help me adjust her inner bootsocks as I fumblingly repeat the humiliating footslave-process on her left foot – other than to glower down at me like I was something nasty stuck to the worn treads of her dirty bootsole.
I make damned sure that both the short, black socks are pulled up to the same height on each ankle, as I have already concluded that this particular young woman can be pernickety in the extreme. That, combined with her foul mood and foul language, can make her a dangerous customer-mistress to serve!
Having successfully and ignominiously straightened my female better’s plain, black anklesocks inside her scuffmarked, black ankleboots, I duly proceed to straighten her matching black cotton bootcut trouser-hems back over the tops of her boots.
‘Now get back on the floor and give me your face as a footrest, dirty footpig!’
My humble sock-straightening service seems to have placated her somewhat.
That’s the first time she hasn’t sworn at me, but has addressed me in a (relatively) civil manner! Moreover, as I lie on my back with my face next to her dirty and dusty, booted feet she merely apologises to her black boyfriend who is still sitting next to her when her right boot inadvertently brushes against his light grey trouser-hem as she first raises it up into the air and then brings it down onto my waiting, public-footrest face:
‘Oh! Sorry, hon!’
The man doesn’t seem too bothered, and just resumes reading his paper.
Of course, she issues no similar apology for plonking the dirty and dusty sole of her right boot down onto my upturned slave-face; nor for subsequently placing the equally dusty and worn sole of her left boot beside it down onto my upturned face. That’s because my face is less important than her boyfriend’s trousers! To be honest, I’m just amazed that this angry, young, white woman – given her mood – didn’t seek to blame me for her accidentally touching the material of her black boyfriend’s nice, clean trouser hem with the dirty sole of her boot! She actually seems to have accepted that it wasn’t my fault!
To give the young woman her due, however – she doesn’t seek to torture my upturned, prone and vulnerable face with her chunky heels or dusty bootsoles, as I had begun to fear. She could easily exert painful pressure on my nose, lips and mouth with her dirty bootsoles; but she chooses not to. I am, it seems, merely required to serve in the capacity she had originally intended – that of her personal footrest, as she too picks up a magazine and starts to read it, whilst noisily eating an apple above me.
I’d love to take a bite out of her big, juicy apple – but we all know what trouble a man can get into when taking a bite out of a lady’s apple! So it’s probably best that I just content myself with some juicy, wet mud from the soles of her boots instead. She must have walked through a muddy, wet field to get to the airport earlier this afternoon, as I can now see several globules of mud stuck to the underside of her chunky, black bootheels in the gap where they join the soles!
Actually, I can’t avoid consuming the dirty mud-globules– especially since one particularly large globule of girlboot-mud literally drops off the left bootheel and into my mouth! I can also feel her bootsole-mud being rubbed into my face as she, subconsciously and uncaringly, moves her filthy bootsoles all over my face whilst reading her magazine and noisily chewing on her apple.
The smell of musty, wet, female bootleather now envelops me, and the mere thought that the foul-mouthed young madam is wearing sweaty, black bootsocks – which I have touched – inside her fully zipped-up ankleboots, pathetically, thrills me to the core! Her dirty, black boots and sweaty, black socks are now literally above my face; using it and abusing it as a humble, airport footrest!
I’ll be honest with you – I could happily lie here all night! But, happily for the mistress and her boyfriend, after just a few minutes their delayed flight is suddenly called. She’s up and off like a shot, without so much as a by-your-leave, leaving me only with her residual bootmud stuck to my face!
Almost immediately, as I am crawling back to my footslave-corner, another young woman – this time perhaps slightly older than her predecessor, but still much younger than me – early thirties at the most – summons me over to her smartly-attired, businesswoman feet:
‘Slave – over here!’
By ‘smartly-attired’ I mean shiny, patent black leather, round-toed and flat-heeled loafers, and black anklesocks with just a hint of a red logo appearing above the shoerim along her right, socked instep as she sits upright on the departure lounge bench with her right leg dominantly crossed over her left.
