Emasculated Office Bootboy

My supervisor-master, master Peter sir, is leading me on my hands and knees on my office rounds – making me kiss and lickshine the office boots of the female office workers at their respective desks.

He stands over me with his thick-girthed, bull’s-pizzle whip – a short and stocky, black leather whip made from the stretched …ahem… private parts of a bull’s anatomy – and which he uses to belt me across my bare and kneeling back in front of my female masters in order to physically demonstrate his freemale masculinity and power over me as I attend with my mouth to their office boots.

The office women all very much respect and admire master Peter sir, even though he must be in his early sixties by now, and close to retirement age. For he is, nevertheless, still a tall and strong man, unlike the pathetic slave-halfwit he supervises (who also happens to be half his age!).

I am considered a halfwit by the office ladies not because I am actually retarded, but because I am a man in bondage to another man – and therefore emasculated; fit only to lick their boots whilst they admire my supervisor-master’s expert handiwork with the whip on my kneeling back.

In other disparaging words, I’m just the emasculated office-bootboy.

 

Sheepish

Master Peter sir leads me first of all this morning to the booted feet of 22 year old mistress Sameena – a beautiful Indian girl with long, dark, permed hair who makes no secret of the fact that she is one of master Peter sir’s biggest fans. Like many beautiful, young women she very much admires the older man – providing he is strong and free like master Peter, and not weak and in bondage like me!

She greets master Peter sir with a kiss on his wrinkly, old cheek as he politely offers the services of his ‘bootboy’ to her.

Mistress Sameena is seated at her desk with her right leg crossed over her left, and as a result the hem of her right, navy-blue, bootcut trouser-leg has ridden slightly up her shapely, Indian-girl leg to reveal the elasticated top of her sock above her black leather, ankleboot rim.

From a distance, as I had been crawling towards her, I had thought the navy blue bootsock was patterned with some white cloud-shapes, but now that I am kneeling with my face just inches from the Indian office-girl’s, hovering-in-the-air, right, anklebooted foot, I can see that the ‘clouds’ actually have little black eyes and ears, and stick-like legs; they are actually cartoon-depictions of woolly, white sheep!

Fun socks they may be, but having to serve such masterful, young-womanly booted and socked feet is no fun. Quite the opposite – it is humiliating and painful; especially when having to be done under the close supervision of another, much older man. A man whom, in the natural order of things, miss Sameena should surely find less attractive than me – given his advanced age – but who, in the reality of the Gynarchy, is considered much more desirable to a young, available woman, since he holds the whiphand.

As master Peter sir now ably demonstrates by suddenly bringing the bull’s-pizzle whip crashing down onto my prone and vulnerable, bare, kneeling back!

It bruises, rather than cuts, but it still makes the young, Indian woman laugh; her sheep-themed socktop creases and folds mockingly in front of my startled eyes as, for her part, she looks sheepishly up at my strong and almighty taskmaster:

‘Ha! Ha! Your whip really is being most impressive, Peter. Please to be making your slave lickshine my dirty ankleboots while you are being disciplining him, isn’t it?’

Master Peter sir smilingly gives me another two blows from his thick-girthed whip:

‘You heard miss Sameena, slave! Lickshine her pretty boots this instant! Tongue them from top to bottom!’

‘Aoww!... Yes master-sir! At once master Peter, sir!’

I can sense the sweet and demure, dark-complexioned miss Sameena blush with pride at the master’s description of her common-or-garden, matt black leather, chunky-heeled and chisel-toed, zip-up ankleboots as ‘pretty’! What is really pretty to look at, however, is the clash between the navy blue of her sock and the soft, smooth brown of her young, Indian-female calf-skin.

As I lower my face to the bottom of her still-hovering-in-the-air, right ankleboot, and begin to lick the street dust and detritus from the dirty sole, I can’t help but admire the Indian girl’s sock/skin combo – especially since that fun-printed, sheep sock is slightly wonky inside her upper bootrim, giving the cartoon sheep a somewhat twisted appearance!

