Twenty Stories High

Storey no. 20 - The Guatemalan Girl’s Garden-Ornament Slave

I am kneeling in the dust and dirt of a train carriage floor, heading out from the city towards the countryside, and surrounded by a gaggle of four, extremely noisy and feisty-looking, Guatemalan girls.

I'm not 100% sure what is going on, for they are gabbling away excitedly to one another in Spanish - a language I singularly fail to understand! But I rather suspect that, although they had all inspected me individually on the footslave auction-block back in the city, it is actually the one with the revealing, purple top; the cut-off, blue denim hotpants; and the cheap, lace-up, nominally pink and white (but actually pink and grubby-grey) low-top sneakers and short, white sneaker-socks who is my new owner, since I appear to be required to kneel with my face on the dirty, train floor directly beside her scuffmarked and scuzzy sneakers!

I do very much hope that is indeed the case, for, although she is noisily chewing gum, and even occasionally picking her nose and casually flicking it down onto my balding head beneath her feet (to the enormous amusement of her fellow, Guatemalan-female, travelling companions) I would much rather be the slave of her street-soiled sneakers and socks, than of the rough, bare feet and sandals of her female compatriots, all of whom appear to have copious amounts of hard skin on the backs of their exposed, feminine heels, as well as chipped, unvarnished toenails with slithers of dark, sinister-looking toejam underneath!

I expect my nose-picking mistress has equally hard heelskin and chipped toenails inside her hot and steamy, village-girl sneakers and socks, but at least the scuffmarked footwear does its best to hide her rough and ready, Guatemalan, village-girl feet!

And besides, the stitching and the creases in her short, white socks give me something to focus on as the foreign conversation – conducted in piercing and excitable, high-pitched Guatemalan-female voices – continues unabated above me, and above the noise of the train:

‘¿Vas a pegarle cuando le llegue a casa, Eliza?’

‘¡Ja! ¡Ja! ¿Por qué no? Él es de mi propiedad ahora, para hacer lo que me da la gana! ¡Ja! ¡Ja!’

‘¿Te ayudaré a pegarle, si te gusta, Eliza?’

‘No, está bien, Alessandra; mi novio me ayudará a pegarle! ¡Ja! ¡Ja!’

‘¡Ja! ¡Ja! Asegúrese de rellenar la boca del esclavo con sus calcetines apestosos y sudorosos, mientras que usted está teniendo le azotaron, Eliza! No quiero tener que escuchar sus gritos! ¡Ja! ¡Ja!’

‘¡Sí lo hacemos!’

‘¡Ja! ¡Ja! ¡Ja! ¡Ja!’

The young, Guatemalan ladies then descend into a cacophony of unrestrained laughter which must, I fear, be extremely annoying for the other poor passengers who are trying to mind their own business on the train! The thing is, I strongly suspect that the young ladies’ laughter may well be at my expense, since I’m sure I heard the word ‘esclavo’ in there somewhere – and that’s bound to mean ‘slave’, isn’t it? (like the French – ‘esclave’?). You have the advantage over me – you can check out what they’re actually saying about me via Google Translate!

Anyway, whatever the cause of her merriment, the uneven, elasticated tops of my young, Central American mistress’s short, white, cotton socks crease and fold in front of my ankle-level eyes in tandem with her raucous laughter, causing me to lose count of the row of white stitches that I had been diligently studying in her left sock (I chose the left because it is slightly higher up her lovely, brown, Guatemalan heelskin than her right sock!)

Yet more sticky, feminine nosepick falls onto the top of my balding, male head as the poor, denim-hotpant-wearing, Guatemalan-village-girl owner and wearer of the socks (and, presumably, now of me) continues to treat me with the casual disdain and contempt which I so richly deserve, and which gains such screeching approval from her barefooted and besandalled, female companions.

I hope she’s not going to beat me when she gets me home! Hopefully, she won’t turn out to be a cruel and whip-thirsty, young Latina woman – she looks much too beautiful to be cruel!

…………………………………………………………………………

Never judge a book by its beautiful, feminine cover!

Just as soon as she got me home, my Guatemalan mistress placed me in a cruel contraption in her front garden which consisted of a heavy, wooden, pillory-like beam attached to two chains suspended from a thick tree-branch, and which forced me to kneel and stare at the ground beneath her feet as she sat on top of my confined neck with her beautiful, brown, Guatemalan-girl legs wrapped around my face.

She then agonizingly swung my confined neck-muscles backwards and forwards whilst a young man – presumably her boyfriend – whipped my bare, stooped back in broad daylight, and in front of all her chapped-heeled friends.

My only consolation during the whipping process was that I got to see the elasticated tops of my new mistress’s short, white, sneaker socks close up and personal from above her smooth, brown calf muscles as I was forced to stare at her sock-tops whilst her scuffmarked, pink and white sneakers rested on the dusty ground of the parched, Guatemalan village-garden beneath my face.

After some 50, cruel lashes of the whip, courtesy of her boyfriend, I was left alone in my swinging bonds whilst my mistress and her entourage retired inside her country cottage for some noisy and joyful, celebratory partying.

It was only some 4 days later that it slowly dawned on me, to my horror, that I was to be confined permanently in my Guatemalan mistress’s garden-pillory – a permanent piece of garden-furniture for her village friends and neighbours to mock and enjoy whenever they visited her humble abode!

I soon got to learn some Spanish as well – specifically:

‘¡Besar mis pies, esclavo!’

which means ‘Kiss my feet, slave!’

For the highlight of my humble day is whenever I am ordered to kiss the outstretched feet of my mistress’s female guests as they enter her home through her dry and parched, front garden.

You see – I was right! ‘Esclavo’ is the Spanish word for slave, and that is what I now am – a Guatemalan girl’s garden-ornament slave!

 

Storey no. 19 – The Foot-Kissing Relay

It’s a tradition throughout the glorious Gynarchy – the annual foot-kissing relay, when every local town and village parades a specially chosen, public footslave through the streets on his hands and knees, compelling him to kiss the feet of the local, 21 year old womenfolk! (Traditionally, it was solely the feet of the local 21 year old, female virgins, but nowadays there are no 21 year old female virgins left in the Gynarchy – except perhaps on Domina Island, the ultra-conservative Island of the Righteous – and so it is the feet of sexually-active 21 year old women that must now be ceremonially kissed!)

I have been chosen to be the unfortunate representative of all slavekind in my local area this particular year – and my 21 year old ‘ringleader’ (the quasi-virgin girl who will lead me through the streets by the nose as I crawl behind her pink-sneakered heels) is just attaching the heavy ‘ring-chain’ to my nasal passage, readying me for my humble crawlfest!

All the 21 year old ‘ringleaders’ wear the same, Female-State supplied pink and grey tracksuits for the ceremony, with sexy ankle-zips on the tracksuit bottoms to enable them to expose their equally obligatory, white anklesocks to the footslave’s face – white anklesocks with the famous ‘FK Relay’ logo printed in girly pink on the sides. They represent the socks of fit and sporty young women, which the ringleaders invariably are, and mine most certainly is – a sexy redhead with freckles and a cute nose-piercing; almost punkish!

As she starts to lead me on my hands and knees behind her pink-sneakered and white-socked heels down the main street of the town, I pucker up my lips in readiness to kiss the feet of the many eager, 21 year old, female spectators lining the street, all of them cheering and waving their Gynarchy flags!

The first young lady I am forced to stop by is petite; blonde; and wearing black jeans, black socks, and black leather ballet-flats. She represents the many student-girls in this university town. She basks in the applause of her fellow university-townsfolk as my pink-and-grey-tracksuited ringleader-girl stops me in front of her, and pulls my head down onto her waiting, campus-dustied ballet-flats.

I notice how the blonde student-girl’s black socks are quite bobbled – indicating repeated wear and tear – and humbly apply my lips to a dust stain on the exposed area of sock on her right foot between her somewhat scuffmarked, black leather, ballet-flat shoetoe and her dusty, black denim jean-hem. The sock feels nice and soft to the mouth, and twitches with delight beneath my lips as her hidden, young-womanly foot vein pulsates in delighted reaction to my ticklish sock-kiss.

