Footslave Accounts Volume 1
Suitably obsequious accounts of humble foot-servitude, from those who claim to have experienced it!
VOLUME 1 CONTENTS (scroll down for accounts in reverse numerical order)
10. Happy News!
9. Trash!
8. Taking one’s eye off the ball (of one’s Pakistani mistress’s heel)
7. CF(s)NM
6. A Humiliatingly Sockmarked Face
5. Seven Defining Words
4. Short Notice Change
3. Double D Mistress
2. Love at First Slight!
1. The Sock Box
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My 24 year old, Asian-babe footmistress, mistress Promporn, has summoned me to her boudoir where she is seated on the edge of her bed alongside her beloved, white husband who is nearly twice her age (as, indeed, am I!)
As soon as I reach her feet on my hands and knees and start kissing her black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots beneath the elasticated hems of her grey, cotton tracksuit bottoms, she informs me that she has some good news to tell me – she is pregnant!
I, of course, heartily congratulate the mistress (and the master-sir) by kissing the mistress’s scuffmarked, rounded boot-toes all the more deeply and vigorously, since I have now been made aware that I am kissing the booted feet of a fecund, Thai goddess!
The mistress and master-sir laugh at me, and the mistress explains to the jubilant master-sir that the pathetic reason why I am so excited is because I shall never have sex, or procreate, since I am just a dirty slave! They both laugh heartily at this disparaging thought as I continue to worship the boots of my superior, fertile, oriental mistress. Thanks to her raucous laughter, and the consequent subconscious movement in my beautiful and svelte, Far-Eastern mistress Promporn’s dainty, anklebooted feet, I catch the occasional glimpse of her pure, white, virginal socks inside the tops of her boots – even though I am self-evidently the only true virgin in the room!
When mistress and master eventually stop laughing at my bootlicking obsequiousness, my mistress explains that, due to her pregnancy, there will have to be a few changes around here:
First of all, her doctor has advised her not to over-exert herself anymore by whipping me herself. My mistress Promporn explained that she was very sad about this, as she enjoys whipping me so much, but she would now have to delegate her authority to physically punish me to her beloved husband.
She explained that, at least that way, I could continue to be punished and whipped within the privacy of their household, and she would not have to send me to the public whipping-house. Not only would the latter be quite an expensive option – it would also mean that she wouldn’t get to witness me being punished all the time; whereas, with her husband, my master-sir, doing all the whipping she could lie back and relax on her sofa in the comfort of her own living room whilst she watched me being whipped at her feet by her very own free man.
At this point the potent master-sir sitting beside her proudly interjected that he would be more than happy to ply the whip across my bare, kneeling back in order to keep me on his pregnant wife’s pretty, Thai toes! I duly thanked the mistress and master-sir for promising to keep me well-whipped, by further kissing the mistress’s scuffmarked boot-toes with genuine, footslavish admiration and respect. I even kissed the grey, elasticated hems of her cotton tracksuit-bottoms, though my lips could not gain access to the tops of her pure-white anklesocks since they were once again frustratingly hidden beneath those self-same tracksuit hems.
Meanwhile, my mistress Promporn proceeded to explain that her ankles would, most probably, swell up during the coming months – as a by-product of her pregnancy due to water retention. She explained that I would, therefore, be required to massage her feet and ankles more often, since I am still her personal footslave – though she did stress that I would continue to be prohibited from touching her bare feet!
My mistress Promporn is very ticklish, and has never been able to withstand me touching, kissing or nuzzling her bare, Thai-girl feet. She explained, therefore, that I would continue to massage her feet and ankles ‘in the sock’ – as I do now; only more often.
At this point the macho master-sir said he would make damn sure I massaged his pretty wife’s socked feet on a daily basis, and he reminded me of his newly-delegated authority to wield the female whip across my bare, maleslave back. I hastily reassured the master and mistress of my readiness to dutifully massage the mistress’s sweet-socked feet at any time of the day or night, whilst I continued to kiss her scuffmarked boot-toes, out of respect for my two superiors seated above me on their opulent master-bed.
Mistress Promporn laughed heartily at me, and informed me that another likely consequence of her pregnancy was that her feet would sweat a lot, and so she mockingly counselled me not to sound too enthusiastic about having to repeatedly massage her sweaty-socked, swollen feet and ankles, since she opined that I might not like the smell, as well as the look, of her feet much over the coming nine months!
The master-sir, for his part, assured his beloved, pregnant wife that, like it or not, I would massage her swollen, sweaty feet inside her socks, and that he personally would see to it that I came to relish the pungent, vinegary smell of pregnant Thai-girl, sweaty feet and socks; he reminded his pretty, Asian wife that there can be a lot of persuasion at the end of a whip!
I too sought to reassure the shy mistress as to my readiness to endure her pungent foot and sock stink, and expressed my footslavish viewpoint that nothing mattered more than the comfort and wellbeing of my mistress’s feet during her pregnancy, and that I therefore saw it as my humble and demeaning task to safeguard and pamper her feet over the coming months in whatever ways she deems fit – whatever their condition or smell.
The master-sir repeated that I would do well to do so.
My mistress Promporn then explained that, during the period of her pregnancy, she may well develop strange and unusual cravings and whims – such as the desire to have me consume her sticky, sweaty toejam from the insides of her socks; or the desire simply to witness me sniffing her stinky, white socks whilst she is still wearing them on her swollen feet. Again, I assured the mistress, in between kissing her black-anklebooted feet, that her every whim was my command, and that nothing could ever be too demeaning for a slave.
The master-sir laughed at this point and said ‘too right!’, whilst he fondled the black leather female whip now resting on his lap. Such a proud father-to-be; and whipper-to-be!
Finally, my mistress Promporn explained that, after she had given birth in about 8 months’ time, she would be too busy to run a household footslave any more. She explained that she had discussed matters with her husband, and they had decided to sell me on, after she gives birth, to the local mafia boss who runs their local nightclub where my mistress sometimes works as a lap-dancer; I would be one of the nightclub’s so-called ‘complementary footslaves’ – responsible for kissing the feet of the club’s female patrons as they entered and exited the steamy hot nightclub.
Seeing the grief and consternation on my devastated face at this shocking news, she told me not to despair too much – as I would still get to see, and kiss, her boots and shoes from time to time, as she fully intended to still visit the nightclub with her husband, even though she would be giving up her job there as a lap dancer!
I sobbingly conveyed my footslavish regret at not being able to continue in the capacity as her personal footslave after she becomes a young mum, and started to blubber and weep into my mistress Promporn’s anklebooted feet. She just laughed at me again, whilst the angry master-sir said he would soon give me something to weep about, and promptly stood up in order to apply several stinging blows of the whip across my ungrateful and self-centred, kneeling back!
Sure enough, the sting of the whip soon brought me to my senses, and I realised I was being incredibly selfish! I humbly apologised to the mistress and master, and thanked them for not merely arranging to send me to the underground slave-mines in 8 months’ time when they would no longer have need of me! I expressed my slavish gratitude for the fact that at least I would be able to continue to serve as a footslave, and to kiss superior, female boots and shoes, albeit in the very different environment of a busy nightclub.
The mistress and master-sir forgave me for my egotistical, blubbering outburst, and the master ordered me to unzip his wife’s black ankleboots and kiss the sides of her white socks as a demonstration of my humility and contrition. I duly did so – eager not just to prove my remorsefulness for whining and bemoaning my future fate, but for the chance to touch my precious, Thai mistress’s pure, white cotton bootsocks with my dirty, maleslave lips.
For, kissing the socks of a pregnant, Asian goddess must surely be one of the most humble privileges that can ever be bestowed upon a lowly and impotent representative of maleslave-kind!
She has come to mock me – the twenty-something, dark-haired, bespectacled, Japanese girl in the beige brown anorak; the short, grey, pleated skirt; the smart, shiny black, flat-heeled, slip on shoes; and the thick, brown, ribbed kneesocks.
She comes regularly, late at night, to my city-centre shoelick-stand in order to mock me – placing her outstretched foot onto the humble, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face like any other customer-mistress. But, unlike the others, her purpose is not to have her shoes lickshined; they are already perfectly clean and shiny. Nor do her brown-woollen kneesocks need straightening; they are already perfectly straight (apart from maybe a few small creases and folds around her dainty, Japanese ankles thanks to the arrogantly outstretched positioning of her leg and foot!)
No – this twenty-something, softly-spoken, studious-looking, oriental girl has come merely to mock and to gloat; to gloat over the fact that she is better than me, being all the things I am not - young, free, pretty, intelligent and female – and to compare and contrast our respective stations in life.
I still have to go through the motions of toungeshining her already shiny, black flats of course – and I do manage to find some faint traces of street dust and grime along the insteps under the night-time spotlight whilst she verbally berates me in front of her illuminated, brown-ribbed kneesocks, always in very good English, but with a cute, Japanese accent.
She begins by rebuking me for the untidy state of my litter-strewn footblock-area; it is nearly midnight, and the local university students – of which she is one – have been out partying and clubbing in the town square bars and nightclubs for several hours now, casually and uncaringly leaving their litter behind them – cigarette butts; sweet wrappers; burger boxes; used condoms; all in my kneeling and confined face area.
Indeed, the petite and anonymous, Japanese mistress now towering above me in her shapely, brown kneesocks even has to kick a tomato-ketchup stained, empty burger box off my wooden footblock with the rounded, buckled toe of her shiny, right shoe before she can position her nice, clean, footwear down onto it, but, mercifully, she seems to find my litterbug shoelick-stand amusing, rather than insulting and derogatory towards her:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave surrounded by trash! You dirty! You unclean! You not like me – I pure and female. That why I a Japanese goddess, and you must lick my shoe! Ha! Ha!’
I must humour her, of course (since mocking me and berating me is evidently her favourite, lonely pastime) in between lickshining her outstretched, superior, low-heeled, feminine shoe. As I’ve already mentioned (for these little shoe-details are so incredibly important for a down-in-the-dirt footslave) it has a decorative buckle over the top of the rounded toe area – a shiny, metal, heart-shaped buckle; something I can really get my teeth into (or at least my tongue around) if the pretty, pint-sized, dark-haired, oriental mistress will deign to let me.
Mindful of this, I seek to ingratiate myself with the bespectacled, Japanese-student, goddess mistress:
‘Oh pray, pretty Japanese mistress…lick…lick…if it pleases you, pretty Japanese goddess-mistress…lick…lick…lick… pray forgive this dirty footslave for the unwholesome state of his public shoelick-stand, mistress…lick…lick…this slave is truly ashamed of his untidiness, miss…lick…lick...and hopes and prays that the surrounding litter will not sully the pretty mistress’s pretty, black shoes, mistress… lick… lick…if you would be so kind and understanding to a lowlife slave, superior Japanese mistress-madam?…lick…lick…’
In my humble experience young women like being addressed as ‘madam’; it adds to their innate sense of power and authority over the down-at-flat-heel, impotent, male slave!
