Ponderings of Pathetic Footservants
Ponder all of the following, why don’t you?...
Pondering no. 1 – Consenting Adults
I'm just a dime-a-dozen, pathetic public-footslave.
I have no choice but to bow my neck and respectfully kiss the dusty, purple vans of the blonde, hot-pant wearing, suntanned customer-mistress in the sexy, dark sunglasses, even though she's a filth-babe from hell! For her watchful boyfriend is keeping his beady eye on me!
I can’t even surreptitiously rub my bowed forehead against her soft, black anklesocks – temptingly creased though they are due to the outstretched positioning of her blonde-girl foot onto the wooden footblock beneath me; it’s just too risky, and her jealous boyfriend might notice!
No – my only legitimate sphere of contact with this superior, young woman is strictly below the ankle, on the dirtiest, dustiest parts of her purple-canvas vans. Even the white shoelaces are out of bounds to my lips!
How I envy the free master-sir – he can explore any part of his girlfriend, with her full and enthusiastic, young-womanly consent. But that’s the whole point – she is his girlfriend; not mine! To me, she’s just a customer-mistress.
And to her, I’m just a dime-a-dozen, pathetic public-footslave!
Pondering no. 2 – Reading Between The Lines
My next customer-mistress’s boyfriend may not be physically present, but I still am made to sense his domineering, spiritual presence as the young, twenty-something, red-headed and miniskirted woman has his name written in big, red letters down the back of her smooth, white, right leg:
‘Jamie!’
In fact, her left leg contains a message to me also:
‘Jodie loves…’
So, put the two legs together, and what do you get?
‘Jodie loves Jamie!’
It’s ironic, really, that the legs need to be closed together to make any sense – for I’m sure that miss Jodie’s legs are most frequently apart whenever the said master Jamie sir is in town!
Anyhow, the message to me is quite clear – hands off my bare legs, slave! They belong to my boyfriend! Concentrate only on kissing the backs of my red keds and white anklesocks, and don’t let your lips stray above the multicoloured, beaded anklebracelet on my right leg. Even my sock above my anklebracelet is forbidden to you, dirty public footslave! Just freshen up my lower socks for my boyfriend; I can’t wait for him to come home tonight, and you will make my sneakers and socks look their very best for him! For he is a master, and you’re just a slave!
Funny how you can read so much into just three words written in felt-tip pen on the backs of a libidinous, young lady’s smooth, but lonesome, legs!
Pondering no. 3 – Identical Crisis!
The identical, black-girl twins are dressed identically – in pink T shirts; pink shorts; blue calf-length socks; and black and white, high-top, converse sneakers.
They are also somewhat inebriated, and in the mood for playing with me – for they decide to test whether my public-footslave nose can smell them apart, by taking off their right sneakers and shoving their respective, sweaty-socked feet onto my nose – one at a time!
Well, what’s the verdict, they ask? Whose socks are the smelliest, or do they smell identical, and that?
You might think the answer is easy – surely, as they share the same foot DNA, their navy-blue socks must smell identical? But my dilemma is that they don’t smell equally pungent – the black twin on the left has much smellier feet! She must have been wearing her sneakers for longer that day, or something?
But how do I answer these two teasing, black mistresses?
Do I tell them what they expect to hear – that their socks smell the same? But that would mean lying to my customer-mistresses – a criminal offence for a footslave here in the Gynarchy!
Or, do I tell the truth – and risk offending one, or both, of my noisy and boisterous, black mistresses? Because, for all I know the smelly-socked mistress on the left might deem it a badge of honour to have smellier, sweatier feet than her otherwise identical sibling, but, on the other hand, she might take offence that I find her sweaty-socked foot that bit more repulsive than her sister’s? It all depends on the fragility, or otherwise, of her young-black-womanly ego!
Then again, the identical sibling on the right with the less-sweaty sock might take offence at ‘losing’ the sweaty-sock competition – at the implication that her identical, blue-socked feet are, somehow, more bland than her identical twin sister’s?
Oh woe is me! What do I say to them?
I decide I have no option but to speak the truth, and brace myself for the sting of the public-use whipping stick from one or other of the drunken, black twins.
In the event, they both whip me – just for being a ‘pafetic, black-girls’ sock-sniffer’, as the one on the right so eloquently puts it!
I guess I was just in a no-win situation, innit?
Pondering no. 4 – Pre and Post Whipping!
Pre-whipping, the footslave did an averagely good job of lickshining his mistress’s dirty boots;
Post-whipping, they sparkle in the sunlight!
Pre-whipping, the footslave could be seen to baulk at his mistress’s sweaty socks;
Post-whipping, he noses her sweaty socks with gusto and with vigour!
Pre-whipping, the footslave was wont to allow his mistress’s socks to slip down inside her sneakers;
Post-whipping, the mistress’s socks remain tidy and straight!
Pre-whipping, the footslave’s wandering eye was apt to stray;
Post-whipping, it remains fixated on the backs of his mistress’s heels (though it is helped by the punishment blinkers he must now wear!)
Pre-whipping, the footslave’s neck could be seen to rise;
Post-whipping, it remains suitably bowed and low (though it is helped by the punishment cangue he must now wear!)
Such is the efficacy of the stinging, female whip when applied precipitately to a footslave’s back at the male whipping-post!
Pondering no. 5 - She loves me; she loves me not
'I would!' declares the somewhat podgy, young, dark-haired white woman seated above me in the public shoelick-chair as I lickshine her pink canvas, high-top sneakers whilst 'admiring her scrunched-up, black anklesocks down inside them. 'He's, like, well fit, and that!'
She's referring to some freeman whom, I gather, is bent over somewhere nearby tying his shoelace, and she is addressing her female friend who is standing next to us - an equally podgy, gum-chewing black girl whose sockless and scruffy, black leather ballet-flats it has just been my privilege to mouthclean.
'Ha! Ha! Like you'd stand a chance, or somefing, Whit! Ha! Ha! He's, like, well out of our league, an' that!'
'Tch - shut up, though! I reckon I could have him, though!'
The two libidinous young women giggle, although the mood suddenly darkens when the white girl seated in front of me points to an area of dirt along the lower black canvas instep of her left, high-top sneaker with the sharp, pointy end of the public-use, whipping stick:
'You missed a bit, dirty slave!'
I take it from the derisory and disparaging tone of her voice that - in my case - she 'wouldn't'!
Pondering no. 6 - No footslave can serve two footmistresses!
I very much preferred the young master-sir's previous girlfriend to his current one, not that his choice in young women is any of my damned business!
