Footslave Accounts Volume 2
Suitably obsequious accounts of humble foot-servitude, from those who claim to have experienced it!
VOLUME 2 CONTENTS (scroll down for accounts in reverse numerical order)
10. A Jealous Master-Sir
9. A Footslave in (Unrequited) Love
8. Levels 1,2 & 3
7. Loss of Inhibition
6. Cutting & Pasting
5. Sheer Class!
4. Lunchtime in the Treadmill-Dungeon
3. Induction
2. Love & Footkisses
1. Day Release
………………………………………………………………………………
I think my mistress’s husband – master-sir William – may be becoming a bit jealous of me.
He has no reason to be, of course:
· He is a potent and handsome free man, whereas I’m just an impotent and ugly, raggedy-assed slaveboy (albeit nearly twice his age!);
· The beautiful, slim and svelte, blonde mistress Temperance loves and adores him, and gives her body and soul to him, whereas she despises and detests me and only gives me the dirty soles of her boots.
But, nevertheless, the master-sir seems increasingly jealous of me – I think because of the sheer amount of time I must spend in his wife’s presence – or, more accurately, in the presence of his wife’s boots and socks (for she very much uses me as her footwear servant, rather than her barefoot servant; indeed, she can’t bear to have my hands or mouth touch her bare feet, and reserves her soft, silky-smooth footskin for the master-sir to caress and fondle whilst they are making love; she even lets the master-sir massage her bare feet, whereas I am only ever permitted to massage her socked feet!)
Master-sir William is, evidently, a somewhat insecure man – and that spells danger for the humble, powerless footslave in any household. For his doting wife has already delegated her female power and authority to her husband, and leaves all matters of slave-discipline in his manly hands. And, believe me, the female whip stings mightily across the bare back and shoulders when wielded by an angry, young man!
This evening is a good example of this.
I was dutifully toungeshining my mistress Temperance’s well-worn and still footwarmed, black leather ankleboots in the corner of the pantry – the corner where she nonchalantly kicks off her boots on her return home from work each evening – when the master-sir entered the room, having left his wife alone on the living room couch watching her favourite soap opera. I have to admit I was enjoying the steamy smell of the black leather buckle-boots, and the taste of the street dirt my mistress Temperance had been walking in over the course of the day, but I wasn’t in any way behaving in an unseemly or inappropriate manner with the boots.
In fact, I was diligently concentrating on a tiny stone stuck into one of the treads on the dusty sole of her right boot, and fully intended to swallow said boot-stone just as soon as my mouth could dislodge it from its boot-tread prison!
The master-sir, however, seemed somewhat suspicious of my due diligence over his wife’s recently discarded boots:
‘What do you think you’re doing, slave – sniffing the insides of my wife’s boots? I heard you! Aren’t you supposed to be concentrating on cleaning the outsides of them, boy?’
It always grates when the master-sir, who is less than half my age, refers to me as a ‘boy’; but he’s right, of course! He is the man of the household, and I’m just the footwear-servant!
Still, no point in denying my, supposedly surreptitious, inner boot-sniffing when I’ve been caught redhanded! I apologise immediately to the mighty master-sir for my pathetic and selfish, girlboot-sniffing indulgence, and endeavour to extricate myself from the uncomfortable situation by drawing attention to my feeble attempts at stone-extrication:
‘Oh pray master William sir, if it pleases you master William sir, truly this slave apologises for his impertinence in sniffing the insides of the mistress’s boots, master-sir, but this weak and feeble slave was regrettably unable to restrain himself from inhaling the aroma of the mistress’s warm footair whilst he was endeavouring to extract a small stone from the bottom of the mistress’s soiled, leather boot, if you would be so kind and understanding to a humble footservant who is at your mercy, most strong and powerful master-sir?’
SMACK!
Master-sir William angrily punches me across the jaw with his clenched, right fist:
‘Dirty pig – getting off on my darling wife’s residual foot-stink! Just wait till I tell her! It’ll be the whip for you tonight, footpig!’
And with that he drags me on my hands and knees by my right earlobe out of the kitchen, away from his wife’s dirty ankleboots, and over towards her smelly-socked feet on the edge of the living room sofa. He throws my face down onto her relaxing, black-socked feet, causing my nose to inadvertently – and without permission – touch his wife’s precious, sweat-dampened, cotton sock material on her right foot:
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ she asks her beloved husband coyly.
A flustered master-sir William announces my crime to his beloved wife:
‘I just caught this fool sniffing the insides of your boots in the kitchen – like he was enjoying it, or something?’
‘Ha! Ha! How could anyone possibly enjoy the smell of my stinky feet, darling? Ha! Ha! Here – hold his face up to my socks!’
The clever mistress-madam then gives me the opportunity to put the jealous master-sir’s fevered imagination at ease as she unceremoniously shoves the moist bottoms of her black-socked feet onto my nose, whilst the master-sir holds my face in place so that I have no escape from the sweaty sock-stink.
Now, as you already know, I have, pathetically, developed a taste for my blonde mistress Temperance’s personal footstink, but I seize the opportunity to pretend that I hate being forced to inhale the aroma of her sweaty-socked feet.
I grimace, and baulk, and beg for mercy:
‘Oh pray master sir; oh pray mistress madam! Ai, pray have mercy on this poor footslave! Oh the stink! Oh the stench! Oh I feel vile, mistress! Oh!...Oh!...Phew!...The smell!...Pray forgive me, master and mistress, but I think I’m going to be sick!’
The clever mistress-madam laughs (she can see through my act but then, being female, she is infinitely cleverer than both me and the free master-sir!):
‘Ha! Ha! You see, darling? Look at how he baulks at the smell of my stinky feet! He hates it! Ha! Ha! Give him some more!’
The master-sir roughly pushes my head even harder onto his wife’s black-socked feet, still not totally convinced, it seems, of my distress and penitence. I therefore make out as though I am going to retch (though what I actually want to do is breathe in the stale, stinky girlfoot-aroma with all my being!):
‘Oh pray master-sir…retch…No more, sir, I beg of you!…retch…retch…’
The master-sir sounds somewhat puzzled (he may be large of brawn, but he is little of brain!):
‘But he as good as told me that he couldn’t resist the smell of your stinky boots, love?’
‘Ha! Ha! I expect he was just trying to be polite, honey! He probably didn’t want you thinking that he was insulting me by complaining about the smell from the insides of my boots! Ha! Ha! But feel free to go ahead and whip him, if it makes you feel better honey!’
Whipping me always makes the young master-sir feel better – as, indeed, it does the young mistress-madam, for she does so love watching her handsome man whipping me and cutting me down to size. I think she feels that I am often in danger of becoming too big for her boots, and need to be reminded of my place. After all, sniffing her boots was not what I had been ordered to do back in the pantry; the master-sir was quite right in that respect – my orders had been merely to toungeshine the outsides of my mistress’s recently discarded, office boots.
The master-sir takes his wife up on the kind offer to whip me, and goes upstairs to the master bedroom in order to fetch the dreaded, single-tailed, brown leather punishment whip!
Meanwhile the blonde mistress-madam, his loving wife, mocks me and taunts me:
‘Ha! Ha! I hope the smell of my stinky boots and socks was worth it, slave? For you’re about to be well whipped! Ha! Ha!’
I kiss and blubber over her black-socked feet:
‘Oh pray, mistress! Oh thank you, mistress! Thank you for your boot and foot smells, mistress. And God bless you mistress!’
She gigglingly wriggles her black-socked toes around my nose in order to graciously release yet more of her stale sock-stink before her husband returns with the whip, and gently rubs herself beneath the black leather waistbelt of her blue-denim jeans as I audibly sniff!
Maybe he does have reason to be jealous of me after all?
I am in love with my sweet and kind mistress, footmistress Olivia.
She is the perfect young woman – 25 years old; tall and slim; ghostly-pale; haughty in appearance and attitude; and always smartly dressed. On workdays she will be in her dark-pinstriped trousersuit and black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip up ankleboots, always worn with a fetching array of boot-length anklesocks – some pink and black; some blue and black; some yellow and black; or just plain black; or even just plain white.
But never the same pair of socks two days in a row - thankfully!
Even though her pleasing, officewear socks are, for the most part, hidden from my footslave view throughout the working day, I nonetheless have the inestimable honour of knowing what colour of socks she is wearing inside her black, office boots, since I must sock and boot her first thing in the mornings.
Similarly, on her free, non-workdays, she will be wearing her pink and white, lace-up sneakers with black denim jeans and an array of ultra-short sneaker-socks – some pure white; some pure pink; some white with pink hearts; some white with pink and red stripes. These ‘free-time’ socks will always be visible to me beneath the hems of her skinny-tight jeans – albeit only the elasticated tops of her socks. And that’s exactly how it should be – just a hint of sock to keep me on my beloved footmistress’s sneakered toes!
Like I said – she is my perfect footmistress!
But, sadly, she is already spoken for! She is married to 26 year old, young master Malcolm sir, who likewise adores her – only, in his case, his affections are reciprocated. My mistress Olivia is never snooty or haughty towards him! She loves him – and since my overwhelming desire is to please her, I must do everything I can to facilitate the romantic love between my master and mistress.
Thus I:
· Ensure that my mistress’s boots, or sneakers, are suitably cleansed for the pleasure of the master-sir. I make sure my mistress’s boots are smartly tongueshined; and that her sneakers are free of mud and dirt stains. She would be truly mortified if her husband saw her in dirty footwear – so I ensure that her outer footdirt is regularly removed by my mouth; all for the benefit of the fastidious master Malcolm sir;
· Ensure that my mistress’s socks are mouth-washed and freshened every night, as my mistress would never want to appear before her husband in smelly, sweaty socks. I must absorb their sweat by swallowing it, so that the esteemed master-sir doesn’t have to smell their offensive odour after a long, hot day steaming inside my footmistress Olivia’s footwarmed boots or sneakers;
· Ensure that my mistress’s bare feet are clean, and divested of any residual grease, toejam and sweat not picked up by her socks. I must regularly suckclean her sticky, sweaty toes, and lick-extract any dark toejam from underneath her pedicured toenails. Needless to say, I am the one who has painted them in the first place – with my mouth brush – all for the delectation of the master-sir who likes his young wife to have clean, pedicured feet whilst he is making love to her (my mistress Olivia thinks her pasty-white feet are ugly, but I adore them – even though they are, admittedly, quite large and veiny; I think young master Malcolm sir barely notices her feet, and is much more of a ‘tits and ass’ man i.e. much more of a man);
· Perpetually ingratiate myself to the superior master-sir, and seek his approval – for if he disapproves of me my mistress Olivia would be sure to dispense with my services. I must therefore ensure that master-sir Malcolm has no reason whatsoever to feel jealous of me, or that his masculinity is in any way threatened by me, by making it clear to him that he – and he alone – is the man of the house, with power and authority over me (delegated to him by my mistress Olivia), and that I am nothing more than his wife’s personal foot-servant, preoccupied with the humble service of her boots, sneakers and socks, and only touching her bare feet with my mouth when they are dirty and in order to clean them – for his manly benefit! I regularly remind, him, if he needs reminding, that I am sexually impotent, and that he is the potent and vigorous one in the household, who alone can satisfy my mistress Olivia’s natural, womanly desires. He has no reason to see me as a threat to his manliness, since I possess no manliness of my own; only abject slavishness!