I make sure my face makes a beeline for her sock logo – out of respect for her classy, young-businesswoman sock.
Like her predecessor this young woman is white, with shoulder-length dark hair, and wearing dark trousers, only this time with a dark, pinstriped jacket over a crisp, white blouse; definitely a businesswoman – though clearly not prepared to travel business class as this is the standard departure lounge!
As I reach her pretty, black anklesock inside her dangling-in-the-air, right loafer-shoe, she suddenly pushes me away with the dusty sole of said shoe, and verbally denigrates me with a look of unbridled, young-womanly disgust and contempt etched into her pretty, screwed-up face:
‘Ugh! Your face is filthy, slave! I was going to have you lickshine my shoes, but I don’t want your disgusting, filthy face anywhere near them now! P..s off, slave!’
I immediately apologise to the business-class mistress in the standard-class lounge for the filthy, sub-standard condition of my face – caused by the residual bootmud from my previous customer-mistress’s boots whom I had served as a footrest-flunkey:
‘Oh pray, mistress! Pray forgive me, mistress! Truly this slave apologises for the filthy condition of his subservient face, mistress! Oh pray mistress, please report me to the airport authorities and have me whipped, mistress! God bless you, mistress!’
We airport-footslaves have to invite our disgruntled customer-mistresses to report us to the authorities for any substandard service on our parts; it’s one of the airport’s by-laws!
But, in any case, it is with genuine regret that I must turn away from her shiny black, loafer shoe – for, although it already looks perfectly clean, tongueshining it up would not only have helped both the irate, business-class customer-mistress, and my under-class self, to pass the time; it would also have afforded me a close-up and personal view of her shapely, black-socked instep. Who knows, I might even have been able to decipher the little red logo on the side of her sock?
It is with a deep sense of shame, therefore, that I crawl back into my courtesy-footslave corner; summarily dismissed by a delightful mistress and her superior shoes; a dirty, rejected airport-footpig – no longer even fit to deal with the superior, feminine footwear of the many disgruntled passenger-mistresses still waiting impatiently for their delayed flights in the departure lounge.
Until, that is, a less fastidious, student-girl, customer mistress in her early to mid twenties summons me over to her scruffy, blue-denim, lace-up sneakers and white, ruffle-socks:
‘Footpig! Get over here!...’
Fantasy no. 1 – The Suffering Slave-Face
Mistresses from overseas just love having their pretty pictures taken with suffering slaves here in the Gynarchy. It’s big business, with rich pickings both for the professional photographers and the slave owners who hire out their personal slaves to the photographers for such cruel, moneymaking purposes.
My owners have a whole line of what they call ‘suffering slave-faces’ in the central town square – footslaves like me who are confined side by side, prostrate on the ground, with our hands, arms and legs secured to heavy, iron manacles nailed into the dusty ground, whilst our helpless heads are confined in a pitiful row of thick, wooden, floor-level stocks (also known as ‘lying stocks’).
Lying prostrate in such low-level stocks, I cannot even see the other similarly confined footslaves next to me – just the dusty ground of the touristy, town square beneath me. And the curious and inquisitive, overseas tourist-mistresses are free to torment myself, and my hapless, neighbouring footslave-colleagues in the lying stocks, in all manner of ways:
- They can gleefully stop to have their dusty feet and footwear kissed by us;
- They can joyfully kick dust into our low-lying faces;
- They can cruelly kick us in our defenceless faces;
- Or they can smilingly stand over us, legs astride, and have their happy, smiling photographs taken with our gormless, maleslave heads trapped between their sandaled, shoed, or booted anklebones!
