Things are looking up!
Introductions
My new, bubbly-blonde, thirty-something deskmistress – office-mistress Barbara – is adjusting my upturned face so that it is at an angle which is comfortable for her to rest her booted feet on. She explains that her comfort is paramount whilst she is working at her desk, and that she doesn't give a damn whether or not my neck and face are in perennial pain beneath her, since she is the superior office-mistress and I am just the inferior, male footrest-slave!
Can’t argue with that!
She also explains that, as I am a mere lowly piece of office foot-furniture, I am never to speak unless spoken down to, and even then my conversation must only ever be about the comfort and wellbeing of my deskmistress’s feet, or indeed the feet of any other young woman who happens to be seated at mistress Barbara’s desk in her absence, since I must be totally fixated on superior, office-female feet and footwear – all the time!
Dominant office-deskmistress Barbara further confirms that, because of the ignominious angle of my face, I may well be able to see up her trouser-legs and past her black leather ankleboot-rims to her black, office socktops. She reckons that this is acceptable behaviour on my part, providing I mentally focus on admiring her socks and don't stare at her bare, white legflesh.
Finally, she points out that her ankleboots are quite chunky and heavy, and that the thick treads on the soles will doubtless leave indelible marks on my face; but, again, she doesn't give a bubbly-blonde-girl damn about the state of my footrest-face, providing it remains unshaven and comfortable for her to rest her booted, office feet on! She has therefore arranged for the regular office-cleaner – blue-sneakered and white-socked miss Julianna from Equatorial Guinea – to shave and feed me below the desk (though I am only to be fed one tasteless and insipid bowl of slave-mush per weekday; and nothing at all during the weekends when the office is closed. Basically, just enough to keep me alive; miss Barbara says I can always supplement my meagre slave-diet with the streetdirt and mud from the bottoms of her boots!)
So, I am now all set up as mistress Barbara's beneath-desk bootrest – able and willing to see up the insides of her black polyester, bootcut, office trouser-hems as far as her twisted and creased, black cotton anklesock-tops. I'm looking forward to this; she seems nice, and her boot-bottoms smell quite musty.
Yes – things are definitely looking up!
Well, I am, anyway!
Day One
Day one is largely spent with my face getting to adjust to the bottoms of deskmistress Barbara’s boots; getting used to them, so to speak.
The thick, heavy soles have a trellis-like pattern, which, just as she had predicted, is soon replicated on the surface of my upturned face. But it hardly matters – since few women ever get to see my face, apart from a cursory glance down at me as they simply seek to establish that a human footrest is there for them to use!
In fact, the young lady who gets to examine my face the most is the, unfortunately halitosis-suffering, Guinean office-cleaner mistress Julianna, whenever she crouches down under the desk to shave and feed me; and somehow I don’t think she gives a damn about the Barbarian boot-tread marks on my ugly, maleslave face! She just wants to get her job done quickly so that she can put her own, blue-sneakered and white-socked feet up and relax for the rest of her evening shift!
But back to the first-day boots. There is so much for me to focus on with respect to office-mistress Barbara’s dirty bootsoles, that I hardly have time to glance up her flapping trouser-hems to her socks, though I am vaguely aware of her black socks in my peripheral vision. I actually spend most of the first day examining the exact pattern of her bootsole-tread, and the way it traps street dirt, mud and detritus in its various grooves. I even spot some dead twigs stuck in between two of the treads on her right bootsole, and look forward to working on those with my tongue so that I can, as my deskmistress has kindly authorised me to do, ‘supplement my meagre diet’ of cold and unappetising slave-mush.
It occurs to me that I really do need to be saving such boot detritus for the long and lonely, hungry weekends – when there is no Equatorial-Guinean cleaner-mistress to feed and water me! I could, perhaps, save the dirty street-twigs in the side of my mouth, and only swallow them at the weekend? My weekend treat – something to look forward to?
But will I have the willpower and strength of character to do so, being an opportunistic and weak-willed footslave? And besides, will the twigs become all moist and soggy inside my mouth? We’ll just have to wait and see – it’s a pathetic risk I’m prepared to take!
The real prize would be if my bootmistress Barbara had walked in some flavoursome chewing gum or other discarded, female foodstuff; but, having scoured her bootsoles from rounded toe to chunky heel, I can only find mud, dirt and twigs; not even any dead grass or leaves – so, no greens for me this weekend!
I am also fascinated by the worn down areas of grey in the otherwise black, leather boot-treads. They indicate not just the age of my deskmistress’s boots (I would guess that she has owned, and regularly worn, this pair of favourite, office boots for some three to four years), but also her gait; for they show where she places her, not inconsiderable, weight when she walks along the pavements. Based on the evidence, I would say she has a tendency to be somewhat flat-footed!