· Similarly, I must ‘big up’ the master-sir in front of the mistress, by humbly bowing my head and kissing the ground in front of his feet whenever he enters the room. I am forbidden by law to actually kiss another man’s feet – thank heavens! But I must know my place in this Gynarchy household, and remain at my mistress Olivia’s feet, even when she is lying back on the sofa in the arms of her manly husband. At such times I must massage her socked feet, including the pink hearts (if applicable) – massage her stinky sock-hearts whilst the master-sir sends her real heart all of a flutter with his manly kisses to her pretty, ruby-red lips!
· I must then crawl behind my mistress Olivia’s socked feet up the stairs towards the master bedroom as soon as she and the master-sir decide to ‘have an early night’. I must then humbly kneel and peel her socks off her pasty-white feet as she sits on the edge of the bed, disrobing herself and readying herself for the master. Once he too has undressed, I must congratulate him on the size of his penis as he climbs into bed, and wish him and the mistress a nice fuck, before placing my mistress’s dirty, discarded, still footwarmed and moist, sweaty, white socks inside my mouth and crawling over to the corner of the master bedroom in order to audibly sniff them, and suck them, whilst my two betters make love on the marital bed nearby. I must sniff and suck on the sweet and sour, feminine socks out loud, as both my mistress and master-sir find it sexually stimulating to hear me sniffing sweaty, female sock whilst they are engaged in erotic foreplay. At such times it is tempting for me, of course, to dream that it is me who is fondling and caressing my beautiful mistress’s soft, warm, but ghostly-pale body beneath the satin bed sheets, but, as I am just a slave, I am not allowed to experience any sexual excitement in my life, and must therefore sublimate my selfish desires and outlandish thoughts by focussing on the stink and sweat in my mistress’s crumpled up socks. Sox not sex must be my abiding motto!
· After my master and mistress have successfully copulated I must congratulate them, and praise and bless them for permitting me to attend to my mistress’s dirty socks in the same room as them whilst they were making love. I must then look suitably forlorn and impotent as they both laugh at me and make fun of the tiny size of my shrivelled-up penis, and my enduring virginity – especially since I am about twice their age, being in my early fifties.
· I am then invariably whipped by both the mistress-madam and the master-sir, who take it in turns to beat me by way of a physical demonstration of their utter contempt for me – their powerless and limp, sock-sniffing slave.
Throughout all of this, I must dutifully hide the fact that I am illicitly in love with my superior mistress Olivia (and not just her socks, as my masters think), for revealing my unseemly desires and affections for her would be sure to lead to my instant dismissal as her personal footslave, and my summary despatch to the underground slave-mines, well away from the temptations of young-married-womanly socks and bare feet (though I would, at least, still be living and working in close proximity to female boots – the black leather, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up kneeboots of the slave-mine taskmistresses!)
And so my beloved footmistress Olivia remains blissfully unaware of my unrequited feelings for her (as, indeed, is the master-sir!), and everything remains correct and proper in the world of the Gynarchy – the weak and worthless footslave is staring adoringly, but discreetly, at his female owner’s booted feet whilst she swoons into the arms of her loving and manly husband above him.
High above him – and completely out of reach!
My beautiful, jet-black-haired, mixed-race (Chinese and French) mistress, 27 year old mistress Josette, requires me to operate on one of 3 different ‘levels’ every day – depending on her mood:
· Level 1 is invoked whenever my dark-haired, slim and svelte, mistress Josette is menstruating, and consequently in an irritable mood. It requires me to operate as a ‘perpetuant’ footslave – i.e. I must not only be continuously thinking about her pretty feet and footwear (which inevitably means her flat, black leather loafers and matching black anklesocks – for my mistress always wears such loafers and socks with her trousers or jeans, whatever the time of day; whatever the weather; and whatever her mood!), but also acting upon them, by repeatedly kissing her shoes and socks; or sniffing them; or nuzzling them (sometimes called ‘face-fondling’ a mistress’s footwear)– as per my mistress’s further, more detailed directions at the time of the month in question.
Any deviation from her orders whilst we are on ‘level 1’ will result in my being instantaneously and severely punished – which, in practice means a tripling of the punishment I would receive if we were on ‘level 3’ (thus an offence resulting in 10 lashes of the female whip on level 3, would result in 30 lashes on level 1 etc. It’s a totally logical and consistent system of command and control on my clever, mixed-race mistress’s part!)
I am also forbidden to speak on level 1.
· On Level 2, invoked when my mistress is not going through her period, but is nonetheless feeling in a dominant or foul mood, I am still required to think only about her plain black shoes and socks, and to study and admire them as I kneel perpetually by her side and/or follow her to heel, but I am not required to perpetually kiss, sniff or face-fondle them. Such activities need only take place on her specific command throughout the day, and will be of limited duration depending on the circumstances.
I thus resemble a so-called ‘intermittant’ footslave on such ‘level 2’ days – which is, probably, if we’re being perfectly honest, the default position of most personal footslaves nowadays here in the Gynarchy. Crucially, my punishments will be proportionately less severe than on level 3 – perhaps 20 lashes for what would be a 30 lash offence on level 3 (though this is always at the whim and discretion of my capricious, French/Chinese mistress; none of these levels are set in stone, in the sense that my mistress Josette can deviate from them at any time she so wishes; only I am legally bound by them, as my mistress’s word in this regard is the law!)
On level 2 I am permitted to verbally acknowledge my mistress’s commands in humble slavespeak, and to beg for mercy prior to a whipping; but I am still not permitted to initiate a conversation with my superior mistress.
· Level 3 is, sadly, only rarely invoked by my mistress Josette – and tends to be when she is either drunk, or high on drugs (which isn’t all that often; my mistress is, fundamentally, a good girl!). It is, as the name implies, the most relaxed of the three regimes, when I am still, of course, expected to devote all my footslavish thoughts and attention to my mistress’s pretty feet and footwear (and let’s face it – what footslave wouldn’t want to constantly admire the plain black shoes and matching, full-length anklesocks of his beautiful, long-dark-haired, slim and svelte, mixed-race mistress?) but, because my mistress is in a relatively good and ‘chilled-out’ mood she does not require me to publicly demean myself by kissing, sniffing or nuzzling her footwear, unless I feel it is appropriate for me to do so (for example, if I wish to praise and bless her for some act of mistressly kindness towards me – such as sparing me the whip for some act of footslavish incompetence on my part; or just in order to make her look big in front of her friends).
Not quite the equivalent of a ‘celibant’ footslave, therefore – who is completely forbidden to touch his mistress’s feet or footwear – but something approaching that.
If, for any reason, I am to be punished on level 3, the strokes will be light and at their lowest in number (unless I have, in some unfortunate way, managed to darken my mistress’s mood – in which case the punishment level will revert to levels 2 or even 1 !)
I can also be at my most loquacious on level 3, utilising my vast knowledge of humble slavespeak to freely grovel and fawn to my mixed-race mistress, and to flatter her, not inconsiderable, feminine ego!
Today I must be careful, for my mistress is experiencing stomach cramps and we are, consequently, on level 1.
Foolishly, in spite of everything I’ve just been telling you, whilst my menstrual mistress is at work in her office this morning I allow my eyes to drift away from the backs of her ubiquitous, black leather loafers and plain, black anklesocks whilst she is seated on her swivel chair at her desk, and glance over at the shiny, black, clunky-heeled and round-toed, double-strapped, mary-jane style, office shoes of one of my mistress’s colleagues – miss Alison.
It’s an immensely foolhardy act for several reasons:
i. My own mistress Josette’s socks, beneath her black, office, trousersuit hems, have plenty to admire in them, for they are a particularly well-worn and bobbled pair of plain, black anklesocks, with veiled views of her bare footflesh beneath the thinning sock-stitching on the backs of her heels.
Even just counting the thinning lines of black, cotton stitching should have been enough to preoccupy my pathetic, level 1 footslave-mind for the entirety of the day, although my mistress Josette was kindly permitting me to perpetually sniff them as well; but I have foolishly allowed my mind, eyes, and nostrils to wander!
ii. Mistress Alison isn’t even wearing any socks or nylons – she is barefoot inside her shiny, black mary-jane shoes, beneath her navy-blue, knee-length office skirt. Now, you might think that is a good and attractive thing for a footslave to behold – after all, the slave can get to see the very contours in his neighbouring office-mistress’s footflesh; the pink cracks in her bare heels above the smooth and shiny black shoeline; the individual pores in her ankleskin; the blotches.
BUT WEARING CLOSED-IN, BUCKLED-UP SHOES WITHOUT SOCKS OR NYLON IS JUST PLAIN UNHYGIENIC! Mistress Alison’s feet must be incredibly hot and sweaty inside her black, patent leather mary-jane shoes (especially since she is quite a portly, young woman), unlike my own slim and svelte mistress Josette’s feet, whose foot-perspiration is being absorbed into her protective, black cotton anklesocks, even if they are well-worn and thinning, thereby ameliorating the stench of her warm, hot, mixed-race, office-girl feet. My level 1 sock-sniffing nose can attest to that – her socks don’t smell at all bad (or, at least the parts of the socks at the backs of her heels and along her insteps; I imagine her inner-shoe socks, around the shoe-enclosed toe areas, may well be a bit ripe!)
Please don’t harbour any illusions about we male footslaves actually liking the smell of stinky, sweaty, female feet; it is a humiliating and sick-making smell – we just have to endure it if our mistresses’ foot hygiene leaves something to be desired. And shamelessly sockless, goddess-mistress Alison’s feet must surely leave something to be desired inside those hot, unprotected shoes?!
Oh but those shiny, black shoes! And those pinky-red heels at the back! I’m just a weak and feeble footslave, when it comes down to it – easily led astray by an exotic pair of female shoes on sweaty, bare, feminine feet!
iii. Whenever my mistress is on the blob, and feeling tetchy, she is always particularly sensitive to any perceived footslave-disloyalty on my part. She spots my wandering eye instantly – no doubt assisted by the fact that my sock-sniffing nose, albeit only fleetingly, physically detaches itself from the back of her right sock, in direct contravention of her specific command to perpetually nose-caress and sniff her sock whilst she got on with her office deskwork above me!
