Footslave Accounts Volume 4

Suitably obsequious accounts of humble foot-servitude, from those who claim to have experienced it!

VOLUME 4 CONTENTS (scroll down for accounts in reverse numerical order)

10. My Mistress’s Whip

9. The Chinese, Frilly-Sock-Tickle Torturess

8. The Apple of my Downcast Eye

7. Cross at the Crossing

6. A bitter pill to not swallow

5. Kind & Fragrant

4. Energy Boost!

3. The Amateur Indian Tormentress

2. A Good Ticking Off!

1. Dusty, Black Train-Socks

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Account no. 10 – My Mistress’s Whip

My mistress’s whip loves to bite,

My mistress’s whip loves to sting.

My mistress’s whip descends apace,

Wrapping me up in its warm embrace.

Burning me; marking me; thrashing me.

Cutting me; hurting me; lashing me.

My mistress’s whip makes me cry,

My mistress’s whip makes me scream;

My mistress’s whip makes me beg,

My mistress’s whip reigns supreme.

Truly I fear my mistress’s whip,

From the nape of my neck to the hind of my hip!

 

Account no. 9 – The Chinese, Frilly-Sock-Tickle Torturess

She is, not to put too fine a point on it, bonkers mad!

She rudely awakened me from my public-footslave slumbers at 5.00 A.M. Technically speaking, of course, a public footlick is never off duty – and so the petite, twenty-something, short-cropped-haired, oriental mistress, dressed in grey, cotton, ankle-length leggings and a pink and grey hoodie-top, was hardly being ‘rude’, as such! But even a down-at-heel, public footslave – living life out on the dirty streets of the Gynarchy – needs to get his head down on his wooden-footblock pillow at some point or other!

I could tell instantly that she was Chinese – not just from her accent, but from the sheer daintiness of her feet clad in soft, pink, Chinese-style slippers, even though her right slippered-foot packed quite a punch when it so ‘rudely’ kicked my slumbering head off my rough, wooden pillow:

‘You wake up, dirty srave! Su-Yin want torture srave with socks!’

To be fair, the sharp kick to my face did bring me to my senses rather quickly, and so within seconds I was humbly apologising to the twenty-something, dirty-stop-out (or possibly early-bird) Chinese footcustomer-mistress for sleeping on the job:

‘Oh pray, mistress…pray forgive this lazy, indolent slave, mistress-madam. Pray allow me to lickshine your slippers, madam!’

The low-top, pastel-pink-coloured traditional Chinese-girl slippers looked like they could do with a quick lick and a shine, being somewhat scuffmarked and flaky on the rounded toe-areas; plus there were quite distinct areas of inground street-dirt on the insteps and uppers.

But my attempts at conciliation with the angry, early-bird, and otherwise fully westernised, Chinese-girl mistress (what was it she said her name was; mistress Siu-Ying?) appear to fall on deaf ears. Indeed, my pathetic attempt at offering to make amends for my lack of early-morning alertness only earns me another flaky, Chinese-girl slipper-toe in the middle of my, bowed-and-weighed-down-by-heavy-chains, face!

I can feel her scrunched-up toes through the slipper material:

‘YOU DEAF, SRAVE? YOU A NUMBSKULL? YOU NOT HEAR WHAT SU-YIN SAY? I WANT TORTURE YOU WITH SOCK, NOT SNEAKER – DUNDERHEAD!’

Really, young mistress – there’s no need to SHOUT! Not at this God-forsaken hour of the morning, please!

Alright, so it’s your socks you want me to pay my footslavish attentions to? Fair enough – I mean socks come within my remit; everything and anything to do with your feet, madam!

And very nice socks they are too, young madam – if I may humbly say so? Basically pure, white anklesocks – with a pink, lacy frill near the top, framing your pretty anklebones; pink and white socks to elegantly complement your pink slippers, again if I may make so bold, most beautiful and exotic, pink-and-grey-hoodie-topped, Chinese footmistress!

So – exactly what do you mean by ‘torture’ me with your socks, miss Su-Yin? I mean, are they particularly smelly inside your soft, Chinese slippers? Do you wish me to remove your slippers from your dainty, oriental feet, and torture myself by inhaling the stinky aroma of your early-morning, pink and white, lacy-topped socks? Just exactly what is it you want from me, strange and odd Chinese mistress?

And what are you doing out on the streets this early in the morning anyway, miss? Haven’t you got a home to go to? You seem like a nice, clean girl (apart from your scruffy, pink-leather slippers!) and not a streetwalker or panhandler; more like an overseas student I would say?

So why are you here, exactly – at 5 o’clock in the morning, when most ‘good’ Chinese girls are still safely tucked up in bed with a real man lying beside them? Why are you bothering a failure man at this time of the morning?

Are these your Chinese house-slippers, which you have inadvertently put on in haste this morning; or your street-slippers, which you have been out partying in all night?

These are the arrogant and inappropriate thoughts running through my head – but the only thoughts emanating from my mouth are, of course, entirely humble thoughts; designed to placate and pander to the strange, Chinese mistress and her young-womanly whims, since I am in no position to query her female lifestyle, or ask such impertinent questions out loud:

‘Oh pray, mistress…please forgive this stupid, numbskull-slave, mistress Su-Yin (glad I got her name right before uttering it!). Of course, mistress – your socks! Pray impose them on my face in whatever way you see fit, mistress-madam!’

It seems to have worked – she finally calms down, now that she has my full and undivided attention towards her pretty, frilly, Chinese socks!

‘Ha! Ha! That right srave – you beg for Su-Yin socks! I wear socks just so humiriate you! Ha! Ha! I torture you by tickerl srave ugry face with socks! Ha! Ha! I rub srave ugry face with frirry top of socks – make srave nose want to sneeze! Ha! Ha! Then – when you sneeze, I punish you for sneeze all over Su-Yin nice, crean socks! Ha! Ha! I call Female Porice! Have you whip! Ha! Ha! They take you to Female Porice Station and whip you for make superior, Chinese-girl nice, crean socks dirty with srave snot! Ha! Ha! And they invite me watch you get whip at Porice Station! Ha! Ha! All the time I raugh at you under whip! You cry; you beg; you suffer – all because of Su-Yin racy, pink and white sock in stupid, ugry, srave face! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!...’

Ahh – so that’s her game! I think she means ‘lacy, pink and white sock’ (though the socks do, admittedly, look quite racy on such a sweet, lotus flower of a Chinese, overseas student-girl!) – but, be that as it may, all is now becoming humiliatingly clear! This eccentric, young, oriental woman in the grey cotton leggings and pink and grey hoodie-top has no interest whatsoever in having her flaky, pink, oriental slippers – or even her frilly, pink and white anklesocks – cleaned in public! Rather she intends to ‘tickle-torture’ me with the lacy tops of her far-eastern, imported anklesocks until I inadvertently sneeze all over them – just so that she can then report me to the Female Police and have the pleasure of watching me being professionally whipped by a police-whipmistress (for sneezing over a customer-mistress’s footwear is, needless to say, regarded as a mega-serious offence here in the Gynarchy!)

Cruel and unusual miss Su-Yin is still laughing at me, and at my helplessness in the face of her socks:

‘…Ha! Ha! You ready, srave? You ready for Su-Yin sock-torture?’

‘Oh pray, mistress Su-Yin…Oh pray!...Have mercy on me, mistress Su-Yin!... Please don’t torture me with your frilly socks; and please don’t have me whipped, madam…I’m a good slave, mistress Su-Yin!’

Her frilly pink and white sock on her right, flaky-slippered foot nonetheless moves slowly, and confidently, towards my kneeling nose:

‘Ha! Ha! I not care if you a good or bad srave! Ha! Ha! You just a dirty, pubric footsrave – so you get whip! Ha! Ha! I make you get whip, by make you sneeze! Ha! Ha! You do best not to sneeze – but I win; I better than you! I make you sneeze by power of Su-Yin sock! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!...’

She then, skilfully, runs the soft, lacy-pink frill of her otherwise pure, white anklesock along the bridge of my nose. It feels nice and soft – and, this close up, smells nice and fresh too, despite the concomitant smell of musty, pink, well-worn, slipper leather. I focus in on the individual white stitches of the Chinese-girl’s ticklish sock, in a vain attempt to resist the urge to sneeze – but as soon as the frilly, pink ankle-part of the sweet, feminine anklesock touches me on the sensitive nape of my nose underneath my nostrils, I start to feel the inevitable urge to eject the inner contents of my nasal passage!

I still fight it, of course – because not only do I not wish to be whipped; I equally have no desire to sully a young, Chinese woman’s pure, white anklesock with my dirty footslave-snot – even if it is the oriental owner and wearer of the sock who is so cruelly inducing me to sneeze all over it!

