Domestic Footdrudgery

I am a male, domestic footdrudge in a household of three beautiful, working-class women:

• 48 year old mistress Caroline – slim; bleached-blonde; a chain-smoker; still has a good figure despite being the 'matriarch' of the family. Mistress Caroline is the main breadwinner of the household. She works in a post office as a postmistress and likes to wear her trousers tucked into the tops of her brown leather, spike-heeled, zip-up kneeboots.
• Her 30 year old daughter, mistress Byrony - also slim, like her mother, but with dyed-red hair, and a fiery temper to match! Miss Byrony is currently unemployed, following a brief spell in prison, but does a bit of hairdressing for cash on the side (as well as some pickpocketing and shoplifting) She tends to go for the 'grunge' look – scruffy, blue jeans and misshapen, beige-brown ugg boots, often worn with thick, grey-woollen, calf-length socks, though she can scrub up well whenever she puts her mind to it and needs to make a good impression e.g. during her numerous court appearances! 
• Miss Byrony's 18 year old adopted daughter, miss Taneesha – a slightly podgy, but stunningly beautiful, dark-haired, mixed-race, goth girl with nose, eye and lip piercings, and a penchant for wearing thick, heavy, calf-length biker boots with short skirts and black anklesocks. Miss Taneesha deals drugs and sleeps around for a living - both perfectly respectable occupations for a working-class girl in the Gynarchy. She is also, like her adoptive mother, a dab hand at picking pockets and, also following in her mother's ugg-booted footsteps, has spent some time recently in female prison (or juvenile detention in her case – a total breeze for a streetwise, street-hardened young woman like miss Taneesha!)

Since I am specifically their State-supplied, male domestic drudge, I never get to leave the confines of their sink-estate, terraced house, but all three women have had bad experiences with free men at various points in their lives, and so all three well and truly work me to death in their modest household – making me mouth and hand-wash their working-class, dirty socks and nylons; lickshine their working-class, dirty shoes, boots, sneakers and sandals; and mouth-pedicure their working-class, rough-skinned, bare feet (mistress Caroline's bare feet are particularly rough, whitened and hardened inside her brown leather kneeboots, as she often goes barefoot inside them!)

They can use and abuse me in this way because I am lower than working class; I am slave-class, being an embondaged, and some might say embittered, middle-aged male household-servant, and I am therefore beneath them – quite literally so, since one of their terraced-household rules is that I must remain on my male hands and knees at all times in their female presence, with my male head bowed and my male eyes downcast, out of footslavish respect for them.

It's a respect born of the female whip, which flame-haired and often petulant mistress Byrony, in particular, wields with a young-womanly vengeance on my perpetually naked back (I am only permitted to wear a pair of flimsy, white slave-shorts and an iron neck-collar in and around the house). I can't tell you the number of times I have sobbed and blubbered over mistress Byrony’s beige-brown ugg boots, pre and post a premenstrual whipping!)

 

Washing an esteemed guest's feet

But it isn't just my three, glorious, working-class domestic, footgoddesses whom I get to serve as a humble, domestic footdrudge. I must show equal devotion and respect to their female houseguests as well, and today their beautiful, black neighbour, 37 year old miss Ava – a close friend, and former cellmate of miss Byrony's – has popped in for some coke (supplied by miss Byrony's adoptive daughter, punk-goth miss Taneesha) and to have her hair done, courtesy of miss Byrony.

As soon as the black-dreadlocked miss Ava enters the house I must crawl over to her, wiggle my shorts-covered, maleslave behind in the air like an excitable puppy-dog, and kiss her scuffmarked and well-worn, brown leather, ankleboot toes beneath her black polyester, bootcut trouser-hems, thus slavishly welcoming her into my working-class mistresses' humble, drug-den abode.

Miss Ava is so used to having her boots kissed by slaves – being a stunningly beautiful black, Rastafarian woman – she doesn't even acknowledge my presence, embracing instead her ugg-booted and thick-grey-socked, unnaturally ginger-haired, former cellmate above me. But my time comes when the wearer of those musty-smelling, street-soiled, sheepskin ugg-boots orders me to 'take off our black guest's boots and wash her feet whilst she is having her hair done!’

It's common practice in the Gynarchy for domestic footdrudges to have to wash household guests' feet (rather like in Ancient Rome), and so I know exactly where to find the guests' footbowl and foot-towel. That's all the equipment I shall need, as I must lather mistress Ava's feet inside the bowl with my footdrudge-tongue, taking particular care to extract any sticky, black toejam from inbetween her toebones and from beneath the tops of her unvarnished toenails (I have washed miss Ava’s beautiful, black feet before, and her toenails are never painted!).

But first, of course, as instructed by my mistress-goddess Byrony, I must remove our neighbourly mistress Ava's boots and socks from her black feet – since no self-respecting, working-class, ex-con, Rastafarian woman can be expected to stoop down and unzip the sides of her own, brown leather ankleboots, or peel off her sweaty and fragrant, black cotton anklesocks from her own, bare feet (mistress Ava always wears black anklesocks inside her light brown ankleboots, in my humble experience).

Sure enough, as soon as the zip on the side of her right ankleboot comes down, I see the familiar, bobbled and creased side of a well-worn, greying and thinning in places, black cotton, working-class-woman anklesock. It is such an honour to be so close to a superior, black woman's normally hidden, ropey black bootsock – and to then actually touch it with my unworthy, male fingers, as I gently and respectfully peel it off her sweaty, black foot and ankle!