One such overseas mistress – an Arab lady – is smilingly approaching my low-lying, confined face right now. She is very pretty and slim – early to mid thirties, I would say – and dressed in a black, hijab-style headscarf; a modesty-preserving, pale-purple-coloured top; black cotton trousers; and shiny, black plastic, round-toed and flat-heeled, slip-on, loafer-style shoes. As she walks towards me, her feet inadvertently kicking up dust around her, I also catch the occasional glimpse of Arabian-lady, black cotton anklesock beneath the swinging hems of her black, bootcut trouser hems.
I’m assuming they are socks, and not dark nylon stockings, from the thickness of the stitching.
She appears to be with her family – an Arab man of a similar age, presumably her husband, and a younger woman of about 20 who, although also an Arab girl, is without a formal headscarf, though her jet-black hair mingling skilfully with her black neckerchief make it look as though she is wearing one as she grins cruelly down at me in the dust!
This younger, quasi-headscarfed, Arab woman is dressed in a beige-brown top, with western-style, blue-denim, bell-bottom jeans; a pair of pink and white, low-top, lace-up sneakers; and what appear to be a pair of ultra-short, bare-ankle-exposing, pure white sneaker socks occasionally flashing from within her fashionable, bellbottom jean-hems. She looks too old to be the hijab-wearing, Arab mistress’s daughter; but she could be her younger, more ‘westernised’ sister, perhaps?
The three, free human-beings from the Middle-East are laughing and chatting away to one another in Arabic as they approach me, but it is clearly the dusty, black plastic loafers and matching, black cotton socks of the hijab-wearing lady which are making a direct beeline for my face.
The Arab man who is walking next to them says something first:
‘ها! ها! ركلة له في وجهه ، زوجة يا حبيبي!
The happy Arab lady in the black headscarf and black loafers turns to reply to him:
ها! ها! أنا يريد له أن يكون مجرد يقبلني على الأحذية المتسخة، وهشام زوجي! ها! ها!
I have no idea what they are saying, but they are both, clearly, laughing out loud as they say it. Presumably the joke is at my expense, as the younger, dark-haired woman in the cute, pink and white sneakers chips in, also punctuating her caustic, Arabic-girl remarks with mocking laughter:
ها! ها! هيا ، رحمة شقيقتي -- ركلة له؛ تؤذيه! ها! ها!
The dusty, black plastic shoes ominously step forward towards me, and suddenly the street-dustied, right, loafer shoe-toe is held up to my lips, deliberately pressing against them and seemingly seeking a way into my miserable mouth:
ها! ها! قبلة الحذاء الخاص بك أفضل الإناث ، والعبيد، الذكور القذرة!
Though I can’t understand a word the Arabic lady is saying, her action of pressing her dirty, cheap plastic shoe-toe onto my lips says it all – I am to kiss her foot.
As I do so the trio erupt into raucous fits of laughter – clearly at my expense. But I don’t mind, because the Arab lady’s black sock inside her shoe is now just inches from my face, and it looks nice and clean.
One of the nearby photographer-touts – a loathsome and slimy free man in his early fifties – approaches the laughing Arabs, his professional, long-lens camera dangling from a strap around his neck. He too is joining in their glee and laughter, even though I’m 100% sure this particular photographer, who must have made a fortune out of my confined face over the years, like me doesn’t understand a word of Arabic:
‘Ha! Ha! Excuse me, madam, would the Arab madam like to have her photograph taken with the suffering slave-face who is so respectfully kissing her foot?’
The Arab woman lowers her dirty, black plastic loafer-shoe to the ground – thereby, sadly for me, hiding her black sock from view once again beneath her dusty, black, bootcut trouser hem – and turns to face the rude interruption that is the freemale photographer.
‘Is how much?’ she asks him curtly, though clearly not so offended or put off by his proposal that she feels the need to dismiss him out of hand!
‘Only 5 Fems, madam – and I can assure you it will be a very nice photograph!’
The black-headscarfed, Arab woman then turns to look imploringly at her husband, as if requesting his permission; or at the very least his wallet.