She laughs at my feeble efforts to hold back the natural urge to sneeze, and reinvigorates her sock tickling:

‘Ha! Ha! Any second now, srave! Ha! Ha! Soon you sneeze – and I call Porice! Ha! Ha! You rike how I torture you srowry with Chinese-girl sock? Ha! Ha!...’

‘Oh p…pray…mistress….I…ah…ah…AHCHOO! …’

There – the dirty deed is done! My maleslave snot is now glistening on the side of the Chinese girl’s right sock beneath the solitary streetlamp which illuminates my backstreet, public shoelick stand. She pulls the sock back from my face – as if feigning demure, young-womanly disgust!

But she is simultaneously laughing at me:

‘Ha! Ha! I win; you ruse, srave! Ha! Ha! Su-Yin sock win over srave; sock better than srave! Ha! Ha! Now you suffer!...’

And with those fateful words she pulls out her smartphone and makes an emergency 911 call to the Gynarchy’s Female Police…

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

The case never even got to Female Court; there was no need for the Female Police to put me before a good lady Magistrate – the shameful evidence for my crime was there for all to see, on poor, innocent victim Su-Yin’s unfortunate, frilly, pink and white, Chinese, student-girl sock!

She was right – she was indeed invited to watch me being summarily punished with the whip in the dark and sinister, Female Police Station punishment room; indeed, I was whipped at her victorious feet as she sat on a comfortable witness-chair above me – her Chinese, slippered and socked feet resting on a metal footplate directly in front of my pained face. And they made me clean up the mess on her sock by licking it off!

I suffered in abject silence, of course! I mean, what would be the point in trying to argue that my sock-sneeze was deliberately provoked?

Who in their right mind would believe a story like that?!

 

 Account no. 8 – The Apple of my Downcast Eye

I am kneeling in the recovery stocks in the dank and dingy, cold concrete-floored basement of my 24 year old, Indian mistress’s three-bedroomed house – the one she shares with her African-Caribbean, live-in boyfriend, master Samuel sir – still smarting from the severe whipping he has delivered to my bare back earlier this afternoon.

The master-sir must have gone out down the pub to celebrate his victory over me, for my petite mistress Sumitra is now alone when she climbs backwards down the ladder leading into the basement dungeon – quite a tricky manoeuvre since she is carrying a big, red, juicy apple in her delicate, Indian-girl hand.

Having successfully negotiated the rickety, basement ladder, she walks over towards me through the gloom of the windowless basement until her dainty, Indian feet – clad in her pretty, silver-buckle-decorated, black patent leather, round-toed and low-heeled loafers, and plain, black anklesocks, beneath her matching, plain black, salwar-kameez style trouser-hems – come to rest on the dusty concrete floor directly beneath my kneeling and contrite face.

The single, bare light-bulb above my droopy, hangdog head illuminates her shoes and socks below me. Meanwhile, she bites into her juicy apple above me, and laughs at me with her mouth full:

‘Ha! Ha! How you are being liking it, dirty slave? Are you being liking the intense smarting in your back, caused by my boyfriend? Ha! Ha!’

She has clearly come to gloat, and to admire her manly, live-in boyfriend’s handiwork with the whip on my back – as well she might, for it was truly an expertly delivered whipping!

I humbly confirm to my mocking-bird mistress that I am in a goodly amount of pain as I kneel at her now dusty-loafered feet:

‘Oh pray, mistress Sumitra, if it pleases you goddess-mistress Sumitra, truly this slave is indeed in a great deal of pain, mistress, thanks to the magnificent power and strength of the master-sir and his whip, if it is so pleasing to you goddess-mistress Sumitra?’

Of course it will be pleasing to her! She loves the fact that her big, strong, black boyfriend has whipped me to a pulp!

She takes another juicy bite out of her apple, and rudely continues to mock me in her cute, Indian accent and with her mouth full:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes – your master Samuel is being a truly magnificent man, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! He is beating you most thoroughly! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’

Her right, black anklesock creases below the hem of her tapered, black trouser-leg as she becomes all excited at the thought of her man dominating and destroying another man – albeit just a lowly and powerless, male slave like me!

I pander to her infatuated-female cruelty:

‘Yes indeed, mistress Sumitra – truly this slave has been well-whipped and defeated by the magnificent master-sir, your glorious boyfriend, madam!’

Both she – and her sock– crease up with even more cruel laughter at my utter powerlessness, weakness, and self-abasement. She then raises that right, creased-sock foot up to my dry and parched, self-deprecating lips until the shiny, silver-coloured, heart-shaped buckle covering the dusty, rounded toe-area of her shiny, black loafer-shoe is just brushing against them:

‘Ha! Ha! Be kissing my shoe, dirty whipped slave, and be extolling the virtues of your kind master-sir while you are kissing it, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, mistress Sumitra. At once, mistress Sumitra!’

I should explain that master Samuel sir is only my ‘master’ – with delegated powers to whip and discipline me – insofar as he is my Indian mistress’s latest, live-in beau. To be fair, she really does seem to be deeply in love with him – and he does appear to be sticking around, even if he insists on going down to the pub regularly with his mates!

But why wouldn’t he stick around? After all, my petite and shapely 24 year old mistress Sumitra is not only an extremely wealthy young woman, from an upper-caste Indian family; she is also a joy to behold; an ‘Asian babe’. Any free man worth his salt would be proud to be her consort, and to be seen with her. Even I am proud to be her personal footslave – and to be associated with her shoes and socks as I crawl behind her to heel in public!

And because she is in love with the African-Caribbean master-sir, I must seek to ingratiate myself with him, and praise and flatter him in my mistress’s presence, or ‘extol his virtues’ as my besotted mistress Sumitra herself put it, since he is the chosen freemale of my beloved footmistress.

She thinks he’s the bee’s knees – and consequently, so must I!

I obediently begin to kiss her on the cold, silvery-metal, heart-shaped buckle of her female shoe, noticing all the while how her right, plain black anklesock is still twisted and creased inside the shoe – twisted with pleasure and excitement at my suffering and humiliation as I simultaneously eulogise and bless the absent, whipping master-sir:

‘Oh pray mistress Sumitra…kiss…kiss...if it pleases you, mistress Sumitra…kiss…kiss…truly this dirty, whipped slave is indebted to the master-sir…kiss…kiss…for so kindly whipping me at your beautiful feet, mistress…kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…if it is so pleasing to you, goddess-mistress Sumitra madam?...kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…Truly the master-sir is a magnificent whipper, mistress…kiss… kiss…as you can kindly see by the pain etched onto my back, mistress …kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…’

The sound of my respectful kisses to her buckled shoe-toe mingles with the uncaring sound of her continuing munches on her big, juicy, red apple as I gush forth my humiliating soliloquy praising and blessing the master-sir and extolling his male prowess with the female whip.

Some of my mistress Sumitra’s excess apple juice drips from her pretty, Indian lips down onto the top of my balding head as she nonchalantly switches buckled shoe-toes beneath me, and deftly holds up her left, shiny black shoe to my face. To my consternation I note that her left sock too is creased up with laughter at me:

‘And my other shoe, slave! Be kissing it also!’

I lower my quivering lips to the cold metal of her left loafer-buckle – lovingly heart-shaped for the absent master-sir, but cold and heartless towards me. For after just a few kisses it kicks me in the face:

‘Continue to be extolling your master, dirty slave! Be continually praising and blessing him!’

I am jolted out of my wallowing self-pity and brought painfully to my senses:

‘Oh pray, mistress …kiss…kiss… pray forgive me, mistress …kiss…kiss… Truly this slave is constantly admiring of the master-sir…kiss…kiss…and his ability to pleasure the mistress … kiss …kiss …kiss… kiss…in ways that this impotent and sterile slave could never aspire to…kiss…kiss...if you will be so kind and forgiving to a weak and limp slave, mistress Sumitra?…kiss…kiss….kiss…kiss…’

My Indian mistress suddenly withdraws her shiny, left shoe from my lips and lowers it to the dusty, concrete floor as she is seemingly getting tired of balancing on one leg all the time. She continues to mock and tease me, however, all whilst slapping and munching noisily on her succulent, red apple:

‘Ha! Ha! Why are you being impotent, whipped slave? Are you not finding your mistress to be being sexy and exciting? Am I not being beautiful enough to be turning you on? Ha! Ha!’

This is dangerous territory, obviously! I have just admitted to my mistress that I am sexually impotent in her presence – a de facto eunuch, incapable of pleasing her in the way that the strong and mighty, but absent, master Samuel is! That could be seen as insulting towards the mistress – so I must clarify immediately that it’s not that I find my delightfully petite, long-dark-haired, swarthy-complexioned, Indian mistress unattractive in any way; how could I?!

