Gynarchy Glimpses (ii)
More glimpses of daily life in the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria
I was dutifully, and silently, kneeling next to my mistress Aveline’s feet as she sat on a bar stool in a hamburger joint, eating her burger. I was, as always, focussing on and admiring my 23 year old, white mistress’s brown leather, slip-on loafers and her white, rib-topped, crew socks – particularly the tiny, triangular slither of grey sock which was just visible at the back of her right heel (the one nearest to my kneeling face) below her designer-tatty and frayed, blue denim, jean hem.
I was, in short, behaving the way a personal footslave should do in public with his auburn-haired, personal footmistress – ignoring his own hunger, and sublimating his starvation by concentrating on his mistress’s feet and footwear. But that wasn’t, it seems, good enough for a nearby free man.
Without warning, he jumped off a neighbouring bar stool and clipped me hard across my kneeling earhole – sending me sprawling down onto the floor. He then picked me up by the hair, and forced my face down onto my beloved mistress’s right shoe, angrily shouting:
‘KISS YOUR MISTRESS’S FEET AND APOLOGISE TO HER, DIRTY FOOTSLAVE!’
I was dazed and dumbfounded! Apologise for what, exactly? What had I done wrong?
Of course, I did as the master-sir told me to do, for I was in no position to argue; or to hesitate! I kissed my mistress’s brown shoeleather, and apologised profusely to her – even though I still didn’t know what for!
My beautiful mistress Aveline was evidently equally perplexed at the free man’s behaviour, for I heard her politely ask him what it was I had done.
The man then uttered a bare-faced lie:
‘He was ogling your bare leg, darling – above your sockline!’
I WAS NOT! I am a good personal footslave, and I know my place! And it is most definitely NOT to be ‘ogling’ my mistress’s bare, white legflesh above her sensuous sockline (soft and flawless though that sweet, feminine legflesh is!). I’ll bet it was the free man himself who was ogling her up – for this has all the hallmarks of a lecherous free man showing off to an attractive, young woman whom he wishes to court! Pretending to be her ‘knight in shining armour’, as it were – protecting her young-womanly modesty from the base instincts of her unruly footservant; defending her young-maidenly honour!
Of course, the word of a free man is worth more than the word of a slave – even here in the Gynarchy where a woman’s word is law (not that I am at liberty to verbally, or physically, defend myself!). And so my false accuser is immediately believed. My innocent and gullible mistress actually thanks him for disciplining me for her, and the triumphant, ugly brute of a man finally lets go of my hair so that I can detach my chastened and sore mouth from my mistress Aveline’s brown-loafer shoeleather, and catch my slave-breath:
‘Kiss your mistress’s white socks, dirty slave – and beg her forgiveness!’ instructs the nobleman.
I do just that:
‘Oh pray, mistress Aveline… kiss…kiss…kiss… pray forgive this slave his indiscretion, madam…kiss…kiss…kiss… Please don’t have me beaten, ma’am, I prithee… kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…’
My mistress looks down upon me – her scurvy knave in shiny shackles – with utter contempt from her high bar stool, and then replaces her look of righteous disdain for me with a look of dreamy love for the free man, who must be nearly twice her age! He is, however, evidently something of a romantic hero to her, and I can’t be too surprised that my mistress appears to have fallen for him hook, line and sinker (though I was the one he actually knocked for six onto the floor!)
As I continue to grovel into the ribbed stitching on the uppers of my mistress Aveline’s pure-white, crew socks (taking great care not to let my eyes stray onto the slither of smooth, white legflesh beneath her raised jean-hems) the manly master-sir continues with his clever wooing of my impressionable mistress by offering her some of his fries.
Which just goes to prove – when the chips are down, a mistress will always choose a free man with money and prospects over an impotent, down-in-the-dirt footslave at her feet, however devious the former, and however loyal the latter. The free man shall always be her knight in shining armour, whilst the slave remains naught but her kneeling knave. My role will always be to kiss female sock, even if this arrogant and bullying free man goes on to become my footmistress’s lover and, ultimately, her lord and master!
Mind you – now that the immediate shock of my manly face-slapping is over, I have to confess that the master-sir was right! I was surreptitiously trying to ogle my mistress Aveline’s bare, white legskin above her ribbed socktop with one eye, whilst I had been supposedly focusing with my other eye on her grey, triangular sock-heel – but only because I love her so much!
It's a big day for my new, personal footmistress, petite and comely, 21 year old, blonde-haired mistress Olga; for today she will be choosing my permanent footfool-mask - the rubbery-humiliating mask that shall permanently cover my face, and define me to the rest of the world.
