Footslave Accounts Volume 5
VOLUME 5 CONTENTS (scroll down for accounts in reverse numerical order)
10. A Good Sport?
9. All work, whips, and no play
8. Foot-Worship Booking Form
7. Better the whip you know!
6. The Slave as Foreplay
5. A Hard Bargain
4. A Moving Experience
3. Interview with a Sockslave
2. The Birthday (slave) boy
1. The Slow-Motion Bootkiss
My 22 year old, Czech mistress – goddess-mistress Milena – loves sports. All kinds of sports – participating in them; following them; watching them live in the stadium, or on TV.
She also has the athletic build for sport – being tall and slim; and gorgeous to look at with her, jet black hair, tied back in a fetching ponytail, and her pert little, turned up and somewhat snooty, feminine nose!
But I – being but her lowly, personal footslave – am forbidden, of course, to share in her passion for sport. Instead I must concentrate on her plain, white, lace-up, leather running sneakers, and plain white sports socks, beneath her white running-shorts as she limbers up for her regular, early-morning, training jog!
It's hard for me too, you know – having to keep up with a fit and fast, young Czech woman as she runs along the county lanes near where she lives, especially as I am obliged, by law, to crawl behind her to white-sneakered-heel over the painfully rough and stony terrain of the Gynarchy countryside; and especially as I am nothing like as young, or as fit, as my sporty, young Slav-mistress!
That's why I am well and truly relieved whenever my mistress Milena finally finishes her run, and returns to the county cottage she shares with her sports-trainer boyfriend in order to put her feet up and partake of some much-deserved breakfast.
She normally keeps her sneakers on whilst enjoying her shared breakfast of healthy muesli with her live-in boyfriend – embarrassed, no doubt, by the thought that her white-socked feet may be all moist and sweaty inside her still-hot running shoes, which would not make for a nice smell for her manly boyfriend to have to endure whilst he is eating his breakfast!
She would, needless to say, have no such Czech-girl compunctions about imposing her sweaty, white-sock smell on my footslave-nose whilst I am hungrily kneeling beside her feet underneath the country-breakfast table, but for the sake of her boyfriend, whom she respects and looks up to, she refrains from imposing her sweaty-sock smell on the ugly, male face of the other 'man' in her life, whom she despises and looks down i.e. on me – for the time being, at least!
So instead, I must content myself with admiring the lines of thick-ribbed, vertical stitching on the uppers of her plain white, full-length, cotton anklesocks as she tucks heartily into her nutritional breakfast above me, and with merely imagining how those Czech-girl, sporty socks must smell. Oh how I yearn to run my nose down the vertical lines in her socks – especially the creased ones – but not even my mistress Milena is that much of a good sport! She won't let me do anything intimate with her Czech feet or footwear which might make her boyfriend jealous – not that he strikes me as the sort of man who would wish to have his nose anywhere near a girl's sweaty, white running socks! But I suppose his female, Czech mate is right – any intimate gesture on my part, however demeaning, has the potential to inspire a fit of male-testosterone-fuelled jealousy in a fit and healthy, young man like the sporty master-sir!
That's why my mistress Milena won't even let me kiss her hot, white sneakers in her beloved boyfriend's presence!
I suppose you could argue that, in that regard, she's actually a bit of a spoil sport – rather than a good sport? But, then again, any attractive, young Czech woman who permits her lowly, personal footslave to lust quietly after her white sports-socks beneath the breakfast table she shares with her jealous and possessive, freemale boyfriend must, surely, be regarded as something of a good sport?
I like to think of myself as a hardworking and diligent, office footslave, but, sometimes, it seems, my best just isn't good enough for my demanding office-footmistresses and their employers.
Did you know, for example, that I am obliged by my employers to lickclean the dirty, female-office floors – including the restroom floor – every night after the female office workers have departed the building for the evening? And to taste the residue from the office ladies' dirty shoe and bootsoles after they have gone home to relax and unwind with their husbands and boyfriends? And all under the ever-watchful and belligerent eye of Indian, nightshift cleaner-mistress – miss Parveen!
No rest for the wicked, office footslave!
But nobody cares that I never get the chance to 'relax and unwind', since I'm just a dirty, male office-footslave at the very bottom of polite, female society. I am expected to work all the time, and to never have any time off – as befits a slave!
Furthermore, because I am a hardworking and diligent slave, I can never say no when it comes to taking on more work on behalf of the superior and indolent female.
Take this evening, for example. Just before she headed off home, sweet and kind office-mistress Henrietta stopped by my basement bootlicking-booth, which doubles up as my office, with some dirty boots she wanted me to lickshine overnight. She explained that she was due to go out line-dancing with her boyfriend the following evening, and that these were her prize-winning, line-dancing boots, and could I possibly lickshine them up for her so that they would look pleasing and sexy for her boyfriend?
I couldn't say no to office-mistress Henrietta for six main reasons:
- I'm a slave, and a slave must never say no to any order from a mistress – however degrading and demeaning it may be (under penalty of the female whip!)
- I have always had a soft spot for 24 year old miss Henrietta, as she is an averagely pretty, blonde girl who, somewhat unusually for a young woman in this day and age, wears her hair up in a bun, thereby putting her rather pointy, facial features into even sharper relief (if that's possible!). Also, she is always smiling – though never a friendly smile (at least not whenever she is talking to me!). Her smile is more of a smug and supercilious smile – the smile of a young woman who knows she has the power of whip pain or non-pain over the helpless and impotent, male footslave at her feet! And, speaking of her feet – I've always admired them and enjoyed kissing them, even though they tend to be clad in rather uninspiring, tan-coloured nylons with plain, blue suede loafers beneath her ubiquitous, navy-blue, trouser hems, precisely because they are the uninspiring, everyday, loafered feet of an averagely pretty girl! Her ankles don't exactly turn freemale heads!
- She also wears braces in her teeth, which cause her to speak with a slight lisp; I do so love being bossed about by a young woman with a fetching lisp!
- The line-dancing boots looked nice – brown leather, cowboy boots with fancy, patterned stitching on the uppers; chunky, dark, solid-looking, wooden heels; and stylishly chiselled toes. Furthermore, the humbling thought occurred to me that, since they are miss Henrietta's line-dancing boots, they must be relatively sweaty inside – as dancing is quite a strenuous exercise, and the mere thought of being able to smell the insides of miss Henrietta's boots whilst I will be lickshining them in her absence, thrilled me to the core, since it's not often an office-footslave gets to smell the insides of his female betters' footwear!