A loud, female cheer rings out around the watching crowd, and amongst the cacophony of female triumphalism a mocking, male voice can be heard:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave – kiss the blonde bimbo’s dirty and stinky, black sock! Ha! Ha! What a moron! What a dweeb! Ha! Ha!’

Little does the free man realise that:

· This blonde girl is not a bimbo! She is a student at Female University – and, in any case, her female intellect must, by definition, be superior to all our male intellects (even a free male’s intellect)

· Her sock is not ‘dirty and stinky’! Dusty – yes; but not dirty. Indeed, as we have already established this close up, her sock is quite bobbled, indicating that it has been oftentimes washed. Though, to be fair, I suppose the free man is too far away from the blonde student’s socks to be able to observe the bobbling. Only my public-footkissing face is close enough to admire such intricate details in a blonde student-girl’s sock!

My face is pulled roughly over towards the girl’s left ballet-flat and sock, and I kiss the left sock also – even though it is much less dusty.

I then find my face being dragged once again behind the white, designer-logoed sports socks and unzipped tracksuit bottoms of my official, FK Relay ringleader towards the next pair of local, female feet that I must publicly and ceremoniously kiss – the black leather, spike-heeled, pointy-toed ankleboots of a black leather miniskirted, black girl. She has big hair in the ‘afro’ style, and big, golden ear-rings to match; a streetwalker, evidently – one of the most respected professions in the Gynarchy, for in the Female Welfare State no young woman needs to sell herself to free men on the streets. She chooses to do so out of the goodness and kindness of her heart!

That’s why it is only right and proper that I should be made to publicly kiss and honour the streetwalking ankleboots of the gum-chewing, local tart.

On my way down to her arrogantly outstretched, pointy boot-toe I espy the elasticated, twisted top of a plain, white anklesock just inside her upper boot-rim, but, sadly, it is inaccessible to my mouth. I am saddened because, unlike its black-sock predecessor, it did not look to be particularly bobbled – indicating that it has not been so frequently washed, and therefore is either brand new, or, more likely, saturated in the beautiful, young black woman’s booted-foot DNA!

I mean – one thing we do know, is that this particular young, working woman will have been on her feet all night, walking the streets (apart from when she is lying with a client on the back seat of his car), and so there must surely be a degree of beauteous, sex-induced, feminine footsweat seeping into those semi-hidden, black girl white socks!

But I can only imagine how the black streetwalker’s white bootsocks must smell and taste as my lips press against the cold, rough leather of her outer ankleboot-toe. Perhaps predictably, she penetrates my mouth with her toe – seeking ‘revenge’ for all those disgusting men who repeatedly penetrate her, in her professional capacity!

The symbolism of her pointy boot-toe entering my gaping, male mouth is not lost on the mainly female crowd:

‘Hja! Hja! You go girl! Ha! Ha! F**k his mouth good and hard, sister! Hja! Hja! Give him a long, hard memory of your dirty bootleather! Hja! Hja!’

The mocking voice belongs to an unseen fellow black-lady, but she no doubt speaks on behalf of the watching women of all races!

Next up on the footkissing relay – and not to be outdone – are the Chinese, as represented by a slim and petite, dark-haired, Chinese girl in ridiculously oversized-looking, calf-length, heavily-buckled, brown leather, biker boots. Unlike the street-jaded black girl, the fresh-faced, oriental girl has carefully chosen a pair of dark grey, scrunched up, woollen, calf-length bootsocks to wear inside her boots beneath her navy-blue miniskirt, and so, aided and abetted by my FK Relay ringleader, I am able to kiss the tops of her thick, grey socks prior to descending onto her reinforced, brown leather, Chinese-biker-chick, boot toe.

The heavy, oriental boots, and thick, scrunched-up socks, certainly make the petite and fragile Chinese girl look much bigger and stronger than she actually is – particularly from my lowly, vantage point on my male hands and knees – and I love the strong, musty smell of her brown, biker-boot leather.

A female voice shouts out something to her in Chinese:

‘Hā! Hā! Fěnsuì tā de liǎn, nǐ de xuēzi dǐxia, Wèi Líng! Hā! Hā! Ràng húndàn zāoshòu!’

The next thing I know – to the great amusement and approval of the baying crowd – the side of my face is suddenly forced down into the dirt of the sidewalk by the heavy bootsole of the supposedly delicate Chinese maiden! I can feel the stones stuck inside the thick ridges in her brown leather bootsoles digging into the side of my upper cheek as my lower cheek feels the grit and grime of the dirty, concrete pavement on which she has just been standing.

How everyone laughed – except for me; I grimaced!

I spent the rest of the footkissing relay crawling around the feet of the local women with a pockmarked face; or should that be ‘bootmarked’, since the treads from the Chinese girl’s bootsoles were still visible on my cheek for hours afterwards – as indelibly fixed on my skin as her thick grey bootsocks are on my mind!

Even in between footkissings – as I crawl behind my beautiful, redheaded punk-ringleader’s pink-sneakered feet – I am mocked by all and sundry.

Here are just a couple of examples:

A drunken male voice: ‘Ha! Ha! That’s right slave – concentrate on the backs of your pretty ringleader’s white relay-socks! Focus on the creases and folds in her socks as she pulls you along by the chain attached to your ugly slave-nose! Ha! Ha! I’ll bet that hurts a bit! Ha! Ha!’

A smiling female voice: ‘Ha! Ha! Whose feet will you have to kiss next, dullard? Ha! Ha! Will she be black; will she be white? Will she be fat; will she be thin? Ha! Ha! Like you’ll have any choice in the matter! Ha! Ha! You have to kiss whatever female feet you’re given – we’re all your betters! Ha! Ha!’

It’s all true – although, for today, I am expected to concentrate on the feet of the town’s 21 year old ‘virgins’!

Now, speaking of 21 year olds, there must surely be a 21 year old Indian, Pakistani or Bangla girl around here somewhere, keen for her Indian sub-continent feet and footwear to be kissed? Onwards and downwards we go, my FK Relay ringleader and I, seeking out the dirty, female shoes, boots and socks of her equi-aged, female compatriots, for the multi female-cultural Gynarchy must be properly celebrated on such a festive day as this, and fully in accordance with the traditions of the ‘FK Relay’ …

 

Storey no. 18 – Ode To My Lady’s Feet

Malodorous, perfumed or plain,

the smell of thy feet causes me pain.

Insipid, delicate or tart,

the taste of the feet gladdens my heart.

Bestockinged, bejewelled or bare,

the sight of they feet elicits my care.

High-heeled, slippered or soft,

the sound of thy feet echoes aloft.

For thou art divine,

my goddess, my all;

and I am but dirt,

thy servant, thy thrall!

 

Storey no. 17 – No Dope

My badass, black mistress loves taking dope.

She is, justifiably, very proud of her freedom to indulge in such illicit activities, and has me kiss her black, sloppily unlaced, Doc Marten boots and scrunched-up, whiter than white, calf-length socks beneath her black, miniskirted legs whilst she is smoking pot, and in full public view of her envious, gangland friends on the Gynarchy sink-estate where she lives.

They envy her not just because of her dope, supplied to her by her gangsta-boyfriend, but also because of her personal footslave-dope, supplied to her by the Female State as a reward for her successful completion of Female-Community Service.

She particularly likes to blow the smoke into my kneeling and dopey face, as a reminder to me that the pleasurable effects of her pot-smoking are all hers to enjoy, and mine to merely hanker after. For, like her, I am prohibited by law from partaking of the illicit weed – but, unlike her, I am in no position to break the law; for the law is female, and I am male.

And I am definitely no outlaw-gangster, like her freemale boyfriend; I’m just a badass black girl’s personal footdope!

 

Storey no. 16 – The (Eye)ball was out!