And when I say 'permanently', I mean 'permanently' - for a rubber footfool-mask is indelibly moulded onto a footfool's face for the rest of his natural life; it can never come off - not even if his personal footmistress subsequently 'divorces' him (i.e. trades her slave in for a younger model; or sells him to the slave-mines; or even just 'gifts' him to another mistress!). The footfool shall wear his ignominious mask forever - some would argue literally so, since he will even be buried in it, though it will, inevitably, degrade over time and eventually become detached from his skeletal face.
But in my case, hopefully, that is still a long way off - since I am the same tender age as my mistress, just 21! I just worry about my beard which will inevitably grow beneath my rubbery mask; apparently, since the mask is moulded into the contours of my neck there shall be no escape for the beard; that's got to itch!
My mistress Olga (I know from overhearing her discussions with family and friends - something I shan't be able to do anymore once the mask is fitted) has already decided on a number of features in my proposed mask. Needless to say I, the future wearer of the mask, get no say in its design - since I am a mere slave!
- She wants it to be her favourite colour - which is green. But she wants it to be a sickly green, in order to make me look permanently queasy and ill (or, at the very least, ill-at-ease!)
- She wants it to have the usual degrading, wonky-looking, misshapen mouth and mismatched eye-slits, along with, purely decorative, asinine ears, for she has decided that my ears shall be plugged by the mask, and fitted with tiny, electronic earpieces through which I shall only ever be able to hear her sweet feminine, but oftentimes shrill, voice as she bosses me about, reprimands me, and delivers her female commands to me through a tiny microphone on her lapel; again, this is a standard feature on most footfool masks - the partial plugging of the footfool's ears, since he has no business hearing anything other than his mistress's voice
- She wants me to have a fully-functional, pig-shaped snout, through which I can smell her boots, shoes, nylons, socks and bare feet
- She wants the eye-slits to have blinkers, so that I am forced to look only at her aforementioned feet and footwear - as befits a personal footfool
- The mouth is to be sealable from the outside, by means of a padlockable zipper, with only my mistress holding the key, though she anticipates my mouth being left open for most of the time, since she will often be requiring me to kiss and/or lickshine her dirty shoes and boots; the sealable mouth is, therefore, more of a symbol of my inability to speak without my mistress's young-womanly permission; plus, of course, it can be used to force me to breathe through my nose - thereby obliging me to breathe in her sweaty, sock and foot air!
- She wants the mask to be festooned with little rubbery symbols of my foot-servitude towards her. Again, this is quite normal in a footfool-mask - some can end up being quite ornate, though, increasingly, minimalist masks are becoming all the rage, with virtually no rubbery decorations on them. My footmistress Olga wants a happy medium; she has already decided that my custom-made mask shall have a little pair of rubbery, pink sneakers hanging from the forehead by the miniature, white laces, since pink-themed sneakers are her casual footwear of choice, together with a black-rubbery, miniature pair of ankleboots, her usual workwear. She is also a big fan of socks, and so she wants that to be reflected on my face - though she can't make up her mind whether to have real pairs of her stinky socks dangling from my face, possibly from the donkey-like, pointy ears, or whether to go for miniature rubbery socks (like the sneakers and boots). Hell, she may go for both, since her stinky socks shall be looming large in my life from now on, one way or another!
- She also wants a miniature, brown leather (yes genuine leather, not rubber!) whip to be dangling from my left cheek, and a series of fake, red whip-gashes on my rubbery-green right cheek - as a symbol of her fondness for the use of the female whip on me, though anyone only has to look at the state of my bare back and shoulders to establish that; the whip-scars on my back are not fake!
- She wants the mask to be wearable on her foot i.e. it must have a life-sized, scruffy, pink and white striped sneaker permanently affixed on the top, facing backwards, so that she can slip her socked, right foot into it whenever she is seated in front of me, and effectively 'wear' my head on her foot whilst forcing me to face her left foot, and whatever she happens to be wearing on it at the time - a fitting symbol of my enslavement beneath her fabulous feet, I think you'll agree? For even when she isn't 'wearing' my head as such, I shall still be obliged to carry the ignominious burden of one of her empty, worn sneakers on top of my downtrodden, oppressed head (that's why 'footfools' are also, sometimes, referred to as 'shoeheads' - if their mask has a female shoe on top of it!)
- And so, my clever footmistress Olga really just needs to choose the accompanying ignominious and degrading words for my mask. All footfool-masks - even minimalist ones - have between 1 to 7 words emblazoned on them in big, bold letters which humiliatingly sum up the footfool's miserable existence at his footmistress's feet.