I then repeat the process with her left ankleboot and sock, making sure to place the boots and socks neatly on the floor next to the footwash-bowl – out of respect for them; for no eminent, female guest likes to see her discarded boots and socks cast down willy-nilly into an untidy heap on her hostess’s living room floor!

Meanwhile mistresses Byrony and Ava are happily chatting away to one another above me – about miss Ava's dreadlocks (which miss Byrony is professionally attending to); about the weather; about the forthcoming public floggings of various male slaves in the town square, which they are both looking forward to attending (to be honest, I wish I could go too, as it would be nice to hear and see someone else being beaten for a change, as opposed to just me!)

Mistress Ava's beautiful, bare, black feet (but with deliciously light brown soles) turn the footwater dirty with cheap, black sock-dye and little pieces of dislodged sock lint and toejam which had been glued to her soft, black feet by her natural footsweat. I am glad the water is now sweaty and lumpy, as I shall shortly have the inestimable honour of drinking our friendly neighbour's dirty footwater, prior to drying her feet and then reapplying her sweaty, black anklesocks and scuffmarked, brown ankleboots to her shapely anklebones.

I suppose you could argue it's been nugatory work on my domestic-footdrudge part, since goddess-mistress Ava will effectively leave the house with her precious, black feet just as sweaty and dirty inside her scuffmarked ankleboots as when she came in – except it's not nugatory; by pleasing my mistress Byrony by showing such deep, footdrudge respect for her black friend and neighbour, I have successfully avoided the sting of the female whip – at least for now!

 

Vixen-Minx

Just as I had finished drinking the dirty footwater of mistress Ava, and had resocked and rebooted her beautiful black feet, who should come ambling into the house but her Afro-hairstyled, 19 year old daughter, miss Mercedes – a right little minx-vixen, but astoundingly beautiful with it (and she knows it!).

Her original intention in popping in had been to see her best mate – miss Taneesha – but, as the latter is out, and as she has just witnessed me drinking her mother’s dirty footwater, miss Mercedes now decides that her younger, black feet need washing too!

To be perfectly honest – they probably do, for her tatty, white, blue, yellow and red, plasticky-looking, thick-laced, low-top sneakers, and nominally white anklesocks with lacy-white tops, look decidedly grubby beneath her elasticated-at-the-ankles, bright blue polyester, shellsuit bottoms.

She politely asks her mum’s best friend, my goddess-mistress Byrony, if that would be alright, and the latter suggests that the young, black woman takes me up to miss Taneesha’s empty bedroom and has me wash her feet in there, as the two older ladies have lots of juicy gossip to discuss! Miss Mercedes is more than happy to take me up to her friend Taneesha’s bedroom, and, in between slapping noisily on her ubiquitous chewing-gum, orders me to follow her on my hands and knees behind her sneakered and socked heels up the stairs – carrying the empty footbowl and damp foot-towel with me (a decidedly complicated manoeuvre for a poor footdrudge on his middle-aged hands and knees, but one which must, nevertheless, be obeyed – since it is a direct order from my mistress Byrony’s beautiful, 19 year old blackgirl-neighbour!)

Miss Mercedes has been in her friend Taneesha’s bedroom many times before; she has even overnighted there, and is not fazed by the untidiness of the room, including miss Taneesha’s dirty socks lying around on the floor (socks which I must get around to gathering up with my teeth, and then mouth and hand washing – whenever I get the chance!)

She lazily plonks herself down so that she is seated on the edge of miss Taneesha’s unmade bed, and immediately starts to boss me about, like she owned me, or something (which, thanks to the delegated authority invested in her by my mistress Byrony, she now, effectively, does!):

‘Yo footslave drudgy-bwoy, go fetch some fresh water an’ a towel, and then come back here an’ take off my sneakers an’ socks, an’ that! You is gonna wash my dirty feet now, bwoy!’

‘Yes, miss Mercedes. At once, divine goddess-mistress, most beautiful and kind miss Mercedes!’

I know better than to argue with my betters; if I don’t respect and obey this chavvy black-girl she will ‘bust my ass!’

And I don’t like my ass being busted by young women!

When I crawl back into the untidy bedroom with the fresh bowl of water and a towel, she is playing nonchalantly with her chewing-gum in her mouth and lackadaisically flicking through a glossy gossip-cum-fashion magazine that her friend Taneesha had left lying on top of the bed. But she graciously puts down the magazine as I kneel in front of her again, ready to desock and desneaker her.

Indeed, she even lifts her right sneakered-foot up off the ground in order to help me untie the thick, dirty-white laces:

‘Don’t touch my sock ‘till I tells you to, bwoy!’

‘No mistress.’

Girls – especially black girls – can be very sensitive about having their white socks touched by a dirty, male slave, I’ve noticed. They seem to see it as a privilege which I must wait for them to bestow upon me (which, of course, it very much is!)

The whiff of white, lacy-sock stink is discernible, but thankfully not too overpowering, as soon as the right, brightly coloured sneaker comes off her pretty foot. I then repeat the process with her left sneaker (which she also, helpfully, holds up to my kneeling face), and with the same odorous results.