No – it’s just that, being a mere footslave, I am incapable of attending to her upper bodily parts; I am good only for her feet and footwear, as, indeed, the Female Law dictates! She knows all this full well, of course; my mistress Sumitra just likes making me squirm whilst I am confined in wood and kneeling helpless at her dainty, shoed and socked feet – as is her perfect, female right!

I nevertheless immediately clarify matters for the mocking, apple-munching mistress:

‘Oh pray, mistress Sumitra! Oh pray! Truly this slave is enamoured by, and desirous of, his personal footmistress – the most beautiful and sexually attractive mistress in the world, if you would be so kind and understanding mistress Sumitra! But this slave is fit only to service the mistress’s feet and footwear, mistress, on account of his being an unclean and lowly footservant, mistress. This dirty slave could never aspire to pleasure the mistress’s private parts, if you would be so kind and understanding to a humble slave mistress, not even with his tongue, mistress – for it is soiled with the dust and dirt from the mistress’s shoes, madam, and in any case is not worthy to go where the superior master-sir’s strong and mighty penis has been, if you would be so kind and forgiving towards this dirty slave’s candour and humility, most beautiful and all-powerful goddess-mistress Sumitra?’

Fortunately, the demure, Indian mistress is not offended by my explicit references to her (or, indeed, her beloved boyfriend’s) private parts – presumably since I spoke about them in such respectful tones. Instead she just bursts out laughing as she finishes her apple and carelessly throws the core down on the dungeon floor beneath me – close enough for me to be able to see it out of the corner of my downcast eye; and to be able to smell its inviting, residual juiciness; but far enough away from me that I cannot attain it.

And that’s the core of my problem – I am incapable of partaking of forbidden, female fruit, Even when it is laid down before me on a concrete plate!

There is a pregnant pause as my mistress Sumitra wipes her lips and lets out a discreet, little lady belch as her pretty stomach, with its tell-tale bump, digests the contents of her apple:

‘Ha! Ha! That is being correct, dirty slave! You are not even being worthy to be kissing me on the bare foot, isn’t it? Only through my sock may you be tasting my bare skin! Ha! Ha! Unlike your master-sir – to him I am giving up my entire, lovely body, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, mistress madam. Indeed, mistress Sumitra; and rightly so, mistress, if this slave may say so – for only the master-sir is worthy of your superior body, goddess-mistress Sumitra, and of touching your beautiful, bare skin, if you would be so kind and forgiving to a lowly, impotent slave, mistress-madam.’

She chuckles and nonchalantly picks her teeth, whilst simultaneously holding her right foot up to my face for one last time:

‘Ha! Ha! Be kissing my sock goodbye, slave – for I am leaving you now to wallow in your pain and frustration, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! Your suffering is being turning me on, so I am going upstairs now to be making myself ready to be making love with your master when he is returning home from the pub, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’

I bow my head and kiss the exposed area of her sock above the loafered shoe-line and beneath her tapered trouser-hem. Like the mistress said, this is the closest I can ever get to her luscious and soft, bare feminine flesh – albeit even then only her sweaty and sticky, bare brown footflesh. For master Samuel sir may be the apple of her eye; and she mine; but she herself views me as being rotten to the core!

‘Oh pray mistress…kiss…kiss… God bless you mistress Sumitra …kiss…kiss...and God bless the master-sir, mistress…kiss…kiss…Have a nice fuck, mistress!...kiss…kiss…’

That, incidentally, is the only time a slave is permitted to use the ‘f’ word in front of a mistress – when wishing her pleasant intercourse with her manly boyfriend or husband.

At least I can take some footslavish satisfaction, not just in the touch and feel of her black sock on my lips, but in the knowledge that my continued, lonely suffering down here in the basement-dungeon will be enhancing the superior couple’s lovemaking in their opulent bedroom above me.

 

 Account no. 7 – Cross at the Crossing

I have inadvertently made my 22 year-old, prim and proper, Righteous mistress – miss Chastity – cross, by disloyally taking my eyes off the backs of her pure white, low-cut, lace-up, leather sneakers and matching, white anklesocks beneath the hem of her heavy, navy-blue, anklelength dress as she stood at the pedestrian crossing waiting to cross the road.

I was, of course, on my hands and knees following her to white-sneakered-and-socked heel as befits a young Righteous woman’s personal footslave in public, but I must admit that I did allow my downcast eyes to – albeit only temporarily – stray onto the neighbouring, shiny black, high-heeled pumps and white anklesocks of a young, black woman standing next to my own mistress at the edge of the crossing. It’s not that my own ginger-haired, white-bonneted, Righteous mistress’s crisp, white anklesocks – neatly folded over at the cuffs – are not good enough for me, or anything! Quite the opposite – they sit very nicely on the backs of my slender mistress’s white-skinned heels, and are even intriguingly creased in one or two places.

It’s just that the black girl’s white anklesocks presented even more of a delicious contrast against the backdrop of her rich, brown ankleskin – plus they had a frilly, white trim at the top! Moreover, I strongly suspected that the black girl was a street-prostitute, judging by her ultra-short, black leather miniskirt on her otherwise bare, black legs, and the sinful tattoo of a snake, slyly tempting the goddess Eve to eat of the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, emerging from out of the top of her frilly, left sock – the one closest to my face at the ill-fated crossing.

Yes – I surmised that the beautiful, young black woman was indeed a professional streetwalker, all of which made her even more admirable in my downcast footslave-eyes, of course, since it meant she gives her body to free men out of the goodness and kindness of her female heart, whereas my own somewhat prudish, Righteous mistress prefers to selfishly keep her body under wraps for her husband-to-be, master Josiah sir!

But, unbeknown to me, my furtive, admiring glances towards her black neighbour’s tarty, black high-heels and frilly white anklesocks was making my red-headed mistress Chastity see red beneath her pure, white bonnet and behind her metal-rimmed glasses – and I’m not talking about the stationary, red-lady figure indicating it is not yet safe to cross over at the pedestrian crossing (of course it’s a female red figure – this is a Gynarchy we’re living in, after all!); I’m talking about the red mists of young-womanly jealousy and wrath – wrath which she is quick to take out on me as soon as we get back to her hovel, which she shares with her parents and sister, on the outskirts of town (the Righteous choose to live in hovels – with no running water or electricity – as they eschew all the modern amenities and conveniences of Gynarchy-city life).

As soon as we get up to her sparsely-furnished bedroom she challenges me as to my sinful behaviour whilst I kneel penitently before her, at her still demurely sneakered and socked feet:

‘Explain thyself, libidinous slave! Explain thy furtive and sinful behaviour behind thy mistress’s feet at the pedestrian crossing? Hast thou no shame? Dost thou crave the sting of my Righteous punishment cane on the backs of thy disobedient and shamelessly naked legs?’

I quiver and grovel with fear into my mistress Chastity’s grubby-white sneaker laces, for she is truly an awesome sight to behold when she is thus angry – her white bonnet cast aside on her nearby bed, and her long, red locks swaying around her righteously vexed, bespectacled features.

I beg her for mercy:

‘O pray, mistress Chastity; if it pleaseth thee, Righteous mistress Chastity! Pray have mercy on a weak and sinful slave, o sweet mistress Chastity!’

But, of course, my pathetic pleadings fall on deaf ears – for she is chaste; not merciful!

‘Humph! Fetch thee the cane, slave!’ she declares. ‘Perhaps a goodly number of stripes on the backs of thy ungodly thighs shall teach thee true humility and repentance at the feet of thy Righteous mistress?’

‘O pray, mistress! O pray!’

I know exactly where to find the cane – it’s not difficult; she only has one chest of drawers in her spartan bedroom, and the cane resides in the bottom drawer, along with her socks and tights.

Obediently, and contritely, I go fetch it for her, and present it up to her with open palms, like the penitent sinner I am.

‘Now get thee over the chair, slave – and present thee the backs of thy sinner-legs to my cane!’

She means I must bend over the solitary, stiff-backed, wooden chair in the middle of her bedroom, and pull up my slave-shorts as far as they will go in order to fully expose the fleshier parts of my thighs to her stinging and whippy, brown rattan cane. Being a Righteous girl she would not countenance stripping a slave of his shorts altogether in her demure, young-womanly presence – modesty forbids her from caning me on my bare buttocks! But the backs of my thighs will nevertheless make an ample target for her female wrath and displeasure, and I know from past bitter experience that a ‘goodly number’ of stripes will leave me blubbering in truly penitent pain at her slighted, sneakered and socked feet!

White sneakered and socked feet which I now have an unbearably close-up view of as she positions herself behind me, rolls up the sleeve of her long, blue tunic, and prepares to bring down the cane with all the self-Righteous, young-womanly venom she can possibly muster!

Swish…Crack!