I have to admit that the somewhat podgy, mousey-haired and bespectacled miss Abigail wasn't as conventionally pretty as his current, slim and svelte, blonde-ponytailed floozie, miss Jade, but she was much easier to please:
· She actually enjoyed having me as her personal footservant
· She always wore nice, ultra-short, sneaker-style socks, usually white, with her demure, easy to lick-polish, black leather loafers, and I liked the way her short socks disappeared down the backs of her fat, unprotected, pinky-white, bare heels
· She was always happy to have me accompany her to flat-loafered, bare heelbone when she went out on a date with my master-sir, using me as her loafer-shoe footrest in the cinema or at the restaurant, and always making sure I had a good view of the elasticated top of her short, white anklesock along her podgy, left instep whilst her dirty, right shoesole rested on my prostrate-on-the-floor, but upturned, left cheek
· She didn't, unlike the current miss Jade, disparagingly refer to me all the time as a 'queer limpdick', and one would certainly never have heard the following dismissive conversation between my master-sir and the compassionate miss Abigail:
The master-sir: 'Shall we bring the slave with us tonight?'
Miss Jade (whilst chewing gum): 'Ha! Ha! Nah - leave the queer limpdick here; he can stay in an' mouthwash my dirty socks, an' that, innit?'
Slim and shapely, gum-slapping miss Jade then peels off her full-length, dirty and sweaty, black anklesocks and shoves them unceremoniously into my gaping mouth, before slipping her black and white, converse, high-top sneakers back onto her unwashed, sticky feet and venturing out on her date with my master-sir in her revealing, black top and slutty, black leather miniskirt - fully sockless and slaveless; something the self-respecting miss Abigail would never have done!
Oh I do miss her!
Then again, miss Jade's dirty, discarded, full-length, black cotton anklesocks provide me with a truly divine-tasting mouthful of attractive-blonde-girl, stale footsweat.
I am not worthy, for, like she says, I'm just a 'queer limpdick' - a blonde girl's, queer, sock-sucking limpdick!
Pondering no. 7 - What’s the difference?
Q What’s the difference between a free man and a footslave?
A An attractive, young woman will instinctively move her foot out of the way of a passing, free man (out of courtesy and respect towards him and his freemale masculinity, and not wishing her dirty shoe to sully his nice, clean trousers!)
The same young woman, however, will instinctively shove her dirty footwear into a passing footslave’s face (out of a sense of her own innate superiority over the crawling, male wretch at her feet, and in a desire to transfer the offensive dirt from her shoe onto his mud-receptacle face).
Pondering no. 8 – A footslave walks into a bar…
A footslave walks into a bar.
He is immediately whipped and brought to his knees, and the Female Police are summoned in order to arrest him and reunite him with his mistress’s feet – where he belongs!
Pondering no. 9 – An Abject Lesson in Pakistani-Girl Footkissing
My 40 year old, Pakistani mistress Raheema is teaching me respect for her 18 year old niece, miss Tasneem, by instructing me in the slavish minutiae of how to properly kiss a young, Pakistani woman’s soft, black ballet-flated and black-socked feet beneath her scruffy and frayed, black-denim, student-girl jean hems.
Mistress Raheema pushes her own, patent black leather, soiled slingback-sole down onto the nape of my neck:
‘Dirty slave, be keeping the lower half of your ugly face below the level of my pretty, young niece’s anklebone while your head is being bobbing up and down and kissing her on the foot, isn’t it?’… (miss Tasneem’s bare, brown, anklebone is only partially visible above her stretched, black anklesock-line as she stretches forth her shapely, ballet-clad foot on the living-room carpet beneath my kneeling and bowed face, so my clever mistress Raheema knows exactly what she is talking about!)… ‘Be kissing her alternately on the sock and shoe-toe, and make damn well sure you are being choosing the most bobbled and creased part of her sock, and the most dirty area of her shoe-toe, for your lips to be connecting with her great foot-beauty, isn’t it?’
A silent miss Tasneem, meanwhile, who has seemingly yet to learn how to verbally boss about and bully a male footservant, is content to let her brown-leather-whip-holding aunt do all the demanding, and to merely cock her grinning, pink-dupatta-headscarfed-head to one side in order to get a better view of my humble shoe and sock kissing efforts on her imperiously outstretched and dainty, Pakistani-girl foot beneath her.
Her shapely foot-muscles, I also can’t help noticing, twitch beneath her modest, plain black sock every time my lips make tentative contact with the soft, bobbled-cotton material on the crown of her foot. I am being ‘tentative’ in my footkissing as I don’t wish to inadvertently tickle the sensitive, Pakistani-girl’s foot, and thereby earn her young-womanly displeasure and the concomitant whip-wrath of her aunt!
However, the young woman appears to be hungry to see me whipped in any case:
‘Ha! Ha! Whip him for me please, auntie! His upper lip has just been brushing against my bare ankleskin, isn’t it?’
That’s a downright lie, incidentally – as evidenced by miss Tasneem’s guilty readjustment of her pink-silken, dupatta-headscarf! I would have felt this beautiful, young woman’s bare footskin on my lip had it inadvertently strayed onto forbidden flesh (and would have immediately apologised to miss Tasneem for such a footslavish impertinence!) But, needless to say, her angry aunt Raheema doesn’t see it that way. The dirty slingback-sole comes off the back of my neck, but only to make way for the brown leather whip on the surface of my right shoulder blade:
Swish…Crack!
Pain!
‘Dirty slave, how dare you be touching my niece’s bare footskin with your dirty lips?...’
Swish…Crack!
Swish…Crack!
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...Pain!…Pain!...
‘…The sting of my whip on your back will soon be teaching you respect for a superior, young Pakistani woman’s skin, isn’t it?’
Swish…Crack!
Swish…Crack!
Swish…Crack!
The irony is that, with each stinging cut of the brown leather punishment-whip, my head involuntarily rises up in pain above the young lady’s partially socked anklebones – just what my mistress Raheema is trying to teach me not to do!
I clearly have a lot to learn!
Pondering no. 10 – The Subterranean Footslave
Even the brightest, hippest, happeningest town has its dark corners – and I’m one of them! For I am a subterranean footslave, imprisoned by the local Female Council in a former, mediaeval dungeon where I am required to lickshine the dirty boots and shoes of any young woman who deigns to venture down to my dank and dingy, basement level cell.
The door to my cell is always open – for I am chained to the wall, and positioned on my hands and knees in front of a raised shoelick-chair, like any other public footslave. The only difference is that any female customer wishing to avail herself of my humble services has to make a concerted effort to find me, since I am only identified to the public above me by means of a small sign outside the entrance to the spiral, stone staircase in the castle keep in which I am…kept!
Nevertheless, I have a steady stream of customers, especially during a week like this when the annual, end-of-summer-term, music festival has come to this bright and bustling, university town; for the summer music festival can only mean one thing – lots of muddy, female wellington boots for me to lick and shine (for it always rains heavily during the summer music festival season here in the Gynarchy!)