- My mistress Olga has already decided that she wants my slave-name emblazoned on the mask, Ã la old-style Gynarchy i.e. the possessive form of her first name, followed by the word 'slave' - hence Olgasslave. That is how I shall be known henceforth to all and sundry for all eternity - even if she subsequently 'divorces' me! I am nothing more than 'Olga's slave'; my existence has no meaning, other than that of being her slave, and I have no identity of my own to share; for I am simply owned!
- That leaves up to 6 other words for my pretty mistress Olga to choose from, which shall be written, in a deliberately degrading, higgledy-piggledy manner all over my face, and the back of my rubbery head, to emphasise the chaotic nature of my footslavish existence (i.e. being at the mercy of others, and never knowing from one moment to the next what my fate will be. Will I be whipped? Will my mistress choose to wear boots or shoes today? Will I be required to sniff her dirty socks? Or tongue-smooth the dry, chapped skin on the backs of her pinky-white, bare heels?)
- Some words are a given on any footfool mask to be worn by 'Olgasslave'. Socks is the most obvious one - I expect that to be emblazoned over the front of my face. And she has also chosen Sneakers, Ankleboots & Whipped.
- Her fiancé has persuaded her to put the word Pain somewhere on the mask, since he fully intends to keep his future wife's footfool intimately familiar with the enduring sting of the marital-household whip!
- But for the final word my mistress, and master sir, are having difficulty in choosing between the following:
- Stink - a further reference to my mistress Olga's stinky socks
- Toejam - which my mistress Olga fully intends to feed me with on a regular basis
- Toe-cheese - a hyphenated version of the above (technically two words, of course, but my mistress is perfectly at liberty to 'cheat' if she so wishes, since she is perfectly at liberty; I am the slave!)
- Toenail-Clippings - ditto
- Sock-Lint (again, this will be one of my regular foodstuffs)
- Sniff - one of my regular footslave-duties
- Feet - why not? It's perhaps a bit obvious, but I am her feet, as well as her footwear, slave
- Stocks - a punishment I can expect to have to endure frequently, since my mistress and her fiancé have already chosen their new home with a set of kneeling-stocks in the back yard
- Pathetic - a disparaging, but accurate, description of me
- Loser - since I have lost out on my mistress's affections to her manly and victorious fiancé, master Stewart sir
- Ugly - both beneath and via the mask
- Impotent - self-explanatory
- Limpdick - a, rather coarse, variant of the above
- Wimp - apt
- Submissive - ditto
- Docile - ditto
- Lamebrain - ditto (I particularly like this one, since my own innate, maleslave stupidity is in such sharp contrast to my mistress Olga's sharp, feminine wit!)
- Dunderhead - ditto
- Footfool - a bit obvious, perhaps, given everything else that is going onto my rubbery mask!
- Sock-Fancier - the master-sir suggested this instead of just the word Socks, but I think my mistress is concerned that it might imply I actually like the smell of her stinky, sweaty socks - and she fully intends for me to turn my rubbery, pig-shaped snout up at them in public, as a demonstration to all and sundry of my fear and loathing of her dirty socks!
- Downtrodden - would go nicely with the female sneaker which is permanently glued to the top of my green-rubbery head!
So, as you can see, there is a lot for my mistress Olga, and her boyfriend, to think about - and she must choose her words carefully, since they shall, as I explained earlier, be indelibly marked on my face for all eternity. Future, female historians and archaeologists shall use them to determine my status in life, if and when my unmarked slave-grave is ever unearthed, though I shall be buried next to my mistress's feet, so her female burial records and respectful headstone should give them some other clues as to the nature of my lifetime of bondage to her pretty feet!
It's therefore very important that my mistress Olga gets it right; but I know she will. For she is a very clever, blonde girl - even more so than most young women - and, as you can tell, she has already put a lot of female thought and effort into the design of my ignominious, footfool mask!
A Gynarchy prisoner-slave begs to be beaten
The Contrite Prisoner-Slave by patheticus on GoAnimate
She’s an absolute stunner of a blonde-goddess, and she well and truly lights up my dank and dingy, city-centre footoire when she makes an unscheduled stop to see me, and have her boots shined, on her way to an early evening concert!
