Gynarchy Gimps Volume 1
Observations from various enslaved, Gynarchy Gimps (about the magnificent mistresses they serve!)
My 30 year old, Indian mistress’s feisty 22 year old sister, miss Sridevi, takes her slave-sitting responsibilities very seriously!
Whenever my mistress Paramjit is going out for the evening with her husband, miss Sridevi invariably comes round to her elder sister’s house in order to slave-sit over me – supposedly supervising me as I dutifully tongueshine my mistress Paramjit’s remaining boots and shoes, but in actuality bringing lots of her own, student-girl footwear for me to tongue-attend to! (My mistress Paramjit laughingly turns a blind eye to her younger sister’s selfish indulgences – especially since professional slave-sitters can cost a fortune nowadays!)
Unfortunately for me miss Sridevi doesn’t just like to bring her dirty shoes and boots with her (and sometimes those of her college friends!); she is also wont to bring her prized bullwhip, since it is just about the only time she gets to use it. I understand that, in her student bedsit, there is barely enough room to swing a cat-o-nine-tails; plus, of course, she doesn’t yet have a household slave of her own to whip!
Moreover, miss Sridevi, unlike my mistress Paramjit, is left-handed – attacking me with the whip on my left flank which is much less used to the sting of the whip, and therefore much more easily ‘tenderised’! And how miss Sridevi just loves the sound of her own whip – whistling down through the air at breakback speed, cracking through the sound-barrier before cutting through my left-hand sideflesh!
She laughs out loud at my screams and my moans – screams and moans normally muffled by a pair of her dirty, discarded, zip-up, brown leather ankleboots; or even a pair of her dirty, discarded, cotton bootsocks or thick, woolly tights; miss Sridevi likes me to have some item of her footwear to scream into during a whipping!
Basically, she uses me like she owns me whenever she comes to slave-sit – and I very much admire her for that!
What humble, housebound slaveman wouldn’t?
Whenever my 21 year old, blonde-haired mistress, miss Chardonnay, breaks her curfew, I not only get the blame – but the pain!
For the electronic tag around her shapely, bare anklebone – just above her short, white, angular sneaker-sock and grubby, grey-white, low-top, lace-up sneaker – sends a painful shockwave through my personal-footslave forehead, much to my airhead-mistress’s great amusement and that of her friends, whenever she stays out late.
Plus, of course, I know that the Female Authorities shall also have me sorely whipped, in due course, for ‘allowing’ my mistress to break her curfew – like I would have any say in the matter! I’m just her down-in-the-dirt, personal foot-guardian; not her guardian angel!
Aooww! Another jolt to my footslave-temples! It really is getting late – and yet my mistress is just heading off to yet another nightclub with her drunken mates. It’s going to be a long and painful night out illegally on the town for me!
Curse you, curfew!
Auburn-haired, 26 year old, prison-galley taskmistress Leanne is just perfect for her job:
· Not only is she exceptionally pretty, with long, curvy legs and well-turned, tan-nylon-covered anklebones, which torment we powerless and impotent galley-slaves to distraction as she strolls nonchalantly up and down the central gangway trailing her long, brown-leather whip behind her (even when she is wearing flats and slacks with her nylons – as opposed to her more customary short skirts, heels and nylons – the merest glimpse of her shapely, tan-nylon-stockinged anklebone creasing and flexing with power as she whips the man in front of you is enough to make you salivate with unquenchable nylon-foot desire!);
· Not only is she naturally stand-offish and haughty, believing she is a better class of being than her galley-slave charges (an absolute prerequisite in any successful, prison-galley taskmistress);
· Not only does she love to whip, and is professionally skilled in the use of the whip – to such an extent that she can overlay an existing whip-sore or stripe with unparalleled, painstaking precision;
She is also a deaf-mute, and therefore immune to our cries of pain, and pleas for sweet feminine mercy, as she belabours our bent-over, once hairy but now whip-shaven, bare backs and shoulders with her single-tailed, taskmistress’s brown leather whip, and as she drives us on to ever greater, subhuman efforts on our heavy, wooden, punishment oars!
Female tourists (and their freemale partners) even come from far and wide to sit in the public gallery and observe the celebrated prison-galley taskmistress Leanne at work, and would-be galley taskmistresses are brought on outings by their female tutors to observe her methods, and to learn exactly how the job should be done.
She is even frequently asked to sign autographs!