To be fair to him, the master-sir had issued me with perfectly clear instructions: I was to follow his pretty, young, blonde-haired wife to heel all day, on my hands and knees, and eyeball her white anklesocks above the upper-rims of her white, high-top converse sneakers – but I was NOT to allow my eyes to stray above the upper of the two thin, red lines at the tops of her folded-over-at-the-cuff socks, lest I start to lust after her smooth, white, feminine legskin!

What I didn’t know at the time was that the master-sir had fitted me with a deluxe concentrator-device in my temples (whilst I had been out under the anaesthetic) – one which not only helped me to concentrate on the designated areas of sock by delivering a shock of painful electricity to my fevered footslave-brow if and when my mind started to stray from his pretty wife’s sock-tops, but which also recorded for posterity, on camera, my footslave-eyeline – for everyone, including him, to see! (I had thought the jolts of electricity were just a nervous headache on my part, since it was my first day as the young woman’s personal foot-servant!)

I was soon adjudged, however, to be a disobedient and rebellious footslave, when the master-sir (to the blonde mistress-madam’s great amusement) played back the clandestine video footage from the secretive concentrator-device, and it cruelly revealed how the tracks of my eyes had indeed, on numerous occasions throughout my first day as her personal sockservant, strayed above the upper, red warning line on the top of my mistress’s clean, white sports socks – even reaching, on one or two occasions, up as high as my blonde-bimbo mistress’s smooth, upper calf-skin!

The eyeball was definitely out, and at foot fault, on at least a dozen occasions – and it was game, set and match to the master-sir!

I foolishly tried to justify my wandering footslave-eye, by expressing my admiration for the sheer softness and shapeliness of the mistress’s fair, white calf-muscles, and confessing my male-footslave weakness for a pretty, female leg – but, of course, that only made the situation much worse! The master-sir, quite rightly, exploded with anger, and beat me soundly with his whip whilst berating me at his bemused, blonde wife’s still sneakered and socked feet!

Just who, or what, did I think I was?

Swish….Crack!

Did I think I was too high and mighty to restrict my vision to the cuffs of his pretty wife’s anklesocks?

Swish…Crack!

Were his pretty wife’s socks not good enough for me, or something?

Swish…Crack!

Did I find them boring to look at?

Swish…Crack!

Did I think of them as being figuratively (as well as literally) beneath me – even though I’m just a down-at-heel footservant?

Swish…Crack!

Perhaps the thin, red stripes now adorning my bare back and shoulders would remind me to focus on the red lines at the tops of his pretty wife’s socks in future?

Swish…Crack!

Swish…Crack!

Swish…Crack!

The master-sir then ordered me to apologise profusely to his young wife’s socks. Duly humbled by the whip, I festooned the offended sock-tops with blubbering and penitent kisses, whilst verbally begging them for forgiveness and mercy, and assuring them that my dirty eyes would not stray from their soft, white cotton loveliness in future – so help me the whip!

The young mistress-madam just laughed at me, as the master-sir caught his breath before flinging aside the whip, grabbing his wife into his arms, and then throwing her down onto the couch where he made mad, passionate love to her.

She kicked off her loosely laced-up, high-top sneakers as he made ready to enter her, and I made doubly sure my eyes did not stray away, even for one second, from her now fully exposed white anklesocks as her dainty feet writhed and flexed inside them with libidinous, female lust.

Thanks to the stinging, red stripes on my bare back, courtesy of the master’s whip, I now knew my place – and it was firmly at his wife’s socks. I no longer had any ideas above my pathetic, humble sock-station!

 

Storey no. 15 – Odd Socks!

She looks promising – the twenty-something, greasy-brown-haired, chav girl pushing the pram across the local sink-estate towards my public shoelick-stand in her light grey, hoodie top; her flowery, multicoloured chinos; with the fag-end in her mouth; and the cell phone next to her pierced ear.

Sure enough, just as soon as she stops walking (but not talking) in front of me, and disparagingly stretches forth her grubby, white, keds-style sneaker onto my wooden footblock for respectful mouth-cleaning, I see it – the narrow, elasticated top of a manky, dark grey sneaker-sock, peeking out from the instep of her grubby, white canvas, laced-up shoe.

The sock is twisted and neglected – a mere sweat receptacle she thoughtlessly threw on prior to rushing out of the house this morning in order to collect her weekly benefits payment. This is the type of young woman who doesn’t give a second thought to her socks – but her sock is about to be highly thought of right here and now – by me, the local sink-estate, public footservant – as I humbly worship and honour it!

I surreptitiously brush the tip of my kneeling nose against its lovely, twisted, grey cotton softness – taking great care not to brush against the young, chain-smoking, chav woman’s greasy, white ankleskin, as my lips descend, unbidden (for she will not interrupt her telephone conversation even for one minute – not even to verbally order me to mouth-cleanse her street-dirtied shoe) towards the holey white canvas of her outstretched keds-sneaker.

I breathe in the aroma of her grey sock as I brush against it with my downcast face – and am somewhat disappointed that it smells relatively fresh, despite its bobbled and manky appearance; rather like the greasy, young woman herself!

Still, at least I have acknowledged the sock’s presence, and can begin to imagine how it must smell around her sweaty toe-areas, deep inside her rough, working-class-girl, canvas sneaker!

Her hot cigarette ash falls carelessly down the front of my face as I ‘lickshine’ her dirty, grubby foot-canvas – but, fortunately, it does not touch the divine mistress’s precious, sensitive, white ankleskin. And she does appear sensitive – even though her phone conversation is peppered with unladylike expletives (just as part of her everyday conversation; not because she is particularly angry with someone, or the world in general) – for I observe her rocking the pram above me whilst she smokes and curses, clearly concerned for the well-being of her bawling offspring inside!

Having said that, she equally clearly cares nothing for my public-footslave feelings, as the right sneaker and sock are rudely withdrawn from my face – mid-licking – only to be replaced by her left plimsoll, and, horror of horrors, there is no sign of the sister, grey sock below her red-rose-tattooed, left anklebone. Instead there is the barely visible, elasticated top of an incongruous-looking, dark blue sneaker-sock! This busy young single mother could not even be bothered to match up her socks this morning!

What she needs is a personal footservant – someone like me, to take care of her neglected, working-class, single mum feet and footwear. If she would only purchase me from the Female State authorities – perhaps using some of her female benefit vouchers – I would happily:

· Wash her feet for her every morning

· Drink her dirty footbowl-water

· Select and manage her socks for her

· Select and manage all her sneakers, boots, sandals and shoes

· Adjust her socks for her throughout her non-working day

· Spruce up her outer footwear with my slave-tongue throughout the day

· Repeatedly kiss her feet and footwear throughout the day – as a public demonstration of my respect for her young-womanly power and authority over me

· Submit to her whip

· Eat only her half-chewed leftovers and discarded cigarette-ends (so that she need not worry about forking out any money to feed me)

· Kneel discreetly in the corner of her bedsitting room of an evening, facing the wall, and sniffing her discarded sneakers and socks whilst she makes love on the sofa bed behind me with her latest, sink-estate beau

· Wash the perspiration from her dirty, bare feet after she has finished making love

· Soak her dirty, sweaty socks in my mouth overnight whilst she sleeps

And she could continue to smoke and curse on her phone throughout her waking hours, for I would do all of this for her unbidden, just as I am serving her unbidden now. For I would deem it an honour and a blessing to be the personal footslave of such a superior, young chavette-goddess, who clearly needs help in locating the correct socks for her sneakered feet!

But, sadly, I must instead make do with serving her feet for just a few precious moments – before she moves on with her busy, female life, scarcely even aware of my footslavish existence on the edge of her sink-estate; and blissfully unaware that she is wearing odd socks!

 

Storey no. 14 - Dust to Dust

She looked absolutely stunning - the dark-haired, brown-eyed, Indian air-stewardess in her bright red uniform - as she casually approached my upmarket, sit-down, public shoelick-stand located on the high street, accompanied by a male colleague.

The two of them were gabbling away to one another in Hindi, and it looked very much as if the male air-steward was in the process of chatting up his receptive, female-Indian colleague, for the two of them could hardly take their loving eyes of one another!