So you see why I am such a fool? I fool-ly deserve what’s coming to me!
My mistress Josette bides her time and waits until her colleague, miss Alison, is out of sight, before she leans down from her swivel chair to angrily challenge my disloyal behaviour:
‘Were you just checking out mistress Alison’s feet, dirty feetslave?...’
My heart sinks! I’ve been rumbled! No point in denying it – that would only inflame the situation.
And besides – we’re on level 1, so I am completely forbidden to talk, or to defend myself. My mistress’s question is a rhetorical one. She already knows the answer and does not require a verbal response. Indeed, my only legitimate response can be to start sniffing and nuzzling my mistress’s socks again – only this time with renewed, penitent vigour!
Helpfully, her 18 year old colleague on the other neighbouring desk, office-junior mistress ‘Penny’ (who is actually of pure Chinese origins and whose real name is, I believe miss Pen-Lee, or something like that) breaks the somewhat awkward silence by confirming my level 1 crime :
‘Ha! Ha! I see him do it too, Josette! I see how he look over admiringly at miss Alison feet and admire her shoe! Ha! Ha! Whip him, Josette! Beat him! He a dirty, disloyal footslave to you!’
My Chinese/French mistress Josette, who has a soft spot for her office-junior, given the latter’s Chinese heritage, thanks her for being her informant, and invites her to witness my impending punishment:
‘Thanks, Penny! Would you like to accompany us to the punishment room where you can help me flog him?’
‘Ha! Ha! Oh yes please, Josette! I hold down dirty slave between my legs while you whip him, yes?’
‘Yes, that sounds good! Come on – let’s go!’
I crawl, shamefacedly, behind my mistress Josette’s flat, black leather loafers and thinning, black anklesocks down the office corridor, and then the office stairs, towards the office punishment-room, kicked and cajoled along the way by the black leather, pointy-anklebooted toes of Chinese, office-junior goddess-mistress Penny, who is clearly relishing the opportunity to not only witness, but also participate in, the disciplining of her slightly older colleague’s personal footslave (since miss Penny herself is still too young to own a personal footslave, and must normally content herself with watching public slave-whippings either in the town square or on the television!)
The irony is that I shall now be punished for taking my eyes and nose off the socked balls of my mistress Josette’s heels, whilst my kneeling and bowed head is locked ingloriously between the black-trousered and shapely calf-muscles of a hugely attractive all-Chinese girl, forcing me to stare down at the tops of her ankleboots inside which, I happen to know, she is wearing a pair of black, calf-length socks with little red dragon logos on the tops (I know that because I copped a sneaky peek at miss Penny’s office-bootsocks earlier this morning whilst she had been scratching her leg under the desk – my mistress Josette had, mercifully, failed to pick up on that previous little act of disloyalty on my part; as, indeed, had the snitch with the leg-itch!)
Sadly, I cannot see the dragon-tops of goddess-mistress Penny’s Chinese bootsocks during my punishment, due to her trouser hems covering the tops of her boots, but the mere thought of her red and black, Chinese-dragon-themed socks inside her boots whilst I am being punished by my part-western/part far-eastern, black-shoed and black-socked mistress Josette, who is wantonly wielding the office whip-cane behind me, thrills me to the core; hardly an appropriate emotion for a slave undergoing harsh, corporal punishment on his naked back!
And the punishment is truly harsh! This is a level 1 punishment, remember – the highest level; 35 harsh strokes of the twisted, leather whip-cane across my bare back and shoulders, well laid on by my slighted and insulted, menstrual, French/Chinese mistress – all the while encouraged to lay it on even harder by the cruel and bloodthirsty, pure-oriental, office junior, miss Penny:
‘Ha! Ha! Harder, Josette! Harder! Make slave-bastard suffer! Ha! Ha! Show him what it mean to disrespect his Chinese mistress shoes and socks! Ha! Ha!’
After the punishment, my (only part-Chinese) mistress Josette requires me to kiss a breathless-with-excitement miss Penny’s fully Chinese, pointy, black leather boot-toes, by way of demonstrating my gratitude to her for assisting in my corporal punishment through her keeping my head dead still between her calf-length boots, whilst my mistress was whipping me. I’m still not allowed to verbalize my gratitude to miss Penny, however – only copious kisses to the Chinese girl’s formerly head-scissoring, black leather, zipped-up ankleboots are permitted.
And still no sign of those pretty, fire-breathing, red Chinese dragon logos on her ankleboot-hidden socks!
And then, all too soon, it’s time for me to stop kissing foreign boot, and crawl back to my mistress Josette’s homely, office desk – back to the study, and sniffing, of her black, worn sock-heels, slightly the sweatier now thanks to her exertions with the whip-cane; and, of course, I must now do so with a stinging and throbbing, sore back for company!
But I only have myself to blame! I know full well the consequences of upsetting my mistress Josette when we are on level 1.
And so I quietly sob into her socks, and resolve to do better in future.
Miss Penny, meanwhile, is picking her nose, whilst miss Alison, on the other side of the desk, has a smug grin on her fat face. You see – I’m incorrigible! Even now I’m allowing my thoughts, and my eyes, to wander…
Some customer-mistresses are so naturally timid , they prefer to delegate their innate, female authority to their husbands or boyfriends whenever they approach my humble, sink-estate – and I would have thought entirely unintimidating – ‘stand-up’, public shoelick stand!
So, the young, white woman, who looks to be in her early twenties and who is buck-toothed with curly, brown hair, large, black-rimmed glasses and a pink hair-band, happily lets her bearded, much older, white boyfriend do all the ordering as she somewhat gingerly extends her right, pink-sneakered foot out onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face:
‘Clean my girl’s sneaker!’ order the man, gruffly and impolitely through his beard. But, like I said, he is entitled to be gruff and impolite due to his delegated authority from his besotted, buck-toothed girlfriend; she’s still holding onto his hand, for heaven’s sake!
The scruffy, pink canvas sneaker is of the low-cut, lace-up, plimsoll variety, and has a grubby white sole and rounded toe-area, with grubby, white shoelaces to match. Her white, fully pulled up, ribbed anklesocks look very crisp and neat by comparison, and they are fully on display – for the young woman is, somewhat geekily, wearing her cheap, skinny-tight, blue denim jeans at half-mast, thereby exposing her upper anklesocks in all their glory to the uninterested world.
Well, to my interested face, at any rate!
A pale blue blouse, covered by a plain, black cardigan to match her black, horn-rimmed glasses, completes the ensemble; think ‘geek-girl’ in the extreme – while I must think ‘geek-mistress’, given her beardy boyfriend’s delegated power and authority over me.
I’m actually quite jealous of him, even though he is clearly not a successful man, to be living on this sink-estate and going out with a geek-girl! At least he is free, and able to walk hand in hand with her on almost-equal terms, whilst I am obliged to remain on my humble, slave hands and knees before her and lick-clean her dusty, dirty, pink, common-or-garden plimsoll.
She starts to smile, buck-toothedly, as I start to lick, nervously. She even giggles – for she just can’t believe that anyone, even a slave, would be so afraid of her that he would feel compelled to lick her dirty, pink sneaker in full, public view. No-one has ever been afraid of her before – she is the one who has always previously been bullied, especially by other girls! She is glad she came to the Gynarchy to find love, and will happily marry her bearded, boyfriend Wilbert, if he asks her to!
She squeezes his hand and stares affectionately into his weaselly eyes, as I stare affectionately into her ribbed, white anklesock-top which is now so close to my face that I can start to see its little, hitherto unnoticed, imperfections; a torn stich here; some bobbling there; an ingrained, yellowy shoe-stain near the top of her right instep – presumably a mark left by another pair of sneakers or shoes, for these flimsy, pink plimsolls don’t look capable of generating enough sweat on a geek-girl’s dainty feet to create indelible sweat-stains on her white socks!
‘Are you happy, darling?’ asks the equally geeky-looking, bearded man, grabbing hold of the public-use whip in his other hand!
I brace myself, for, presumably if his young girlfriend isn’t happy, I shall be experiencing the sting of that brown leather, communal use crop on my bare back; and it’s a brand new one (the previous whip having been nicked yesterday evening, whilst I slept in my bonds! Honestly – they’ll nick anything that isn’t chained down on this estate (that’s the only reason, presumably, why I myself haven’t been nicked, and forced into personal foot-servitude to one of the sink-estate’s female residents!)
Sadly, the female authorities weren’t long in replacing the stolen whip – and testing it out on my somnolent back!
But, fortunately for me, the geeky, young woman appears to hate violence, and seeks to reassure her strong and manly, bearded boyfriend that everything is just hunky-dory in her sweet-toothed world:
‘Oh yes, Wilbert! He’s doing a great job!’
‘Mmm…I’ll be the judge of that!’ retorts master-sir Wilbert, leaning down to inspect my diligent toungework on his geek-girlfriend’s grubby, white rubbery, rounded sneaker-toe:
‘Here! You missed a bit, public foot-flunkey!’
He points, threateningly, with the tip of the brown leather whipping-crop to a particularly difficult area of ingrained, blackened dirt just above the white-rubber sole of the young lady’s sneaker, near the right hand side of her rounded and scuffmarked sneaker-toe.
It wasn’t, actually, that I’d ‘missed’ it! It’s just that no amount of licking is ever going to remove such ingrained street-dirt from a sweet, young woman’s everyday, well-worn sneaker – however much the master-sir might like the grubby, street-soiled whiteness of her sneaker-sole to match the pure whiteness of her ribbed, ankle-length, crew sock !
But try telling that to an overly possessive and protective master-sir who is holding a whip – especially when he has had to pay good money to an international dating agency in order to ‘import’ his future, young wife into the Gynarchy. Ha! Ha! No born-and-bred Gynarchy girls would even look at him, it seems!
Then again, they wouldn’t dream of dating me either – I’m just a slave!
I wonder where exactly this buck-toothed, bespectacled girl comes from? She sounds English – but she’s hardly what you would describe as an ‘English rose’, though I suspect she has now been pollinated by the sexually-frustrated master-sir!
But I digress – the mighty and potent master-sir has accused me of missing some dirt on his geek-girlfriend’s sneaker-toe, and I must humbly acknowledge my failing; beg for his understanding and forgiveness; and plead with him not to be whipped:
‘Oh pray, master-sir! Please forgive me, master-sir! This slave will try harder, most respected master-sir. Please don’t beat me, sir!’
I feel I don’t know the master-sir well enough to plead with him on first name terms, and of course, I still don’t even know his geek-girlfriend’s name, as he hasn’t mentioned it in conversation with her! ‘Winifred’, or ‘Wendy’, I expect; something beginning with ‘W’! Mistress Winifred and master-sir Wilbert – it has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?
