Footoire Foibles

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 Foible no. 1 - Raising the Temperature

The Female Police have just entered my humble, inner city footoire in order to administer an on-the-spot beating to me.

The reason is, apparently, that a customer-mistress has complained about my footoire-cubicle being too cold!

I have to say, I agree with the disgruntled customer-mistress – it is nearly always cold inside my footoire, being at least partially open to the elements (no roof, and a gap at the bottom for the wind to whistle through!), but I’m not sure how any of that is my fault; after all, I didn’t design it – I just work there!

On reflection, I think I know which shivering customer-mistress it was – thirty-something, brunette-haired, regular customer-mistress, mistress Fiona. I remember her commenting on just how cold she was earlier this morning whilst I had been lickshining her chunky-heeled, round-toed, black leather ankleboots on her way into work. Apparently, extreme cold is one of her pet foibles – she can’t abide the cold!

The reason why it stuck in my mind was that she hadn’t even raised up her blue denim jean-hem sufficiently high enough for me to be able to tongueshine the upper rim of her black ankleboot, as she was worried about her bare ankle getting cold. I remember thinking ‘aren’t you wearing your usual thick, black woollen bootsocks inside your pretty ankleboots, then, mistress Fiona?’, but not daring to actually ask her, given the foul mood she was in, and instead just feeling aggrieved inside that I was having to lickshine the outsides of her cold, black leather boots without the comforting sight of her warm, woollen socktops!

It must surely have been her who kicked up a fuss with the local, female-municipal authorities, who in turn have referred me to the Female Police for retribution and punishment?

I should, actually, be grateful to snitch-mistress Fiona (if it was her) for having me publicly beaten, for the Female Police Officers’ punishment straps are now fairly warming up my cold, naked and shivering back!

……………………………………………………………………….

Two days later, during her regular bootlick-visit to my footoire, customer-mistress Fiona did indeed confirm that it was her who had reported me for having a freezing cold booth. She instructed me to kiss her boots and thank her for having me whipped, which I did, and then warned me that she would not hesitate to report me again if ever my booth was so cold again!

Fortunately, the temperature outside the footoire-booth has now risen, and the Gynarchy winds have died down a bit, so it is not quite so cold inside anymore – and the really good news is that, on her return visit, mistress Fiona no longer had any weather-related compunctions about hitching up her blue-denim, jean hems as normal to reveal the elasticated tops of her familiar, thick, black, woollen bootsocks once again (as always with just a hint of smooth, bare, white legskin above the woolly socktop!).

So, I’m pleased to say that everything is now as it should be – the slave has been soundly beaten; the temperature has risen; and brunette goddess customer-mistress Fiona’s thick, black bootsocks are once again visible to me inside her stylish, black leather ankleboots.

So all’s well that ends well!

 

Footoire Foible no. 2 - Making my eyes pop!

Regular, Indian, footoire customer-mistress, miss Rani, is a bit of an eye-popper!

Not only is she eye-poppingly beautiful in her smart, pinstriped business suit; it is her wont to stand over me in her black-loafered shoes, digging her bony, black-socked anklebones into my imprisoned temples and simultaneously making fun of me by saying such things as:

‘Ha! Ha! How you are liking it, humble footoire-slave? How you are liking it when I am painfully digging my socked ankles into your low-brow forehead?’

She loves to regularly mock and torment me thus, for she is upper-caste. Today, however, she went one step further, and asked me the following, rhetorical question:

‘Ha! Ha! Are you not wishing that I could be popping your eyes out of their sockets on their stalks, so that you could then be running them up and down my black anklesocks, and examining the stitching in my socks in the finest detail? Ha! Ha!’

If truth be told, I very much like the idea of my eyesight being even closer to her socks, such that I could feel their soft, black, cotton material on my eyeballs!

‘Oh yes, mistress! Oh pray, mistress Rani; if it pleases you mistress Rani!’

‘Ha! Ha! And then I could be shoving your eyeballs back into their sockets with the sides of my ankles, isn’t it slave? So that you can be admiring the socks of other women again, without your eyes popping out of your head?’

‘Oh yes, mistress! God bless you, mistress Rani, if you would be so kind, mistress-madam!’