The Arab man seems a touch undecided and just smiles back at her.
At this crucial juncture, however, the younger, besneakered and westernized, Arab girl chips in again:
ها! ها! انتقل شقيقة -- سيكون متعة!
Sensing from her excited tone that the younger woman is trying to encourage the slightly older woman to take up his offer, the canny, greasy-haired and slimy, male photographer now sees an opportunity to clinch the deal:
‘Perhaps the other pretty, young lady would like to join the madam in the photograph? Madam can stand with her feet on either side of the suffering slave-head, and the other young lady can stand on his back but with one foot resting on top of his head? Yes?’
The younger woman in the dusty, pink and white sneakers seems to be totally sold on the idea now, and rapidly translates the photographer’s kind suggestion for a double-pose to the other two free, Arab human-beings who are with her, but whose understanding of English isn’t, perhaps, quite so good! Collectively, it is evidently agreed that the Arab man will stand out of the way to one side, whilst his wife and sister-in-law stand over the prisoner-footslave’s head to have their pictures taken in the manner suggested by the wily, old photographer.
No wonder he’s so rich at my expense – he’s a great salesman!
The next thing I know the hijab-wearing Arab lady’s dusty, black, bootcut trouser hems are enclosing either side of my temples as she stands astride me – the equally dusty tops of her flat, round-toed, black plastic, slip-on shoes now directly visible on the ground below my face. I can feel her socked anklebones digging quite harshly into my temples, but only the merest slither of Arab-lady, black anklesock is now visible inside her shoe - and only on her left foot, thanks purely to a kink in her left trouser-hem.
Meanwhile my suffering slave-face and neck are forced to stretch even more unnaturally downwards out of my low-lying, wooden window so that my lips are almost touching the dusty, black uppers of my black-hijab-wearing, Arab tormentress’s cheap, plastic, loafer-shoes. The thing that is forcing my head even lower towards the ground is the dusty, thick-treaded, sneaker-sole of the younger, blue-jean-wearing, Arab girl as her dusty-sneakered foot stretches out between her elder Arab sister’s, black-trousered legs. She is now standing directly behind her sister, and simultaneously holding onto her sister’s hijabed shoulders whilst resting her dusty, westernised sneaker-sole on top of my balding slave-head.
Miss Blue-Jeans is now gigglingly seeking to balance herself with her other dusty-sneakered foot, her left, resting on the small of my prostrate, bare back. Obviously, I have no chance of observing either of her short, white sneaker-socks inside her sneakers from my demeaning, beneath-sole, head-down position, but I do find the mere thought of being so brutally oppressed by an Arab girl’s short, white sneaker-sock inside her pink and white, laced-up sneaker, and beneath her bellbottom jean-hems, strangely comforting!
I am now surrounded by, and oppressed by, two beautiful, young Arab-women’s loafered and sneakered feet respectively, as they pose for their professional photograph with the ‘suffering slave-face’. The photographer exhorts the two Arab ladies to smile for the camera but, of course, the suffering slave-face in the lower middle of the picture, by definition, must not smile – even if I were in any mood to smile, which I am most definitely not! I’m experiencing too much pain and indignity to smile; right now, my female-sock-entrapped, male-prisoner head is nothing more than a young, Arab-female-tourist’s, sneakered-foot rest!
My face therefore maintains a suitably downcast and pained air of maleslave oppression and suffering – as befits a pathetic, suffering slave-face beneath the dusty feet of his superior, Arab mistresses!
Click!
The moment is captured for posterity by the professional shutterbug, and the feet of my female oppressors, mercifully, move off – leaving me with the red imprints of an Arab lady’s sharp-socked anklebones on my temples, and the dusty treadmarks from an Arab girl’s grubby-white, sneaker sole on top of my baldy head.
I wonder what nationality of lady will be the next to step upon me and have her pretty picture taken with the longsuffering slave-face?