Take the two young student-women – one blonde and one ginger – who have just, somewhat gingerly (both of them – including the blonde!) made their way down the long, spiral, stone staircase to my windowless bootlick-cell which is lit only by a single, bare light-bulb above my kneeling head; they have clearly just been to the festival, judging by the following signs:
1) They are drunk
2) They are both, somewhat cutely, wearing identical outfits consisting of pink T-shirts; short, black miniskirts; and identical, flowery-patterned, pink and white wellies
3) Their wellies, and their bare, white legs above them, are splattered in mud
Obviously festival goers!
It is the blonde one who climbs up onto the bootlick-chair in front of me first, but she doesn’t leave her bots on; instead she nonchalantly pushes them off her feet and presents me with a pair of supposedly pink and yellow striped anklesocks with white, reinforced toe and heel areas.
I say ‘supposedly’ because that is what the sock designer and manufacturer clearly intended, but the 20-something, female wearer of the socks has inadvertently added other colours to the socks – namely brown and green (particularly around the white toe and heel areas!). Evidently this young lady has been walking around the muddy music-festival fields in her socked feet; and now it is time for me to return her socks to their original state, as the manufacturer intended!
Or, as the young blonde-woman wearer of the socks herself, so delicately, puts it as she shoves her damp and sweaty, mud-and-grass-stained sock-toes onto my kneeling and confined face:
‘My socks are f***in’ mingin’, slave! F***in’ suck off all the crap, an’ that, yeah?’
‘Yes michtress; at once, most beautiful and respected blonde michtress!’ I reply, my voice slightly muffled by sock.
Her ginger-haired friend giggles at my sock-muted obsequiousness, but soon changes her tune when the aroma of her friend’s socks eventually reaches her pretty, turned-up nose:
‘God, Rosie, them socks are, like, f***in’ gross, or somefing? Have pity on the poor slave, an’ that! How can he, like, f***in’ stand it?’
‘Shut up, Sandra! He’s, like, a f***in’ footslave, an’ that? He’s, like, used to it, an’ that! An’ besides, it f***in’ honks down here anyway! So I don’t give a sh*t, an’ that?’
Young mistress Rosie (whose stripy-socked feet are far from smelling of roses) is very astute; I am, sadly, accustomed to the stink of sweaty girlsocks down here; and my dungeon does ‘honk’, thanks to the complete lack of sanitation and fresh-air this far below ground!
Even the sensitively-nostriled miss Sandra can see the wisdom of her blonde friend’s observations, and withdraws her criticism of her festival companion’s stinky-socked feet:
‘S’pose so!’
Without any further ado I start to rectify the unwholesome condition of mistress Rosie’s festival-going socks by sucking on the muddy and grassy toe areas as she wriggles her sweaty-socked toes inside my gaping, footslave mouth. Meanwhile miss Sandra, opens a packet of potato chips, and offers one to her imperiously-seated friend.
‘What flavour are they, Sand?’
‘Erm…salt and vinegar, I fink!’
No need to offer any potato chips to me then, miss Sandra, I think to myself, since I already have a pair of salty-tasting and vinegary-smelling, pink yellow and white girlsocks in my face!
Miss Sandra proves to be a noisy eater as she munches and slaps her way through her packet of potato chips, sucking on her greasy fingers whilst I suck on her friend’s greasy, white sock-end. Meanwhile the wearer of the socks is surprised, and disappointed, to find that her cellphone can’t get a signal this far down underground!
‘F***in’ hell, Sand! My phone’s, like, knackered or somefing?’
Her slightly more intelligent, ginger friend explains the aerodynamics to her, in between continuing to munch and slap on her potato chips:
‘It’s just coz we’re so far down underground, an’ that, innit though? It’s too f***in’ dark, an’ that, to get a signal down here, innit?’
This scientific observation prompts miss Rosie to kick me in the face with her socked, but as yet unsucked, left foot:
‘You f***in’ hear that, slave? F***in’ get a move on, an’ that! My f***in’ boyfriend might be tryin’ to get hold of me, or somefink!’
‘Yeth mithtrteh!’ I mumble with my mouth still full of dirty-girl, festival sock from her right foot!
We are suddenly, somewhat rudely, interrupted by a youthful, male voice coming down the stone staircase:
‘Excuse me, girls! Are there, like, any bogs down here, an’ that?’
The young master-sir, whom I would estimate to also be in his early twenties, appears to be looking for the public lavatories. I’m not surprised – he sounds, and smells, like he has been drinking!
‘Nah, though it f***in’ smells like one! Ha! Ha!’ replies the ginger-haired miss Sandra. ‘Ha! Ha! It’s just this f***in’ dirty footslave down here, innit?’
‘Aw, f***in’ hell! I’m f***in’ burstin’!’ exclaims the man who has been caught short. ‘Would you girls mind if I had a piss over in the corner here, an’ that?’
‘Nah, go ahead mate!’ responds blonde miss Rosie seated above me. ‘When you gotta go, you gotta go!’
She sounds like she is speaking with some experience in urinary matters!
The man is very grateful for her female permission to get his penis out and urinate in the corner of my cell, thereby adding the stench of male urine to that of sweaty, stinky girlsock to the environment of my humble abode.
Nor does he seem to mind that a trickle of his urine flows directly below my kneeling face (and miss Rosie’s socked feet! Luckily, it just misses her discarded wellington boots lying nearby on the cold, stone floor of my mediaeval dungeon-cell!)
He turns round to ask the girls a question whilst he is relieving himself in my stone living-room:
‘Was you both at the festival, girls?’
‘Ha! Ha! Yeah – f***in’ ace, weren’t it?’ replies miss Sandra (miss Rosie appears to be too busy still trying to get a signal on her cellphone to answer the manly, ‘chat up’ question! But miss Sandra has clearly taken the bait! I think she quite fancies the urinating free man!)
‘Yeah!’ he replies. ‘Have you two girls got boyfriends, then?’
Subtle!
‘Nah, she’s my wife, innit?’ responds a seemingly disinterested miss Rosie seated above me, nodding towards her ginger-haired girlfriend, before she switches her sweaty-socked feet in my now mudbath-mouth!
I don’t believe these two girls are either lesbian, or married! And nor, it seems, does the freshly relieved free man, as he zips up his pants:
‘Ha! Ha! Give us your facebook addresses, girls, an’ I’ll write to ya sometime!’
‘Ok,’ beams a smitten miss Sandra, taking a piece of paper and a pen out of her handbag.
‘F*** off!’ responds a less enamoured miss Rosie above me, her left sock still firmly in my mouth.
The free man just laughs – one out of two ain’t bad! He blows both the girls a kiss as he climbs up the spiral, dungeon staircase out of his makeshift toilet!
Meanwhile, miss Rosie appears satisfied with my sterling mouthwork on her dirty socks, as she suddenly withdraws her left, socked foot from my unnaturally foot-stretched mouth:
‘C’mon, Sand! Let’s f***in’ get outta here! It smells like a piss-pot, or somefing?’