‘Ha! Ha! Slave shut up! Lick! Ha! Ha! I not interested in slave, dirty excuses! You a pig! You live in pig-sty! You a filthy street-whore! Ha! Ha! You lowest of low; even my brown sock higher than you! Ha! Ha!’
I cannot deny it – her long, brown, ribbed kneesock is indeed higher than me; both literally and figuratively. It casts a shadow over my downcast face as the young, Japanese woman’s outstretched, right leg partially blocks out the bright spotlight illuminating my night-time footblock. But that same light also highlights the deliciously ribbed stitching in the superior, brown woollen, female sock which is currently towering above me at an obtuse and dominant angle; I can even see several pieces of foreign, white fluff stuck to the stitching of the brown, woolly kneesock – just along the middle of the young, oriental woman’s shapely, feminine calf-muscles.
Again, if I play my cards right, who knows – even this supercilious and superior, smartly-dressed, young, overseas-student woman, who can barely tolerate being in my filthy, unkempt presence, may permit me to at least nuzzle that alien, white fluff off the surface of her brown sock – if I ask her nicely?
But, right now, she has ordered me to be quiet and focus on lickshining her outstretched, buckled shoe. One thing I do know about her, apart from her being myopic and a bit of an insomniac (for, although I don’t yet know her name, she has visited me many times before in similar late-night circumstances) is that she does like the sound of her own, pretty Japanese voice.
And rightly so!
‘Ha! Ha! You worth less than Japanese-girl sock! Ha! Ha! I buy sock for 5 Fems! I buy you for only 2 Fems on black market, if I want! Ha! Ha! You a nothing! You a nobody!’
I don’t believe for one moment that this arrogant, young oriental woman has any real intention of purchasing me on the black market (more’s the pity!), but she is referring to the fact that, although I am a Female-State-owned, public footslave – and therefore female-public property – there are plenty of corrupt, female State officials in the Gynarchy who would sell a public footslave for personal gain to the lowest bidder. We public shoelickers, in particular, are two a penny; or rather, due to current inflationary pressures, two Fems per slave – like the young lady says, still less than your average pair of thick-ribbed, brown woollen, female kneesocks!
I yearn to respond to her cheap jibe, by wholeheartedly inviting her to purchase me on the black market – for I would dearly love to be her personal foot, shoe and sock servant! But I am sworn to silence – because of her recent order to ‘shut up’; and besides, she clearly despises me, and wouldn’t dream of having me sully her neat and tidy, diligent, Japanese student-girl appearance in real life!
Still – just imagine being subject to those brown, ribbed kneesocks for a whole day! I’ll bet they must smell inside her shoes after a long, hard day studying in the university library, followed by an evening of dancing and drinking in the local bars and nightclubs. At least, I assume that’s what she’s been doing with all the other students – and that’s why she’s out so late at night. Come to think of it, though, I’ve never yet seen her with any other friends, or a boyfriend!
Definitely a bit of a weird loner!
I like female loners! They can be so cruel and unpredictable; I like being at the mercy of their often strange and idiosyncratic whims!
Having said that, she certainly seems to be attractive to, and attracted by, the opposite, male sex – for a group of, somewhat drunken, white, free-male students wolf-whistle at her and shout leery compliments at her, as they stagger past us, which she seems to enjoy:
‘Wow! Look at you, honey! You’re gorgeous! Ha! Ha! What a babe!’ shouts one of the liberated men.
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, honey! Shove your dirty shoe and sock in the slave’s face, like! Ha! Ha! Make him swallow your stinky shoedirt, an’ that! Ha! Ha!’
He then belches out loud.
These are just the sort of young men who are responsible for my dirty and unkempt surroundings – for the used burger boxes and condoms strewn around my wooden footblock! But the smiling, young, Japanese woman clearly doesn’t blame them for the mess she is in (she blames me!):
‘Ha! Ha! Thank you, sir! I make slave clean my shoe nice and shine…maybe for you later?’
She holds her dainty, Japanese hand up to her face and giggles at her, ever so tentative, come-on to the lewd, belching, free-male student who has just offered her his manly encouragement to ‘shove’ her dirty shoe and sock right in my face, an’ that!
One of the other free men comments on my seemingly sweet and demure, Japanese customer-mistress’s thinly-veiled proposition to his leery and lecherous mate:
‘Cor blimey, mate! I think you’ve pulled! Ha! Ha! Get in there, mate! Go for it! She’s a hottie!’
Needing no further encouragement, for he is doubtless feeling very randy at this time of night – being a young, free man and full of alcohol – the beer-breath-smelling, male student lechers his way over to my Japanese customer-mistress (whose right, shiny, metal-buckled shoe all the while I am still licking), and pursues his ‘courting’ of the sophisticated, young oriental lady:
‘Ha! Ha! What about it, honey? How about you leave this dirty foot-licker in the trash where he belongs, and come and make out with me – a real man! Ha! Ha! Are you up for it, honey?’
Excuse me, inebriated and horny master-sir! I haven’t even had a chance to lickshine this demure, young lady’s left shoeleather yet – let alone tongue-polish her shiny shoe-buckle or nuzzle the fluff off her brown woollen kneesock! Do you mind?
Of course, I don’t actually say any of that; I just continue licking Japanese-girl shiny black, buckled shoe – while I still can! For I can tell by the newly formed creases and folds in the brown, ribbed sock around her shapely, oriental anklebones that this Japanese girl is indeed falling for him – swooning, indeed, into his manly arms and a long, lingering, beer-stained kiss.
Her additional, lustful sock creases disappear once again as she eventually comes up for air:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, I like! Where we go? Your place or mine?’
‘Whey-hey! Nice one mate! Sweet!’ shouts one of the other inebriated men from a distance, realizing his drunken ‘mate’ has indeed just ‘pulled’!
‘Erm…see you later, guys! Like, you can f*** off now, an’ that!’
Trash! Utter trash! That’s what I am – just another piece of litter which the beautiful, and most respected, studious, young Japanese woman leaves behind her as she saunters off happily, arm in arm, with her manly, new beau!
I do hope she comes back and tells me all about it tomorrow night; or at least brings a used condom with her – to add to my collection!
My beautiful, if somewhat stockily-built, black-haired and black headscarfed, 29 year old, Pakistani-Muslim mistress – mistress Razia – is a deaf mute. Because of her unfortunate disability, the generous Female State has kindly supplied her with a full-time, domestic-footslave supervisor – mistress Olivia – who is of African-Caribbean descent, and whose pleasurable job it is to supervise my humble work at my mistress Razia’s everyday, workaday feet.
This is because my mistress Razia can only communicate via sign language, which would necessitate me looking up at her in order to be able to read what she was saying (if my slave-brain was ever considered quick enough to be able to learn sign language) and, of course, it is completely forbidden, under the Female Law, for a slave to look his mistress in the eye at any time; or, indeed, for a footslave even to look at his Muslim mistress above the ankle!
And so my clever mistress Razia, and her equally sign-language-literate, slave supervisor, mistress Olivia, do all the ‘talking’ above me, with mistress Olivia subsequently conveying my mistress’s wishes to me in no uncertain terms.
It’s a system that works well apart from one minor drawback – supervisor-mistress Olivia is a bitter and twisted, old (40+) and haggard, fat cow of a woman, who hates all male slaves, and me in particular! She is always looking for some excuse to punish me – usually with my Pakistani mistress’s female, rattan cane – and since my mistress Razia cannot hear my screams, she cannot appreciate the true extent of my agony; more’s the pity – since I sense she would dearly love hearing me scream and beg for mercy under mistress Olivia’s unforgiving cane-strokes!
This evening my cane-happy, black supervisor-mistress has decided to take me to task on a perceived failing in my footslave behaviour, which she allegedly spotted earlier in the day. I am, unfortunately, alone with fat supervisor-mistress Olivia in the basement dungeon of my mistress Razia’s State-supplied home, as the latter is upstairs enjoying a relaxing bath.
Supervisor-mistress Olivia has therefore positioned me on my hands and knees on the cold, stone, dungeon floor, with my nose shoved into one of my mistress Razia’s recently discarded, steel-toe capped, flat, black leather clogs, so that I may be breathing in my Pakistani mistress’s pure, stale foot-sweatiness whilst I am being verbally berated for my perceived underperformance at her young-Muslim-womanly feet.
Mistress Olivia likes to drag things out – prolong the agony as it were! Rather than getting straight to the point (of the thin and whippy, rattan cane), she plays around with me, circling me in her unnaturally-stretched, black cotton leggings and somewhat scuffmarked, black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots, like a fat, black bird of prey, taunting me in her thick, Jamaican accent:
‘So, slave-bwoy, how does you think you dids today at yoh Pakistani mistress’s feet? Is you happy wit’ all yoh footslave performances, an’ that?’
It’s a trick question, but I am an experienced slave, and know the correct answer to give:
‘Oh pray, black mistress Olivia, if it pleases you most beautiful and feared, black supervisor-mistress Olivia, this slave can never be wholly content at his pathetic, slavish performance at his beautiful and kind Pakistani mistress’s steel toe-capped feet, mistress, as he is naught but a stupid, male slave who could always do with a good kicking, as he can most assuredly find room for improvement in his service towards the feet and footwear of his female betters, black mistress Olivia. Nevertheless, most sweet and kind supervisor-mistress Olivia, if it pleases you sweet and kind supervisor goddess-mistress Olivia, this slave is not completely dissatisfied with his attentiveness to his glorious Pakistani mistress Razia’s feet today, if you would be so kind and understanding to a humble and inferior, male footslave, high-ranking black supervisor goddess-mistress Olivia?’
She snorts derisively at me, like the fat sow that she is:
‘Hah! So you finks you dids okay at she feet, does you slave-bwoy? Hah! Well, in that case, tell me this, bwoy – how much does you really appreciate the sight of yoh mistress Razia’s funky, black leather clogs, beneath she finely tapered, pink Pakistani trouser-hems, in front of yoh pig-ignorant and stupid-ugly, maleslave face all day long? Yeah?’
‘Oh pray, mistress Olivia, if it pleases you black mistress Olivia, this slave very much appreciates his Pakistani mistress’s beautiful and feminine, black leather clogs and pink silken salwar kameez in front of his ugly, male face, mistress!’
‘Oh does you really, slave? Hah! And why would that be, pray tell, o wise slave-bwoy?’
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you black mistress, this slave is particularly admiring of his mistress Razia’s Pakistani clogs because the backless nature of the sweet feminine, steel-toecapped clogs reveals his Muslim mistress’s modestly black-socked heels to him, mistress!’