The first stroke fairly takes my breath away, making me gasp rather than scream; but the second – an overlay – breaks my unnatural silence:

Swish…Crack!

‘AAOOW!...O pray, mistress Chastity!...O the pain!…O pray! O pray!...’

‘Be thou silent, slave, and suffer the Righteous wrath of thy mistress with humility and resignation!...’

Swish…Crack!

‘AAOOWWW!’

My mistress Chastity may be fair of skin, and benignly bespectacled, but she is strong of arm-muscle, and can fairly pack a punch with her thin, whippy cane!

With each subsequent, stinging cane-stroke she mercilessly chides me:

Swish…Crack!

‘Vile sinner!…’

Swish…Crack!

‘Spawn of Satan!...’

Swish…Crack!

‘Beast of Beelzebub!...

And likewise with each bitter stroke I duly scream back my truly penitent male-pain!

Her bearded father, alerted by all my unmanly commotion, comes upstairs to see what all the noise is:

‘What occureth, Chastity darling? Why art thou punishing thy slave so harshly?’ he politely enquires of his 22 year old daughter.

‘Why father, this wretched slave hath insulted my honour by lusting after the shoes and socks of another woman – a brazen hussy who didst stand beside me on the street whilst I was waiting to cross!’ replies his red-haired, bespectacled daughter – somewhat breathlessly from her recent physical exertions.

‘In that case, thou mayest continue to beat the slave with my blessing, Chastity my darling. Lay it on hard towards him, my dear, and see that he suffereth mightily – for mighty is his sin towards thee, my chaste and pure daughter!’

Technically speaking – under the ordinances of the Righteous – miss Chastity, being an unmarried, young woman, still needs the authority of her father to physically punish a male slave; even her own personal footslave. Even when she is married she, technically, will need the prior approval of her husband to wield the cane across a slave’s legs or buttocks.

But it’s only a technicality.

‘Yes, father. I thank thee, father.’

‘Dost thou wish me to fetch the chain-whip, my darling, that thou mayest royally scourge his back also?’

I flinch at the very thought of the chain whip – a heavy, unforgiving, unyielding whip made of jagged chains which fairly takes not just a slave’s breath away, but equally his skin, when applied judiciously to his bare back (though it is also unlawfully applied being an illegal whip in the Gynarchy – again, just a technicality, for the highly-respected community of the Righteous are, pretty much, a law unto themselves!)

My mistress Chastity ponders her father’s kind offer for a few moments, before taking pity on my undeserving, weak and feeble, maleslave body:

‘Erm…no father. I thank thee for thy kind offer of the use of the scourge, but I feel my cane shall impose penitence enough on this wretched sinner for tonight!’

‘As thou wishest, my dear! Pray then, proceed unhindered in thy righteous deed!’

And with that her father returns downstairs to continue reading his holy book – the ‘Book of the Righteous’ (there is no television in this household, of course) – whilst my mistress Chastity resumes her Righteous punishment of my bare legs with her judicious cane!

Afterwards, I kneel sobbing for several hours into her de-sneakered, white-socked feet whilst she lays back and pleasures herself on her wooden bedstead, hoping the creaks aren’t audible to the rest of her Righteous family downstairs.

 

 Account no. 6 – A bitter pill to not swallow

She circles around me like a cruel bird of prey – her recently used, black leather whip trailing in the dust behind her like a female-devilish tail.

As she circles me, all I can see from my enforced kneeling position in the wooden kneeling-stocks are the dusty hems of her bootcut, navy-blue, trouser hems; her equally dusty, round-toed and chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots; and the occasional glimpse of red and white striped bootsock – a cruel reminder to me, if one were needed, of the stinging, red whip-stripes across my pasty white back.

My uniformed, professional, police-officer tormentress happens to be black – African-Ghanaian, in fact; and incredibly beautiful with it, especially when she is angry! And so the crowd of mainly female onlookers had warmed to her as she delivered my public whipping. Now they are encouraging her as she surveys her cruel, but perfectly lawful, handiwork, on my bare, kneeling back, urging her on to even more feminine cruelties:

‘Ha! Ha! Whip him some more, Sesime! …Give him another taste of your whip! Ha! Ha!’ shouts a fellow, female-African voice.

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, officer Sesime …be making the bastard suffer some more, isn’t it?’ shouts a Pakistani sister in communal female-dominance.

The crowd roar their approval of both uncharitable exhortations.

But officer-mistress Sesime seemingly has other cruelties in mind. As she continues to circle around me – her African-girl boots and socks kicking up a tiny dust-storm that stings my near-ground-level eyes – she suddenly stops in order to hunker down and show me a little, white capsule between her pretty, brown fingers.

She speaks directly to me, but loud enough for her admiring audience to hear:

‘Hja! Hja! How are you liking it, prisoner-slave? How are you liking Sesime’s pain on hour back and shoulders?’

The crowd laugh approvingly as I admire the exposed, elasticated tops of her, non-uniform-regulation, red and white stripy bootsocks inside her dusty, black leather ankleboot-rims. The sight of her unauthorised socks brings me no great comfort at the present time – the stinging whip-pain is just too fresh on my back for female sock-admiration to be able to alleviate it! But basic, prisoner-footslave instinct nevertheless compels me to store the sight of the African officer-girl’s, rebellious, stripy red and white socks for my mental enjoyment later, after the pain has subsided.

Much later, I suspect!

I respectfully answer the African whipmistress’s question, of course – directly addressing her in the boots, but ultimately for the benefit of the whole baying, female crowd:

‘Oh pray, officer-mistress Sesime… if it pleases you officer-mistress Sesime… this slave is liking the pain that the officer-mistress has so expertly inflicted on him with her whip, mistress… but not that much… if you would be so kind and understanding… to a helpless, male prisoner-slave at your mercy… most beautiful and strong goddess officer-mistress Sesime?’ (The pauses are for pain effect.)

The civilian, female crowd roar with laughter at my obsequious and pained response!

Meanwhile, a cruelly smiling officer-mistress Sesime refers to the aforementioned little, white pill still rolling between her pretty, black fingertips beneath my contrite and wretched face:

‘Hja! Hja! Just think, prisoner-slave – with this pill I could ease your pain in an instant; take all that nasty pain away from your back as you kneel here in the stocks under the hot, burning sun, isn’t it? Hja! Hja!’

‘No!...No!...’ exclaim several, concerned female voices in the crowd, wondering what on earth officer-whipmistress Sesime is playing at! Offering to ease the pain of a freshly-whipped slave, indeed? That just wouldn’t do!

But miss Sesime is cleverer than that; she drops the pill onto the dusty ground beneath my face; straightens herself up; and then grinds the pill into white powder beneath my sorrowful face with the sole of her brown-dusty, black leather boot-toe.

She then mocks me from on high:

‘Hja! Hja!...But I’m not going to ease your pain, prisoner-slave! Lack of pain is too good for you! Hja! Hja! Hja! Hja!’

Now the reassured crowd actually applaud her; they see her game – offering the whipped prisoner-slave the prospect of instant pain-relief, only to then equally instantly take it away from him by literally crushing his only hope of respite into the ground beneath his kneeling and gormless, maleslave prisoner-face!

Yes – they like that!

‘Ha! Ha! Way to go – officer Sesime!... You go, girl!... Ha! Ha!... You rock!...’ exclaim several excited female voices from the crowd.

Miss Sesame, also continuing to laugh out loud at me, now holds that same, cruel, dusty right boot up to my face:

‘Hja! Hja! Lick my boot, prisoner-slave! Praise and worship me for whipping you, and for denying you any pain relief! Hja! Hja!...’

Tearfully, I do so – my tears engendered as much by the sudden loss of the sight of her red and white stripy bootsock-top, as by the pain and humiliation of my current predicament! It may be a bitter pill to not swallow, but I nevertheless sobbingly praise and bless my African tormentress for her overt and very public cruelty towards me:

‘Oh pray, officer-mistress Sesime…sob...sob…lick…lick…God bless you, officer-mistress Sesime …sob …sob …lick…lick…God bless you for whipping me…sob…sob…lick… and for denying me any respite from the truly terrible pain in my back, mistress…sob…sob...lick…lick…’

But – wait a minute; what’s that powdery, chalk-flavoured residue I can taste on the sole of her black leather ankleboot, amidst the more familiar, bitter taste of Gynarchy street-dust? I suddenly realise it’s the remains of the white painkiller-tablet, stuck to the sole of the African police-girl’s boot!

Yes – it must be! For already I can feel the burning, throbbing pain in my back starting to ease!

I furtively glance up at the black, police-officer mistress above me, only to see her eyes and lips urging me to keep quiet!

My God – she knows about the painkiller residue on the sole of her boot! It’s a deliberate act of kindness and compassion on her part, unbeknown to the watching, cruel crowd!