Her capricious, Indian-woman mood swiftly changes:

‘YOU REALLY ARE BEING A MOST IMPERINENT FOOTSLAVE! YOU SHOULD BE ANSWERING THAT YOU WOULD WISH FOR YOUR EYES TO BE REMAINING ON MY SOCKS FOR ALL TIME, AS YOU ONLY HAVE EYES FOR MY BLACK COTTON ANKLESOCKS, ISN’T IT?!’

I can’t believe how foolish, and selfish, I have just been! Of course I should only have eyes for miss Rani’s flat, black leather loafers and socks! Shouldn’t every customer-mistress be made to feel special in that way?!

I immediately apologise for my impertinence, and seek her young-womanly forgiveness and mercy:

‘Oh pray, mistress Rani! Oh goddess-mistress! Please forgive me for my disloyal remark, mistress! Truly this slave only has eyes for your black shoes and socks, madam!’

But it is too late. She calls out for the footoire guard:

‘GUARD! GUARD! COME QUICKLY!’

The guard – a hefty brute of a free man – enters the footoire with his whip already drawn:

‘Is there a problem, madam?’

‘YES! THIS FILTHY SLAVE HAS BEEN DISRESPECTING MY SOCKS! I AM WANTING HIM WHIPPED THIS INSTANT!’

‘Yes certainly, madam! It will be my pleasure – but would madam kindly like to move out of the way for a moment please, lest I inadvertently catch her with the tip of the whip?’

I feel miss Rani’s angular anklebones leaving my temples, and see her plain, black cotton anklesocks disappear once more from view beneath her black-pinstriped, business-suit trouser hems, as she stands up and moves over out of the way of the whip to the far corner of the footoire. Still, I endeavour to keep my eyes on her dusty, rounded, loafer shoe-toes, as I know they will help to distract me from the impending pain of the burly footoire-guard’s punishing whip!

The ferocious sting of the 7 punishing blows I receive across my bare back and shoulders fairly makes my eyes water, as does the long, lingering kiss of gratitude that miss Rani then gives the male guard – especially as she coquettishly raises her right, loafered foot up into the air behind her whilst she is kissing him, thereby exposing an even greater expanse of her black, feminine sock to my humble foot-gaze once more!

How I wish my watery eyes could pop out of my head right now – and gently soothe her slighted socks whilst she embraces and congratulates my whipper above me. For, like I said at the beginning, Indian customer-mistress, miss Rani, is eye-poppingly beautiful; as are her socks!

Footoire Foible no. 3 – Creatures of the Night

Some nights my humble, city-centre footoire can be almost as busy as during the day time, with a steady stream of nocturnal, female visitors.

Take tonight, for example. It’s 03:00 A.M, and in the last hour alone I have had three, very different, but each in their own way very beautiful, feminine creatures of the night visit me in order to utilise my 24/7 footoire-services:

· Smiler Sally: Smiler Miss Sally (aka ‘Long, Tall Miss Sally’ amongst we frolicsome footoire-slaves, on account of her height), is always smiling whilst utilising me. That’s because she is never happier – even at 02:00 in the morning – than when she is humiliating and degrading some ‘two-bit, male public footwhore’ (as she refers to me) with her sombre, grey, lace-up, low-top sneakers and incongruously bright anklesocks.

Tonight she is wearing garish-green, luminous towelling socks inside her plain, grey sneakers and scrunched around her shapely, white ankles over her black cotton leggings. She has me ‘nose’ her green socks, before kissing them, and is beaming broadly from ear to ear as I pay my enforced nasal respect to her fluffy, thick, luminous anklesockwear!

Then, she smiles an even broader smile when she finds an excuse to unhook the public-use whipping-stick from the footoire’s inner wall behind me in order to beat me with it, several harsh times, across my bare back and shoulders; something to do with my ‘missing a loose stitch near the top of her left anklesock with my incompetent slave-nose’.

Any trumped up excuse for a slave-beating will do as far as Miss Sally is concerned, for, as her smiling face so eloquently reveals, Long, Tall, Smiler Mistress Sally just loves to beat and humiliate a nocturnal footslave with her socks and the whip!

Still, at least the sting of the smilingly, and lovingly, applied whip warms my bare back again on this cold winter’s night – for, mistress Sally may be well wrapped-up in her heavy, black anorak against the bitter cold of the wee, small hours, but I am butt-naked, as per usual, inside my freezing, late-night footoire!