Twenty-something, regular customer-mistress Louisa normally visits me during the daytime – on workdays – in her smart office-worker outfit consisting of a grey-pinstriped jacket over a crisp, white blouse; a grey-pinstriped, modestly knee-length and businesslike skirt ; tan nylon stockings; and her shiny black, patent leather, high-heeled, office pumps. It is always a joy to lickshine her pumps (even though they are invariably impeccable even before my tongue gets to work on them) because:
a) She is such a charming young woman;
b) She is such a beautiful young woman (and having such a beautiful girl on one’s regular customer-list gives a footoire-slave a certain sense of foolish pride);
c) Her finest-denier, tan-nylons always crease ever so slightly around the fronts of her shapely ankles as I am lickshining her outstretched shoeleather – truly a sight for sore and lonely, footslave eyes!
She is, during her office-day visits to my footoire, the light of my life, and I always feel better for having served her – even if she has found occasion to beat me with the footoire whipping-stick (which she is not shy of doing if I displease her in any way – like the unfortunate time when I inadvertently referred to her as ‘beautiful goddess-mistress customer Louise’, instead of her actual name – beautiful goddess-mistress customer Louisa).
But this is why her unusual, early-evening visit on the way to the concert is such a joy for me – for she is no longer clad in her work clothes, but her ‘going out’ clothes. And boy do they make her look even more of a stunner – for she is dressed in a revealing, beige (almost skin-coloured) halter top; tight, blue-denim jeans; and a delightful, and dominant-looking, pair of platform-heeled, brown leather, zip-up knee-boots (over her jeans)!
She also has a pair of designer sunglasses pushed back onto the top of her long, blonde hair, and a stylish, brown leather shoulder-bag.
My God, she looks the business – even though she is not on business at the moment!
She laughs pleasantly at me – as she always does – and revels in my evident surprise and pathetic, maleslave excitement at seeing her in her off-duty clothes. I fawningly gush my words of slavish greeting out to her, in an excitable and high-pitched tone:
‘Oh pray, mistress Louisa! Oh goddess-mistress! Truly this slave is honoured by your unexpected presence this evening! You look wonderful this evening, goddess-mistress Louisa, if I may make so bold, mistress?’
Fortunately, as I know from my previous experiences serving her, goddess-mistress Louisa loves a bit of male flattery – even if it’s delivered by a down-in-the-dirt slave! Indeed, I rather suspect that’s the sole reason why she visits me almost every working day – precisely because she knows I am obliged, by law if not by my male lust for her feminine beauty, to sycophantically fawn and grovel to her, and to unctuously and obsequiously flatter and beatify her!
She smiles smugly down at me, and extends her right, brown-leather-booted foot out onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face:
‘Ha! Ha! Are you pleased to see me, slave? Aw…that’s nice! Shine my boot!’
‘Yes, goddess-mistress Louisa. At once, goddess-mistress Louisa!’
I’m really going to enjoy this – I mean, it’s not every day an ugly, balding, male, middle-aged footslave like me gets to lick the going-out boots of a blonde superbabe like goddess-mistress Louisa! If we weren’t surrounded by the graffiti-strewn, tin walls of my city-centre footoire, I expect she would be turning freemale heads right now as she stands, dominantly, hands on hips in front of me, having her shapely, outstretched, right leg eagerly tongueshined.
To be fair, she may not just be here on an ego trip – for her brown leather kneeboots (unlike her usual office pumps) are a bit scuffmarked and dirt-stained in places ; so a quick lickshine and a polish is perfectly in order, especially if she’s on her way out to meet up with her boyfriend – master Alan sir. I’ve never actually met him, but she is always talking about him, in glowing terms. He is obviously a real man, who satisfies her sexually – and therefore she, quite rightly, expects me only to ever speak of him in respectful and admiring tones:
‘Is the beautiful, young mistress meeting up with master Alan sir this evening, madam?’
I can get away with such seemingly impertinent questions where goddess-mistress Louisa is concerned, purely because she loves talking about her love life, and about her boyfriend!
Of course, what I would really like to enquire about is whether or not she is wearing any socks inside her long boots – for seeing, and sniffing, a beautiful, blonde babe’s socks is the sum total of my aspirations in life! However, goddess-mistress Louisa isn’t interested in discussing her socks – not unless she needs them straightening inside her boots, or something – in which case I’m sure she wouldn’t hesitate to order me to unzip her boots and straighten her socks!
Oh, if only!
She happily answers my highly impertinent, but humbly delivered, question:
‘Yeah – we’re off to see a concert!...’
Really? How nice for you, goddess-mistress Louisa! What concert? Which bands? Where exactly? These are the sorts of follow-up questions I should be asking of goddess-mistress Louisa, but I am now transfixed with wondering about her socks inside her boots! What colour are they? What texture? Are they creased? Are they warm and sweaty? Are they comfortable on her sweet, feminine feet and anklebones? Are they, perhaps, even kneesocks?! (all that, of course, is assuming she is wearing any socks inside her boots – for there is no hint of socktop above her upper, brown-leather, kneeboot rims!)