As she climbed up onto the public-shoelick throne in front of me, her airline uniform – consisting of a white blouse, red jacket, and red knee-length skirt – looked absolutely immaculate, right down to her shimmering, tan-nylon stockings and shiny, bright red, court shoes with the two-inch heels.

Like her freemale suitor beside her, I was mightily impressed with her.

The reason for her flying visit to my unworthy, public shoelick-stand soon became apparent, however, when she sat down on the plush, leather throne above me and daintily turned her fully-shod left instep towards my kneeling face – there was a slither of street-dust sullying the side of her otherwise immaculate, uniform-red shoe, and she clearly expected me to lick it off!

Not that she said as much – she was much too busy continuing her conversation in Hindi above me with her Indian work-colleague-cum-lover – but it goes without saying that a down-in-the-dust, public footslave is automatically required to remove the dust from a beautiful, young Indian air-stewardess’s shoe whenever she positions her foot on the footrest in front of his kneeling face!

And so, whilst she ignored me (because she had better things to talk about in Hindi with a better man than me), un-verbally-bidden I humbly began to lickshine the side of her air-stewardess, bright red shoe, and tasted her offending shoe-dust.

It's entirely appropriate, when you think about it, that she should assume my unbidden, dust-licking obedience, for dust I am, and to dust I shall return – again and again! I am a mere, shoelicking, male mortal, kneeling in the dust at her feet, and she is a female, Indian deity, descended from the skies; why wouldn't I lick the offending dust off her shiny, red shoe?

It's the sole reason for my existence!

As I silently lick dust off the side of her shoe, the Indian girl's tan-nylon stocking creases with laughter around her shapely, shimmering anklebone as she enjoys a witty joke spoken in Hindi by her ever-attentive, male work-colleague.

She then subliminally inspects my tonguework on the side of her shiny, red, court shoe before the man helps her down from the public shoelick-throne and they both walk off into the sunset, without so much as a by-your-leave!

But I don't mind – for I have the dry, lingering taste of her Indian air-stewardess shoedust inside my mouth, and that's good enough for the likes of me!

 

Storey no. 13 - True Grit

The tall, black, softly-spoken, booted and suited West-African girl with the tightly-braided hair, and matching black leather whip, climbs up onto the raised shoelick-chair of power in front of me.

I know her from before – for she works in one of the nearby, city centre shops, and is a fairly regular visitor to my humble work-abode ( I call it that because I must eat, drink and sleep chained to the bottom of the public shoelick-chair, so it's my 'abode' as well as my place of toil!)

Softly-spoken she may be, but she wastes no time in whispering down her orders to me:

'Slave, take off my boot and wipe the sole of my sock; there is some grit stuck to the bottom of my sock, and I want you to get it off.'

'Yes, black mistress. At once, most beautiful and respected black mistress!'

It is a somewhat unusual order for a public-shoelick, but mine is not to question why! Why, for example, couldn't she just slip off her boot and remove the grit herself? Why is there grit stuck to the bottom of her sock in the first place? What is the grit's provenance? And, perhaps the most important question of all – what am I to do with the grit after I have wiped it off her cotton sock-sole?

No, I must simply get on with the job in hand, and therefore begin by pulling off her – now helpfully outstretched in front of my kneeling, and somewhat quizzical face – right, black leather, kitten-heeled, round-toed ankleboot!

The boot comes off with a whoosh of warm, tropical, African-girl footair, which I relish for a moment (for this is a rare treat for a public shoe and bootlick - actually smelling a customer-mistress's bare feet and raw socks!)

The hitherto hidden sock turns out to be an ultra-short, black and grey patterned sneaker-sock, which leaves the lithesome, West-African girl's bare brown anklebone pleasingly exposed. I particularly admire the way a deep vein disappears down inside the surface of the sock, and the descending ankle-vein draws my eyes down towards the stylish, thin grey line of the sneaker-sock which divides the elasticated-top area of the sock from its black cotton body.

I also manage to find time – in the few seconds I have whilst my footslave-senses are being overwhelmed by the sight and smell of the tall, African, shop-assistant girl's secret bootsock – to admire the light grey, reinforced toe and heel areas of her otherwise black sock! They do look, and smell, quite sweaty, but then it is late afternoon and the poor girl has probably been on her feet all day (just as I have been on my knees all day!)

It's only now that the gritty realism of the situation hits me, and I  have to admit that I hesitate for a few moments – not because I baulk at the challenge of wiping true grit from a beautiful, black girl's soft, cotton sock, but because I wasn't quite sure exactly how I am to do it! Am I permitted to use my dirty, slave hands, for example? Or should I be using my mouth? I wouldn't normally be permitted to touch superior-female sock with my bare hands – not whilst a customer-mistress is still wearing it on her precious foot – but, then again, that would seem to be the most efficient way of removing the offending grit from the bottom of the black girl's sock. I mean, my wet mouth might make her sock damp, and uncomfortable for her to continue wearing underfoot!

My quandary, and resultant hesitation, clearly irritates her, for she bends down from the raised chair to whisper at me through gritted teeth:

'Why are you waiting, slave? Get on with it – wipe the grit off the bottom of my sock! My whip is just one second from your back!'

The mere whispered mention of the stinging, black-female, braided whip spurs me into wishing to obey her immediately, but unfortunately the quietly angry and impatient, West-African mistress still hasn't given me any clues as to exactly how I am to wipe off the offending street-grit (which I can now clearly see, thanks to her hoisting her socked foot up into the foot-odorous air directly in front of my kneeling face!). I really don't wish to risk using my dirty slave-hands to touch her precious grey and black patterned sneaker-sock without her express, young-womanly permission, for slaves have had their hands chopped off for less in the Gynarchy!

And so, I decide I must seek her superior, feminine guidance on the matter:

'Yes, black mistress. At once, most beautiful and respected, black mistress!... Oh pray, mistress; if you will forgive me, mistress, please don’t whip me mistress; I'm just a stupid male slave, black mistress! Would the mistress be requiring me to touch her sock with my hands, mistress? Or should the slave be sucking off the grit from the mistress's most beautiful sock surface with his mouth, mistress? Oh pray, mistress! Please don't beat me mistress! This slave requires your gracious, feminine guidance, superior black African mistress!'

She tuts:

'Tch! Use the side of your face to wipe my sock, stupid male slave! Don't they teach you anything at the footslave training-school, idiot?  Tch!'

Although remaining softly-spoken, she seems genuinely appalled at my lack of knowledge as to the correct manner in which to wipe grit off the bottom of a young lady's sweaty bootsock! Still, I'm glad I asked, for I would never have thought to wipe clean the sole of her sock with the side of my face!

The irony is that, one senses this seemingly haughty and surly, young black-African woman would ordinarily be very respectful of her male elders in a non-Gynarchial society, and I am most definitely her elder – by a good thirty years or so! She just seems such a gentle soul, despite her verbal insults towards me – calling me 'stupid' and an 'idiot'! But, she's right – and what is it they say? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!

Hitherto at least, this sweet and kind, young black woman has shown no signs of physically reaching for the braided, black leather whip attached to her belt in order to hurt me, despite my dithering incompetence; and the gritty stones that were stuck to the sweaty, black sole of her short, black and grey sock are now wiping off harmlessly onto the side of my cheek.

So I reckon that being called 'stupid' and an 'idiot' is a small price to pay for the inestimable honour of cleaning a beautiful and surly, West-African girl's gritty sock with my face!

 

Storey no. 12 – Gold, Silver & Bronze

Whenever a female athlete, homegrown or foreign, wins a medal at the Gynarchy Games, my humble role at the medal ceremony is to kiss the sports-sneakered feet of the proud medal-winner as she stands triumphantly on the podium to receive her hard-earned medal, be it gold, silver or bronze.

I begin, of course, in reverse order with the feet of the bronze medal-winner. I must congratulatorarily kiss her warm and sweaty, white leather sneaker-toes 6 times each. Then the silver medal-winner's white sneakers – this time 10 times each. Then the gold medal-winner's white sneakers – this time 15 times on each victorious, female sneaker-toe!

