Urgintly Requir Footkiser

I saw her handwritten note pinned to the ‘Personal Ads’ noticeboard in my local Gynarchy Post Office whilst I was collecting my weekly food-stamps (as an unemployed, homeless and mistressless footslave I am entitled to 7 stamps per week in order to buy myself some slave-gruel – just to keep me alive; so I am always on the look-out for some part-time footslave-work, in the hope of supplementing my meagre food rations!)

The handwritten note, complete with spelling mistakes, read:

‘Indian ledy, 40, slim and petite, urgintly requir footkiser for 1 day only. You contact Baraberia 657862.’

So, it was for one day only? No matter – I was desperate for work! If nothing else I need to keep my tongue in, for an out-of-work footslave can easily lose his acquired taste for dirty, female footwear if he is not lickshining feminine boots and shoes on a regular basis. I was also intrigued by her very specific requirement of having a ‘footkiser’ (sic). Sounds interesting – especially since Indian ladies have such nice feet. Even if she is in her forties, her feet are sure to still be nice and soft, especially as she describes herself as ‘slim and petite’.

I wasted no time in picking up the slave-freephone next to the advertisement board (obviously male slaves are not permitted to own mobile phones in the Gynarchy; nor do we have any money; so the Female Post Office kindly provide a floor-level freephone for out-of-work footslaves to use when responding to ladies’ small ads. The phone is floor-level because we must live our lives on our hands and knees!)

I dial the number on the advertisement; it rings three or four times, and then an Indian lady’s voice answers on the other end:

‘Hailō?’

‘Oh pray, mistress…good morning mistress… my name is slave Patheticus and I am calling about your advertisement on the Post Office noticeboard, if you would be so kind Indian mistress?’

There is silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds only, and then the female Indian voice says the words I am longing to hear:

‘You come round my house now, sleve. My address – 14 Julia Caesar Avenue. You come now!’

And with that the phone call is abruptly terminated. But I have all the information I need.

I know where Julia Caesar Avenue is; it’s only about 5 minutes’ crawl away. Despite its rather prestigious sounding name, it’s actually on the local sink-estate where I spend many an hour begging to kiss and lick the shoes and boots of female passers-by in the hope of supplementing my meagre food-stamp diet with some feminine shoe and boot mud. Who knows, I might even recognise the Indian ‘ledy’s’ shoes and/or boots when I call round.

Or, more accurately, ‘crawl’ round – for, as I said earlier, a male footslave, even an out-of-work one, must remain perpetually on his hands and knees, ever ready and anxious to serve.

I was right! When I get to the address to which I have been summoned it looks fairly run-down and shabby. The front door could certainly do with a lick of paint! Then again, this probably doubles up as the ‘tradesman’s entrance, so it’s good enough for the likes of me – a down-on-his-luck, down-in-the-dirt footslave seeking to ply his humble trade, if only for a day!

I humbly knock on the lower part of the rotting, wooden doorframe with my footslave forehead – since I am unable to reach up and press the doorbell. When the door opens I am greeted by the pleasing sight of a pair of cheap, shiny black, flat-heeled, square-toed, plasticky loafers, and grey and red patterned anklesocks, on a pair of equally charming, petite-looking, Indian-lady, brown feet beneath some black cotton, ankle-length leggings.

I recognise the socks – not from this particular lady’s feet, but because they are on sale in the local ‘One Fem’ shop; ten pairs for a Fem – a real bargain! So lots of local ladies are currently wearing them, with their distinctive, red zigzag patterns along the pale grey elasticated tops of the socks. They may be cheap, but they are nice-looking – especially on such a shapely pair of forty-something, Indian lady, brown-skinned anklebones!

She greets me brusquely:

‘You the sleve who ring me just now?’

‘Yes mistress-madam; if it pleases you, mistress-madam.’

I hold my breath, for I can tell that I am being assessed as to my suitability for the humble role as her one-day footkisser, and risk having the door slammed in my face. I must admit, after several months living and begging on the streets, I am quite a mangy-looking footslave, though I do my best to keep myself clean by washing in the local river. At least I don’t smell!

