Devil in the Detail!
I am an ornamental footkisser in an office ladies’ restroom. My job is to silently, and respectfully kiss feet – which you might think would become boring after a while?
But, as the saying goes – the devil is in the detail! And right now you can watch me kiss some hot, female feet in devilish detail:
1. The nylon-leggy blonde
She looks super-hot – in her crisp, white blouse; her above-the-knee, navy-blue, office skirt; her finest-denier, tan nylon stockings; and her chunky-heeled, navy-blue leather, round-toed, office pumps. And she knows it!
As she stretches forth her leggy, right foot with its well-turned, nyloned ankle for me to kiss her on the rounded shoe-toe, I admire the thinly-nylon-veiled tattoo of a swallow just above her outer anklebone.
It’s a timely reminder to me that, whilst to other men – to free men – she may be just a leggy, blonde ‘bird’ in three-inch heels, to me she must be viewed as a statuesque, blonde goddess whose feet and footwear are deserving of my ornamental-footslavish respect.
And what’s not to respect about a blonde office-mistress’s shapely and tattooed, tan-nyloned anklebone when it is so arrogantly outstretched beneath one’s protruding-from-a-hole-in-the-wall face, demanding to be kissed?!
I consciously note the fine wrinkles in the nylon around the back of her ankle – caused by the unnaturally outstretched positioning of her imperiously proffered foot; creases which flex due to the slight wobbling of her foot on its stiletto-heeled axis as she awaits my lips on her dirty, germ-laden, navy-blue shoeleather.
The leather feels cold, but the nylon looks deliciously warm and hot; and so, having begun with the shoe-toe, I decide my next kiss should be to the young blonde woman’s nyloned anklebone (I don’t know her name yet; she only just started working here as an office junior some two weeks ago, and we haven’t yet been ‘properly’ introduced. Mind you, I’m much too lowly to ever merit a formal ‘introduction’ to an office footmistress; I’ll just have to hope I pick up her name as I eavesdrop on the restroom gossip of the regular, office ladies above me!)
I am what’s known as a ‘fiver’ ornamental footkisser; in other words, I am expected to kiss each proffered foot five times (indeed, the number ‘5’ is written on the wall above my head by way of an indication of this!). Furthermore, I have some discretion as to which part, or parts, of a lady’s feet and/or footwear I kiss, providing I obey the three fundamental rules of ornamental footkissing:
· Never to speak (and never to be spoken to)
· Never to kiss above the ankle – not even on the upper bootrim (so the blonde bird’s swallow-bird tattoo itself is out of bounds to my maleslave mouth!)
· Never to kiss bare, female footflesh
So, I am at ‘liberty’ to deliver my second, respectful kiss to the blonde girl’s tan-nyloned anklebone, and feel the warmth of her foot on my lips! It also gives me the pathetic opportunity to feel the ridges of her nylon-stocking wrinkles on my dry and parched, male lips.
I normally prefer to kiss female socks, as opposed to nylons; nylons are more coarse – socks are soft and bouncy on the lips! But in this case I will make an exception – as the ankles and legs are so tall and shapely.
See how I wait with my head bowed for one full second before lowering my lips to the nyloned anklebone. See how both my lips touch the tan-nylon simultaneously. See how the edge of one of the tiny, nylon creases over her outstretched ankle – the uppermost crease – squashes temporarily beneath the pressure of my upper lip. I press against it until I feel the soft resistance of the blonde girl’s ankleskin – enough to ensure she can feeI my respect via my lips; but not so hard as to imply a lingering lustfulness. I am, after all, her ornamental footkissing-slave; not her lover!
Her heel wobbles – I hope with a modicum of delight – as my lips then extract themselves from her ankle-nylon after a respectful period of time (about 1/3 of a second?); and her feminine foot waits on the slightly raised, wooden footblock beneath my balding and bobbing head for the next worshipful kiss.
Now – which shall it be? Nylon, or shoeleather? I feel obliged to place my third footkiss back on her shoeleather – lest this unknown, young woman begin to think I am taking footslave-liberties, and abusing my (limited) choice of whereabouts on her foot area to kiss! But this time, rather than the rounded shoe-toe, I go for the shapely, navy-blue-leather instep – which seems almost to subconsciously move towards my mouth in a gesture indicating I have made the right choice which is pleasing to the blonde mistress (even though I’m quite sure her stony, blonde face would never betray her deep joy at her female power over the male; it is, after all, never the done thing to show pleasure when having one’s feet kissed by a down-at-heel, ornamental footkisser; one’s face must express suitable contempt and disgust for the humble creature at one’s superior, feminine feet!)