I lower my mouth even closer to the ground-dirt and lick furiously at the young woman’s dirty, blackened sneaker-toe, hoping that my pathetic, abject cringing will, at least, big up the bearded master-sir in front of his girlfriend to the point where he feels a physical demonstration of his prowess with the whip will not be necessary!
The master-sir, however – clearly itching to deploy the whip – checks with his girlfriend whether she is still satisfied with my efforts:
‘Well, honey? What do you think? Should we whip the bastard for missing a bit of your shoe-dirt?’
The sensitive young woman is seemingly horrified – both by her consort’s use of foul language, and by the whole concept of whipping a slave:
‘Oh Wilbert darling, no! I’m sure he’s doing his best – and my shoes really are terribly dirty!’
I chuckle to myself internally; what a walkover this girl would be on her own! Imagine being her personal-footservant – and what you could get away with! Ha! Ha! And the sexually frustrated master Wilbert sir, can’t lay a finger on me, let alone the whip, without her explicit, sweet feminine permission.
It’s the law – and he knows it! He must surely be starting to wonder if she really is the girl for him?
He tries to hide his disappointment through clenched, bearded teeth:
‘Well, give him your other shoe to lick then, darling.’
The sweet and kind-natured, young woman – who evidently abhors violence – then, somewhat gawkily, switches feet beneath me on the footblock, presenting me with an equally scruffy, pink plimsoll to attend to by mouth. This one even has a tiny hole in the pink material just above the white-rubbery big-toe area – a tiny hole through which a furtive glimpse of her snowy-white, inner sock is just visible!
She certainly isn’t made of money, this young woman – holey shoes and bobbled socks. Hopefully she can get a decent job once she has married master-sir Wilbert and settled down into her new life in the Gynarchy.
I love the taste and smell of the rubbery toe and sole-parts of her otherwise pink, canvas sneaker, and do my wooden-footblock-level best to divest the rubber of its ingrained, sink-estate dirt – especially since I know master Wilbert sir is watching me like a bearded hawk!
But, unfortunately for me, the young geek-woman’s attitude appears to have hardened somewhat. As we have already seen she is a sensitive soul – and that includes being sensitive to her boyfriend’s manly emotions and needs.
And when it comes to pleasing her boyfriend, clearly some of her principles of non-violence just have to be sacrificed:
‘Erm…I think he’s starting to slack a bit on my shoe, now, Wilbert! You can give him one whip, if you like!’
Master sir Wilbert’s bearded face presumably lights up above me, as he wastes no time in demonstrating his prowess with a whip to his geeky girlfriend:
‘Ha! Ha! Sure thing, honey!’
Swish…Crack!
The young mistress’s snowy white sock initially flinches in empathy with the bright red pain-mark now spreading across my right shoulder blade.
But then she laughs – already being converted to the pleasing sound of female leather on male slave!
‘Ha! Ha! Gosh – you’re so strong, Wilbert!’
He isn’t all that strong, really – but he is stronger than me; for I’m just a weak and feeble, male slave, cowering in whip-pain at his buck-toothed, geek-girlfriend’s plimsoll-sneakered feet, as she gigglingly permits him a second stroke onto my bare, kneeling back:
‘Swish…Crack!’
If this couple haven’t already made love, they will be doing so tonight. For this bespectacled, twenty-something, nerd-mistress with the brown curly hair, scruffy pink plimsolls, and snowy white anklesocks has clearly lost some of her inhibitions today!
It is late at night on the rundown, Gynarchy sink-estate.
The place is deserted, apart from my spotlit, public shoelick-stand where I am kneeling, as always, awaiting any late-night, female customers who may require a quick boot-tonguing or a shoelick-shine!
Gradually, through the empty space of the miserable, sink estate courtyard, I hear an African female voice echoing off the various, high-rise, apartment-block walls; the voice gets louder as she approaches, gabbling noisily away on the phone…
‘…Sijali maneno yake, nataka kwenda kesho! ...KESHO!’
She stops right in front of me and, almost subconsciously, stretches out her right leg beneath my face, so that her right foot is resting on my wooden footblock – and unmistakeable signal that she requires my footwear tongue-cleaning services. But she does not stop her animated conversation on the phone:
‘...Nilimwambia jana usiku kwamba sisi ingekuwa dhahiri kwenda kesho. MWAMBIE KWAMBA!’
Being just a dumbass, public footslave – and a lowly sink-estate one at that – I have, of course, no idea what this agitated, young, black African woman is shouting about down the phone, nor even what language she is speaking! I’m just glad it isn’t me she’s angry at, for she looks cruel!
She is in her early to mid twenties; wearing a traditional, African-style headscarf (though it is subdued in colour – being beige brown); dark sunglasses (even though it’s pitch dark); a furry, brown jacket over a white, woolly jumper (well it is close to freezing out here – and an African girl must surely feel the cold on a night like this?); blue denim shorts (!); and long, grey cotton, ribbed kneesocks with bright yellow, folded over cuffs at the tops. On her pretty, African-girl feet she is wearing a clumpy-looking pair of low-heeled, black and white, lace-up saddle-shoes; at least they, along with the thick, ribbed kneesocks, will keep her beautiful, black tootsies and lower, black legs warm!
It’s the dark sunglasses that make her look cruel; those, and the tapered, brown leather, single-tailed, punishment whip hanging from the brown leather belt around her shapely waist! I mean, any girl who carries a punishment whip around with her – when she does not appear to have a personal footslave in tow – must be looking for trouble!
Yes, the grey and yellow kneesocks may make her look all feminine and sweet. But this angry, young, black woman is clearly in no mood to be messed around with – and so I get down to work on her proffered, black and white, two-toned saddle-shoe straight away.
Meanwhile, she continues to shout angrily into the phone above me whilst having her stylish, laced-up, shiny leather shoe licked:
‘Mimi si kubadilisha mipango yangu! Mwambie yeye ni mtu kuwa na mabadiliko ya mipango yake! MIMI NI MWANAMKE!...’
Her grey, yellow-cuffed kneesock moves high above me in reaction to her animated and distracted conversation, but the consequent angry creases in her African-female sock, particularly around the lower ankle area which I am dutifully focussing on, only inspire me to even more devoted and fearful licking and fawning at her powerful, young-black-womanly feet. I therefore study intently the street-soiled saddle-shoe that I am licking under the spotlight, seeking out the dirtiest parts.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the dirtiest parts appear to be the white parts – the areas around the toes and heels. The black ‘saddle’ part down the middle of her laced-up shoe looks relatively clean – though I shall lickshine it as well, of course, just in case it contains stubborn traces of unseen street-dirt! I only hope the grey-white laces don’t impede my mouth too much on that central, black leather area of the young, African lady’s comfortable shoe – otherwise I shall no doubt be saddle-shoe sore as she angrily kicks me in the face!
‘...MWAMBIE!’ shouts the young woman suddenly down the phone at the top of her African voice. Some startled and frightened nearby birds fly off. I don’t have the option to flee, of course – though I am just as scared of her!
Someone sure is getting a bollocking down the phone; I repeat – I’m just glad it’s not me!
Though I am right, actually, to be very afraid – for, if it’s a free man she’s angry with (and why wouldn’t it be?), an arrogant and petulant, young black woman like this may well decide to take out her righteous, young-womanly indignation on the nearest male object available; and that would be me, now that the birds have flown!’
The brown leather punishment whip dangles ominously from her pretty, African waist – itching to strike at something! That whip is no mere decorative accessory to her belt! It looks like it has seen plenty of action on male slaves’ backs – for it is frighteningly frayed in places!
I haven’t even finished toungeshining the irate, young, black woman’s right, laced up saddle-shoe when she subliminally switches feet beneath my kneeling and bowed face. If anything, there are even more creases and folds in her left kneesock – and more dirt and dust on her left saddle-shoe.
‘Je, yeye kusema?...’
I can tell by her intonation that that was a question. But I still have no idea what the conversation is about, so I’m profoundly glad that the question is not directed towards me! Can you even begin to imagine the consequences of not answering an angry, young African woman’s question?
Maybe you can?!
Anyway, this is one conversation I am more than happy not to be a party to – I’ll just carry on licking the superior, young woman’s black and white shoedirt, in my humble capacity as an innocent bykneeler.
‘...Hah! Nafikiria hivyo! Mimi nina kuwa na viatu yangu shined sasa! Mwambie mimi itakuwa nyumbani katika muda wa nusu saa!’
I’m guessing the young woman has won the argument, for she sounds a bit more placated now as she snaps shut her mobile phone above me.
‘Idiot!’
I recognise that word, of course! But was it directed at me, or at the person she has just been arguing with on the phone? I certainly am an idiot, being a down-in-the-dirt footslave; but maybe the other person is as well – in her proud, African-girl estimation?
Just in case the young woman is expressing her dissatisfaction with my performance on her clumpy, two-tone, saddle shoes, I reinvigorate my efforts, even though her grey-and-yellow-kneesocked leg is casting an ominous shadow over the black area of her shoe, making it even harder to detect the street dirt and grime.
Thankfully, the young woman must be a mind-reader, for she casually twists her foot around at that very moment under the shoelick-stand spotlight in order to afford my tongue more enlightened access to the black leather centre of her black and white, shiny shoe. Not only that, but she stoops down to point to the, slightly scuffmarked, white leathery, big-toe area of her left shoe:
‘Lick here, slave! There is dirt!’
These words are, of course, most definitely directed towards me, and now that she’s speaking English I think I can detect an East African accent – so, perhaps she has been conversing in Swahili up until now? You’ll have to check that out for me – using Google Translate and a bit of cutting and pasting! I’m afraid I don’t have access to a computer – being a full-time footslave!
‘Yes mistress! At once, most esteemed and frightening, African mistress!’
Meanwhile, the frightening African mistress does a bit of ‘cutting and pasting’ of her own – cutting my bare, kneeling back several times with her single-tailed, brown leather, punishment whip, after the verbal pasting she has just given to the other male personage down the phone!
You see – she is taking her anger and frustration out on me! I told you she would! I am a free man’s whipping boy, as well as a free woman’s saddle-shoe licker! And I am most definitely not the one in the saddle-shoes with the upper whiphand!
It’s so nice to have a truly stylish pair of bright red, leather stilettos to lickshine for a change, in amongst the plethora of scruffy, black leather ballet-flats; misshapen, beige sheepskin ugg-boots; scuffmarked, black leather ankleboots; cheap, shiny black plastic loafers; and even flaky white, low-top, lace-up sneakers!
And, furthermore, a pair of stilettos worn with the sheerest of flesh-toned nylons on shapely legs beneath a smart, grey-pinstriped, knee length skirt – as opposed to the ubiquitous, officewear trousers and dark-coloured anklesocks!