But it is we well-whipped galley-slaves who have the greatest honour of all – every day, at the end of her shift – when we must gratefully kiss her feet and thank her for beating us. It is always such a pleasure to kiss the shapely, dainty, outstretched, tan-nyloned feet of such a hardworking and famous taskmistress – be they clad in a pair of smart, black patent leather stiletto-shoes which have been click-clacking up and down the wooden gangway in their shimmering tan-nylons beneath her black leather taskmistress’s miniskirt, next to our sweating, male faces all day; or even in a pair of matt-brown, flat leather loafers and tan-coloured nylons beneath her bellbottom, black cotton trouser-hems – for even then the outstretched positioning of her taskmistressly foot causes the wide, flapping hem of her stylish, black trouser-leg to ride up and expose that female-shapely, tan-nylon-covered anklebone to one’s salivating, male-prisoner gaze!
The lingering sting of the whip is almost worth it at such precious moments, for it is truly a maleslave honour to be in the presence of such exquisitely painful, female perfection!
We are glad to be her galley-slave gimps; well, I am, anyway!
My full-time job is to kiss the feet of the Mondieu family (who originate from Haiti) in their front-door porch as they enter their Gynarchy home from work or from college, or just from having been out shopping or having a good time.
It is Monsieur Mondieu – the titular head of the family – who sets the tone for my mistreatment, for, even though it is illegal for male slaves in the Gynarchy to kiss free male’s feet or footwear, he gets off on a technicality by deliberately wiping his feet on the rough, horsehair doormat directly beneath my permanently-kneeling face, and having me lick up his discarded shoe-dirt.
His wife, Madame Mondieu, of course suffers from no such lawful impediments, and happily outstretches her stylish high-heels onto the horsehair mat for me to kiss, even encouraging me to press my lips against her beautiful, Haitian foot-veins made unnaturally prominent down the front of her feet by the sheer height of her stilettos (often 3 to 5 inches!). I like kissing Madame’s foot-veins even if they are covered in a thin veil of dark nylon stocking, for I can still feel them pulsating beneath my lips as her foot-blood pumps excitedly through her forty-something, Haitian-lady footflesh; but, ultimately, bare is best, of course!
Her eldest daughter, 23 year old miss Simone, takes after her mother in her love of high-heels – though in miss Natalie’s case it always tends to be black or brown, patent leather, pointy-toed ankleboots with heels, and always, teasingly, with just a hint of plain black bootsock showing, regardless of whether she wearing a skirt or jeans (if the former, her skirt will invariably be short, and way above her anklesock line; if the latter, she just hitches up her jean-hem to show off her sock-top to me; she knows I find it particularly frustrating and humiliating to have to observe her humble sock whilst kissing her street-soiled boots back into her home, and thus she even wears socks inside her boots over her thick, woollen tights in wintertime!)
But I reserve the deepest respect for her younger sister, 21 year old miss Natalie. Unlike her sister and mother, miss Natalie likes to deliberately dress down – in comfy slippers or Ugg boots. Needless to say, as I am dealing mainly with her outdoor footwear, it is her Uggs that I must welcome back into her home – and she has several different varieties:
· The standard, calf-length, beige-brown sheepskin style Ugg-boots, with white, woolly, inner linings. I particularly admire these because they always smell (and taste) musty, and they are her favourite footwear for wearing when she goes to her catering College; indeed, it’s not uncommon for me to pick up a tasty morsel of food from the thick, rubbery soles of her beige-brown ugg boots – either whilst I am respectfully kissing them, or left behind on the horsehair mat from her ugg-boot soles– and, presumably, these are some of the practise tidbits from her cookery classes which she has inadvertently walked in at college!
· A pair of black, cableknit, ribbed, calf-length Ugg-boots – curiously always worn beneath her black, polyester slacks to her place of part-time work in a sweetshop; I think she thinks they look smarter than her beige-brown uggs (normally worn with a pair of scruffy, tight, blue-denim jeans tucked into the tops!)
· A nice pair of ankle-length, purple ugg boots – for going out partying with her boyfriend(s).
Miss Natalie, if I may say so, suits her Ugg boots – whatever their colour or style – for her feet and ankles are quite chubby, rather like the rest of her (she is the only one of the family who is ‘fat’ – hardly surprising, perhaps, given that she is also the only one whose job it is to either cook delicious food all day, or to serve in a sweetshop!) and her misshapen, broad-toed uggs hide a multitude of footblemish sins.
