Repeat After Me…

I am….therefore I am a slave!

I am an ornamental footslave with a bit of a difference. From the moment the ground-level shutter is opened in front of my face of a morning by a uniformed, female-security-guard boot, until it is subsequently closed again some 16 hours later, I am obliged by law not just to kiss the dirty shoes, boots and sandals of the bank-worker mistresses passing through the lobby of the 20-storey Gynarchy Bank Headquarters, but also, in between my respectful kissing of their feet, repeat the humiliating mantra ‘I am a slave’ – all day long!

Thus, even before my lips make contact with the aforementioned, black leather, lace-up ankleboots beneath navy-blue, polyester trouser-hems of the African-Caribbean, security-guard mistress, miss Shavelle, whose pleasant duty it is to wake me up, I have already started my demeaning, daily mantra:

‘I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave…’

Then, when the black leather, reinforced, rounded boot-toe is outstretched beneath my kneeling face, I must continue to repeat my mantra in between my humble bootkisses – bootkisses which are likewise repeated until the black boot is withdrawn from my face (always a decision of the mistress whose footwear is being kissed!):

Followed, of course, by the black security-guard mistress’s left, reinforced boot-toe:

That was 10 kisses to each uniform boot-toe, by my reckoning?

But I have no time for mental arithmetic. As soon as security-guard mistress Shavelle is satisfied with my humility and respect towards her, she walks away from me – ready to go home to her warm and cosy bed for a well-earned sleep after her long, boring night shift – and I must resume my uninterrupted mantra (i.e. uninterrupted by boot or shoe kisses until the next mistress comes along – however long that may be!)

‘I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave…’

There is, as you can see, normally quite a long gap until my first, ‘proper’ customer-mistress of the day comes along – one of the routinely early arrivals at the bank, the petite and beautiful, Indian-girl mistress from Corporate Accounts, miss Ashna. Punctual and foot-fastidious miss Ashna is regularly my first foot-customer of the day – in her smart, patent, black leather ballet-flats and smooth, matt-black socks beneath her stylish, bootcut, black cotton, trouser hems.

Miss Ashna, because she is some sort of back-office, bank worker, and not in a public-facing role, is allowed to wear civilian clothing. Her black, bootcut trouser hems brush against my face every time she stretches forth her dainty, Indian, ballet-flated foot beneath me:

‘I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss…’

That was fifteen kisses to each shiny, black, rounded ballet-toe, in case you were wondering. Please also note that:

I am not allowed to kiss sock – however smooth and inviting it may be inside her patent, black leather ballet-flat
She does not speak to me – not even to order me to kiss her feet. She has no need to – it’s what I do, it’s who I am; I am an automated footkisser
I am not permitted to interrupt my mantra even to verbally greet her, or praise and bless her. The only permitted interruption to my kowtowing catechism is the crisp and pert kissing of her proffered, shiny black leather shoe-toes

And so it is, or will be, with all my customer-mistresses throughout the day – be they back-office, bank workers, like miss Ashna; or corporately-dressed, front-office workers; or biker-booted, motorcycle couriers; or visitors to the bank HQ; or cleaners; or uniformed, bank security-guards.

Not quite so long to wait this time until my next customer-mistress – the perennially running late (for she’s supposed to be the first worker to arrive every morning) dolly-bird, but somewhat dippy, beautiful, blonde-girl receptionist, miss Tara.

She hurriedly shoves her late-running, right foot – clad in its usual navy-blue, patent leather, two-inch-heeled, corporate-wear, court shoe and tan-nylon stocking, beneath suitably modest, knee-length, navy-blue, corporate skirt – below my constantly mantra-repeating face:

‘I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss…’

Time only for two kisses to the chiselled toe of her corporate, court shoe before the left shoe is, equally hastily, shoved underneath my face:

‘I am a slave…kiss…’

Only time for one kiss, it seems, to the second shoe!

And then she is gone to her plush, reception desk at the back of the lobby where she will meet and greet the bank’s esteemed visitors with a winsome and flirtatious smile (if they are male; and free. She never has a winsome smile for a down-in-the-dirt, male slave like me; and, even if she did, I wouldn’t be able to see it, having to focus all the time on feet as I do!)

Back to my lonely, maleslave mantra:

They’re starting to come thick and fast now. I am next confronted by the black leather, backless mules, and black socks and trouser-hems, of another of the back-office, female bank workers – the somewhat podgy, but nevertheless extremely comely, brunette-haired miss Melanie; from Despatch, I believe.

She is never in any great hurry, and always tarries with me a while!

How many was that? And that was just to her left foot (miss Melanie is left-handed, and therefore left-footed; I still have her right, backless-muled foot to pay my slavish respects to!)