I’m the one laughing now – albeit quietly and internally. I’m so happy I could cry!

God bless you, not so cruel officer-mistress Sesime …lick…lick …sob…sob…!

 

Account no. 5 – Kind & Fragrant

My new master – master Simon sir – is explaining to me exactly how he wishes me to serve his lovely, Chinese, internet bride, miss Hui-Fang. He is explaining to me that her name means ‘kind & fragrant’ in Chinese – but stresses to me from the very beginning of his introductory speech that I am to be her slave, and not her lover, unlike him. Furthermore, I am therefore absolutely forbidden to touch her bare skin, even her bare footflesh, since her entire body ‘belongs’ to him, and I am dirty and unclean; I am to be her footwear-slave only, he masterfully explains!

I have not yet actually met his beautiful, young Chinese bride, but the master-sir has magnanimously shown me a photograph of her which he has downloaded from the internet (he too has not yet even met her, though I believe he has spoken to her over the internet), and I must say, she does indeed appear to be a very beautiful, young woman – slim and svelte; petite in stature, with long, dark, shoulder-length hair; in her young womanly prime at the age of just 22 (both myself and he master-sir are in our late forties!).

I nevertheless seek to reassure the master-sir that I would never dream of touching his beautiful, Chinese wife’s bare flesh, and remind him that I am, in any case, neutered and impotent – but my interjection does nothing more than earn me a well-deserved kick to the face from the master-sir who angrily instructs me to shut up and listen, since he is the master and I am just the dirty slave!

I therefore lower my chastened face in shame to the floor, and listen in abject silence to the rest of his lecture:

· He explains that I am to address his Chinese, internet bride at all times as either ‘miss Hui-Fang’ or ‘most kind and fragrant mistress Hui-Fang’, out of slavish respect for her Chinese name.

· My demonstration of respect for her must include the kissing of her shoe or boot toes every time she enters or leaves my humble-slave presence.

· He then confirms that, as I am to be her everyday footwear slave, I am to remain on my hands and knees at all times next to her precious, and dainty, oriental feet.

· He reiterates that I am never to touch her bare feet, but graciously concedes that I may nevertheless study and admire them.

· I am also permitted to wash, massage and pedicure them, providing I am wearing a pair of surgical gloves, to protect his wife’s precious, bare feet from my dirty-footslave uncleanliness and germs.

· Similarly, I may dress her feet in the mornings, and undress them in the evening, putting on and taking off her shoes, boots, nylons or socks – but again I must perfect the slavish technique of doing so without touching her bare foot or ankle flesh. To this end the master-sir says he will permit me to wear the surgical gloves initially, but he stresses that he shall expect me to ‘master’ the technique of putting on and taking of his wife’s shoes and hosiery without my dirty fingers straying onto her precious and soft, oriental skin, so that I can eventually perform such menial and degrading tasks without the protective gloves. The master-sir emphasises also that the wearing of gloves is a concession designed to protect his pretty wife’s foot and leg skin from my germs; not to shield my unworthy hands from her stale foot, sock and nylon sweat, which, he claims, it would be an honour for me to touch!

· However, my primary responsibility will always be the care and maintenance of her aforementioned footwear whenever she is not wearing it – i.e. lickshining her dirty shoes and boots and mouthwashing her dirty nylons and socks of an evening after she has finished wearing them.

· The excited master Simon sir further advised me that although miss Hui-Fang already speaks some English, albeit with a strong, Chinese accent, I would have to learn some Mandarin Chinese in order to take orders from her in her native tongue. Master Simon sir explained that this was because he wanted his new wife to feel totally at ease in her new home, and it was therefore only right and proper that she should be able to order around her new wedding-gift (i.e. me - footwear-slave) in her own, dominant language, rather than struggle to boss me about in her cute, pidgin English. He advised me that he would therefore be teaching me some Chinese phrases later on.

· Miss Hui-Fang herself would be studying to be a dental technician at the local school of Female Dentistry here in the Gynarchy (all paid for by the master-sir), and my master explained to me that I was to accompany his pretty wife to heel to the dental college each day.

· He explained that my role was merely to kneel, unobtrusively, beside her pretty, oriental feet in the college lecture hall, and study her feet whilst she listened to the lecture above me.

· He stressed that I was not to even attempt to follow the content of the lectures myself – since such things were way above me – but that I was to instead focus only on his pretty, Chinese-student wife’s feet and footwear.

· If she was wearing boots, I was to concentrate in particular on the creases and folds in her outer bootleather – unless she was wearing ankleboots and the tops of her socks were just visible above the upper rims of her boots, in which case he would permit me to admire the stitching in her elasticated, cotton sock tops (but not, of course, her bare, Chinese legflesh above the socks, should that too be visible).

· If she was wearing shoes or sneakers, he would expect me to focus in specifically on her socks, and he suggested that I could, for example, count the stitches in her socks, or observe the way the creases and folds come and go in her socks in tandem with her subconscious foot-movements throughout the lecture. The same would apply if she was wearing nylons.

· If she was barefoot inside her shoes or sneakers I was to focus on the insteps of her outer footwear, again studying and admiring any creases or wrinkles that form in her footwear, as well, of course, as any areas of dirt (since I would be required to lick off that dirt later in the day).

· ON NO ACCOUNT AM I TO STUDY HIS FUTURE WIFE’S BARE FEET UNLES SHE IS WEARING OPEN-TOED OR STRAPPY SANDALS WITH BARE FEET, in which case I am permitted to study her oriental footpores, and any wrinkles in her otherwise soft, smooth Chinese-girl footskin, ALONG WITH HER SANDAL LEATHER.

· Yet again the master-sir reiterated that I could only look at his wife’s bare footflesh, and I that I was not to touch it under any circumstances– not even with my lips; not even inadvertently – as I only had permission to kiss his pretty wife on the shoe, boot, sandal, sock or nylon, and even then only when she specifically ordered it, either in Mandarin or pidgin English, or if she presented her foot to me for kissing.

· At the end of each day I am to enquire of my Chinese mistress, in Mandarin, whether or not she is satisfied with my footslavish performance at her feet, and, if she indicates that she is not, I am to convey that dissatisfaction to the master-sir, who will punish me appropriately on his wife’s behalf with the whip. Master sir Simon explained that this was because he did not believe his fragrant and kind, Chinese wife would be physically strong enough to really hurt me with the whip – but he would make damned sure I suffered at her feet for any shortcomings in my performance or perceived disrespect towards her!

· Master Simon sir then proceeded to teach me the Chinese phrases which I would need to learn in order to take orders from his wife in her native language:

Ø Wěn wǒ de jiǎo, núlì – Kiss my feet, slave (the master-sir stressed this meant, kiss my shoes or boots, slave – not the mistress’s bare feet!)

Ø Wén wǒ de wàzi, núlì – Smell my socks, slave

Ø Zuòzhě: Wǒ de wàzi, núlì – Study my socks, slave

Ø Tiǎn wǒ de xié, núlì – Lick my shoes, slave

Ø Tiǎn wǒ de xuēzi, núlì – Lick my boots, slave

Ø Wǒ xǐ nílóng, núlì – Wash my nylons, slave

Ø Qǔ biān, núlì – Fetch the whip, slave

Ø Qǐqiú liánmǐn, núlì wǒ – Beg me for mercy, slave

Ø Shì de, qíngfù – Yes, mistress

Ø Yīcì, qíngfù – At once, mistress

Ø Wǒ fúcóng nǐ, qíngfù huì fang – I obey you, mistress Hui-Fang

Ø Nǚ zhǔrén gāoxìng de shì yǔ tā de núlì ma? – Is the mistress pleased with her slave?

Ø Qǐng bùyào dǎ wǒ, nà zhǒng fēnfāng de qíngfù – Please don’t beat me, kind and fragrant mistress

The master-sir then recommended that I type these English phrases into Google Translate and repeatedly listen to them being spoken by the Chinese, female voice so that they would be well and truly emblazoned into my stupid, maleslave head, ready for my mistress Hui-Fang’s arrival in the Gynarchy early next week!

I suggest you do the same, if you think you might ever have to serve a Chinese mistress!

I praised and blessed the enlightened master sir for enlightening me as to the nature of my slave-duties towards his pretty, Chinese wife, and humbly kissed the ground in front of his feet on which she will soon, hopefully, be walking!

Account no. 4 – Energy Boost!

Respect where respect is due! And right now it is due to the arrogant, young black woman who has just sauntered lazily up to my public footkiss-stand on this hot and sultry summer’s day.

I don’t know her name, since she never deigns to talk to me, though I do know that she lives somewhere nearby on the local housing estate, since she is a regular customer. I know also that she is beautiful, tall and slim, for I can see that! Indeed, she towers above me like a veritable black-goddess colossus as she idles up to my humble, public footkiss-stand and indolently stretches forth her right foot onto the wooden footkiss-block beneath my perma-kneeling face.