I like the view of the gap between her nyloned instep and the inner lining of her shoe as my face descends towards her outstretched instep. Mind the shoe-gap! It looks dark, clammy and cavernous; what wouldn’t I give to insert my nose into it? For I’ll bet I would catch a whiff or two of blonde-girl, nylon footsweat – even though the day is still young (as, indeed, is she; 18 or 19, I would say!)
But sniffing does not come within my remit. I may be sniffed at, but I may not sniff. There is, to the best of my knowledge, no such thing as an ornamental footsniffer in the Gynarchy – though, if there was, I would dearly love to be one!
No, having kissed her instep I must decide, quickly, on the location of my mandatory fourth footkiss. The chunky heel of her navy-blue pump looks neglected, so I might just kiss the scuffmarked back of her heel, followed, for my fifth and final kiss to her right foot, by the nylon-protected, pinky-raw and chapped heelflesh above her shoeline. That is perfectly within my remit – being below the ankle, even though kissing a footlady’s heel is always the most difficult manoeuvre my mouth ever has to make, since I must stretch my head around the back of her foot, which is quite sore on my poor, imprisoned neck!
But I suffer willingly for my ornamental-footkissing art, and boldly go around the back of the blonde mistress’s shoe for my final two kisses to her precious, right foot.
Only then is the right foot summarily withdrawn from the block, and replaced with the left. In the interests of symmetry I seek to mirror my previous five kisses on her right foot, on her left foot i.e. on the:
· Shoe-toe;
· Nyloned anklebone;
· Instep;
· Shoe-heel
· Nyloned heelflesh;
in that same order; though the nylon is not as creased around her left anklebone, and the upper ankle is lacking a swallow tattoo. A bit of an anti-climax, perhaps?
Maybe it was for her too – for she simply turns on her kissed and worshipped, left ankle and exits the restroom, immediately after my fifth kiss. No words of thanks or congratulations to me (mind you, none of my female-restroom ‘customers’ ever thank or congratulate me, since I’m just a down-in-the-dirt, mute, ornamental footkisser who is doing his demeaning duty!)
2. Red Lines
The thin, red lines near the tops of my next sweet-female client’s short, grey sneaker-socks – belonging to Pakistani miss Iffat – are a warning to me. They are a warning not to allow my ornamental-footkisser lips to stray above those red lines, for fear of offending against her magnificent, Muslim-girl modesty (whatever the official rules might state about merely keeping below the ankle!).
Yes, her soft, brown ankleskin is exposed above the sock, and below the elasticated, tapered hem of her black cotton, ankle-length leggings; yes, she is dressed like a somewhat slovenly, western girl in her scruffy, white, keds-style sneakers; and yes, she is chewing nonchalantly on her chewing gum within her grey, dupatta-style headscarf. But no, I may not kiss her on the matching, short grey anklesock above the red line!
If I do, the thin, red line on her cotton sock will be matched by a thin, red line across my face, as she slashes me with the whipping-stick!
And so for my five kisses to the fantastic, Pakistani-Muslim girl's feet I studiously avoid touching her grey and red socks altogether, and concentrate my lips instead on her grubby-white, grubby-laced, low-top, canvas sneakers – my footslave safety zone.
I focus my lips on various different dirt marks on the outstretched canvas shoes – not in some vain attempt to remove the ingrained street-dirt like a public sneaker-licker would be lowly-trained to do, but purely as a mark of respect for her superior, exterior sneaker-dirt, and by way of a demonstration of my admiration and respect for her young-womanly holiness.
I don't just kiss the dirt marks at random, of course; I carefully select one; then briefly study it; then lower my lips to it; then make my impression on it with my mouth; then survey that which I have just kissed, and think about how this beautiful, Pakistani girl is better than me, which is precisely why I am obliged to kiss her dirty sneakers in the first place; before moving on to the next dirt-stain to catch my eye on the surface of her sneaker, be it on the white-rubbery, toe area, or the canvas instep.
All the while I am aware of her sock, and ache to kiss it, and sniff it; but I dare not touch it, for fear of breaching the thin, red line if she were to entrap me by suddenly, and unexpectedly, flexing her magnificent, Muslim-girl foot muscles. And so the feel and smell of dirty rubber and canvas must suffice as I taste her grey-white sneaker – so near, and yet so far, from gum-chewing, Pakistani-Muslim-girl, office-girl, angular sneaker sock!
3. Bare-Socked Heels
Mules! I love mules – especially flat, black leather, backless mules worn with bobbled and greying, plain black socks and black trousers by an unassuming, white-girl mistress with brunette, shoulder-length hair!
It's the greyness of her supposedly black sockheels that intrigues me so much; I feel inexplicably drawn to them – like a moth to a flame. Sock that has lost much of its black dye thanks to repeated wear and tear; and sweat.