But I can’t, really, ask those sorts of questions either – even though I am a footslave, and therefore, arguably, have more of a claim to enquire after her socks than her social life!
Because of my sock-obsessed dithering with my follow-up question, she continues with her happy news:
‘…We’re meeting up with some of our friends and planning on going out clubbing afterwards – so it’ll be a busy night!’
I admire her young-womanly stamina; the very thought of a noisy concert, followed by a night out clubbing and dancing, makes me feel tired and exhausted; but then, compared to her, I am very old – and I never go anywhere. A permanently chained-up, footoire slave isn’t exactly in a position to enjoy a social life!
This is my social life – lickshining the dirty boots of a beautiful blonde-girl so that she will look even nicer for her manly boyfriend (and fantasising about her socks!)
‘Oh joy, mistress! Oh I am so pleased for you, goddess-mistress! Truly you deserve your night out with master Alan sir and your friends, mistress, since you work so hard, young mistress!’
Her mobile phone rings before she has a chance to bask in the glow of my latest bout of footslave-flattery, and so I concentrate on lickshining the upper of her boot whilst she answers it:
‘Hi, Alan! Yeah, I’m just on my way! I’ve just with the footoire-slave having my boots shined, honey?...’ At this point she nonchalantly switches her booted feet beneath me, even though I hadn’t finished licking the top of her right boot! ‘… Yeah, I’ll be with you shortly! OK, bye babe! Love you!’
She flicks closed her phone with a beaming smile on her pretty face. She is clearly very much in love with master Alan sir. I barely feature in her consciousness whenever he is around – even if he’s only on the phone to her!
But I am so proud of what she just said! Did you hear it? She said she was with the footoire-slave! With me! Truly I am unworthy to have such a stunningly-beautiful young woman anywhere near me, yet alone with me – especially in such an embarrassingly smelly and dirty footoire (it stinks of drunken male urine and female vomit from the night before; my regular cleaner-mistress, miss Tatiana, failed to show again today!)
‘Hurry up, slave,’ she snaps. ‘That was Alan; he’s waiting for me outside the concert hall!’
‘Yes, mistress madam. At once, mistress-madam Louisa!’
Mustn’t keep the master sir waiting for his beautiful, blonde date. I lick faster on her left boot – in order to comply with my customer-mistress’s demands and please her, so that she can leave my dirty footoire with tongue-polished boots as soon as possible.
But that’s not what I’d like to do! What I’d like to do is delay her departure, by enquiring after her bootsocks; by asking the blonde mistress if her socks are comfortable inside her boots, or would she like me to straighten them for her; by persuading her to let me unzip the sides of her boots and check her socks for her; by discovering that her bootsocks are ankle-length and dark-grey, with distinctive, white logos on the sides; by taking time to straighten out the creases in her socks with my nose, surreptitiously sniffing them as I do so; by verbally praising and blessing her for her beautiful taste in dark-grey bootsocks inside her brown leather kneeboots; by tactfully enquiring after the provenance of her socks; by discovering they were actually a present for her from master Alan sir; by humbly asking her to convey my thanks and congratulations to the handsome master sir for purchasing the socks for her, and for the honour of nose-straightening such socks; by taking my time over the re-zipping of her kneeboots (using my teeth).
Hah! Dream on, slave! Mistress Louisa doesn’t want to waste any more of her free time with you – a mere slave! She has a real man to meet up with and impress – the light of her life!
Oh, but unbeknown to her (or perhaps beknown to her) she is the light of my humble life!
Boots lickshined, she hurries off without saying thank you or goodbye to me – as befits a beautiful, young, self-obsessed customer-mistress who is deeply in love with another man. And I still don’t know if she really is wearing any socks inside her boots – let alone sexy, dark-grey ones!
‘You need to buck up your ideas, slave!’
The angry, brunette-haired customer-mistress has, rightly, detected that I am not fully focussing on the task in mouth as I lickshine her black leather, furry-trimmed, calf-length boots in my late evening footoire.
The fact is, I am still pining for goddess-mistress Louisa’s brown leather kneeboots (and imaginary grey socks) – even though it was several hours ago now! My brief encounter with regular customer-mistress Louisa’s off-duty, concert-going and nightclub-going boots was the undoubted highlight of my day – and I am finding it super hard to concentrate even on such a delightful pair of fur-trimmed, black leather boots, even when they are directly beneath my kneeling face!