She is presenting me today with a familiar pair of cheap, shiny blue plastic, open-toed sandals with thick, cork, wedged heels. I have seen these sandals – and kissed their shiny blue uppers – many times previously, though never, as today, worn with a pair of plain, black cotton, sneaker-socks.

I like the somewhat unusual shiny-blue plastic/matt black sock combo that is being thrust below my face for humble and respectful kissing today. The sock on her now obligingly outstretched, right foot looks especially well-worn and bobbled, and is greying along the sandal-exposed toe and instep areas. I like that very much – for it ably demonstrates that the haughty young black woman doesn’t care one iota about imposing her ropey old sneaker-socks on a public footkisser’s downtrodden face!

Which ties in nicely with her all-round, devil-may-care demeanour. She is sipping noisily on a can of heavily caffeinated, carbonated, cola-flavoured (for I can smell it), high-energy drink through a straw as she waits to have her cheap sandals and socks kissed – all whilst peering down at me nonchalantly through her protective, dark sunglasses.

As I humbly lower my face to her black sock-toe, my eyes run down past a slither of her smooth, brown ankleskin – unprotected by such short, incongruous sock – beneath the flowery-patterned, slightly tapered hem of her multicoloured, light-weight cotton trouser-leg. Her bare skin looks ultra nice and soft, and is shimmering with a thin veil of sweat in the heat; but the black sock awaiting my lips looks even softer and nicer, if that’s possible!

I feel her black toes twitch inside the reinforced area of cotton sock covering them as my lips make respectful contact with this tall, black goddess’s lowest and humblest body-part. Not for me her luscious legs; or her ample bosoms; or even her pretty, black, cola-flavoured lips. For me – it’s her sock, and a relatively sweaty and moistened, black sock at that!

I can’t think why she would even be bothering to wear such ultra-short socks with her sandals on such a warm and sticky day as this – other than as a cool fashion statement of some sort; or perhaps she’s hiding a diseased toe; or maybe she just wants to deliberately humble and humiliate me in public; the footkisser forced to kiss female sock on a warm and sultry day! But, if that is indeed her game, then she has sadly lost – for I feel honoured to press my lips onto her sweaty, cotton-sock material, especially whilst she is still wearing it on her shapely, brown foot inside her cheap, shiny blue plastic, open-toed sandal!

I think she senses my maleslavish humility and respect, as, still sucking sensuously on her straw above me, she coquettishly tucks her left sandal and sock in behind her outstretched right one, as if to say ‘Does you want it, slave-bwoy? Does you want my left sock in yoh ugly mout?’

I have to guess what the beautiful, black mistress is saying and thinking, of course, because I don’t know; she refuses to speak to me, even with her mouth full of energising cola! It seems only right, however, that a superior goddess like this should experience the refreshing coolness of a cola drink in her mouth, whilst my male-footslave mouth should simultaneously be experiencing only the much more dubious delights of her warm sock; for the black mistress’s sock sweat is refreshment good enough for a down-in-the-dirt streetslave like me!

Sure enough, after some 15 kisses to her right sock-toe, her right foot is slowly withdrawn from my face only to be equally languorously replaced by her matching left sock and cork-heeled sandal – only this sock lies even further down her shapely anklebone revealing yet more, bare, beautiful-black-girl legflesh above me. It is brown flesh which only serves to complement the black sock, though – the sock is, in my humble opinion, the overwhelmingly beautiful thing about her summery foot!

I hear her suck on the last dregs of her cola drink as I finish my last kisses to her left sock-toe (where, unbeknown to her, I have been concentrating on a tiny, pubic hair stuck to the outer corner of her big toe; I hope it’s one of hers, and not her boyfriend’s!)

She carelessly chucks her finished cola-can to one side onto the ground next to me, and it bounces and rolls off a few feet into the distance. I shall be whipped for that later – by the Female Litter Police. But this young, black woman litterbug doesn’t care a hoot about that!

And nor should she; she won’t be the one getting the blame!

She next withdraws her left foot from my footblock, and, excitingly, I hear her speak for the first time ever in my presence – albeit only on her mobile phone. It is a West-African accent; not Caribbean, as I had erroneously presumed!

As I indicated before, she never addresses me, of course, in any type of accent – either to thank me for so diligently kissing her on the African-girl, black sock; or even just to apologise for littering my stall. I am much too far beneath her on the social scale for her to bother conversing with me. In her sunglass-shaded eyes, I’m just a nobody; a foot-kissing, sock-kissing, sink-estate nobody!

Pleasingly, however, the superior, African mistress does not move off – not yet anyway; she remains standing for several minutes in front of my wooden footblock, so that, by keeping my head respectfully bowed, I am still able to observe her black-socked and blue-sandaled feet whilst she is increasingly engrossed in her mobile phone conversation with another free human being above me. I therefore get to watch as her foot-muscles subconsciously twitch and flex inside her socks whilst she is talking, causing her black socks to crease and fold most fetchingly right below my kneeling and silent face. Her blue plastic, cork-wedge-heeled sandals too are creasing and flexing – in the dirt, close to where I belong.

What a privilege! What an honour it is to observe a haughty, young black woman’s cheap, blue-plastic sandals and ropey, black sneaker-socks creasing and flexing in the dirt beneath one’s very eyes, and to know that the energy from her cola drink is hurriedly coursing through her blue foot and ankle-veins beneath those sweet-looking, but foul-tasting, socks.

The only energy I require is the boost I get from being so close to a superior, young black woman’s sandals and socks – that, and the sting of the Female Police Officer’s whip which I shall doubtless receive later in the day for that carelessly discarded, nearby cola can!

Respectful Sink-Estate Slave by patheticus on GoAnimate

 

 Account no. 3 – The Amateur Indian Tormentress

She was a somewhat plump, Asian girl – but sexy with it; Indian – with shoulder length, dark hair, and wearing a dark trouser suit with flared hems and black, chunky-heeled, calf-length, heavily-buckled, biker-style boots.

An upper caste, fully gynarchised, Indian girl, I would say!

As I knelt, feeling lonely and an outcast in the town square kneeling stocks, she approached me with an innocuous-looking, plastic, carrier bag in her chubby, brown hand, and began by demanding that I kiss the scuffmarked, rounded toes of her ‘pretty’ biker-boots, all the while smiling cruelly down at me, the helpless and immobilised, public prisoner at her upper-caste feet.

All normal enough!

But then, I heard her snapping on a pair of rubbery green, surgical gloves and rustling through her carrier bag above me to produce a pair of particularly grubby-looking, knee-length, thick white cotton bootsocks. She kindly showed me the socks, close up and ultra-personal, to my confined face – pointing out, with her rubbery-gloved index finger, all the various areas of sweat and inner bootdirt-staining on the supposedly pure white soles of the long socks, prior to shoving them ignominiously onto my nose and face, thereby forcing me to breathe in through them!

She laughed at me, and explained that, as I was having to spend hour after hour kneeling in the public stocks and looking at girls’ shoes, boots and socks as they passed me by, she thought it would be nice if she stopped by and forced me to actually smell a pair of her own, used and unwashed bootsocks from the day before, so that I could get a real sense of the pungent odour of a beautiful, young woman’s feet and inner footwear (that ‘beautiful, young woman’, evidently, being her!)

Whilst she was forcing me to breathe in the stale and vinegary aroma of her sweaty, day old, nominally-still-white, knee-length bootsocks, the plump Indian girl gleefully informed me that she was wearing a pair of similar, knee-high cotton bootsocks inside her biker-boots today – only the socks she had on today, unlike the socks currently shoved in my face, were black! She said she wanted me to know that, even though I couldn’t see the black bootsocks she currently had on inside her fully buckled-up, black leather calfboots, just in case I was a secretive admirer of young women’s black socks as well as their white socks!

I assured the young Indian woman, through my ignominious, stinky-sock facemask, that I was indeed an admirer of both black and white girlsocks, which prompted her to laugh even more mockingly at me.

A small crowd of equally mockful, and hateful, female onlookers started to gather around in order to enjoy the fat, brown-skinned, westernised, Indian girl’s stinky-white-sock humiliation of me, and take pictures of the happy event on their smartphones, which only seemed to spur my amateur, Indian tormentress onto even greater efforts on my face with her dirty, white kneesocks. She explained to me that she was now going to rub her sweaty foot-stink off her white socks and onto my face, so that I would become, quite literally, a public ‘stink-face’ – with my facial pores brazenly stinking of a young Indian woman’s sweaty, white bootsocks!