I am now surrounded by the stink of her grubby-white, frilly anklesocks – socks which I finally get her black-female permission to touch; with my lips!

'Kiss my socks 'fore you takes them off my feet, foot-bwoy! Kiss they on the sides; kiss they on the backs; kiss they on the creases; kiss they on the frilly, white tops, an' that! Worship them! Respeck them! Sniff them! Tell them they is better than you, 'coz they adorns my pretty feet an' ankles, an' that! Obey me, bwoy!'

'Yes, miss Mercedes. At once, beautiful miss Mercedes!... Oh miss Mercedes's lacy, white anklesocks...kiss...kiss...sniff...sniff... if it pleases you beautiful miss Mercedes's lacy, white anklesocks... kiss...kiss...sniff...sniff...sniff... truly you are better than me, frilly, white socks... sniff...sniff...kiss...kiss... because you get to adorn your adorable, black mistress's pretty, black feet, white-sock mistresses... kiss...sniff...kiss...kiss...sniff... and thus absorb her divine footsweat inside her beautiful, multicoloured sneakers, sock-mistress madams... sniff...sniff...kiss...kiss...Oh how this slave envies you, sock-mistresses... kiss...kiss... and yearns to become a superior, feminine sock, like you mistresses... sniff...sniff...sniff...sniff...'

Miss Mercedes, and more importantly her socks, seem satisfied with my sock-homily:

‘Now you cain pull off my socks, footdrudge-bwoy; but don’t touch my skin – pull the socks off from them there dirty toe-ends!’

‘Yes, miss Mercedes. At once, miss Mercedes.’

The toe-ends are certainly the grubbiest, and dampest, areas of her nominally white anklesocks, and so it is only right that my grubby, maleslave fingers should peel them off her precious, black feet from that end.

Unlike with her mother, the desocking of miss Mercedes’s feet reveals a tasty-looking array of bright-red-painted toenails, and noticeably softer, younger, browner female footskin; definitely fewer blackened and hard patches of skin than on her mother’s feet – even around the heel areas!

But they also stank more than her mother’s feet – as expected. I rather suspect miss Mercedes hasn’t changed her socks in at least two days (I’m sure I saw her wearing these same, frilly white socks when she called round for my mistress Taneesha two nights ago?)

The tart, vinegary smell doesn’t seem to bother miss Mercedes in the slightest (or perhaps it just doesn’t reach up to her nose, as I am having to breathe most of it in), since she merely cocks her pretty, Afro-haired, gum-chewing head to one side as she watches me respectfully fold up her sweaty, white anklesocks and place them carefully on the floor next to her moist, warm, cheap plasticky sneakers.

I await her further orders now as, clearly, I can’t touch her bare, black feet without her explicit permission, yet I must do so at some point if I am to lift them into the footbowl full of fresh, warm water.

The female order is soon forthcoming:

‘Like, get a move on, drudge-bwoy! Put my feet in the bowl, an’ lick them clean, an’ that!’

‘Yes, miss Mercedes. At once, miss Mercedes!’

She could, of course, if she wasn’t so arrogant and lazy, simply lift her bare, black feet up off the ground and place them into the bowl herself – but she, quite rightly, sees that very much as being the slave’s job!

I’m glad she is lazy in this regard – for her feet are so soft and slimy-with-sweat to the touch; it is truly an honour to have her precious footsweat-DNA on my unworthy, maleslave fingers. I’m just a bit sad that the stink is being wiped off her feet and into the water by my sponge-tongue, for the splashing water dilutes the salty, sweaty taste of her bare feet. I would much rather lick her feet in the raw, rather than in a bowl full of water!

But beggars can’t be choosers!

All that can be heard now is the slapping of her pretty mouth as she continues to masticate noisily on her chewing-gum, and the gentle, respectful splashing of the water around her pretty, black feet. She is watching me like an Afro-haired hawk, with a justifiably sanctimonious smirk on her pretty, black-girl features, until her mobile phone suddenly rings (to a hip-hop tune).

She pulls it out of her shellsuit jacket pocket – and who should it be, but her friend, my youngest household-mistress, miss Taneesha!

‘Hi Tan! Where are ya?... Me? Ha! Ha! I’m, like, sittin’ in your room, on your bed, havin’ my dirty feet washed by that no-good footdrudge of yours! Ha! Ha! Your mom said it would be ok?...Ha! Ha!... What’s that?... Ha! Ha! Ok… hold on… Yo footbwoy, your mistress Taneesha says to remine you to pick up an’ wash all her dirty socks, an’ that, tonight! You hear me, bwoy?’

‘Yes, mistress Mercedes. Yes mistress Taneesha. Thank you, mistresses Mercedes and Taneesha!’

‘Ha! Ha!... You hear that, Tan? He says thank you, an’ that, for lettin’ him wash your dirty socks! Ha! Ha!... Where did you say you was, babe?... Ha! Ha! Alright, I’m comin’ over. See you soon, babe! Bye!’

And with that miss Mercedes flips her expensive-looking smartphone shut.

‘Hurry up an’ dry my feet now, footbwoy! I is off to join your mistress in the pub, an’ that, while you gets on with washin’ her dirty socks, yeah?’

‘Yes, mistress Mercedes. At once, beautiful mistress Mercedes.’

