Footoire Fictions
Footoire: An outdoor cubicle, normally roofless (i.e. similar to a French ‘pissoir’) where ladies can have their dirty, street shoes and boots lickshined by a public footslave in some degree of privacy
Footoire Fiction no. 1 – Do Not Disturb!
Sometimes I wish I could put a sign up on the ever-open entrance to my footoire-cubicle saying ‘Do Not Disturb!’ – especially at night time; for, although officially I am never off duty, I normally expect to be able to get a few hours cold and lonely kip in my isolated footoire on the edge of the city centre shopping district, since the area is, by and large, deserted after the shops all close at night. I mean, there are no rowdy, dirty-stop-out students around to bother me – no nearby nightclubs; or even restaurants. Just the occasionally lonely, late-night female shopkeeper making her way home after locking up late and finishing her late-night stocktaking – and most of them have left the area by 10 pm at the latest! There aren’t even any streetwalkers in this fine, upstanding area of the city!
So, on a good night, I ‘unofficially’ get to sleep from about 10 pm until about 06:00 a.m the following morning when things do, admittedly, start to heat up!
However, should any late-night female shop-manageress still be around to require my services at, say, 2 o’clock in the morning, there is absolutely nothing, in law or in practice, to stop her from entering my forlorn footoire for a ‘lick and a shine’ to her dirty, shop-soiled boots or shop-soiled shoes!
And that’s what pissoirs me off – big time! I can be fast asleep, only to be suddenly awoken by a sharp kick to the face from the pointy boot-toe of a stressed and fatigued, overworked shop-manageress at some goddess-forsaken hour of the morning, and by an accompanying, fractious female order for said violent, late-night, feminine boot to be ‘lickshined this instant!’
It happened in the early hours of this morning! My dreamy sojourn on a nice, warm tropical island was rudely interrupted by a sharp pain in my jaw as the black leather, spike heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up ankleboot of a young, blonde-ponytailed, shop manageress suddenly brought me back to the cold, harsh reality of my cold-autumnal-night, city-centre footoire:
‘F***ing wake up, you lazy, good-for-nothing, foot flunkey! Can’t you see my boots are cold and tired and need a good tongueshining? Moron!’
I don’t know the angry, young blonde woman concerned, but I do know, from the tone of her voice, that she means business, and is in no mood for any disrespect or incompetence on my part. If she has had to work late into the wee small hours of the morning, then so must I! She will not suffer from insomnia on her own!
I immediately apologise to the blonde-haired mistress madam for ‘sleeping on the job’ (as I am required to do by law – for sleep is a human right here in the Gynarchy; not a maleslave right!), and seek to placate her angrily outstretched boot by directing my tongue straight onto a grey scuffmark at the very tip of her pointy, outstretched boot-toe.
On the way down I catch a quick glimpse of her, presumably quite hot and sticky, late night, plain black, ankle-length bootsock set against the pleasant backdrop of her smooth, feminine, hairless, white legskin beneath her helpfully hitched-up, navy-blue trouser hem. Her twisted, black socktop is truly a sight for sore, footoire-slave eyes at this ungoddessly time of the morning, and goes some way to compensating me for my rude awakening – for it is always nice to see the sock inside the boot you are having to kiss!
In some upmarket footoires the customer-mistress sits down in front of the kneeling footslave to have her shoes or boots lickshined. But my footoire is actually quite an old-style one, in which the poor lady has to stand. It also lacks any kind of roof – but that’s actually a good thing tonight as the young, blonde woman decides to light up a cigarette whilst I tongue-attend to her dirty bootleather.
I haven’t the nerve to tell her that this is a ‘no smoking’ footoire – even though there is sign up behind her pretty, blonde head saying as much – largely because of her evidently foul mood. But, in any case, the fact that my footoire is open to the elements helps the acrid, female, cigarette smoke to dissipate quickly into the night air, though I still suffer the indignity of her hot cigarette ash being nonchalantly flicked down onto the top of my balding, bobbing, footslave head.
Sleepy though I am, I soon garnish my footslave strength and manage to lick away – at least temporarily – the offending shopfloor-scuffmarks and street-dirt stains from the angry young woman’s right ankleboot, even remembering to lick the dust particles out of the felt zipper-track running down the side of her stylish, short leather boot.
She quickly changes anklebooted feet below my face, whilst taking a fresh, languorous drag on her illicit cigarette, and I repeat the humble bootlicking process on her now-outstretched left boot. Her left socktop, I notice, has slid a bit further down inside her bootrim, but I still get a good look down at it inside her boot when my servile tongue, eventually, reaches her upper bootrim.
