Footslave Fantasies Volume 5

The fifth volume in a collection of pure fantasies from footslaves – or are they?

VOLUME 5 CONTENTS (scroll down for fantasies in reverse numerical order)

10. Bad Taste

9. My Beautiful Attendant

8. Kept In The Dark

7. Some friendly advice for the newly enslaved

6. The Backhanded Compliment

5. The Curious Master-Sir

4. Eeuw!…Gross!

3. Sensational!

2. The other side of her (dirty) pink socks

1. Femgov Health Warnings

…………………………………………………………………………………

Fantasy no. 10 – Bad Taste

Sometimes, in the semi-privacy of a footbooth, a customer-mistress can go too far.

Like the beautiful, and haughty, black mistress I was serving earlier this evening. She was in her mid to late thirties; tall and slim; with very short, auburn-coloured, cropped hair and pink-painted lips; dressed in a matching, pink shirt; a smart, black cotton trouser suit; and stylish, black leather, pointy-toed and spike-heeled, zip-up ankleboots which I was more than happy to toungeshine as she sat above me on the shoeshine-chair of black-girl power.

I was particularly happy to lickshine her beautiful, black ankleboots since I was able to catch a glimpse of her matching, plain black anklesocks inside the upper rims of her boots, thanks to the hitched-up hems of her black, bootcut-trousers. Black boots, and black socks, on the black skin of a haughty, black mistress – it really doesn’t get any better than that!

But then she went too far, in my humble opinion.

I was initially pleased when she ordered me to take off her left boot and sock, and to ‘suck on her itchy, big toe’, but when I saw the state of the big toe in question – I baulked at it. She had a fungal nail infection, and the big toe was not only black and blue in tone; the nail was yellowy-brown, and brittle; and terribly smelly – it smelt fetid, like rotting meat!

I have to admit – I grimaced at the sight and smell of her diseased big toe; and unduly hesitated.

The black mistress was, understandably, insulted by my footslave-diffidence when it came to obeying her orders, and she immediately summoned over my supervisor, master-sir Paul, to the public footbooth.

The brutish master-sir arrived with his whip, and listened attentively to the black customer-mistress’s complaint:

‘This dirty slave has insulted me! He has disobeyed my orders and refused to suck on my itchy and flaky, big toe. I’m not having it! I want him whipped!’

Master-sir Paul, I noticed, also grimaced involuntarily at the sight and smell of the unfortunate black-girl’s malodorous big toe, but he is allowed to – since he is a free man, and not a footslave, and is therefore not expected to get his mouth close to, or even like the look of, a young woman’s septic foot!

He immediately apologised to the livid, black customer-mistress on my behalf, for my downright disobedience and disrespect:

‘I am sorry, madam, for our slave’s total disrespect towards you. Rest assured by the time I have finished with him with my whip he will be begging to suck on your big toe, and ease its itchiness for you!’

The master-sir wasn’t wrong! By the time he had whipped me to the black customer-mistress’s gloating satisfaction I was truly yearning to suck on her diseased big toe, for I would have done anything to stop the pain!

And so I did – I sucked on her itchy, fetid, big toe, and swallowed the crumbly bits of dead, yellowy toenail which insalubriously came off inside my mouth!

The triumphant master-sir then cleverly made me turn the mistress’s temporarily divested, black bootsock inside out in order that I might consume even more of her diseased toenail excretions from the inside of her putrid-smelling sock. This time I made sure only to baulk internally, and not to reveal my disgust on my facial expressions which remained suitably pained and contrite, thanks to the lingering sting of the whip.

Indeed, I sucked voraciously on the black girl’s damp and putrefactive, turned-inside-out sock, and dutifully swallowed its insipid juices. The diseased, black cotton bootsock left a bad taste in my mouth which, like the whip-pain, lingered for several hours afterwards, even after I had lickshined several other pairs of bitter-tasting boots and shoes belonging to subsequent customer-mistresses.

But I had learnt my lesson well – never again to baulk at a customer-mistress’s bare foot, whatever unwholesome condition it may be in; and never to forget that, however stylish and attractive a customer-mistress’s outer footwear may be, you may well be licking the boot of a beautiful woman whose foot contains a smelly, fungal infection between her toes and inside her sock.