This is all true – I am eternally grateful to my Pakistani mistress Razia for continually wearing backless clogs beneath the semi-diaphanous, pink hems of her silken, salwar kameez trousers; backless clogs which mean her workaday, black office socks are on constant display in front of my infidel face!
‘Ah yes – yoh Muslim mistress’s socks! You does like the backs of yoh mistress Razia’s black, office anklesocks, doesn’t you slave-bwoy? They is like, yoh fetish, or somefing, innit bwoy? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh yes, mistress! Oh very much so, mistress; if it pleases you, black supervisor-mistress! For they are the socks protecting the precious, brown heelskin of my superior, headscarfed, Pakistani mistress, if it so pleases you all-powerful, black goddess-mistress Olivia!’
‘Hmm…so, why then, slave-bwoy, despite my clear instructions to you earlier to makes sure you concentrates on the balls of yoh mistress Razia’s socked heels all day long, did you choose to so disrespectfully disobey I whilst you was glancin’ over at them pretty, white patent leather, high-heeled courts and bright, purple tights o’ that young, blonde floozy who was walkin’ past yoh mistress Razia’s office desk just after lunchtime, an’ that? Why did you allows yohself to be distracted from yoh own Pakistani mistress’s fetchin’, black leather clogs and matchin’, black anklesocks, an’ that, even if was only for a few precious seconds, slave-bwoy? Is it coz the backs o’ your Pakistani-Muslim mistress’s socks ain’t good enough for you to look at, or somefing? Is you too high an’ mighty, an’ all that, to stare at the backs of a modest, Muslim-gal’s socks? Or is it just that you truly hankers after the sting o’ my rattan punishment cane on yoh back? Is you, like, one o’ them masochists, or somefing?’
Mistress Olivia’s words are redolent with heavy sarcasm, of course, as she knows full well that I am a masochistic, submissive sock-fetishist, and that my mistress Razia’s well-worn and bobbled, black anklesocks are more than good enough for the likes of me to kneel behind and admire close-up all the time – as per my kneeling orders! And she also knows full well that, despite my being a submissive, male masochist, I truly fear the stinging bite of the whippy, rattan punishment cane on my bare back and shoulders, as wielded by a superior woman, and that I most certainly do not hanker after it! But she also wants to gleefully demonstrate her effectiveness and alertness as a fully-fledged, footslave supervisor – and to hear me confess to my shameful, footslave-crime of having a lascivious, wandering eye whilst I was down below at my mistress Razia’s modestly-clogged, Muslim-girl feet!
I am, I have to confess, a bit of a sucker for brightly-coloured tights, and shapely, patent white leather high-heels, on a beautiful and svelte, young blonde woman – and that’s exactly what office-junior mistress Tracy is! Not a ‘floozy’, by any means! More like, a leggy, blonde goddess! Fat and blubbery mistress Olivia is just being catty and jealous!
But fat and blubbery mistress Olivia is also the one who has so cleverly caught me out – and who is now flexing the cane in her podgy, fat, black hands, ready to strike and cut me.
So yes – I admit it! I did cop a sneaky peak at blonde goddess-mistress Tracy’s passing, opaque purple tights on her shapely, young-womanly anklebones as she nonchalantly walked past my headscarfed mistress Razia’s office desk earlier today! I couldn’t help but focus in, momentarily, on the creases and folds in the blonde girl’s lower, purple tights as she walked along! But I in no way intended any disrespect towards my divine, Pakistani mistress Razia – or her steel-toe capped clogs or ropey-looking, black anklesocks! As I intimated earlier, I actually like counting the bobbles on the backs of my Pakistani mistress’s socks, and admiring the stretching in the tired and worn, black-grey stitching covering the balls of her deaf-mute heels!
Nor did I intend any disrespect towards her duly appointed footslave-supervisor, mistress Olivia, who had, admittedly, made my mistress Razia’s sign-language instructions to me quite clear earlier that morning – albeit in her heavy, Jamaican patois.
But all of that will, I’m afraid, fall on deaf ears, as far as my unforgiving supervisor-mistress Olivia is concerned. It just won’t wash with her – just as my mistress Razia’s dirty, stinky, discarded black clog-socks will not wash properly inside my mouth as my middle-aged, black supervisor-mistress now unceremoniously gags me with them in preparation for my imminent, cruel punishment caning!
Why black supervisor-mistress Olivia feels the need to gag me with my deaf-mute, Pakistani mistress’s recently discarded, sweaty, black clog-socks I shall never know – particularly since the dungeon is soundproofed and, in any case, as I have already explained, my mistress Razia can’t hear a thing (especially since she is two storeys up in her opulent bathroom right now!) Perhaps it is to protect her own, sensitive, supervisory ears from my echoing screams of impotent, male pain – courtesy of her well-wielded cane across my disobedient, kneeling back – that she has gagged me with young, Muslim-woman clog sock!
But, whatever my secondary mistress Olivia’s motives, my ugly maleslave mouth is now well and truly clogged up with my primary mistress Razia’s sweaty, black, worn and bobbled socks as the first, biting cane-stroke is delivered, without mercy or compassion, across my naked and exposed, penitent back.
Swish…Crack!
I blubber forlornly into the bobbled, black sock, and desperately try to watch for any tell-tale movement in black supervisor-mistress Olivia’s black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zipped-up ankleboots behind me which might herald the arrival of the next stinging stroke!
I’m quite sanguine about my punishment, however, as supervisor-mistress Olivia, professionally, allows me to fully absorb the pain of the first cane-cut, before proceeding to deliver the second. Like I said – she loves prolonging the agony!
But it’s nothing more than I deserve for my earlier crime of taking my disloyal, personal-footslave eyes of the balls of my mistress Razia’s obligingly exposed, modestly black-socked, flat clog heels beneath her female, office desk!
I think office-mistress Am̩lie quite likes having a semi-naked, male slave around the place Рespecially as she, and all her female work colleagues, are fully, and smartly, clothed.
And she does dress nicely Рmiss Am̩lie; revealing, crisp white, office blouses; sharp, grey-pinstriped, pencil skirts; black fishnet stockings; and shiny black, single-strapped, high-heeled pumps. She truly looks the business with her delightfully dusky complexion (she is, I believe, part Iranian and part French); her shoulder-length, black, curly-permed hair; her voluptuous figure; and her killer heels. No wonder she catches the eye of every, red-blooded Alpha-freemale in the office!
But I like to flatter myself that it is me – the beta, lowlife, semi-naked, male slave – whom she really enjoys teasing and tormenting with her siren good-looks; and I’ve worked out that it is precisely because I am semi-naked that she so likes to dominate me sexually! She feels innately superior to me, given her innate beauty and my natural ugliness, and her fine, expensive clothes compared to my slave-rags (for my once-white, raggedy slave-shorts are my only permitted attire, apart from my heavy chains which secure me permanently to the wall of the office corridor where I must lickshine the office ladies’ shoes!)
Miss Am̩lie knows full well that it is considered socially unacceptable for a superior, young woman to have the hots for a raggedy-assed, male slave here in the Gynarchy Рespecially a mere, communal, office footslave! If I was her personal footslave she could do whatever she damn well pleased with me in the privacy of her own home! But here in the office, she needs to be a bit more discreet.
So, for example, she can’t just whip me for the hell of it, or because seeing my semi-naked, pasty-white body turn to bright, red stripes turns her on and makes her feel horny! She must concoct some excuse for having me whipped – and then watch, gleefully and libidinously from the side, as the office whipmaster punishes me on her lustful, lying behalf!
What she can do, however, when nobody else is about, is whisper sweet nothings into my ear as I dutifully lickshine her high-heeled shoes in the empty, office corridor. At such times she will lean down as I attend to her outstretched foot, and nibble on my ear as she speaks to me in sinful, hushed, and almost breathless tones:
‘Ha! Ha! How are you liking the taste of my dirty shoeleather today, office footslave? Is it bitter enough for you?’
I can smell her breath; she’s been eating anchovies at lunchtime!
Miss Amélie’s patent black leather, high-heeled courts never taste dirty or bitter; they are too highly polished! In fact, they never really even need lickshining. I guess it’s just her own sweet, feminine way of finding an excuse to tease and torment me – the helpless, and hapless, maleslave prey at her voraciously vixenish feet! (She’s no ‘cougar’, by the way – she’s only 27, and I must be at least twice her age; evidently she likes the older, wrinklier slaveman!)
I can’t lie to the Iranian/French mistress, of course – insofar as I am obliged, by law, to tell her what she wants to hear, so I pretend, in answer to her inquisitive question about the bitterness or otherwise of her shoeleather, that her shoes do taste disgusting (for, believe me, that is what mistress Amélie wishes to hear!):
‘Oh pray mistress Amélie; if it pleases you mistress Amélie please don’t beat me madam; truly this slave is humbled by the foul taste of the mistress’s street-soiled footwear, if you would be so kind and understanding most beautiful and respected mistress Amélie? But he must nonetheless acknowledge that it is a taste fit for a filthy footslave, young mistress-madam please don’t beat me madam!’
I too speak softly, so as not to embarrass the mistress or draw any unwanted attention to us.
She stifles a giggly, girlish laugh and proceeds to enquire next as to my humble assessment as to the state of her black, fishnet stockings – or, more accurately, her bare, Iranian/French foot and ankle flesh beneath the netting:
‘Ha! Ha! I’m glad to hear it, slave! And tell me pray, what is your opinion as to the condition of my feet this afternoon, inside my black, fishnet stockings? Do they smell pleasing to you, naked wretch? Or are they malodorous and offensive-smelling? Ha! Ha! Let’s cut to the chase, slave – do my feet stink inside my fishnets?’
Again, I know that goddess-mistress Amélie, somewhat perversely, wants me to tell her that her black-fishnet-stockinged, office feet stink, even though they don’t! Far from it, they are actually heavily perfumed and smelling of roses, as one would expect from such a classy, young lady! But I am acutely aware that such pedicures and perfumes are not for the benefit of the likes of me; they are in case she gets lucky and ‘cops off’ with an Alpha freemale tonight.
For me, the zeta slave-male, she is hoping that her workaday feet stink, especially after she has been on her heels for most of the morning. And so, again, I fawningly tell her what she wants to hear:
‘Oh pray mistress, if you will forgive me most kind and understanding goddess-mistress Amélie please don’t beat me madam, this slave truly appreciates the pungent aromas of all his regular office customer-mistresses’ feet as he lickshines their dirty office shoes, mistress, and is now, pathetically, accustomed to their feminine foot-odours, which are smells worthy of a footslave’s lowlife nostrils, if you would be so gracious as to understand and forgive me, superior mistress Amélie please don’t beat me madam?’