She then, laughingly, hunkered down on her, not inconsiderable, female haunches and, sure enough, started to roughly rub the sweaty, still moist, white socks all over my gormless and imprisoned-in-wood face, ostensibly ‘cleaning’ her dirty socks on it. The whole crowd of female onlookers, many of whom seemed to be overseas, Japanese tourist-girls, then guffawed and bellowed as the fat Indian girl’s yellowy-brown, sweaty-sock stains were ingloriously transferred onto my male-prisoner face, turning me in to a veritable stink-face, and thereby making me feel even more humbled.

The Indian sock-tormentress asked me how I was liking it, having her day-old, sock dirt rubbed into my face? I replied, respectfully, that I liked it, fat Indian goddess-mistress – but not that much, which threw the crowd of female onlookers into a further frenzy of laughter and mockery of me, many of them repeating my humble refrain in suitably scornful, Japanese-girl accents.

As for the Indian girl herself, she continued to hunker down before me, her scuffmarked, black leather calfboots now creasing and folding as she put all her sweet feminine, Asian energy into wiping my face with her dirty, white, knee-length, bootsocks. Still no sign of her black kneesocks beneath her bell-bottom trouser hems, though – more’s the pity; for observing her black bootsocks inside her boots and on her brown-skinned legs whilst she rubbed yesterday’s stale-white bootsocks all over my publicly imprisoned face, would have been an inestimable honour for a footslave-prisoner confined in the harsh and cruel kneeling stocks of a Gynarchy town square!

When she eventually finished wiping her dirty, white socks on my face I myself could smell my own stink-face; it stank wretchedly of female, dirty socks – unsurprisingly!

But the amateur, Indian tormentress hadn’t finished with me quite yet! Again she rustled with her rubber-gloved fingers inside her carrier bag to produce a small, see-through, plastic bag containing her dirty toenail-clippings!

How the largely female crowd roared with touristic laughter and approval as they saw what was coming next. One or two of them even feigned disgust as the young, fat Indian woman then explained to me that she was going to ‘reward’ me for cleaning her dirty, white socks on my face by feeding me the Indian ‘delicacies’ of her dirty toenail-clippings!

She explained that she always waited until her feet were sweaty and dirty before cutting her toenails – and that that was why they looked so black and toe-cheesy at the tops. She assured me, however, that they would taste all the spicier because of that, and implied that I should be grateful to her.

I therefore took my cue, and praised and blessed the anonymous, fat Indian tormentress for her kindness and compassion in feeding me, the hungry prisoner-footslave, with her toejam-embellished, sweaty toenail-clippings, and promised to lap them all up – which I duly did, much to the simultaneous delight and disgust of the gathered, female crowd.

The fat Indian girl insisted that I first sniff each individual, toenail clipping as she held it up to my nose, and then slowly savour each one inside my prisoner-mouth as she placed them one by one inside me. Furthermore, she would only permit me to swallow it after she was satisfied I had extracted all the female foot-juices and human toe-cheese from it. She then got me to confirm – for the benefit of her female audience – that I actually liked the taste of her toenail-clippings, even if some of them were perhaps a bit too spicy and strong for my personal taste!

And so there I was – a fat Indian girl’s stinky-faced, toenail-clipping receptacle, kneeling in the public stocks at her black leather, biker-booted feet whilst she fed me dirt from her feet in front of a suitably mocking, female audience.

To finish off her amateur dramatics, she then tied her still grubby, white kneesocks around my face like a stinky-sock bonnet, before sitting herself down on the heavy, wooden crossbeam above my neck and digging her leather-booted and buckle-decorated anklebones into my temples whilst the appreciative, female audience took yet more adoring pictures of her and applauded her for her innate cruelty.

All I could think of was her still unseen black kneesocks building up a sweat inside her painfully temple-digging, biker boots. All I can hope for is that when the fat, Indian mistress comes back tomorrow to retrieve her long, white bootsocks from around my face, she may replace my stinky, white kneesock-bonnet with an even stinkier black one!

 

Account no. 2 – A Good Ticking Off!

I was in a relatively good mood – for a slave! I wasn’t, of course, allowed to exhibit any outward signs of footslavish contentment as I mouth-cleaned my ‘sit-down’, public shoelick-stall – ardently licking the previous lady-customers’ residual shoe and bootsole-dirt off the two metal footrests in front of my kneeling and bowed face. But inwardly I was content – it just felt like it was going to be another bright, bright, bright shoeshiny day!

My inner happiness increased multifold when one of my first customer-mistresses of the new day turned out to be regular customer-mistress Anjana. Miss Anjana, you see, is an unusually friendly, stunningly beautiful, petitely-built, young Indian woman in her early twenties, who often pops in to my shoelick-stand on her way into her junior office-clerk’s job in the city in order to have her early morning, office shoes lickshined and make a good impression on her more senior colleagues – especially the free males in her office, I don’t doubt, judging by the perennial glint in her eye!

She is also wearing a friendly smile, and, as per usual, dressed for work in a smart, black-pinstriped, trouser suit and frilly white blouse, as she sprightly climbs up onto the freshly tongue-scrubbed, female shoelick-chair of power in front of me, and rests her dainty, Indian-girl feet – clad, as ever, in her smart, shiny black leather, silver-buckled loafers and matching, black, sneaker-style socks – in front of my face for what she describes as a ‘quick lick and a shine, isn’t it please slave?’.

Also, as ever, she takes the trouble to greet me first – and acknowledge my existence as a human-being kneeling at her feet (albeit a much lesser and lower caste human being than herself, since she is young, female and free whereas I am old, male and in bondage!):

‘How you are doing today, slave? It is being most pleasant weather this beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, mistress Anjana! If it pleases you, mistress Anjana! This slave is truly honoured to serve at your feet again on such a pleasant morning as this, if it pleases you most beautiful and revered Indian goddess-mistress Anjana.’

She may be pint-sized and inordinately friendly towards slaves, but I must still speak to her with a tone of humility, fear and respect – as befits a public footservant about to serve his superior, public footmistress!

Miss Anjana, still smiling, pronounces her specific foot-wishes for the morning:

‘Just be giving my shoes a quick lick and a shine, isn’t it please slave? And please to be making sure that you are shining in and around the silver buckles on my shoes most diligently, isn’t it?’

‘Yes mistress Anjana! Of course, mistress Anjana. Anything you say, miss Anjana! God bless you, mistress Anjana.’

She is referring to the heart-shaped, silver-plated buckles covering each rounded toe-area of her flat-heeled, black patent leather, smart, office-junior shoes – buckles which do, admittedly, tend to gather dust and grime from the streets and which can nearly always do with a good slave-tonguing in the morning. But miss Anjana knows she has no real need to ask me to clean out her shoe-buckles – she knows I will always do a good job on her shoes, her whole shoes, and nothing but her shoes, because I respect and admire them, and their Indian-female wearer, so much!

I admire her black sneaker-socks as well, of course, and especially the way they almost disappear down the backs of her shapely, brown Indian-girl heels at the backs. They are a familiar pair of miss Anjana socks – I have witnessed them on her pretty, Indian feet many times before. I recognise them from their distinctive, white ‘tick’ logos on either side of her prominent, outer anklebones – though the black socks only partially cover her ankles, so low-cut are the socks!

Still, when she is standing up straight, no-one can actually see the tops of her slanted socks beneath her black-pinstriped trouser hems; all they can see, if they’re lucky, is a tiny slither of black sock just above the toe-area of shoe before the rest of the seemingly pure-black sock disappears beneath her black-pinstriped, trouser leg. I therefore consider myself incredibly lucky to be a party to those secret, white ticks on the sides of miss Anjana’s workaday, office socks as I lickshine her silvery, heart-shaped shoe-buckles, and then her shiny, black-leather insteps.

As I work hard with my tongue on her shoes, miss Anjana appears, like me, to be full of the joys of spring, and is telling me all about her exciting life with her manly, new husband whom she only married a few weeks ago. She has even insisted on showing me some of the photos she took on her mobile phone of her big wedding day – and, I must say, she did look stunning in her traditional, Indian bridal outfit consisting of a long, multicoloured, silken sari and what appear to have been silvery-sparkly, high-heeled, open-toed sandals on her fully pedicured, brown dainty feet!

Of course, she cares not that, by making me rejoice over her wedding photographs, she is simultaneously reminding me that I shall never get married, or know love and romance, being a mere public footslave! The closest I will ever get to a girl’s heart will be her shiny, silvery, heart-shaped, shoe buckles – as now!

The more I share in selfish miss Anjana’s joyful wedding photos; the more I taste of her shiny, black- loafer, shoe leather; and the more I observe her short, black sneaker-socks with the fetching, white tick logos – the more I am enamoured by miss Anjana, and long for her to stay on my shoelick stall all day, having her shoes licked and gloating over me (for she does so like to gloat about her glorious wedding and already blissfully happy marriage – even though, as I intimated earlier, I suspect she may have a wandering eyelash for her freemale office colleagues as well; especially if she thinks they can advance her career!)

