Observations of Sundry Office-Footslaves Vol. 2
The second volume in a collection of pithy observations by various office-footslaves (be they office-corridor shoelickers; office-lobby shoelickers; at-desk shoelickers; or mobile, personal shoelickers) as they service everyday office-girls’ superior footwear in the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria.
She used to be a bit of a babe – short; blonde; sexy and svelte; not afraid to occasionally wear sexy, leather miniskirts, or skinny-tight jeans, to work. She used to turn freemale, office heads wherever she went. I remember it well!
But now – after being away on 3 years’ maternity leave, followed by a 7 year posting to head office abroad with her fat, company-director husband – office-mistress Sandra has put on quite a bit of weight, especially around the face. She has, not to put too fine a point on it, let herself go a bit, and is now little more than ‘short and stocky’!
Her office ankleboots are still sleek and sexy though – not the same pair she wore 10 years ago, of course; but a nice pair of modern, chunky-heeled, square-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots, the toe-area of which fits nicely inside my office-footslave mouth whenever she stops by me in the corridor for a quick bootlick and shine.
She always wears loose-fitting slacks and blouses with her boots now – ashamed, no doubt, of her unnaturally chubby legs and body; but I can honestly tell her to her chubby, round face (or, at least, I could if my mouth weren’t full of her black-leathery boot-toe!) that her stylish ankleboots preserve the illusion of a shapely, well-turned anklebone! And it is still very much my honour and privilege, in my capacity as the office-corridor footslave, to kiss and/or lickshine the scuffmarked boot-toes of a fat, blonde, former babe – even if she has put on weight, or, indeed, precisely because she has put on weight, since fat equates with self-indulgence, freedom and wealth here in the Gynarchy; and scrawniness equates to oppression, weakness and slavery!
And besides, when I swallow miss Sandra’s modern, square-shaped, boot toe, I am swallowing the memory of her slimmer, sexier days, and acknowledging her feminine freedom to let herself go and yet still expect the same degree of devotion and servitude from the office-footslave that she was accustomed to receiving when she was younger!
Needless to say, if I don’t demonstrate such abiding, footslavish respect she will doubtless have her fat, company-director husband (i.e. the man who made her fat, first through getting her pregnant and then by encouraging her to, like him, overeat) whip me and castigate me for insolence and insubordination towards his beloved wife!
I only wish fat goddess-mistress Sandra would hitch up her office trouser-hem, like she used to do in the olden days, in order to afford me a teasing glimpse of her office bootsock inside her boot whilst I suckshine its dirty, black leather toe – but she is clearly too embarrassed by her middle-aged cankles to do that nowadays, and so I can only guess that she continues to wear black, cotton bootsocks inside her sweaty, hot boots!
The irony is that a flash of black, feminine bootsock would be more than enough to engender genuine respect and admiration within me for mistress Sandra’s faded beauty – a flashback to healthier times, when she was slimmer, and I was less whip-wearied!
26 year old, tall and slim, African-Caribbean office-mistress Shanelle is such a tease!
As she sits high above me on the office-corridor shoeshine seat of power - her plain black socktops just visible against her smooth, brown legskin above her black leather ankleboot rims thanks to her hitched-up, bootcut trouser-hems - she asks me a mocking question:
'Does you fancy me, an' that slave? Would you likes to shag me, an' that, though?'
I gulp, in between swallowing her everyday bootdirt:
'Erm...y...yes, b...black mistress, very m...much so b...black mistress, though, if you will forgive me, m...mistress Nadia, this...slave is not w...worthy to even c...contemplate making love to the mistress, since he is j...just an impotent f...footslave, m...madam! H...however, this s...slave would be honoured to s...serve as the black m...mistress's p..personal footslave, if it w...would be s...so p...pleasing to you, m...mistress Shanelle?'
It's the ultimate compliment a down-on-his-knees footslave can give a mistress - to offer to be her personal footslave.
But she throws it back in my face. She laughs at me, and imitates my nervous stuttering at her vaingloriously booted feet:
'Ha! Ha! Well, let me makes one thing c...clear, d...dirty s...slave, yeah? I w...wouldn’t shag you if you was, like, the last slave on earth, or somefing, yeah? Ha! Ha! An' you ain't even worvy to be my personal footslave, an' that - coz you is, like, dirty, old, and ugly, man, yeah? Ha! Ha! So jus’ get on wiv lickshin' my boots, yeah? Moron! Ha! Ha!'
'Yes, b...black m...mistress Shanelle. At once, b...black m...mistress Shanelle,' I reply deflatedly.
But I have no real right to feel deflated. I mean, who has just rejected who?