Of course, on a cold and frosty morning such as this the blonde customer-mistress is unlikely to order me to remove her boots and sniff her socks – but that is one of the reasons for the invention of footoires in the first place; a lady may, if she so desires, have her stinky hosiery sniffed and attended to by a common footslave with some degree of female decorum and privacy, without imposing the sight, or smell, of her ropey, black anklesocks, or laddered dark nylons, on the general public and passers-by – only on the footoire-footslave, whose job it is to attend to dirty, smelly feet and footwear; so that’s alright, then!
But I’m teasing and tormenting myself with such forlorn footslave-fantasies at this ungodly hour of the morning – there is no way these boots are coming off when the air outside them is so cold; the socks, nice and black looking though they are, shall have to remain unsniffed and unkissed in the steamy, warm confines of her inner boot-air!
Instead I must make do, it seems, with the taste of her discarded cigarette butt – after it has been extinguished beneath my kneeling face by her twisting, right bootsole. It is, therefore, a cigarette butt stained not only with the blonde mistress’s precious, feminine saliva and red lipstick, but also her dirty bootsole-leather. Truly a midnight feast fit for a forlorn footoire-slave!
She storms off without so much as a ‘by your leave’, or a ‘sweet dreams, slave’! But, in a way, I’m actually glad the overworked, over-stressed, blonde, shop-manageress mistress disturbed my ugly-sleep tonight; for, if you were to ask me where would I rather be right now – sunning myself on a desert island drinking pina coladas, or chewing on the discarded, leathery-tasting cigarette butt of a cold and arrogant, black anklebooted and black anklesocked, blonde-ponytailed shopgirl in the middle of a dark and deserted city-centre footoire – my answer would actually be the latter!
What exactly does that say about me? That I’m ‘disturbed’ perhaps?
Footoire Fiction no. 2 - The Copulating Couple
Of course, the other type of visitors I tend to get in the dead of night are dirty stop-out, courting couples. My footoire cubicle provides a nice little, discreet, city centre cubbyhole for them to have sex in!
Such as the couple who are utilising my footoire for such libidinous purposes right now! They are both young - very early twenties, I would say - both still fully clothed, but with their jeans around their ankles, and the sweet, young, brunette-haired woman is lying on her back, thinking of the Gynarchy as she is being entered by the potent, young man whilst her beige-coloured and street-soiled, heavily ridged, rubbery ugg-boot soles are pushing up against my ground-level, footoire face.
I instinctively stick out my tongue and lick her dirty ugg-boot soles whilst she is having consensual, sexual intercourse with her boyfriend, not because she has ordered me to (I doubt the beautiful young woman is even aware of my middle-aged, public-footslave presence in her sex-cubbyhole, so enraptured is she by the amorous attentions of her handsome, young man!), but because it seems only right and proper that I should pay my footslavish respects to the sexually active, young woman whilst she is in flagrante delicto, so to speak, in whatever humble way I can!
I’m sure it's also what the young master-sir would want.
And besides, the pretty, young woman is wearing thick, grey, lattice-stitched, calf-length bootsocks inside her beige-sheepskin, ugg boots (I can see the tops of her socks peeking out over the tops of her boots even from down here below her ridged bootsoles), and you've got to respect the dirty, rubber bootsoles of a young woman who wears thick, grey socks inside her boots during sex!
She is moaning and groaning with lust as the young man skilfully brings her close to her climax with his, no doubt large and potent, member, and I like to think that my diligent licking of her outstretched bootsoles is playing at least a small part in her libidinous pleasure. For she is, effectively, being worshipped from top to toe - the young master-sir taking care of her upper and lower body, whilst I attend to her lower extremities; her dirty bootsoles.
After it's all over, and they are both spent (but I, of course, am still left frustrated and unspent) the couple kindly leave the master-sir's used condom on the floor of my footoire-booth - close enough for me to smell it, but, sadly, outside my reach. Embarrassingly, it shall have to stay there until my regular footoire cleaner-mistress, miss Tatiana, can be bothered to pick it up and throw it away - though she only works part-time and tends to do a lacklustre job of cleaning my cubicle; that's if she can even be bothered turning up! The cleanliness, and moral rectitude, of my booth is not that important to her!