It’s a humbling thought!

 

Fantasy no. 9 – My Beautiful Attendant

They are the first feet I get to see every morning – the plain black, suede leather, flat-soled, backless mules and grubby-white anklesocks of my beautiful, dark-haired, thirty-something, Indian, office-toilet-attendant mistress, miss Samina, as she prepares my ornamental-footkissing face for the long, working day ahead.

I never get to see her bare legskin, of course, since she always wears full-length, black denim jeans with her footwear – jeans, the frayed hems of which always cover her quasi-white, anklesock tops – but I know she is an Indian lady (and therefore dark-haired and beautiful) because I have heard her speaking in fluent Hindi on her mobile phone in broken English and with a strong Indian accent, to some of the other office ladies; plus her hands are beautifully brown-skinned, if a little rough.

She has never spoken directly to me, of course, since I am so far beneath her on the social scale, being a mere ladies-restroom footkisser in the busy, female restroom which she is responsible for cleaning. In fact, until I first heard her speak to other office women I did wonder if miss Samina was a deaf mute – before I realised she simply despised me too much to be bothered to ever converse with me.

And, let’s be honest, why should she lower herself to speaking to me? After all, she has no need to give me any verbal orders, since my orders as the office-restroom, ornamental footkisser are pathetically clear – to kiss each and every female foot that is placed onto the wooden footblock beneath my prostrate face, and to repeatedly kiss it, on the toe area, until it is graciously withdrawn from the footblock. Moreover, none of the other office ladies deign to speak to me, since I’m just a lowly, male head projecting out from their lavatory wall – a ‘thing’ that respectfully kisses female feet by way of making each and every lady who graces the restroom feel big and important; so why should miss Samina be the exception to the no-verbal-communication rule, just because she’s the toilet-attendant?

Mistress Samina’s black-suede-muled and white-socked feet are not only the first feet I see every morning – they must also be the first feet I kiss!

Her routine is as follows:

If I am still asleep when she walks in to the restroom at 6 A.M sharp, she rudely awakens me with a painful kick to my face from the rounded toe of her right mule. I’m afraid this happens quite a lot, for I am such a lazy footslave, and as a result my stupid, gormless face looks permanently, and painfully, bruised. Her mules may be made of soft suede leather, but those reinforced toe areas can pack one hell of a punch, I don’t mind telling you!

As soon as I have been kicked into consciousness, or if I am already awake, she then stretches forth her right, muled foot (the one with a ‘kick’ in it!) onto the wooden footblock beneath my permanently bowed, almost ground level, face – for me to pay my humble, early-morning, footkissing respects to it.

This is where I get my first glimpse of her Indian-memsahib, white sock, for the stretched-forwards positioning of her dainty, Indian-girl foot causes the frayed hem of her black denim jean-leg to ride up somewhat to just below her shapely, if somewhat skinny, white-sock-covered, anklebone revealing at least part of her full-length anklesock – the front part. Her socked heels at the back, even though they are exposed by her backless mules, are, sadly, hidden beneath the frayed and dirty back-hems of her jeans which continue to reach right down to the base of her mules whatever the positioning of her foot, outstretched or otherwise.

So this is the only part of her sweet, if grubby, feminine white anklesock I ever get to see – the front – and it is truly a sight for a sore, recently kicked, slaveface to admire: grubby, worn, tatty, manky, creased; but, frustratingly, despite its unkempt appearance, never smelly or stinky. All I can ever smell, as I respectfully kiss her rounded, leather shoe-toe, is the strong, musty smell of her dusty and scuffmarked, black-suede, mule leather.

Even at the end of her twelve hour shift, as I must kiss her feet on her departure from the restroom after she has be on her feet all day cleaning and mopping the tiled, toilet floor, her socks don’t seem to smell! Perhaps they do deep inside her mules – around the reinforced toe-areas – but I never get to sniff her innermost socks; that’s because I’m an ornamental footkisser – not an ornamental socksniffer! (Alright, maybe I should be called an ornamental shoekisser, if you wish to be pedantic about it!)