I feel like suggesting to beautiful miss Mercedes, as I dry her feet in the fresh, fluffy, white towel, that she might like to leave her dirty, frilly-white anklesocks with me to mouthwash along with my mistress Taneesha’s dirty socks, since they could clearly do with a good mouth-soaking. But she clearly wants her frilly, white socks back on her feet again:

‘Hurry up an’ put my socks and sneaks back on my feet, bwoy! I ain’t got all day!’

‘Yes, mistress Mercedes. At once, goddess-mistress Mercedes.’

It is not a footdrudge’s place to question the wisdom of putting sweaty, white, two-day-old, unwashed anklesocks back onto a pair of freshly washed, black feminine feet. Black mistress always knows best.

I make sure to straighten the lacy, white anklesocks around her shapely, black anklebones before retying her scruffy and flaky, blue, yellow, red and white, low-top sneakers onto her now neatly resocked feet.

As she stands up to leave she presents each of her newly resneakered feet in turn to me to kiss:

‘Make sure you drinks all that dirty footwater ‘fore you start mouth-washin’ your mistress Taneesha’s dirty socks, an’ that, footdrudge-bwoy! I wouldn’t want my dirty footwater washin’ away the taste of your mistress Taneesha’s sock sweat! Ha! Ha!’

‘No, miss Mercedes. I mean, yes miss Mercedes. God bless you, beautiful and kind miss Mercedes.’

She takes the glossy magazine with her to read on the bus on the way to the pub.

What a wonderful, young vixen-minx! Clearly the offspring of her equally vixenish mother!

 

The Sock-Launderer

So, having hand and mouthwashed two beautiful black women’s feet (mother and daughter), I now have mixed-race woman dirty socks to mouthwash – namely the dirty, discarded socks of my 18 year old footmistress, miss Taneesha, kindly left for me strewn all over her bedroom floor.

I snuffle around the bedroom carpet looking for dirty, female socks like a pig sniffing out truffles, and find several pairs – including one fluff and dust covered, bright yellow pair of no-show, sneaker-socks underneath the bed. They could well have been there for weeks, as they smell decidedly stale, and, now that I think of it, I haven’t placed them on miss Taneesha’s feet in over a month (I believe she may have last worn them inside her shiny black leather, spike-heeled, party-kneeboots to miss Mercedes’s 19^th birthday party – and that was over 6 weeks’ ago!)

Given their relative blandness, however, I decide to start my sock mouth-laundering with a much more recently-worn, and therefore spicier-tasting, pair of rich, black anklesocks worn just yesterday by my mistress Taneesha inside her beloved, black leather, calf-length biker boots (she’s wearing her light, silvery ballet-flats on her feet out in the pub tonight – unashamedly sockless, as it’s quite a warm, balmy evening outside!)

The socks taste wonderfully salty after the relative blandness of the two black women’s dirty footwater (in which any sweat had been well-diluted, though the little lumps of toejam and dead footskin sliding down my throat had been a pleasant enough experience!). I’m so glad that miss Mercedes had ordered me to drink up her dirty footwater before I started to mouthwash my mistress Taneesha’s socks, for it would have been a shame to have to wash away the lingering aftertaste of my beautiful, young, mixed-race mistress’s foot and sock sweat, from her sweaty, discarded, black bootsocks!

A taste which is soon followed by that of her brown, woollen kneesocks (worn inside her black, cableknit ugg boots some two days ago) and then her pink and yellow, cartoon-themed anklesocks, worn with her pink and white, low-top, Velcro-fastening sneakers – three days ago.

You see – I remember all of my footmistresses’ socks, and when, and with what, they were wearing them! And not just miss Taneesha’s socks – but mistresses Caroline’s and Byrony’s too!

I know that some household footdrudges find female-sock mouthwashing boring; but I enjoy it – just as I enjoy subsequently washing them by hand, and even watching them drip dry on the clothes-horse. For, even though the female owners of the socks are often not present during the process, it affords me plenty of time to really get to know my various mistresses’ foot-smells, foot-tastes, sock-textures and sock-designs. And, given the importance of ladies’ socks in my pathetic life of footslave-drudgery, that can surely only be a good thing?

I’m pleased to say that, by the time miss Taneesha eventually staggers, drunkenly, into bed after her night out drinking with her mates in the pub, her freshly mouth-and-hand-laundered socks are almost dry, and ready for use another day!

 

Hungover

On that other day – the next day, in fact – miss Taneesha had a terrible hangover, which, naturally, she blamed me for. She kicked me angrily in the face several times as I sought to dress her feet the next morning in her freshly-laundered black, ankle-length bootsocks and her heavily-buckled, black leather, calf-length biker boots beneath her short, black miniskirt.

She was getting dressed for ‘work’ – i.e. going out to get fresh supplies from her local drug-supplier, which she could then sell on to her mates for a small profit. It’s how she makes her living – that, and prostitution.

Her doting, adoptive grandmother – 48 year old, bleached-blonde mistress Caroline – had nothing but misplaced sympathy for her hungover granddaughter as she sat opposite her at the breakfast table, smoking yet another cigarette, and she promised to whip me later for letting her beloved granddaughter come home drunk (firm, but somewhat unfair, I feel!)