Her black fishnets crease and fold around her shapely, young-womanly, lower anklebones with chuckling laughter at my obsequious and self-deprecating response, designed to avoid the sting of the office whip if at all possible, even though I realise I am fully at the capricious and unpredictable mercy of lecherous, goddess-mistress Amélie in that regard. If she’s feeling particularly ‘horny’ this afternoon, or just wants to get in the mood before a sexy rendezvous with some freemale boyfriend or other, and therefore wishes to see me whipped, then whipped I shall be, whatever I say or do!
Miss Amélie sexily unstraps her right shiny, black, high-heeled pump and teasingly wriggles her reinforced-fishnet toes in front of my face. But she does not order me to sniff, or even kiss, her stockinged toes. Oh no! Instead she orders my tongue inside her now empty, warm shoe:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave, get your dirty tongue inside the beige lining of my shoe and lick away all the sweat marks left by my warm foot!’
‘Yes, mistress Amélie; as it pleases you, mistress Amélie please don’t beat me madam!’
Whisper it gently, but I love licking the insides of girls’ shoes – especially when the girl-wearer of the shoe is so sultry and sexy, and her stockinged foot has only recently vacated the shoe. It tastes so sensuous; and warm!
And salty (albeit salt mixed in with sweet foot-perfume!)
Suddenly, miss Amélie kicks my face away from her shoe with her fishnet-stockinged toes, slips said toes back into the high-heeled shoe with the strap still undone, and hastily straightens herself up in order to switch high-heeled feet beneath my kneeling and bowed-down face. Ah, I see – she now wants to ‘lord it over me’ in front of two passing, colleagues in the office corridor, one male and one female, by way of a demonstration of her absolute feminine power and authority over me, the helpless, male slave at her designer-shod, Iranian/French feet:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, dirty naked slave!’ she proclaims at full volume. ‘Lickshine the shoes of your elegantly-dressed, female better, and rue the fact that you can never look at me above the ankle! Ha! Ha! I am beautiful, and dressed in my smart, office clothes – whilst you are ugly, dirty and naked at my feet. Ha! Ha! I would spit on you, if I thought my superior, female saliva could cleanse your filthy, male body, but you are so intrinsically dirty and wretched I fear it would merely be a waste of my precious spit! Ha! Ha! Lick my shoe, whipped slave – lick it and weep! For that’s the closest you’ll ever get to my unwhipped, unmarked and flawless, female body! Stare at my soft, bare footskin through my fishnet stockings, and think about what you are missing! Ha! Ha! Loser! Celibate! Virgin for life! Ha! Ha!’
The passing couple congratulate curly-haired miss Amélie on her verbal denigration of me as they walk past us; for they know she speaks the obvious truth.
What they don’t know is that, just as soon they have walked on by, she leans down to me again with her anchovy-breath, and breathes deeply into my right earlobe:
‘Ha! Ha! I’m gonna f*** you tonight slave! I’m gonna come back to this office, after everyone else has gone, get myself naked in front of you, and take away your virginity! Ha! Ha! What have you got to say to that, slave, eh? Being f***ed by a woman!’
What am I supposed to say to that? It would be a totally illegal act here in the Gynarchy – sexual intercourse between a male slave and a superior woman!
But who am I to tell a mistress what she can, and can’t, do to me?
‘Oh pray, mistress… as it pleases you mistress please don’t beat me madam!’ I nervously whisper back.
She stands up:
‘HA! HA!... IN YOUR DREAMS, SLAVE!...WHIPMASTER! WHIPMASTER! I WANT THIS WRETCHED SLAVE WHIPPED! THE FOOL HAS JUST BEEN PROPOSITIONING ME, AND MAKING LEWD ADVANCES TOWARDS ME! HE SAYS HE WANTS TO F**K ME!’
And with that, naughty miss Amélie rebuckles her shoe and faux-angrily click-clacks off down the office-corridor in her shiny, black high-heels, seeking out the eager services of the office whipmaster!
She won’t be back tonight, after everyone has gone; as she said – only in my dreams! Or should that be hers?
It’s just not possible, you see, for a mistress to have sexual congress with a slave, least of all a lowly, down-in-the-dirt, impotent footslave, here in the Gynarchy. It’s completely taboo! And besides, seeing me whipped in just a few moments’ time at her cruel and unjust behest will doubtless provide her with more than enough sexual satisfaction for this afternoon; and if it doesn’t, she’ll no doubt find a proper man to have sex with and to sate her lubricious lusts later tonight; someone or other; somewhere or other; in some anonymous, seedy bar or nightclub, or other.
A free man worth having sex with!
Yes, goddess-mistress Amélie (please don’t beat me madam) will most definitely not be having sex with me – the limp and impotent, office-corridor, shoelick slave; not tonight, or at any other time!
Much as she would clearly love to!
My tall and slender, 28 year old, black mistress – mistress Timone – has made an indelible impression upon me in more ways than one. Specifically, she has made two permanent impressions upon me – one on either side of my forehead, as she likes to constantly dig her bony, black ankles into my temples in an effort to continuously remind me of her power over me and my helpless confinement at her feet!
In fact, it has become my default, personal-footslave position – kneeling with my head trapped between her inner anklebones as she is seated at her office desk; or at the breakfast/lunch/dinner table; or in her armchair in front of the telly – so much so that the demeaning, red, anklebone-marks on either side of my forehead have, over the years, become infected (presumably with her foot and sock bacteria) and have now become two, very painful, thick, red boils!
This despite the fact that my mistress Timone invariably wears socks – white, ankle-length, ribbed, crew socks – on her angular, black feet, to help cushion her scraggy ankles from the constant pressure of digging into my temples (not to cushion my maleslave temples, of course; that would defeat the whole object of the exercise, which is to harm me and cause me temporal pain!).
My perennial concern is that, some day, one or both of my sore, throbbing forehead-boils will burst underneath the pressure of my black mistress’s powerfully socked anklebones, and sully my black mistress’s nice, clean, white crew-socks with my footslave-puss – but, touch wood, it hasn’t happened yet. The fiery red boils just seem to get bigger, and sorer, with every passing week – and are a source of considerable amusement amongst my mistress’s friends and lovers, as they are a humiliating reminder to me of my total entrapment at my mistress’s bony, black feet!
Today, as she is seated at her office desk, eating her office sandwich and flicking through a fashion magazine, she is deliberately digging her ankles into my boils very hard, and my forehead is well and truly throbbing! My beautiful, black mistress is wearing her usual, round-toed and flat-heeled, black leather, office loafers and plain, white, crew socks beneath the raised hems of her black cotton, office trousers.
The soft socks, as I intimated before, do next to nothing to cushion my boils from the pressure of my mistress’s bony, black ankles – but that are, hopefully, cushioning and protecting the mistress’s ankles against my dirty boils, like white bandages. At least, looking on the bright side, as I lie prostrate on the floor with my temples entrapped between her socked anklebones I have a marvellous, close-up and personal view of my tall and lean, black mistress’s ribbed crew-socks and flat, black leather, office-loafer shoes.
I can observe in minute detail the ribbed stitching in the pattern of my mistress Timone’s white, cotton, crew socks; the multitudinous little creases and folds coming and going in her socks next to my mind in tandem with her involuntary and subconscious, foot-muscle movements; the little foreign hairs, specks of dust, pieces of fluff and other female-office detritus stuck to the outer surfaces of her socks; even her rich, black footpores peeking out from behind some of the individual stitches in the socks – particularly behind the white stitches in the thinner ridges between the raised ribs.
I can also humbly and admiringly observe the creases in her plain, black shoeleather where her shoes have become moulded to the contours of her feet over many years of wear; the black stitching joining the soles of her flat shoes to the uppers, including the one loose stitch sticking up from the instep on her left shoe (I do hope that isn’t the beginning of the end of this particular pair of lady-shoes, for I do so admire them and have come to love them over my years of entrapment next to them, despite my constant headache in their sublime, leathery presence!); and the inevitable, muddy, street stains on the outer surfaces of my mistress’s shoes (for, despite owning a personal footwear-slave (me), my mistress Timone is not particularly fastidious about the cleanliness of her day to day footwear – the main reason, I’m sure, for my forehead marks becoming infected in the first place!)
I can also smell her shoeleather this close up – a musty, dirty smell; but one fit for a footslave. I’ve even come to like the smell, and am now accustomed to breathing in the polluted air of my mistress’s shoes and socks. Not that the white socks particularly smell when they are locked inside my mistress’s black shoes, but I shall be obliged to breathe them in later in the day when she finally kicks off her shoes and relaxes in her armchair at home in front of the telly.
Even then my mistress will continue to cruelly dig her rib-socked anklebones into my temples as I lie on the floor prostrate in front of her feet. Now I have her unimpeded socks to stare at through the haze of pain generated by her constant anklebone pressure on my temple-boils, and this is when I can truly smell the results of her socks having garnished her precious, black-girl footsweat inside her flat loafer-shoes throughout the long, working day – an ammonic, vinegary smell, made all the worse (deliberately so) by her flexing and wriggling her freshly liberated toes inside her white, crew socks beneath my face.
I can actually see the sweaty smell as well – yellowy-brown sweat stains from the beige insides of her loafer shoes, especially on the reinforced toe and sole areas of her soft, white socks. I particularly admire (because I have no choice but to admire them) the areas of brown on her sock along the lower insteps, for they are a reminder to me of just how sweaty my mistress’s feet and socks can get inside her well-worn shoes.
They also serve as a useful indicator of where I shall be required to suck the hardest later on this evening, as I mouthwash my mistress’s dirty socks throughout the night. So I shall eventually get to taste that which I am now smelling, and seeing, and feeling at such close quarters – black-girl, soiled sock! I shall be sucking on dirty, brown-stained, feminine-white crew sock whilst I slumber!
Not that I shall sleep well tonight! I never do, with the acrid, salty taste of my mistress’s stale socksweat in my mouth, and the still painful, residual throbbing on my temples. My temples are boiling hot!
But, that’s not your problem; or my mistress Timone’s! It’s mine! For I have a humiliatingly sockmarked face, indelibly imprinted on either side of my gormless, Neanderthal-looking forehead with two ignominious, bright red, infected, and very sore sock-boils, which in turn are framed by the residual track-marks from the rib-patterned sock stitching of my beautiful, black mistress’s white cotton, crew socks; the very same vinegary socks that must reside in my footslave-mouth overnight!
Laugh at me, please; everyone else does!
As she gleefully moulds my permanent, ornamental, blue-rubbery, footfool mask onto my enslaved face, my new footmistress Olga kindly takes the time to explain to me the significance of each of the words emblazoned on it in BIG BOLD CAPITAL LETTERS for all to see.