And so I must content myself with the mere sight of Indian toilet-attendant mistress Samina’s grubby, white sock-fronts as I kiss her suede leather mules – first the right mule, then the left. She’s a creature of habit, and always likes me to kiss each mule 3 times before switching feet beneath me. You get to know each and every office lady’s individual preferences in this regard, since you come to recognise them from their regular footwear. But, in any case, it’s dead simple – as I said before, I must repeatedly kiss each and every superior, female foot on the toe area of the boot or shoe until it is haughtily withdrawn from the well-worn, wooden footblock beneath my prostrate face. A trained monkey could do it!

This morning I am gratified to note that miss Samina’s left sock is more creased around the front of her slender, Indian foot than the sock on her right foot. I quickly counted 4 creases on the front of her left sock, and only 2 on her right. Oh if only I could see all the way up to the elasticated top of each sock – I’m sure there must be even more creases and folds beneath those damned inconvenient, overly-long and frayed, black denim jean hems!

Next my toilet-attendant mistress prepares my face for the working day ahead. I need an attendant to shave my face, otherwise it would become bearded and hairy, and my beard might interfere with my footkissing duties. And that just wouldn’t do! Obviously, I can’t shave myself – being confined up to the neck in the lavatory wall – and so miss Samina has to demean herself by shaving my ugly, male face on my behalf.

No wonder she resents me so much!

She does so without any frills, of course – no soap or water or shaving cream to soften the process; just a dry razor scraping off my 6 A.M shadow. This is when I get to see her hands and dirty fingernails, and smell her superior bad-breath. I often wonder if her toenails are as dirty inside those mules and socks!

Being shaved by my Indian attendant-mistress is not a terribly pleasant experience for me, I can tell you – but then it’s not meant to be! After all, I’m not being shaved for my own benefit, but merely to ensure my beard doesn’t scrape and therefore damage the office ladies’ shoes, socks, nylon hosiery or bare footflesh whilst I am kissing their shoes, sandals or boots – particularly their nylon hosiery, which I am susceptible to snagging and laddering if I am bearded, of course; not to mention the unfortunate possibility of creating static electricity on the lady’s foot! It doesn’t help, though, that miss Samina is always so rough whilst sullenly shaving me. I often end up with razor-cuts on my face – to match the earlier bruising from my early-morning wake-up call courtesy of her angry, right mule-toe!

I try to focus on her shoes and socks whilst she is shaving me, for her hunkered down position does often expose a further slither of nice, grubby-white sock along her shapely, Indian-woman insteps – though not always.

Having shaved me, she then feeds me – for, although I am regarded by everyone as just an object, rather than a living being, like all items of ‘machinery’ I need fuel. The ‘fuel’ in question is bland, cold, tasteless slave-gruel – served up on a dirty, plastic plate which is unceremoniously pushed into place beneath my face by the right, black-muled and white-socked foot of Indian toilet-attendant mistress Samina. It provides an ornamental footslave with all the daily nutrition he needs to function and obey – without giving any sensual pleasure to his unworthy tastebuds.

The tastiest items I shall be experiencing on my lips today are the dirty, office shoes and boots of my female betters!

Miss Samina then provides me with a bowl of tepid water from one of the restroom sinks for me to wash down my gruel. It’s not proper drinking water, but it’s good enough for me – and besides, the purpose of the water is not to slake my thirst but to ensure that there are no lingering globules of slave-gruel on my lips or in my mouth which might sully the footwear of my betters.

My mouth, and breath, must be truly foul and disgusting (even more so than miss Samina’s) for she never brushes my teeth! Then again, why should she? I have no need of my teeth, since I don’t use them to attend to my mistresses’ footwear; only my lips. And moreover, the mushy, tasteless slave-gruel has no need to be chewed.

Furthermore, though my breath may stink, it is nowhere near an office-lady’s delicate nostrils as she steps up to the block to have her feet kissed on entering, or exiting, the public restroom. So cleaning my teeth would be a waste of good toothpaste!

So, having been shaved, fed and watered by sullen and uncaring toilet-attendant mistress, miss Samina, I am now ready for my humble day ahead kissing feet.

Miss Samina begins her daily chores also – by mopping the restroom floor around me before the other office ladies start to arrive for work and need to use the restroom. I watch out for the occasional flash of grubby, white sock as miss Samina’s black suede mules walk around me behind her smelly mop.