And so, until and unless my cleaner-mistress Tatiana turns up later this morning (she is due in), my subsequent customer-mistresses shall just have to step around the used condom, or ignore it - rather like the lascivious, young couple ignored me during their al fresco copulation.
Footoire Fiction no. 3 - Semi-Private Sock Humiliation
Regular, redhaired footoire-mistress Gemma has entered the footoire along with an unfamiliar, dark-skinned young woman, with black, braided hair, whom I do not believe I've had the pleasure of footwear-servicing before.
'Footoire-slave, this is my friend from Bermuda, miss Beverley. Sniff her on the sock!' commands miss Gemma in her usual, authoritative, twenty-something tone.
'Run your nose all along the top of my anklesock, footoire-slave!' clarifies miss Beverley in an equally threatening tone, whilst simultaneously extending her right, pink and white striped, low-top sneakered foot and stripy bright, pink and yellow anklesock beneath my kneeling footoire-flunkey face. 'And don't touch my ankle skin!' she adds, looking down disparagingly at me from high above her pale yellow, Bermuda shorts.
Although the black, Bermudan girl seems totally at ease in issuing me with her detailed order in precisely how to sniff her sock, I know in my heart of hearts that it is flame-haired, regular customer-mistress Gemma who has put her newfound companion from overseas up to this, since miss Gemma routinely has me sniff her boot and sneaker-socks in the semi-privacy of the footoire , though they aren't normally as bright and colourful socks as miss Beverley's. Miss Gemma, if you are interested, prefers a plain dark, or black, bootsock or sneaker-sock set against her pasty-white ankle and leg skin - so, pink and yellow, stripy sock set against a backdrop of soft, smooth, black legskin is quite a rare treat for me to have to 'nose' (the technical term for what the young Bermudan visitor is ordering me to do!)
So what, if her shimmering, black legflesh is out of bounds to me?! At least my face shall be close to it - close enough to admire her individual, beautiful, black-girl, legskin pores - as I humbly trace my white nose along the somewhat twisted top of exotic miss Beverley's pink and yellow striped, overseas anklesock, much to her, and her equally exotic ginger-haired friend's, wicked and giggling amusement!
For here behind the protective walls of the public footoire, a couple of dominant and self-assured young women can pretty much make me do whatever they like to their feet and footwear as they seek to sock-humiliate me in semi-private!
Footoire Fiction no. 4 - Beauty & The Beat
Thirty-something, raven-haired, regular footoire-visitor mistress, miss Luna, whim I believe originates from somewhere in Eastern Europe and works as a teacher of languages, can be a bit of a nightmare customer - stuck-up; unpredictable; volatile; petulant; and cruel!
However, it is always an honour and a privilege to pander to her young-womanly footwhims as:
- She is stunningly beautiful (and she knows it)
- Unlike some regular customer-mistresses I could name, she changes her workday footwear throughout the seasons - thick, brown ugg-boots and matching brown, woollen socks in the wintertime; smart, black leather courts with two inch heels and tan-coloured, finest denier nylons in the springtime; flat, open-toed, strappy, brown leather sandals on bare feet (always with bright red, painted toenails) in the summertime; plain, black leather ballet-flats with black anklesocks in the autumn; and scruffy, white, low-top, lace-up, leather sneakers with short, white sneaker-socks on her days off throughout the academic year. So, I get to serve a variety of footwear on her pretty, Slav-girl feet during the course of the year in my city-centre footoire, and, as we all know, variety is the spice of a humble footoire-slave's life!
I have found, over the years, that the best way to pander to her petulance and immaturity is to invite her to beat me with the communal-use whipping stick, which hangs over my kneeling head on the inner wall of the footoire, whenever she finds some imaginary fault with my foot-servitude e.g. if she (falsely) accuses me of brushing my nose against her nylons without permission whilst I am dutifully tongueshining her black leather, office courts; or if she alleges (probably with some justification) that I am mentally lusting after her black socks whilst I am lickshining her soft, black leather ballet-flats! For such verbal, female complaints on her customer-mistressly part are a sure sign that she is, once again, itching to whip me. One thing I've learnt over the many years of my public service at her feet is that miss Luna loves to whip me, but, somewhat curiously, also likes to first hear me beg for the whip!