- She also has an intriguing habit of pausing before declaring her satisfaction, or dissatisfaction, with one's tongue-work on her office footwear – which is pure agony for the poor footslave, who is wondering whether or not she is going to have him whipped! And yet I truly admire miss Henrietta for her idiosyncratic, enigmatic pauses – for deliberately keeping a slave on tenterhooks; for such nonchalant, blonde-feminine, psychological cruelty is yet another demonstration of her absolute belief and self-confidence in her female power to either make, or break, a powerless, male footslave's day!
- Finally, she is an excellent whipstress – when she whips she whips to cut, and she cuts to hurt. No pussyfooting around on her part. A whip is for punishment, and punishment is meant to hurt. You've got to admire such sanguine cruelty in a sweet, young, seemingly demure, blonde woman!
And so, being such a pathetic admirer of the enigmatic miss Henrietta and her blue-suede, office loafers, I willingly took on the extra brown leather, cowboy-boot-licking, night work she so casually dropped my way – literally so, as she simply threw the dirty, brown calf-boots down onto the floor beneath my kneeling face before rushing off home to be with her future dancing partner. Lucky man, whoever he is!
And so, after I had once again done my night-time rounds and dutifully lickshined the female office floors on which my female, office betters, including the idiosyncratic miss Henrietta, had been walking all day (to the begrudging satisfaction of my ever vigilant, Indian cleaning-supervisor mistress, 40 year old miss Parveen), I found myself having to lickshine a pair of discarded, female cowboy boots in my ‘down’ time – albeit for the benefit and delectation of another man, miss Henrietta's boyfriend and line-dancing partner!
My tongue was exhausted after all my dirty-floor licking , but I still managed to do a good job on the fancily-stitched, feminine cowboy boots, even if I do say so myself! And I have to say so myself, for my night-time supervisor mistress, miss Parveen, would never go so far as to express out loud any satisfaction with my work; she only shouts at me when I displease her!
The brown leather calf-boots, as I had fully anticipated, did reek of miss Henrietta's saturated, dancing-feet DNA. So I, eventually, went to sleep happy – my nasal passage full of her inner cowboy-boot smell, and fully confident that miss Henrietta would be pleased with my late-night, extracurricular efforts on her boots, so that she would, as a consequence, feel strong and sexy for her boyfriend the following evening in her newly lick-polished, brown leather, cowgirl boots!
When she smilingly came to pick them up the following morning, she examined them ultra closely and – as she is wont to do; then paused for a few agonising seconds, before lispingly declaring that she was, indeed, satisfied with my humble bootlicking efforts, and graciously thanking me.
Ha! Ha! Bet you weren't expecting that – a footslave story with a happy ending? You thought she was going to find fault with my tongue-work and have me whipped, didn't you? Ha! Ha!
Life isn't all work, whips and no play for a slave, you know – despite what I said earlier!
The following is a completed booking form used by a customer-mistress to pre-book her personal foot-worship session in my private footbooth:
Proposed date of foot-worship session: 1st Julia, 2015
Proposed start time: 3 PM
Name: Mistress Suzannah
Age: 23
Ethnicity: White European
Physical Attributes: Slim; blonde; petite
Feminine Personality Traits: Intelligent; petulant; demanding
Preferred age of footslave: 55+
Type of footwear to be worn: Black leather ballet-flats and black anklesocks with red logos on the sides
Length of session required: At least two and a half hours
Specific foot-services required (please go into as much detail as possible; use additional sheet if necessary): I require the aged footslave to worship my ballet-flats and socks. He will begin by kissing my black leather ballet-flats for 15 minutes (alternating between each shoe-toe); after 15 minutes he must turn his attentions to kissing my black, cotton anklesocks – again for 15 minutes, and alternating between each sock. However, whilst worshipping my socks he must make sure to also alternate between kissing the black areas of my socks, over the toe-cleavage areas, and the little, red, designer logos on the sides of my socks, over my anklebones.
He must then spend the following 15 minutes smelling the outside of my right ballet-flat – with audible sniffs, but without his nose actually touching my soft shoeleather; after which he must spend a similar amount of time sniffing my left ballet-flat. He must then sniff each of my socks in turn – for a full 15 minutes on each sock – though only the uppers of my socks at this point. During this time I shall expect him to sniff both the black areas of my upper anklesocks and the red logos, but his nose shall not be permitted to touch my socks at this stage.
I then require him to respectfully remove my black leather ballet-flats from my feet in order to nuzzle my socks from top to toe, beginning with my right sock before moving on to my left – again, 15 minutes on each sock. During the nuzzling process the slave must concentrate on running his nose along any sock creases.
Finally, he must touch-sniff the whole of my socks for 15 minutes on each sock beginning with my left sock. I expect him, however, to concentrate this time on the sweatiest areas of my black socks – around my toes, insteps and soles.
The elderly slave will then conclude my foot-worship session by kissing each of my socks ten times, alternately, before putting my ballet-flats back on my feet and then kissing each shoe-toe 10 times, again alternately.
Required demeanour of the slave during said foot-worship session: I shall require the slave to be totally silent apart from his audible sniffing of my socks; and when he is nuzzling my socks – at which point he is permitted to whine like a dog.
Will the mistress be using her female whip during her foot-worship session? Yes
Will the mistress require the whole booth to be lit, or just the area surrounding her feet? Just the area surrounding my feet.
Any other comments/requirements: The dirty, male slave must avoid touching my bare foot or ankle skin with his nose or lips at all costs. If he touches my skin I shall have him arrested and charged with assault. In addition to audibly sniffing my shoes and socks, and whining whilst he is nuzzling my socks, he may gasp with pain at the blows of my whip. But other than that he must not make a sound. He is forbidden to talk to me, even to beg for my sweet feminine mercy.
So there you have it – a pre-booked footbooth session with clear, female instructions; I do like a blonde customer-mistress who knows her own sweet, feminine mind!
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My mistress Gulnar’s feisty and headstrong, 19 year old niece – the beautiful miss Zaina – has come to stay for the weekend, and her aunt is keen for her to look her best as she takes her out for a meal in a posh, local restaurant this evening – to celebrate miss Zaina’s admission to Female University!