She begins by explaining that there are seven such words in total - one for each day of the week, beginning with Sunday:
SOCKS: Since Sunday is the traditional day of female rest and male worship throughout the Gynarchy, my Sunday word declares to all and sundry the objects of my veneration - namely my mistress's socks! Not just her sweaty, unwashed socks which have been piling up in her sock-laundry basket all week, waiting to be sniffed and then mouthwashed on Sunday morning; but also her clean and already laundered socks lying in rolled-up balls in her bedroom sock-drawer. For they too must be worshipped and revered on a Sunday, with each and every, individual pair being kissed 100 times! She explains that my whole day shall be devoted to her socks on Sundays (including, of course, whatever pair of socks she is wearing on the Sunday - as with any other day). For me, Sunday is Socksday - a day of humble contemplation of her lowliest, and smelliest, items of clothing!
BOOTS: My Monday word is 'boots' (she explains that it should really be 'ankleboots', since these are the only types of boots she ever wears - black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots - but that, unfortunately, there isn't enough room on my footfool-mask for such a long word, on account of my small, male brain!). 'Boots' signifies the start of my mistress's working week, when I must follow her to anklebooted heel throughout the day as she goes about her daily business in her female office. She explains that my simple duty, which even a pea-brained, male slave like myself should be able to understand, is to ensure the sanctity and well-being of her boots throughout the day - by kissing them; lickshining them; sniffing and studying their outsides (in particular any creases in the black, feminine bootleather); and ensuring that her boot-zippers remain fully done up until such time as my mistress herself decides to undo them. My sweet and kind, new mistress Olga goes on to reassure me that, despite the fact she always wears trousers with her ankleboots, I should still have plenty of opportunities to observe her elasticated socktops inside her boots (those objects of my maleslave veneration) throughout the day - especially when she is seated at her office desk!
FEAR: Tuesday is to be my day of fear every week, as it precedes Wednesday, which is characterised by the word 'whip'! Every Wednesday I shall be whipped - regardless of whether or not I have done anything wrong to merit the whip (my mistress Olga explains, in her Russian accent, that she takes the view that a slave would be regularly whipped in any event, as a reminder to him of his helplessness and powerlessness at the feet of his female master!). I am to spend Tuesdays, therefore, in quiet and fearful contemplation of my impending whipping the following day, as I continue to kneel and attend to my mistress's office boots (she explains that she shall expect me to be particularly attentive to her boots on a Tuesday - licking and kissing them even more vigorously than on other days - in anticipation of my whipping, and in a futile attempt at eliciting sweet feminine mercy within her; futile, because she loves to apply the whip!)
WHIP: My mistress Olga kindly points out that the Wednesday word is easy for even a stupid, male slave like me to remember, as it also begins with a 'w'! She goes on to explain that it doesn't just refer to my Wednesday whipping, however, but to my state of being subject to the whip in general - for I can, and will, be whipped on any day, and at any time, of her choosing! It will also explain to everyone the reasons for the marks and sores on my bare, kneeling back. At this point, my mistress Olga produces her whip in order to show it to me. It is a stocky, brown leather, Russian knout, with three, three-foot-long lashes with various 'attachments', such as bits of bone and lead, sewn in to the tapered 'male' end (i.e. the end that hurts), whilst the 'female' end consists of a padded, wooden handle, for the soft comfort of the mistress's delicate, feminine hand. It is, thus, a type of scourge, which is technically illegal in the Gynarchy; but my mistress says she won't tell anyone if I don't - and she strongly advises me not to, since to draw the attention of the Female Authorities to the knout (which is a family heirloom, and was used in the 17th and 18th centuries to discipline the serfs on her family's estate) would only lead to my receiving yet more blows from the very same whip across my back - after she had paid off the Female Police! Yes, there will be much for me to be fearful about on Tuesdays, before the Wednesday whip!
TOEJAM: My mistress reckons that by the Thursday of each week her feet will have built up a goodly amount of dark, black, stinky toejam beneath her unwashed toenails. However, before I am permitted to wash her dirty, sweaty feet, I shall be required to gently extract the layers of toejam from beneath her unpainted, unvarnished toenails, using a tiny, maleslave toenail-spoon, and first smell, and then consume, said stinky toejam. This is because my mistress's toejam is the nectar of the gods to me, and shall be regarded as my Thursday treat after my Wednesday whipping! She may even invite some of her friends and office-colleagues round to her house on Thursdays to watch me eating her toejam, and to mock me for doing so!
TOENAILS: Only in the following day, on the Friday evening at the end of my mistress's working week, am I to be permitted to pedicure her feet, and mouthcut her toenails, in preparation for her customary night out on the town with her manly, freemale boyfriend, master Peter sir, who, apparently, likes his 'bird' to have nice-looking, pedicured feet inside her strappy, open-toed, high-heeled, party sandals - even if she is wearing her nylons; apparently he likes to see the red veneer of her painted and varnished toenails beneath the thin veil of her finest-denier, tan-nylon stocking material - and what master Peter sir likes, I must deliver! I must therefore mouthpaint my mistress Olga's toenails with a tiny slave-mouthbrush every Friday evening, after I have trimmed them with my teeth. I must also accompany my master and mistress on their date, but remain kneeling at all times next to my mistress's freshly-pedicured feet, even whilst they are making love!
STOCKS: Saturday is my day for taking stock - in the stocks! It is the closest thing I shall get each week to a day of rest, albeit a day of painful rest, for I shall spend it locked in the set of agonizing, wooden, kneeling stocks in my mistress's cold, back yard. I am to use the day to contemplate my mistress's now discarded workday, office ankleboots and socks, and, to help me in this regard, my mistress Olga has kindly informed me that she will not only place her discarded, worn, black leather ankleboots on top of the pile of dirty, worn socks in her sock-basket directly beneath my kneeling and painfully-imprisoned-in-wood face, but will also stuff a pair of her sweatiest, unwashed socks, of my choice, inside my mouth, so that I can really savour her dirty socks whilst I am confined in the stocks. It means, she gleefully points out, that I shall be ending my footslave week as I began it - obsessing about her socks!
So there you have it - seven ignominious and humiliating words permanently emblazoned on my rubbery, footfool face which eloquently sum up my humble week of servitude at my mistress Olga's feet:
SOCKS; BOOTS; FEAR; WHIP; TOEJAM; TOENAILS; STOCKS
They say it all, really!
It’s funny how one’s male-footslave life can change in the blink of a feminine eyelid – especially when one’s fate is in the tender hands of the superior, female sex!
There I was, minding my own business as the communal office footslave – positioned at my stationary shoelick-stall in the main, office corridor – when I spotted the smart and shiny, black leather, kneehigh stretchboots and short, black miniskirt of the Arab-origins, office manageress, miss Jabirah, marching purposefully towards me.
The strident stretchboots were accompanied by a pair of equally shiny, red leather, kitten-heeled and round-toed, single-strapped, mary-jane style shoes beneath a pair of smart, bootcut, beige-coloured, full-length, cotton trousers.
It was the office-manageress’s boots which did the talking, however (as per usual, for they do seem to like the sound of their owner’s voice!):
‘Slave, you will terminate your duties as the communal office-shoelick with immediate effect and take up residence as miss Rebecca’s personal desk-footslave. Miss Rebecca here is just back from maternity leave, and requires a male, human footrest beneath her office desk. You will be that human footrest!’
And, with that, the shiny, black, kneehigh stretchboots temporarily crease and fold in front of my kneeling and gobsmacked face as their beautiful and dominant, Arab-girl owner crouches down to release me from my office-corridor, shoelick-stall chains with the mistress-key (she is the only person in the office authorised to keep such a key!).
Release – after 7 long years of kneeling in this same spot without a break!
But it isn’t freedom, as such – the chains are quickly handed over to the wearer of the shiny, red mary-janes – a petite and shapely, blonde girl with an admirably svelte figure for a young woman who has not long ago given birth:
‘Thank you, Jabirah! Can someone please show me how to chain him up under my desk? I’ve never had a desk-footslave before!’ exclaims the owner of the red mary-janes (and now me!) excitedly.
‘Certainly, my dear! No problem – I’ll have one of my assistant manageresses, Kelly, show you how to do it! Just follow me to your new office – it’s just down the end of the corridor here!’
And with that, the shiny, red, kitten-heeled mary-janes follow after the black leather, spiked heels of the kneehigh stretchboots, with me crawling behind the mary-janes on my hands and knees as we form a procession of mistresses and slave down the corridor towards miss Rebecca’s new office.
As I crawl behind the kitten-heeled mary-janes I am relieved that my crawling muscles still work after all that time cooped up in the corridor! But, inveterate footslave that I am, I am equally relieved to catch the occasional glimpse of finest denier, flesh-toned nylon beneath the flapping, beige cotton, trouser hems of the lean and svelte, blonde girl, miss Rebecca – my sudden, new desk-mistress! I am relieved because I had thought, initially, that the attractive, young, twenty-something, white woman may be barefoot inside her shoes – always a precursor to sweaty, smelly feet; and you don’t want that when you are having to kneel and attend to such a dainty pair of feminine feet throughout the long, arduous, working day!
But this finest denier nylon should efficiently absorb any foot-moisture and excretions from miss Rebecca’s feet inside her office, mary-jane shoes (plus, the tiny wrinkles in her tan-nylon stockings will give me something to stare at as I spend endless hours serving as her human shoe-rest beneath her office desk!)
Even though she has not yet been properly introduced to me (insofar as I have not yet had the humble opportunity to kiss the young-mum’s feet and footwear), office-manageress mistress Jabirah proceeds, on arrival in miss Rebecca’s new office, to introduce her to the other girls who are already working there – including the aforementioned assistant-manageress, the fiery redhead miss Kelly whom I see is wearing her usual, thick and clunky, black leather biker-boots and black fishnet-stockings beneath her tartan-patterned miniskirt (well, she is only 20 years old – and a punk-rocker; clearly also a high-flyer, in terms of climbing swiftly up the female career-ladder!)
Miss Rebecca is introduced as ‘Becky’ to the other young women; presumably that’s because she will be their friend and colleague – as opposed to their mistress (which is why I must use the more formal mode of address – ‘Miss Rebecca’; as a means of demonstrating my maleslavish respect for my new, personal footmistress!)
The other girls (three of them in total) make miss Rebecca feel welcome as miss Kelly goes off to make their new colleague a cup of tea. Milk – no sugar – for me please, miss Kelly! Nice of you to ask!
When miss Kelly returns with only two cups of tea – one for her; one for my mistress Rebecca – she pulls up a swivel chair beside her and indulges in some friendly ‘getting to know you’ small talk, before turning her attention to me – the erstwhile communal office-shoelick now kneeling beneath the desk at miss Rebecca’s shiny, red mary-janed feet:
‘Is that slave Spitface down there at your feet?’ enquires the biker-booted, redhead miss Kelly of her new, blonde colleague.
‘Who?’ replies blonde miss Rebecca.