But, be that as it may, all good shoeshining things must come to an end, and the delightful miss Anjana has her own job to go to! A proper job – with prospects! And so she gleefully inspects her shoes and once again thanks, and congratulates me, on doing such a splendid job on them as she puts her camera phone back into her suit-jacket pocket above me.

Just before she climbs down from the shoelick chair I hurriedly kiss each white, sock-tick logo on the outer sides of her anklesocks, as a gesture of respect, and we part on good terms.

Another satisfied customer…or so I thought!

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

Later that afternoon miss Anjana approached my shoelick-stall for the second time that day! This was most irregular – I don’t recall her ever calling on me twice in one day!

But she is, needless to say, always welcome at my shoelick-stall – so it is a very pleasant surprise!

I sense, however, that her demeanour is somewhat sullen and sour this time – and she appears to be accompanied by an equally sullen young man. I can’t help feeling that I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t quite put my finger on it…

He gallantly helps miss Anjana up onto the shoelick chair once again – same heart-buckled, shiny black leather loafer-shoes; same black and white-ticked socks (only this time more sweaty, no doubt, after a long, hard day at the office. I’m quite looking forward to smelling them as I lickshine the workday dirt and grime off the surfaces of friendly miss Anjana’s post-work shoes!)

‘Thank you, Ravinder darling!’ she says tenderly to the young, Indian gentleman. Of course – I recognise who he is now! It’s miss Anjana’s husband, master Ravinder sir, from the wedding day photos on her phone!

The atmosphere turns sour, however, as soon as master Ravinder sir opens his mouth to speak, whilst wagging his finger at me accusingly:

‘Dirty slave, what is this I am hearing about you being kissing my wife’s socks?’

I am taken aback! He makes it sound like such a dirty, unforgiveable act – kissing a customer-mistress on the socks! But I do it all the time!

‘I beg your pardon, master-sir?’

SLAP!

Master Ravinder sir suddenly whacks me hard across my kneeling face with the back of his hand!

‘DON’T YOU BE TALKING BACK TO ME, IMPUDENT FOOTSLAVE! MY WIFE IS BEING TELLING ME ALL ABOUT YOUR IMPERTINENCE IN KISSING HER SOCKS WITHOUT HER PERMISSION, ISN’T IT?’

My head is reeling from the young and strong, Indian man’s powerful hand-blow!

‘Oh p…p…pray…m…master s…sir; n…no offence was intended towards the b…beautiful, young m…mistress, m…master s…sir…’

SLAP!

Another stinging backhander from the married, free man!

Miss Anjana, meanwhile, laughs out loud. I must admit, I’ve never heard her laugh before, or seen her quite this happy! She only ever smiles on my shoelick-stall. Or, at least, she did until now.

But now she’s ecstatic:

‘Ha! Ha! Beat him, Ravi! Hurt him! Hurt the impudent dog! Be defending the honour of your wife’s socks, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’

Master Ravinder-sir needs no further encouragement – he has his pretty, Indian wife’s female blessing to beat and hurt the wretched, public footslave for defiling his wife’s sock-honour.

SLAP!...SLAP!…SLAP!...

‘Ha! Ha! More Ravinder! More! More! Redden his impudent cheeks for him, isn’t it?’

Miss Anjana’s socks crease and fold with delight as her husband continues to lay into me with his big, manly hands, teaching me a valuable lesson, which is:

Never presume to kiss a young married woman’s white tick sock-logos without her explicit, female permission, lest she gets ticked off, and returns later with her outraged and jealous husband to give you a good ticking off!

 

 

Account no. 1 - Dusty, Black Train-Socks

My mistress is tired – tired and a little drunk!

She is lying back in her husband's lap on the late night train with her pretty, black, loafer-style shoes off, and her dainty, black-socked feet resting on the edge of the second class train carriage seat.

I, of course, am kneeling on the dirty, train-carriage floor with my face next to my Asian mistress's sleepy, socked feet as befits a superior, young married woman's personal footservant when out with her feet in public.

My humble role in this particular situation is to publicly sniff and admire my pretty, dark-haired, oriental mistress's socked feet whilst she slumbers in the manly and protective arms of her white husband, master David sir. He is not asleep, but is almost certainly keeping at least one of his beady eyes on me, making sure I continue to show his beloved wife proper, footslavish respect – especially in such a public place!

And so, whilst he smells her fragrant and perfumed hair as her sleepy head rests happily on his manly lap, I concentrate on smelling his young wife's socks – freshly liberated from their tight, leather loafers which are now lying somewhat forlornly on the dirty and dusty floor of the train carriage beneath the double train-seat she shares with the dominant master-sir.

The pretty mistress's black anklesocks, it has to be said, do look very nice – a pleasing pair of no nonsense, plain black anklesocks on such a daintily-sized pair of oriental-girl feet!

Not that the mistress madam is on the way home from work – these are her partying socks, despite their somewhat sobering appearance! I expect she wears them whilst going out clubbing with her husband purely because they complement her plain, black, flat loafers and black cotton leggings – leggings which are covered up as far as her kneecaps by a pair of equally fetching, thick, black, woolen legwarmers (for it is still wintertime here in the northern Gynarchy!)

Nevertheless, the blackness of her partying socks has a suitably sobering effect on me (if not on their inebriated, female wearer) and so I maintain a suitably studious and pained expression on my gormless footslave-face as I sniff plain, black, oriental-female, exposed party sock – ever mindful as I am of the need to make a good impression in the very public forum of the late night train. The post-partying collective of dirty stop-outs must be able to see how humble and oppressed I am at my pretty, oriental mistress's feet, as that's what the surrounding female and freemale world likes to see here in the Gynarchy of Barbaria!

Indeed, so diligently am I sniffing my somnolent, oriental mistress's black socks I am actually making a literal impression on them with my footslave nose – as the pressure from my nose causes indentations in the soles of my mistress's dance-moistened socks!

Of course, her socks don't remain completely motionless and still during my public sock-sniffing efforts; they roll with the movement of the train, and in addition mistress will from time to time subliminally, and sublimely, wriggle her socked toes on my face as she enjoys sweet oriental dreams with her head resting on her potent husband's bulky lap! But I actually take some pathetic, footslavish pride in the fact that my nose is artificially adding to the natural, foot-induced creases and indentations in my mistress's pure, black anklesocks, especially on the still sweat-dampened soles!

I say 'pure' black, but, of course, no young woman's well-worn and favourite pair of black anklesocks are ever totally pure – and this pair are no exception. The black, party- girl socks are greying on the undersides of the toe and heel areas, only retaining their factory-setting blackness on the uppers and insteps i.e. on the sock-areas least prone to oriental-girl footsweating!

Indeed, the grey staining on the lower surfaces of the socks matches the brownish-yellowy staining on the well-worn, beige inner linings of her nearby, discarded, flat, black leather loafers. I only wish I were at liberty right now to sniff the insides of those warm, oriental-girlshoes in order to confirm my theory that the grey outer sock stains match the grey inner shoe stains, but, sadly, I am under strict, masculine orders to keep my nose firmly on sock (those being the orders of the ever vigilant, and potentially jealous, master David sir!)

My dutiful and intelligent train-sock sniffing is rudely interrupted when my mistress suddenly stirs from her slumbers for no apparent reason other than a sleepy desire to kiss her beloved husband on his dreamy lips. Suddenly her sweat-dampened socks are cruelly withdrawn from my face and placed instead on the dusty floor of the moving train carriage, where they stay for several, agonizing minutes!

I too must adjust my positioning in order to ensure my slave nose remains in close proximity with at least the upper surface of my mistress's sock (her right sock being the default sock, of course!) whilst she snogs unabashedly and drunkenly with her husband above me. It is clear that she is not giving me – her devoted foot and sock slave – a second thought, as she only has drunken eyes for her manly husband. I am effectively pushed to one side by her sweaty-socked feet as she satisfies her wanton, feminine libido above me.

And the ultimate humiliation comes when she subsequently puts her feet up on the edge of the dusty train seat again and resumes her fitful sleep with her pretty, oriental head resting on her husband's now even bulkier lap – for the soles of her black/grey anklesocks are now covered in careless dust from the train floor!

The master-sir doesn't say anything, but I know what he expects of me – I must sniff the dirty train-dust off the bottoms of his beautiful, young, oriental wife's black socks, or else face the physically painful consequences when we get home; for it is never too late, or too early, in the day to whip a private footservant for allowing his superior mistress to walk around in publicly dusty, black socks!

On Board Bootsniffer by patheticus on GoAnimate