My 50 year old, traditionally-headscarfed, widow-mistress Gulnar calls me into the living room whilst her unheadscarfed niece gets changed for the evening event upstairs in the opulent guest-bedroom (my Pakistani mistress, and her niece, are both from very wealthy families!):
‘Dirty, male feetslave…,’ (that’s my slave-name in this Pakistani-widow household) ‘… be getting your fat, ugly carcass up to the guest-bedroom this instant, isn’t it? And be helping miss Zaina to get dressed! Be making damn well sure that she is choosing to wear a nice dress and a stylish pair of high-heeled shoes, and not her scruffy old jeans and sneakers, isn’t it? We are being going to a very posh restaurant tonight, and I am wanting my niece to be looking her very best! If you are failing in this task you will be being sorely whipped on your bare back! Am I making myself clear, dirty feetslave?’
‘Yes, mistress Gulnar. Thank you mistress Gulnar, madam. Your orders are perfectly clear to this dirty, male slave, clean and pure goddess-mistress Gulnar madam!’
I then, somewhat ironically, am obliged to kiss the ‘scruffy old’, soft black leather house-slippers, and plain black, bobbled anklesocks, of my salwar-kameez wearing, middle-aged Pakistani mistress; presumably she hasn’t seen fit to get changed yet herself into a fashionable outfit and stylish shoes in readiness for her evening out with her niece!
Scruffy and flaky, unappealing, black leather house-slippers and bobbled socks of a middle-aged, Pakistani widow-woman they may be, but I crawl away from them, and up the stairs towards the guest bedroom, with a considerable degree of footslavish fear and trepidation, as I have already experienced the righteous, young-womanly indignation of the terribly spoilt miss Zaina in the form of several harsh, girl-slaps to my humbly kneeling and bowed, elderly-footslave face, as I had kissed her grubby-white-sneakered feet in slavish greeting as she disembarked earlier on from the train carriage (I apparently upset her by not kissing her feet lingeringly enough – the way she thought an ugly, old feetslave should kiss the feet of a superior, young Pakistani woman who is in her absolute prime of physical beauty! But I actually had deliberately desisted from lingering with my elderly footslave-lips on her scuffmarked, white sneaker-toes out of respect for her young-maidenly modesty! You can’t win – if you’re a slave!)
And now – I’m to be alone with petulant miss Zaina in the guest-bedroom! Oh woe is me!
I enter the room, in fear and trembling, on my hands and knees and approach the bedside cabinet where miss Zaina is seated with her back to me, combing her long and fully exposed, shiny, black hair.
She hears my elderly bones creaking with fear, and turns round to see what manner of creepy-crawly has dared to enter her bedroom unbidden:
‘Tch! Oh it’s you, dirty male feetslave! Doesn’t my auntie require you to knock before entering a lady’s room, foot-flunkey?’
Even though she is still dressed in her, admittedly scruffy, blue denim jeans and pink and white, casual T-shirt, the clearly bright and intelligent, young Pakistani woman (for she has won a place at Female University to study to be a beautician) looks the business as she glares down at me disapprovingly, as if I were something nasty and smelly stuck to the sole of one of her grubby, white sneakers.
Actually, her sneakers are not pure grubby-white; they have pink flashes down the sides – to match her pink T-shirt, presumably . I can study the sneakers quite closely now as they are lying in an untidy heap on the bedroom floor where she has kicked them off (she is currently barefoot whilst preening herself at the dressing table). I particularly like the way the discarded sneakers are blackened and discoloured on the insides from her persistent, Pakistani-girl foot-perspiration, and that makes me wonder if she ever bothers to wear socks with her sneakers?
One thing’s for certain – her aunt Gulnar doesn’t want her wearing sneakers and socks, or jeans and a T-shirt, tonight, so I must seek to ingratiate myself with this moody and immodest, young Muslim miss to the point where she will take my elderly-maleslave advice and change into something more suitable for an evening meal, in a swanky restaurant, in the company of her somewhat snobbish and stuck-up aunt!
I audaciously crawl forward and cup the young, liberated, Pakistani woman’s right, bare, brown-skinned foot in my feetslave-hands, and gently kiss the deliciously pink-pedicured, big toenail:
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Zaina, if it pleases you, young goddess-mistress Zaina, please forgive my unannounced intrusion into your private boudoir, most beautiful and magnanimous goddess-mistress Zaina, but your aunt Gulnar, my mistress, has ordered me to assist the young mistress with her preparations for her evening out with her aunt, if you would be so kind and understanding, miss Zaina? Perhaps the feetslave may be of assistance in connection with the young mistress’s selection of footwear to go with her nice, evening dress, if it would be so pleasing to you beautiful goddess-mistress Zaina?’
I then make to cup her left foot in my sweating slave-hands, so that I may lingeringly, but respectfully, kiss its soft, brown, 19 year old, pedicured smoothness also, but miss Zaina is having none of it! She abruptly withdraws her pretty, Pakistani-girl foot from my hands and raises her shrill, 19 year old, Pakistani-girl voice to me:
‘WHAT DRESS, YOU STUPID, OLD SLAVE-FOOL? I AM NOT WEARING A DRESS TO GO OUT THIS EVENING! I AM BEING PERFECTLY CONTENT TO BE WEARING MY JEANS AND THIS T-SHIRT ISN’T IT, YOU IGNORANT, OLD FEETSLAVE-FOOL?’
Mindful of the severe whipping that awaits me if I fail to persuade this stubborn and ill-tempered, young woman to get changed into something more suitable, I feel I have no choice but to persist with my pathetic attempts at persuading a superior, young, Pakistani goddess to comply with her staid aunt’s dress-code wishes for the evening. I go for the ‘sweet-young-womanly, sympathy vote’, and look up at the angry, young mistress with my well-practised, slavishly coy eyes:
‘Oh pray, mistress Zaina…Oh pray!...Pray listen to your aunt’s wishes and have mercy on me, young mistress. For your aunt has said I shall be most sorely whipped on my bare back if I do not assist you with the selection of your smart, evening dress and matching, high-heeled shoes, mistress – shoes which will make you truly irresistible and desirable to every free man who sets eyes on your great beauty tonight, if it would be so pleasing to you goddess-mistress Zaina?’
‘HAH! I AM NOT GIVING TWO FIGS ABOUT YOUR BACK BEING WHIPPED, DIRTY FEETSLAVE! AND BESIDES, I AM ALREADY BEING IRRESISTIBLE AND DESIRABLE EVEN WHEN I AM WEARING MY SCRUFFY OLD JEANS AND SNEAKERS, ISN’T IT SLAVE?’