I was then ordered – by mistress Caroline – to follow her granddaughter to flat, biker-booted heel as the latter had to beat a hasty retreat to the upstairs toilet in order to throw up. I kissed miss Taneesha’s calf-length boots on the fatted sides as she knelt down over the toilet bowl, and apologised profusely to her for not stopping her from getting drunk (even though I was at home handwashing her dirty socks at the time, and in no position to stop her drinking; but her adoptive grandmother, mistress Caroline, says I'm to blame – so I must be; women, especially working-class women, are always in the right!)

A groaning miss Taneesha just told me to ‘f**k off’; which I duly did, for I know when I'm not bootlick-wanted!

Seeing that I was at a loose end (which is never acceptable in a household slave) mistress Caroline had me tonguepolish her smart, brown leather kneeboots over her bare, white, varicose-veined, calf muscles back down in the kitchen, in preparation for her going out to work in the local, sink-estate post office. And then miss Byrony sleepily emerged from her pit – ginger-hair-dishevelled and wearing her pink pyjamas with her beige-brown ugg boots (which she often wears as slippers on her bare, white feet around the house). When I had finished lickshining her mother’s brown leather kneeboots, she had me kiss her ugg boots several hundred times beneath the breakfast table, before declaring that she was off back to bed and that I should go and mouthwash her daughter Taneesha’s dirty socks.

As I explained to the flame-haired mistress Byrony that I had already done this the night before, she slapped me hard across my kneeling face for impertinence, several times, and then ordered me to, in that case, sniff and launder her own dirty nylons which she had left in her personal laundry basket in the upstairs bathroom.  She explained they were the sheer, tan-coloured, nylon tights she had been wearing inside her smart ,but somewhat ironically nicked, red leather kneeboots during her female court-appearance for shoplifting several days before (she got off with a suspended sentence this time; or rather, I did, as the female judge had ordered that I be suspended by the wrists from the whipping post in my mistresses’ back yard, and receive 12 harsh lashes of the female whip from a female police officer on my mistress Byrony's culpable behalf!)

My recidivistic, pink-pyjama-wearing, ex-jailbird mistress – who is my self-evident, infinite better, even in her scruffy, pink pyjamas – further counselled me not to snag or ladder her dirty tights whilst I was mouthwashing them, or it would be the sting of the female whip yet again for me!

Mistress Caroline laughed at this point, in between chewing on a piece of toast, as she explained to her daughter Byrony that she was going to whip me later this evening anyway for allowing Taneesha to come home drunk again last night. Miss Byrony nonchalantly indicated her approval, stretched and yawned, and went back to bed as her mother, mistress Caroline, left for work. 

As soon as miss Taneesha had finished throwing up in the toilet, she too left the house in order to go about her daily illicit business, leaving me with just the somnolent miss Byrony’s stinky nylons to attend to in the bathroom. As I said before, a domestic footdrudge is not allowed to accompany any of his domestic footmistresses outside of the house; nor can he disturb a mistress whilst she is sleeping. That’s why I yearn for them to either be up and about, physically bossing me around and keeping me on their toes, or to come home and boss me about. It’s also why I love it when we have esteemed, female foot-guests, like we had yesterday; serving a living, breathing mistress is always so much more satisfying than serving empty, discarded hosiery, don’t you think? Unless it’s a pair of fascinating, feminine socks you can spend time studying in great detail, like miss Taneesha’s many different-coloured, different-textured, and different-lengthed socks!

It’s not that I begrudge being a drudge; I suppose it’s just a hangover from my days as a public footservant – when I got to kiss and lick numerous pairs of female shoes and boots every day, outside in the fresh, Gynarchy air, whilst they were still wearing them! It’s a real shame I was demoted to being a domesticated footdrudge – even though I do still manage to get some fresh air whenever I am ordered out to the back yard whipping-post for a punishment whipping! And I suppose one positive advantage to being a Gynarchy-household footdrudge, is that I get to have much more intimate contact with my household-footmistresses’ sweaty, used socks and hosiery, than I ever did with my haughty and stand-offish customer-mistresses’ often elusive, inner footwear!

Mind you, stinky, sweaty, tan-coloured nylons are not really to my taste! I much prefer spicy, black cotton, female biker-boot sock, as you can probably tell!

Ho hum!

 

Neighbourly Drudge-Coolie

There is a knock on the door (my mistresses' doorbell is broken and has been for some time) and miss Byrony is forced to climb out of bed and answer it. My default position, whenever someone comes to the door, is to stop wherever I'm doing, and follow behind whoever is opening the door on my hands and knees, in case it is a female visitor to the household who needs her feet welcomed and washed, or kissed (i.e. any female who may be invited in!)

So, right now, I am kneeling in the front door porch behind my mistress Byrony's scruffy, misshapen, beige-brown, ugg-boot heels, beneath her pink pyjama bottoms.

It turns out that it is a lady at the door – 50 year old miss Jaswinder, the fat Indian lady who is my mistress Byrony's nextdoor neighbour on the other side of her terraced, sink-estate house.

She may be a nextdoor neighbour, but my mistress Byrony doesn't get on quite so well with miss Jaswinder as she does with miss Ava on the other side. I suppose that's partly because she has less in common with her – given the age difference; and the fact that she has never shared a prison cell with mistress Jaswinder! But it's also because miss Jaswinder is full of heirs and graces, and clearly feels she is much better than anyone else on the estate.