Within half an hour or so my first ‘real’ customer-mistress of the day, blonde-ponytailed miss Stephanie the office front-desk receptionist, enters the restroom to perform her early-morning ablutions. She greets my popular, Indian attendant-mistress with a bright and cheery hello, which is duly reciprocated in a thick, Indian accent, and then steps up to the footblock to have her blonde-airhead feet kissed – first the right; and then the left – just once on each foot.

As per usual miss Stephanie is wearing her very short, black office-skirt; her tan-coloured, finest-denier nylons; and her smart, black patent leather, high-heeled pumps. Each foot seems to wobble somewhat on the footblock as she presents it to me for kissing and, as was the case with miss Samina’s white, cotton socks, the tan-nylon covering the front of miss Stephanie’s delicate and shapely, feminine ankle creases ever so slightly in front of my eyeline thanks to the imperiously outstretched positioning of her foot.

I shall be curious to see whether those same nylons are even more creased around the ankles whilst I am kissing her feet on her subsequent departure from the restroom, after she has readjusted her tights.

And so my working day has begun, and soon I have a steady stream of all-too-familiar office-lady boots and shoes to kiss and respect. Miss Samina pops in and out of the restroom throughout the day – sometimes to use the facilities herself; but more often just to mop the floor again;or to check up on me; and to make sure that no written complaints have been made about me by any of the office mistresses in the complaints box above my head (The rest of the time I believe she spends chatting to her fellow office-cleaners in their private room nearby, so she probably isn’t actually up working on her feet all day – which may explain why her socks never seem to smell; I doubt she ever breaks into much of a footsweat!).

If any complaints have been lodged against me, it is her pleasant duty to punish me, by withdrawing my food and water the following day – though that’s the first I shall know about it, since she never talks to me, or tells me what the complaint was about, or seeks my side of the story. She’s not interested in any excuses on my part – I’m just a slave! (Incidentally, she can’t whip me, of course, since my body is buried in the inner, restroom wall, with only my face exposed; small mercies indeed!)

Yes, I’m just a thing to her – a helpless, confined thing, who must finish his working day by kissing her hard-working mules again as she leaves the building at the end of her long, 12 hour shift. Miss Samina is always the last to leave the office – the first to arrive, and the last to leave; so her black shoes and white socks are not only the first, but also the last, things I get to see, and kiss, on any given, working day before she switches off the lights and leaves me alone and in the dark of the female office-restroom.

I hope it’s not the weekend – for, if it is, I shall have to wait a full 48 hours before I get to see the artificial light again; and miss Samina’s black, suede mules and white, cotton anklesocks!

 

Fantasy no. 8 – Kept In The Dark

Suddenly your daylight is cut off from you as you are enveloped in a young, Arab woman’s black burka hem.

This is not the Islamic-Gynarchic Island of Futurosa, however, and you are a public footslave in the mainland capital of the Gynarchy, so she may well be an out-of-towner – a tourist or visitor; probably from Arabia itself, you surmise, since she is wearing the full veil over her face, with just a fetching, narrow slit for her eyes.

Still, she towers above you now like any other Gynarchy mistress, as you kneel beneath her burka at her pretty feet. Her long, black burka may indicate conformity with the traditionalist strictures of her religion, but her modern footwear underneath suggests a rebellious streak – flat, well-worn, blue denim sneakers with grubby-white, rubber soles and matching, grubby-white laces; and short, black sneaker socks, with a lacy-white trim, and tiny, pink heart motifs running through them!

Sure, she is also wearing a pair of blue denim jeans beneath her burka – for modesty’s sake; to ensure that only the faintest slither of brown, Arab legskin is visible to you just above the white, frilly sockline in the gloom of the burka; but the sneakers and socks suggest a wild side to her character – a party side; a fun-loving side; a dominant side!

You would expect her to be familiar with the concepts of submissiveness and obedience, but the unexpectedly harsh tone of her young-Arab-woman voice as she now barks down her orders at you from outside the burka suggests that she is used to receiving submission and obedience!

‘تقبيل قدمي، والعبد الكافر!’

You don’t speak Arabic – since you are just an ignorant, public footslave – but you can tell by her disparaging and arrogant tone that her words are directed at you. You must guess, therefore, what it is that she requires of you as her right, sneakered foot is now outstretched onto the wooden footblock beneath your kneeling face.