Miss Kelly prods my kneeling frame in the ribs with the broad, round, steelcapped toe of her buckly, right ankleboot (a boot I have had resting on my tongue many times in the corridor outside!):
‘This piece of garbage here at your feet! It looks like the communal shoelick-slave from the corridor!’
‘Oh that! Erm…yes, it is! Jabirah said I could have him as my personal office-footrest since I’m just back from maternity leave. I need something to rest my feet and ankles on beneath the desk!’
‘Oh, I see! Well that’s alright then! I thought for a moment I was seeing things! Ha! Ha!’
‘I hope I’m not depriving the rest of you of a shoelicker!’ says miss Rebecca, concernedly.
‘Ha! Ha! Nah – they’re two a penny, office shoelicks! I’m sure Jabirah will have another one for us by lunchtime! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Oh good!’ exclaims the sweet, blonde girl. ‘What was it you called him?’
‘Spit face – because we all like to spit in his face! Watch!...’
And with that the delightful and refined, punk office-mistress, miss Kelly, noisily gathers up some phlegm in her loud, redhead-mouth, crouches down from her swivel chair, grabs me by the hair (thereby pulling my face rudely away from my new, blonde office-mistress’s shiny, red, mary-jane shoes) and promptly expels it from her pretty, pursed and pierced lips into my stupid and gormless, maleslave face – to the complete and utter delight of my new desk-mistress, who claps her pretty, blonde hands with glee:
‘Ha! Ha! Now I see – Spitface! Ha! Ha! I think I’ll keep that name for him! Can I have a go?’
‘Sure, Becky! He even likes it!’
Actually, that’s not true, miss Kelly. No-one likes being spat at in the face – especially when the phlegm is so green and mucusy (miss Kelly has been suffering from a heavy head cold for several days now, and still sounds quite bunged up; nice of her to share her female germs with me!) But I have no choice but to absorb your contemptuous spit, miss Kelly – and the spit of the other, young office ladies – since I’m just an impotent, male, office footslave, and your female spit is better than me!
Miss Rebecca has a lot to learn – not just in her new job, but also with regard to how to create sufficiently slimy and sickening mucous for expulsion from the female mouth onto the maleslave face; her effort pales into insignificance compared to miss Kelly’s! Then again, miss Rebecca doesn’t have the advantage of a heavy, head cold to help her manufacture sweet feminine mucus.
The two girls laugh at their respective spit dribbles running down my cheeks, before miss Rebecca asks her ‘mentor’ for yet more assistance and guidance in slave-management:
‘Can you please show me how to chain him up beneath my desk, Kelly?’
‘Sure, honey! You only have to do it once – he’ll stay there all the time from now on, even after you’ve left the office for the night or are away on leave! The cleaners will feed and water him every night – if they remember about him! Ha! Ha!’
And, with that, the ever efficient redheaded, rednosed miss Kelly leans down again to secure my chains – permanently – to the base of miss Rebecca’s desk. She then orders me to lie prostrate on the dirty, office floor beneath miss Rebecca’s feet whilst the latter first adjusts her swivel chair, and then plonks the greasy, wet sole (it has been raining outside this morning) of her clunky, right, mary-jane shoe down onto my upturned, left cheek – her left mary-janed foot resting on the floor just inches away from my face.
So this, evidently, is miss Rebecca’s preferred human-footrest position! Some young women prefer a slave to be lying on his back, so that they can dig both their heels into his upturned face; but miss Rebecca clearly prefers a sideways face; and, besides, her mary-janes are flat-heeled!
I am glad, actually – because it means that instead of having to stare at dirty, wet shoesole treads all the time, I can study the cute and slender miss Rebecca’s nylon-stockinged anklebone atop her shiny, red mary-jane shoeline all day – admiring the tiny, intermittent creases that come and go in her stocking, and even counting the individual, nylon stitches in her shapely, flesh-toned and nyloned anklebone as she goes about her daily business above me, working on her computer at her new office desk.
I already feel like I am intimately acquainted with her young-womanly feet and ankles – and I haven’t even had time to kiss them yet!
Yes – it’s amazing how quickly one’s humble, male life can change, when one is at the whim and the mercy of superior females! From corridor-slave to desk-slave in one fell swoop! Talk about a short notice change in one’s contract!
My work as mistress Beryl’s personal footslave is quite difficult. It’s certainly no bed of roses – and not just because my mistress has unfortunately smelly feet; she is also extremely demanding and demeaning towards me, and that’s what keeps me on her stinky toes.
Don’t be fooled by her seemingly succulent, plump breasts! I would suggest that my mistress, despite her freemale-eye-catching ‘Double D’ sized mammaries, is only averagely beautiful for a girl of her age – 30; slightly overweight; blonde (though I think she bleaches it); and she wears glasses – not stylish, fashionable glasses, but rather matronly-looking, large-rimmed glasses. But then, without them, she wouldn’t be able to see a thing – so they have to be functional, with thick lenses; she has no other choice!
I can’t help feeling, however, that she could still do a bit better with her dress sense. She’s undeniably heterosexual, and, if we’re perfectly honest, gagging for a man in her life – but she’s unlikely to pull a steady boyfriend wearing such perennially frumpy clothes – lots of beige and grey cardigans, which do nothing to accentuate her best features (namely her ample bosoms); and long, ankle-length dresses and skirts, or, even worse, unflattering, black officewear trousers which, whilst they may do a good job of hiding the cellulose on her somewhat podgy legs, nevertheless send an unintentional, subliminal message to the freemale population – don’t mess with me; I’m frigid! (She’s not – my mistress Beryl is, in fact, hot and sweaty; or, at least, her feet are!)
And as for her footwear – well, it’s always boring old flats; no heels; just frumpy-looking, beige-coloured, ugg-style boots (though, ironically, they are the height of fashion nowadays – just not the way they look on my mistress Beryl’s cankles!), or plain, uninspiring, black leather ballet-flats, or mary-jane-style, T-Bar shoes. And inside the no-nonsense boots or shoes – always socks or tights; normally socks if she is wearing trousers, or tights if she is wearing one of her frumpy, ankle-length skirts (as she is today); black and opaque tights; invariably woollen; never sheer, sexy, finest-denier, nylon stockings (which my mistress Beryl is convinced would cause her naturally sweaty feet to perspire even more!)
My mistress herself, of course, is convinced she’s far from being a thirty year old dag! Through her, self-delusional, rose-tinted spectacles she’s the bee’s-knees! She regards herself as being the epitome of natural, feminine beauty – and of superior, feminine intellect – and she very much blames me for all her failures; her failure to get a man; her weakness for fattening buns and cakes; her propensity to catch colds and flu; her regular migraines; her indigestion and flatulence; and, above all, for her perpetually perspiring feet (the latter with some justification, I suppose – given that I am her personal footslave, responsible for the well-being of her feet and footwear!).
For all these things I am regularly whipped, since she delights in bossing me about and lording it over me – since I am a lesser, and even less fortunate, being than her, being a celibate, impotent, ugly, male footslave!
Whipping me always cheers her up; it’s her one real pleasure in life!
Like I said – a very demanding mistress to have to serve on a one to one basis, and extremely difficult to please. But I have to try, otherwise I can rely on being whipped!
And not just whipped – but verbally tormented with it! Immediately prior to whipping me, she will gently rub my about-to-be-whipped back with her surprisingly soft, feminine, thirty-year-old fingers and whisper bitter-sweet nothings into my ear, such as:
‘Oh you poor thing; you have to get whipped now! I’m going to whip you here... and here... and here, and my whip is going to cut you here... and here…and here. Do you suppose that that will hurt? Shall you be able to bear it? Will it be frightfully painful, do you think? I wouldn't know myself, of course, because I am but a weak and feeble young woman, and so, quite naturally I have never been whipped. Only brutish, male slaves like you have to get whipped, to please their fragile mistresses! Ha! Ha!'
Fortunately, my mistress Beryl’s demanding and sadistic nature actually helps to keep me on her toes – as now, for example, when I am kneeling next to her office feet in the office canteen at lunch-time. As I kneel next to her round-toed, single-buckle-strapped, considerably scuffmarked, plain black leather, mary-jane style loafers – her ubiquitous, dark black, ribbed woollen tights peeking out from inside the shoes and below the slightly-raised hem of her matching, black cotton, ankle-length, office skirt – I am surrounded by the much more appealing feet and footwear of some of the other younger, prettier office ladies!
For example:
Such minor boot-details throw my pathetic (and disloyal) personal footslave mind into a quandary, for I wonder what it must be like to have to lickshine the fronts of such a lovely pair of patent leather, black-female ankleboots without getting your tongue stuck in the zippers! After all, the fronts of a lady’s boots are the parts most prominently on display, and they must, therefore, be the most assiduously cleaned by a lady’s humble bootlicker! Her slave might be able to get away with skirting his tongue around the tracks of her boot-zippers when they are located on the sides of her boots, but not when the zipper-tracks run prominently down the front and middle of her boots!
The other, intriguing thing about mistress Brionna, from a wayward footslave’s perspective, is her svelte and athletic build – such a contrast to my own mistress Beryl’s rather short and stocky frame! What must it be like to have a statuesque, black goddess towering over you in her shiny, stiletto-heeled ankleboots, especially when she is angry and ready to whip you? Imagine if it were her asking you if you thought the impending pain was going to be unbearable!
Or, what would it be like right now to swap places with miss Brionna’s personal footslave underneath the canteen table, and to kneel by the side of her boots and feet? She is currently seated with her right leg crossed over her left, and, as a result, her kneeling footslave has a very nice, close-up and personal view of his stunning, black mistress’s black cotton bootsock-top, and even a flash of her smooth, black, lower legskin, beneath the raised hem of her black cotton trouser-leg.
Lucky slave-man! No wonder he’s studiously avoiding eye contact with me underneath the office-canteen table – he has something much more interesting and exciting to look at; his tall and athletic, black mistress’s shiny black ankleboot, black cotton socktop and bare, brown leg!
I have to say, I like the boots! I like the fancy, decorative stitching which covers the calf-length, brown leather boots from tip to toe, and I like the way goddess-mistress Katherine has tucked her jeans into her V-shaped, boot tops, so that the boots are fully on display. Not that her personal footslave appears to be around to enjoy them today; perhaps she has left him at home mouthwashing her dirty socks? Or, perhaps she has given him the day off? (Ha! Ha! Only joking – a footslave having a day off! Ha! Ha!)
My only ‘gripe’ about mistress Katherine’s choice of lower-leg attire today is that I can’t get to see her socks (if any) inside her boots! Big fashion faux-pas, goddess-mistress Katherine – you should be wearing a nice pair of plain grey kneesocks inside those boots; then I would have your sock-stitching, as well as your boot-stitching, to admire – particularly inside the V-shaped upper rims of your pull-on, full-on, cowgirl boots! Yee hah!