I have even witnessed her rubbing herself down below whilst I beg to be corrected by her in my grovelling, humble slavespeak:
'Oh pray, mistress Luna, if it pleases you most beautiful and kind mistress Luna, please forgive this dirty footoire-slave for his indiscretion, and beat him soundly mistress! Oh pray, mistress - pray correct me with the whipping stick and teach me a lesson, mistress, for pain is the only language I understand, headmistress madam Luna (naturally enough, she particularly likes that ‘headmistressly’ epithet, being a teacher by profession, and by all accounts one who has aspirations of becoming a headmistress!). Oh pray, headmistress Luna - flog me; beat me; hurt me. Truly I am in your power and at your mercy, headmistress!'
I suppose she can get away with libidinously rubbing herself above me because of the semi-privacy afforded to her by the walls of the footoire, but passers-by must surely be still able to see her pretty, East European face contorted with lust as she first rubs herself off and then belabours me across my kneeling, naked shoulders with the dreaded whipping stick! Just as they can hear my cries of pain and my begging for mercy into her nyloned or socked feet - for, although I have begged for it, I do very much abhor the stinging pain of the female whipping-stick on my poor, vulnerable maleslave back and shoulders, especially when it is wielded by a lust-crazed miss Luna - the lunatic with the whipping-stick; the 'headmistress' on heat; the beauty who loves to beat!
Footoire Fiction no. 5 – Weather-beaten
Mistress Luna isn’t alone in liking to beat me. As my footoire-cubicle has no roof I am often weather-beaten also, as I am well and truly exposed to the elements – 24/7; 365 days a year – and the harsh Gynarchy winds often like to whip up a cruel storm inside my cubicle.
To be honest, not many young women nowadays – mollycoddled as they are – choose to brave the elements when it’s raining, or snowing, or blowing a gale, just in order to have their dirty shoes or boots lickshined on the street corner! But, I have at least one regular customer-mistress who only ever seems to come out in the wind and the rain!
45 year old, shop cleaner-mistress Aishwarya is a hardy soul – pint-sized, but mean. It would take more than a gale or a storm to stop her from ‘lording it over me’ in my semi-open, footoire cubicle! Indeed, as I have already intimated, she seems to actively seek me out in the cold and the dark and the wind and the rain, which is all the more remarkable when you think that she has lived most of her life in India, and only moved to the cold climes of the northern Gynarchy some 5 years ago!
She certainly enjoys imposing her cream-coloured, soft, suede-leather loafers, and incongruous, short, blue and red sneaker-socks, on my feeble, footoire face – in the sense that she delights in having me kiss them and worship them, especially when it’s pouring with rain and/or a bitterly cold gale is blowing, and she herself is snugly wrapped up in her heavy anorak whilst I am half-freezing to death in my permanently semi-naked state as a public footslave (like virtually all other public footslaves I am only ever permitted to wear my flimsy, white slave-shorts; I don’t even have the ‘luxury’ of a heavy, wooden cangue to keep my bowed neck warm!)
And so I must dutifully tongue-attend to Indian mistress Aishwarya’s soft, suede loafers and equally soft cotton sneaker-sock tops, with freezing lips and a trembling body – trembling with fear as much as with the cold, for mistress Aishwarya is never averse to kindly ‘warming me up’ with the whipping stick if she thinks I am slacking in my public foot-duties towards her.
I sometimes wish she was the official cleaner for my footoire – instead of the lazy and uninterested East European girl, miss Tatiana, who currently cleans my cubicle three days a week (if I'm lucky) – for I very much respect and admire mistress Aishwarya, and just know that she would do a good and diligent job as a cleaner, just as she is diligent in keeping me on her loafered toes come hell or high-water!
Speaking of which, her creamy-white, loafer shoe is resting in a puddle of muddy rainwater directly below my footoire face, right now. I’m embarrassed to say its cream-suede lower part is turning dark with the water. I do hope I don’t get blamed for that – for, really and truly, I can’t control the weather! All I can do, as a humble footoire-slave, is seek to repair any damage to her superior, middle-aged, Indian cleaning-lady footwear, by licking away the muddy rainwater stains along her loafered insteps as soon as they appear – all whilst yearning for, and admiring, the feel of the top of her navy blue and red sock, of course!
All in squall, I think I have done a reasonably good job on her storm-drenched shoes by the time I’ve finished, but she adds to the renewed precipitation falling on my bald head by spitting onto me – a gesture which eloquently demonstrates what she really thinks of me!
Thank you for visiting me with your dirty footwear in such inclement weather, goddess-mistress Aishwarya; but please – save yourself from the elements! Go home to your warm and cosy bed for a well-earned rest, and leave me to suffer out here on my own! You deserve better than this – mistress Aishwarya; and you certainly deserve better than me!