Thanks to the relative openness of her ankleboot-top (caused, in part, by the shapeliness of her Indian-girl, ankle tendons), I count at least 9 sheep inside besotted miss Sameena’s somewhat dusty and scuffmarked bootrim as my tongue makes its meandering way up her outer, black bootleather – but this is sheep-counting designed not to send me to sleep, but to keep me awake! For I have a genuine, if pathetic, interest in knowing just how many cartoon-sheep are depicted on the sides of Indian, office-goddess-mistress Sameena’s everyday socks!

I might be asked questions later about her socks by my ever vigilant master sir!

Meanwhile, the owner and wearer of the sheep-socks is happily preoccupied in flirty small-talk with my manly master-sir above me, and I am, thankfully, largely ignored. My bare back is no longer the focus of master Peter’s bull’s-pizzle attention, and so I can take some time to try to absorb the pain from my earlier whip-bruises.

Almost subconsciously, and certainly most deftly, miss Sameena crosses over her legs at some point in order to afford my despised and humbly kneeling face access to her left boot, and I am delighted to observe that her left sock is more pulled-up on her left leg, thereby cruelly denying me a glimpse of her soft, brown Indian leg-skin but, by the same token, kindly affording me a view of even more of her sock-sheep!

And it is the little, cartoon sheep-logos upon which I am now fixated – for that’s the kind of pathetic slaveman I am; obsessed by a beautiful young Indian woman’s sock-logos whilst the real man above me, master Peter sir, flirts with her mind and the rest of her body, no doubt adding to this exotic and very beautiful, young woman’s already not inconsiderable crush on him!

Speaking of crushes, I sense that miss Sameena would equally happily crush me underboot as I divest her outer footwear of its offending street-dirt.

After some 15 minutes of bootlicking on my part, and flirting on his, master Peter sir orders me to stop (with an accompanying blow from his bull’s-pizzle whip), and invites the totally enamoured miss Sameena to inspect her freshly-lickshined ankleboots. She uncrosses her legs and ostentatiously places both her anklebooted feet on the floor side by side, thereby causing her socks to disappear from view.

She then makes a play of twisting and turning her ankleboots beneath my kneeling and anxious face, inspecting the black bootleather which is still shimmering with my footslave-saliva, and ready to pass verdict on my humble tongue-work. And yet, the truth is she doesn’t really care about the state of her freshly-licked boots; she only has big, doe eyes for master Peter sir.

She will most probably be sleeping with him tonight; again!

 

Spoken For

The next office-girl mistress on our list is 20 year-old, office- junior mistress, mistress Melanie. Miss Melanie, unlike miss Sameena before her, is already spoken for – recently married to her Jamaican boyfriend of two years.

Miss Melanie herself is a white girl, with shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair, who has done very well for herself, considering she grew up on one of the Gynarchy’s many sink-estates and is still battling drug addiction.

It shows in her lower leg skin, for I often notice needle marks amidst the big, red blotches on her somewhat scrawny and pasty-white ankle and calf muscles above her plain, black sneaker-socks whenever she is wearing her low-cut, black leather, office ballet-flats.

This morning, however, miss Melanie is, like most of her female office colleagues, choosing to wear black leather ankleboots, as it is wintertime and quite cold outside. Boots help to keep her delicate, feminine feet warm. I am confident, however, that – although I can’t see them today beneath the hems of her plain black, bootcut trouser hems and deep down inside her ankleboots – she will still be wearing her ubiquitous, plain black, sneaker socks inside her boots. And so, I have nothing but the deepest sock-respect and admiration for junkie-mistress Melanie’s black leather ankleboots.

Not all black leather ankleboots are the same, of course – and this particular pair of greasy blonde-girl boots are really biker-style booties, with a single, broad, decorative, black leather strap running across the side at ankle-height. This is important, because it’s the area around and beneath the strap which is most likely to need cleaning, as that is where office (and street) dust and dirt is most likely to accumulate.

As per usual, miss Melanie seems rather spaced out at the start of her working day, but not too spaced out to be unable to project a winsome smile at master Peter sir as he kicks and cajoles the office footslave towards her desk, and her drug-addled, biker-bootied feet.

She too greets my cruel, elderly, office master with a peck on the cheek, though she clearly expects more than just a peck on her bootleather as she points out to my mature supervisor-master all the multitudinous areas of street mud and dirt she would like removed from her biker-booties by the dirty, office bootboy under his immediate command.