So you see, were it not for the fact that my frumpy, 30-something mistress Beryl is so demanding, I would have plenty of opportunity to stray from her somewhat uninspiring (but perpetually perspiring) feet and footwear – especially during her lunch-break in the office canteen!
What keeps me in line, however, is the following:
Every time my mistress Beryl subliminally swivels her foot around in front of my kneeling face, I get to observe several little creases and crevasses coming and going in the black, woollen material of her thick, ribbed tight. And that is just completely mesmerizing – for a pathetic, down-in-the-dirt footslave! Even the light reflecting off beautiful, African-Caribbean miss Brionna’s shiny, black leather boot zippers can’t distract my gaze from my mistress Beryl’s ribbed-tight creases on her fleshy foot!
Secretly, I hope it isn’t – for I am hungry and underfed, and could do with some of my mistress’s woolly-tight dust to help line my empty stomach! Sorry, that’s typical of me – always selfishly thinking about my stomach! I am a bit unfortunate, in that regard, in that some footmistresses, reputedly, feed their personal footslaves on their titbits and leftovers from their plates, but my own mistress Beryl has never done so, preferring good food to go to waste rather than be used to feed an inferior, male slave. My mistress Beryl takes the view that human food is for just that – humans (i.e. women and free men); pet food is for pets, like her pet poodle – Oscar (‘master Oscar sir’ to me); and slave-mush is for slaves, along with her shoe and boot muck, her sock and tight dust, and her greasy, vinegary-smelling toejam, of course!
Me – of course! My mistress Beryl will, once again, demand that I endeavour to ‘tongueshine’ them away – an impossible task, it goes without saying, but that’s not her problem! And woe-betide me if I don’t at least manage to make her shoes look temporarily divested of their ingrained scuffmarks, perhaps by using black shoe-polish on my tongue as I lick them! Believe me, the bitter taste of fresh shoe-polish on the lips is much more desirable than the bitter sting of my mistress’s unforgiving whip on the hips!
No – my mistress Beryl likes to keep her footslave busy, especially when it means she can show off to her younger work-colleagues who don’t yet own a personal footslave (such as miss Suzie) her absolute female-despotic power and authority over me, and her ability to demean and denigrate a humble slaveman in public.
So, at various stages of the lunchtime proceedings, mistress Beryl will interrupt her conversation with her female colleagues to bark down an arrogant order at me; such as:
‘Slave, nose the dust off the side of my tights!’ or
‘Slave, get that twig out of my shoe-tread!’ or
‘Slave, unbuckle my T-Bar shoe and sniff my foot; it’s all hot and sweaty inside my shoe and woolly tights – sniff it clean!’ or
‘Slave, straighten my black, woolly tight inside my shoe and smooth out all the creases!’ or
‘Slave, suck that tiny hair off the surface of my tights on my right foot, and then fetch me my whip so that I can punish you for letting it get stuck to my tights in the first place!’
How the other office girls love to hear me spoken down to by my frumpy, 30 year old mistress like this! They could all learn lessons from my mistress Beryl in how to denigrate and demean a personal footslave in public! Sadly, the one thing she won’t do (because it might make her jealous) is to order me to attend in any way to the feet and footwear of her admiring, female co-workers – not even to the feet and footwear of her younger, slaveless colleagues such as the beautiful miss Suzie; not even just to give her a quick peck on those lip-inviting, black-leather-bowed, ballet flats!
For, I have to say, for all her mistressly bluster and swagger, my mistress Beryl is, I believe, actually deeply insecure inside, and if she can’t have a real, free man in her life, she sure as hell is determined not to let go of her helpless and powerless, downtrodden personal footslave! Furthermore, I am firmly of the opinion that her fondness for utilising the whip in some way helps her to sublimate her natural, but unfulfilled, young-womanly sexual desires; she certainly seems to achieve sexual fulfilment when whipping me (hence her fondness for verbal foreplay and finger-play before applying the whip to my bare back!)
Which is all good news, I suppose, for it means that I can rest assured she will never cast me out. I shall have a whipped back at her smelly feet for life – even if it does equally mean I shall never get to be mistress Suzie’s, or mistress Brionna’s, or mistress Katherine’s personal footslave or whipping-boy!
Yes, ‘Double D’ just about sums up my mistress Beryl – big-bosomed, yes! But also deliciously Demanding and Demeaning; and I Iove being her Dominated footslave-Dork!
It is love at first sight – at least on my humble part!
As the tall and leggy, blonde-ponytailed, off-duty supermodel (for she must surely work as a supermodel with a figure like that) climbs up onto the raised foot-throne in front of my scrawny, kneeling, insignificant frame, I feel an instant inferiority complex, combined, though, with an attraction for her stunningly stylish, chunky-heeled and chisel-toed, black leather ankleboots and matching black anklesocks beneath the hems of her skinny-tight, black denim, designer jeans.
Her black bootsocks also reveal a touch of class (as well as a glimpse of supermodel, bare white legskin) as they contain little, silvery sparkly-bits throughout, making them unique and special – rather like the unknown, blonde-supermodel customer-mistress herself.
I am completely smitten by her – and that’s even before she haughtily barks her female orders down at me in her thick, East European accent:
‘Slave, clean the filth!’
Clean the filth! Such arrogance! Such class! She doesn’t even feel the need to specify that she is referring to the filth on her boots, since she has the good common sense and feminine intuition to know that, as I am employed as a public shoe and bootlicker, I must already be aware that she is talking about her street-sullied, outer footwear (even though I’m surmising there is probably a goodly amount of ‘filth’ also on her inner footwear – her socks; sweet feminine foot-perspiration; bacteria; sticky supermodel toejam, and the like!)
‘Y…yes m…mistress. At once, m…mistress,’ I stammer back, like a lovestruck teenager – even though I’m in my fifties, and she is probably the teenager – 18 or 19, I would guess. Certainly no older than 20!
She unsmilingly ignores my feeble attempts at verbal acknowledgement of her East European orders, and takes out her designer smartphone for some serious texting and social networking above me, whilst I put my stumbling tongue to better use on her street-dustied and dirtied, black leather ankleboots.
I can’t help feeling, as my tongue touches blonde-girl black bootleather, that in a different world – in a world where men and women were equals – this beautiful, blonde girl and I could be lovers! It could be me that she is texting and interacting with on her phone right now – arranging a lovers’ rendezvous so that I can lick her fabulous, white body, rather than just her dirty, black ankleboots!
Ha! Ha! In my dreams! Even in a non-Gynarchy world this beautiful, young woman would have no sexual interest in a washed-up old fool like me, unless, of course, I had lots of money and was in a position to be her sponsor and sugar-daddy! She looks quite fickle in that way!
I relish the bits of street mud and dirt as they come off her superior, female boots and into my underling, male mouth, savouring her supermodel bootdirt before I finally swallow it. Who knows, with her stunning good looks, this tall and shapely blonde may one day be famous. Maybe she already is? How would I know, being chained up as I am 24/7 in my public shoelick-booth – cut off from mainstream, female society and the world outside in general?
The mere thought that I might be tasting young-celebrity bootmud makes me feel all the more humble, and privileged, as I feel the globules of wet, sticky mud disappearing down my unworthy, common-or-garden, public-footslave gullet; and when my middle-aged mouth reaches the tops of her designer ankleboots, and her silver-sparkly, black, celebrity socks, I only wish I had a slave-smartphone of my own to record my brush with sweet, feminine fame!
Ha! Ha! That’s a misnomer, isn’t it? A slave smartphone indeed! More like a slave thickphone, since we male slaves are all incredibly stupid and thick – or so our mistresses are always telling us; and they should know – being intelligent and female!
The young superwoman completely ignores me as I continue to lickshine her boots. She is blissfully unaware of how enamoured I am both by her boots and socks, and can’t even contemplate how anyone could possibly be attracted to a pair of manky old boots and socks (as she probably sees them!). I mean, if she was wearing her catwalk, golden-sparkly, high-heeled sandals and finest-denier, tan-nylon stockings she could perhaps understand. But these old, well-worn ankleboots that she just threw on in a hurry this morning, the day after her latest photoshoot? How could anyone possibly find them attractive?
But people do, sometimes, find old and well-used things attractive, miss! Oh please look down at me, miss! If only to look down upon me, miss! Can’t you see the love and adoration for your boots and socks in my big, doe eyes? I’m the footslave of your dreams, miss! Please say you’ll buy me from the authorities, and make me your personal footslave, come your 21st birthday! I promise you, even if you can’t lower yourself to love me, you will never want for a clean and shiny pair of boots or shoes, and your socks and stockings will always rest neat and tidy on your shapely, supermodel anklebones, East European goddess-miss!
I will lovingly mouthclean all of your dirty boots and shoes, mistress, be they destined for the footpath or the catwalk; and I will diligently mouthwash all of your sweaty socks and nylons, miss. And all I would ever ask for in return is the loving caress of your female whip, biting into my spare rib, as a reminder of your innate, female superiority and mastery over me, miss!
Oh pray, miss! Oh pray! Pray look at me miss!
But you don’t. When you have finished updating your social networking site, and I have finished lickshining your black leather ankleboots, you merely inspect the latter from on high for any signs of dirt that I may have missed.
Then, satisfied that there isn’t any, you silently climb down from the chair in front of me, like some dumb-blonde model, and walk off – out of my life forever. You have missed your chance, mistress – your chance to own me, body and soul, forever! Not that I expect you care very much. I am, quite rightly, nothing to you – just an anonymous, down-in-the-dirt, public-utility footslave; one of legions scattered beneath your supermodel feet throughout the towns and cities of the glorious Gynarchy, for you to walk all over.
You will not give me a second thought, and will probably never utilise my bootcleaning services ever again, since your photoshoot in this particular town is over; next stop Paris!
You may have slighted me, most glorious, blonde supermodel-mistress. Oh but I shall dream of you tonight – of your pretty, black ankleboots and sparkly, black bootsocks; and of what might have been!
You can tell a lot about a young woman from the contents of her personal sock box.
I have been ordered to kneel over, and diligently study, my beautiful, new black mistress’s box of freshly laundered socks in the kitchen – so that I may better understand which pair of socks she is referring to when she orders me to fetch her socks of a morning. I have been encouraged by her manly, black boyfriend, master Rodell sir, to ‘bury my head’ in the box, and to study the various pairs of rolled-up, female socks up-close and personal – not just the distinctive colours, but also the differing patterns in the stitching – whilst he and my mistress make noisy love upstairs in the master bedroom by way of celebrating their successful purchase of me at the slave auction today.
She’s apparently already undressed and waiting for him upstairs!
