Hard to Please
My new mistress – mistress Carole – who has just purchased me at auction, is standing before me in her living room explaining to me how my life as a footslave in her household is going to be.
She is a slim, dark-haired, attractive woman of a similar age to me – in her mid forties – and she is wearing a pink top; black slacks; black, chunky-heeled and round-toed, mary-jane style, strappy shoes; and dark-coloured nylons inside her shoes.
As per her initial orders I am kissing those shoes and nylon-covered feet beneath the hems of her bootcut trouser legs whilst she lays down her female, household laws to me. I notice, as my male footslave-lips make respectful contact with her dark, nylon-stockinged feet inside her chunky, strappy shoes, that her white, middle-aged feet are actually quite bony and veiny beneath the dark, nylon material – but I like that. I would rather have slim and veiny, female ankles to serve than thick and fleshy ones.
Yes – I think I am going to like being mistress Carole’s personal footslave; except that she soon gives me the intensely arousing information that I am not to be her personal footslave at all! She has purchased me for someone else:
‘It is my daughter’s 21st birthday today, dirty slave, and you shall therefore be her birthday present from me! My daughter Sarah – miss Sarah to you – will be home from work shortly, and so, in a minute, I want you to crawl over on your hands and knees behind that sofa and not come out until I tell you to. I want you to be a birthday surprise for her!’
‘Yes mistress Carole…kiss...kiss…It will be an honour to serve your daughter, miss Sarah, most respected mistress Carole…kiss…kiss…’
I continue to kiss my older mistress’s dark, nylon-stockinged feet – as I have not yet been ordered to stop – whilst I take in the mind-boggling information that I am actually to be the personal footslave of a 21 year old girl; a girl half my age!
I hope she is slim and pretty like her mother!
Mistress Carole laughs at my pitiful acceptance of my humble fate; but what choice do I have other than to submit to it? I am now the legally-purchased property of mistress Carole – to dispose of as she wills. And if she wishes to donate me to her daughter, then it is her daughter I must serve!
Mistress Carole, it seems, hasn’t quite finished instructing me in my forthcoming duties, however:
‘Be in no doubt, dirty slave – your future well-being now depends on pleasing my daughter. You will afford her the same respect you are now directing towards me. You will remain on your hands and knees at all times in her presence, and will only ever look her in the foot. You will bow the neck to her feet. You will attend to her feet and footwear as she sees fit, and comply with her every whim and fancy in that regard. She is your female master, and her word is your law. Break that law – displease my daughter – and you shall have me to answer to! For every lash she applies to your disobedient back, I shall apply two more of my own. I shall treble your punishment if you displease my daughter in any way! She is the apple of my eye, and she is your better. You will please her – or feel the sting of my whip on your scrawny back! Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes mistress Carole...kiss…kiss…This slave hears and obeys the mistress…kiss…kiss…and fears both the mistress and her daughter… kiss…kiss…most respected and all-powerful mistress…kiss…kiss… Oh pray mistress…kiss…kiss…pray whip me if I fail to please your daughter, miss Sarah…kiss…kiss…most eminent mistress Carole…kiss…kiss.’
All this kissing of black, leather shoe and dark nylon stocking is making my mouth and lips dry. I am becoming quite hard – hard in order to please my new mistress(es). Indeed, I find myself yearning to unbuckle mistress Carole’s mary-jane style shoes in order to kiss the sweaty, reinforced toe areas of her dark nylon stockings – as an ardent demonstration of my submissiveness towards her and her daughter, and my desire to serve.
Plus, of course, her sweaty, dark-nylon toes would help moisten my poor, parched lips!
But there is no time for any such demonstration of footslavish compliance on my part, for we suddenly both hear the front door opening and then slamming, and my mistress Carole kicks me harshly on the cheek with the rounded toe of her right, mary-jane shoe by way of a signal to me to crawl away and hide behind her sofa!
I hear a younger woman’s voice entering the living room as she greets her mother and plonks herself down on an armchair:
‘God, mum…remind me never to work on my birthday again! My freakin’ feet are killing me!’
‘Ha! Ha! Welcome home darling! Busy day at the office?’
‘God yeah! And everyone was like – Sarah do this! Sarah do that! Oh – and happy birthday Sarah; now where’s that report I asked for last week? Freakin’ hell! I’m knackered!’