‘Ha! Ha! That’s coz it is!’ laughs miss Sandra, pointing with her pink, rubbery bot-toe to the trickle of urine glistening on the stone floor beneath my kneeling face. ‘But you’ll have to wait while the slave lickshines my boots though, innit? My boots is mingin’!’
‘F*** me, Sandra! It’s just f***in’ mud, an’ that! Can’t you just wipe it off on the side of his ugly face, or somefing? I wanna get back outside so I can get my f***in’ phone workin’ again, though?’ complains miss Rosie, whilst deftly pulling her own, still mud-caked, pink and white flowery wellies onto her freshly-sucked, socked feet!
‘S’pose so!’ replies the weaker of the two girls, and she then moves over to stand next to my face, and begins to wipe its wet, rubbery side down the side of my bare-faced cheek.
She then repeats the humiliating process with the side of her left boot.
The two girls then giggling leave me amidst the stench of fresh, male urine, and with the taste of muddy female sock in my mouth, and the feel of fresh girlboot-mud on my cheeks. Up they go to the fresh air outside – a place I shall never again be permitted to go, since I have been sentenced to life in this public foothole.
I humbly watch the young master-sir’s urine dry beneath my confined face, as I ponder my pitiful position in life as the subterranean, public footslave!
Pondering no. 11 – Disrespectful vs Respectful
The fat, Asian bird is so rude and disrespectful towards me!
She marches up to my stand-up, public shoelick stall in her scruffy, black denim jeans and low-heeled, black courts with plain, black socks, and nonchalantly projects her right leg out onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face – all without desisting from her animated conversation, even for one tiny second, on her cellphone above me; not even to brusquely order me to lickshine her dirty, pointed shoe-toe!
It’s like she just doesn’t care about me – and sees me as a mere object; like I were a piece of dumb street-furniture – a bollard or a storm drain – rather than a fellow human-being!
But then, why would she see me as an equal? She clearly is not my equal, but is my infinite better – being young, female, fat and Asian; and having a phone, and friends to talk to on her phone! I am none of those things, and have none of those things.
So she is quite right to treat me with contempt!
I therefore hold my tongue, and then release it in order to dutifully lickshine her dirty, pointed shoe-toe – the shoe-toe of my better.
Pondering no. 12 – Amnesty
It’s a Gynarchy tradition – the prison-governess’s daughter can release one lifelong prisoner-footslave on a whim on her 21st birthday.
Today is miss Arrabella’s 21st birthday, and we lifers are all on tenterhooks as she does the rounds of our individual, isolation cells, along with her mother, in order to select the ‘lucky’ prisoner (he won’t be released from his bondage entirely, of course, but he will be allowed to serve as a public footslave out on the streets again – and after years being cooped up in a tiny cell with only a frost-glass window for natural light, that would almost constitute freedom!)
The procedure is that when miss Arrabella enters our cells we must kiss her 21 year old feet for all we are worth, in a feverish attempt to win over her sweet, young-womanly compassion and elicit her mercy! But we have to be good – for only one life-prisoner can go free; and there are 6 of us!
I’m the second in line, as my cell is second from the end of the corridor!
The keys jangle in the lock, the heavy, iron door jangles open, and in walks the familiar, black leather kneeboots and short skirt of uniformed, bleached-blonde, 39 year old, prison-governess Samantha, followed by the hitherto unseen, younger-looking, but slightly podgier, high-top sneakered-feet of her yellow-shorts-wearing, un-uniformed, naturally blonde daughter – my potential saviouress, 21 year old miss Arrabella!
I note, approvingly, that she is wearing a pair of scrunched-up, yellow, calf-length socks inside her black and white, loosely-laced-up, converse high-tops. That’s got to be good – for the attractive, casually-creased socks will surely inspire me to even greater efforts on her white-rubbery, converse sneaker-toes as I grovel and fawn at her 21 year old feet for my freedom!
‘This is prisoner-slave Thomas, honey!’ explains governess-mistress Samantha to her gum-chewing, and seemingly quite disinterested, but all-powerful daughter.
The latter belches into my cell, and moves forwards to point her right, converse high-topped foot onto the dirty straw beneath my humbly-kneeling face.
I decide to show my respect for the arrogant and, no doubt terribly pampered, young woman by cupping my dirty and manacled, prisoner-slave hands around her outstretched foot; hopefully none of the other prisoners on life-row will have thought of doing that, and it shows I am treating her like a goddess – a greedily gum-slapping, nonchalantly nose-picking, scruffily-sneakered and socked, spoilt goddess who has the young-womanly power to set me free!
My kisses to her grubby-white, rubbery converse shoe-toe go quite well, I think! I’m not allowed to verbally beg for my freedom, of course – since the young lady is much too high above me on the social scale for me to converse with her in the other sense of the term! I mean, she’s the governess’s daughter, for heaven’s sake!
Nor, sadly, am I permitted to touch her scrunched-up, yellow socks with my lips – that would be considered much to intimate and forward a gesture on the part of a lifelong prisoner-slave! But I’m confident that she must be able to feel my respect and humility through her rubbery sneaker-toes, especially since I make sure my dry-and-parched-with-fear lips make a beeline for the dirtiest part of her shoe-toe (Ha! Ha! My fellow prisoner in cell no. 1 must have missed that dirt even though he had ‘first bite of the cherry’, so to speak!)
The nonchalantly, and seemingly bored, fat, young blonde woman withdraws her right converse-sneaker from my worshipfully cupped hands, and, still picking her nose, languorously replaces her right foot with her left, equally grubby, sneaker-toe on the dirty straw beneath my bowed and expectant face.
Again I cup; again I kiss; again I am inspired by creased and folded, yellow sock over her shapely, if somewhat podgy, 21 year old anklebone. The thought occurs to me that, even if this young, blonde-haired woman chooses another lifer footslave-prisoner for release, it will still have been an enormous privilege for me to kiss the dirty sneaker-toes of this casually-dressed, and very beautiful young woman who is in her physical and emotional prime, and some 30 years my junior!
Meanwhile her black-leather-kneehigh-booted mother laughs at me, and asks for her daughter’s judgement upon me:
‘Well, Arrabella darling? What do you think? Do you want him released?’
The girl cocks her chewing-gum, blonde head above me; lets out another devil-may-care, girlish belch; flicks her sticky nosepick down onto the dirty straw next to her still outstretched, left, high-top sneaker, and delivers her unconsidered verdict:
‘Nah! He’s too ugly, innit?’
So there you have it – I am deemed too ugly to be released back into the polite society of women!
The converse sneaker is promptly withdrawn from my supplicating hands, and I am shown a dirty pair of black canvas, converse-sneaker heels as she uncaringly turns to exit my cell forever, accompanied by the chunky, black leather bootheels of her uniformed, smiling, prison-governess mother!