· Two-Sock Suzie: So-called because she sweetly informed me, during a previous nocturnal visit to my footoire-booth, that she has to wear two thick pairs of socks inside her clodhopping, great, oversized, black leather, lace-up, security-guard boots – not because her feet are cold (the heavy boots actually provide good insulation against the cold, or so she tells me!), but rather just to keep the man-sized boots fitting comfortably on her dainty, feminine feet.

I don’t know flame-haired, regular customer-mistress Suzie well enough yet to enquire of her as to the nature of her sockwear inside her boots – their texture; material; colour etc. Such unsolicited questions on the part of a public footoire-slave – though delivered with the best of intentions (i.e. getting to know a customer-mistress and her nocturnal sock habits) – could possibly be construed as prurient and impertinent, and thus lead to yet another unwanted, warming whipping on my poor, lacerated back!

And so I steer clear of the intriguing subject of her double socks inside her boots, whilst resting safe and secure in the knowledge that, inside each heavy, scuffmarked, reinforced, female-security-guard, boot toe which I am nocturnally sucking and lickshining, there are two pairs of thick, ankle-filling, female socks – protecting a pair of, no doubt, dainty, feminine feet from the spare capacity inside her oversized boots; for the rest of her is very petite, sweet and feminine – as one would expect of a female security-guard in the Gynarchy.

Only her boots make her look big and strong!

· Sleepwalker Samantha: Regular, nocturnal customer-mistress Samantha often visits me in the dead of night, for she lives nearby, and has popped out to see me with her pyjamas tucked into her calf-length ugg boots, simply because she cannot sleep. Or rather, because of her disturbed sleep patterns, for miss Samantha is an inveterate sleepwalker!

Don’t worry - she is always well wrapped-up in her dressing-gown; the poor girl won’t freeze to death (unlike me!). And, semi-awake or not, she certainly seems to have no tousle-haired- blonde-girl inhibitions when it comes to slipping off her night-time, beige brown and street-soiled, furry-slipper-like, sheepskin ugg boots, and imposing her stinky, thick woollen, cartoon-themed bedsocks on my helpless, footoire-slave nostrils!

At least she doesn’t seem to whip in her sleep – just shove bright, woolly bedsock in my face, for me to silently sniff whilst she stands and snoozes! I suppose it’s an honour, really – sniffing a young woman’s intimate, sweaty, warm bedsocks in a public footoire; it’s like something a personal footslave would do in the home, yet here I am doing it in semi-public out on the street!

And she won’t wake up whilst I’m doing it, either! After some 10 minutes she will simply sleepwalk back to her nearby apartment, and climb back into bed next to her boyfriend, no doubt snuggling up to him whilst he remains blissfully unaware of his girl’s night-time tryst with the public footservant in the dirty street down below!

When she subsequently uses me to lickshine her smart, black leather ballet-flats over her black, woolly tights on her way into work later that morning, she has absolutely no recollection of the events earlier that morning; she has no idea that I know the intimate smell of her unwashed, ripened bedsocks!

How strange! Yes, I do indeed get to see some strange and exotic, female creatures of the night in my nocturnal footoire – especially on a busy night like the one I’ve just described!

But I’m not complaining; I wouldn’t change it for the world!

 

Footoire Foible no. 4 – The Footoire-Slave’s Cure For Delirium

I had a dream…

I was kneeling on a raised podium in Indonesia in front of a hostile, female crowd of several hundred, smiling, jeering women – being publicly flogged across my bare back and shoulders with a whippy, rattan cane by a curly-haired, blonde woman in a beige-coloured raincoat, dark nylons, and a pair of smart, black leather courts with two inch heels.

She was an expert whipper, and really knew how to overlay the cane-cuts, such that my back was in agony, and I was crying out to her for mercy – but the crowd of onlookers, also all white women, were urging her to flog me even harder… Harder!…harder!…Harder Gillian!

Gillian…That must be her name! Mistress Gillian to me, of course!

But why are there no headscarfed Indonesian women present at the public-flogging proceedings, taking pictures of my public pain and humiliation on their mobile phones?

Bizarre!