My fat and feisty, office desk-mistress Melanie has me exactly where she wants me - butt-naked, and bent over the office-basement punishment trestle in front of four of her closest, female-office colleagues, anxiously awaiting the application of the rattan cane to my buttocks.
As I sweat over the punishment trestle, I survey the feet and footwear of the office-mistresses arraigned before me - each of them keen and eager to witness my impending caning by their fat, office friend and colleague:
- The black leather, chelsea boots , black leggings and purple sock-tops of miniskirted, Jamaican office-mistress Redonna;
- The flat, black, pointy-toed, slip-on shoes and plain, black socks of betrousered, Pakistani office-mistress Safia;
- The knee-high, chunky-heeled, square-toed, brown leather, zip-up boots and black, woolly tights of knee-length skirted, ginger-haired, Irish office-mistress Colleen (she of the particularly broad, gloating smile);
- The dark blue, suede leather loafers on bare, white feet of trouser-suited, blonde-haired, English-Rose office-mistress Jemima
I fear and respect them all - but not as much as I fear and respect the reinforced-round-toed, black leather, calf-length work-booted feet of my fat, betrousered, desk-mistress Melanie behind me, as they ready themselves to bring the cane down upon my bare, exposed buttocks.
In particular, I admire the dust on her reinforced, rounded boot-toes as she gently saws the cane across my as yet unmarked buttock-skin, seeking out the most sensitive nerve-endings so that she may maximise my male suffering in front of her female friends.
When her flat, right boot-heel suddenly twists up into the air, causing the dusty, black leather in its concomitant boot-toe to flex and crease behind me, I am in total awe - footslavish awe which quickly develops into shock and awe as the cane whistles down through the air and makes unbelievably painful impact with my poor, vulnerable backside!
My fat mistress Melanie grunts with the effort she puts into the stroke; I scream pathetically into the floor; the female witnesses laugh mercilessly at my pain and distress - and encourage my desk-mistress, to a woman, to give me another one.
Which she does - again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again; and again....
That was when I lost count.
Later, when I had sobered up from my inebriation of pain, office-mistress Safia - the Pakistani girl with the cute, pointy-toed, black leather flats and matching black socks - returned to the scene of my male ignominy and shame to mock me as I still languished over the punishment trestle. Her socks creased beneath my sobbing face as she leant over me to touch my wounds, and she asked me how I was liking it, and politely enquired, in her cute Pakistani accent, whether I was enjoying being my fat desk-office mistress’s ‘whipped bitch’, as she put it.
I assured Pakistani-mistress Safia that I was enjoying it - but not that much, since my buttocks were now very red-raw and sore.
She laughed at me, raised her pointy, right shoe-toe up off the ground and to my lips, and ordered me to kiss her on the sock - which I did, right on top of a particularly fetching crease just above her Pakistani, socked toe-cleavage.
It felt right - kissing the black sock of a slim and petite, gloating, Pakistani-girl colleague of my fat office desk-mistress Melanie, even if the latter wasn’t there to see it. She had left work early for the day, sexually aroused by her treatment of me, in order to make mad, wanton love to her husband back home.
I have never met him, but I am glad to be of service to him, and focus my attention right now on his wife’s Pakistani-colleague’s creased, black sock.
At 19, she is young enough to be my daughter; granddaughter even! In another world, and another life, she would be helping me to cross the road; or giving up her seat for me on the bus; or politely opening doors for me.
But instead, in this world, the pretty, young, dark-haired, mixed-race Gynarchy girl with the stunning, oriental-occidental features is seated imperiously above me in the office-juniors' shoeshine-seat of power having her single-strapped, flat-heeled, black leather, officewear mary-janes lickshined in public by my elderly, maleslave tongue!
She's enjoying it too - barking down her orders at me in her Chinese-accent English, whilst laughing at me and whipping me across my elderly-footslave shoulders with the communal, office whipping-stick as I kneel before her with my wrinkled, old face at her young, Chinese, officegirl foot-level:
'Ha! Ha! Lick shoe harder, slave!...Clean off all dirt!...Make Yee-Lin shoe nice and shine!'
'Yes, mistress Yee-Lin! At once, office-mistress Yee-Lin! Please don't beat me, miss!'
I do fear her, and her young-womanly strength and power over me, but not enough to resist brushing the tip of my elderly nose against her soft, black cotton anklesock as I endeavour to lickshine the upper areas of her single-strapped, mary-jane style shoe.
She's no fool, however, and notices my unauthorised nosing of her black, office sock.
She whips me hard across my bare, left shoulder-blade, deftly leaving her mark on me:
Swish...Crack!
'Dirty slave not touch Yee-Lin sock!...Lick only shoe!...Shine!'
Swish...Crack!
Two stinging cuts of the cane for a single, Chinese-girl sock-nosing! Was it worth it?