She would never, for example, answer her own door at 10 o'clock in the morning in her jimjams! Miss Jaswinder is always smartly dressed in one of her pretty, shalwar kameez trousersuits – and this morning is no exception. This morning she is wearing a fetching, loose-fitting, black and white kameez top (to hide her fat belly); black shalwar trousers sexily tapered at the ankles; and – most importantly from my humble, footslavish point of view down on my hands and knees – thick, black cotton socks with her smart, black leather, two-inch-heeled, pointy-toed, court shoes (even though she has never been to court!).

Although miss Byrony might describe miss Jaswinder as a 'stuck up cow' behind her back, I, of course, must have nothing but respect for our fat, Indian neighbour – since she is actually my better, being female. That's why whatever she is wearing on her feet is important to me; I have been obliged to kiss her fat feet many times!

Having rather unconvincingly hid her upper-caste-Indian disgust at the dishevelled state of my chav-mistress Byrony answering the door in her ugg boots and pyjamas, miss Jaswinder forces a false smile on her lips:

'Good morning, Byrony, isn't it? I was just wondering, may I be borrowing your footdrudge-slave for a few moments? I am having some boxes that are needing moving in my house, and they are being too heavy for me and Ravi to be moving ourselves, isn't it?'

'Whatever!' replies my mistress Byrony, anxious only to get back to bed. 'Slave, go with miss Jaswinder and do whatever she says.'

'Yes, mistress Byrony. Yes, mistress Jaswinder.'

'Oh thank you, my dear! I promise I will be bringing him back to you in just a few moments!'

'Whatever!'

It's somewhat ironic that the fat, Indian lady with the heirs and graces doesn't actually have a common-or-garden, household footdrudge of her own, don't you think? But that's only because she refuses to 'demean' herself by accepting help from the Female State! Like all the other residents on this suburban sink-estate she can't afford to purchase a household-footdrudge privately, so, being stuck-up, proud, and upper-caste, she'd rather make do without a household servant altogether – except when she needs to borrow her chavvy, nextdoor neighbour's drudge!

But I don't mind! Not only does it get me out of the house (albeit only into the house next door), it also gives me a change of feet and footwear to admire. For one thing I can be sure of, based on my previous experiences of serving miss Jaswinder, is that I shall be required to kiss her feet at some stage during my borrowed service towards her, even if that drudgery is not directly foot-related (as moving heavy boxes would appear to be!)

I am virtually kicked out of the porch by my mistress Byrony's scruffy ugg boots, and crawl behind mistress Jaswinder's much smarter, two-inch court heels and plain black socks the short distance to her terraced house next door.

Once inside, the fat, Indian lady immediately orders me to kiss her feet:

'Slave, be kissing my feet this instant! Be kissing me on the pointy toes of my black shoes and on the fronts of my black socks, and be showing me some slavish respect, isn’t it?'

'Yes, mistress Jaswinder! At once, madam!'

I do, as I said before, very much respect mistress Jaswinder as, at 50 years old, she is not only my better, but also my younger – by a good five years! And besides, her husband Ravi (master-sir Ravinder to me), despite being in his late sixties, packs a good punch with his belt!

You know, it is actually quite nice for me to be kissing a relatively clean, unscuffmarked pair of smart, court shoes – and unbobbled, black, feminine anklesocks – for a change! I'll say one thing about miss Jaswinder – she is fastidiously clean when it comes to her footwear!

Having satisfied her ego by kissing her court shoes and socks, I await my further, Indian-lady orders:

'Ha! Ha! Today you will be being my donkey-drudge, isn't it footslave? Ha! Ha! Today I will be placing several crates full of my boots and shoes onto your donkey-drudge back, and using you to transport them from my downstairs shoe-closet up to my bedroom, isn't it you damned, ignorant coolie?'

'Yes, mistress Jaswinder! Whatever you say, mistress Jaswinder. Your socks taste very nice, mistress Jaswinder!'

'Never mind about my damned socks, foot-coolie! You can be kissing them again later if you are doing a good job as my donkey, isn't it?'

'Yes, mistress Jaswinder. Thank you, mistress Jaswinder. God bless you, mistress Jaswinder!'

I just thought I'd get my bid in early for some more Indian-lady sock-kissing; those black socks had felt wonderfully soft on my lips! Perhaps they are helped by her fleshy, brown feet underneath?!

But first, it seems, I have some hard labouring to do; I must be her hod-carrier-cum-beast-of-burden as she straps a heavy, wooden crate full of her boots and shoes to my bare back, and then orders me to follow her on my hands and knees, behind her black-socked and court-shoed heels, up the steep, narrow staircase towards her master bedroom.

I don't mind this sort of heavy labour so much – since it involves transporting female shoes and boots on my unworthy back (and I get some nice, close-up views of the backs of mistress Jaswinder's shoes and socks again into the bargain!)

On arrival in the master bedroom I see that master Ravinder sir (rather like his slovenly, female neighbour next door) is still relaxing in bed. At least he has the excuse of being retired and in his sixties!

He is actually sitting up in bed and watching television, but still in his night clothes beneath the duvet:

'Obey my wife and do everything she says, dirty slave!' is all he says to me (I rather get the impression that's what he does in this household also!)

'Yes, master sir Ravinder sir.'