It’s not that I don’t find the slim and brunette customer-mistress appealing or attractive to serve. I’m sure she’s a very nice, young woman! It’s just that – I don’t know her; not like I think I know regular customer-mistress Louisa. I’m convinced there’s a footslave/mistress spark between us – even though I’m probably deluding myself.
I mean – goddess-mistress Louisa is a successful business-babe; she can have any man she wants! And she does – she has master Alan sir! Why would she be remotely interested in me?
Ah but, she still visits me regularly to have her shoes shined – her patent, black leather pumps! And didn’t she deign to pop into see me this evening – on her way into the concert venue? Didn’t she say she was with me? So perhaps there is hope for me yet? Maybe she’ll become one of those abolitionists and set me free and marry me?! Or maybe she might just purchase me from the city authorities as her own, personal footslave? I’d like that even more – for then I’d get to sniff her socks and nylons on a regular basis!
I wonder what her boots and socks are like now? I’ll bet that she and master Alan sir, and their friends (of which I am not one – being much too lowly to be included in their social circle) have left the concert hall and gone to the nightclub by now, for it must be approaching midnight? I’ll bet goddess-mistress Louisa’s grey and white bootsocks are getting all hot and steamy inside her long, brown leather boots now, for she’s probably giving it her all on the dancefloor!
Oh, the thought of her dancing; gyrating in front of me!...
Perhaps she could marry master Alan sir, and employ me as her household footservant! Then she’d have the best of both worlds…
SWISH... WHACK!
PAIN!
‘I SAID, BUCK UP YOUR IDEAS, SLAVE! LOOK – YOU’VE EVEN MISSED A BIT!’
The brunette customer-mistress has brought me back down to earth – the earth on her boots – with a whip!
‘Aoow! Oh pray, mistress! Sorry mistress!…Pray don’t beat me, mistress! I’ll be a good footslave to you, pretty mistress!’
Even in my STINGING, THROBBING PAIN, however, I’m still thinking about the absent goddess-mistress Louisa! I took that painful cut for you, mistress Louisa! I imagined it was you beating me mistress – for you’re truly lovely when you’re angry!
SWISH….WHACK!
‘AOWWW!
‘Mercy Mistress!’
Thirty-something, Indian goddess-mistress Karishma – who works as a cleaner in one of the nearby offices – is a regular visitor to my graffiti-strewn, city-centre footoire on her way home from her long night shifts.
She always wears the same flat, slip-on, shiny black plastic, loafer shoes with white socks, beneath her somewhat frayed black cotton trouser-hems – and I admire and respect her shoes and socks very much. Especially when her white socks are grubby, like they are this morning; and especially when she is preoccupied by composing a text on her mobile phone whilst she stands imperiously over me – her dainty, lower-caste-Indian-woman, right foot extended onto the wooden footblock beneath my slave-class, kneeling face.
It’s perhaps understandable that she should come across as all hoity-toity, and holier-than-thou, and standoffish as I dutifully tongue-attend to her Indian-nightworker shoes, given that she has been up on her feet all night. And the grubbiness of her white anklesocks is, perhaps, equally inevitable, given that her job is to clean the dirty office floors and corridors. And I love it when she cuts me down as I try to engage with her in footslavish, early-morning pleasantries:
‘Good morning, goddess-mistress Karishma. Your white socks look very nice on your ankles this morning, goddess-mistress Karishma.’
‘Shut up, dirty slave! Be quickly shining my black shoe, isn’t it?’
When a Gynarchy mistress of lower-caste, Indian origins tells you to shut up, you mustn’t even verbally acknowledge her commandment to shut up; not even if the commandment to shut up is phrased as a rhetorical question – for fear of being accused of disobeying her, and of not shutting up! That would only mean one thing – more whip! And my back is still smarting enough from the exertions of the angry, brunette customer-mistress from yesterday evening.
And so my response to customer-mistress Karishma’s arrogant rebuttal of my gauche attempt at footslave-chivalry is to immediately do as she says, and to silently start tongueshining her outstretched loafer-shoe. I lickshine away the dust and the dirt, whilst admiring the grubby dust-marks on the sides and the front of her white cotton, vertically-stitched anklesock. Is it, perchance, the self-same, white anklesock she was wearing yesterday morning? I can’t tell for sure – not without sniffing it; but overtly sniffing superior goddess-mistress Karishma’s grubby-white anklesock – even just on the sides and the front – when she is in such a foul, post-nightshift mood, would probably not be a good move!
I’m dying to offer to suck the brown, office-dust stains off her white anklesock – but, again, I have been commanded to ‘shut up and shine black shoe’ isn’t it?; no mention of sprucing up her white sock! And so I hold my tongue – on her shiny, black loafer – and taste her cheap shoe plastic, whilst she focusses on sending her text message.