Yes it probably was - for it is the black sock of a mixed-race, oriental-occidental beauty who is self-evidently my female master and better, and the one in whose youthful power, and at whose capricious, young, female mercy, I now find myself!
I beg her for such illusive, youthful-feminine mercy:
'Aowww!... Oh pray, miss Yee-Lin! Pray have mercy on an old man, miss Yee-lin! Pray forgive me for touching your glorious sock, madam!'
Swish...Crack!
'Slave not talk!...Work!...Lick!'
Swish...Crack!
I am a closely-supervised, office-lobby, ornamental footkisser.
I am kept confined on my hands and knees in a wooden box near the office entrance, with only my head protruding out in order to kiss office ladies' feet, but the twist is that I am constantly supervised by a succession of shift-working mistresses who sit on top of the box with their feet resting on the ground on either side of my protruding head, so that, even in any 'downtime' - when I am not busy kissing the other office ladies’ feet - I am obliged to observe, from above, the socked and shoed (or booted) feet of a supervisor-mistress.
Being such a supervisor-mistress is not an especially high-paid job, and is considered quite boring in polite, female society, particularly as I am a dumb, ornamental-footkisser, forbidden to speak (or to be spoken to) - so it does tend to attract the less educated and less intelligent type of mistress. But they do have one onerous responsibility - the responsibility to make sure I show proper respect to the office footwear of every woman whose feet I kiss, and to that end they are able to deliver a painful electric shock to my imprisoned temples should I fail to please!
Some supervisor-mistresses tend to shock me a lot; others hardly at all; whilst with others it depends entirely on their mood and the time of the month. But one thing's for sure - I am an inveterate coward when it comes to pain, and therefore do everything I slavishly can to please my mistresses with my footkissing lips!
The following are some typical examples of my work, taken over just one hour of my never-ending, working life:
- It is early morning, and the early-bird office-mistresses are starting to arrive. My night-shift supervisor mistress - 45 year old, Indian supervisor-mistress Deepali, who was snoring above me just an hour or so ago, is now wide awake and cheerily greeting her office-mistress friends as they arrive for work and stop by my box-protruding face to have their early-morning feet kissed.
For the last four hours or so I have been studying my somnolent, Indian night-shift mistress's ultra-short and somewhat ropey-looking, red and grey patterned sock-tops inside her cheap, shiny black plastic, round-toed, slip-on loafers - from close above - as her feet rest untidily on the floor beneath me. I am fascinated by my Indian supervisor-mistress's dishevelled-looking, short socks - fascinated enough to force myself to stay awake even though we have no customers and the wearer of the supervisory socks is herself drifting in and out of sleepy consciousness - largely because the grey and red ropiness of the socks contrasts so sweetly with the soft brown of the Indian mistress's bare ankleskin!
I also like the way the elasticated tops of goddess-mistress Deepali's short, sneaker-style socks are so casually twisted below her exposed anklebones beneath the elasticated hems of her plain black, cotton leggings.
I could stare at such sights all night - and, indeed, just have!
But the very first office-mistress of the day, who 'wakes' me from my night-shift, sock reverie, is esteemed blonde, middle-ranking but ambitious, office-manageress mistress Melanie, who, as per usual, is dressed in her smart, businesslike, grey-pinstriped trouser suit; killer, black patent leather heels; and black socks. She ignores me - the footkissing head beneath her - and converses only with my Indian supervisor-mistress whilst hitching up the hem of her right, pinstriped trouser-leg, not, I hasten to add, to reveal yet more of her sock to me, but merely in order to protect the carefully ironed crease in her smart, office trouser-knee.
Nevertheless, I cannot help but admire the creases and folds in thirty-something, executive mistress Melanie's businesswear, black socks as she subliminally presents each business-attired, blonde female foot for me to humbly kiss.
I don't mind that she ignores me (apart from having her shoeleather kissed by me!), for I am acutely aware of my lowly station in life - confined in a box, and kissing the street-dirty shoes of my female masters and betters! It is only right and proper that manageress-mistress Melanie should converse solely with a fellow, female human-being - my supervisor-mistress Deepali - whilst I, the inferior male, repeatedly kiss the chiselled toe of her black patent leather, high-heeled shoe.
Each of manageress-mistress Melanie's stylish shoes takes about 30 seconds to kiss - about average for an office-mistress who is no particular hurry to get to her desk, no urgent appointments in her diary, and who has the time to pass the time of day with one of her lower-paid, female employees - the Indian-girl, ornamental-footkisser supervisor with the ropey, grey and red patterned socks and cheap, black plastic loafers!