My heart sinks – but not for long; for I still have the taste of the superior and haughty, fat young blonde woman’s converse toe-rubber on my prisoner-slave lips; and, like I said, that in and of itself is a joy and a privilege for a lonely, lifelong prisoner-footslave.
Plus, of course, she has left me her nosepick for my supper!
Pondering no. 13 – Earning my stripes
Stripes can be a good thing - they can denote power, wealth and rank!
Take regular customer-mistress Parminder, for example - the 23 year old, slim and petite, dark-haired Indian girl. As she stands over me at my public-shoelick stall in her smart, navy-blue, airline pilot's uniform, having her already highly-polished, dainty-sized, fully laced up, black leather brogues publicly lickshined and worshipped by my footslave-tongue, the three, thick, white stripes on her navy-blue epaulettes denote her prized rank of airline captain!
They are stripes of which she is justly proud; stripes to be respected (along with the thin, pink stripes on the elasticated tops of her otherwise plain, black cotton anklesocks) for they denote her success in life; her female ability, education and skill.
The thick, red stripes adorning my naked, male shoulders are, on the contrary, stripes of shame - for they are sore, and denote my ignominious failure to please and satisfy my previous customer-mistresses with my humble shoe and boot licking efforts!
How captain-mistress Parminder, at the peak of her young-womanly beauty in her peaked cap, must look down upon my stripes - both literally and figuratively! And, again in sharp contrast to her airline-uniform shoulder-stripes, I don't wish for any more. For, in her case, another stripe would indicate a well-deserved promotion to the rank of senior captain, whereas in my case an extra stripe would simply denote yet more, equally well-deserved, pain and shame!
For it would be a fiery, red stripe laid on me by yet another dissatisfied, female customer wielding the female whip - and the more such stripes I earn, the more despised I become by all and sundry.
Pondering no. 14 - Getting off on the right foot
From the very first moment we met my morose and unsmiling, personal office-footmistress - 30 year old, dreadlocked, black supervisor-mistress, mistress Geraldine - made sure that we got off on the right foot, specifically her right foot, by requiring me to kiss it 100 times!
Whilst I was down on my hands and knees before her slender, outstretched foot, she made it clear to me that she was my mistress, not my friend, and that I was to therefore demonstrate to all and sundry my respect and admiration for her by constantly kissing her on her black shoe, or her black sock - but never on her black skin, since I wasn't worthy to touch her skin (my office-mistress Geraldine always wears black slacks with black, mary-jane style, T-bar shoes and plain, black anklesocks at work, so kissing her black shoes and socks is never a chore and always a pleasure, albeit a publicly humiliating one - and it is a shame not to be permitted to kiss her soft, black ankleskin above the sock!)
After I had kissed her imperiously outstretched, right foot the requisite 100 times, she then ordered me to accompany her to flat, black leather, mary-jane heel down to the office basement-cum-punishment room, where she proceeded to cane me hard across the backs of my bare legs, just below my white slave-shorts, 30 times (one cut of the cane for every year of her life, as she sullenly put it) not because I had done anything wrong, but merely in order to impress upon me still further her newfound power and authority over me, and so that everyone could see that I was her well and truly 'whipped slave'!
I kissed both of her feet what must have been more than 100 times immediately after that beating, I can tell you - so great was my pain; and my respect for my new, surly, black office-mistress and her shoes and socks!
Pondering no. 15 – The Personal, Office Foot-Pedestal
I am a personal, portable, office foot-pedestal for my petite and fragile, twenty-something, bespectacled, Indian office-mistress, miss Kalpana.
Miss Kalpana is incredibly beautiful and skinny, and fragile of ego as well as fragile of physique, so I have learnt to treat her skinny feet and ankles with the absolute devotion and respect they deserve - under pain of the office whip!
She is wont to wear her dark, skinny nylons and black, low-heeled, office-court shoes to work - always beneath her modest, kneelength, black, office skirt - and my role is to follow her to slender-heel, on my hands and knees, wherever she goes in the office, and to act as her underneath-the-desk footrest whenever she is seated at her office computer and actually doing some work!
After she goes home to her husband in the evenings, I must remain tethered to her desk with the dirty, beige-coloured, worn-leather soles of her freshly discarded, skinny office-courts resting on my upturned face as I lie on my back and dream of how their still warm and most insides must be smelling! I also torment myself with the thought of how her husband must be pleasuring himself each evening by rubbing her sweaty, dark-nyloned feet with his bare hands whilst she lies back on her sofa watching TV (at least, that's what I would do if were her fortunate husband!)
But, I am not! I'm just her office-hours foot pedestal, and thus, out of office hours, I must make do with the dirty and dusty soles of her office shoes (miss Kalpana always travels to and from work in her plain white, lace-up sneakers which it is my footslavish privilege to change her in and out of as she arrives at our leaves the office).
All the other young, office ladies like to tease and torment me for my whip-induced devotion to my physically slight, Indian-girl mistress and her daytime feet. For example, on just about the only occasion when I am separated from my office-mistress Kalpana's feet during the working day (i.e. when she is relieving herself in the communal, office lavatory and I am dutifully kneeling outside the entrance awaiting her return) they will often stop by me on their own entrance or egress to the restroom and invite me to kiss their feet!
One such regular, office foot-tease is 18 year old, blonde, office-junior mistress Lucy, who gaily projects her stylish, pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboot beneath my humbly kneeling and bowed face and orders me to kiss it prior to entering the lavatory in order to preform her own necessities.
It is, of course, entirely proper that I should be required to kiss the booted foot of any superior, young woman who passes by me (indeed it's the law of the land here in the Gynarchy that I do so!), but miss Lucy likes to go further, and seek to tempt me away from my unstinting devotion to my office-mistress Kalpana's temporarily absent, black leather courts and dark office nylons by hitching up her blonde-girl trouser leg in order to reveal the elasticated top of her pale, pink cotton bootsock and asking me if I wouldn't much rather be the office slave of her black, stiletto-heeled ankleboots and pink socks than my skinny mistress's dark nylons and low-heeled courts?
She even points out how soft her pink socks are against her soft and shapely, white ankleskin and opines that her own, socked ankles must be much more pleasant for a footslave to kiss than the bony, nyloned anklebones of my Indian mistress Kalpana! (I think blonde office-junior mistress Lucy may be a bit jealous of my mistress Kalpana for having a personal, human foot-pedestal at work, and because she, being the mere office-junior, does not yet qualify for such a footrest of her own - even though there is no doubt such pleasing boots and socks are fully deserving of a foot-pedestal!)