Addendum: Even in the hot and balmy, summer weather mistress Aishwarya likes to humiliate me with her cream-coloured loafers – though worn, in the summertime, without socks:
‘Ha! Ha! You are liking my shoes on my bare feet, foot-dog? You are wanting that I am taking off my shoes and making you smell them? Ha! Ha! You are being queer, isn’t it? You are liking the smell of my stinky shoes in your nose! Ha! Ha! I am laughing at you, queer footslave!’
What an all-year-round, all-weather, Indian foot-goddess!
Footoire Fiction no. 6 – Short, But Sweet
Regular, mixed-race, pint-sized, 21 year-old, footoire customer-mistress Jamilla is always happy for me to converse with her – providing it’s about her beloved converse high-tops and/or whatever socks she is wearing inside them. She wouldn’t dream of discussing anything else with me – since she thinks the rest of her life is none of my business.
And she is quite right!
I do look forward to our little chats about her sneakers and socks, however – especially since I am genuinely interested in them, being a lowly footoire slave with little else to distract or amuse me, day in and day out, other than the feet and footwear of my gracious, female visitors.
Today miss Jamilla (a shop assistant) is wearing a fetching pair of pale pink cotton anklesocks with what appear to be red-heart logos, inside her, somewhat scruffy and, dare I say it, ‘weather-beaten’, black and white, lace-up, high-top sneakers. I’ve not witnessed these socks before whilst lickshining her sneakers, and so I just have to make polite, footslavish conversation about them:
‘Oh pray, miss Jamilla, if it pleases you most beautiful and kind miss Jamilla madam, this slave is most enamoured by your pale pink anklesocks with the red, love-heart logos, mistress, if it pleases you mistress?’
She is applying her red make-up in a compact mirror whilst standing with one leg outstretched beneath my kneeling face having her sneaker licked, but she graciously takes the time to stop applying her lipstick momentarily in order to respond to my obsequious observation about her love-socks:
‘Mmm…yes, they are nice, aren’t they slave? Don’t you think they match my pink top nicely?’
This is a trap! Although she knows full well that no man – myself included – could ever fail to notice her ample bosom inside her skimpy, pink top, she equally knows that, as a public footslave, I am forbidden to even think about her clothing above the sock. And so I must, formally, deny all knowledge of her top – and quickly also:
‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you regular footoire-mistress Jamilla, truly this slave is unworthy to look you in the top half, miss Jamilla, but must only ever look you in the sock, mistress! No – mistress, what I meant, mistress, if you will forgive me mistress, is that your pink socks certainly complement your nice, brown ankleskin, mistress!’
I mean that most sincerely – the pink stands out nicely against the pale brown background of her mixed-race legskin!
She laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes – I see what you mean, slave. I forgot you can’t look up at me!... Now get on with your work!’
‘Yes, mistress Jamilla! At once, mistress Jamilla!’
So there you have it; short, but sweet – the conversation, I mean; not just mistress Jamilla herself!
I would, of course, have liked to converse with her much more about her sweet, pink and red, love-themed socks:
· Are they comfortable on her feet?
· Are they sweaty inside her black and white, converse high-tops?
· Will she be wearing them when she goes out tonight, after work, with her boyfriend?
· Does she have a personal, household footslave who shall be required to first sniff, and then mouthwash, her dirty pink socks later in the day, perhaps whilst she is making love to her boyfriend in her bedroom?
· Where does she store her socks?
But all of these, and other inquisitive questions racing around inside my foot and sock obsessed mind, shall have to go unanswered – for now, at least. For miss Jamilla has closed the conversation, and is once again concentrating on applying her lipstick to her pretty, pert, mixed-race mouth!
Footoire Fiction no. 7 - The Fantasist
Regular, Pakistani footoire-visitor miss Marriba is an out and out fantasist!
Some might, rather rudely, suggest that she is barking mad – but I, as a humble, male footslave – am obliged to take a more charitable view, and pander to her fantasies. It’s not exactly difficult, as she is a stunningly beautiful, young woman, and her ‘fantasies’ revolve around my being her permanent, personal footslave – as opposed to just her occasional, public-footoire footslave!
I therefore share in her fantasies!
Although she is a strict, Pakistani-Muslim girl – who always dresses modestly and appropriately in jeans and a headscarf – she does like to wear modern, girl-about-town footwear, such as high-end, high-heeled, black patent leather kneeboots; or trendy, designer-label sneakers, even though she’s happily settled and married.