Still – this is a crucial moment – I risk having the door slammed in my face; it depends how desperate the Asian lady is for a temporary footkisser.

To my utter relief, the shoes and socks move backwards to invite me in to the Indian lady’s humble abode:

‘You crawl forward; keep head low; look only at Noopur socks and shoes, isn’t it?’

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress Thank you mistress Noopur. God bless you mistress Noopur!’

The signs are promising! Already the charming, casually dressed, young(ish), Indian lady has revealed her mistressly name to me! That must be a positive sign that I’m ‘in there’, and about to be employed – albeit only for one day!

I crawl behind her cheap shoes and socks into the kitchen – presumably because she doesn’t want my ragged presence sullying her nice, clean living-room. She then sits on a kitchen bar-stool, and orders me to kneel in front of her with my face over her feet which are resting on the circular, steel base of the breakfast-bar stool. I am pleased and comforted to note that her socks are now creased and folded somewhat around her pretty, Indian anklebones, thanks to the tucked-in positioning of her feet on the circular, steel footrest. I shall have no problem being a ‘footkiser’ to such a delightful pair of Indian-female shoes and socks!

‘You show me how you kiss ledy feet, sleve!’

‘Yes mistress Noopur! At once, mistress Noopur!’

I’ve always been confident in my footkissing abilities – despite my inability to find work since my previous mistress cast me out onto the streets (it wasn’t that she was displeased with my performance, or anything; it was simply that her new husband presented her with a brand new footslave as a wedding present, and she didn’t need two footslaves at her feet; so I had to go!) So, I lower my face the few inches towards her at-rest feet and start to intelligently kiss them – by which I mean I put some thought into exactly where I am kissing them, ensuring that my lips touch not only her square-shaped, shiny black plastic shoe-toes, but also her socks; particularly on the newly-formed creases – and all along the patterned, red zigzag near the elasticated tops of the grey and red anklesocks.

Ladies like that – a confident, thoughtful, shoe and sock kisser; a maleslave who doesn’t just slobber incoherently and uncontrollably all over her cheap, everyday footwear; a slave who shows some respect!

Miss Noopur laughs at me:

‘Ha! Ha! You a good footkiser, isn’t it sleve? Ha! Ha! I like feel your lips on sock! But tomorrow I not wear sock! Tomorrow I guest at cousin mehndi celebretion. It like parti for weding; I wear bare feet and sandals to mehndi; need humble footkiser for constantly kiss my feet while I at mehndi – make me look rich and powerful! You understend, sleve?’

I love her curious, Indian accent! She speaks like she spells – and, right now, this charming Indian lady, whom I suspect may be from a rural background in India, is casting a truly mesmerizing spell over me. What an honour! What a privilege! To accompany such a beautiful and appreciative, 40-something, former Indian peasant-woman as her personal foot-escort to an Indian wedding-celebration. I’m guessing that she is not married herself – a widow, perhaps? Whatever, I make it clear that it would be my deepest honour to be her bare-foot kisser on the morrow:

‘Oh pray, mistress Noopur! God bless you, mistress Noopur! Truly this dirty slave would be honoured to accompany the mistress to her cousin’s pre-wedding, mehndi celebrations tomorrow in the humble capacity as her personal footkisser, if it would be so pleasing to you most beautiful and respected Indian mistress?’

She laughs out loud at me, causing her socks to crease and fold even more below my supplicant-face:

‘Ha! Ha! I not able feed you, sleve! Or pay you! I too poor! I only have cleaning job!’

To be honest, the honour of kissing such a charming Indian woman’s exotic, bare feet will be reward enough for me! I no longer care about getting any more food for my belly (and besides, who knows, some of the Indian wedding guests, or even miss Noopur herself, might see fit to feed me titbits from their plates at tomorrow’s happy event; Indian sweetmeats and the like!):

‘No matter, mistress, if it pleases you mistress! This slave wishes for nothing more than the honour of serving at the mistress’s pretty feet, if it would be so pleasing to you most kind and generous, Indian mistress!’