But what intrigues me even more is the ignominious detail of a piece of foreign, white fluff stuck to the ball of her right heel. As soon as I see it, I am determined to kiss-suck it off. For the shy, mules-wearing mistress surely won't miss it; and yet I shall have the honour of a piece of her sock debris inside my unworthy, footslave stomach!
Hence my five kisses of convenience to the same, fluffy white spot on her otherwise greying-black sock-heel. And I'm pleased to report that, after the fifth kiss, the foreign fluff has gone – somewhere inside my mouth!
Sadly, I have no such tasteless treats on the back of her left sock-heel. But I still focus on kissing the ball of her black (or rather grey) socked heelbone. I'd be an ass not to, for I'm sure she's wearing backless mules for a reason – that reason being to have the pleasure of feeling my lips on the backs of her demurely sock-protected heels!
4. Pompous Mistress Paramjit
I say ‘pompous’; I mean self-assured and goddess-like!
Thirty-something office-mistress Paramjit is an Indian lady who knows her place, which is well above me! She delights in imposing her footwear on my lips – if delight can be ascertained by a smug, self-satisfied grin on her lovely, Asian features? It’s almost a grin of contempt – if there can be such a thing?
And rightly so – for I am beneath contempt!
Once again I am confronted by a pair of chunky heels (like the blonde mistress’s) – though these ones are more ‘blocky’ than ‘chunky’; and perhaps only one-inch high, rather than three; and the shoes aren’t pumps – they are lace-up; and they aren’t navy-blue – they are black.
Oh, and they aren’t worn with a skirt and nylons, but with black anklesocks and black polyester trouser hems.
Nevertheless, I love pompous (sorry, self-assured) goddess-mistress Paramjit’s clunky-heeled, lace-up, black leather shoes – especially when she confidently hitches up her trouser hem to reveal her concomitant, black cotton anklesock, set against the pleasing backdrop of her soft, brown, Indian ankleskin!
Her sock is actually quite manky on her outstretched, right foot – bobbled and thinning just above the shoeline; and her shoeleather looks well-worn and creased also (hardly surprising, since she has been wearing these same shoes for the three years I have been based in these toilets!).
I recognise that sock – it’s the same one she had on yesterday, unless, by some statistical fluke, the bobbling is in exactly the same place as the sock she had on yesterday, but on a different black sock? My guess is that pompous miss Paramjit is wearing the same pair of socks two days in a row.
And why not? Nobody else will ever notice, or give a damn; only the restroom, ornamental footkisser – and he likes smelly socks; he’s queer!
I make it a rule to always kiss shoe before I kiss sock; partly out of respect for the shoe; partly because I can then regard the shoe as a kind of ‘aperitif’; it gives me something to look forward to – the main, much more intimate course, of sweet feminine sock on my lips!
Besides, kissing miss Paramjit’s black shoeleather is always a joy, and never a chore, to worship – given the fancy, flowery stitching around the rounded toe-area, and the ingrained shoeleather creases. Plus the leather smells incredibly musty – a combination of mouldy, old shoeleather and her Indian-woman, footsweat DNA reacting with the said black leather!
Above all, I can really feel the flowery shoe-stitching on my footwear-sensitive lips!
I manage to control myself and deliver one more kiss to miss Paramjit’s outstretched shoeleather – on the instep – before finally giving in to the temptation of her manky and twisted, black cotton anklesock!
It only just covers her prominent, brown anklebone – creating a lump of stretched sock at the elasticated top. In an ideal world my third respectful footkiss towards miss Paramjit would involve my upper lip touching her bare, brown ankleskin whilst my lower lip simultaneously touched the top of her twisted and creased, stretched anklesock. But, this is not an ideal world – this is the Gynarchy of Barbaria; and, as I indicated earlier, I am absolutely forbidden to touch bare, naked footflesh, however wantonly exposed it may be by an inadequate covering of sock. So I must content myself with a respectful, third kiss to the side of the sock, the whole sock, and nothing but the sock.
Still, I’ll bet she felt that – my lips on her anklebone through her black, cotton sock! That will please her!
I can feel the soft creases in her sock beneath my lips, and when I raise my head up from the sock, a quick visual inspection confirms a total of 5 cotton-sock creases where my mangy mouth has just been.
Mmm – there is nothing to stop me kissing those same sock-creases again, if I so wish. But the thin and greying bottom of the sock – just above the shoeline, all along the Indian-girl’s shapely instep – looks equally inviting!