Yes, 43 year old, office-executive goddess-mistress Patricia is a class act compared to so many of the other office-mistresses I have to serve in my capacity as an outdoor, office footslave (mind you, she always was; I don’t ever recollect seeing her in flaky sneakers or scruffy ballet flats and socks in all the years I have been serving her office footwear – not even in the days when she was just starting her career as an office junior! She is truly a class act!)
She won’t have been following my career in the same way that I have been following hers, of course – largely because I have no career ladder to climb, as such! I have been employed as the lowly, outdoor office footslave in the office’s back yard for over 45 years now – since before goddess-mistress Patricia was even born – and I have gone nowhere in that time! How could I have, given that I am just a disembodied, black-rubbery-masked head protruding out of the outside, office wall at female-foot level?
I am specifically employed as a shoelick for the lady smokers of the office, who have always been required to smoke outside, at the back of the building, even before it was made illegal to smoke inside any public building in the Gynarchy! I lickshine their smoky shoes or boots, if they want me to, whilst they are having their routine fag break. And office manageress goddess-mistress Patricia is one such, bleached-blonde, forty-something lady smoker; like I said – sheer class!
She doesn’t know me from Adam, of course – even though I’ve been lickshining her stiletto footwear throughout her august career! Why would she? I mean, like her stilettos, she is much too high and mighty to ever speak to me; all the office ladies are – even the current crop of office juniors, who will, no doubt, like goddess-mistress Patricia go on to advance in their female careers regardless of talent, or the lack of it, precisely because they are female and therefore better than all the male office workers.
They are certainly better than me – the disembodied, black rubbery, shoeshining head sticking out of the brick wall!
I’m not actually disembodied, of course! But my head is the only ‘visible’ part of me – albeit covered in my black rubber, footfool mask. As footfool-masks go it is quite old fashioned (hardly surprising, given that it was fitted on me over 45 years ago!). It is just a plain, smooth, black rubbery mask with apertures for my eyes, nose and mouth – none of the fancy accoutrements found on more modern, footfool masks, such as little, rubbery-model, female shoes or boots; or whips; or asinine ears. Mind you, it does have two humiliating words strewn across the top – in bold, white lettering:
‘Queer Shoelicker’
If they were manufacturing it nowadays it would probably just say:
‘Queer Shoelick’
as everyday language has become so much sloppier over the years!
So, as goddess-mistress Patricia approaches my protruding, rubbery head for her customary, mid-morning fag break and shoelicking session, I can be sure of three things:
1. She will be wearing her stilettos;
2. She will be wearing her finest denier, flesh-coloured nylons;
3. She will not speak to me – just stretch out her stiletto-shod feet, one at a time, onto the ground-level, wooden footblock beneath my prostrate face, whilst she smokes.
And that’s how it jolly well should be!
She still has incredibly shapely legs and ankles for a woman of her age, and it isn’t long before she attracts the attention of one of her male, office colleagues and fellow-smokers. She will certainly talk to him whilst she is having her stilettos licked, for, even though she is better than him both in sex and rank, he is, nevertheless, a free man who is not entirely impotent, and who can, therefore, satisfy her womanly needs, should she feel so inclined to use him in that way.
By all accounts goddess-mistress Patricia has used nearly all the free office males in that way at some time or other!
I would not presume to eavesdrop on the smoky conversation between female goddess and superior, free male above me, of course! My job is not to listen – but to lick! I therefore concentrate on goddess-mistress Patricia’s outstretched, right shoe first, as she smokes and chats to her male almost-equal above me.
Even her shoes are relatively clean – compared to many that I must lick throughout the working day! Just a hint of street grime and dust along the lower insteps – as you would expect of such a classy lady. And as for her sheer, nylon stockings (for you can bet your bottom dollar they are stockings, and not tights – easier for goddess Patricia to take off during sex, or even to keep on during sex, with any of her male office-colleagues; or her husband!) well, they are so fine you would struggle to even notice them on her feet and ankles were it not for the tiniest creases in the nylon caused by the outstretched positioning of her foot – and even then your face needs to be close up and personal with them, like mine is. To the majority of people goddess-mistress Patricia must merely appear to have smooth, bare legs beneath her grey-pinstriped, knee-length skirt!
She casually flicks her cigarette ash down onto my rubber facemask whilst she is chatting. She probably hasn’t even thought about it, but, if she were concerned about the hot ash burning holes in my rubbery mask she needn’t be; it’s reinforced rubber, and has survived more than four decades of falling, feminine fag-ash!
But, like I said, she probably hasn’t even given that point a second thought; she is engrossed in her conversation with the freemale office-sir above me, and even her switching of her feet on the footblock beneath me is an entirely subliminal act on her part.
The left, high-heeled, office shoe is every bit as clean and elegant as the right – just a few dust marks on the sides, and a blade of dead grass impaled on the metal tip of the spiked heel. Again, subconsciously, mistress Patricia raises her spiked heel and inserts it into my black-rubbery mouth, so that I may divest it of its herbaceous detritus.
I’m glad she does so, for this causes the sheer, flesh-coloured nylon around her shapely anklebone to crease an fold most magnificently in front of my black-rubbery eyes – a reminder to me of her sheer class and sophistication, and the need for her to cover up her varicose foot-veins (for, for all their great, natural beauty, goddess-mistress Patricia’s middle-aged legs and feet would look a bit veiny were it not for her smooth, flesh-toned nylons; which is why, I presume, she even wears nylons in the height of summer – I do, occasionally, catch a whiff of sweet, feminine footsweat inside her stilettos during the very warm summer days!)
But today is not summer; it’s winter – and the air around goddess-mistress Patricia’s outdoor stilettos and nylons is crisp and fresh as I suck the grassy knoll off the bottom of her stiletto heel – or, more accurately, as she subliminally scrapes it off onto the inner-lining of my black-rubbery cheekbone, causing it to protrude most humiliatingly from the inside in front of everyone.
Not that anyone even bothers to notice; like I said, I’m not even seen as a living being; I’m just a quaint old, dumb, rubbery, shoelicking machine beneath their feet.
Goddess-mistress Patricia’s mobile phone rings, and she extracts her spiked heel from my mouth in order to walk away for a private conversation with whoever it is on the other end of the phone. She apologises to her freemale colleague for having to interrupt her conversation with him in order to take the call, but, needless to say, there is no concomitant apology to me for having to suddenly pull her red high-heel out of my distended mouth.
Nor is any apology required – I’m just a slave!
Nevertheless, I am gratified to note, as she subsequently stubs out her pink-lipsticked cigarette butt beneath my bowed, black-rubbery face with the sole of her right, executive, stiletto-heeled shoe, causing her nylon-stockinged ankles to once again crease and fold most enticingly beneath my face, the metal-tip of her left stiletto heel is duly divested of its grassy detritus as it turns to walk away from me, and a slovenly, beige-brown, calf-length ugg boot takes it place on the well-worn and weather-beaten, wooden footblock beneath my face.
Slovenly or not, I afford the modern, female-office-junior ugg boots the same, footslavish attention I have just given to the classy, shiny red leather stilettos, since they are the beige-coloured ugg boots of yet another of my smoking, female betters! Who knows, if I live long enough, perhaps I shall still be lick-cleaning a similar pair of classy brown ugg boots, on these same girl-feet, in twenty years’ time – when the owner of the sheepskin boots has herself become one of the female-company executives!
Blonde ponytailed officer-mistress Sarah may be one of the cutest officer-mistresses to look at in the footslave dungeons, but she isn’t exactly one of the most diligent and conscientious when it comes to working us hard.
I am, of course, all tethered up to my individual foot-treadmill, in my isolation punishment cell, when the solid steel door to that cell creaks open and she blondely saunters in to take up her position of girl-power on the raised seat in front of me – her dainty, 22 year old feet resting on the metal footplate directly at my prisoner-face level.
I’m pleased to say that she is wearing socks and heels again beneath the hems of her mandatory, navy-blue uniform, trouser hems – her familiar, black leather courts with three inch heels, and equally familiar and well-worn, pink and black, heart-themed, cotton anklesocks (pink hearts on a black background). Furthermore, as is her wont, her rounded and scuffmarked shoetoes are girlishly turned in towards each other as she places her tupperware lunchbox onto her uniformed lap above me.
I myself, being a prisoner, am not allowed to have lunch (I only get to eat once a day – a bowl of stone cold, insipid slave-mush at the very start of each day in the dungeon) – so I am fully ready and eager to start my hard labour on the treadmill. But I somehow know what is coming next:
‘Slave, you’re going to have to wait before we start work! I’m bloody starving!’
‘Yes, officer-mistress Sarah. As it pleases you officer-mistress Sarah!’
She opens the lid of her lunchbox and a strong smell of pasta and salad suddenly invades the whole of my cell. I try not to feel hungry, for I know that none of this food – not even the measliest titbit – is destined for my prisoner-slave stomach. An officer-mistress, even one as morally slack as blonde officer-mistress Sarah, would never feed a prisoner non-slave food; it would be more than her job’s worth!
The reason why the treadmill-supervisor and the treadmill-slave can’t eat and work respectively at the same time is that my turning of the heavy, wooden treadmill will cause her raised chair to vibrate, sending tiny tremors through her precious, blonde-girl stomach – which would be sure to upset her digestion and even make her feel ill; as would the unpleasant sight of me sweating like a pig beneath her under the pressure and strain of turning the treadmill in my bare, shot-to-pieces prisoner-feet.
And so I shall just have to wait before I can walk, and before I feel the supervisory sting of her driving-whip on my bare back and shoulders!
The thin and cutting driving-whip remains firmly in its socket, for now; but I hear officer-mistress Sarah unwrapping a plastic knife and fork above me as she readies herself to tuck into her well-earned meal (I’m assuming she’s been working hard already this morning supervising other prisoner-slaves on their individual treadmills – and not just skiving, like she sometimes does!)
Just before she starts to voraciously tuck in to her strong-smelling pasta-salad, however, she kindly thinks of something to keep me occupied:
‘Kiss my socks while I’m eating, prisoner-slave! Kiss them 100 times each!’
‘Yes, officer-mistress Sarah. At once, most respected and feared officer-mistress Sarah.’
It’s a demeaning demand – kissing a blonde girl’s patterned anklesocks whilst she is selfishly eating – but not exactly a difficult or unpleasant one to have to comply with! Thanks to the high-heeled nature of her black leather, court shoes, her bobbled and well-worn, full-length, pink and black anklesocks are almost fully visible in front of my confined face; only the lower insteps, and the reinforced toe and heel areas, are covered by scuffmarked shoeleather – and so there is quite a wide area of feminine anklesock for me to kiss.