‘Ha! Ha! I take you, sleve! You get out now! Come back tomorrow morning at 6 o’clock! First I whip you tomorrow – make back look red and sore so everyone believe you my sleve! Then you accompany me to mehndi; kiss my feet all day long. Now you go! You get out!’

I am a little bit disappointed – not at the fact that she feels she will have to first whip me tomorrow morning, in order to keep up the pretence to her relatives that I am her full-time, whipped and oppressed, personal footkisser-slave; that’s perfectly understandable! No, I am disappointed that she won’t let me spend the night at her place – especially as I can see out of the kitchen door that she has a set of standard, wooden slave-stocks in her back yard! Why can’t she simply lock me in the stocks overnight? At least then I wouldn’t have to find somewhere rough out on the streets in which to sleep tonight!

Reluctantly I follow miss Noopur’s shiny, black loafer-shoes, and grey and red zigzagged socks, to heel back down the hallway and out her front door where she, quite literally, kicks me back out onto the kerb:

‘You remember, sleve. 6 o’clock in morning! You be here for get whip!’

‘Yes mistress Noopur! Thank you, mistress Noopur! God bless you, mistress Noopur!’

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

The next morning when I head-knocked her front door I was greeted by the totally awesome sight of a magically transformed Indian cleaning-lady, now resplendent in a shimmering, semi-diaphanous, blue-turquoise sari; golden, high-heeled, open-toed and strappy sandals; and a matching golden ankle bracelet on her shapely, right ankle. What’s more, her toenails were painted red – to match the red spot in the middle of her forehead. An Indian goddess if ever there was one – and I am going to be kissing her feet throughout the day!

My only instantaneous twinge of regret was that she had not used me to paint her toenails and attach her Indian ankle bracelet! I would have loved to have done that for her!

I can tell by the tone of her anxious, Indian voice, however, as she presents her feet for me to kiss on her front porch, one at a time, that she is in a highly agitated and nervous state:

‘Why you late, stupid sleve? I think you not coming! Why you not come when I tell you?’

I hadn’t realised I was late! In my defence, it must only be by a few minutes, and it is difficult to gauge the time when you’re not allowed to own a watch. I have to go by the chiming of the town hall clock – and that’s never completely accurate!

I immediately apologise to the exotically dressed mistress Noopur, and beg her forgiveness:

‘Oh pray, mistress Noopur. Please forgive this dirty slave for his tardiness, sweet and kind mistress Noopur! This slave was woefully unaware that he was crawling late, mistress!’

She beckons me in with her golden-sandalled feet:

‘You get into stocks! I whip you now! Make you all pain and sore, for look like my personal, whipped footsleve, isn’t it?’

‘Yes mistress Noopur! At once mistress Noopur.’

Thanks to my ‘interview’ in the kitchen yesterday I know exactly how to get to the stocks, and without any further delay I humbly crawl after miss Noopur’s golden, high-heeled sandals, admiring the rough and chapped skin on the backs of her bare, brown heels beneath the flapping hem of her diaphanous, turquoise-coloured sari as I do so. I make a mental note to make sure I moisten and soften those dry and chapped, Indian-lady heels with copious footkisses throughout the day, since any self-disrespecting lady’s footslave would undoubtedly feel the need to beautify his Indian mistress’s bare heels in such a way! It’s all part of the pretence!

But for now I must endure another aspect of the pretence of being miss Noopur’s personal footslave – I must suffer the sting of her Indian-lady whip across my bare back, in order that I may look marked and used. No self-respecting, personal footmistress would be seen dead at a happy event like her cousin’s wedding without whip-marks adorning her footslave’s back; it’s as important to her as having painted toenails!

I watch her golden-sandalled feet from a few inches above the ground as mistress Noopur brings down the heavy, wooden crossbar of the back-yard, kneeling stocks onto my scrawny slave-neck, and locks me into the whipping position. I then shudder as I see her grasp the nearby, black leather whipping-stick; it looks exceedingly thin and painful, and should cut my back up nicely – from her point of view!