And when it comes to the gold medal-winner, I must then continue to kiss the sweaty, white sports-sneakers that adorn the fastest, the strongest, or the most skillful, feminine feet currently on the podium inside the sports arena whilst her national anthem is being played, and admire the slither of equally sweaty, white sports-sock beneath her national tracksuit-bottoms whilst the rest of the world admires her sporting talent and fortitude!

For it is the white sock of a female winner, beneath the kneeling face of a male, footslave loser – and is therefore a sock deserving of my inferior, masculine respect.

 

Storey no. 11 - Inside Information

My tall and slender, black-Rastafarian, personal footmistress – with her long, straggly, black dreadlocks neatly tied back into a tight ponytail – is seated in the information kiosk of the local shopping-mall where she works, helpfully giving out friendly, professional advice and guidance to the many female shoppers and their bankrolling boyfriends!

I, meanwhile, am kneeling at her anklebooted and trousered feet – out of sight and out of mind as far as the rest of the world is concerned – diligently studying my black mistress's black ankleboots as they rest on the dusty wooden floorboards of the kiosk.

I am studying, in particular, the bright and shiny, silver buckle on the upper, outer side of my black mistress's right ankleboot, since that is the boot my kneeling and downcast face is nearest; even down here in the semi-gloom of the dingy kiosk, the purely decorative boot-buckle reflects the sheer glory of my black mistress's black leather, chunky-heeled and chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboot – a boot worthy of a beautiful and cruel, female master!

I also like the way my black mistress is subliminally seated with her boot-toes girlishly, and demurely, turned in towards one another beneath the black cotton hems of her bootcut-trousers. It's almost as if she wishes to protect her black-feminine modesty, and prevent me from looking up her skirt – even though, as I said, she's wearing trousers!

But she needn't worry – my mind is not focussed on what is up, but rather on what is down; deep down inside her steamy hot, black leather ankleboots! For only I know that my black mistress is wearing a manky old pair of grubby, pale blue sneaker-socks inside her boots, despite her outwardly smart appearance. I know that because I had to put the short, grubby blue socks on her feet at the breakfast table this morning – just before I slid on and zipped up her ankleboots!

Just think – inside those smart, chunky-heeled and chisel-toed, black leather ankleboots is a hidden pair of grubby, well-worn, pale blue cotton sneaker-socks; socks with holes in them; socks with yellowy-brown, ingrained footsweat stains on them (though the goddesses in Heaven know how diligently I have tried to suck away those sweat stains over the previous weeks and months!) ; female socks which don't even reach up to my black mistress's shapely, brown-skinned anklebones; short socks which, in short, have seen better days, but which, above all, will smell truly awesome by the end of the long, hard, working day.

More specifically, they will smell awesomely vinegary as they rest on my upright face later this evening, whilst my mistress is making merry love with her Rastafarian husband on the other side of the master-bedroom – her boots cast down untidily beside the creaking bed for me to lickshine throughout the night (for there can be no rest for a black girl's wicked, personal footslave!)

And right now, as I kneel and stare at those everyday boots beneath the counter, and contemplate her secret, manky blue socks deep down inside them, I pathetically rejoice in the knowledge that none of her shopping-mall enquirers are even aware that my approachable, black Rastafarian mistress, seated in the information kiosk, is wearing black leather ankleboots with silvery buckles, and grubby, pale blue cotton, below-the-ankle, sneaker socks inside those boots.

I inwardly laugh at my privileged, insider knowledge – but, then again, the joke is actually on me; for nobody else cares about my black footmistress's boots and socks! That's not the information they are after!

 

Storey no. 10 – Swingers

Being placed in the public kneeling stocks is truly a humbling experience – as, indeed, it is meant to be; for it is a punishment, after all!

• The humiliation begins as one is led by the neck-chain on ones hands and knees through the cobbled streets towards the central town square behind the feet of one’s female prison-officer escort.
• In my case, that means officer-mistress Angharad – a pint-sized, flat-chested, mousey-haired, young woman who would not be naturally equipped to humiliate and dominate a man, given her petite and fragile physique, were she not in a position of absolute, uniformed power and authority, invested in her by the Female State!
• As I crawl behind her to heel, I have the added indignity of having to observe the backs of her bobbled, black cotton anklesocks inside her soft black leather, flat, single-strapped, mary-jane style, ballet-flat shoes as she leads me to my ignominious place of punishment (again, hardly the footwear of a dominatrix, but all-powerful nevertheless!)
• I then must observe those same socks creasing and folding below the hems of her navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems as she gleefully manoeuvres me into the cruel, wooden contraption, securing my bowed and penitent, male head into the heavy, wooden crossbeam.
• Already, after just a few seconds of ignominious confinement, my neck is starting to ache, and officer-mistress Angharad, seeing my distress, begins to gently mock me – asking me how I am liking it; and enquiring as to whether I am enjoying the view from my 'wooden window' i.e. the view of her broad-strapped, black leather ballet-flats and plain, black socks.
• She then holds that shoe-and-sock view up closer to my face, so that I may kiss her on the bobbled sock, and thereby demonstrate my respect for both her and her sock, which is, of course, saturated in her sweet feminine foot-DNA.
• Her sock duly honoured by my male-prisoner mouth, she then steps to one side in order to allow members of the female public to present their dirty and dusty footwear up to my kneeling lips for kissing. There then follow a succession of scruffy (for this is a big student-town) trainers, ballet-flats, ankleboots, court shoes and loafers – some worn with socks or nylons; some without – as I am required to begin paying my lengthy, penitent-prisoner homage to the superior-female foot.
• Some of my tormentresses choose to sit over me on the wooden crossbeam and thereby add to the agony in my neck muscles – for this is the more modern, and cruel, design of kneeling stocks, secured between two thick, wooden posts by heavy chains, and therefore 'swingable' (unlike the more traditional rigid and static kneeling stocks). With each carefree, feminine leg-swing of the wooden crossbeam my poor, confined neck muscles are strained even further – causing me untold agonies. I can only hope and pray for the numbness that will eventually come with persistent pain.
• Added to that, I have the extra indignity of having to watch the tops of my seated tormentresses' socks wrinkle and crease beneath my agonized face as they swing my neck backwards and forwards, their sneakered or anklebooted feet resting comfortably on the ground! The mere sight of their twisted sock-tops causes my mouth to become as dry and parched as the ground beneath their dusty, feminine bootsoles!
• How their freemale boyfriends laugh at me, and mock me, whilst I languish beneath their pretty girlfriends in the stocks, for they know that, as free males, they themselves can never be condemned to suffer so ignominiously in the slave-stocks – no matter how disrespectful of their women they may be! They even exult in taking pictures of me as I suffer between their girlfriends' lower legs, no doubt zooming in on my gormless maleslave face as it studiously contemplates their girlfriends' creased sock-tops wrapped coyly beneath my chin!
• And all the while the black leather ballet-flats and black bobbled socks of officer-mistress Angharad are waiting in the wings to whip me across my exposed, bare back and shoulders should I fail to show adequate respect and submission to any one of my female betters as they exult in my public punishment and humiliation. I must therefore keep a beady eye on those officer-mistress socks, and look out for the tell-tale warning signs of any sudden movement in the plain, black socks which might herald the biting sting of the female whip!

Yes, truly the punishment of the kneeling stocks is a fearful punishment – and rightly so; for a slave must learn to respect his mistresses' shoes and socks!

 

Storey no. 9 - Respecting the footwear of one’s female betters

The secret of success (i.e. of being relatively unwhipped) as a public footservant in the busy, local railway-station, is to have true respect for the dainty, feminine feet so kindly presented to one’s kneeling face for kissing, and to demonstrate that respect by the intelligent and thoughtful kissing of the salient parts of the customer-mistress's chosen footwear.