As do her customary thick, brightly-coloured and garish socks – they deflect attention away from the podginess of her anklebones, and beautify them inside her boots. She has taken at least one tip from her much more fashion-conscious, elder sister, and always displays a bit of sock atop her boots – not just for my humble benefit, but in order to brighten up her young-womanly appearance generally.
I love miss Natalie’s brightly-coloured socks – for they bring some much-needed colour into my otherwise drab and miserable day; especially her cartoon-themed socks, for, even though the bulk of the sock will be hidden inside the ugg-boot, I get to see the heads of the various cartoon characters on the elasticated uppers of her fun socks – mocking me and laughing at me – as I kiss the main body of her musty-smelling, ugg boots!
I am, however, as I have explained, sadly just a humble porch-footslave, with no right to intimacy with my Haitian masters’ feet. The refugee family have another household footslave who deals with their feet and footwear inside the house (they have even christened him with a slave-nickname – slave ‘Pwissanier’ – given his higher slave-status within the household; I’m just known as the ‘porch-footslave’!). He gets to take off, and presumably put on, their shoes, boots, socks and slippers; wash their bare, brown feet; mouthwash their dirty socks, tights and stockings; cut and trim their toenails etc. (for all the female members of the family, at any rate!). All I ever do is kiss the outsides of their footwear – but, at least I get to do so before the other slave has lickshined them clean after they return ‘home, feet home’. I thus get to taste where the family have been walking, and eat their shoe and boot dirt in all its freshness and glory!
Yes, I can think of a lot worse places to be than in the handsome Mondieu family’s draughty, front porch!
She may be dressed like a modest Muslim girl – complete with plain black, hijab-style headscarf and traditional, long, black, ankle-length burka – but:
· She’s still a Gynarchy girl
· She’s therefore still full of herself
· She still chews gum
· She still talks like she’s from the street, an’ that; innit though?
· She still has no compunctions about using me – her local, faceless, public footservant – to lickshine her dirty footwear, and treating me like dirt in the process by failing to acknowledge me or give me the time of day
· Instead, she still gabbles away incessantly on her mobile phone above me to her mates, about utter banalities, such as her their latest hairstyles beneath their respective hijabs; or their manly boyfriends; or their college grades
· She still wears her stylish, shiny black patent leather, Chelsea boots with the elasticated sides, and bright pink anklesocks, beneath her musty-smelling and street-soiled, plain black cotton burka-hem
· She is still better than me, and I must look up to her (metaphorically, rather than literally, since it is a crime for a slave to look a customer-mistress in the face, especially a Muslim mistress; one must always look down at her feet, or, in this case, at her shiny, black leather Chelsea-boots and pink anklesocks).
And so, as far as I’m concerned, she’s all that!
It is blowing a gale as the smartly-dressed, lanky, young, black businesswoman steps up to my exposed, city-centre footblock in order to have her shiny, black patent leather, lace-up shoes with the fancy stitching and chunky heels, publicly lickshined. As a result, her pinstriped, bootcut trouser hem is whipping against my kneeling face as I endeavour to tongue-attend to her dirty shoeleather (dirty, because it has also been raining – though the rain appears to have temporarily stopped!).
However, the sullen, young, black woman makes no allowances for her flapping trouser-hems as they get in the way of my lowly face; she still expects me to do a proper job on her city footwear – to clean each and every groove in the ornate, leather stitching of her shiny, black shoes; remove each and every mudstain along the dirty insteps; suck every last morsel of rainwater-dirt from her thin, black shoelaces. So I must persevere!
One good thing about the wind is that it exposes her rich, black cotton anklesocks intermittently to my gaze as I lick and suck away her superior, young-womanly shoedirt – and I do like to see the sock of the one whose shoes I am cleaning by mouth!
I can tell so much about a superior customer-mistress from her sock! For example, the current wind-whipped sock in front of my kneeling face shows certain signs of wear and tear around the edges – greying and bobbling and the like; a sure-fire indication that this sullen and humourless, statuesque, young black woman, though outwardly smart in her appearance with her pinstriped, business trouser-suit, is perhaps not yet as successful in the banking world as she would like to make out; she still wears cheap socks underneath her smart trousers!