What’s that you say? Maybe she’s texting her husband to complain about my impudence in complimenting her white socks?
SHUT UP!
P.S. I wonder what blonde goddess-mistress Louisa is up to now? Relaxing in bed with her boyfriend master Alan sir, no doubt, after their big night out! It’s a Saturday today, so she won’t be visiting my footoire in her office attire. I’ll bet her brown leather kneeboots and sweaty, grey bootsocks are lying forlornly on her master-bedroom floor – just ripe for the sniffing! And yet, here I am; still stuck here; still lickshining other women’s boots and shoes!
Oh well, no rest for the wicked; only for the good goddess-mistress Louisa, and her fortunate boyfriend!
How sweet and kind!
The twenty-something, punk customer-mistress with the prominent nose-piercings and the bright, pink highlights in her otherwise jet-black hair is wearing her black denim jeans tucked into the tops of her thick, black, ankle-length, towelling socks. She looks like she's about to ride a bicycle - but she isn't; she is about to have her chunky, black leather, laced-up, brothel creepers lickshined by me - the city centre footoire-slave - and the only 'clips' around here shall be the clips around my earholes if I fail to please her with my shoelicking efforts, for, although this is a new customer-mistress for me, experience has taught me always to tread carefully with punk-mistresses. They can be highly volatile - and a female law unto themselves!
Thanks to her sexy-socked dresscode, I get a close-up and personal, unimpeded view of her plain black towelling socks as I, somewhat nervously, lickshine each outstretched shoe in turn. I can observe every bobble; every crease; every tiny piece of alien, white fluff stuck to the thick stitching of her black socks.
Oh, just imagine being her personal footslave - having to follow her on your hands and knees, and having the backs of her exposed, black anklesocks in your face all day long! What an honour, what a privilege that would be! The pink-haired punk-girl's devoted, black-towelling-sock follower - tasked with studying and admiring the movements in the backs of her socks throughout the day!
One's whole ignominious day would be preoccupied with the casually-exposed backs of her socks!
Even temporarily studying the fronts of her black, towelling socks - as I am obliged to do now - is a fleeting honour and a privilege, for these are the full-frontal, manky, black anklesocks of a beautiful, independently-minded, pink-haired and nose-pierced, punk girl - a female creature to be admired and respected by a dull and anonymous, down-in-the-dirt, public-footoire servant such as myself. This bright, young woman has got style and class - and the freedom to wear her jeans tucked into her socks for all (or, at least, for me) to study and admire in silent awe and wonderment!
She’s the cleaner in my dirty, stinking footoire – and I am very grateful to her for doing her best to keep my working environment clean. A beautiful, Filipina goddess like petite and comely, 44 year old mistress Analyn shouldn’t have to demean herself by cleaning out my graffiti-strewn, city-centre, footoire hole – but we have an arrangement whereby she keeps me clean, in exchange for me reading out her letters from her family in the Philippines to her (goddess-mistress Analyn is illiterate).
It’s an arrangement which works well – and I am always delighted to see her.
Today is no exception, as she enters my footoire with her bucket and mop, having put up the ‘Closed for Maintenance’ sign on the outside so that we are not disturbed, and dressed in her fetching, municipal cleaner’s outfit consisting of a bright green tabard; cheap, black, denim jeans cut off at the ankles; and black suede loafers with rounded toes, and just a hint of red-trimmed, dark-grey, Filipina sneaker-sock peeking out from the uppers of her shoes.
She notices how I perk up as she enters my presence (in as much as I can ‘perk up’ – weighed down by my heavy chains!) and laughs at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave glad to see miss Analyn again? Want kiss Analyn pretty shoes and socks? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh pray mistress Analyn! Yes please mistress Analyn!’
‘Ha! Ha! Ok. First I clean your dirty hole – clean up ladysick (she is referring to a pool of female vomit left in the far corner of my footoire by a drunken customer-mistress last night – a not uncommon occurrence in a city-centre footoire like mine!); then I punish you for make mess in footoire; then I let you kiss miss Analyn nice shoe and sock! Ha! Ha! You be patient, slave!’
‘Yes, miss Analyn! God bless you, miss Analyn!’
I’m not surprised that sweet and kind, footoire-cleaner mistress Analyn is going to punish me for the filthy state of my footoire before she lets me kiss her shoes and socks. It’s only right that I should be punished since, under the Female Law, I am responsible for my footoire, and everything that goes on in it. I am, therefore, to blame for the pool of female vomit in the corner of my booth, and for miss Analyn’s having to clean it, since my chains prevent me from moving over to mop up the mess myself!