Here are some examples of what I mean:

• I respect the plain, soft, black leather ballet-flats and black woolly tights of the pint-sized, black-headscarfed, Pakistani student-girl, and accordingly I kiss her ballet-flats on the scuffmarked, rounded toe-areas, and her tights on the black, woolly creases around her skinny anklebones (I would never, of course, be permitted to kiss her on the tights anywhere above her ankles, given that she is a modest, Pakistani-Muslim girl, but it is still nice to show proper slavish respect for the lower parts of her black, woolly leg-garments which, ultimately, rise up to embrace and protect her precious, Pakistani-girl thighs and private parts – high above me within her black, below-the-knee skirt!)
• I respect the black leather Chelsea-boots, and neatly pulled-up black cotton bootsocks, of the blonde-haired, thirty-something, white-girl fashion model and, in particular, I admire the way she has hitched up her stylish, navy-blue, bootcut trouser-hem on her shapely, right calf-muscle in order to afford me a clear and unimpeded view of her fully straightened, black anklesock covering her shapely, white anklebone. Accordingly, I kiss her on the side of the proffered sock, as well as on the designer-leather, Chelsea-boot upper.
• I respect the pale pink, furry felt, kneelength boots of the ginger-ponytailed punk-girl on her seemingly bare, white legs beneath her pink denim hotpants. Accordingly I kiss her misshapen kneeboots not just on the dirty soles and insteps, but up as high as my neck-chains will allow (about mid-calf height), and dream of the manky, white, calf-length bootsocks which may, or may not, be inside them!
• I respect the dolphin-shaped, ankle tattoo of the long, black haired, pockmarked and miniskirted, Chinese shop-assistant girl, and the shapeliness of her well-turned, bare Chinese anklebone inside her navy-blue court shoe with the two inch heel. Accordingly I kiss the fancy footskin decoration, and the scuffmarked kitten-heel, as it is the latter which breathes life and symmetry into the former.
• I respect the low-heeled, round-toed, single-strapped, black leather mary-janes and pale brown footskin of the grey trouser-suited and grey-haired, middle-aged, Indian businesswoman. Accordingly I kiss the greying, hard skin areas of her bare, Indian feet just above the broad, buckled shoe-strap.
• I respect the black leather, chunky-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboots and navy-blue anklesocks of the black-burka-clad, Arab-Muslim girl – though again, out of respect for her modesty (and her accompanying husband's male machismo), I refrain from kissing her on the elasticated sock-tops, so close to her skin, and instead concentrate on her dusty, outer bootleather and grey-felt, zipper track.
• I respect the flat, red-plastic crocs and cheap, yellow, cartoon-character-themed anklesocks of the twenty-something, bluejeans-wearing, Filipina cleaning-girl as she mops the shopping-mall floor, and accordingly I kiss her holey crocs all over, before turning my oral attentions to the cartoon animals on the sides of her sweaty, hard-working socks.
• I respect the heavy-looking, reinforced, rounded toes of the fat, black, traffic-warden mistress's black leather, lace-up, uniform ankleboots – especially as they have been busy pounding her local beat all morning around the railway station. Accordingly I kiss the reinforced toe-areas of her powerful, black boots as a mark of my deep respect for the forces of black-female law and order!

You see – not a single beating with the public whipping-stick all morning! Like I said, respect the chosen footwear-styles of each and every one of your female betters, and thereby avoid being marked by the terrible female whip! That's my humble advice to you all!

Video Clip Below

Two more pretty footmistresses deserving of my respect!

Public Footservant

Animated Presentations - Powered by GoAnimate.

 

Storey no. 8 – Two-Faced

The nice, friendly, pint-sized, Cambodian, office cleaning-lady – miss Boupha – whom everybody likes as butter, seemingly, wouldn’t melt in her mouth, shows a very different side to her personality every time she visits me in private on my public-shoelick stand in the dingy alleyway at the back of the office-block where she toils.

She positively exults in verbally humiliating and degrading me after her long, hard shift – using me, I suppose, to let off steam as I am, self-evidently, a lesser human-being than her, being male and in bondage!

She gleefully climbs up onto the raised shoelick-chair of female power in front of which I am kneeling, and positions her black suede leather, low-heeled, single-strapped, toe-cleavage-revealing, mary-jane style shoes onto the metal footrests at my humble face-level. She then, very deliberately, hitches up her navy-blue, office-cleaner, corduroy trouser-hems in order to reveal yet more of her sultry, brown, Cambodian ankleflesh to my white face.

Miss Boupha never wears socks inside her mary-janes.

I must keep my head humbly bowed and await her Cambodian-female orders, for she is now the one very much in charge – my better and senior (she is, in actuality, my senior – by some 10 years or so; for I know she is in her mid to late forties. But, unlike me, she has worn well – having had an easier life – and her jet-black, dyed hair also keeps her looking considerably younger than she actually is!)

She begins our mistress-slave interaction, as always, by laughing at me, and mocking me in her broken, Cambodian-English accent:

‘Ha! Ha! You a dirty slave! You lick strange women dirty shoe all day! Ha! Ha! You a moron! You a fool! You not even fit be miss Boupha personal footslave! Ha! Ha!’

Her soft, black, suede leather, mary-jane shoes crease and fold in merriment beneath my face on their respective metal footrests, as does her brown, somewhat leathery in places, Cambodian-woman footskin.

Even her footpores seem to be opening up and laughing at me by excreting an almost invisible sheen of sweat over her dainty, bare brown footflesh!

I respond, submissively, to the Asian mistress’s pithy, but entirely accurate, comments:

‘Yes, miss Boupha. This slave truly apologises for his inadequacies, and his unfitness to be the personal, full-time servant of your most beautiful feet, Cambodian mistress-madam, if it pleases you, most hardworking and respected madam Boupha?’

She throws back her head and flicks her long, dyed-black hair with middle-aged, mistressly delight, before shoving the dusty and scuffmarked, rounded toe of her right, suede leather, mary-jane-style shoe up to my foot-flattering lips:

‘Ha! Ha! You shut up now, dirty slave! You lick Cambodian-woman dirty shoe; make shoe nice and shine for Cambodian-lady husband! Ha! Ha! That only what you good for!’

‘Yes, mistress Boupha. At once, mistress Boupha!’

I start to lick the creased-up-with-laughter shoeleather of the superior, two-faced Cambodian woman, seemingly so polite and respectful of others, but totally derisory towards mere underlings, like me!

And rightly so – for she is better than me, being free and female. And I must say I’m actually, pathetically, quite proud to be at least considered good enough to spruce up her black suede shoes for the delectation of her absent husband with my tongue! For it is surely an honour to attempt to lickshine the unshinable suede leather of an impoverished, Cambodian cleaning-woman’s flat, mary-jane style shoe – whilst she is still wearing it on her unsocked foot?

 

Storey no. 7 - Champion Whipper

The tall, athletic-looking, blonde-haired girl, dressed in the red, green and white track-suit, is, apparently, the Belarusian female-whip champion – here to take part in the Gynarchy Games.

As I kiss her red, white and green, laced-up sneakers and pure white sports-sock, beneath her red, white and green tracksuit-hems, on her arrival outside the stadium (where I am the official athletes’ foot-kisser for the Games!), I am acutely aware that she could, presumably, whip my bare back to shreds if she felt so inclined!

I therefore kiss her national sneakers and socks with great humility and fear – as a demonstration of my utmost, slavish respect for her international, female talent with the whip!

Fortunately for me, she is saving her energy for the competition – and for the poor ‘whip-fodder’ sod who will have been selected by the Games’ organisers to be her whipping-subject; for every great, female athlete needs someone to whip – preferably an unmarked, male slave, so that the judges can award her points based not just on her ability to make the male victim cry out with pain, but also on the mess she makes on his back with her many, expertly-delivered whipcuts!

All of these thoughts are rushing through my footkissing mind as I feverishly kiss her on the outstretched sneaker and sock.

I only wish I could be the podium foot-kisser inside the Female Stadium – privileged to kiss her sweaty, Belarusian feet in their medal-winning sneakers and socks after the main whip-event; for such a strong and powerful-looking, young Belarusian woman as this must surely be destined to win a coveted Gynarchy Games’ medal of some description!