'Put the crate down over here, donkey-slave!' snaps mistress Jaswinder. 'Ravi and I are going to be sorting through all my old boots and shoes and deciding which ones I should keep, isn't it Ravi?’

'Yes dear,' replies master Ravinder sir, somewhat wearily I feel!

'I am needing to be making more room in my shoe closet for some new boots and shoes, isn't it Ravi?'

'Yes dear!'

Master Ravinder sir may not be all that interested in helping to sort out his wife's old shoe and boot collection, but I for one would be happy to stay and sort through them with her! And, unlike master Ravinder sir, I would lovingly kiss and sniff each one!

But, sadly, it seems my work here is now done:

'Ok, you may now be kissing my socks once more on the front of each sock, slave, and then be getting back to your mistress Byrony! Quickly now!'

'Obey my wife, slave! Kiss her on the sock.'

'Yes master-sir. Yes mistress-madam. Thank you for using me, mistress and master.'

It doesn't do any harm to be neighbourly and polite to ones betters – especially when you're a slave, and the master sir's black leather belt is hanging threateningly over the top of a nearby chair. That's one strap I definitely don't want on my back – especially not the buckle end!

Once again my lower-caste lips are rewarded by the feel of upper-caste, Indian-lady black sock on their unworthy membranes.

 

Praise Be!

Later that afternoon, back in my mistress’s Byrony’s house, there is yet another knock at the door, and I follow my redhaired mistress – now, at last, up and about and changed out of her pyjamas, but still wearing her beige-brown ugg boots – to the front door porch, where two female beauties appear before me.

It soon becomes apparent that they are door-to-door, religious missionaries – come to try and convert my mistress Byrony from her wicked, sinful ways!

Good luck with that one, ladies!

The first religious beauty is young – early to mid twenties, I would say – with long, dark, shoulder-length hair. She looks mixed race – specifically Eurasian. Her skin is flawless – as are her shiny black, patent leather, slip-on loafers, and the hint of plain, matt-black anklesock beneath her immaculate, black denim jean hems. A Eurasian babe, clutching a bible; a peachy, female preacher!

The second lady in the position of missionary on my mistress’s tatty doorstep is a bit older – early forties, perhaps? To be honest, she looks a bit ‘kookie’, with her curly-permed, dyed-blonde, shoulder-length hair, and her all-red trousersuit over a religious-themed T shirt!

But, strangely enough, of the two religious beauties, I find myself more drawn to this older, less conventionally beautiful lady, if only because she is wearing a kookie pair of muddy, green rubber wellingtons underneath her red-corduroy trousers.

To be honest – she looks and sounds a bit mad, with her fixed smile and ‘hallelujah’ voice; but I quite like religious quirkiness in a woman – they can make for dangerous and unpredictable slave-mistresses!

Needless to say, her other-worldly preachiness has no effect whatsoever on my mistress Byrony’s lost soul, but, before slamming the door in their religious faces, my mistress Byrony does, at least, do them the courtesy of having her household-footdrudge kiss their feet – for they too, technically, are at least ‘would-be’ guests into her sink-estate, den-of-iniquity home; and besides, even my self-centred and self-obsessed mistress Byrony recognises that a domesticated, male slave’s role is to show respect to all women with whom he comes into contact.

The two religiosities seemingly have absolutely no religious or moral compunctions whatsoever about having their feet kissed in the porch by the downtrodden, household-footdrudge. I suppose that’s because they believe my slave-soul is not worth saving, since I must be one of the damned – being punished for some terrible sin committed in a previous life – to be enslaved in such a grubby, sink-estate, chavvy household as this, to such a skanky, young redheaded mistress (although they still would have liked to save my mistress Byrony’s soul, since she, being young, free and female, is worth saving!)

I am obliged to kiss the dark-haired, Eurasian babe’s modestly attired feet first; a pleasure, not a chore, particularly as her black denim trouser-hem rides up to reveal yet more of her serious, black anklesock as she stretches forth each shiny-leather, pious foot in turn for my labial devotion. Her shiny, black shoes also taste ultra-smooth on the lips – not even a trace of street dust or dirt, or a single stain on her holier-than-thou (but far from holey) shoesoles!

Praise be, it’s a miracle! But it’s also why I actually prefer kissing the second pair of female-missionary feet to regale the ground beneath my kneeling face with their superior, female presence – those in the kookie, green-rubber wellingtons – for these are well and truly adorned with dirt. And not just any old street dirt – but common or garden dirt, literally from someone’s front garden! I can see the bits of dead grass stuck to her green-rubber bootsoles.

I suppose, in part, my pathetic, footdrudgish excitement is caused by the fact that I don’t often get to kiss rubber footwear any more – not since I was taken off the streets and placed in this terraced home. None of my current household mistresses own wellingtons; miss Taneesha’s synthetic moon boots are probably the nearest I ever get to kissing rubber in this house! So, muddy, rubbery, green wellington boot, tucked beneath red corduroy trouser-hems, is a nice change! And I do like the way the mud comes off easily on my lips, as if it finds it difficult to stick to the smooth, rubbery surface of the bible-bashing boot.

Plus, of course, there is the unusual smell of rubber boot as my mouth makes contact with its round-toed surface; quite different from the smell of leather!