Her mother moves over to kiss her beloved, stressed out daughter on the forehead:
‘Ha! Ha! Well – not to worry darling; I’ve got just the thing for your tired and aching feet!’
Mistress Carole claps her hands – a clear, though un-prearranged signal – for me to make my grand entrance; if it’s at all possible to make a ‘grand’ entrance crawling on all fours with one’s neck humbly bowed to the floor.
I crawl out from behind the sofa, like an inferior house-mite.
‘Blinkin’ heck! What the hell’s that?’ screams the delightful miss Sarah in an evident state of shock.
And she is a delightful young woman – already I can tell that. Even though I am under strict instructions only to look my future mistress in the foot, I gain an overall impression of my new, young mistress’s presence from the corner of my footslave-eye; slim, like her mother – only taller; dyed-blonde hair tied back in a fetching ponytail; wearing a smart, cream-coloured, young-businesswoman suit consisting of a smart jacket and short skirt, the hem of which is well above her shapely knees; and flesh-coloured, nylon stockings on her long, long legs – all tipped off with a pair of smart, cream-coloured, low-heeled courts on her office-girl feet to match her cream coloured, officewear jacket and skirt.
In short (skirt) – a goddess! And I am now her personal footslave!
Her mother gleefully explains everything to her:
‘That is yours, my darling! Ha! Ha! He’s your very own footslave for you to command and do with as you will! Ha! Ha! Happy birthday, darling!’
Miss Sarah jumps up – causing her flesh-toned, finest denier, nylon stockings to crease and fold around her shapely, young-womanly, and as yet unveiny, anklebones:
‘My footslave! My very own footslave!...You mean, he’s all mine?’
She sounds incredulous – as well she might! I am a very generous gift from her mother. Not every young woman gets a footslave of her very own on her 21st birthday. We don’t come cheap – not even second-hand, recycled, middle-aged footslaves like me!
Her mother laughs in joy at her daughter’s astonished reaction:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes dear – he’s all yours! And I’ve warned him that his sole function in life from now on is to please you, and to pander to your feet! Here – here’s the second part of your present!’
I hear the rustling of some crepe paper above my humbly bowed head as something is unwrapped. To my slavish horror and consternation it appears to be a single-tailed, black leather punishment-whip. I watch my young mistress’s nylon-stockinged ankles crease and fold even further as she gaily takes a step back in order to test-crack her new whip in the air.
It sounds painful!
‘God, mum... this is so cool! Wait until the other girls in the office see this! They’ll be so freakin’ jealous of me! Ha! Ha!’
I don’t know whether my new, office-girl mistress is referring to the whip or to me, when she says her female co-workers will be jealous; but she probably means of the whip, for it is even more valuable than I am, being made of pure leather!
Miss Sarah’s mother embraces her above me and the two women kiss. I get the impression mistress Carole is a single parent who truly dotes on her only daughter.
As well she might.
‘Ha! Ha! Have him kiss your feet, darling. Make him pay his respects to you! You own him!’
‘Ha! Ha! Cool!...Erm, what’s his freakin’ name?’
‘Ha! Ha! He doesn’t have a name, darling! Not yet, anyway! That’s entirely up to you! He’s your property now, so you can call him whatever you like! You don’t even have to give a name if you don’t want to! Just call him ‘slave’!’
Miss Sarah laughs at her own young-womanly naivety and stupidity! Of course her new slave doesn’t have to have a name – he’s just a number, judging by the auctioneer’s lot no. branded in big, red marks on his right thighbone:
‘Ha! Ha! You down there – the slave; come forwards and kiss my freakin’ feet.’
Simultaneously miss Sarah stretches forward her right foot and looks down at me through her rather pointy nose. She looks to be a somewhat snooty and imperious, foul-mouthed, young, blonde woman – as well she might. For she has just joined the ranks of the footslave-owning, female aristocracy!
I crawl forwards across the living room carpet and bend my neck over her outstretched, court-shoed foot.
I then respectfully lower my lips to the pointy toe of her right shoe, and humbly kiss it. The creamy leather is shiny and tastes suitably smooth, and as my lips make contact with my new mistress’s patent shoeleather I can observe for the first time the individual stitches in the ultra-fine mesh of my miss Sarah’s slightly wrinkled, flesh-toned, workaday nylons.