 

Storey no. 6 – Politeness Personified

My desk-office footmistress, 31 year old mistress Premala, is such a kind and polite, softly-spoken, dark-haired, young Indian woman to everyone she encounters throughout the course of the working day, whilst I kneel – silently and unremarked – underneath her office desk, admiring her equally unremarkable, everyday, shiny black patent leather, low-heeled court shoes on her soft, bare, brown, Indian feet beneath her demure, black cotton, office-suit, trouser hems.

Her polite platitudes perennially pepper the air above me:

‘Good morning, sir!...How are you today, madam?... I am very pleased to meet you!...Thank you very much for helping me, sir!...Thank you for explaining that to me, madam!... Would you be liking a cup of tea, madam?... Please be helping yourself to some biscuits, isn’t it?... You are very kind!... I am being very grateful for your kind words, sir!... Thank you for showing me how to do that spreadsheet!... Yes, I will most certainly get that work done on time for you sir!...I will do my very best to come in on that day, sir!...Please, how may I help you, madam?’…etc…etc…

Until she has occasion to kick off her warm, office shoes under the desk, and address me beneath her:

‘Wash my dirty feet, slave!’

She means with my tongue, of course; any other way would be considered impolite – for a personal, office footslave!

 

Storey no. 5 – Glam-Sock

My 22 year-old, blonde-haired mistress Caroline is a, somewhat eccentric but exceptionally intelligent, young, part-time, female magistrate, who regularly sits on the bench in her local courtroom, during her time off from her day job, gleefully pronouncing judgment and passing sentence upon the unfortunate, maleslave miscreants who must appear before her on their hands and knees in the dock.

I know she is 'gleeful' when it comes to sentencing because I, in my capacity as her personal footslave, must kneel with my face next to her magisterial shoes and socks behind the magistrate's bench, and she is in the habit of gleefully jiggling her dainty, feminine feet as she condemns some footslave-prisoner wretch to a public flogging and/or imprisonment in the foothole-dungeons or underground slave-mines.

Take right now – for example; she has listened impatiently to all the one-sided evidence (only the female prosecution are allowed to present evidence in the Female Courts; the male defendant is only permitted to acknowledge his guilt and plead for clemency – a sad waste of male breath if aimed at trying to elicit any young-womanly leniency in my strict-disciplinarian, mistress-magistrate Caroline!) and is now ready to pass sentence upon the male prisoner before her.

It's going to be a harsh sentence, I fear! I can tell that, not just because the pathetic prisoner, whoever he is, is accused of a particularly heinous, maleslave crime – that of disrespecting his personal footmistress's feet by failing to focus on them and admire them – but because my own footmistress Caroline's dainty, feminine feet, which I have been very much focussing on and admiring throughout the morning whilst she has been seated on the magistrate's bench of female power, are beginning their aforementioned, subliminal, pre-sentencing jig of unbridled joy beneath the bench, causing the backs of her sparkly, nightclub socks to rapidly crease and fold in front of my mesmerized and respectful, daytime face!

As I indicated earlier, my blonde mistress is regarded by her peers as being somewhat 'cookie' and eccentric, and her choice of footwear today reflects that quirkiness – heavy, blocky-heeled, round-toed, 1970's style, black leather, slip-on shoes and full-length, pink and white, stripy and glittery anklesocks, beneath a pair of plain, light-grey, flared trouser-hems. A much more magisterial, frilly-white blouse completes the public-facing ensemble – though, obviously, I am only concerned with her hidden-from-view, young-womanly shoes and socks!

I don't know – maybe her seventies-style shoes, flares and full-length anklesocks are coming back into fashion amongst the young? They certainly bring back happy memories of my slave-youth. I am now in my fifties and was a public footslave in the local town square during my young adulthood in the 1970s – thereby getting to kiss the glamorous wedged-heels and blocky shoes of many a glam-rock-fan, young woman; but my current mistress, miss Caroline, wasn't even born back then, and is young enough to be the daughter of one of those erstwhile customer-mistresses of my youth (maybe she is; perhaps her second-hand shoes and socks are a hand-me-down from her glam-rock mother!)

I certainly relish the sight of her youthfully impatient, pink and white, glittery socks creasing and folding around her shapely anklebones as she delivers her petulant verdict on the hapless footslave-prisoner in front of her:

'Prisoner in the dock – I hereby sentence you to 25 lashes of the harsh, female cane across your bare buttocks and thighs whilst you are secured over this courtroom's punishment-trestle at your mistress's feet; said punishment to be carried out with immediate effect. Bailiff, bring forth the cane!'

Just 25 lashes of the harsh female cane! He got off lightly, in my view, for my cookie and mentally unstable, magistrate-mistress Caroline can be much more vindictive and cruel than that! She must be feeling unusually generous this morning; or maybe she's just anxious to get on with her next case – a potential life-sentence of hard labour in the underground slave-mines!

That always gets her juices – and her 1970s glam-socks – going!

 

Storey no. 4 – Cruel Courtship

They love to kiss in front of a helpless, kneeling, public footslave – the Gynarchy’s young and cruel, courting couples – just so that they can ‘rub it in’ to the unfortunate slave!

I mean, I’m not one to judge (I’m just a slave), but take the courting couple who are shamelessly and lasciviously cavorting with one another, in public, in front of me right now:

a) She’s a supposedly ‘Righteous’ girl – from the community of the Righteous on the sacred Domina Island – judging by her attire, which consists of a white bonnet; a long, ankle-length, navy-blue, full-bodied dress; plain, black woolly tights; and a pair of scruffy, black and white, high-top, laced-up, converse sneakers.

b) You can tell she’s a ‘rebellious’ Righteous girl, however, as she is kissing a non-Righteous man in the middle of the street in broad daylight (and has seemingly had to come to the mainland Gynarchy to do so!) But I have no doubt she is genuinely enamoured by him.

c) I can tell that by the way she is standing on converse-sneakered tippy-toe in order to kiss him fulsomely on the lips above me; she is, literally, swooning into his manly, freemale, secular arms!

d) As a result of her striving to melt into his mouth, her mainly black, converse high-tops are creased on the uppers just below her, no doubt shapely, twenty-something anklebones. I have the added indignity of witnessing her thick, black, modesty-preserving, woolly tights also creasing beneath the street-dustied hem of her anklelength, navy-blue cotton dress.

e) So why have the happy couple chosen this particular spot to display their lustful affection for one another in public? Quite simply – because I am here, chained up on my hands and knees at their feet, and forced to watch the scruffy footwear of the Righteous-mistress creasing and folding in front of my celibate face as she kisses a much better man than me! My maleslave impotence only adds to their free-person libido as I yearn to place my lips on the dusty and dirty, white rubbery soles of this white-bonnetted, young religious woman’s converse sneakers, by way of a public demonstration of my footslavish respect for her pure-female superiority over me, and by way of an acknowledgement of the free master-sir’s enviable hold on her heart!

f) For I am reminded by their actions that I, the public footslave, shall only ever get to kiss her on her casually-indifferent, dirty rubber shoesoles, whereas the master-sir possesses her, body and soul! To the victor be the spoil; to the loser-slave the soil – the soil stuck to the white-rubbery soles of her unkempt, black-converse sneakers!

Yes, all I can do is watch, and weep – weep over the feet and footwear of a lovestruck, young, religious woman as she is led astray by a much better man than me!

 

Storey no. 3 – Hitting the Spot

It is always a sticky situation!

Some of my more sexually frustrated customer-mistresses – often under the influence of late-night alcohol, and sometimes even in the company of their boyfriends – think it is perfectly acceptable to come to my private footslave-booth, located just off the central town square, in the dead of night in order to sexually seduce me!

But, of course, I who must remain sober and celibate, am acutely aware that for me, a slave, to have sexual intercourse with a superior customer-mistress is a criminal offence here in the Gynarchy (for me; not for the mistress!), and I must, therefore, endeavour to wriggle my way out of it – though I have very little actual wriggle-room in my private footbooth, and nowhere to go, thanks to my chains!