Mistress Gillian seems to listen to the crowd of onlookers, rather than my lone cries for mercy! My only respite is that I get to see the finest-denier, dark-nylon covering her outstretched, right anklebone behind me, creasing and folding as she swings down the cane for each cutting, biting stroke of the cane – so I am able, to some extent, to brace myself for each burning sting!

Then I start to come round…and I realise it isn’t a dream! Not wholly, at any rate!

For I am in the process of being publicly flogged; and my female flogger is a tall, attractive, blonde girl wearing a beige-coloured raincoat, dark nylons, and black, court shoes; and she is standing behind me swinging a cane.

Only – it’s not a rattan cane; it’s the usual footoire whipping-stick. I’m not kneeling on a raised podium in rural Indonesia; I’m kneeling on my usual spot, on the dirty ground, in the middle of my city-centre footoire in the city of Femina, in the north of the Gynarchy; and the crowd of several hundred female onlookers, baying for my blood, is not a ‘crowd’ as such ; it consists of only three other women – all, like the flogger behind me, dressed for the city centre business district, and for the Gynarchy rain which is falling lightly onto my freshly-flogged back!

I had been dreaming – and was now being flogged out of my pleasant dream-world, and back into my world of harsh, footoire reality!

It’s amazing just how hard it can be to stay alert and awake when you’re a city-centre, footoire slave with a high temperature and a fever! No wonder the smartly-dressed, blonde-haired businesswoman is beating me hard across my back – I must have fallen asleep on the job!

Thankfully, the harsh, biting sting of her expertly wielded whipping-stick brings me, to some degree at any rate, back to my senses – the ‘lazy footslave’s cure’ as they call it! When she has finally finished beating me and berating me, and has moved back round to stand in front of me, I lower my head to her black, court business-shoes, and feverishly kiss them and lickshine them – as I am supposed to do.

I also verbally praise and bless her for flogging me back to my senses – as I am supposed to do – and then kiss and lickshine the shoes and boots of her three female, business colleagues in turn, who had contributed to my recovery through their highly vocal support for the blonde-haired, semi-public flogger.

I wonder if her name really is mistress Gillian, though, or was I just dreaming it? I hope she is called that, for it’s a nice name for a city-mistress. I would be deliriously happy if it was; there aren’t many women called ‘Gillian’ here in rural Indonesia, where I earn my living kissing female feet …

 

Footoire Foible no. 5 - Fallen Angel

Everyone else probably sees her as a ‘skank’, and, to be fair, she does, in many respects, fit the bill:

· Drugs-addled

· A local prostitute by trade

· A single mum at 18

· Dirty-blonde, unkempt and tousled hair

· Always in skimpy tops and short skirts, with chunky, black ankleboots and white socks beneath her pockmarked and skinny, pasty-white legs (ready for outdoor sex whatever the weather)

· Reputedly licentious and promiscuous by her very, fallen nature

· Certainly sweary

· Invariably with a cigarette in her hand, and sometimes also a bottle

· The sort of young woman who is not afraid to pick her nose in public, and flick it down onto me, since I am just a helpless slave at her black-anklebooted feet

And yet, whenever regular customer-mistress Angel enters my run-down and graffiti-strewn, city-centre footoire (which smells more like a pissoir, as it is often used as such by drunken freemales on their free nights out on the town); pushes her offspring-occupied pram to one side; lights up a cigarette; and presents her street-soiled, street-walker’s chunky black leather ankleboot for a thorough lickshining, I view her as a superior goddess, high above me, and an example of all that is good about young womanhood.

I do so partly because I am obliged by law to respect and admire all young women who enter my footoire; partly because I fear that, if I don’t show her all due respect, she will lash out at me viciously and uncontrollably with the footoire whipping-stick (put it this way, she certainly wouldn’t care if your whip-wounds subsequently became infected); and partly because I do genuinely recognise that she is my infinite better, being young, fecund and female, as opposed to old, impotent and male like myself.

She is also naturally more intelligent than me, being female – even though she is illiterate, whereas I was a published author in my previous, pre-slave life; even though she left school with no qualifications, whereas I am a former professor of Old Frisian and Old Saxon; and even though she has a limited, sweary street-vocabulary, whereas I am fluent in the humble art of flowery and respectful slavespeak.