‘Oh yes indeed, mistress Zaina… truly you look like a blue-jeaned goddess sent down from the heavens above , beautiful mistress Zaina, but…’
‘NO BUTS, FEETSLAVE! I AM NOT CHANGING OUT OF MY JEANS AND T-SHIRT! NOW, IF YOU WANT TO BE MAKING YOURSELF USEFUL, BE PUTTING MY SNEAKERS BACK ONTO MY FEET AND LACING THEM UP, ISN’T IT? AND BE DAMNED QUICK ABOUT IT, OR I WILL BE WHIPPING YOU ON YOUR BARE BACK MYSELF ISN’T IT? YOU DAMNED IGNORANT FEETSLAVE-COOLIE!’
Oh, why does she have to SHOUT so much?! I get the message – the young lady’s not for changing!
I have no choice but to quakingly obey – and to apply her still warm and sweat-dampened, pink and white, lace-up, low-top sneakers to her unwashed, bare, brown feet with humility and resignation; she won’t even wear socks with her scruffy, perspiration-laden sneakers! What an untidy and slovenly, young woman she is!
And yet – as I have already had to verbally acknowledge to her – she is still an absolute goddess to look at; irresistible and desirable, even to a withered old footslave like me; especially when she’s angry!
I’ll bet she really knows how to whip a slave!
Speaking of which, I shall most assuredly be sorely whipped by miss Zaina’s aunt later on this evening for her niece’s perceived slovenly appearance. But, better the whip you know!
My master-sir – master-sir Robert – has just picked up a young lady in a bar, and has wickedly brought her back to his flat for a quick 'shag'. He has temporarily left the bedroom in order to have a 'quick shit and a shower' as he himself so delicately puts it, leaving me alone with his bemused, young ladyfriend, and under strict instructions to 'get her in the mood' (by which he means in the mood to be ‘humped’ by him) which I am endeavouring to do by dutifully tonguelicking her dirty, black leather ankleboots beneath the slightly raised hems of her cheap, black polyester trouser-legs as she is seated, smoking a fag, on the edge of the master-sir's as yet still empty bed.
My humble bootlicking efforts look to be having the desired effect, as the blonde-ponytailed, young woman, who looks to be in her early to mid twenties (my master-sir is in his late forties!), is clearly starting to feel horny. She glances down at me as I lickshine her dirty street-boots, and asks me a pertinent question after taking another long and languorous drag on her air-polluting, female cigarette:
'I hope your master has a nice, big, juicy cock, slave – for I sure am gaggin’ for it tonite, yeah?'
She sounds American, and delightfully slutty with it! I'll swear she even deliberately and unashamedly hitches up the hem of her right, polyester trouser-leg just to give me a furtive glimpse of her slutty, pink bootsock inside her short, right ankleboot!
But I mustn't be sidetracked by her pleasingly pink sock – I must continue to diligently lickshine the outside of her dirty boot, whilst at the same time reassuring the mistress as to the size and girth of my master's penis (which I have been obliged to observe entering young women's vaginas on many previous occasions, as my esteemed master-sir loves to have sex on an almost nightly basis with lots of different girls!)
I have to confess, I don't much mind my master-sir's profligate lifestyle, since his licentiousness and promiscuity means I get to lick lots of young ladies' different shoes and boots every night!
So, let the fawning and flattery begin:
'Oh pray, pretty mistress...bootlick...bootlick... if it pleases you, pretty blonde mistress... bootlick ...bootlick... truly this slave can attest to the most esteemed, young mistress-madam ...bootlick ...bootlick... that his master's penis is indeed thick-girthed, mistress ...bootlick...bootlick... and will most assuredly satisfy the mistress's libidinous yearnings ...bootlick...bootlick... if you would be so kind and understanding to a down-in-the-carpet-dirt, bootlicking footslave, madam?'
She takes yet another ungainly drag from her phallic lady-cigarette, and her right ankleboot simultaneously swivels in the air in front of my kneeling face with young-womanly laughter, causing her pale pink socktop to crease and fold most enticingly as I hypnotically stare at its undeniable, sullied-pink beauty:
'Ha! Ha! How do you know whether or not your master's cock feels satisfying, slave? Have you had it inside you or something, gay-boy slave? Ha! Ha!'
I immediately seek to reassure the blonde-ponytailed mistress that neither I, not the master-sir, is gay, and that my confidence in the master's bodily ability to satisfy her sexually is based purely on my involuntary, visual observations of his mighty weapon in action! The mistress must surely realise anyway that, being a slave, I'm not permitted to have a sexuality; by law, I am an asexual being, and quite impotent – if not literally so, then figuratively so, since I am kept by my master-sir in a state of permanent, abject bondage, including my maleslave penis-restrainer!
I am a mere foreplay sex-toy whom my magnificently promiscuous master-sir casually uses to 'warm up' his ladyfriends before bringing them to a shuddering orgasm, as only a real man like him can do!
Again I flatter and fawn before the sardonic floozie:
'Oh pray, mistress!... bootlick...bootlick... Oh no, mistress! ...bootlick...bootlick... Not at all, blonde mistress, if it pleases you, beautiful blonde mistress? ...bootlick...bootlick... My master-sir is 100% heterosexual, mistress...bootlick...bootlick... as am I, mistress… bootlick…bootlick…bootlick… if it pleases you, mistress...bootlick...bootlick... It's just that this slave has had occasion to witness the magnificence of his master's penis in action on many previous occasions mistress ...bootlick ...bootlick... since the master is a true stud and a hero, mistress ...bootlick ... bootlick...bootlick…'
Again she smokes and laughs, both her expelled smoke and her expelled laughter enveloping me as I kneel humbly with my face and mouth almost glued with footslavish unctuousness to her dirty, fully-zipped-up, but swivelling with pleasure, black leather ankleboot:
'Ha! Ha! Don't worry, slave – I can see that the only queer thing about you is your fascination with my girly, pink sock inside my boot! Ha! Ha! Here – you can sniff the top of it, if you like, sock-queer loser?'
Well, I'd have said 'sock-queer winner', actually, since sniffing the top of a blonde floozie’s pink bootsock, whilst she is still wearing it inside her black leather ankleboot, is a prize many a footslave would die for!
Furthermore, the very next thing the disparaging, blonde mistress does is to order me to help her get undressed for the master-sir, by unzipping and taking off her black ankleboots and pink socks, prior to her stripping herself completely naked in my kneeling, quaking presence!
