The Deskbound Ornamental-Footkisser

I am being fitted as a deskbound ornamental-footkisser. We are all the rage at the moment throughout the Gynarchy – the ‘must-have’ item of human-furniture that every self-respecting, hip and happening, female office just has to have!

Fortunately the young woman currently installing me and trying me out for size will not be the only young woman to ever sit at this desk – for the ladies in this particular office tend to ‘hotdesk’ (i.e. move around between shared desks). Don’t get me wrong – she would make a perfectly acceptable full-time, permanent deskmistress for a deskbound ornamental-footkisser, being an attractive, if somewhat large, young, white lady with rough and ungainly feet, but with nice, black, scuffmarked and street-soiled ankleboots and black socks covering her ungainly ankles beneath her stylish, black cotton, bootcut trousersuit-hems.

As she slots me into place beneath the hotdesk, I am cruelly made aware of the following features of my underdesk, at-foot, slavelife from now on:

· It’s as if I will be lying permanently on my stomach from now on, at dirty, dusty ground level, with my head and wrists trapped in a ground-level set of stocks; for, once secured, I cannot move – not even a sore neck-muscle.

· My face is hovering in the low, dark air beneath the desk over a rubbery-smelling footrest, on which the deskmistress, presumably, rests her feet (I can tell from the dirt marks in the rubber treads of the angled footrest that it has been used many times before!)

· The ‘angle’ is at about 45 degrees, and sloping upwards – so that when the deskmistress rests her booted or shoed feet on the rubber footrest, the toe areas of her dirty footwear will be almost in direct contact with my lips

· It has already been explained to me, by my trainers, that my role is merely to silently, and respectfully, kiss the deskmistress’s boot or shoe toes for as long as her feet remain on the rubber footrest. That’s it – the sum total of my slavery! I am not required to lickshine the dirty footwear; or to sniff it; or to kiss sock or nylon stocking – just outer boot or shoe leather, on the toe-areas. And I have been instructed that I must do so alternately between the right and left shoe or boot – one kiss at a time – however much it hurts my neck. And I am not to stop kissing – not even to silently take stock of and admire the female footwear in front of my face – not until or unless the mistress removes her booted or shoed feet from the footrest.

· I have been told that I may kiss a deskmistress’s bare, socked or nyloned feet if she goes to the trouble of slipping off her office shoes or boots prior to resting her feet on the footrest beneath my confined, ornamental face, and, at such times, of course, I can be forgiven for smelling her feet – given that I shall inevitably be surrounded by her inner foot odour! But I have equally been told not to raise my expectations too high on this front, as it is, apparently, rare for the young women in this particular office to work at their desks in their bare or socked feet!

· To my chagrin, I realise also – just as soon as the fat, young mistress trying me out sits down in front of (and above me) at her desk, and languorously stretches forth her ungainly, booted feet onto the footrest, that, due to the angle of the latter, and the fact that she is wearing bootcut trousers (as are most of the young women I have seen thus far in this office), her socks – even just the tops of her black socks – will be difficult to see whilst I am kissing her raised boot-toes, since they will be for the most part hidden by her flapping trouser-hems!

· Nevertheless, I can just make out the faintest slither of slanted bootsock-top, and I am compensated by the sense of her female might and magnificence as she towers over me, even whilst seated in her chair, having her dirty, scuffmarked, boot-toes alternately kissed.

· I do as I have been told, and kiss the anonymous, young, fat woman’s ungainly boot-toes repeatedly, pausing only for a respectful second in between each kiss, and trying desperately to ignore my already aching neck and shoulder muscles

· Why do they have to make such underdesk stock-contraptions so tight and uncomfortable? Silly question really – it’s meant to be uncomfortable; I keep forgetting – I’m just a slave! Nobody cares about my comfort, or the lack of it (even though I’ve done nothing wrong, other than to be born a slave by nature!) It’s the comfort and wellbeing of the mistress that matters – hence her footrest to help her posture; and her underdesk ornamental-footkisser to make her feel valued and respected.