Helpfully, the young, greasy-blonde mistress then swivels round on her office chair and rests both her booted feet side by side on the floor as she hitches up her plain black trouser hems to expose the tops of her ankle-length biker-booties. Sadly, though, as I had feared, her socks are not visible, as they are much too short to reach anywhere near the tops of her heavy, black booties. She will be, as I have already explained, wearing her ultra-short, plain black, sneaker-style, ‘secret’ socks inside her boots, as these are the only socks a blonde girl like this knows how to wear!

But I very much admire her for that – for sticking to her socks; literally so, as I don’t believe she changes her socks every day – not judging by the aroma of sweaty, greasy, feminine feet I can sometimes detect when I am attending to her musty-smelling, black leather ballet-flats.

All I can smell today, however, is girly, black, biker-boot leather, as master Peter sir kindly steers my tongue around the various intricacies of blonde mistress Melanie’s biker-bootie straps, with the aid of his bull’s-pizzle whip!

There’s nothing else to say because I can’t see mistress Melanie’s socks.

 

Wellies To Work

It is the wintertime – and the streets can be extremely wet and slushy outside. So, it is good thinking on the part of brunette-haired, oriental office-mistress Yi-Ling to wear her wellingtons to work – and then change into her smart, black leather, high-heeled office pumps after she settles down at her desk.

But, of course, that means there is a discarded pair of brown rubber, fur-trimmed wellington boots for me to lickshine beneath her desk, and the hawk-eyed master Peter sir has my mouth straight onto them as soon as we reach where she is sitting.

I’m pleased to see – and to smell – a thick pair of discarded, kneelength, brown woollen bootsocks stuffed inside the fur-lined tops of the rubber boots (for office-mistress Yi-Ling realises she can hardly wear such a thick and comforting pair of brown, woolly socks with a pair of smart, office pumps and over her finest denier, dark nylon, office stockings; the boots and socks are strictly for travelling to and from work only!)

Nevertheless, if I’m being perfectly honest, a small part of me (i.e. my limp penis) would much rather be lickshining those aforementioned, high-heeled courts on her dainty, oriental feet, rather than her common-or-garden, brown rubber wellingtons – purely because it is always much more exciting to serve the footwear of a mistress whilst she is still wearing it, rather than her recently discarded footwear; the sense of humility and degradation experienced when kneeling at another person’s booted or shoed feet far outweighs any compensatory, sweaty smells emanating from recently discarded and temporarily abandoned, human footwear!

But, of course, office-mistress Yi-Ling’s shiny, black leather, high-heeled pumps and sheer, dark nylons are for the delectation of mighty, free men like master Peter sir, whereas her street-soiled, rubber wellington boots and slush-dampened, musty-smelling, thick brown kneesocks are for the likes of me – a lowly, office bootslave.

I am an office-worker; not an office-lover (unlike my flirtatious master-sir), and must know my place – which, right now, is on my hands and knees, beneath goddess-mistress Yi-Ling’s office desk, with my tongue raking up the dead, wet leaves off the sides of her slush-splashed, rubber boots, and my nose buried in the tops of her temporarily divested, sweaty woollen, scrunched-up bootsocks.

Just as master Peter sir’s place right now is, apparently, to be sitting on the edge of her desk, engaging in amorous chitchat, and seductively fingering his pride and joy – his bull’s-pizzle whip!

 

Black Beauty

My next ‘customer-mistress’ is the delightful, office secretary-mistress, miss Cherise – a truly stunning and statuesque, African-Caribbean girl in her late twenties, with long, black braided hair.

Unlike most of the other office mistresses, miss Cherise likes to wear short skirts to work – to show off her shapely, long, African-Caribbean legs – and today she is complementing her long legs with a long pair of soft, navy-blue, knee-length boots, topped off with a delightful pair of, light grey and red, argyle-patterned, woollen, thigh-high socks.

Her boots look expensive – made of an ultra-soft, suede leather which seems to hug her soft, womanly, socked legs. The stretch-leather boots are almost contoured to her shapely leg and calf-muscles, and are of the unzippered, ‘pull-up’ variety – though they are not without their fetching little creases and folds.