And so, I not only get to see and smell her unprotected socks as she readies herself for unprotected sex – I get to feel their feminine-pink sweatiness in my footslave fingers as I respectfully pull them off her perspiringly warm feet!
Ok, so the naked, blonde wearer of the socks totally despises me, clearly seeing me as nothing more than a limp-penised, pink-sock-sniffing queer who is under the ignominious yoke of another man, and therefore unworthy even to suck on her sticky, black toejam inside her socks – but I am nevertheless deemed worthy enough to remove her sweaty, pink anklesocks from her blonde-girl feet, prior to her having full sexual intercourse with the real man above me, and to then admire and sniff those discarded, pink girlboot-socks in the corner of the master-bedroom, concentrating on the yellowish-brown, sweat-stained areas on the soles of the socks, whilst their slutty owner makes wild, passionate love to my equally dissolute, lawful owner – master-sir Robert – high above me in his gay-bachelor bed!
That'll do for me!
Regular customer-mistresses – investment banker miss Amber – has me exactly where she wants me, which is down on my hands and knees and at her complete and utter mercy as I service her business-smart feet and footwear on my sleazy, backstreet, and somewhat isolated, public-shoelick stall, just around the corner from her plush, bank headquarters.
It's not that she is a particularly cruel, successful young woman – quite the opposite; she is always very calm and collected in her backstreet dealings with me! It's more a case of her realising that I am totally besotted by her – a pathetic, backstreet, public footslave in love, so to speak – and that as a consequence she can wrap me around her expensive little toe (again, so to speak!)
But just look at her and you can surely understand why I am totally smitten – she’s young (mid twenties); buxom and portly, with long, black curly hair; mixed race (English and Azerbaijani, I believe); and always smartly-dressed in her grey-pinstriped trouser suit, with bootcut trousers and a fetching pair of black leather, wedge-heeled, slightly scuffmarked, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots – the kind I adore! I mean, what footslave worth his salt wouldn't want to be with the scuffmarked, designer officewear-boots of such an exotic and plump, self-assured, rich and powerful, but backstreet-frequenting, businesswoman goddess?
Unusually for a backstreet shoelick, my stall is of the 'sit-down' variety (a result of the fact that it is nonetheless located in the busy, upmarket, financial district of the city), and so I have the inestimable honour of watching Azerbaijani miss Amber's scuffmarked, wedge-heeled boots climbing up into the seat of power above me directly in front of my kneeling face every time she pops by to have her dirty boots attended to by my eager and wiling, backstreet mouth!
This evening, however, as she settles her wedge-heeled, street-dustied and scuffmarked, black-leather- anklebooted feet onto the two metal footrests in front of my face, she has an unusual proposal for me. As I automatically start to lickshine her rounded boot-toes as per usual, she leans forwards in her raised chair and whispers seductively into my slavishly obedient, and besotted, ear (though she has no need to whisper, since there is nobody else about in this alleyway to overhear her semi-indecent proposal):
'Slave, I've got a favour to ask of you! I'm going to bring my new banker-boyfriend with me to meet you tomorrow evening, and when I order you to lickshine my dirty boots I want you to say "no thank you, mistress! You appear to have trodden in something smelly and nasty, and I'd rather not touch your boots with my mouth, if it’s all the same with you, fat mistress?” But don't worry, slave – I'm not going to have you arrested for being impudent! I just want to make my boyfriend all angry so that he'll protect my honour and beat the living daylights out of you, making him feel strong and macho, and hopefully that will fire him up to make mad, passionate love to me. For he seems to be having a bit of trouble in the bedroom department, if you know what I mean? And I could really do with a good, hard shag! Do you understand me, slave?'
Of course I understand the sexy, part-Azeri mistress! It is only right and proper that a beautiful, young woman like her should have an active sex-life! I only wish I were in a position to have sex with her myself! But, if I can at least do the next best thing – which is to inspire her apparently limp-dicked boyfriend into satisfying her young-womanly, libidinous cravings – then I will be only too happy to be of humble service to this bright, young woman!
I tell mistress Amber as much – whilst continuing to dutifully lickshine her dirty, office boots, of course!
I should make it perfectly clear, that I would never, in reality, decline to touch her glorious street-soiled boots with my unworthy slave-mouth, no matter how dirty and disgusting they were! But if she wants to play games, and order me to refuse to lick her boots, who am I to object?
'Oh pray, mistress Amber...lick...lick... if it pleases you, goddess-mistress Amber...lick...lick...truly this slave will be happy to oblige the mistress...lick...lick...and to do as she asks, mistress...lick...lick... if it helps the beautiful mistress to find love, mistress...lick...lick...even though it goes against the grain mistress...lick...lick...lick...since this slave would in fact be honoured to lick the mistress's smelly, soiled ankleboots, madam...lick...lick...if it pleases you madam...lick...lick...lick...'
I don't know why I'm whispering back to her, since I'm pathetically proud to declare my love for her dirty boots – whatever she may or may not have trodden in – for the whole, wide world to hear (not that there is anyone else about at present, as I said!)
She laughs at me, as well she might – the footslave-cuckold – and leans down even further forwards in order to sexily hitch up the hem of her right, grey-pinstriped, office-trouser leg, thereby giving me an exciting, forbidden glimpse of the very top of her plain black, ankle-length bootsock inside her upper ankleboot-rim; a black cotton, elasticated socktop which contrasts so sweetly with her dusky and smooth, mixed-race, lower legskin!
'Ha! Ha! Good slave! That's the spirit! Ha! Ha! ... You see this sock? Well, to compensate you for getting beat up, and for taking my boyfriend’s wrath on the chin, I'll let you unzip the side of my boot and sniff my sock the next time I see you – if my boyfriend manages to get a hard on and satisfies me in bed! Ha! Ha! What do you think of that, slave-boy?'
My jaw drops! An offer to sniff miss Amber's sweaty, black sock – whilst she is still wearing it on her mixed-race foot inside her warm, black ankleboot! Truly my footslave-cup runneth over! That's got to be worth a severe beating-up at the hands of her belligerent banker-boyfriend!
'Oh pray, mistress Amber...Oh pray! Oh your sock, mistress!....Oh pray, mistress Amber, truly the mistress is kind and generous to her backstreet-bootlick, mistress!'
I kiss her rounded, scuffmarked boot-toes in undying gratitude and love – especially the one with the exposed, black socktop above it!