But then, who am I to criticise – since I can’t walk at all, being confined permanently in this ignominious, footrest-on-the-floor position. Even if I were free to move around, it would have to be in a manner appropriate to a male slave in the Gynarchy i.e. on my hands and knees. So, in criticising my mistress Barbara’s gait, I can only talk the talk; not walk the walk!
Occasionally, my new deskmistress Barbara subconsciously reaches down to hitch up her trouser-hem and scratch an itch on her ankle, usually followed by a readjustment to the top of her sock. I am acutely aware, at such tense moments of ankle-scratching and sock-straightening activity, of her prior warning not to stare at her bare legflesh, and so, even though I can hear her soft, smooth, white legskin or ankleskin being scratched and her black bootsock being pulled up by her fat fingers, I dutifully avert my eyes and focus on the concomitant movement in her black leather bootsoles, as befits an obedient and respectful footrest-slave beneath his deskmistress’s itchy ankles!
Following her initial introduction of herself to me, deskmistress Barbara utters not one further word to me on that first, midweek, working day beneath her office boots and socks – not even a word of goodbye as she ups and leaves. She clearly can’t be bothered to chew the cud with a dirty, lowly footrest – especially one whose face is now, as she had predicted, imprinted with not just the mud from her bootsoles, but the very pattern of her boot-treads.
Little does she know that inside that face, secreted in its right cheek, are two moist twigs skilfully extracted by tongue from between two of those trellised boot-treads!
I’m quite pleased with myself – but, predictably, I don’t have the will-power to keep them until the weekend which is so long away (today is only Wednesday, after all!). And so, within an hour of her departure, I have masticated and swallowed miss Barbara’s boot-twigs; and very tasty they were too – compared to the subsequent, bland slave-mush rammed down my throat by the force-feeding, Black-African girl, miss Julianna!
I shouldn’t blame miss Julianna for force-feeding me mush, really! She’s only doing her job – but I just wish that she would gargle some minty mouthwash occasionally, and that she wouldn’t have such a smug and supercilious grin on her pretty, black face as she knowingly feeds me such insipid, nutritionless muck. At the very least could rest her own sneakers on my face for a while, so that I can taste them after my dose of slave-mush, and thereby get some proper flavour into my mouth (whilst surreptitiously eyeing up her white anklesocks beneath her blue denim jean-hems, of course!)
Cleaner-mistress Julianna’s cheap, blue, low-top, lace-up sneakers have beige-coloured soles – so it may actually be that they taste equally as bland as the white slave-mush she feeds me; but I would nevertheless hope to be able to extract some mud and dirt from them (as I have been doing with deskmistress Barbara’s boots all day). And, say what you like about mud – at least it tastes bitter, which is better than tasting of nothing!
But this is all fantasy – bad-breathed, black-African mistress Julianna is not disposed to use me as a sneaker-footrest, even after her work is done of first force-feeding me; then roughly shaving me; then hastily vacuuming the dusty, office floor around me! She prefers to sit on my mistress Barbara’s swivel chair with her cutely sneakered and socked feet frustratingly up on the desk above my head – out of my sight but not out of my mind – whilst she engages in a lengthy, post-cleaning, telephone conversation, conducted in a mixture of Spanish and one of the Bantu languages, with one of her relatives abroad, using the office phone!
She then switches out the light before she leaves, leaving me alone in the dark; and in the floor.
Day Two
Thursday. A wet and windy day outside, by all accounts. That’s certainly what the office banter is all about above me as the office ladies, including my own deskmistress Barbara, arrive somewhat dishevelled for work!
Mind you, even without eavesdropping on the superior, female conversations above me, I know it’s been raining just as soon as my deskmistress Barbara places her booted feet on my face; the soles are dripping wet, and much muddier than yesterday! And they smell even mustier, if that’s possible? Surely there must be some tasty morsels trapped in these wet girlboot-treads today?
Try as I might, all I can find is mud! But at least there is a copious amount of it – so that will go some way to keeping my pathetic hunger pangs at bay!
To my surprise, my heavy breathing (engendered by the sexy sights and smells of my mistress Barbara’s dirty boots) soon dries out the muddy bootsoles above me, and most of the remaining dried mud has flaked off her boots and into my hair, mouth and eyes by lunchtime.
Her lunchtime, of course. Slaves don’t have lunchbreaks!
After her lunchbreak, therefore, I focus for the first time on her boots’ uppers (I’m saving her socks until tomorrow – my Friday treat!)