I even spot the makings of a tiny ladder down her nyloned instep, the bottom of which disappears below her cream-coloured shoeline. For a split second I imagine myself as a mini-workman, climbing down that upper-class, nylon ladder into the warm and hidden depths of my new mistress’s officewear, court shoe in order to repair the damaged nylon.
But my new mistress’s sharp, young voice soon jolts me out of my pitiful reverie:
‘Ha! Ha! This is so cool! Kiss me on the freakin’ stocking, dirty slave! Kiss my nylon stocking just above the toe-area of my freakin’ shoe, yeah?’
‘Yes miss Sarah…at once miss Sarah!’
My first words to my new mistress, and they seem to have quite an impact:
‘Ha! Ha! Did you hear that, mum? He called me miss Sarah! Ha! Ha! What a freak! What a loser! Ha! Ha!’
Miss Sarah is quite right – I am a loser and a freak; a freakin’ freak!
Her indulgent mother certainly seems to think so:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling! Like I said – he’s your slave, and he has to respect you and obey everything you say! You are his better, and he must please you – otherwise you can punish him with your whip!’
‘Ha! Ha! God, mum, this is the best possible, freakin’ birthday present! This rocks!’
The two women embrace happily again above me, whilst I itch to kiss my discerning young lady’s left, nylon-foot.
But it is not to be – at least not yet; for my new owner has a more pressing foot-task for me to perform:
‘Slave, my feet are killing me! Crawl behind me up to my bedroom! I’m gonna put my feet up, and you’re gonna rub them and massage them for me!’
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling. You do with him as you please. And remember, if he fails to please you in any way be sure to let me know! I’ll soon beat some obedience and respect into him!’
‘Aww, thanks, mum!... Hey you, the slave, do as I say. Crawl behind my freakin’ heels!’
‘Yes miss Sarah...as it pleases you miss Sarah.’
As it pleases you, miss Sarah. Sounds like I’ll be saying that a lot from now on. Either that or please don’t beat me, miss Sarah. Please don’t report me to your mother mistress Carole, miss Sarah!
Up in her bedroom, true to her word, my new, bleached-blonde, 21 year old mistress kicks off her shiny, cream-coloured office shoes, lies back on her bed, and orders me with a click of her snappy, young fingers to kneel by the side of her bed next to her sweaty, nyloned feet.
And they are sweaty. And she knows it:
‘Ha! Ha! Before you start rubbing my feet I want you to sniff them, slave! Ha! Ha! Put your nose on the sweaty, reinforced toe areas and sniff them out loud, yeah? I want to hear you sniffing my stinky feet through my sweaty nylons, yeah? And I don’t give a damn if you don’t like the smell! You’re my freakin’ slave now, and like my mum says, you have no choice but to do whatever I say and please me, yeah?’
‘Yes miss Sarah…Indeed, miss Sarah. As it pleases you miss Sarah. This slave is a good slave, and obeys his mistress, miss Sarah!’
The young, nylon-stockinged minx wriggles her toes in a deliberate attempt to release more of her sweaty, nylon foot-moisture up my nostrils as I humbly place my nose on her stockinged toes and start to audibly sniff them.
Predictably, after a long, hard day at the office, they smell tart and vinegary, but I manage to avoid an inappropriate grimace on my slave-face. Having been a footslave to women all my adult life I am not exactly unfamiliar with hot, feminine footsmells.
I am gratified to note that my mistress Sarah has purple-painted toenails beneath the fine mesh of her flesh-toned nylons – for that means, presumably, that I shall have the honour of sucking off the old toenail paint and applying a new coat to my young mistress’s toenails at some point in the not too distant future – seeing as how I am now her personal footslave with responsibility for the well-being and beauty of her young-mistress feet!
She laughs as my ugly, male nose delves deep into the stretched, reinforced nylon of her toe cleavage:
‘Ha! Ha! That freakin’ tickles slave!’
I have to be careful – and apologise immediately and unreservedly to miss Sarah for inadvertently tickling her nylon-covered tootsies, since such sensations may not, in fact, be pleasing to her – and mistress Carole has made it perfectly clear to me that pleasing her daughter is now my only function in life:
‘Oh pray miss Sarah…sniff…sniff…pray forgive me miss Sarah… sniff…sniff… please don’t have me beaten, miss…sniff...sniff…’
Miss Sarah appears to be tickled in other ways too:
‘Ha! Ha! Look at you, slave! You’re freakin’ pathetic! Ha! Ha!... On your hands and knees, sniffing a girl’s stinky nylons after she comes home from work – and while she’s still wearing them! Ha! Ha! Don’t you feel pathetic? Don’t you feel like you’re a freakin’ moron, or something? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes miss Sarah, this slave is indeed a pathetic, moronic creature, if it pleases you miss Sarah.’