Whilst I am dutifully tongue-attending to her chunky-heeled and square-toed, black leather, second-hand ankleboot (last year’s fashion), and pathetically admiring the twisted top of her grubby-white, lattice-stitched anklesock above her upper bootrim, she nonchalantly spits out a thick globule of smoky, young-womanly phlegm onto the floor of the footoire beneath my kneeling face.

But not onto my face, you will note. Miss Angel may, on occasions, find it amusing to festoon me in her sticky, working-girl nosepick, but she is not totally without class! She doesn’t just wilfully gob on me for no good reason – only when I deserve it; for example, if I miss a bit of streetwalker-dirt on her boots. Then she has every right to spit out her anger, and her smoker’s phlegm, onto me!

I’ll bet her seemingly pure, white socks smell tart inside those boots; I’ll bet she doesn’t change her socks every day; or bathe her feet. As I said before, even the tops of her white anklesocks look quite grubby and unkempt – rather like her tousled, dirty-blonde hair. Yet the rest of her – apart from her hair, boots and socks – seems relatively clean; physically if not morally.

And, to be fair, she always smells nice herself. Apart from when she belches above me, in between dragging on her cigarette, filling my footoire-air – the air I must live and breathe in – with a mixture of her exhaled smoke and inner gut-aroma; it smells like she’s just been eating curry, and drinking alcohol, even though it’s only 10 o’clock in the morning! Not that it’s any of my business; human food and drink are forbidden to me; I must survive on the likes of miss Angel’s bootmud, nosepick, and dirty, boot and shoe-soiled rainwater, all of which I lick up from the ground where my glorious, footoire customer-mistresses, like miss Angel, have been standing over me.

I might even treat myself later to her green phlegm which is now glistening on the floor next to my bootlicking face – after she has gone, of course, for she didn’t mean to treat me to her bronchial mucus! She knows I will have to eat her red-lipstick-stained, discarded cigarette butt after she exits the footoire – the one soon to be extinguished and squashed in front of me by her right bootsole – as I am obliged, by law, to keep my footoire clean. But she won’t necessarily be expecting me to wash it down with her expelled phlegm – she’ll expect that just to dissipate into the atmosphere quite naturally; eventually!

She suddenly takes out her mobile phone and swears into it at somebody – not in an aggressive or angry way, but just because she always likes to pepper her conversations with foul language. It’s in her skank-nature. That’s why I must always lickshine her ‘f***ing’ boots; or ‘*f***ing’ get my nose onto the tops of her ‘f***ing’, white anklesocks – depending on her mood.

Today it’s just boots – or rather, one boot; for her visit is cut short as her baseborn offspring starts to bawl and cry in its second-hand pram. So she ‘f***ing’ shouts at it to shut up, extinguishes her half-finished cigarette on the floor with her freshly-lickshined, right ankleboot (her grubby-white socktop twisting and creasing teasingly in front of my face as she does so) and swiftly exits the footoire pushing the rusty pram in front of her.

What a superb role model for a mistress, the aptly-named mistress Angel is! And I mean that most sincerely. She may be a fallen angel, but she has not sunk so low as myself. She is my undisputed better, since she is not the enslaved, middle-aged male licking young women’s dirty shoes and boots for a living in a stinking, gob-strewn and cigarette-butt littered, city-centre footoire; and she is free to go places, pushing her pram.

I’m going nowhere!

 

Footoire Foible no. 6 – Gōng Xǐ Fā Cái

It’s Chinese new year, apparently; and the three young Chinese women who have just entered my late-night footoire are certainly in the mood for celebrating.

· One of them – the one with the short skirt; shiny, black leather, high-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up kneeboots; and dark nylon stockings – crouches down in front of me to attach miniature Chinese lanterns to my ears. I must look like a middle-aged tart with large earings – which is appropriate enough, given that many of my female customers view me as a middle-aged, male foot-tart!

· The second one – the one with the short skirt; calf-length, laced-up, purple leather DMs; and black, woolly tights – kindly shares her nutritional, festive spring roll with me; though only after she has sucked and chewed all the tastiness and goodness out of it in her own, sweet feminine, Chinese mouth!