Unlike the junction between skin and sock, I am permitted to joint-kiss sock and shoe; so, for my fourth humble footkiss I do just that – place my upper lip on the line of greying and thinning, well-worn and bobbled sock material, whilst my lower lip tremblingly touches the top line of musty, black, Indian-girl shoeleather.
For the fifth kiss I really have a choice between the back of her clunky heel, or the scuffmarked, rounded toe-area again. I opt for the latter – purely because my poor neck-muscles are still aching from my earlier venture around the back of the blonde girl’s, navy-blue stilettos!
The scuffmarks on miss Paramjit’s shoe-toe feel nice and rough on my lips. I like a bit of rough – alongside the smooth!
Goddess-mistress Paramjit’s black polyester, bootcut trouser hem whips against my forehead as she switches feet beneath me, before she has the chance to hitch up her left trouser-leg hem out of harm’s way. She could have my eye out with that, if she’s not careful!
Once her trouser-hem settles I am confronted by an equally shapely, Indian-female left sock and shoe – though the black sock on the left foot has slid further down inside her shoe, leaving the anklebone fully exposed as her sock disappears at a cute angle down the back of her heel.
Why is that, I wonder? Is her two-day-old sock even sweatier on her left foot? Has she even noticed the disparity in her sock symmetry? Probably not – such things are only really important to an ankle-level footslave, such as me!
This time I kiss, in chronological order:
· The flowery stitching on her outstretched, left shoe-toe;
· Her manky, black shoelaces (which are seeped in street-dust – an oft-neglected area of a female’s footwear; other footwear-slaves to note!)
· Her creased sock-side (4 creases this time)
· Her chunky, black heel-leather (yes, I finally summoned up the courage to stretch my painful neck around the back of miss Paramjit’s shoe, though only because it gave my face the excuse of brushing against the surface of her sock; talk about barefaced cheek!)
· Finishing on the similarly scuffmarked shoe-toe again (as I think I indicated before, I do like symmetrical footkissing; to some extent, anyway!)
Pompous miss Paramjit turns on her freshly-kissed, left heel and walks away from me without saying a word – just like all the others. But her face is still decorated with her contemptuous smile (or so I suspect; I can’t actually see her pretty, Indian face from where I’m lying, of course!)
5. Just Boots
It’s so frustrating! For I just know there is a nice pair of spotty, blue and white anklesocks deep inside fat mistress Melanie’s black leather ankleboots (I know that because, on an earlier visit to the restroom today, when she reached down to scratch her outstretched anklebone whilst I was dutifully kissing her dirty bootleather, I caught a quick glimpse of her spotty socktop!), but her black cotton trouser-hems remain stubbornly unhitched-up this time (unhitched – rather like fat and lonely, office goddess-mistress Melanie herself, by all accounts) thereby hiding her spotty socks, as I once again lower my mouth to her outstretched boot-toe.
I am itching to mouth-worship her hidden, blue-and-white-spotted socks, for they seem such a delightfully incongruous pair of socks to wear with suitably sombre, black ankleboots to work! They indicate miss Melanie’s inner rebelliousness; and her non-conformity with corporate uniformity. Above all, they would present me with several different options for humble sock-kissing – five kisses to a single blue spot on her right sock, followed by five kisses to a white spot on her left sock, for example?
But the fat, young, auburn-haired lady is not for having her spotty socks kissed, it seems – only her germy boots! Mind you, those germy boots are very nice in and of themselves; plain, black, flat, zipless, leather ankleboots, but with a decorative, golden buckle on the outer side of each boot – about half way up!
Needless to say my frustrated mouth is drawn towards shiny buckle – as, I suspect, it is meant to be – and I deliver five, crisp kisses to the golden buckles on each boot. I don’t buckle under the pressure of female-cruel, spotty-sock denial; just the very thought of her blue and white, spotty socks underneath the boot-buckles is enough to inspire me to worship her fat, booted ankles with all due respect, and to remember that she is better than me.
Indeed, mistress Melanie’s decision not to expose her socks to my lips reminds me of my ultimate helplessness and powerless, despite all my apparent freedom at my office goddess-mistresses’ feet! Ultimately, I can only kiss what they deign to present to me. For they are my infinite betters, and the best I can hope for is that my humble kisses to their office-restroom footwear will make them feel sexually aroused and lubricious, ready to make love after work to their manly husbands, boyfriends or, in the case of miss Melanie, paid-for male escort.
That is the only service I provide. For, compared to their freemale, sexual partners I am nothing but a microscopically small and insignificant, female-footkissing, male insect, slobbering over superior, feminine boots and shoes with the understated aim of making the female wearers of those boots and shoes feel strong and proud; and superior; and horny.
Which they invariably are by the time I have finished kissing their feet – feeling horny and devilish!
A bit like me!