And mistress Sarah’s socks – or, at least, the visible areas of her socks – don’t exactly smell! Or, if they do, the smell of the pasta salad is blocking out the smell of any lingering, blonde-girl, foot perspiration! So the pink and black socks at least have the appearance of being relatively clean, if worn and bobbled, female-supervisor socks!
We’ve been here many times before – mistress Sarah has form for eating whilst ‘on the job’; and so I happen to know that she likes me to kiss each sock alternately whilst she eats her meal. I begin, of course, with her right sock – her dominant sock – and kiss it on the middle of the front of her foot; a succinct, respectful kiss. The sock feels nice and soft and malleable on my dry and parched footslave-prisoner lips, particularly since I managed to find a tiny crease in the sock to kiss, right over one of the pink heart logos!
I then move my face ever so slightly to the left, and repeat a humble kiss onto her left sock; the second of my 200 sock-kisses in total.
Speaking of dry and parched lips, I hear officer-mistress Sarah pop open a can of fizzy, diet lemonade above me, and gulp some of it down. I try not to think of my own raging thirst, and to concentrate instead on kissing dry sock.
Officer-mistress Sarah kindly helps me to concentrate:
‘Kiss only the pink hearts, slave!’
‘Yes, officer-mistress Sarah. As you command, officer-mistress Sarah.’
It’s nice to have some firm directions from an officer-mistress; less likelihood of any unfortunate misunderstanding, or of failing to please her; and therefore less likelihood of a stinging whip-rebuke!
I pucker up my dry, sugar-free lips and focus them on two of the more central pink hearts – one on her right anklesock (indeed, the one already kissed and respected), and a corresponding one on her left. Officer-mistress Sarah didn’t specify that I was to kiss each and every pink sock-heart (which would be impossible anyway since some of them are partially or wholly obscured beneath her court-shoeline), and so I just feel happier in my own, pathetic, pussy-whipped mind that it makes sense to focus on the more central heart-shaped logos, especially since they both have nice, soft cotton creases running through them – like conveniently placed cushions for my sock-kissing lips.
Besides, officer-mistress Sarah is becoming fully engrossed in her food and drink at the moment. She rudely slurps and slaps away unconcernedly above me on her cold, pasta salad and diet lemonade as I politely kiss her socks, my pathetic, balding, male-prisoner head bobbing from side to side at her superior, blonde officer-girl, coyly-turned-inwards feet.
Officer-mistress Sarah, for all her cute, blonde-ponytailed appearance, has never been a quiet and sophisticated eater. She munches and crunches with blonde-girl abandonment above me, ostentatiously enjoying her food, and the refreshingly ice-cold lemonade she washes it down with.
She doesn’t converse with me, of course, throughout her unofficial lunch-break; this is her ‘me’ time, and, besides, she knows I have sock to kiss.
I doubt she’s bothering to count, though, so I silently count each individual sock-kiss myself; it would be a tragedy if I short-changed her on her socks!
When I eventually reach my target of 200 (100 on each sock) I stop, and, keeping my head suitably bowed over the blonde officer-mistress’s high-heeled shoes and socks, await my further orders.
Miss Sarah speaks with her mouth full:
‘Why have you stopped, prisoner-slave?’
‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you officer-mistress Sarah, this dirty prisoner-slave has now achieved his total of 100 kisses to each of your beautiful socks, if you will forgive me officer-mistress?’
She snorts derisively down at me, as if I have been bolting my sock-kisses, and not taking time to properly savour them, as she has been doing with her fresh pasta:
‘Well, I haven’t finished my meal yet, stupid slave! Kiss them again – only this time kiss them on the black areas surrounding the pink hearts!’
She sounds quite annoyed with me – as is her perfect right in this place of female authority and male impotence.
‘Yes, officer-mistress Sarah. As it pleases you, goddess officer-mistress Sarah.’
I resume my humble sock-kissing again, this time pressing lip onto black cotton, as opposed to pink. It feels and tastes just the same, though!
Am I ever going to get any work done today? It’s all very well and dandy for indolent officer-mistress Sarah to take her time over her lunch, but my treadmill automatically counts the number of revolutions I achieve per day, and if I fall short of my designated, daily total (10,000) I shall be sorely whipped in the evening; whipped where I stand, as I am permanently tethered to the wooden wheel!
At least I never have to sleep lying down on my sore, whipped back!
I’m assuming that I am to kiss each anklesock a further 100 times, and once again alternately; the only slight difficulty this time is that restricting my lips to a black area of cotton between two of the pink heart-logos is proving quite difficult as the hearts are situated quite close together. But then, officer-mistress Sarah probably knows that. After all, why would she want to make like easy for me? I’m her helpless prisoner!
Blonde officer-mistress Sarah is not as stupid as she looks!
I get to about 50 black-sock kisses, when I suddenly hear her licking her lips and closing the lid back down on her tupperware lunch- box. She then lets out a gentle little, girlish belch, temporarily filling the stale, underground-dungeon-cell air with the equally stale smell of her digested food, as she then takes out a tiny wooden toothpick from her breast pocket and starts to pick at her teeth.
Oh what wouldn’t I give for just one of those tiny pieces of blonde-girl, food debris, picked out from between her pretty, white teeth, to be deposited into my prisoner-slave mouth! I am just so hungry now; my dungeon tummy is rumbling! But officer-mistress Sarah callously flicks the offending food-debris down onto the dusty, stone cell floor. I can see the tiny, half-chewed, succulent food-morsel, but I shall never be able to reach it. Like me, it will just fester, shrivel up and die!
I would have happily continued kissing the selfish and unthinking, now fully-sated, officer-mistress Sarah’s cute anklesocks the full 200 times again – for I do like to finish a job once I start it, whatever it is. But officer-mistress Sarah clearly saw my diligent sock-kissing as a mere stopgap measure until she was ready to put me to some proper work.
She grabs hold of the driver’s whip with her greasy fingers, and flicks it stingingly across my bare, exposed, male-prisoner shoulderblades:
Swish…Crack!
‘Stop kissing sock now, slave; start walking!’
‘Aoow!...Yes, officer-mistress Sarah. As it pleases you, officer-mistress Sarah. Please don’t beat me again, most beautiful and kind officer-mistress!’
Actually, I know full well that I need the stimulus of the whip to get me going – and experienced, if lazy, officer-mistress Sarah knows it too!
So she ignores my plea, and promptly gives me another two stinging lashes:
Swish…Crack!
Swish…Crack!
Belch!
Treadmill officer-mistress Sarah really isn’t a breath of fresh air!
One of the most experienced office supervisors - 40 year old, brunette mistress Gillian - is inducting a new girl, 19 year old mistress Suzie, into her new place of work. Flame-red-haired, nose-pierced, slim and attractive intern, miss Suzie, will be sitting next to her older mentor throughout the induction process, as she is shown the office ropes.
As part of the induction process mistress Gillian summons me, the communal office footslave, over to their joint desk.
I hear her explain my humble role to the intrigued new-girl:
‘This is slave Uggface, Suzie. We call him that because his face is, as you can see, incredibly ugly; and because he likes kissing and licking girls’ ugg boots – like the ones you have on now! Would you like me to make him worship your ugg boots?’
Miss Suzie laughs nervously and, not wishing to disappoint her mentor, makes to slip her right, calf-length ugg boot off her pretty, bluejeans-covered, lower leg. However, the more experienced supervisor-mistress Gillian quickly stops her in her tracks:
‘Ha! Ha! What are you doing, Suzie? A mistress never has to take off her own footwear in this place! And besides, there’s no need for you to take off your boots in order to have them worshipped; he can worship your uggs, and pay his respects to them, while you are still wearing them!’
I can sense miss Suzie turning bright red with embarrassment at her inexperienced faux pas, but her mentor soon puts her at her ease again:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry Suzie – you’ll soon pick it up! Look – let me show you how to make a footslave worship your boots properly – while you are still wearing them!’
And with that experienced, office goddess-mistress Gillian turns her attention to me as I kneel patiently by the side of her own, black leather, chunky-heeled, square-toed, zip-up leather ankleboots. She swivels around on her office chair towards where I am kneeling in order to face me, deliberately hitches up the hem of her dark blue, trousersuit leg to expose the top of her ankleboot, and abruptly barks her orders down at me in a suitably disparaging fashion:
‘Yo Uggface! Worship the side of my boot!’
‘Yes, mistress Gillian! At once, goddess-mistress Gillian!’
Mistress Suzie giggles in the background from her neighbouring swivel chair, and manoeuvres herself over by means of her flat, misshapen, beige-coloured, ugg boot heels in order to get a closer girl-look at my male humiliation and degradation vis-a-vis her more senior work-colleague’s smart, black leather ankleboots.
She is bemused as the slave known as Uggface lowers his ugly face to the side of mistress Gillian’s proffered ankleboot and starts to lick it, tracing his footslave-tongue along each and every crevice in the well-worn, office bootleather.
The female boot starts to shine in front of my face, reflecting my maleslave lowliness and humility.
Mistress Gillian, meanwhile, continues to direct my boot worship in her authoritative and mistressful tones:
‘Now lick the zipper-track, slave!’
‘Yes, mistress Gillian! At once, goddess-mistress Gillian!’
I turn my unworthy tongue’s attention from smooth, black leather to rough, black plastic, and felt grey surroundings, as I dutifully run my oral protuberance up and down the ankleboot-long zipper track, in accordance with mistress Gillian’s crystal clear instructions (for I would much rather mistress Gillian was demonstrating the art of boot-worshipping, rather than the art of slave-whipping!)
The younger, nose-pierced, ginger-haired woman comments on my performance to her older, brunette-haired mentor:
‘Ha! Ha! He seems to like ordinary, leather boots as well as sheepskin ugg boots, innit though Gillian?’
Mistress Gillian laughs off her inexperienced, younger colleague’s unintentionally derogatory description of her smart, black leather office ankleboots as ‘ordinary’, and proceeds to expose my many pathetic footslave obsessions:
‘Ha! Ha! Yeah, Suzie – he likes the taste of just about any kind of female footwear. He even likes to sniff sweaty, female socks! Look…’
Mistress Gillian than kicks my mouth away from her right boot zipper-track, before uttering a new order down to me:
‘…Hey Uggface! Unzip the side of my boot and nose my sock! Nose it from top to bottom in front of miss Suzie here, so that she can see just what a pathetic little sock-nuzzler you are! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress Gillian! At once, mistress Gillian! Please don’t hurt me, goddess-mistress Gillian!’
‘Ha! Ha! He’s, like, frightened of you, or somefing?’ comments miss Suzie, gleefully, clapping her pretty hands with undisguised glee.
‘So he damn well should be, Suzie! He knows full well that if he doesn’t do what I say, when I say it, he’ll get the office whip! That’s how you should treat him too!’