Today it’s sneakers – a pleasing pair of low-top, lace-up, designer-brand, blue and white striped sneakers, with just a hint of plain grey sneaker-sock showing beneath her designer-frayed, blue denim jean hems.
She notices me noticing her short, grey socks as I tongueshine her expensive sneakers with my cheap tongue, and starts to tease and torment me with her ‘dirty talk’:
‘Ha! Ha! Just be thinking, slave, if you were being my personal footslave I could be taking you home right now – to heel – and making you act as my footrest while I am relaxing on my sofa all afternoon, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! You would be experiencing my stinky, grey socks resting on your miserable face all afternoon, isn’t it? And I would be making you sniff them out loud between the toes in front of my husband and sister! Ha! Ha! How they are laughing at you – the Pakistani girl’s grey-sock sniffer and wastrel! Ha! Ha! What do you think of that, footoire-slave? Are you not now wishing you could become the personal slave of my grey socks on my feet?’
What can I say?
Here’s what:
‘Oh pray, mistress Marriba; if it pleases you, goddess-Pakistani, and modest-Muslim, customer-mistress Marriba, truly this lowly, public footoire-slave is most enamoured by the sight of your short, grey socks inside your blue and white sneakers, and would be honoured to be their personal slave in the comfort of your own home, mistress-madam, should it be so pleasing to you and your husband, my master-sir, most glorious and revered mistress-madam Marriba!’
She laughs out loud at me – in part at my pathetic obsequiousness, as I physically and verbally cringe before a twenty-something slip of a Pakistani-girl; in part because of my evident, pathetic longing to get up close and personal with the sweaty smell of her semi-secret, grey socks; in part because she knows that I have no choice but to endorse her fantastical flights of fantasy; and in part because she knows full well I shall never get to fulfil ‘my’ (‘our’) dream of being her personal grey-sock slave, since I am imprisoned for life in this footoire-cubicle (it says as much on the outside of my cubicle, as well as declaring my footslave-crime that lead to my being sentenced to life in the footoire – namely the crime of stealing a young woman’s discarded, smelly socks; hence miss Marriba knows just how to tease and torment me to good effect, since she is fully aware of my pitiful weakness for female, sweaty socks!)
She cruelly hitches up the frayed (and slightly muddy), blue denim jean-hem on her daintily-outstretched, right leg in order to sock-tease me even further with the sight of her plain, grey, everyday sneaker-sock set against her smooth, brown, angular, Pakistani-girl ankleskin, as I continue to lickshine her dirty, blue and white, low-top sneaker, and yet she does so in the supreme, female confidence that I cannot so much as brush my kneeling, would-be-personal-sockslave face against the narrow, elasticated top of her superior, grey-cotton, sneaker sock without her explicit, Pakistani-girl permission. She can tease me all she likes – and I am completely powerless to do anything about it!
No wonder she enjoys her regular tormentress-visits to my footoire-booth so much; she is my ideal fantasy-master, and I am the impotent slave of her sneakered, but sadly not her socked, feet!
Still, at least we can both enjoy the fantasy!
Footoire Fiction no. 8 – Frequently Asked Question
Ask yourself this question – why would a smartly-dressed, thirty-something, Oriental-Asian businesslady, whose flat, black, patent leather loafers are already perfectly clean and shiny, bother to step into a city centre footoire in order to have her businesswoman shoes lickshined even further?
Answer – to heap even further humiliation on the powerless and impotent slave chained up inside the footoire!
Yes – it’s purely about the exercise of female power over the emasculated male; that, and the desire to impose her rich, black cotton socks on my face, beneath the hems of her light grey, cotton and polyester, turned-up trouser hems!
Without those designer turn-ups, with all due respect to the mistress, her socks would be barely visible; but with them, my sense of semi-public humiliation is augmented along with my enhanced view of the creases and folds in her otherwise smooth, black, successful-Asian-woman anklesocks.