You use your, admittedly limited, maleslave-intelligence to work out that she can hardly require her soft, denim sneaker to be tongueshined or cleaned – despite its being dusty and dirty – since denim doesn’t shine! She must, therefore, by a process of elimination, merely require you to show some slavish respect towards her, by kissing her outstretched foot.

You therefore lower your lips to the rounded, scuffmarked toe of her stylishly flat, blue denim sneaker and kiss it. You kiss it quite hard – so that she can feel your humble obeisance; for she cannot see it beneath the long, flowing hem of her, somewhat musty-smelling, burka.

You know she has certainly felt it for she chuckles – a supercilious, mocking chuckle of a young woman who is delighting in her power over a much older man:

‘ها! ها! لا قيمة خنزير! خادم المرأة! ها! ها! تقبيل أقدام أفضل الخاص! ها! ها!’

In between her chuckles she utters some more disparaging-sounding words in Arabic. They sound less like orders, than declarations of female triumph on her part. You must be pleasing her, and doing right, so – ever eager to please as a slave should always be – you continue to kiss Arab-girl sneaker.

The thought occurs to you that you don’t even know if she is pretty or plain, as you continue to respectfully kiss her blue denim sneaker-toe. You haven’t seen her face – beneath her veil; and you certainly didn’t dare to make veiled eye-contact with her before she stepped up to the footblock! Her soft, smooth legskin – what you can see of it – and the black and white, pink-heart-themed, lacy socks very much suggest that you are in the presence of great feminine beauty, but you could be wrong! She may be a relatively plain, Arab girl (if there is such a thing!)

Not that it matters, of course – beautiful or plain she is your infinite better, being young, free and female, and so you kiss her dusty sneaker-toe with appropriate maleslavish gusto and relish.

You are particularly enamoured by the lacy-white trim of her short, pink and black sock in your peripheral vision as you kiss denim shoe. The sock frames her soft, brown anklebone in a most fetching way, and provides substance to the otherwise ultra-short and flimsy sock. And the little, pink hearts are totally intriguing – do they cover the entire surface of her otherwise black cotton sock, right down to her toes inside her sneakers? Or are they merely adorning the uppers of her socks – in as much as these short, sneaker-socks have any uppers?!

One possible clue is a definite flash of pink beneath one of the metal-rimmed holes along the instep of her blue-canvas sneaker – the holes designed to help her sweaty-socked feet breathe inside the sneakers; that suggests that the pink heart motifs run right throughout the Arab girl’s sock. You are captivated by that humble thought!

Suddenly she switches feet on the footblock beneath you:

‘وقدمي الأخرى ، الرقيق!’

This is clearly an order again – an order to kiss her other foot?

You can but hope so, as you once again lower dry and parched, maleslave-lip to dusty and soft Arab-girl shoe. You can feel her socked toes underneath the soft and pliable, denim material of her shoe toe on your weak, upper lip; your likewise-trembling, lower lip is simultaneously touching the grubby-white rubbery, rounded rim of her young-womanly sneaker toe!

The sock, you notice, is more crumpled and uneven on the young, Arab woman’s left anklebone; indeed, only the lacy, white trim, it seems, has prevented the sock from sliding deep down inside her low-top sneaker. You would dearly love to be able to offer this superior, young woman your sock-straightening services, but sadly, as we have already established, you don’t speak Arabic – even if you can successfully deduce the meaning of Arabic orders from the haughty tone in which they are delivered!

And so, abject failure that you are, you merely continue to kiss Arab-girl, denim sneaker toe, and study Arab-girl wonky sock, in the semi-gloom beneath the privacy of her black burka-hem. Besides, any sock-straightening opportunity has gone now, as she is distracted by the ringing of her mobile phone. She continues to stand with her left foot stretched out onto the wooden footblock before you, but she is no longer paying any attention to your humble kisses to her sneakered feet. She is happily chatting away in Arabic to her female friend or relative on the phone – perhaps telling them what she is doing, but more likely talking about much more important issues, such as where to meet up for some shopping.

You hear the conversation end and the expensive smartphone being flipped shut. The dusty, denim foot is suddenly withdrawn from your face, and you feel the burka sliding over your bald head as the young Arab woman pulls away from you. Suddenly you are in broad daylight again; it hurts your eyes.