· I’ve been warned that I am not allowed to speak to my deskmistresses, and they are not supposed to speak to me. That’s because I am just a piece of human-furniture (and a lowly one at that), and my mouth is only free of any gags so that I can kiss boot and shoe. Even my kissing, I’ve been warned, must be quiet and unobtrusive – firm enough for the mistress to feel it through her bot or shoe leather; but silent enough to not be an audible distraction. Nobody likes to hear a footslave slobbering over a mistress’s footwear – just as nobody likes a noisy eater! If I fail to achieve the right balance of firmness and discreetness in my footwearkissing I will, I am told, be fitted with a tongue gag which will fairly teach me how to show respect and decorum when kissing a lady’s boots under the desk

I am absolutely delighted when, after some 15 minutes of constant bootkissing on my part, the young-lady owner and wearer of the boots subconsciously reaches down to scratch her itchy, right leg, simultaneously raising up her right trouser-hem enough for me to catch a stunning view of her twisted, black cotton anklesock-top, set against her pasty-white ankleflesh! She then pulls up and straightens said sock, before lowering and smoothing her black cotton trouser-hem again, prior to repeating the sock-pulling and straightening process on her left anklebooted foot!

I have now seen both her fleshy white ankles!

Of course, any footslave worth his salt would be quick to scratch a lady’s itchy leg for her – and, indeed, to straighten her bootsocks for her – but, even if I wanted to (and I do!) I’m now just a deskbound ornamental-footkisser, and my wrists are confined, like my prostrate head, in rough, coarse wood. They cannot move! All I can do throughout the leg-scratching, sock-straightening moment is continue to kiss scuffmarked, black leather boot-toe!

At least, I think to myself, I cannot easily be whipped down here. There, literally, isn’t enough room to swing a cat o’ nine tails! Mind you, I could easily be punished by being kicked in the face – so I must still always be on my best, ornamental-footkissing behaviour at all times! Besides, I don’t want to displease my deskmistresses; I enjoy pleasing them – even the somewhat ungainly ones like the inaugural deskmistress currently seated above me.

Although she could hotdesk, she chooses not to –preferring instead to remain at the desk in front of me for the rest of her working day; including her lunchbreak, which she takes at her desk.

The thought occurs to me – when do I get fed? And by whom?

Her musty-smelling, and still street-soiled (because I’m not permitted to lickshine them - only kiss them), black leather boot-toes don’t remain in place on the angled, black rubber footrest all the time. She does leave her desk to go to the lavatory a few times (for she is only human, after all!); and even when she’s seated at her desk she sometimes removes her booted feet from the footrest, whether consciously or subconsciously.

At such times, of course, I must stop bootkissing - though I wouldn’t have much choice in the matter anyway, since her feet would be too far away from my confined head for me to be able to reach them with my ornamental-footslave mouth whenever they are not resting on the rubbery, black footrest. However, my standing (or rather lying-prostrate-on-the-floor) instructions are to silently stare at and admire the boots or shoes of my female betters whenever they are within sight, but not placed on the footrest beneath my face.

And so I do just that – I study and admire the fat, thirty-something, office girl’s manky, old ankleboots – which, like her, have probably seen better days – and humbly think about which scuffmarks or dirtmarks I am going to focus on kissing next, as, sooner or later, those same boots will inevitably make their way back onto the footrest.

At 5 o’clock the deskmistress gets up to leave – without, of course, so much as a by-your-leave (since she is forbidden to speak to the human foot-furniture underneath her desk) – and shows me a scuffmarked pair of heels as she logs off her computer, puts on her fat overcoat, and goes home.

Suddenly I feel very bereft and alone – for she appears to be the last to leave the office, and I suddenly remember it’s a Friday evening. The weekend beckons, and the office will now be closed for two days. But what about me?

· I still haven’t been fed or watered!

· Am I to be left locked in here for two long days and nights without any female foot-company?