It’s humiliating, of course – to be relegated to the role of an absentee mistress’s humble sock-studier, but I console myself with the thought that at least the socks are clean; I feel I could not bear, right now, to have to bury my head in a box of dirty, unwashed feminine socks! Sock-stink is an acquired taste – and I have not yet been a footslave for long enough to be able to acquire it! (It just goes to show how naïve I was prior to my enslavement in this black-Gynarchy household – I had no idea that I might not only be required to sniff my mistress’s sweaty socks on frequent occasions, both on and off her pretty, black feet, but could also be required to mouthwash them, and to suck out her precious, feminine footsweat from her dirty socks with my footslave-mouth, before handwashing them and then putting them in the washing machine at the end of each working week! They hadn’t mentioned that possibility at the household-footslave training course, but my new master, master Rodell sir, has already put me right on that!)
But, for now, let’s concentrate on the task in face – getting to know my beautiful, twenty-something, Rastafarian, black mistress’s sock collection, that I may better serve her as a household foot and sock servant.
The first thing I notice is the predominance of whites, and girly pastel-colours, within my black mistress’s sock box. There are a few, more sober-looking, plain black socks, but my mistress Chantelle – for that is her name – is clearly a pastel-socks girl! I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not – for the only problem with pure white, or pastel-shaded, socks is that, I know from my training course, they tend to show up the residual, ingrained feminine footsweat-marks after repeated wear and tear; and no matter how many times they have been dutifully hand-washed, or machine-washed, by a household sock-servant!
Take that uppermost pair of pure, white cotton anklesocks, for example – lying just inside the top of the sock box. They aren’t so pure any longer; not close up anyway! The toe-ends peeking out from the rolled-up, white cotton ball look decidedly browned and crusty. I can deduce from that they are an oft-worn and favourite pair of my black mistress’s socks, perhaps suitable for sneaker or ankleboot wear? So there are important clues to be had in this box of socks as to the nature of my absent mistress’s sock-wearing – once you start to really think about it.
Take, as another example, those neighbouring pair of thick, cream-coloured socks. I am 99.9% certain that they are primarily for use with my black mistress’s pretty, brown, low-heeled, round-toed, calf-length, stretch boots – the ones she had on just now before disappearing up to the bedroom in advance of her fiancé, my new master-sir.
And why do I conclude that? Well, there are several clues, when you actually think about it:
1. The biggest clue of all that these are her preferred socks to go with her brown leather calf-boots is, of course, the fact that she was wearing a very similar pair of creamy-coloured socks inside her boots, and over her black cotton leggings, when she made her way up to the master-bedroom just a few moments ago!
She has, in fact, been wearing those same brown stretch-boots, and cream-coloured bootsocks, ever since I first set eyes on her at the slave auction-house earlier today! Although my mind was, quite naturally, all of a whirr as I contemplated my future fate at the hands of this all-powerful, and as yet unknown, young black-Rastafarian woman on the journey to her home, after she and the master-sir had successfully bid for me, I also got to contemplate the socks and boots she had on her pretty legs in some detail, as I was obliged to serve as her footrest in the back of the master-sir’s car on the journey from the auction-house (she had been unable to sit in the front of the car bedside him as the happy couple had wanted to keep my complimentary chains and whips on the front seat – and, besides, there was more room for me to prostate myself on the floor in the back of the car, where my new, Rastafarian mistress could sit back and relax with her booted feet resting on the side of my freshly-purchased face!)
I therefore recognise that the socks she had on today were virtually identical to the several pairs of thick, cream-coloured bootsocks I now see lying in rolled-up bundles beneath my kneeling face, inside her brim-full sock box. Like I said – it’s a major clue as to their everyday usage!
2. Another clue, of course, is that cream-coloured socks do go very well with brown leather boots and black leggings – certainly on a girl! And my black, Rastafarian mistress strikes me as being very fashion-conscious, as well as beautiful; to be honest, I am already well and truly smitten by her – literally so, since she has already had occasion to put me in my place by slapping me hard across my face when I dared to look up at her admiringly, instead of downwards at her boots (also admiringly!)
3. And thirdly, boots are primarily for winter, aren’t they? And these thick and heavy, creamy socks are, in my humble estimation, exclusively winterwear socks – designed to keep a young, black woman’s feet and toes all cosy and warm (and sweaty) inside her winter-warming boots.
So, I am confident that if, say, tomorrow, my black mistress Chantelle orders me to fetch her a pair of her cream-coloured ‘bootsocks’ (or if the master-sir orders me to fetch them for her on her behalf) I shall know exactly which pair to choose! Well, not exactly which pair, since they all look the same to me right now – but, hopefully, the mistress will stipulate further if she wishes a specific pair of cream-coloured bootsocks to adorn her lower calves and ankles on any particular day!
I consider whether to study more closely the individual stitch-patterns in the several pairs of cream-coloured bootsocks – in an effort to distinguish them as individual pairs – but quickly conclude that I would do better to move on to studying some of the other girlsocks in the box; to try to work out their basic usages first. A footslave should learn to crawl before he attempts to walk! (again, you see, my utter naivety – being a footslave I was destined never to get up off my hands and knees ever again, since my masters and betters, quite naturally, require me to be close to their feet and footwear at all times; my innocence was just staggering in those early hours of my foot-servitude – not realising I would have to sniff and mouthwash dirty socks; daring to look my mistress in the eye; and endeavouring to walk upright like a free human being! What am I like?! Fortunately, my new master and mistress know what they’re doing – and soon beat me down into my rightful place!)
And so, instead of studying the creamy coloured bootsocks in more detail, I humbly turn my attention to the most obviously pretty pair of socks in the sock box, in my humble estimation – the white sports socks with the frilly, red-striped trim! I’m guessing these are for almost exclusive wear with my new, black mistress’s sports-sneakers – though that, in itself, throws up more questions than it answers, since I have already noticed, in the other corner of the kitchen, that my mistress Chantelle has several pairs of sneakers, all different in style and texture (albeit disgustingly similar in tattiness and scruffiness – doesn’t she ever wash her sneakers? Again – my naivety shines through; that will be my job from now on – mouthwashing my black mistress’s dirty, soiled sneakers! Duh!)
So, these pretty, red and white, frilly socks look quite short; I’m guessing, therefore, that they are most suitable for wear with one of the low-top pairs of sneakers she possesses – the dirty, scruffy white keds perhaps? Or possibly the pink and white-striped, leather, Velcro-fastening sneakers? I appreciate, of course, that pink and white sneakers are not an exact match for red and white socks, but who am I to say that minor sock-detail should prevent my mistress from wearing such a striking colour-combination on her sporty, black feet whenever she is out jogging with her man?
The point is, it’s not my place to question or to judge such matters; I’m not a sock-judge – I’m a sock-servant! Just a down-on-his-knees, personal footslave getting to know his mistress’s socks, and trying to work out how and when she might prefer to wear her various pairs of sweet, feminine socks! You see, I’m already learning fast, despite my initial naiveties!
So, I’ve decided – low-tops it is, with the frilly red and white anklesocks!
Again, the white toe-ends of the frilly socks look decidedly crusty and well-used, so I’m confident that my mistress’s feet do sweat a lot inside these socks on a regular basis – another clue to their definitely being sneaker, or running-shoe, socks! I just can’t envisage my style-conscious, hip and happening, new black mistress wearing such short, red and white, frilly anklesocks inside her high-top sneakers. What would be the point? I mean, the frilly, red socktop would simply get squashed, wouldn’t it? Plus, nobody would be able to witness or admire it, if it was stuck deep down inside a sporty, Rastafarian girl’s high-top sneakers!
Unless, of course, the socks are purely designed to absorb her precious, superior footsweat; purely functional, as opposed to highly decorative, socks!
Oh I don’t know what to think any more! Help me, please! My back is at stake here, as the sullen master-sir has already indicated to me that I shall be sorely whipped by him if I ever bring my mistress, his girlfriend, a wrong or undesired pair of socks from her daily sock box! At least there don’t appear to be any other pairs of red and white socks lying around inside the box, so, surely, my mistress would summon this particular pair of socks by describing their distinctive red and white colouring? Unless, of course, she actually wants to confuse me, and see me whipped at her feet?
Speaking of which, I hope and pray these pretty, red and white sneaker-socks don’t double up as her ‘whipping socks’! I’m sure, being tall and athletic as she is, that she is not averse to wielding the household whip herself across a recalcitrant or inefficient slave’s back; and they do say that fashion-conscious, young women like her love to whip a slave in appropriately coloured red-stripy socks (to match the colouring on their whipped slave’s bare back!). I suppose that would explain the sweat-discolouration around the crusty, white toe-ends – if she indeed wears these socks to whip a lot!
Gulp!
On second thoughts – no; they’re not stripy enough to be traditional whipping socks; just a single, thin red stripe on the frilly upper trim. In fact, I don’t see any red-stripy socks per se in this personal, female sock box; perhaps my new mistress lets the master-sir do all the whipping in this house on her behalf, after all?
I cringe at that thought – in fear; for the master-sir looks strong and mighty, and I’m just a spineless wimp of a male slave!
Moving on, I can spot several pairs of blue-themed socks; all pastel blues, of course – including a very fetching pair of what appear to be long, possibly kneehigh, blue and black checked, paisley-patterned socks (it’s hard to know whether they are knee or calf-length, or even, possibly, thigh length, when they are all rolled up into a thick ball like this, but there is definitely too much sock material in the blue and black, paisley-patterned socks for them to be merely ankle-length!)
I wonder, could these possibly be mistress Chantelle’s whipping socks – black and blue? Symbolic of my bruised and wounded back after a severe beating, perhaps?
Ha! Ha! Unlikely – I fancy! These socks, I’m guessing, are for going out and impressing the boys in nightclubs, being thigh-length and all that! They would certainly set her apart and attract attention to her long, shapely black legs! Perhaps that’s what first attracted the master-sir to her – her nightclubbing, thigh-high, black and blue chequered, paisley-patterned socks!
Ha! Ha! Who am I kidding?! I’m quite sure the master-sir is a real man; with real lusts! He’s not interested in a girl’s socks – he’s interested in her body! As he is ably demonstrating right now (I can hear the sounds of ecstatic, female lovemaking emanating down the stairs from the master bedroom up above me!)
Only I am obsessed by pretty young black women’s socks – or required to be obsessed by them! As I am now – kneeling, forlornly, in the cold and draughty kitchen of my new home, studying my libidinous mistress’s many pairs of, as yet unfamiliar, socks in her downstairs, personal sock box. But, gradually getting to know them; familiarising myself with them; obsessing about them; learning to respect them – as a young black woman’s, good and obedient, personal sockslave should do.
The master-sir can, evidently, take care of all her other needs! My focus must clearly be on her feet, boots, sneakers and socks; and above all on the contents of her sock box!