She wastes no time in moving round to stand behind me and then – with her right ankle-bracleted foot placed further forwards than her left, unbracleted foot in order to achieve equilibrium and balance – brings the cutting whip swishing down onto my prone and vulnerable, bare back and shoulders!

It’s been a while since I was whipped, and the initial shock of the sharp, burning pain fairly takes my breath away. I inadvertently cry out (inadvertently, because I don’t wish to upset miss Noopur’s, terraced-house neighbours; some of them may well be still sleeping in their beds!) I notice, throughout my whipping, how the ankle bracelet on miss Noopur’s extended, right foot shudders with every downstroke of the whip, and that helps me to brace myself mentally for each stinging stroke of the whip.

But boy does she whip me hard – and with venom! I suspect she is using me in part as a stress-reliever, and, of course, she needs to truly punish me anyway for turning up 5 minutes late at her house this morning!

I must say, for a woman who cannot afford to keep a personal footslave, miss Noopur is an expert slave-whipper. Although I can’t see it, I can feel just how effective my decorative whipping has been on my bare back! It must be truly criss-crossed with thin, red stripes!

On my eventual release from the stocks I instinctively throw myself on miss Noopur’s golden-sandalled, red-painted toenails and festoon them with humble and penitent kisses – as befits a freshly-whipped slave.

She is quite out of breath as I kiss her feet, but still holding firmly onto the thin, leather whip.

I decide to try to reingratiate myself with my one-day, Indian mistress, by kissing away some unsightly sock-marks on the tops of her bare ankles – the lingering ‘tank-track’ traces of her cheap sock-elastic from yesterday’s red and grey, zigzag-patterned anklesocks. (I wonder where those socks are now? In her laundry basket, perhaps – waiting to be mouthwashed by a dirty footslave like me? I wish!)

My efforts to remove all traces of sock from her brown-skinned anklebones, however, only draw yet further Indian ire – and whipcuts – from a now incandescent with rage Indian footmistress:

‘What you doing, sleve! You a bloody fool? You not kiss Noopur ankles! Only Noopur feet and toes! You act like dirty footwhore – not respectable Indian-ledy footsleve! I whip you raw!’

And with that she does her level best to do just that – incredibly, she finds yet more backskin to divest me of, making it quite clear to me that her sock-marks are totally out of bounds to me, as they are too high for me! I suppose, on reflection, her long, flowing sari-hem covering her ankles will hide yesterday’s sock-tracks from view – so clever mistress Noopur is quite right; I have no need to kiss them away! It was, yet again, just wishful thinking on my part…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Things got better after that, and, actually, went rather well at the mehndi. My mistress Noopur introduced me to her relatives, and the other wedding guests, as ‘Pigface – her faithful, personal footsleve, isn’t it?’ And I even got to kiss the henna-decorated feet of the bride as she complemented her cousin on my painful-looking whipmarks!

I was kind of hoping that, after it all was over, miss Noopur might have considered employing me on a more permanent basis – or at the very least during her cousin’s actual, forthcoming wedding day! Even miss Noopur’s unremarkable, cheap, shiny-black plastic loafers and common-or-garden, red and grey anklesocks would have been a joy and a pleasure for me to crawl behind whilst she was busy cleaning the Gynarchy’s female office buildings. And I wouldn’t have asked for anything more than her cold, back-yard, wooden kneeling-stocks to sleep in during the night; I could still scavenge for food in the office waste-paper bins where she works!

But, as her advert had clearly stated, I was needed for that one day only, and as soon as the mehndi was over she cast me aside like an unwanted and unloved puppy-dog. Perhaps I was simply considered unworthy to accompany her to the actual wedding ceremony of her cousin – being such a low-caste, indeed out-caste, footslave?

And so I continue to desperately roam the city streets, looking for a footmistress, Indian or otherwise, who will take me in permanently, and with nothing more than my happy memories to remind me of the day I accompanied a beautiful, Indian, cleaning-ledy mistress to her cousin’s mehndi (unless you also count my unhappy whip-scars, of course!).

The End