They are zip-up, black leather ankleboots, and I am continuously aware of the flapping, black metal zipper-pulls at the tops of both boots (on the outer sides) with every subliminal movement of my deskmistress Barbara’s boots over my face.
The black, felt zipper-track running all the way down the outer side of each boot also looks intriguing; a dirt and dust trap, I would say – and therefore a source of footslave-nutrition, if only my tongue could get to it! Typical me – always thinking about my empty stomach! (Mind you, the fact that my deskmistress Barbara’s stomach is so ‘fulsome’ doesn’t exactly help me to take my mind off food!)
How I envy those public footservants out on the streets who get to lickshine the surfaces of their customer-mistresses’ boots – not just the soles! They must surely be able to extract all kinds of nutrients from their customer-mistresses’ boot zipper-tracks? Not to mention the areas of streetdust-trapping stitching on the uppers?
Can you imagine being able to lickshine a pair of lady’s kneeboots? There must be so much to taste and consume – especially if those boots are splashed with dirty rainwater and mud on a wild and windy day like this!
But I digress – my deskmistress Barbara is not, after all, wearing kneeboots; she is wearing her usual ankleboots; and the uppers even of those are out of range of my tongue; some would say out of my league completely – for I am just a humble, human footrest and bootsole licker!
It might just be my fevered imagination, but miss Barbara’s boots seem to weigh much more heavily on my upturned face today, than they did yesterday. Is it just the extra moisture in them caused by the rainwater; or is she becoming more relaxed, and less considerate, when resting her booted feet on my face?
I hope it’s the latter – since I want my bootmistress to feel relaxed above me, and for my footrest-face to take the strain! From what I can tell my bootmistress Barbara works hard – and she deserves to have comfortable feet whilst she is seated at her office desk all day!
Day Three
Disaster! No mistress Barbara!
I hadn’t realised she was taking Friday off – so that she could have a relaxing, long weekend with her husband (even though she only started in this office mid-week!).
Maybe she’s part-time!
Oh, and I was so looking forward to studying her end-of-week socktops today!
Fortunately, another office mistress decides to ‘hotdesk’ today and occupy the vacant, naturally blonde miss Barbara’s seat. And disaster suddenly turns to success as the bleached-blonde, twenty-something, office mistress rests her feet on my angled face beneath the desk – for, not only are her feet larger than my ‘normal’ deskmistress’s feet (this young bleached-blonde woman is considerably taller than my rather short and squat mistress Barbara), they are also clad in black-office-sock-revealing, patent black leather loafers!
Not only shall I be able to see my pathetic, footrest-face in the sides of this young stranger’s shoes; I can see every crease and fold in the soft cotton material on the sides of her black anklesocks!
Whoopee! Result! I shall spend the whole day admiring female socks after all!
Of course, it’s not all good news; I have work to do as well! I must respectfully take the weight off the bleached-blonde girl’s loafered feet, and onto my face. Furthermore, she leans down under the desk and adjusts the angle of my upturned face, in order to compensate for her greater height, thereby placing my face at a lower angle, which in turn means that I probably won’t be able to see the elasticated tops of her plain, black anklesocks; only the sides. But you can’t have everything in life – not if you’re an adjustable footrest-slave you can’t, anyway!
And so, to begin with I lie motionless and perfectly still as the pretty, young, bleached-blonde intern-mistress – who, judging by her accent and broken English as she chats with the other office ladies high above me, is of East European origins – wipes her loafered feet on me and ‘tries me out for size’.
Unlike my regular deskmistress Barbara, she doesn’t deign to verbalise her footrest-requirements to me; but that’s fair enough. Like I said, I’m just a piece of lowly, female-office, male furniture; a thing looking up – and not worthy of engaging in conversation, or even just barking instructions at like my deskmistress Barbara kindly did on her first day!
Once the East European girl’s plain, black loafers settle down onto my readjusted face, I see, and feel, that her shoesoles are much smoother than the trellis-patterned soles of my deskmistress Barbara’s boots. I can confidently predict that miss bleached-blonde’s loafer soles (forgive me, but I don’t even know her name!) will not interfere with the red trellis-tracks on my face left by my regular deskmistress’s belligerent bootsoles!
The sheer size of the blonde girl’s loafer soles does cause me one or two problems initially, since they blot out my anticipated view of the sides of her black, officewear socks, but I’m pleased to report that, after a few minutes, she rests one of her loafered-feet – the left one – on the office floor next to my face, meaning that I can study her left sock close-up and personal out of the corner of my eye.