But I, through fear of my mistress Kalpana's stinging office-whip, resist all such testing temptations to express any disloyalty towards her skinny, nyloned anklebones and boring, low-heeled, black leather courts, and respectfully inform the upstart, blonde mistress that it is not my place to pick and choose the office footmistress I serve (that's the office manageress's job!) and that, whilst her black, stiletto ankleboots and pink socks are indeed a privilege to kiss and behold so close up respectively, I must remain pining and yearning for the skinny nylons and courts of my allotted office-mistress whilst she eases herself inside the lavatory.
Miss Lucy simply withdraws her boot and sock from my face and laughs at me, prior to making her own way into the restroom, disparaging of my loyalty to my Indian mistress, and mocking me for missing out on the feel of her soft, pink cotton socks on my lips.
I must confess to just a tinge of regret as the rejected, stiletto-heeled ankleboots click-clack their way into the forbidden, female restroom, but I am soon brought back to my senses by the reappearance of my mistress Kalpana's freshly-relieved nylons and courts, which I kiss with renewed relish prior to filtering them to heel back down the office corridor towards her desk, where I resume my default position of lying on the floor on my back with my upturned face acting as a footrest for her dirty, beige leather shoesoles!
I sometimes catch a hint of the wrinkles and creases in the finest denier, dark nylon stockings around my mistress Kalpana's skinny anklebones as I lie silently beneath her fully-shod, Indian feet, but for the most part I just concentrate on the worn leather of her dirty shoesoles. I certainly don't presume to look up her skinny, nyloned legs and beneath her skirt, for my foot-pedestal eyes have no business up there! (again, I am her slave, not her husband!)
At night, when I am lying alone in the office beneath my mistress Kalpana's desk with her discarded office shoes resting on my upturned face (and woe betide me if they fall off during the night - I must sleep with my face remaining deadly still and upright!) even the office cleaner-mistress - my mistress Kalpana's fellow Indian-mistress, miss Rupinder, likes to tease and torment me over my loyalty to my absentee office-mistress. She teases and torments me with her own, scruffy-looking, grey and black, short, sneaker-style socks inside her plain, black lace-up sneakers as she vacuums around me, making sure I am aware of every crease and movement in her grey-cotton sock-top as she walks around me, and reminding me that she only had to inadvertently knock one of my mistress Kalpana's court shoes off my face with her busy vacuum cleaner in order to have me sorely whipped in the morning!
She then asks me whether I am pining for the sting of my mistress Kalpana's whip, and offers to delightfully knock her shoes off my face so that I can be punished in the morning. I politely beg mischievous office cleaner-mistress Rupinder not to have me flogged, and express my fear of her power over me and of my being at her vacuum-cleaner mercy, which is what she really wants to hear!
Like the rejected blonde girl before her, she laughs at me, and moves on, whilst I refocus my slavish attention on the traces of where my office-mistress has been walking on the beige soles of her well-worn shoes.
I imagine her husband is stroking her nylon-covered thighs by now!
Pondering no. 16 – Greeting My Indian Mistress’s Honoured Houseguest
My pint-sized and house-proud, Indian footmistress – miss Parameshwari – is very particular about how I greet her household guests in the cold and drafty, front door porch of her opulent home, which doubles up as my permanent porch-cell.
Observe, for example, how deferentially and respectfully I must greet her Indian cousin – miss Rahma – as she arrives at my mistress Parameshwari’s home for her regular, afternoon tea appointment.
I must first wait and watch as the two petite and fragile-looking young, Indian ladies (who are both married and in their late twenties) embrace each another and kiss each other on the cheek, focussing all my humble attention, of course, on the dainty feet and footwear of my mistress’s guest, miss Rahma – for it is the guest-footwear I shall soon be having to kiss!
Miss Rahma, I’m pleased to say, is attired in a smart, black trouser suit over a crisp, white blouse, and has a stylish-looking pair of kitten-heeled, chisel-toed, black leather, slip on shoes with black, elasticated sides on her dainty, Indian feet. Also on her feet she is wearing black nylons – though I have no way of knowing, of course, how high up her legs the nylons go beneath her black, cotton trousers. (My house-mistress Parameshwari always wears full-length, nylon tights on her dainty legs along with her modest, knee-length skirts and low-heeled, court shoes, but I am not a party to her pretty cousin’s pantyhose preferences!)
What I do know is that I shall shortly be required to kiss those dark, guest nylons – as well as their accompanying black leather, slip-on shoes – for the slavish benefit of both the recipient of my humble footkisses, and her protective hostess (for miss Parameshwari loves to witness her household footslave demeaning himself in front of her guests; it ‘bigs her up’, and makes her feel tall!)
Soon, miss Rahma herself – who knows the procedure well by now, being a regular guest at her cousin-sister’s home – gives the signal for the dirty, household-porch footslave (that’s me!) to kiss her feet, by stretching forth her right foot first on the doormat beneath my permanently kneeling face. She simultaneously – and very kindly – hitches up the hem of her right trouser-leg about an inch or so, that I may gain a better look at her shapely, nyloned anklebone on my way down to her proffered shoe-toe leather.
Although I am confident that I shall be instructed to kiss her on the nyloned foot in due course, I must always begin with kissing a lady’s outer footwear, and await her young-womanly permission to proceed with my lips onto her more intimate, inner foot-coverings.
And so I begin by merely making a mental note of a highly kissable crease in the thin, dark nylon covering her brown, Indian-female foot just below her dainty anklebone as I lower my lips to her dirty shoeleather (it has been raining outside, and our guest’s shoes are somewhat splattered in rain-mud from the driveway outside!)
‘Kiss…kiss… God bless you, mistress Rahma…kiss…kiss…kiss… kiss… and welcome to my mistress Parameshwari’s humble abode, most beautiful and respected cousin-mistress of my mistress Parameshwari, madam … kiss …kiss …kiss...kiss…’
As I kiss the proffered, Indian-girl shoe, and gush forth my preordained (by my mistress Parameshwari) words of slavish welcome to her favourite cousin-sister, I also respectfully cup the esteemed, young, female guest’s foot with my footslave hands, as a further sign of my maleslavish respect and veneration for the Indian-female, fully shod foot, and my compulsion to pay due homage to it.
Miss Rahma’s foot wobbles slightly in its kitten heel – I like to think with pleasure and delight – as I then repeatedly kiss her muddy, leathery shoetoe, under the watchful eye of my house-mistress Parameshwari (the brown leather porch-whip is hanging on the wall nearby, ever ready to strike!).
After some 10 kisses to the toe of her outstretched shoe, miss Rahma gives me the long-awaited order, through her disdainfully turned-up nose:
‘Now be kissing me on the foot-nylon, you filthy wretch!’
‘Yes mistress Rahma; at once, most beautiful and respected goddess-mistress Rahma!’
I might be imagining it, but I’m sure miss Rahma kindly hitches up her right trouser hem a further half-inch or so, just so that I can observe the whole of the crease in her dark nylon stocking as it winds its way up the outer side of her right anklebone!