With a satisfied smirk on her pretty, if slightly chubby, brunette-framed face (I can’t see it, of course, since, as I explained above, I am perpetually forced to look downwards, but I’m sure the bank’s CCTV cameras will have picked it up) she too walks away from the ornamental footkisser – mainly because there is another young lady waiting behind her to have her feet kissed – a black girl in her twenties, wearing the bank’s corporate-wear outfit of navy-blue courts and tan nylons (her beautiful, black legskin underneath gives the tan nylon a magnificent hue!)

No time for much of a mantra in between the two bank-worker, customer-mistresses’ feet this time:

‘I am a slave… I am a slave… I am a slave…’

Just three statements of humbling fact – and then it’s time to kiss beautiful, black-girl, bank clerk, corporate footwear. First the right, navy-blue shoe. Don’t you just love the tiny, nylon wrinkles around her shapely, outstretched anklebone?

And then – at a time of her choosing – the left shoe:

She too walks away from me with a pretty, smug grin on her haughty, career-minded face.

Executive alert! My first managerial feet of the day; so lofty and important, they are clad in civilian, black patent leather pumps with three-inch-high heels, and rich, dark, finest-denier nylons beneath a below-the-knee, dark-pinstriped, executive skirt.

I immediately press my lowly lips to the upper-class, shiny black pumps heading for the lift to the top floor:

‘I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss…’

They never stop long, pumps like these; too many important things to do, such as go to boardroom meetings; sign contracts; play the stock market etc. I’m just a formality on the way in or the way out – a disparaging show of solidarity with the rest of the staff, and an encouragement to them to utilise me in the same, demeaning manner as the female boss!

I am a slave – and she is a business executive; our worlds only collide when my lips touch her shiny black, executive shoeleather, and my eyes feast upon her dark, executive ankle-nylon.

Biker boots! Greasy, heavily-buckled, oil-smelling biker boots; but female-sized. The first motorcycle courier-mistress of the day! I, of course, afford the same respect to the courier-mistress as I have done to the feet of the female bank boss – for all female feet, however dirtily attired, deserve my ornamental-footslavish respect.

This won’t take long – female couriers are always in a rush to get to their next job, but I shall have to kiss the dirty, grease-stained biker boots both on their entrance to, and egress from, the bank lobby:

On entry: the right boot: ‘I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss…’

On entry: the left boot: ‘I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss…’

She walks up to the Reception desk, where I know the much daintier, corporate-clad feet of the dippy, blonde receptionist, miss Tara, will now be tucked in behind one another at the tan-nyloned ankles beneath her desk. Just imagine the multitudinous creases there must be right now in the tan-nylon around miss Tara’s shapely anklebones! Plus, I wonder if all that rushing around earlier has caused a build up of sweet, blonde-girl footsweat around her dainty, corporate-nyloned, toe cleavage?

The leather-clad, biker-chick, courier mistress has successfully delivered her package, and completed her business.

On exit: the right boot: ‘I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss…’

On exit: the left boot: ‘I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss… I am a slave…kiss…’

That was nice and symmetrical, don’t you think? Twelve greasy biker-boot kisses in all; six on each boot; three at a time. And I didn’t catch my lips on any of the metal buckles!

Respect to the biker boots!

And so it goes on – for a full 16 hours throughout the long, headquarters day; a constant, verbal reminder to myself – and those around me – that ‘I am a slave’, interspersed only with humble footkisses to the workaday feet of my female masters, whatever their rank or station in life, or in the bank; for they are all, without exception, better than me.

My long, mantra-ridden, footkissing day only ends with the kissing of Filipina cleaner miss Leticia’s black-sneakered and white-sneaker-socked feet in the late evening; she is one of the night-shift cleaners, and so, after I have kissed her scuffmarked, cheap-leathery, plain black sneaker-toes, and after she has fed me my one meagre bowl of tasteless slave-mush per day, she has the Filipina honour of pushing my ankle-level face back into its hole-in-the-wall with the side of her sneaker, and pulling down the shutter-hatch in front of my face with her aforementioned, scuffmarked, right sneaker-toe. I’m sure her white sneaker-sock must be creasing around her lower anklebone as she does so.

Only then, after the shutter is closed, am I allowed to desist from my submissive slave-mantra. Even whilst I am eating, and even though it would normally be considered impolite for a slave (though not for a mistress) to speak with his mouth full, I am still required to mumble my menial mantra: ‘I am a slave…mmmpph… I am a slave…mmmpph… I am a slave…mmmpph…!’

The shutter-hatch is audibly padlocked on the outside by dainty, Filipina fingers.

Peace at last! I can now rest my weary vocal chords for the 8 hours of my downtime whilst I try my best to digest my indigestible food, and dream of all the female shoes and boots it has been my privilege to serve throughout the day just gone by.

Tomorrow is a Saturday – so it should be a lot less busy, footkissing-wise. But that just means I shall be repeating my mantra all the more!

As I drift into a fitful sleep, occasionally disturbed by the noise of the automatic floor-polishers in the lobby entrance outside my sleep-hole, the self-deprecating words are still echoing around inside my pathetic, footslave head…

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Patheticus Minimus 3D

Repeat After Me…

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