It’s as if she’s laughing at me, and saying:
‘Ha! Ha! Your pathetic, little world is right now limited to the view of my shiny, black loafers and matt-black socks, you foolish footoire-flunkey! Ha! Ha! Even my shoes and socks are more upmarket and high class than you are – and they certainly go places you can only ever dream of going to, like my office; my car; my boudoir; and my bathroom. For my shoes and socks accompany me on my feet wherever I go – whereas you are just stuck here all day and all night, disenfranchised and immured, yearning for my superior-businesswoman feet to come and visit you, so that you can at least taste some modicum of my female success by licking the dirt where I have been walking. Ha! Ha! My dirty shoesoles, and sweaty, warm socks, are the nearest you will ever get to feeling success in your life – for you are but an impoverished footoire-failure, fit only to lickshine women’s shoes and run your nose along their socks; whereas I am a wealthy, young Asian businesswoman in my prime, fit to be worshipped and admired! Kiss my feet, loser; lick my shoes – and count the creases in my socks!’
I’m sure she is laughing at me – inwardly (though her pretty, oriental face remains strict and inscrutable whilst I tongueshine her already shiny-black, city loafers); and, although she is totally silent whilst I serve her, she must, at the very least, be thinking all of the above.
For, after all, it’s what you’re thinking; isn’t it?
Footoire Fiction no. 9 – Vandals!
Vandalism is, of course, a perennial problem in any big, modern city – and my humble, city centre footoire is not immune.
The six or so members of the inner-city girlgang fill me with fear and dread as they squeeze into my footoire, noisily banging the tin walls of the footoire, and gobbing (spitting) onto the floor beneath me – and onto my bald head!
I am surrounded by female sneakers of various styles – some high-top; some low-top; a mixture of converse, keds and athletic sneakers. But the apparent ringleader of the gang – a nose-pierced and blonde-braided, mixed-race girl in her early twenties, who is wearing a pair of scruffy and frayed blue-denim jeans cut off at the ankles, and high-top, grubby-white, lace-up sneakers with the words ‘kill’ and ‘hate’ written on them – has brought me an ‘extra’ treat tonight. She takes another, even tattier, plain black, low-top, athletic sneaker with worn, pink laces out of a carrier bag, and to hoots of encouragement from her sneaker-wearing, fellow-girlgang members, hunkers down in front of me in order to tie the dirty, used sneaker around my female-spit smattered face, with the open end of the sneaker strategically positioned over my nose.
I am now forced to breathe in the aroma of her stale, sweaty sneaker-air – the stench of a bleached-blonde, straggly-haired, girlgang-leader’s well-used sneaker, whilst she proceeds to spray-paint the words:
‘Girls’ stinky-sneaker sniffer’
in garish-green lettering all over my whip-scarred back and shoulders!
As she does so, I catch a glimpse of her seemingly innocent, plain white anklesock-tops deep inside her grubby-white, converse high-tops – but this young woman is clearly no innocent; she knows exactly how to vandalise and graffiti-spray a street-corner, public footslave!
Having finished her impromptu art work, she stands up to a whole heap of peer praise and criminal congratulations from her fellow, excitable girlgang members, and her socks once again disappear from my view deep inside the warm and moist confines of her laced-up, white converse sneakers. Meanwhile, another of the young women kindly kicks off one of her loosely-laced, streetdirt-stained yellow keds in order to peel off her matching, furry-yellow kneesock and stuff it inside my mouth – thereby forcing me to breathe only through the stench of her leader’s black, pink-laced, athletic sneaker which has been so deftly attached to my kneeling nose.
My muffled groans of despair delight the female throng within my footoire, and the cruel cacophony of sneakers appear to break-dance in some sort of victory celebration around my sneaker-imprisoned head, before abandoning me to my stinky-black-sneaker and sweaty-yellow-girlsock, makeshift prison.
The green spray-paint also starts to sting ferociously on my naked back.
After several minutes, my next legitimate customer-mistress – a regular by the name of mistress Fiona (one of the local businesswomen) – enters my footoire for her usual, black leather oxford-brogue tongueshining. She bursts out laughing when she sees my vandalised face and back, but graciously crouches down in order to pull the yellow kneesock out of my mouth – presumably so that I can go about my business of lickshining her business shoes.
As she does so I catch a glimpse of her matching, black, ankle-length business socks.
‘Ha! Ha! How are you liking it, ‘girls’ stinky-sneaker sniffer’? Ha! Ha! How do you like the smell of that manky, old sneaker over your footslave-nose? Ha! Ha! Look – even the sole of the sneaker is coming off; the girl who wore that sneaker must have owned it for years! Ha! Ha! And now it graces your nose! Ha! Ha! Ha! Nasty!’