As I had promised myself, I make straight for that narrow, nylon foot-crease with my mouth, as the feel of slightly raised nylon on a young lady’s foot always seems so much more satisfying to the lip than flat, even nylon; it is like a raised, nylon vein running along the front and side of miss Rahma’s shapely, Indian anklebone.
The foot-nylon also feels warm and clammy – unlike the cold, harsh leather of the mud-stained, musty-smelling shoe – and I can feel miss Rahma’s soft, feminine foot-muscles twitch with thinly-veiled, nylon delight as my lips make repeated, worshipful contact with one of her humblest and lowest, fully-covered body-parts!
After some half dozen kisses to her right, nyloned foot, the black cotton trouser-hem is once again lowered, the foot is languorously withdrawn from beneath me, and is then equally languorously replaced by her left foot (for your average young, Indian woman has two feet – both of which must be worshipped and kissed on entering one’s mistress’s household!)
Again I see, feel, and smell dark nylon, black leather and brown mud as I lower my mouth to an Indian mistress’s meanest parts – much to her, and her cousin-hostess’s delight!
They both giggle at me and mock me:
‘Ha! Ha! I must be saying, Param dearest, your slave is really being a most excellent kisser of Indian women’s feet!’
‘Ha! Ha! Thank you, cousin Rahma! The bugger is admittedly being well-trained by my leather whip, isn’t it?’
It goes without saying that I am ‘well-trained by the leather whip’; it goes without saying because of the eloquent testimony to that fact in the form of the thick, red stripes and weals which constantly adorn my oppressed and downtrodden, male-footslave back!
Feet duly kissed, miss Rahma moves on into the lounge, where I can only dream of removing her shoes and massaging her tired and sweaty, raw-nyloned feet. I must restrict myself to dreaming about it, because I am, as I explained earlier, permanently chained up in the porch! But my lounge-footslave colleague will no doubt, right now, be under giggling, Indian-female instruction to remove our guest’s muddy, slip-off shoes and to start sniffing, kissing and massaging miss Rahma’s hot and tired, visitor feet!
Lucky bugger!
Pondering no. 17 – The Cane vs The Whip
It’s the age-old conundrum which every slave-owning mistress faces – which is the better implement for punishing a slave; the cane or the whip?
Here are the two sides of the argument, as postulated by two different mistresses:
1. Mistress Reha – Advocate of the cane
I very much believe in the power of the female cane for the following reasons:
· It is much more rigid than the whip, and therefore easier to apply with great precision and accuracy to a dirty slave’s buttocks, thighs, or back. It can even be applied with precision to a slave’s outstretched hands as he kneels, penitently, before you!
· Overlays are easy to measure and achieve as the punishment cane or rod can be sawn across an existing stripe and wound prior to the next cane-stroke being delivered to the same area of sore and reddened flesh
· Generally speaking, a slave can endure more stripes of the cane on his fleshy buttocks and thighs than he can on his spindly, bare back – so a caning can last longer than a whipping!
· I like the way an about-to-be-caned slave can be secured, face downwards, over the wooden punishment trestle (which doesn’t take up a lot of space in the basement of my inner city apartment), and thereby is forced to watch my feet as I stand behind him and apply the venomous, female cane to his backside!
· His humble position also makes it easy for me to make him kiss my feet before, during and after punishment, as all I have to do is walk round and stand in front of his bowed head, raising my foot an inch or so up off the ground to his blubbering and frightened lips!
· After the caning, the slave cannot lie or sleep on his back, and he is therefore compelled to blubber and whine face-downwards in the dirt of his punishment cell
Comments from mistress Reha’s slave on the efficacy of her cane:
My beloved, petitely-built mistress Reha is a truly beautiful, young woman of Pakistani origins, who always wears a nice, black trouser suit, flat black slip-on loafers, and black anklesocks when she is caning me.
I like being able to observe her feet and footwear close up as I am being caned on the punishment trestle, as my hanging head can observe the tell-tale movements in her shoes and socks behind me as she prepares to deliver the next, biting stroke of the cane to my bare behind or the backs of my hairy legs!
With each creasing of her right, black-loafer shoe and black sock I prepare myself for the imminent pain, which I know will quickly spread across the whole of my pained buttocks, wherever it actually falls.
Mistress also likes me to kiss her feet at various intervals throughout my whipping, and I like to kiss her feet during a whipping – as a means of begging her for mercy and her young-Pakistani-woman compassion. When she holds her foot up to my bowed and hanging-just-off-the-ground face, I always endeavour to reach her sock with my mouth, in the hope that the feel of my penitent lips on her inner foot-covering will elicit more of her female compassion.
It never seems to work though – my mistress just loves to cane me too much, which is, of course, her perfect right!
I can certainly testify to the power of the female-applied cane to induce humility and penitence in a slave; just look at how diligently and feverishly I kiss her dusty, black loafers and creased socks beneath her black cotton trouser-hems at the conclusion of my latest caning!
2. Mistress Claudine – Advocate of the whip.
I like to whip, rather than cane, my personal slave for the following reasons:
· The single-tailed, brown leather, cowhide whip which I use to punish my slave is much more flexible and supple than a cane; it can wrap around his naked torso and sting his front as well as his back!
· I think that a slave suspended by the arms at a whipping post, and being whipped by his mistress from a distance, is a much more enjoyable and dramatic sight for any female witnesses to the maleslave punishment. The slave can writhe in his bonds as the whip bites into his flanks (unlike when he is tightly secured and immobile over a punishment trestle), and the whole sound of the whip swishing through the air and then breaking the sound barrier as it cracks across his open back is so much more satisfying, particularly if accompanied by his pitiful scream!
· The slave can still see my dusty ankleboots behind him – albeit from a distance – as I ply the whip and, though he cannot be made to kiss them whilst he is actually undergoing his punishment, he sure enough knows how to kiss them when he collapses in a slump at my feet immediately his bound hands are released from the top of the whipping post.
· Above all though, I feel that the whip is synonymous with slavery – much more so than the cane – and everyone can therefore understand and appreciate the beautiful spectacle that is a male slave being sorely whipped by his superior, female master!
Comments from mistress Claudine’s slave on the efficacy of her whip:
My tall and proud, lithesome black mistress Claudine is truly an expert whipmistress. I defy any male slave, however accustomed he may be to pain, not to cry out under the application of my mistress’s brown leather whip!
How I dread being trussed up and secured to the whipping post. My arms ache even before the whip starts to fall, and I watch my mistress’s brown leather, chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboots move through the dust of her back yard behind me below her blue denim jean-hems as she readies herself to apply the first cutting stroke to my bare, sunburnt back (for, unlike a caning, a whipping is almost always delivered outside, where there is more room to swing a cat-o-nine-tails; or a single-tailed cowhide whip, such as that owned by my African-Caribbean mistress Claudine!)