· The third – the one with the short skirt; black leather ballet flats; and bare legs (she must be freezing to death on a bitterly cold, February night like this), simply throws up – to the great disgust of her companions, but not necessarily to mine – in the far corner of my footoire, leaving me with the aroma of female puke for the rest of the evening (indeed, that particular mess is unlikely to get cleared up for several days until my part-time, student-cleaner mistress – miss Tatiana – deigns to put in an appearance!)

They then, all three of them, ironically wish me good fortune and prosperity in Chinese, knowing full well, of course, that I am destined to be a humble footoire-slave for the rest of my natural life!

And so, a fun time was had by all in the footoire on Chinese New Year – though, admittedly, I didn’t actually get to lickshine any of the Chinese girls’ dirty shoes or boots!

Footoire Foible no. 7 – Be My Valentine…

Just a few days later, and yet another young lady – this time a beautiful, auburn-haired, mixed-race girl – graciously invites me to partake in a superior, free persons’ celebration.

She was clearly impressed by my tongue-shining abilities on her dirty, beige-brown, calf-length ugg boots:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s so sweet of you, old-man footslave! Look – you’ve really spruced my sheepskin boots up a treat! Aww – you’re such a sweetheart! Would you please be my valentine? I must say, you’d be a good catch for a beautiful, young woman like me! Ha! Ha!’

I am hugely flattered, of course, even though I know it is said more in jest, than in sincerity, and I am obliged by law to play along with her:

‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if it pleases you, pretty mistress, this slave would indeed be honoured to be considered the beautiful, young mistress’s valentine, if it would be so pleasing to you, superior goddess-mistress?’

‘Aww – how sweet! Only problem is – my boyfriend might take exception towards you’re being my valentine, in that he’s likely to come round and beat you to a public-footslave pulp! That’s because he’s a real man, you see – not a sad and lonely, old loser-footslave like you! Maybe you should just stick to lickshining my boots! Ha! Ha! Loser!’

And with that she leaves me alone and loveless in my forlorn footoire – where I belong!

Footoire Foible no. 8 – Fleeting Beauty

Blink and you’d have missed her! The pint-sized, twenty-something black girl in the white, high-top sneakers and skinny-tight, blue denim jeans only popped in for a quick kiss to each grubby-white rubbery sneaker-toe!

You’d wonder why she even bothered – just to make her feel big and strong, I guess? Superior!

I didn’t even get time to see if she was wearing any socks inside her high-top sneakers, so quickly did she come and go from my footoire. But one thing’s for sure – though she herself may not have lingered, the taste and smell of her rubbery-white, black-girl sneaker-toes shall remain with me for a long time; quite beautiful!

They do say ‘you can’t get quicker than a quick foot-kisser’ (or words to that effect!)

 

Footoire Foible no. 9 – Dicing With Fur

I fear feminine, furry-topped boots – not because they don't look nice; not because they don't smell nice; not because they don't taste nice; and not because they don't feel nice on my footslave-forehead as I lickshine the bootleather below the fur – but because I am allergic to fur; it makes me sneeze!

Even faux-fur risks tickling my nose as my tongue nears the top of the furry-covered boot – and I surely don't have to spell out for you the seriousness of a public footslave sneezing all over a customer mistress's precious street-boots?

And so, I live in abject, male fear and trembling – throughout the wintertime, when furry boots abound in my cold and frosty footoire! For fur can quickly turn to fury when a mistress's freshly-lickshined boots are suddenly, and inadvertently, splattered in slave-snot!

 

Footoire Foible no. 10 – Sox Abuse

I can tell she's a nasty girl by the message written in white, cotton stitching along the tops of her otherwise black, fully-pulled-up anklesocks inside her platform-heeled, fully laced-up, chunky-toed, street-soiled, black leather ankleboots:

'Go screw yourself, slave!'

And the white sock-lettering is accompanied by a white-stitched depiction of a dainty, female hand with the middle finger pointing straight upwards (up towards the inside of her short, black skirt, indeed!) in a female gesture of abuse aimed at my imprisoned, male, bootlicking face!

Only a truly nasty, punk-type girl would practise such unashamed sox-abuse of a male slave inside her heavy, black leather ankleboots, especially when she knows I'm in no position to obey that particular, soxual order. I’m just an impotent footoire-slave!

Respect to her!

Respect to all my beautiful footoire-mistresses; and their various foibles!