‘Ha! Ha! It does please me, dirty slave. Dirty stocking-sniffer! Ha! Ha! Now please me some more, and rub my stinky, sweaty feet with your bare hands. Make sure you don’t touch them above the ankles! Only touch my tired and sweaty feet, or I’ll hit you hard with my freakin’ whip!’
Ah yes – her new toy; her whip! It still resides like a coiled spring in her pretty, feminine hands; ready to strike at a moment’s notice as my young mistress lays back languorously on the bed and unwinds whilst I obediently stop sniffing, and start rubbing, her nylon-stockinged, purple-varnished, office-girl, sweaty toes.
They feel warm and moist on my hands. My slave fingers start to stink of young, bleached-blonde-woman footsweat, as the owner of the sweat drifts off to sleep!
She dozes off for several minutes until she is awoken by her mollycoddling mother entering the room with a nice, refreshing cup of tea.
Just one cup – for her daughter. Nothing for me, of course!
Mistress Carole laughs delightedly at her birthday-daughter’s evident, sleepy pleasure in her new human-possession:
‘Is he pleasing you, my dear?’ she asks her daughter as the latter lazily yawns and stretches her legs, arms, and pretty, nyloned feet.
For my part, I too am feeling perfectly relaxed – despite the inadvertent ticklishness of my footslave fingers on my young mistress’s sweaty, nyloned toes, and the dangerous proximity of a potentially stinging female whip – since I am confident that my new mistress Sarah has found my nose and hand ministrations to her sweaty, nyloned feet both pleasurable and pleasing.
But my footslave complacency in this regard is soon unexpectedly shattered:
‘Erm…he’s not been too bad, mum, but I’ve just noticed that he appears to have laddered my right stocking with his clumsy, slave hands! Look can you see? There’s a freakin’ ladder starting to form on my right instep – just there, look!’
Miss Sarah is pointing with the purple-painted fingernail of her right index finger to the tiny ladder on her right instep – the same ladder which I had noticed earlier myself the very moment I had first been ordered to kiss her right foot back down in the living room !
I feel like protesting my innocence – to pointing out that the tiny, nylon-stocking ladder was a pre-existing condition, and that my hands are clean of this alleged, serious offence of laddering my young mistress’s stockings!
But in mistress Carole’s eyes I am already guilty. I am guilty because her beloved and spoilt daughter says I am. There can only be one outcome. I have displeased her daughter by laddering her stocking, and must, therefore, be soundly whipped…
……………………………………………………………………………….
Some two hours later I was on my own, on my knees in my new owners’ laundry room, hunched over a bowl of lukewarm water and washing both miss Sarah’s, and mistress Carole’s, freshly-discarded nylons by hand with a stinging and throbbing, well-striped back.
When I had finished washing the dirty nylons (mistress Carole’s turned out to be dark-coloured tights; miss Sarah’s were the thigh-length, self supporting, flesh-toned stockings), and had rung them out over the bowl and hung them up to dry, I was under strict instructions not to dispose of the dirty, female stocking-water the way a normal washerman might do – by pouring the dirty water down the sink. No, as part of my punishment for clumsily laddering my mistress Sarah’s precious, office-stockings I was obliged to drink the mother and daughter, sweaty-nylon footwater.
At least it helped to quench my raging thirst.
But it didn’t quench my ardour. I was still hard. For my spoilt and demanding new mistress, miss Sarah, is clearly a young woman who is hard to please, despite all my best nylon-toe sniffing and foot-rubbing efforts; and I find that thought curiously stimulating, as well as humbling.
As I kneel in the bare laundry room with my head bowed by the foot-ends of her nylon stockings and watch them drip-dry, I steal myself mentally for a lot of whippings, and a lot of pain ahead.
Whippings, pain, sweaty nylons, and the constant frustration of knowing that I shall never be good enough to please my demanding new mistress.
That, it seems, will be my lot from now on!