Like my caned colleague, I yearn to kiss my mistress’s feet in supplication after each biting whip-wound, but, unlike him, I am unable to get my penitent and quivering lips anywhere near my whipping-mistress’s footwear until such time as my punishment is over and I am slung down onto the dirty ground at her feet! I then have the indignity of having to blubberingly kiss her dusty, brown leather boot-toes whilst she coils up the freshly-used whip above me.
Who knows how soon it will be before it is once again uncoiled in readiness for my disobedient back?!
Only my mistress Claudine knows – for I am whipped at her pleasure, and whipping me keeps her fit!
So there you have it! The two sides of the cane vs whip argument!
Perhaps it just boils down to whichever implement the mistress feels most comfortable in using; and one wonders how significant it is that the mistress preferring the cane – miss Reha – is small and petite, whereas the female fan of the whip – miss Claudine – is very tall and athletic? Either way the unmanly, chastened slave ends up sore and blubbering pathetically into his mistress’s dusty and dirty footwear; so nobody gives a damn about his punishment preferences!
Pondering no. 18 - Glamorous Grandmother
Pakistani office cleaner-mistress, mistress Seema, has just become a grandmother, and is proudly showing photographs of her newborn descendant to the other ladies around the office. They are, of course, congratulating her!
I too feel I must offer my unsolicited, maleslave congratulations to cleaner-mistress Seema, and share in her pride and joy, by vigorously kissing her cheap, shiny black plastic, flat-heeled, slip-on loafers and ropey-looking, grey and black sneaker-socks beneath her black denim jean-hems as - though she is now a grandmother, and even though she is mercilessly cruel to me, whipping me harshly several times a day as she leads me on my hands and knees around the office forcing me to lickshine the office ladies' dirty shoes and boots - at just 45 years of age she is still some 10 years my junior, and is therefore fully deserving of my elderly-maleslave respect and admiration, being younger, more successful, and more fertile than me (I shall have no descendants, being a celibate office-footslave; like all slaves in the Gynarchy I am the end of the line - forbidden to have sex lest I pass on my pitiful, maleslavish genes to subsequent generations!)
Besides, office cleaner-mistress Seema is a truly glamorous grandma - being still slim and petite, and with her long, dark hair dyed jet black. Kissing her manky, cheap shoes and socks whilst she celebrates above me is an honour and a privilege. Just being alive on the same planet as her shoes and socks is an inestimable honour for a down-in-the-dirt, barren and sterile footslave such as myself! Just think - my unworthy slave-mouth is actually touching her superior, prodigious, Pakistani-female DNA, albeit only through the sweat-bacteria in her socks!
I hang my head in awe over her glamorous, loafered and socked feet!
Pondering no. 19 - No Say!
The only debate amongst the three stranger customer-mistresses above me is whether I should be permitted to kiss them on the sock, rather than just the shoe (or the black leather, zipped-up ankleboot, in one case!)
In the end, the talkative, blonde-ponytailed white girl let me kiss her on the stripy, multicoloured anklesock inside her round-toed, heavily scuffmarked, pink leather ballet-flat; the feisty-looking, ginger-haired black girl let me kiss her on the thick, grey, scrunched-up, calf-length sock above her red, converse high-top; but the modest, dark-haired and veiled, Arab girl would only permit me to kiss her on the lower ankleboot-leather - even though she hitched up the dusty hem of her black burka to teasingly reveal her elasticated, black sock-top against her soft, brown, Saudi-Arabian legskin!
I, of course, had no say in the matter - being a mere, public footslave!
Pondering no. 20 – Spoken like a true mistress!
No matter what language it’s spoken in, it still sounds wonderfully arrogant and petulant, when uttered by a beautiful and self-assured, young mistress:
‘Soen my voete, slaaf.’
‘Puthje rob këmbët e mia.’
‘تقبيل قدمي، الرقيق.’
‘Համբուրիր իմ ոտքերը, ստրուկ.’
‘Ayağımın, qul öp.’
‘Musu nire oinak, esklabo.’
‘Пацалунак мяне ў нагах, рабом.’
‘আমার ফুট, স্লেভ চুম্বন.’
‘Целуни краката ми, робе.’
‘Besar els meus peus, esclau.’
‘吻我的脚，奴隶.’
'Poljubi mi stopala, rob.'
‚Polib mi nohy, otrok.‘
’Kysse mine fødder, slaven.’
‘Kus mijn voeten, slaaf.’
‘Kisadi miajn piedojn, sklavo.’
’Suudle mu jalgu, ori.’
‘Halik ang aking mga paa, alipin.’
’Suudella jalkojani, orja.’
‘Me baiser les pieds, esclave.’
‘Me bicar os pés de escravos.’
‘მობილური ჩემი ფეხები, მონა.’
‚Meine Füße küssen, Sklave.‘
‘Φίλα τα πόδια μου, σκλάβος.’
‘મારા પગ ગુલામ, કિસ.’
‘Bo pye m ', esklav.’
‘לנשק את רגלי, עבד.’
‘मेरे पैर दास चूमो.’
’Csókold meg a láb, rabszolga.’
‚Kyssa fætur mína, þræl.‘
‘Mencium kaki saya, budak.’
‘Póg mo chosa, daor.’
‘Baciarmi i piedi, schiavo.’
‘私の足は、スレーブにキス.’
‘ನನ್ನ ಅಡಿ, ಗುಲಾಮ ಕಿಸ್.’
‘내 발 노예 키스.’
‘Oscula pedes, servus.’
‘Noskūpstīt Manas kājas vergs.’
‚Pabučiuoti mano kojas, vergą.‘
‘Бакнеж моите нозе, роб.’
‘Mencium kaki saya, hamba.’
‘Sninek saqajn, tiegħi iskjavi.’
‘Kysse føttene mine, slaven.’
‘بوسه پا، من برده است.’
‘Całować nóg moich, niewolnik.’
‘Beijar os meus pés, escravo.’
‚Sărut picioarele mele, sclav.’
‘Поцелуй меня в ногах, раб.’
’Пољуби мојим ногама, роб.’
‚Pobozkaj mi nohy, otroka.‘
'Poljubljati mojih nog, suženj.'
‘Besar mis pies, esclavo.’
‘Busu miguu yangu, ya watumwa.’
’Kyss min fot, slav.’
‘என் கால்களை, அடிமை முத்தம்.’
‘నా అడుగులు, బానిస కిస్.’
‘จูบเท้าของทาสของฉัน.’
‘Ayaklarım, köle öp.’
‘Поцілуй мене в ногах, раб.’
‘میرے پاؤں، غلام چومو.’
‘Hôn chân, nô lệ của tôi.’
‘Cusanu fy nhraed, caethweision.’
‘קוש מיין פֿיס, שקלאַף.’
‘Kiss my feet, slave.’