She continues to laugh at me, and exults in her absolute, female power over me as she relaxes back into her chair of power.
..............................................................................................
Miss Amber did bring her boyfriend to see me the following evening; and I did do as I was told – I politely, but firmly, declined to lickshine her dirty, unpolished boot on account of its supposed smelliness; and her boyfriend did, as a consequence, get mad; and he did beat me up – with many kicks and punches to my defenceless face; and it did have the desired effect on him – he did get all fired-up, and whisked my exotic customer-mistress Amber off to her upmarket apartment to make powerful and manly love to her, leaving me alone, sore and bloodied in the grimy, backstreet alleyway where I belong!
But, she never did return to offer me a compensatory sniff of her plain, black bootsock! In fact, I never saw her again, although she kindly sent me a saucy postcard containing an intimate picture of herself and her reinvigorated boyfriend making love on some exotic, foreign beach somewhere.
On the back of the postcard it simply read:
'Having a lovely time! Glad you're not here! Ha! Ha! Loser-slave!'
At least goddess-mistress Amber appears to have genuinely forgiven me for refusing to lickshine her dirty boots on that fateful evening, for the dreaded Female Police still haven't come for me!
To that extent, at any bank rate, she had kept her part of the hard bargain!
I have just been moved – moved to a new office in my humble capacity as an ornamental footkisser.
I must now get to know, and respect, all the feet and footwear of my new office-mistresses, and learn how they each like to have their feet kissed as they enter or exit the room:
- Some may like a single, curt kiss to their outstretched shoe-toe; others will prefer multiple and/or more languorous footkisses
- Some may prefer to have their insteps, uppers, or even heels kissed – rather than their boot or shoe toes
- Some may prefer to feel my lips on their intimate socks, nylons or bare footflesh (as opposed to any part of their outer shoe or boot leather)
- Some may like a different thing every day, depending on their mood – and shall expect me to know what they want through their ‘foot-language’ i.e. the way they present their feet to me for kissing (for I am absolutely forbidden to talk to them, and they to me, since I am a mere ‘ornamental’ footkisser – and thus considered a dumb piece of office-furniture!)
The first signs are encouraging – there seem to be a goodly amount of pretty ladies coming and going continuously from the office. Thus far this morning it has been my privilege to kiss:
- The shiny black, kitten-heeled, double-strapped, mary-jane-style office shoes, beneath plain black cotton trouser-hems, of the otherwise barefooted boss-woman – an easy-on-the-eye, thirty-something, slim and slender, ginger-haired woman. She seems to go for the single kiss to the rounded shoe-toe, though I notice her bare foot-veins pulsate with involuntary delight at my act of humble obeisance towards her. Still, a redhead not to be messed with – I would guess;
- The thick, grey, woollen tights of a petite and fragile-looking, twenty-something Indian girl. She is wearing thick, grey, woolly tights beneath her knee-length skirt, I presume out of a sense of modesty, for it is a warm and sunny day outside! I kiss the thick, office tights just above the rim of her plain black leather ballet-flats, purely because there is so much woolly tight on offer, and she had presented each dainty foot to me at a slight angle, which I took to be an unspoken invitation for my ornamental-footslave lips to touch her woolly-tighted foot (correctly so, it would appear – since the Indian girl raised no objections, and, indeed, came back for more; several times!)
- The bare, unpainted, chubby toes of a flip-flops wearing, slightly podgy – and very loud – blonde woman in her early forties. Her pasty-white feet were quite greasy on the lip, and there was a faint aroma of unwashed foot about her sweat-stained flip-flops. But I liked the way the long, ankle-length hem of her flower-power, summer dress brushed against my ornamental forehead as my face reached out to her middle-aged, hippy-chick feet
- The broad, rounded toe-area of a heavy pair of reinforced, black-leather, laced-up ankleboots, being worn by a navy-blue-trousered, uniformed, female security guard. She herself was quite black and petite, but the oversized boots made her look bigger and stronger than she actually was. Pleasingly, she took the time to hitch up each outstretched, navy-blue-uniform trouser hem, meaning that I got to see the somewhat twisted, elasticated tops of her black, ankle-length bootsocks as I made my way down to her boot-toes.
- The shapely-ankle-accentuating, navy-blue pumps of a blonde-bimbo-type girl with long, flaxen hair, and a short, navy-blue miniskirt. Her shapely, blonde anklebones – covered in a delicious sheen of finest-denier, tan-nylon stocking – were just crying out to be kissed! But I thought I had better not, since the ankles were not invitingly turned towards me; only the pointy-toes of her shoes were directed towards my prostrate slave-mouth, so it was fairly obvious that her ankles were reserved for the lecherous kisses of her lucky, freemale boyfriend (for a stunning girl like this is sure to be courting?)
- Above all, however, I had the extreme joy of kissing the manky, grey and pink, zigzag- patterned, angular sneaker socks of a plain-black-suede-leather-loafer-wearing, Filipina cleaner-mistress. The twenty-something, pint-sized Filipina girl seemed to have no compunction whatsoever about imposing the grey and pink, zigzagged sides of her manky and bobbled cotton anklesocks on my mouth as soon as she entered the room, as evidenced by her twisting of her pretty Filipina feet around at the shapely ankles out towards my lips, and her brushing of her short sock-sides up against my politely puckered lips. The socks disappeared completely down the backs of her soft, brown, Filipina heel-tendons, and, as I fervently kissed her on each rough and bobbled sock-side, I could not help but admire the contrasting smoothness of her partially exposed, pale brown, outer anklebones (each only half-covered by the stretched elastic at the top of her grey and manky sock) beneath the dusty, black cotton, elasticated hems of her cheap, ankle-length leggings. Having kissed the Filipina girl’s socks, I then had the indignity of having to watch those same socks creasing and folding before my very eyes as she manoeuvred the vacuum cleaner back and forth across the office carpet in front of my face. I felt quite moved by the movement in her socks, and wanted to kiss them again and again. But she was too preoccupied in engaging in friendly, office banter with the other office ladies to even remember to stop and have her socks kissed on her eventual egress from the room.
Unfortunately, I cannot follow her shoes and socks out of the room, for an ornamental footslave shall not be moved! Well, certainly not twice in one day! I am here to stay, for as long as my female owners decide I should stay and kiss feet in this place. I was a full 23 years in my previous, ornamental-footslave position; thus far I’ve only been in position for 23 minutes in this new office!