And then the blonde-haired manageress is gone - as quickly as she came - and I once again find myself staring at the default, cheap shoes and socks of my Indian supervisor-mistress, who will soon be getting ready to go home to bed after her long, boring night-shift. We had no customers from midnight until 06.00 A.M., and the arrival of manageress-mistress Melanie - she of the blonde hair and black socks.
But my Indian supervisor-mistress at least managed to get some shut-eye as she sat above me on the box whilst I was eyeing her socks all night!
My only regret is that I now face another long, hard day of female footkissing without having rested my own, inquisitive eyes - but at least I wasn't shocked during the night; lazy-ankleboned supervisor-mistress Deepali couldn't even be bothered to press the relevant switch!
A small mercy - rather like the sight of her lovely, cheap socks!
- Next to come up to me with her feet is 20 year old, office junior mistress, señorita Anita - one of my favourite office-mistresses, even though she has never spoken to me, and never will, since I'm just a loser, footkissing, head-in-a-box to her!
But I admire her immensely - pint-sized; Colombian; dusky-complexioned and dark-haired. She towers above me even though she must be all of 4'11''; and, pleasingly for me, she always wears her smart, black leather, office courts on bare feet, beneath bare, suntanned legs and a short, office miniskirt.
Well - if you've got it, flaunt it! And mistress señorita Anita has most definitely got it - sex appeal, I mean; not that any of it is directed towards me! The bare, brown, Colombian legs, and prominent, blue foot veins, are not designed to impress me - even though the latter often pulse with pleasure at the sight and sound of my lips on their shoeleather!
To be honest, I prefer kissing señorita Anita's blue-veined, Colombian-girl feet (or rather, their concomitant, black leather, court shoes - since my lips are not allowed to press against superior, bare, female footflesh) at the end of the long, working day, as attractive señorita-mistress Anita is exiting the building with her hot, steamy and tired feet, rather than now when she has freshly-showered, early-morning feet inside her shoes. But it is still a great honour to kiss Colombian-girl shoe at any time of the day, especially the shoes of such a pint-sized princess, whose career is just beginning as a low-ranking, office-junior, but who is clearly destined for higher things - given her attractiveness to several of the freemale executives in the office (hence the short skirts!)
She's a slut - or so some of the other, more bitchy, office women say - but I'm with the freemales; I think she's gorgeous, and I only wish her shoes would linger for a bit longer on the ground beneath my face, so that I could admire those pulsing, South-American, foot veins in more detail, and take pleasure in their pleasure derived from my worshipful lips.
She walks away, and, once again, my eyes must default to Indian-woman, short, red and grey sock. I feel particularly humble now - now that the close-up socks are soon to be leaving me! I should, by rights, be studying them from beneath - not from above - as they are better than me, being the socks of a woman. I should be looking up at them - not looking down on them. Oh, if only I could kiss them before they leave after a long night protecting mistress Deepali's delicate, Indian feet inside her flat, black, plasticky, loafer shoes; kiss them out of my footslavish respect and admiration for them; or, even better, follow them home and watch them whilst they sleep in their dirty laundry basket. For they would be the discarded, crumpled up and sweaty, red and grey night-shift socks of a superior, Indian female who had it in her electric power to shock me during the night - but who couldn't be assed!
- Boots are next - a pair of knee-high, black leather, strappily-buckled boots with chunky heels and square toes; the boots of Pakistani office-mistress Taroob - she of the long, dark hair and sultry, come to bed eyes.
Not that I've ever looked her in the eye - I'm only guessing! Indeed, I've never even seen her face - only her reflection in her boot-toes, whenever, unlike today, she wears her shiny, black patent leather ankleboots.
But she certainly sounds sexy - with a sexy voice, as she converses in broken Hindi with my Indian supervisor-mistress Deepali above me. I only know goddess-mistress Taroob's spoken Hindi is imperfect as I studied it at university in England prior to my enslavement in the Gynarchy! Needless to say, my own Hindi is a bit rusty now after years of silent enslavement in this box, not that I would ever dream of trying it out on a superior, native female speaker of the language such as supervisor-mistress Deepali; she may tolerate broken Hindi in a Pakistani, female work colleague, but she certainly wouldn't wish to converse with me - a dirty, male footslave, in her superior, native tongue!
And so I humbly, and silently, apply my lips to what they do best - kissing female footwear. I pay labial homage to the Pakistani girl's leathery boot-toes as her unusually kneehigh boot-uppers tower above me (and, above those, I sense a pair of dark-nylon tights beneath knee-length, skirt hem- not that an office-mistress's legs above her ankles, booted or otherwise, are any of my damn business!)