She doesn’t linger to say any parting words to you – in Arabic or in English. But you can assume you have done what she required of you, for nor has she reached for the public-use whip! She walks confidently away from you, another satisfied customer, leaving you with only the memory of her soft, denim sneakers on your footslave-lips.

A pathetic part of you wishes you could follow her to sneakered-heel; be kept in the dark all the time, as it were, beneath the long, flowing hem of that beautiful, pitch black burka!

 

Fantasy no. 7 – Some friendly advice for the newly enslaved

So you are nervously waiting in the auction-house cellrooms to be collected by your new mistress who gleefully purchased you this morning? Ha! Ha! It was that skanky-looking, diminutive, but nevertheless very pretty, 22 year old, mixed-race girl with the dreadlocks, wasn’t it? Ha! Ha! And now you are her lawfully enslaved property?

What’s that you say? You’re a first-time footslave! Ha! Ha! Trust me, you have a lot to learn, young man, however much training you may have already undertaken at the so-called ‘Footslave Training Academy’, and however kindly, or cruel, your future young footmistress may turn out to be (and she did have a certain glint in her eye as she chose her complimentary slave-whip; did you notice that too? Ha! Ha!).

Take it from one who knows, son – I’ve been in personal foot-servitude for nigh on 30 years now, and I’ve served lots of different footmistresses during that time! Ha! Ha! I expect it’s only a matter of time before an experienced footslave like me gets snapped up again, even though I never went to the Academy! It didn’t even exist in my day! Ha! Ha!

In the meantime, let me offer you some kindly words of advice, my fellow-footslave. Here’s what you have to get accustomed to from now on, oh footslave-friend:

• To living life, permanently, on your hands and knees. Ha! Ha! What else did you expect, given that your duties are now to care for, worship and obey the feet of your new, young mistress? I mean, you can hardly do that standing up, can you? Ha! Ha! You will never walk tall and proud again! Footslaves shuffle; and crawl; and slither; and sometimes writhe under the sting of the female whip. But they never walk upright!
• To having a slave’s eye view of everything from now on. Because you are living life on your hands and knees – beaten and oppressed – everything, and everyone, shall appear tall and mighty to you, even that diminutive, mixed-race mistress of yours; everyone is above you, in every sense of the word – both literally and figuratively. You are now the lowest of the low, and despised by all and sundry – so get used to it, footslave!
• In recognition of your lowly status you shall be expected to keep your eyes permanently cast downwards towards the ground, and the feet of your betters, and to have an accompanying downcast demeanour. A downtrodden slave must never smile; or exhibit any signs of contentment or happiness; he must appear permanently pained and oppressed – otherwise your masters and betters will give you something to look pained about! Never look your masters and mistresses in the eye – only in the foot. And if your personal skank-mistress wishes to give you more specific instructions on this point – obey them! Look her in the sneaker-tongue; or in the ankleboot-zipper; or in the sock; do not deviate from her commands in this regard – for a deviant footslave is a whipped footslave!
• Get used to being shouted at; criticised; mocked; insulted; bossed about; and generally spoken down to. Remember, you are nothing in the eyes of your superiors and betters; you are like the mud stuck to the soles of their dirty boots or shoes – smelly; offensive; something to be disposed of, if at all possible. Ah yes – the disposable footslave, that’s what you are now! Don’t think that you are your new mistress’s latest prized possession. Footslaves like you are a dime a dozen; she can dispose of you anytime she likes – cast you out onto the streets; sell you on; or even have you committed for the rest of your miserable life to a hard-labour, footslave dungeon or the underground slave-mines. Do you have any inkling of the absolute power and authority this bright, young woman now has over you? No? Well, rest assured, you soon will do!
• Speak only when you are spoken to; never answer your female and male betters back; acknowledge the veracity of everything they say; look only at their feet whilst you are addressing them; and employ the humblest of self-deprecating slavespeak that you can possibly muster – for the well-being of your bare back will most assuredly depend on it!
• Oh, didn’t I mention the blindingly obvious – your back will be kept permanently bare, and thus ready for the whip, whatever the weather and the temperature outside. If your delightfully brown-skinned and black-dreadlocked mistress allows you to accompany her outside – to college; or to work; or to her local nightclub – you will still go bareback! Sure, you will have your raggedy-assed slave-shorts on, but only because your sweet and sensitive mistress cannot abide the sight of your weedy and impotent, maleslave genitalia. Don’t get me wrong – she likes cock; only real-man’s cock; free-man’s cock; not limp and flaccid slave-cock, like yours! Ha! Ha!
• Acquire a taste for the whip – it’s the only way you will be able to cope with the necessary pain-management, for all mistresses like to whip, even the timid ones; it reinforces their sense of young-womanly power over the enslaved male, and helps them to take out their frustrations with their free men, on their whipping-boy slave men!
• And that’s not the only taste you need to acquire; acquire a taste for female shoe and boot leather, in all its forms – suede; nubuck; patent; matt – for you will be tasting it every day! An appreciation for the bitter taste of female shoe and boot polish would also be advantageous to you, especially if your mistress is one of those who likes her slave not just to lickshine her outer footwear using your footslave-saliva, but to tonguepolish it, using your footslave-tongue as an applicator for the shoe or boot polish!
• Similarly, get to like the pungent smell of musty, and oftentimes sweaty, feminine shoe and boot leather – and, of course, you must develop and unhealthy liking for your mistress’s more intimate, inner foot smells and tastes. If she wears socks, sniff them before you suck on them and mouthwash them – out of respect for them; similarly with nylons. Turn them inside out, if your mistress will permit you to do so, that you may better taste and smell her dead footskin shavings and sweat-moistened socklint. Don’t be bashful about it – your mistress already knows that you are nothing more than a disgusting animal; just get stuck in to her dirty socks and nylons, and revel in their unwholesomeness. It’s nothing more than your female betters expect of you!
• And when you are humbly washing your mistress’s mixed-race feet in a bowl of water – like the slaves of old – use your tongue to wipe her feet, and to extricate the sticky lumps of toejam from beneath and between her toenails. And swallow it – for this is your manna from heaven from now on – your mistress’s very personal and unique footsweat and detritus. Just as you must learn to love whatever she walks in, so you must learn to appreciate whatever excretions her sweet, feminine feet may produce from within her boots and socks. That’s why you’re here, dammit!
• Respect not only your mistress, but also her friends, her family, and her lifestyle choices. So what if she does drugs? So what if she walks the streets and sleeps with free men for money? So what if the rest of the world regards her as a ‘skank’. She is nonetheless your drugs-addled, streetwalking, hustler-mistress better, and you must damn well show her the respect she deserves, by kissing her feet at every opportunity. And you must kiss the ground in front of her man’s feet – whoever he may be at the time – since he too is your better, being a free man, and the selected cock of your sexually voracious, young, goodtime-girl mistress.
• Above all, obsess yourself with your bright and intelligent, young wastrel-mistress’s feet and footwear; crave them; yearn for them; live for them. Think only of them, and mourn when they are not in your presence. Nuzzle her socked feet like a puppy dog; gnaw on her fluffy slippers like a puppy dog (without damaging them of course!); and whine like a puppy dog when she gets up to leave you. Wag your tail like an excited puppy dog when her feet deign to grace your humble presence once more. Continually remind her that you are her pet-slave, and hope that she frequently has mercy on you, and allows you to follow her to heel (wherever she is going). For she is not obliged to pamper you with her feet, or her smelly shoes, boots, nylons and/or socks; she is merely legally required to beat you from time to time, or to have others beat you, in order to keep you in check and to remind you who’s boss – so don’t you forget it!

Ha! Ha! I can hear her coming to get you now – probably to take you straight home and administer an introductory whipping to you. Ha! Ha! Weren’t you expecting that? Nearly all mistresses do it nowadays – just by way of a demonstration of how unutterably painful the female whip can be when applied to a bare, male back with sweet, feminine gusto; even a cheap, freebie slave-whip; and even when administered by a petitely-built, young, mixed-race woman!

Ha! Ha! You’re on your own now, newbie-slave! As for all the advice I’ve just given you – take it or leave it. I don’t give a damn what happens to you from now on – and nor does anyone else! Ha! Ha! Have a nice slave-life, loser!