But, above all, I think, my affection for the rubber boots, over the smart loafers, is engendered by the sheer mystery of the unknown – i.e. the unknown sock inside the knee-high, trouser-covered wellingtons! Presumably this young(ish) missionary woman with the curly, blonde locks is wearing socks inside such rubbery boots – thick, woollen socks, I’ll wager? And, I’m guessing, red – to match the rest of her devilish outfit (or possibly green, to match the boots?)

But, even more importantly, how do the middle-aged, missionary-mistress’s socks smell inside her red-trouser-covered, green wellingtons? Do they smell of her feet? Of her essence? Or do they smell of synthetic rubber, from the rubbery, inner lining of her boots?

Also, I can tell the Eurasian babe’s black socks are clean just by looking at them – she is self-evidently a clean-living girl! But the older missionary-woman looks to be much less fastidious about her footwear hygiene (though the rest of her looks perfectly clean), so I’m guessing that her (red? green? woolly?) socks may be somewhat ropey and unkempt inside her boots? Hence her need to hide them away, deep inside a pair of knee-high wellingtons, which in turn are tucked inside a pair of thick, red corduroy trousers – lest the ropiness, and odour, of her unkempt socks should offend anyone!

Socks on a mission!

She has no need to worry about offending me with her female-missionary sock smell! I would gladly take a sniff!

Ha! Ha! Dream on, footdrudge! The green, wellington boots and shiny, flat black loafers, are turning their backs on you forever as your worldly mistress Byrony shuts the door on her only hope of eternal salvation! You have kissed them, and worshipped them, and speculated about them – but now they are gone from your life for good; and it’s back to your mistress Byrony’s atheistic ugg-boots, for bad!

At least you know she’s wearing thick, navy blue anklesocks today inside her ugg boots – for you put them on her sinner-feet yourself not two hours ago, when she finally emerged from her lazy, indolent bed.

So stick with what you know; stick with your mistress Byrony’s navy blue socks – and don’t start getting ideas above your missionary station!

 

Miss Taneesha’s ‘Friends’

I must say, miss Taneesha does attract some stunningly good-looking, female friends to the house, whose feet and footwear it is an honour for me to kiss.

You have already met miss Mercedes – the beautiful, Afro-haired, girl-next-door mistress?

But just look at another visitor – miss Alessia – a stunningly attractive, olive-skinned and dark-haired Italian girl, who has popped in to procure some more drugs from her local dealer. Miss Alessia looks the business – in her grey-pinstriped, business outfit consisting of a stylish, grey-pinstriped jacket over a crisp, white blouse; tapered, grey-pinstriped trousers, with fashionably narrow turn-ups on the wide, bootcut hems; and the most beautiful pair of chunky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots I think I have ever seen (and I’ve seen a lot in my slave-time!) She must work in one of the nearby offices in the business district of the city! We get a lot of high-flyer females just like her, popping in for their supply of illicit ‘poppers’!

What makes the Italian beauty’s boots so uniquely attractive is the wearer herself – her endearing, Italian accent; her cute Roman nose; her certain ‘Io non so che cosa’ (‘je ne sais quoi’!). I also like the way her black boots are snakeskin, rather than leather, giving them an extra sheen, and an extra dimension to her boot-creases when she shoves each stylishly-booted foot in turn beneath my kneeling face both prior to, and immediately after, purchasing her illicit drugs from my mistress Taneesha’s bedroom drug-dealership!

And, yet again, there is the mystery of hidden socks inside her boots – for, even when she is momentarily seated with hitched-up, pinstriped trouser-hems on the edge of my mistress’s drug-dealer bed, the Italian girl’s narrow turn-ups are, frustratingly, just not turned-up high enough to reveal her Mediterranean ankleboot or anklesock tops!

Merda!

Still, just being in the presence of such a pair of stylish, Italian-snakeskin, feminine ankleboots should be reward enough for a down-in-the-dirt, domestic footdrudge like me. I am not worthy to gaze upon her Italian-goddess socks (if, indeed, she is wearing any), and shall have to make do with my mistress Taneesha’s cheap, plain black, biker-boot socks when she eventually takes her boots off, and allows me to snort, and get high (or should that be low) on, her domestic-goddess, drug-dealer footsmells!

Yes, as you can see from all the above, my life of domestic footdrudgery is not without its excitement and compensations. You never know quite what to expect next in this dodgy household.

Like the Female-Police raid the following morning, led by the beautiful, Italian-girl undercover-cop!

No-one was expecting that!

Addendum: Miss Taneesha got off with a female caution this time; and rightly so, since the poor girl is only trying to make a dishonest living!

I, of course, was knocked about a bit by the Italian-girl, female cop – but I quite enjoyed having my face kicked in by those stylish, feminine, snakeskin police-boots!

But that’s not my main news! You’ll never believe it, but I’ve only just found out that Miss Ava, my mistress Byrony’s nextdoor neighbour and former cellmate, is in fact miss Taneesha’s natural birth-mother! So misses Taneesha and Mercedes are actually half-sisters (or should that be ‘half-sistas’?), as they had different fathers, but the same mother!

No wonder they get along so well together!

Well, you could knock me down with a feather (if I wasn’t already down on my hands & knees, sniffing and mouthwashing a pile of dirty, female nylons and socks through my designer-female-police-boot-broken nose!)

Needless to say, mistress Jaswinder is having a field day spreading that particular juicy piece of gossip all around the sink-estate!