Yes, I shall not be moved any time soon; but each and every one of these new female feet shall be repeatedly moving around in front of my face, and occasionally stopping for a quick footkiss; including those well-worn, grey and pink sneaker socks!
So perhaps I don’t even want to be moved again?
The blonde-haired, twenty-something, female journalist, who is wearing a businesslike, grey-pinstriped trouser suit and chunky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots – but whose, presumably dark, socks are hidden beneath her trouser-hems despite her being seated on a high stool with her right leg dominantly crossed over her left, and despite her right booted foot swivelling in the air directly in front of the kneeling sockslave-interviewee’s face – is putting a series of pertinent questions to her the lowly, male creature at her booted feet, and noting down his grovelling replies in her journalist’s notebook:
‘So, slave. Describe your sockmistress to me.’
‘Oh pray, madam journalist, if it pleases you most respected madam journalist, this slave’s personal sockmistress is a beautiful, 45 year old, Indian lady, if you would be so kind and understanding to a humble sockservant, mistress-madam?’
‘And what is her name, sockservant?’
‘Oh pray, madam journalist, if it pleases you most glorious madam journalist, my sockmistress’s name is madam ‘Aruna’, mistress.’
‘I see. And what is her profession, slave?’
‘Oh pray, madam journalist, this slave’s beloved sockmistress works as an office cleaner, most respected and erudite madam-journalist, miss.’
‘I see. And is your personal sockmistress married, slave?’
‘Oh yes, madam journalist – and happily so, madam; to a most magnificent and brilliant man, madam journalist, if I may say so, respected madam journalist?’
‘You may, slave! And tell me, what sort of clothes does your Indian mistress wear to work?’
‘Oh pray madam, if it pleases you madam, my madam Aruna wears ordinary, black denim jeans; low-top, white, lace-up leather sneakers; and a bright green tabard to work, madam.’
‘And her socks? What sort of socks does your Indian sockmistress wear on her feet, sockslave?’
‘Oh pray mistress! Oh my mistress’s socks, mistress! Oh madam – my glorious mistress likes to wear stunning, short, red and grey patterned sneaker-socks inside her plain, white, lace-up sneakers, most glorious and understanding journalist-mistress madam!’
The mere mention of socks has clearly got the pathetic sockslave all of a fluster – much to the wry amusement of the intelligent, young journalist-mistress!
‘Ha! Ha! I see! How wonderful for you, sockslave!’ she comments, mockingly. But, tell me, you mentioned that they were short, ‘sneaker-style’ socks that your mistress Aruna wears on her feet? Doesn’t that mean that you only get to view the very tops of her grey and red socks, just above her white sneaker-rims?’
‘Yes and no, mistress, if you will forgive me mistress? My sockmistress Aruna likes to wear her socks at an angle, mistress, so that her socks barely cover her shapely, brown-skinned anklebones, mistress-madam, and disappear altogether down the backs of her white leather sneaker-heels, madam, but are nonetheless fairly substantive towards the fronts of her ankles, mistress! Oh my mistress’s socks, mistress! Oh, her socks!’
‘Calm down, sockslave! For God’s sake, it’s only a common-or-garden pair of sneaker-socks we’re talking about! God, you’re pathetic!’
‘Yes, mistress-journalist! Sorry, journalist-mistress!’
‘So, presumably your mistress’s socks are not visible when she’s standing still, since her jean-hems would cover the upper rims of her low-top sneakers?’
‘Yes, mistress. Indeed, mistress! I can only yearn for a glimpse of my Indian mistress’s socks when she is standing still, mistress – though sometimes, when she is standing still and chatting to one of her fellow cleaner-friends, she subconsciously moves one of her feet slightly forwards, mistress, and I then get to see a tiny slither of her grey and red, cotton sock along her shapely, Indian instep, mistress!’
‘Mmm… but I’m guessing that the majority of your sock-sightings come either whilst you are crawling behind your cleaner-mistress to heel as she is walking along, or whilst she is seated, slave? Is that right?’
‘Yes, clever mistress; you are quite correct, intelligent and well-read, journalist mistress! Those are the two occasions on which I get to see most of my mistress Aruna’s grey and red sneaker-socks beneath her dusty, black denim jean-hems, mistress.’
‘And are your mistress’s socks generally dusty too, slave?’
‘Yes, mistress, if it pleases you journalist-mistress, since my mistress’s socks are sweaty, madam, and the dust therefore tends to stick to the outside of them, mistress!’
‘I see. So, what are you expected to do about your mistress’s sock-dust then, sockslave?’
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you most magnificent journalist mistress, this slave is obliged to mouth-vacuum the dust off the outer surfaces of his mistress’s grey and red socks, madam, whilst the mistress is still wearing her socks and sneakers, madam, but only after he has received explicit permission from his Indian sockmistress to do so, if it pleases you mistress journalist-mistress.’
‘And what would happen to you if you acted without your mistress’s explicit permission to mouth-vacuum her dirty socks, slave?’
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, I would be soundly whipped mistress!’
‘Ha! Ha! And do you fear the whip, slave?’
‘Oh yes mistress! I am a cowardly sockslave, mistress!’
‘Ha! Ha! Would you like to see the tops of my socks, slave, inside my boots?’
The slave becomes apoplectic with excitement:
‘Oh mistress! Oh pretty mistress! Oh pity pray, mistress! Oh yes please mistress!’
She reaches down to hitch up the hem of her right, grey-pinstriped, trouser leg:
‘OK, slave! You may look; but you may not touch! Comprendez?’
‘Oh yes, mistress! Oh, God bless you mistress!’
The blonde journalist-mistress knowingly reveals a slither of black, elasticated-cotton sockrim, set against the backdrop of her soft, white, upper-ankle skin, to the kneeling, mesmerised sockslave. The latter starts to salivate, so the journalist-mistress quickly lets go of her trouser-hem again, climbs down from the stool, and walks off.
This interview is terminated!
Account no. 2 – The Birthday (slave)boy
Let us examine an everyday, common-or-garden bootkiss by an everyday, common-or-garden, public footslave in slow motion – frame by frame, in real time, as it happens. We can do so thanks to his employers’ ever-watchful CCTV:
- The customer-mistress – a petite and slim, swarthy-complexioned, Indian girl in her early to mid twenties, with dark, sultry eyes and beautifully black, shoulder-length hair, and dressed in a cheap, navy-blue anorak (though the hood is down as it has just stopped raining), along with matching, navy-blue, polyester, bootcut trousers and a pair of ordinary, black leather ankleboots – is slowly, but confidently, approaching the kneeling, public-footslave at his everyday, street-corner, public-shoelick stand in the suburbs.