They are also, unusually for miss Cherise, flat-heeled and round-toed – for in my humble experience miss Cherise normally likes to wear spike-heeled and pointy-toed, black patent leather kneeboots to work!

Master Peter sir has noticed the change in miss Cherise’s boot style also, and compliments her on her new choice of bootwear – as only he, a free man, is entitled to do. As an emasculated bootslave I am not permitted to pass judgement on any mistress’s boots – I must respect them all.

However, in paying compliment to secretary-mistress Cherise and her navy-blue, suede-leather, kneehigh boots, master Peter sir is taking the words right out of my mouth – these stretch-leather, black-girl, blue boots are truly awesome! They truly seem to tower above me – as do her thigh-high, argyle-patterned socks.

I hear miss Cherise laugh gushingly at master Peter’s compliments, whilst she explains to him that she has had to ditch her heels for the time being as her right ankle is, apparently, all strapped up and sore since she went over on it the other day and sprained it.

Master Peter sir says he is sorry to hear about miss Cherise’s accident, and offers to punish me for it in front of her, even though I wasn’t even present at the time miss Cherise went over on her spike-heeled ankle! She agrees to my receiving four strokes of the bull’s-pizzle whip at her suede-booted feet, and even helps to steady my back (though, sadly, not my nerve-endings) for the master’s whip by holding my head in between her navy-blue-booted, calf muscles.

I like the feel of her suede-booted anklebones digging hard into my temples, even though I don’t very much like the accompanying pain on my back from the blows of the masculine, bull’s-pizzle whip!

Afterwards, master Peter sir leaves me tongue-buffing miss Cherise’s suede leather boots whilst he leaves the room temporarily to deal with a call of nature (or so he says, but I suspect he may have gone to the office lavatories to relieve himself in other ways; he is clearly ‘enamoured’ by all the lascivious, female attention he has been getting this morning!).

Meanwhile, the haughty, tall, black girl sits cross-legged on her office swivel chair – her right, kneebooted leg hovering in the air as I slavishly buff-attend to it with my tongue whilst she nonchalantly files her bright red, secretarial fingernails high above me, caring not that her dirty nail-filings are falling onto the top of my bootlicking-head.

After a while she looks down on me from above her thigh-high, grey and red argyle-patterned, woolly socks and mocks me:

‘Hja! Hja! Yo – batty-boy! You is well pafetic, innit though? Hja! Hja! Having to obey an old man, and lick his office bitches’ boots clean, an’ that! Hja! Hja! Lick them boots good and hard, boy, and make damned sure you don’t be touchin’ my socks wit’ yoh pug-ugly face. You ain’t worvy to be touchin’ my socks; only yoh master cain be touchin’ me on my thighs! You get me, you pafetic, batty-boy bootboy? Hja! Hja!’

She sensuously reaches down to adjust and straighten the tops of her thigh-length, woolly socks – something I would have willingly done for her, had I been ordered to. But, as she has just explained, her high socks are sadly out of bounds to me!

‘Yes mistress Cherise… I hear and obey you, mistress Cherise…God bless you goddess-secretary-mistress Cherise!’

She’s right, of course. I am just a pathetic ‘batty-boy bootboy’! Perhaps not literally so – but as good as! Though I am nominally heterosexual, and my master sir is actively so (and therefore, thankfully, he is not inclined to despoil me), I might as well be gay; for sexual activity with a superior woman like miss Cherise, or indeed with any of the superior young office-women whose boots I must lick clean on a daily basis under the bruising whip-direction of my strong and powerful, old master sir, is completely out of the question for me. All these stunningly beautiful females abhor me; they hold me in utter young-womenly contempt. And rightly so, as I am nothing but an oppressed and enslaved male; a thing of derision.

Only my (handsome?) master-sir is deserving of their heterosexual love and affection. I’m just the impotent and emasculated, deeply unattractive, celibate office bootboy, subject to the oppression of the bull’s-pizzle whip, and at the sweet feminine foot-mercy of all those women whom I encounter. No wonder the good office-ladies, from all social and ethnic backgrounds, despise and detest me so much!