I have quite good footslave-eyesight – attuned to sock! So, I quickly get to make out the pattern in the East European girl’s mistress’s black sock-stitching – basically narrow and vertical lines of stitching, but with a broader, latticed row of vertical stitching every centimetre or so along the side of the sock.
I congratulate the designer and manufacturer of this female sock, for there is much for a humble footrest-slave to admire in it! And that’s even before we start to study the impromptu creases in the young lady’s sock – creases which, far from interrupting the vertical-stitched perpendicularity of her socks, seem to complement it, as they ‘go with the flow’!
Once again I am reminded of just how fortunate my public-footslave colleagues are out on the streets – how they can surreptitiously nuzzle such soft sock-creases on a lady’s foot and ankle as they ostensibly concentrate on lickshining the side of her shoe, whist distracting her with fawning and flattering conversation! I shall have no such luck, as a quick brush of my cheek against the side of her creased anklesock would just be too obvious – and likely to get my face kicked in by way of young-womanly retribution for my underdesk, bare-faced cheek!
No, the best I can hope for is that the bleached-blonde mistress herself will inadvertently brush her softly-socked anklebone against the side of my cheek whilst she subliminally moves her feet around my rigidly upright, footrest face!
Sadly, she doesn’t! Not once all day do I get to feel her sock! It seems I can look, but not touch! But, like I said before, footslave-beggars can’t be choosers (or words to that effect!)
If I wanted to be a professional sock-nuzzler I should have trained to be a public footservant out on the streets; but I failed my shoe and bootlick exams miserably, which is how I ended up as the lowest of the low – a common or garden, unskilled, office-desk footrest, fit only to help young, office-working women take the weight off their feet, and to divest their shoe and boot soles of dirty mud!
Speaking of which, this young, East European, blonde woman’s loafer shoesoles are frustratingly clean! It’s almost like she must have been walking on air! Admittedly, the rain of yesterday has gone – but her smooth, black leather, loafer soles simply don’t appear to pick up any street dirt or mud! So, all in all, despite the abundance of sock visible next to my face, I do prefer my regular deskmistress Barbara’s heavily-treaded bootsoles – no offence intended to the bleached-blonde, East-European girl seated above me! I’d much rather have some form of feminine footwear, even perfectly clean footwear, resting on my face than none at all; having no shoe-bottoms to look at just gets plain boring after a while; we human footrests are all programmed to look ‘upshoe’!
And speaking of boring, the office closes early on a Friday afternoon (as most offices do nowadays!). By 3 PM I am all but deserted, and the fresh smell of the bleached-blonde girl’s patent leather loafers, together with the sight of her workaday loafer soles, is only a recent memory – imprinted on my mind, if not on my face!
Once again, my final, female contact of the week is the bad-breathed, but pretty, African mistress Julianna as she crouches down to feed and shave me. This particular bowl of slave-mush will have to sate me for the entire weekend, since earlier in the week, as you know, I was unable to preserve my mistress Barbara’s boot-twigs in my mouth for subsequent consumption! It won’t, of course – sate me, I mean. For we male slaves are never fed enough by our female employers and owners in the Gynarchy; and nor should we be – for by rights females should be able to spend all their money on themselves; on new shoes and boots, for example – not on lowly pieces of male furniture like me!
Once again I catch only the faintest glimpse of miss Julianna’s ubiquitous, blue sneakers and white anklesocks as she dusts and vacuums around me – and then, like a whirlwind, she is gone. Like the other office ladies she has a nice house, and a freemale husband, to hurry home to. At the very least she has better things to do than hang around with a dumb footrest like me!
Once again, the office lights go out and then… silence!
And I lie in such stiff, abject silence for a further 60 hours or so, hungry and alone, until the early-bird office mistresses return to work first thing on Monday morning.
Sadly, my deskmistress Barbara is not amongst them – like I said, she is enjoying a long weekend with her manly husband; or perhaps she just works part-time? But, whatever the reason, her desk is empty on Monday – and frustratingly remains empty all day! No bleached-blonde, East-European intern’s loafers for my face to service today; just the boring sight of the wooden underside of mistress Barbara’s ordinary, office desk! It has the number ‘10’ imprinted on it in red ink.
I do hope my deskmistress Barbara deigns to return to work tomorrow – for the low angle at which the bleached-blonde intern had carelessly left my footrest-head has given me a painful crick in the back of my neck; I badly need my head readjusting back to the more comfortable 45 degree angle favoured by my short and stocky, deskmistress Barbara!
I hope she doesn’t blame me for the adjustment to her footrest upon her return from the loving bosom of her husband! For I do very much look up to her, if only via her dirty bootsoles!