I know, anecdotally, that some of my sex-object, public-footslave colleagues endeavour to satisfy a mistress’s lusts orally – a less serious offence than penetrative sex, but still punishable by a severe public flogging and banishment to the foothole-dungeons!). I, however, prefer to remain strictly within both the spirit and the letter of the law, and endeavour to satisfy a libidinous, late-night mistress only through the oral gratification of her pure, bare feet!

Sucking on bare, feminine toes in a lascivious manner is a rare opportunity for a public footservant, who must spend so much of his time merely lick-shining and tongue-cleaning a lady’s outer footwear; but it is not illegal for me to beg the sweet, young woman to remove her shoes and socks so that I may pay oral homage to her warm, bare footflesh – if that’s what she wants!

And judging by the way the portly, young, twenty-something black woman is currently rubbing herself above me as I shrimp her bare, black, podgy, unpainted toes – her hastily discarded, black leather ankleboots and sweaty, white sneaker-socks lying in a crumpled heap nearby on the dirty floor of my private-footbooth – that’s just what she wants!

I am definitely ‘hitting the spot’, if you catch my drift – without actually going anywhere near it; so everyone is happy, and the Female Law, if possibly not her female virginity, remains intact!

Needless to say, my own unseemly lusts remain unsated as I re-sock and re-boot the young black woman after she is spent, for I am prevented from touching myself due to the manacles which restrict my arm movements – and quite right too; experiencing sexual gratification is not within the remit of a slave!

The young, black lady, however, takes her selfish pleasure, and leaves – never to grace my footbooth with her libidinous presence again; I was only ever a one-night footlick-stand to her!

 

Storey no. 2 – Dumpy Ankles

Dumpy, female ankles deserve to be kissed and worshipped by an ornamental-footkisser every bit as much as shapely, female ankles – especially when they belong to a beautiful, dumpy-looking, bespectacled black girl and are accompanied by a pair of flat, black, suede leather loafers and thick, black woolly tights!

I pay my labial respects to them as I would a pair of glamorous, shiny red, stiletto-heeled beauties on wantonly bare, black legs – for it is, if anything, an even greater honour to kiss the everyday feet of an ‘ordinary-looking’, and somewhat dumpy, black-girl next door, than it is to kiss the designer feet of a super-skinny, black-girl supermodel!

Though both are nice!

 

Storey no. 1 – Augmented Reality

You’ve heard of the ‘Concentrator’ device? Well, now meet the ‘Augmented Reality’ device – a new gadget designed to augment the features of a lady’s feet and footwear so that every little minute detail of her lowliest parts looms large in a pathetic public-footslave’s restricted field of vision!

Thus:

· Whilst you might merely see a studious-looking, bespectacled, black girl in a plain, brown anorak; grey, cotton leggings; black cotton, lacy-cuffed ankle socks; and flat, brown, lace-up brogues, I see the tiny flecks of white, alien dust stuck to the vertical stitching of her student-socks; as well as the individual tears in her brown, heavily-stitched shoeleather which, collectively, form that pleasing scuffmark on her delightfully broad and rounded shoe-toe;

· Whilst your normal vision might encompass a white-frilly-miniskirted, blonde white girl’s flowery-patterned and laced-up, bovver boots, with my augmented-reality, footslave vision I get to see how the painted, red flower on her lower right boot-instep is beginning to flake away. I also get to observe the – imperceptible-to-you – tiny little twist in her pure-white, elasticated cotton socktop – just peeking out from within the upper rim of her left, calf-length boot (all you see is a faint slither of white girlsock!)

· Whilst you are fixated by the lacy, orange bows at the very tops of the Latina girl’s, bright orange, over-the-knee socks beneath her short, cream-coloured, summer-dress, I have the inestimable honour of observing, close up and very personal, the bobbled stitching on the lower parts of her orange socks through the criss-crossed, leather straps of her cream-coloured, high-heeled sandals – just below her shapely, orange-socked anklebones;

· You might see, from a distance, a ginger, spiky-haired, whip-wielding, punk girl in a revealing, yellow top, blue-denim hotpants, and low-heeled, black leather, lace-up ankleboots with scrunched-up, black and white, stripy anklesocks. But I can see that the outwardly tomboyish redhead is actually wearing a pair of sexy, finest-denier, flesh-toned nylons on her pasty-white legs, and I can therefore study and admire what you cannot – the intriguing contrast between the fine stitching of her tan-nylon tights and the thick stitching of her black and white, cotton anklesocks which hang so slovenly around her shapely, well-protected, feminine anklebones!

You get the picture?

Mind you, in addition to the ‘augmented reality’ device, I also have the luxury of having my ugly, male face bowed down right next to the glorious feet and footwear of all the supremely beautiful young ladies mentioned above!

You don’t! Ha! Ha!

 

Ground-Level Storey – Stamping Her Pretty, Indian Foot

The tall and lithesome, Indian mistress in the smart, black trousersuit has just missed her train!

From my lowly vantage point in my ground-level, prison cell looking out onto the station concourse, I can observe her stamping her dainty, right foot in frustration and anger through the thick, metal bars of my cell window – just a few feet away from me.

Selfishly, I’m glad she missed her train – for the result of her petulant foot-stomping is that I get to not only hear her foot-stomping ire, and feel her foot-anger vibrating across the floor of the busy station concourse, but also see a precious glimpse of her plain black, Asian-businesslady anklesock beneath her angrily flapping trouser-hem; a sock that would have gone unseen, and unloved, were it not for her tardiness!

From my lowly, foot-cell window I watch further as she paces up and down in front of my confined face – oblivious to my pitiful existence at her feet, her superior, female mind now preoccupied with finding out when her next train will be. I may, once again, only be able to observe her low-heeled, round-toed, black leather loafers pacing up and down beneath her increasingly impatient trouser-hems, but at least I now know that the Indian business-mistress is wearing plain black anklesocks inside her businesslike shoes – for I have seen one of them!

Thank the goddesses for the legendary punctuality of Gynarchy Railways, for I am now lost in a train of lascivious thoughts about the aroma and texture of the Indian businesswoman’s sweaty, black anklesocks hidden inside her plain black loafer shoes, as they angrily march up and down in front of my hidden, footslave-prisoner face!

I expect, if it weren’t for the protective bars hiding my prurient face, the Indian mistress would give my gloating face a good, hard kicking right now with those self-same shoes, were she to be made aware of my selfish, foot-prisoner pleasure resulting from her untimely, railway-timetable misfortune! But, as it is, I can lust over her shoes and socks with impunity, for she is blissfully ignorant of me.

I wonder how many bugs she inadvertently crushed beneath her stamping foot! Oh to lick their untimely remains off her pretty, Indian shoesole!

 

Basement-Level Story – A Footslave in Deep Trouble!

Oh dear! Looks like this wretched footslave has done something to upset his pretty mistress in her basement dungeon!

Video Clip Below

Basement Dungeon

Animation Software - Powered by GoAnimate.

It’s pure speculation on my part, of course – but, could it be that the slave has failed to straighten his oriental mistress’s black anklesocks properly? That left anklesock of hers looks slightly skew-whiffy to me! 

 

Foundations – In the Beginning

All multi-storied edifices need a firm foundation – and this, if you needed reminding, is the Gynarchy’s, kindly read for you by a female student of Femdom Poetry:

'In the beginning there was dirt,

and the dirt was male.

And the goddess looked down upon the male dirt,

and she saw that it was bad.

And the goddess said:

‘Let there be good. Let there be female,

that the male dirt may be crushed underfoot!’

And thus the goddess created woman,

and she saw that it was good.

And the goddess said:

‘Let woman have dominion over the dirt. Let the male crawl and slither on its belly beneath the feet of womankind!’

And so it was.

And woman rested her feet on the male dirt,

and she saw that it was good.

And the male dirt saw that it was good,

and worshipped the female foot.

And thus was born the Gynarchy.’

Sweet dreams, everyone!

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