‘Yes ma’am!’ exclaims mistress-in-the-making Suzie.
Meanwhile I have obediently unzipped the side of mistress Gillian’s right ankleboot with my footslave-teeth, and begin ‘nosing’ the side of her rather ropey-looking and bobbled, ankle length, navy blue cotton bootsock. To ‘nose’ a sock means to trace one’s nose down the stitching (the bobbled stitching in this case), all the time audibly breathing in the aroma of the sweet, feminine sock in an ostentatious display of footslavish humility and wretchedness.
As mistress Gillian has specified to me, I begin with the twisted and creased, elasticated top of her navy-blue sock, and slowly work my way down the sweaty, boot-moistened anklesock in full, public view of her mesmerized and somewhat incredulous, young colleague:
‘I see what you mean, Gillian! The fool actually likes the smell of your sweaty sock, an’ that! You can see it in his eyes! Ha! Ha! What a dork! What a lamebrain! He’s nothing but a sock-sniffing queer, innit though? Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Gillian turns approvingly to her quick-learning, female colleague:
‘Here – would you like a go with him now, Suzie? Just order him to zip up the side of my boot again and then crawl over towards you! Go on – like I said, he loves to worship a bright, young woman’s beige-brown uggs!’
Miss Suzie clears her throat, in order to make herself sound more authoritative, and then utters what is probably her first ever verbal command to a male slave:
‘Hey you – Ugly Face! You heard your mistress Gillian! Zip up her ankleboot and then get your pafetic, sorry ass over to my uggs, yeah?’
‘Yes, mistress Suzie. At once, mistress Suzie!’
‘THAT’S MISTRESS SUZANNAH TO YOU, F***FACE!’ barks a potty-mouthed mistress ‘Suzannah’ at me, to her mentor’s evident approval:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, Suzie! Call him what you like! Swear at him and abuse him; he’s just a piece of garbage at our feet! Ha! Ha!’
I humbly apologise for my over-familiarity with the new office mistress:
‘Sorry, mistress Suzannah! Pray forgive this dirty, insolent slave, goddess-mistress Suzannah!’
Goddess-mistress Suzannah blushes fetchingly again, to match her red hair. No-one has ever called her a ‘goddess’ before – but then, she hasn’t been in charge of a slave before!
I waste no time in re-zipping mistress Gillian’s black leather ankleboot with my teeth (despite my hankering to nose her ropey, blue sock for a good while longer – so sweaty does it smell!) and make my way over on my hands and knees, head humbly bowed, towards the new ugg boots in town – the lovely, misshapen, beige-coloured ugg boots of this snappy, young, redheaded trainee-harridan, mistress Suzannah.
It certainly is true that I am ugly – and that I admire a nicely misshapen ugg boot on a well-turned, female ankle. So I am fully deserving of my office slave-nickname.
The ugg boots are resting side by side on the office floor for me as I approach them, and suddenly the right boot is extended forwards on the ground directly beneath my kneeling face:
‘Ha! Ha! Worship it, and that, slave; yeah?’
Not the most convincing of orders, but one I am nevertheless more than happy to acknowledge and obey as things start to turn uggly:
‘Yes mistress Suzannah! At once, goddess-mistress Suzannah!’
It’s only now – close up – that I spot just how dirty the uggs are. The broad, rounded toe area is almost black with ingrained streetdirt, and is clearly where my tongue must begin its humble ugg boot worship.
Naïve mistress Suzannah giggles at the ticklish, and hitherto unknown to her, feel of a maleslave’s tongue on her toes, even through the thick sheepskin material of her beige-brown, blackened ugg boot:
‘Ha! Ha! That tickles, innit though?’
Mistress Gillian interjects:
‘You can have him whipped if he’s tickling you, Suzie!’
‘Ha! Ha! Nah, it’s alright, an’ that! I ain’t even bovvered, though? I quite like it, though?’
Ha! Ha! Now make him take off your boot and nose your socks, Suzie; like he did mine! See if you like that, or whether it’s too ticklish for you?’
‘Ha! Ha! I ain’t even wearin’ any socks, though, Gillian? I’m goin’ commando inside my boots, innit though? Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Even better, Suzie! See how you like having him nose the side of your sweaty bare feet, then!’
‘Ha! Ha! Can I, though? Can I really make him do that, though?’
‘Sure you can! He’s your slave! You own him – along with all the other women in the office! Ha! Ha! You can even make him eat your stinky, greasy toejam, if you want to my dear! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! My feet ain’t greasy and stinky! They is all clean, an’ that, though?’
Prove it to me, mistress Suzannah! Oh pray – prove it! Order me to take off your furry-lined ugg-boot and sniff the side of your bare foot. Oh let me run my nose down one of your 19 year old foot-veins! I’ll soon tell you if your pretty, white foot smells or not!
RING! RING! RING!
Damn! The fire alarm has gone off – just as things were about to get interesting, though!
We’ll have to evacuate. Sorry about that!
My 21 year old footmistress – miss Alice – is really a very shy and diffident young woman; lacking in any self-confidence and belief in her own innate, feminine beauty. Sure, she could be described as the slightly stocky, ungainly, often dowdily dressed, blonde-haired, ‘girl-next-door’ type. But what’s not to like about any of that?!
Nevertheless, despite her neighbourly charms, she definitely lacks confidence in her own ability to attract the opposite sex, which is why, when she does go out a courting, I am under my mistress Alice’s strict instructions to ‘worship her feet like they were the feet of a beautiful goddess’, by continuously kissing them in front of her freemale suitors and boyfriends.
My mistress Alice’s reasoning in issuing such a command to me, her personal footslave, is twofold:
· Firstly, her potential boyfriends will see the fear and respect in which her middle-aged, male footslave holds her – and be impressed;
· And secondly, it will stop her manly, freemale boyfriends from becoming jealous of me, and the fact that I must live 24/7 in my mistress’s presence, when they see how utterly pathetic and impotent I am at her dainty (but nothing special), young-womanly feet.
I am, therefore, something of a prop – a sex aid for my shy and unassuming footmistress Alice!
Tonight my young, blonde-haired mistress is dressed to impress her latest ‘beau’ – 25 year old, white master Michael-sir – whom she adores almost as much as I adore her pretty, if somewhat podgy, white feet!
Tonight those pale, white, sweet-young-womanly feet are clad in a pair of somewhat scruffy, black leather ballet-flats and matching, short, black socks, beneath her plain grey, knee-length skirt and beige-coloured cardigan (I told you my mistress Alice was a bit of a ‘frump’ when it comes to her fashion sense!) But, fortunately, I love her well-used, scuffmarked, stretched and misshapen ballet-flats and black, bobbled, below-the-ankle socks, which show off her creamy-white, and in places blue-veiny, anklebones a proper treat!
My 21 year old mistress Alice has got a nice figure, and so the free men in her life – master Michael-sir included – tend to focus on her curvy upper body whilst they are courting her, whilst I am feverishly and repeatedly kissing her plain and ordinary footwear down below, as per my kneeling-in-the-dirt orders.
I make a very deliberate show of kissing my sweet and naïve, 21 year old, blonde mistress’s black shoes and socks whilst she cuddles and canoodles with her manly, young boyfriend down the alleyway at the back of his apartment block. It is pitch dark now – being well past midnight – but the single street-lamp provides sufficient light in the alleyway to illuminate my mistress’s distracted, black, shoes and socks, and in particular it highlights the multitudinous, subliminal creases and folds coming and going in her sweet, plain, and ultra-short socks whilst she swoons into her tall and masculine boyfriend’s lips high above me.
For my part, I endeavour to ostentatiously and audibly kiss each newly formed crease in her short, black socks – and indeed the concomitant creases in her soft, black, ballet-flat leather – amidst the smooching sounds of the late-night alleyway. Indeed, the secluded alleyway echoes loudly to the sound of kissing – the slurping and slapping sounds of my mistress, and possible future master-sir (if they decide to go steady), French-kissing above me, mingled with the repeated, crisp, respectful English kisses of the impotent, male footslave to his mistress’s street-dirtied and day-long footwear, all beneath the bright ‘spotlight’ of the back-alleyway, street lamp.
In between snogging his beautiful, but shy, girlfriend, the young master-sir (who is my infinite superior and better, even though he is but half my age, because he has kissed a girl on the lips, as opposed to just her shoes and socks) comments on my evident, footslavish loyalty to his blonde girlfriend’s dirty, everyday footwear:
‘Ha! Ha! That fool at your feet, honey – he seems to be, like, totally in awe of your dirty shoes and socks, or something?’
Master Michael-sir is an exchange student from America at the same college where my mistress Alice is studying English language and literature, if you haven’t guessed that already from his incredulous accent!
I ignore his jibe, and continue doing that which amuses him so – kissing his blonde, English girlfriend’s dirty shoes and socks whilst she is still wearing them out on the street – because I know it will please my mistress Alice that he has noted my fear and devotion towards her footwear, and that he clearly sees me as a ‘fool’, and no threat to his manliness or his wicked plans to bed my mistress!
Sure enough, my mistress Alice sounds suitably triumphant in her reply to him above me:
‘Ha! Ha! Yeah – he likes a nice, stinky sock on an English rose!’
I’m sure she’s blushing when she says it!
The happy couple both laugh at me as, undaunted by their wholly justified, joint mockery of me, I continue to submissively kiss courting-girl, dusty-black, ballet flat and creased, short-black girlsock – making sure my dirty, unworthy slave-lips don’t stray inadvertently (or even advertently) onto my mousey mistress’s bare, white, veiny ankleskin just above the twisted rim of her right sneaker-sock.
It is at this point, as my mistress Alice coquettishly twists her right foot around in order to show her manly boyfriend the stinky, black sock she is referring to – from a respectable distance, of course – that I espy a stray, foreign hair stuck to the surface of my beloved mistress’s right anklesock. My puckered slave-lips, inevitably, make a beeline straight for that hair, for I am duty bound to remove by mouth any foreign dirt or detritus that I detect sullying my mistress’s precious, common-or-garden, English-girl socks.
The couple – even the wearer of the sock herself – are too far away from it to be able to see that offending hair (possibly a male pubic hair, but not necessarily one belonging to master Michael-sir), even under the bright street-lamp, but they are both nevertheless amused at my sudden, renewed feverish kissing and sucking on the side of my mistress Alice’s right, short sock.
‘Ha! Ha! Do you ever let the dork kiss and sniff your bare feet, Alice darling?’ enquires the man of the alleyway, about the slave of the alleyway.
‘Ha! Ha! Like – NO! No way! Ha! Ha! I would never let my slave’s dirty mouth anywhere near my bare skin – not even my bare, sweaty footskin! Ha! Ha! My body – all of it – is all yours, honey; if you want it?’
The couple embrace again; the master-sir clearly does want it!