- There are a lot of Indian/Pakistani mistresses in this office - or maybe I just get to see a lot of them whenever their fellow Desi female, mistress Deepali, is supervising me as they like to stop by for a chat with her. She may not be all that well educated, or particularly bright - but goddess-mistress Deepali is a very popular person, due to her friendly and outgoing personality. She always has a friendly smile for everyone, apart from me - her charge - of course. But, even in her female-dominant interaction with me, as I have already indicated, she doesn't even shock me during the while of the night-shift, even though she, quite literally, has it well within her power to do so - incontrovertible proof of her kind and compassionate personality, I would say!
No wonder, then, that I feel so compelled to honour her socks with my boxed-in mind!
But I digress; the point I am making is that the next office-mistress to grace me with her early-morning, office-foot presence is yet another Indian girl, petite and slim office-mistress Inderjit - generally acknowledged to be the prettiest girl in the office, with her long, dark hair and shapely figure.
From my point of view she also wears the prettiest shoes and socks in the office beneath her ubiquitous, plain black, polyester trouser-hems - a fetching pair of pointy-toed, plain black, low-cut, sock-revealing flats with little black leather bow motifs just above the socked toe-cleavage area (always a joy to kiss, as the contours of the little, leathery bows tickle my worshipful lips!).
Beautiful goddess-mistress Inderjit's socks themselves are equally intriguing. They have the appearance, to all and sundry, of being plain, black anklesocks, but when you must observe them close up - as I am obliged to do, being an ornamental-footkisser - you get to see that the insteps and soles of the petite, Indian-girl’s socks, which for the most part are discreetly hidden beneath the shoeline, are in fact coloured, be it bright yellow; bright red; bright pink; or even bright orange - depending on her mood!
You only get to see this thanks to a brief flash of colour as she positions her dainty, office foot beneath your dumb, mute face for kissing - but guessing the hidden colours in mistress Inderjit's otherwise plain black, office socks is one of my all-time favourite pastimes.
Today they are black socks with pink insteps - garish, bright pink, but sadly unkissable, since I am only permitted to kiss female shoe, not feminine hosiery! Nevertheless, I feel blessed just to be privileged to observe the hidden colours in the officewear socks of a beautiful, young woman like miss Inderjit - especially so close up. Put it this way, I much prefer the sight of shocking pink, Indian-girl sock to the sensation of shocking, electrical pain in my prone and vulnerable temples, so I make a point of mentally worshiping the socks, since my supervisor-mistresses can sense such things; and I want them both to know I'm a good and respectful kisser of young, Indian women's feet!
- But it's not only Indian and Pakistani, or indeed White European and Colombian, girlfeet that I get to kiss; the shoes and socks are coming thick and fast now during the final hour of miss Deepali's shift, and they include large numbers of black girl shoes and socks - unsurprisingly, given that the office I work in is located in the Black Gynarchy!
Some of the black women, and their shoes and socks, are unkempt; some are greasy; some are scuffmarked; some are clean; but all are most definitely female - and therefore demanding of my respect, which they duly receive.
They include this morning:
- A fetching pair of dusty, brown leather, wedge-heeled, zip-up ankleboots and bobbled, grey anklesocks belonging to the thin and wiry, bright-red-haired, black office-mistress Charlotte; designer grunge, I would describe them as (the boots even taste grungy!)
- Several pairs of black leather ballet-flats, worn variously with or without socks
- An intriguing pair of designer-pink stilettos, on a pair of unfamiliar, and quite veiny, bare black feet beneath a pink, leather miniskirt (presumably the feet of one of the office clients, since this is a Female Law firm and female street-prostitution is still, technically, illegal in certain jurisdictions of the Gynarchy, including here in the Black Gynarchy!)
- The smart, dark-coloured, finest-denier nylons and black stiletto-heeled shoes of senior-partner, office-manageress mistress Beverley - a truly stunning, tall and proud, bespectacled, African-Caribbean woman in her early forties who power-dresses to impress in her expensive, designer, grey-pinstriped, office suits consisting of smart jackets and knee-length skirts. She really is so high above me on the social scale, it's a wonder she can even bear to have my dirty, maleslave lips touching her expensive, designer footwear! Even her nylons must be more valuable than me!
- Scruffy sneakers galore - for a lot of black girls prefer to travel into work in comfortable sneakers, changing into their smarter, office footwear only after they have settled down at their desks. Fortunately I love the taste and aroma of black-girl sneaker - and the scruffier the better, since it is all the more humiliating to have to kiss unkempt, casual footwear on a young woman's feet, knowing that her smart shoes are somewhere upstairs! It just goes to show the utter contempt in which she holds you!
Oh - it's the changing of the guard! Mistress Deepali's replacement has finally arrived, and her ropey, red and grey sneaker socks and cheapo, plastic black slip-ons are suddenly replaced beneath my confined face by the strappy, chunky-heeled, black mary-janes and bare, black feet of fat and unforgiving, West-African, supervisor-mistress Faith.