That punishment will, undoubtedly, take the form of a beating across my bare back and shoulders with the footoire whipping-stick, which hangs on the wall over the back of my head; for goddess-mistress Analyn may not be able to read or write – but she can sure as hell hit!
I therefore brace myself for the pain – after she has mopped up all the mess in my footoire.
I only wish I could repay her for her cleaning work by reading one of her letters for her – but she doesn’t appear to have any new letters that need reading today. I shall just have to ensure I put all of my gratitude into my kissing of her shoes and socks later!
I watch the backs of those shoes and socks moving around as she mops up in front of me – though there isn’t, actually, much sock to see at the backs of her pretty, Filipina heels, since the socks are so short. I do like the grey and red pattern in the sides of her socks, however, and admire how they crease and fold with her sick-mopping efforts.
When she has finished mopping, she places her municipal mop and bucket to one side and walks back over towards me. Her soft, black, suede leather loafers then crease and fold beneath my kneeling and suitably downcast face as she stands on tippy-toe in order to reach over me and unhook the rattan whipping-stick from the footoire-wall behind me:
‘Ha! Ha! Now I punish you, footoire-slave; punish with stick! Very pain, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress Analyn! The whipping-stick shall be very painful to me, goddess-mistress Analyn. But I deserve it, mistress! Please beat me hard, mistress!’
Ever obliging woman that she is, goddess-mistress Analyn wields the whipping-stick just as effectively as she wields her mop, and soon my bare back and shoulders resemble the tops of her grey sneaker-socks – they are stripy and red!
I have the added indignity of watching her grey and red socks crease beneath my face with the sheer Filipina effort she smilingly puts into each and every whip-stroke – 12 of them in all!
Having whipped me, she takes a step backwards for a moment, in order to admire her handiwork on my back, but the she soon steps forward again, and extends her right leg beneath my kneeling face before pointing with the still-warm end of the rattan whipping-stick to her round, and somewhat scuffmarked (and no doubt also germ-laden) shoe-toe:
‘Ha! Ha! Now you kiss Analyn black shoe; you kiss here – on big toe. Then you move lips to side of miss Analyn shoe; then top! Then you kiss top of miss Analyn grey and red sock, here on side of miss Analyn pretty foot! But you not touch mistress Analyn bare ankleskin, or I whip you more!’
‘Yes, mistress Analyn! Thank you, goddess-mistress Analyn. And thank you for beating me in such a lovely way, mistress; truly my back is now smarting and sore, mistress, if it pleases you mistress!’
‘Ha! Ha! You not talk, dirty slave! Only kiss!’
I kiss her outstretched, right shoe and sock with genuine gratitude and affection, followed by the left one; for these are the shoes and socks of a hard-working, middle-aged, but still outstandingly beautiful, Filipina goddess, who happily demeans herself by mopping up sick in my city-centre footoire, so that I, and my subsequent female customers, don’t have to smell it whilst I tongue-attend to their dirty footwear.
Someday I hope to persuade miss Analyn to take off her socks, and leave them with me for some diligent mouth-cleaning; for if I can’t read her correspondence for her every day, at the very least I could mouthwash her sweaty socks from inside her shoes. I would then dry them overnight with my breath, and have them fresh and ready for her pretty, Filipina feet the following day!
I regard myself, you see, very much as the flunkey in this relationship of unequals – the Filipina’s footoire-flunkey! I mean, she may be the one with the bucket and mop; but I am the one kissing Filipina, dirty shoe and sock!
The pretty, auburn-haired, South Korean girl’s black and white, huge, platform sneakers have a large, pink heart-logo on the rubbery-white sides.
But I’m under no illusions – the love-hearts are not for me, even though they declare ‘I luv you’! They are for her freemale boyfriend.
Other aspects of her sneakers – the scuffmarks; the street-dirt and grime; the tops of her creased and bobbled, black anklesocks – are for me, the public street-footslave, tasked with lickshining her dirty, platform sneakers so that the pink hearts glow for her boyfriend when she meets up with him shortly on their big date!
I can therefore lick her heart-logos, but I could never possibly win them over – for they belong to another man; a real man; a young man. I’m just a middle-aged, down-in-the-dirt, Korean girl’s platform-sneaker licker, however much I may attempt to pull at her heartstrings by diligently tongueshining her pink heart-logos and sucking on her grubby-white shoelaces. I am lower even than her plain, black socks – literally so, thanks to her elevated, and elated, sneaker soles!