Which, actually, is all fine and dandy by me – for I don’t want my mistress’s body, appealing though it is. I never have done! All I want is her socks, in my mouth, overnight – whilst she makes love to her manly new boyfriend and gives of her all to him! Her residual socksweat is all I require to honour and respect my timid and shy, but very generous and giving, blonde mistress Alice as she lies back and thinks of England!
I continue to kiss those plain black shoes and socks until they eventually come off her feet, in her boyfriend’s nearby student apartment, and the sweat-moistened socks duly end up inside my gaping slave-mouth.
Then, I stop kissing them, and start sucking on them – in much the same way that master Michael-sir is now lustily sucking on my mistress’s pert, rosebud nipples on the creaking master bed above me!
I was on my hands and knees in the new female-office where I would be serving as a custodial footslave on day release for the next 3 months (that means I serve the office girls’ feet and footwear by day within the confines of their office, returning to my footslave-dungeon cell in the evenings whilst the girls go out socialising with their husbands or boyfriends in their free time).
I’m told by the prison authorities that there are four young women in total working in the office – which I’m also told is some sort of call-centre for a modestly-sized, internet-based fashion retailer – but it is only one of the four office-mistresses, an Indian girl called miss Panna, who bothers to get up and greet me at the front door of the small office (by letting me kiss her dainty, Indian-girl feet).
I notice to my initial chagrin – as I am on my hands and knees and kissing the plain, low-heeled, round-toed, black leather clogs of petite and comely miss Panna – that she is barefoot inside her open-backed, office shoes, for I can clearly see the wrinkles and rough skin in the backs of her thirty-something, Indian-girl heels. Her pretty, Indian feet must surely get incredibly hot and sweaty inside such leathery shoes? Sure, the moisture from her feet can escape out the back, but I can see no hint of even short secret-sock deep inside the heavy, rounded toe areas of her clogs where it is, presumably, most needed!
However, my sockless-chagrin is soon replaced by footslavish fear and respect, due to her highly dominant and haughty attitude towards me:
‘Slave, I am not being giving a damn how you are being treated in other offices! In this office you will be remaining with your head bowed over your mistresses’ feet at all times, for you are being nothing but a dirty, lowlife, convicted criminal-slave who is being rightly punished! Is that being crystal clear to you, stupid male slave?’
‘Yes, goddess-mistress Panna! Thank you, goddess-mistress Panna. God bless you, Indian goddess-mistress!’
I do like the fact that she is Indian – with jet-black, shoulder length hair, and dressed in a semi-diaphanous churidar suit consisting of a pair of tapered-at-the-ankle, pink silken trousers beneath a matching, pink silken tunic. The clogs are the only westernised thing about her office clothing! Moreover, her upper-caste, Indian accent when speaking down to me is also very dominant, and I admire the soft, brown hue attached to her exposed, wheatish-coloured, wrinkled heelskin.
She laughs out loud at my cringingly obsequious and fearful response to her insulting and arrogant question, and promptly reaches down to drag me by the hair behind her exposed, Indian, chapped heels towards her African-female work colleague:
‘Ha! Ha! Now you must be showing your respects to your African goddess-mistress, miss Joyfulness, isn’t dirty slave?’
I must say – on first impressions – miss ‘Joyfulness’ could not be more inaptly named! Even the sight of my being dragged across the office floor by the skin of my hair, behind the wrinkly heels of a traditionally and submissively dressed Indian girl, isn’t enough to break through her sullen and surly, West-African-girl expression.
Instead, all she does is stretch forward her smart-looking, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, black leather ankleboot beneath my gasping face, even hitching up the hem of her black cotton, bootcut, office-trousersuit leg in order to expose the full length of the boot-zipper to me, along with just a hint of black girl, black bootsock inside the upper rim of the shapely, stylish ankleboot.
I’m gratified to see that at least one young woman in this office has the good manners to wear socks inside her everyday, office footwear – for not only does girlsock protect me from the unseemly temptations of bare, female footflesh, it also absorbs the very foot-moisture I fear most, thereby helping to protect my prisoner-footslave nose from the aroma of raw, unfettered, feminine footsweat (young women’s socks can smell as well, of course, but the stink is generally diluted by being absorbed into the fibres of the sock!)
The other reason why I like the young African woman’s sock as I lower my lips to her sullen and humourless, outstretched pointy boot-toe, is that it looks so black-powerful and dominant above me; it may be only a common-or-garden, black, feminine anklesock, inside a common-or-garden, black leather ankleboot, but it is imbued wi
‘Yes master Joyfulness! As it pleases you, master Joyfulness!’
What a strange request! A bit like her misnomer (‘Joyfulness’), the young, twenty-something African lady does not look at all butch or masterful! If anything, quite the opposite is true – she is quintessentially feminine and ‘mistressful’, with her bright-red lipstick; her beautiful, long, black curly hair; her shapely figure; and her stunning spike-heeled, black leather ankleboots. Nor does she strike me as a ‘lesbian’ – not judging by the photos of a semi-naked, male hunk I see festooned all over her desk – her black husband or boyfriend, I presume!
She is truly a dark and surly, young black woman of mystery, miss Joyfulness; definitely not a mistress – sorry master – to be trifled with! I quake over her boots as I kiss them under her watchful eye (and under the shadow of her black anklesock!)
Next I am dragged by the hair, back behind Indian-girl, black leather clogs and bare heels, towards the only white woman of the office (this office seems to be a real Gynarchy melting-pot, for the fourth office-mistress, I can see out of the corner of my eye, is Chinese!).
The white girl is a brunette and quite plump, and is clad in a grey top with a modest, below the knee, navy-blue skirt; her unassuming, office-fashion ensemble is finished off with a delightful pair of shiny black, single-strapped, clunky-heeled mary-janes on her fleshy, white feet. Initially, before I get too close to them, I fear that this young woman may also be barefoot inside her stuffy, mary-jane shoes; but on closer inspection I realise – to my enormous, footslavish relief – that she is actually wearing finest denier, flesh coloured nylons inside her mary-jane shoes! The only tell-tale signs are a few almost imperceptible little wrinkles in the thin, almost invisible, nylon material around her fat ankles.
I’m glad that she is wearing nylons (be they stockings or tights, it doesn’t much matter to me since I am so low down at the bottom of her legs as she sits on her office swivel-chair) because at least the nylon will help to absorb some of the fat, young lady’s greasy foot-moisture. Nylon is never as good at absorbing foot secretions as thicker, cotton sock (like miss Joyfulness’s socks), but at least the young, white woman’s bare footflesh will not be dissipating moisture directly onto the inner linings of her enclosed, mary-jane shoes – thereby creating an unholy stink!
She is softly spoken, and introduces herself to me as ‘Cathy’ – but you can call me ‘mistress Catharine!’
Fussy, these women, aren’t they? But at least she’s not insisting on being called ‘master’ all the time. I somehow sense she will be the kindliest of my mistresses in this place of daytime punishment and foot-servitude. An ally perhaps, even? A restraining factor on the use of the office whip? I certainly hope so – for I get more than enough whip from the female prison guards back in the footslave dungeons every night!
I kiss her shiny, black, broad mary-jane toes with genuine reverence and respect – both for her slightly creased nylons and her softly-spoken dominance over me.
And so to my final new mistress of the day – whose name, I am gleefully informed by her Indian colleague – is miss Chang-Ying.
Miss Chang-Ying is everything I like in an oriental woman – young (late teens/early twenties); short (can’t be much over 5 foot tall); arrogant and cruel (she has a haughtily smug, holier-than-thou smile on her pretty, oriental features).
She actually denies me he right to kiss her feet – highly inviting to the footslave-lips though they are, clad in her kneehigh, chisel-toed, kitten-heeled, black suede leather stretchboots, with bright pink woolly socks peeking out over the tops just below her shapely, Chinese-girl kneecaps!
Of course, I’m talking footslave bullshit! I have no right, as such, to kiss any young woman’s boots or shoes – but it is, after all, what I’m here for; what’s expected of me! The reason for my miserable, day-release existence!
And miss Chang-Ying’s excuse for not letting me lip-touch her boots? Not that she disapproves of male slavery; not that she is somehow embarrassed to have her smart, suede leather kneeboots kissed in public; but because she thinks I am too ugly and dirty to kiss her precious, Chinese-girl foot and legwear! She quite candidly explains to the other girls that she believes she is too good for me to be permitted to kiss her oriental boots, because she is innately better than me, being female and pretty, and she fears my footslave-lickspittle would irreparably sully and damage her precious, suede bootleather.
It is true that the more I look at them, the more I am salivating in front of petite and arrogant miss Chang-Ying’s pretty, black suede, kneehigh boots and pink, woolly kneesocks – but surely she does not think I would ever allow my saliva to defile her boots in any way?! I would lick clean my lips before pressing them to her footwear-leather, just as I have respectfully done with all the other girls today!
But no – the supercilious, Chinese girl is having none of it:
‘You a dirty pig! You filth! You kiss only ground in front of Chang-Ying superior feet!’
And so I am obliged merely to kiss the office floor on which she has recently been standing – like I would the ground in front of a free male’s feet – inwardly rueing the fact that the Chinese girl’s domineering, black suede stretch-boots are so tantalizingly near, and yet so far! And will continue to be so throughout my three month, daytime secondment to this office, unless miss Chang-Ying changes her pretty, feminine mind.
Oh the agony of that pink, woolly sock – towering over me, and at the same time laughing at my utter impotence to touch it; for I am unclean, and not worthy, in the pretty, oriental eyes of its female owner.
Still, it’s early days yet! I am only just starting the first day of my three month stretch in this female office, and there will be plenty of time to try to worm my affections into those black suede stretchboots! For now, however I am unceremoniously and laughingly dragged away from the Far Eastern boots and over towards my Indian escort’s desk, where I am made to serve as miss Panna’s facial-footrest throughout the rest of the morning whilst she types busily away on her computer keyboard above me, stopping only to occasionally scratch an itchy, Indian anklebone with her purple-painted fingernails.
The black leather, spike-heeled, African-girl ankleboots scowl at me every time they walk past; the shiny black, mary-jane shoes creep almost apologetically past my face; and the black suede, stretchboots keep their haughty distance as my face lies on its side pressed painfully against the office floor beneath the pressure of soft, Indian-girl, black leather clogs.
As I suspected, as the day wears on the unprotected clogs are beginning to smell unpleasantly musty and sweaty on top of my footrest-face; but at least my ugly, maleslave face is in intimate contact with them, unlike the hitherto stand-offish boots and shoes of the three other office-girls.
We’ll have to see how things pan out – perhaps when miss Panna, the evident boss woman, is out of the office, the other girls’ footwear will prove to be more approachable to my mouth?
Maybe tomorrow?