One thing I am guaranteed during the next few hours of mistress Faith's shift, after she has made herself comfortable seated on the wooden box-seat above me, is plenty of pain in my temples - for, unlike supervisor-mistress Deepali before her, goddess-mistress Faith loves to shock; and not just with the natural smell of her unwashed feet inside her hot and steamy, buckle-strapped, leather shoes...
Sweet and naive, newly-arrived, blonde-goddess, office-junior mistress Philippa doesn't take too kindly to be being told by the communal office-footslave that she can't have what she wants!
She approaches his sit-down, shoelick stall in the office lobby; climbs up onto the raised shoelick-throne of female power in front of the kneeling, male slave, and places her black leather, chunky-heeled, square-toed, anklebooted feet onto the metal footrests directly at his humbly-bowed-face level, hitching up her black, polyester trouser-hems so that the elasticated tops of her plain, black anklesocks are just visible against the pleasing backdrop of her pale, white, blonde, legskin:
'Slave, my feet are hot and sweaty! Take off my boots and socks and wash my feet!'
The slave gulps with fear - and not just because the blonde girl is now towering so dominantly and masterfully above him, but because he is in the invidious position of having to decline a perfectly reasonable, mistressly request!
He braces himself for the fall-out (though he really doesn't wish to fall out with this petulant and arrogant, all-powerful, young blonde mistress):
'Oh pray, mistress Philippa, if it pleases you most beautiful and respected, blonde goddess-mistress miss Philippa madam, this slave truly regrets that he is unable to comply with the blonde mistress's perfectly legitimate command, mistress, since he is forbidden to wash feet, blonde madam!'
'WHAT? ARE YOU REFUSING TO OBEY MY ORDER, OR SOMETHING, DIRTY SLAVE?' exclaims an incredulous, used-to-being-obeyed, blonde girl!
The slave quakes with fear at her booted and socked feet - as well he might:
'Oh p...pray, m...mistress Philippa...p...please don't be angry with me m...mistress Philippa...and p...please don't beat me, m...mistress! It's just that it's c...company p...policy, m...mistress...'
'WHAT DAMN POLICY? I'M NOT ASKIN' YOU TO FETCH A BOWL OF WATER, OR SOMETHING? I JUST WANT YOU TO TAKE OFF MY BOOTS AND SOCKS AND WASH MY DIRTY FEET WITH YOUR TONGUE! I MEAN, WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT? YOU ARE A FOOTSLAVE, AREN'T YOU? ...TCH!... MORON!'
The slave hesitates; and he well knows that the slave who hesitates is lost! But it's difficult to know what to say to a superior, angry, young woman who, by law, is always in the right, even if he has spoken the truth - it is this office's policy!
He now has the indignity of having to humbly and hesitantly explain why he cannot comply with her orders to the incandescent-with-rage, young blonde woman:
'Oh p...pray, m...mistress, if it p...pleases you m...mistress, this s...slave t...truly regrets that he is unable to s...serve the young m...mistress in the m...manner she desires as it is this c...company's p...policy not to impose a m...mistress's divine, inner f...footsmells on her f...female c...colleagues, m...mistress, on account of his being in a communal area, m...mistress, if you would be so k...kind and understanding, m...mistress Philippa m...madam?'
She leans forwards and slaps the slave hard across the face with her blonde hand:
Slap!
'INSOLENT SLAVE! ARE YOU SAYING MY FEET SMELL?'
SLAP!
The second slap is even firmer than the first, and sends his senses reeling!
Actually, wasn't it blonde goddess-mistress Philippa herself who opined that her feet were 'hot and sweaty' inside her boots? But this young lady is in no mood to be reasoned with - whatever the office's 'no-footwear-removal' policy!
The irony is, of course, that he would dearly love to smell the blonde girl's sweaty socks and feet - and lick out her sweaty toes! But rules are rules, and he's effectively caught between a sock and a hard place!
A nearby, uniformed but uninformed, security-guard mistress rushes over to the scene to see if she can help:
'Is there a problem, miss?'
Miss Philippa lowers her voice to a more respectful, if still exasperated, tone:
'Yes - this dirty slave is refusing to take off my boots and socks and lick my sweaty feet because he says my feet will smell!'
'I'll fetch the whip, miss!' replies the ill-informed female, office security-guard - clearly as ignorant of the communal-footslave-rules as the newly-arrived, blonde office junior herself!
It's going to be a long, hard beating!
Blonde-girl, office mistress Michaela has a dirty, little sock-secret which only she and I know about - she has a tiny hole in her left sock; right over the big-toe area!
I'm sure she'd be mortified if her female office-colleagues found out about it, for she has a reputation for always being very smartly turned-out, in her crisp, white blouses; her black, office trouser-suits; her ubiquitous, black ballet-flats; and her equally ubiquitous, plain, black cotton anklesocks.