I am permitted to answer mocking mistress Fiona as she has asked me a direct question; and, of course, my mouth is now ‘free’ to talk, having been liberated from its sweaty, yellow, furry-kneesock, inner lining:
‘Oh pray, mistress Fiona, if it pleases you goddess customer-mistress Fiona, truly this slave is humbled by the stink of the inside of this stale girl-sneaker, madam. Oh the stench, madam!’
My voice sounds quite nasal through the noxious sneaker.
Miss Fiona just laughs as she stands up straight and chucks my thick, yellow, saliva-drenched sock-gag down onto the ground, before stretching forth her own dry shoe and sock for my humble mouth-ministrations:
‘Ha! Ha! Lickshine my black brogue and kiss my black anklesock, girls’ stinky-sneaker sniffer!’
‘Yes, madam!’
…………………………………………………………………………………………….
My part-time, East-European, footoire-cleaner mistress – miss Tatiana – isn’t so amused by my vandalised face and back, mainly because she is lazy, and it’s her job to clean up the mess!
She whips me across my spray-painted back with the public-use whipping stick before getting out her rough, handheld scrubbing brush and endeavouring to scrape the green spray-paint off my now red-raw and sore back. I scream so much with the pain she even needs to, temporarily, reinsert the yellow kneesock-gag inside my mouth, in order to protect her blonde-haired ears from my involuntary, and unmanly, cries.
Not for long though – for she knows she must get me fully operational again as soon as possible. It’s coming up to the morning rush hour, and there will be lots of young business-ladies and female shop-assistants requiring their early-morning footwear to be spruced up by the footoire-slave!
The irony is that, as she stoops down to eventually untie the discarded, black athletic sneaker from my imprisoned nose, I see that she is wearing a broadly similar pair of cheap, black, lace-up sneakers – only with grey laces and grey stripes down the sides, and short, plain grey sneaker-socks which expose her bare, pasty-white, Slavonic anklebones; her sneakers too look like they have seen better days. But she is clearly not yet ready to dispose of them by tying them around the footoire-slave’s pained face!
Footoire Fiction no. 10 – In All Innocence
She can’t for the life of her understand why the filthy footoire-slave actually likes tongueshining her dirty, black leather ankleboots; nor why he is so mesmerised by the sight of her common-or-garden, thick navy-blue cotton socktop beneath her hitched-up, black polyester trouser hem!
But she does understand that, pathetically, she is one of the highlights of his sad day and, being a sweet-natured and kind young woman, she therefore indulges him by attending his footoire-cubicle on a regular basis.
Don’t get me wrong – she wouldn’t lose any sleep if she failed to present herself at the footoire for any reason e.g. if she is in a hurry to get home and changed into her partying outfit for a hot date out on the town with her handsome and manly boyfriend, master Jonathan sir. Her boyfriend, obviously, comes first in her life – as he is the one who brings her to orgasm and satisfies her sexually. But, if she can find the time to squeeze me in, she will nevertheless endeavour to attend my city-centre footoire for ‘a quick lick and a shine’!
Besides, she quite likes the way I flatter and fawn to her, eulogising about her everyday, navy-blue bootsocks and praising and blessing her for honouring me with her divine, feminine presence. It turns her on – so that I suppose you could argue that I act as a kind of foreplay for the real man in her life to then take over and satisfy her libidinous yearnings which I have engendered deep inside her vulva by my cringing submissiveness and obsequiousness.
Sometimes I have even sensed her rubbing herself above me as I extol the virtues and beauty of her navy-blue bootsock, and have titillated her and teased her about letting me unzip the side of her chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboot in order that I may rub my nose against the vertical, ribbed stitching on the side of her sock for her!
But, she is a chaste and virtuous, young woman who would never dream of being disloyal to her masterful boyfriend, master Jonathan sir – and so she spurns my socksual-advances with a coy, girlish giggle, a quick flick of her long, blonde locks, and an exhortation to me to concentrate on lickshining the outside of her dirty, black leather ankleboot.
She then flicks open her cell phone and talks to the real man in her life, appraising him of my humble tonguework on the instep of her outstretched boot, and informing him of my unwanted advances on her sock.
Later that day she returns with her boyfriend, who wishes to defend her sock-honour by beating me with the public-use, whipping stick and teaching me a lesson in decorum and respect for his ‘bird’. What can I say? I am guilty as charged, and deserve all I get!
Whilst master Jonathan sir is beating me I notice that his girlfriend has changed into a short skirt, shiny black stiletto-heeled pumps, and dark, sensuous nylons. It would appear that, like me, she’s perhaps not such an innocent after all!