- First impressions of her boots, from a distance of a few yards, are that they are somewhat masculine-looking and oversized for her dainty, Indian-girl feet, but nonetheless look stylish and pretty on her – being chunky-heeled and round-toed, clunky-looking, lace-up ankleboots. They are, however, simultaneously scruffy and unkempt – being street-muddied and scuffmarked, especially on the rounded, toe areas. The experienced and observant footslave knows that they are anklelength boots only because he can observe their upper rims affecting the shape of the Indian mistress's navy-blue, bootcut trouser hems from within as she walks purposefully up towards him.
- No dainty, Indian-girl, soft brown and pedicured, bare feet with red-painted toenails in strappy, brown leather, open-toed sandals for him to kiss today! Today he is to be an Indian girl’s heavy-boot slave!
- Note the supercilious and smug smile on the pretty, Indian girl's face as she approaches her ‘victim’; she is determined to publicly humiliate him and degrade him, by having him kiss her dirty, reinforced, black leather boot-toes on the busy street corner.
- Simultaneously, note the expression of fear and humility on the public footslave's face; although he is an experienced footslave of many years' kneeling (and is certainly many years' this young, Indian woman's senior), he is acutely aware that he is about to be at her young feminine mercy – and since he does not recognise her boots as being amongst his regulars, he is rightly afraid of the unknown. Will this particular, young Indian woman be cruel towards him, and whip him with the public-use whipping stick whilst he kisses her boots? Will she be hard to please? The initial signs are not good – given the deliberately unkempt state of her boots; the determined march up to his wooden footblock; the smug smile (even though all of those things only serve to enhance her young-womanly beauty!)
- As she gets nearer, the slave hears the clumping sound of her chunky, black leather bootheels on the concrete pavement, and the splashes as she walks (deliberately?) straight through a dirty puddle. That dirty rainwater won't help to clean her boots – it will merely make them even dirtier.
- At last the unremarkable, everyday, scuffmarked and rainwater-dirtied, black leather ankleboots reach the kneeling footslave's ground-level footblock. It too is dampened by the recent rain – the normally light brown wood looks unusually dark and foreboding.
- In the blink of a worried eye, the footslave analyses the petite, Indian girl's dirty footwear in more detail. He can now see the individual contours and creases in her well-worn bootleather. He can observe individual patches of brown street-mud on the boots, and notes to his internal and private consternation, that the rounded and scuffmarked, toe area on the sweet young woman's right boot – the area he is likely to have to kiss first – is particularly mud-stained with fresh, wet mud! He gulps; he can smell the bootmud amidst the overall mustiness of the damp bootleather.
- He simultaneously observes how her black bootlaces are rain-dampened and dirty.
- He notices, too, some drier, brown mud-stains on the fetchingly bootcut hems of the young lady's navy-blue trousers; they too smell stale and musty as they flap around her ankleboots in the cold, winter breeze.
- The next thing he sees and hears is the polyester hem of her right trouser-leg being arrogantly hitched up as the young, Indian woman slowly raises her right, booted foot up off the dirty and wet ground, just by a few arrogant inches, and then imperiously lowers it down onto the low-lying, wooden footblock directly beneath his kneeling face. The bootsole splashes his face with muddy rainwater as it does so, causing the footslave to inadvertently flinch and the Indian girl to giggle. But she lets his impudence pass without the whip. Maybe she is not so cruel after all, but is a normal, sweet and kind, Indian girl?
- Having regained his composure, the male slave with the now female-bootmud-splashed face is gratified to observe the elasticated top of an Indian-girl, pure white cotton anklesock inside the now exposed, upper bootrim. Has this Asian girl deliberately exposed her inner bootsock-top to him, for it does look deliciously white set against her smooth, brown, upper ankleskin? The slave is convinced she must want him to admire her untouchable, white anklesock, so admire it he does – on his way down to her muddy boot-toe.
- As his lips descend in seeming slow-motion, he takes in the dirt of her navy-blue, trouser hem; the black stitching on the black leather rim of her upper ankleboot, including a little loose stitch on the very centre of the rim; the softness and smoothness of her pale brown, bare legskin just above the white cotton socktop; the pure whiteness of that slightly twisted, elasticated, upper anklesock (a sure sign that, although the Indian girl has no compunctions whatsoever about imposing her dirty bootleather on the public footslave's servile mouth, she is not, in and of herself, dirty and unhygienic); the musty smell of her overall wet bootleather; the similarly damp smell of her rain-sodden bootlaces; the smell and the sight of the rainsplash-mud on the side of her boot as his mouth makes its humble way down towards the thicker, more solidified, lower street-mud covering her scuffmarked, black leather rounded boot-toe.
- No verbal order to kiss her boot, in a cute Indian-girl accent, is forthcoming from the Indian customer-mistress, but her gesture in hitching up her mud-splattered, navy-blue, trouser-hem and presenting her outstretched, dirty boot onto the wooden footblock is signal enough as to what she wants done.
- The professional footslave makes sure both his upper and lower lips make simultaneous contact with the girl's muddy, boot-toe leather, as one would expect in a respectful, non-lascivious, non-sexual, slavish kiss to a superior, young woman's dirty, everyday boot-toe. Hear her gasp with sweet feminine pleasure and excitement at the feel of the dirty, public footslave's lips on her bootleather. This is such a thrill for her; her sense of absolute female power is palpable – as palpable as the thick mud now adorning the pathetic footslave's lips!
- Meanwhile, you can tell from the pained expression on his ugly, maleslave face that all he can think about is her precious, white sock inside her boot – the everyday, white-feminine sock of a lower-caste, navy-blue-anoraked, unremarkable, everyday, Indian goddess from the nearby, council housing estate.
- Even an alien from outer-space would recognise that this modestly-dressed, young, Indian woman in cheap, mass-produced clothing was the pathetic footslave's infinite better, as she stands imperiously over him, hands on shapely, feminine hips, smilingly having her dirty boot kiss-washed in public! It is, quite literally, a universal scene of natural female dominance and male submission, with a patently superior being having her item of dirty footwear kissed and worshipped by a lowly, male inferior, whilst she is still wearing it. And here in the Gynarchy it is a scene that shall be repeated a thousand times a day by this one hapless, public footslave.