She looks the business, and no-one would ever dream that she has a hole in her well-worn sock over her purple-painted, big toenail on her left foot!
But she does - and she seems to have no compunctions whatsoever in imposing her holey sock on my nose and face in the privacy of the office-footbooth, where I must fawn and pamper to her blonde office-girl feet and footwear! Having ordered me to lickshine her dusty, black leather ballet-flats, she promptly orders me to take off her shoes and sniff her black socks - including the one with the hole in it, whilst she is still wearing it on her pedicured, but not entirely fresh-smelling, foot!
Perhaps the reason for her uninhibitedness in showing me her holey, black sock is that she knows I am forbidden, under the 'Official Footslaves' Secrets Act', to discuss anything which goes on between myself and an office customer-mistress in my private, office footbooth. Miss Michaela's work colleagues won't get to hear about her holey sock and smelly feet from me (not unless they read this blog, of course!)
It also thrills us both to know that, whilst I am 'doing my rounds' later in the day - crawling from desk to desk on my hands and knees and kissing female feet - my slave-lips, when they reach young office-mistress Michaela's left ballet-shoe, rounded toe-area, are kissing over a hidden hole in her seemingly perfect, black sock. And yet, no-one can tell!
Yes, the hole in her sock is our dirty, little sock-secret - or, at least, it was until now!
As an outside-smoking-area, ornamental footkisser I get to eavesdrop on many superior-female conversations above me as I dutifully, and unobtrusively, kiss and admire the dirty, office footwear of my smoking, female betters from my ground-level, hole-in-the-wall!
Here are just a few examples:
1) Two of the cute, black female, uniformed security guards are chatting away animatedly to one another whilst enjoying their regular, fag break. They are laughing, and joking, and joshing one another in fluent Yoruba. Even if I could understand and speak Yoruba, I would still not be a party to their conversation, since I am just a dirty, outdoor footkissing slave, and too far beneath them to merit any kind of verbal acknowledgement from them - let alone to engage in conversation!
I am, if truth be told, a virtual nonentity to them.
But, whilst they are chatting next to me, I do have the inestimable honour of admiring their feet and footwear- close up and personal! And because they are in uniform, both the black girls are wearing the same, navy-blue, office-security-guard, uniform trousers, and regulation, chunky-heeled, round-toed, black slip-on shoes. The only thing that distinguishes them is the amount of dust on the shoes – the girl on the right has more dust on her black shoes, than the girl on the left!
But what is really agitating me (apart from the fact that they haven’t yet obliged me with their female-security-guard shoes for kissing) is that their respective trouser-hems are hiding their socks – and I yearn to know the colour and texture of their socks, for I am nothing but a dumb footslave!
Fortunately, the black girl on the left is more animated in her conversation than the one on the right, and is subconsciously moving her feet around as she tells her joke. To my pathetic, footslavish delight and delectation she suddenly twists her right shoe onto one side, thereby temporarily exposing a thin slither of plain, black sock above her shoeline along the centre of her shapely instep!
Result! I now know that when, eventually, she positions her foot forwards for me to kiss her black leathery, rounded shoe-toe, my lips shall be making contact with shoeleather covering black, cotton girlsock! Of course, it’s always possible that the reinforced toe and heel areas of her sock are a totally different colour, but at least I know the main body of the jocular, black girl’s sock is black!
As for her equally jocular, but less demonstrative, companion, however – I have no way of knowing what colour of socks she has on her pretty black feet, since they remain completely stationary on the ground and hidden by navy-blue trouser hem. I suppose they should be regulation black – like her fellow security-guard’s socks – but I’ll never know for sure; not unless I catch a glimpse of her sock whilst she stubs out her cigarette on the ground beneath my confined and bowed face!
2) Two of the indoor office-mistresses are chatting away above me. They are both blonde, but wearing very differing styles of footwear beneath their short skirts and over their tan-nylon stockings.
The blonde on the left is wearing a fairly standard pair of kitten-heeled, single-strapped, black patent leather, mary-jane shoes. They shine and glimmer in the sunlight, and I should be able to see my ugly, male reflection in them when I come to kiss them (or rather, when they come to be kissed!).
But the other blonde girl – the one on the right – has me absolutely mesmerized by her calf-length, fully-laced up, dark blue, Doc Marten boots. Such unusual and aggressive, office footwear – I have counted a full 14 eyelets in each dominant girlboot!
I start to breathe heavily at the thought of being crushed beneath those sweet blonde-girl, heavy boots – so much so, it seems, that the fag-smoking wearer of the bovver-girl boots can hear me panting with unsavoury lust:
‘What’s that noise, Fiona?’