Suddenly, as the lights automatically go out, due to lack of any human activity above me, I start to feel sorry for myself, and to yearn for the return of those fat, black leather, zip-up ankleboots, however scuffmarked and ungainly they may be. At least they gave me something to do, and a feeling of having a purpose in life; however demeaning and lowly! All I can do now is stare through the gloom (there is a faint light emanating from a streetlight outside the office window) at the residual dirtmarks from the soles of the fat deskmistress’s boots on the angular, rubber footrest!

Sadly, I can’t even strain my neck forward far enough to be able to lick and eat that fat-girl bootdirt – even though I’m famished (in addition to being starved of female affection!)

The hours seem to tick by ever so slowly until, suddenly, I hear movement – and the office lights come on again. I then hear a vacuum cleaner being plugged in and witched on, and see the white socks and plain, black loafers, beneath black polyester trouser-hems, of one of the female office cleaners.

It is only when she looks beneath the desk where she is hovering around my face, and stops to switch off her vacuum cleaner and laugh at me, that I realise she is very pretty, young Filipina woman, with dark hair and a cruelly smiling face:

‘Ha! Ha! You the new desk-slave? You the dirty foot-kisser? Ha! Ha! I laugh at you! I better than you! You kiss me on shoe, and on sock. You worship pretty feet of office cleaner, miss Phara!’

And with that she sits herself down on the office chair in front of the desk, and stretches forth her black-loafered and white-anklesocked feet onto the rubbery footrest beneath my face, even adjusting it to suit her own, oriental height.

She has already broken several office rules:

1. She is sitting down on the job;

2. She has not only spoken to me, but even asked me rhetorical questions (which, she must know I am not allowed to answer!)

3. She has ordered me to kiss her not only on the black shoe-toe, but also on the white sock!

However, having not-said all that, she is undeniably right about one thing – she is my better; and her petite and shapely shoes and socks present such a pleasant change from the manky and ungainly, fat-girl, sock-hiding, ankleboots it has been my duty to serve thus far on my first day as a deskbound footkisser that I have absolutely no hesitation whatsoever in complying with her, perfectly reasonable, demands to kiss her on the shoes and socks.

Besides – who is going to tell on her, or report her to her employers? I won’t, if you won’t!

I begin by kissing her shoe leather, but she soon helpfully positions her foot sideways and closer to my confined face in order for my eager mouth to be able to reach her creased, side-anklesock. Even the tiny little pieces of black sock-lint stuck to her otherwise grubby-white and dust-stained, cotton anklesock represent potential, tiny, tasty morsels for me, so starved am I of real food! And so I kiss Thai-cleaning-girl, grubby white sock with vim and vigour.

Perhaps because of my vigorous sock-kissing she appears to find my obedient lips ticklish, and starts to giggle and laugh at me:

‘Ha! Ha! You pathetic, slave! You kiss my dirty sock, and I not even feed you. I take all money for your food and spend on myself. I buy nice new shoes and socks for my feet with your food-money tomorrow! Ha! Ha! Then I come back on Monday night and make you kiss Phara new shoes and socks! Ha! Ha! You not able to do anything – you just lie and starve under lady desk all weekend! Ha! Ha!’

And then – having happily informed me of her planned dishonesty and corruption in proposing to use the pocket-money given to her by her employers in order to buy me food, to instead buy herself a nice new pair of shoes and socks – she promptly withdraws her existing, well-worn pair of black loafers and white socks from my mouth, and resumes her vacuum-cleaning.

The noise of her vacuum cleaner drowns out my sobs and pangs of hunger and sorrow, as I realise that I am well and truly trapped in a cruel and unforgiving place! The best I can hope for is that another, prettier office-deskmistress than the fat girl who sat there today (perhaps a tall and slim, black girl,with shiny black high-heels and dark nylons?) will occupy this desk on Monday morning; and that cruel Thai cleaner-mistress, miss Phara, chooses a nice, tasty pair of new socks and shoes for me to kiss sand worship on Monday night.

In the meantime, as I am left alone beneath the desk, and the office lights once again go out, the sound of the vacuum cleaner has been replaced by my lonely, rumbling stomach...