‘Ha! Ha! Reckon it’s that dirty footslave down there, Gloria! Reckon he’s, like, hyperventalin’ over them boots of yours, or something? Ha! Ha! Kick his face in, Gloria!’
Mistress Gloria – never one to deny herself the opportunity of a good slave-kicking – does just that; her boots make the sort of contact with my face that I hadn’t wished for – hard and aggressive, instead of orderly and kissable!
Her precious, blue leather DMs are decorated with my resultant nosebleed, rather than my saliva, but that doesn’t bovver the blonde – she just wipes the blood off her boots and into my hair!
3) It’s a footslave-quandary – whether to focus in on the black leather ballet-flats and socks of the red-haired, office-junior mistress on the left, or the tattooed bare ankle of her red, ballet-flat wearing, brunette compatriot on the right!
Unusually for me, I opt for the tattoo – since I am fascinated by the way the tattooed, black phoenix fluctuates in tandem with the mistress’s bare, white foot-muscles as she talks, causing its veiny wings to flex themselves as if in readiness for take-off.
I do hope her scuffmarked and misshapen, red leather ballet-flats present themselves for kissing before they take flight along with the phoenix, and that I am not just left with their mistress’s extinguished, cigarette ashes – for I am denying myself the pleasure of observing a redhead-girl’s black socks in order to focus on the tattooed phoenix, and I almost feel like I deserve to kiss the shoes and bare ankles of the plainer-looking brunette girl!
But, beggars can’t be choosers, of course! And I am a truly filthy foot-beggar!
She came back to me later that afternoon, on her own - the tough, blonde girl in the blue, calf-length Doc Martens who goes by the name of ‘Gloria’.
It was clearly just to see me, for she wasn't even smoking this time!
'Ha! Ha! Do you like my DMs then, slave?' she asked my bruised and boot-battered face.
'Oh y...yes, m...mistress...if it pleases you, m...mistress G…Gloria, madam,' I responded somewhat diffidently, anxious not to receive another bovver-boot kicking so soon after the last one!
She laughed as my prone and vulnerable, boot-level face flinched involuntarily as she suddenly, hands on hips, shoved her right foot forwards on the dirty ground beneath it for kissing.
At last I was to get to kiss the reinforced, heavily stitched, female boot-toe that had so diligently damaged my face just a few hours ago!
I kissed it voraciously!
'Ha! Ha! I'll wear my purple DMs for you tomorrow, if you like slave? Ha! Ha!'
'Oh pray, m...mistress!...kiss...kiss...Y...yes p...please, mistress Gloria!...kiss...kiss...kiss...Please k...kick my face in with your p...purple DMs tomorrow...kiss...kiss...and then do m...me the honour of permitting me to k...kiss them, m...most powerful and respected b...blonde m...mistress ...kiss...kiss...if you would be so kind to a lowly, office smoking-area footslave...m...mistress G…Gloria?...kiss...kiss...kiss...kiss...'
'Ha! Ha! It's a deal, bootkissing queer! See you tomorrow! Ha! Ha!'
Well, sometimes a mistress has to be cruel to be kind, and this kindly, young, blonde woman clearly loves to be cruel!
'Oh, by the way, queer - call me 'master' in future!'
'Y...yes m...master Gloria!'
She turns her flat, thick-stitched DM heels on me, and walks off. I wonder whether I'll need stitches in my face after tomorrow, aside from her purple boot stitches?
Or is she just winding me up, rather than stitching me up?!
One of the advantages of being an outdoor, office-footkisser is the effect the weather can have on a mistress’s footwear as she presents her feet to you, one at a time, for kissing.
It it’s raining, her shoes or boots will be mustily wet; if it’s a dark winter’s day, her footwear will be artificially illuminated by the powerful spotlight above my head – placed there deliberately by my employers to accentuate every crease and dirt-fleck on my customer-mistress’s footwear, that I may better and more intelligently determine where to place my lips; and if it’s a bright, summer’s day, the sunshine will illuminate the mistress’s socks – dazzling me with all their summery glory!
So much the better, then, if the summertime, office mistress is wearing white, strappy, high-heeled sandals with frilly, white anklesocks – for then I am truly sock-blinded by the sun! It’s as if the goddesses in the heavens are saying:
‘Behold the white, lacy sock of your female better, dirty slave! See how it radiates before you, blinding you with its feminine power! Avert your eyes from the frilly lace at the top of her sock, unworthy slave – and concentrate on kissing this superior, young woman’s dusty, reinforced sock-toe, which she is so graciously presenting to you whilst she smokes her cigarette! For we have kindly highlighted the offending sock-dust, that you may transfer it onto your lips!’
Yes – sunshine on dusty, white femsock! It just doesn’t get any better than that!