All credit to her though; her somewhat ropey-looking, black socks only serve to make me respect her all the more! For she is clearly seeking to better herself – perhaps dragging herself out of some Gynarchy sink-estate, and utilising her natural charm and intelligence to good effect; to get on in the world, and make her fortune! I’m sure she will succeed, given that she is pretty, young and female – all the necessary prerequisites of a successful life here in the Gynarchy.
That’s why, presumably, she expects me – the lowly, anonymous, public footslave – to struggle on with the demeaning job of tongueshining of her chunky, office shoes, even in the face of such adverse and inclement weather! I must overcome Mother Nature’s wilful obstructiveness, and bring my young, black, customer-mistress’s shoes back to a satisfactory shine, so that she can continue to walk tall and proud up the female career ladder before her; and well above me!
She is, in effect, out of my league – or soon will be!
As if to reinforce this message her trouser-hem contemptuously whips my shoecleaning face once again, causing it to redden and sting. I bravely crack on, for I am now determined not to be weather beaten!
Clever, as well as beautiful, Indian treadmill-taskmistress, 24 year old miss Leelawati, is feeling jubilant. For she has discovered – on reviewing my sentence passed down by the Female Court some 11 years ago (i.e. 5 years before miss Leelawati was even old enough to be employed as a treadmill-taskmistress) – that an error has been made by the Female prison authorities in calculating the number of footkisses I am required to deliver to my various taskmistresses’ feet, and that I, in effect, owe them 144, 540 footkisses!
She worked it out like this:
· When sentence was handed down to me those 11 long years ago, the good lady judge stipulated that, in addition to working the treadmill for life, I should be required to penitently and respectfully kiss my taskmistresses’ feet a total of 800,000 times
· Given that I was 50 years old at the time of sentencing, and the Female Law always estimates a prisoner-slave’s life expectancy as 70 (though many would say that is overly optimistic, given the hard and painful labour involved in walking the treadmill), that works out at 109.5 footkisses per day over a 20 year period – which the Courts always round up to 110 footkisses (each and every element of a male footslave’s sentence is always rounded up by the Female Authorities; never down!)
· However, on my arrival at the Female Prison the prison authorities had, for some reason, mistakenly calculated my life expectancy as being for a further 30 years (I must have looked ten years younger than I actually was!), meaning that for the past 11 years of my sentence I have only been kissing my taskmistresses’ feet at the rate of 73.05 kisses per day (rounded up to 74)
· Mathematically methodical miss Leelawati has calculated, therefore, that I owe the representatives of the Female State 36 footkisses per day, which, over an 11 year period works out at 144, 540 footkisses in total!
· She has apparently checked with the Female Courts, who have confirmed that this error must now be rectified by my providing additional footkisses to my taskmistresses’ feet at the rate of 5162 per day, which will help clear the shortfall of kisses over a 28 day period. This is considered reasonable by both the Female Courts and the prison doctor-mistress; any higher rate of daily footkissing might lead to lip-bleed on my part, with all the consequent bloody sullying of my taskmistresses’ footwear – especially bearing in mind that the 5162 footkisses are in addition to the 110 I should still be delivering to the feet of my female guards every day; therefore, for the next 28 days I am actually required to kiss my taskmistresses’ feet a total of 5272 times per day – considered to be perilously close to the limits of human-footslave endurance, which is estimated at a maximum of 5500 per day!
· Furthermore, clever miss Leelawati has worked out that – since my 5272 footkisses must be at a respectful rate of 1 kiss per second – it will take 1.43 hours for me to complete my augmented footkissing task each day. That’s 1.43 hours per day lost to the treadmill since, even though I am permanently tethered to it, I am not permitted to walk the treadmill whilst simultaneously kissing feet – that would be considered disrespectful, since I must put all of footslavish heart and soul into the kissing of my taskmistresses’ feet, and fully concentrate on what I am doing!
· Since the going punishment rate for ‘failure’ to turn the treadmill is 20 lashes per hour of ‘downtime’, miss Leelawati has worked out that it means I must receive an extra 29 punishment lashes (actually, 28.6 rounded up to 29) of the female whip across my bare back and shoulders each day i.e. in addition to any routine lashes designed to spur me on to my hard labour on the treadmill!
· Needless to say, miss Leelawati has been commended by her superiors for spotting the error in the calculation of my sentence, and is being paid a hefty bonus to her salary as a reward.
· Furthermore, she has offered to oversee both my footkissing catch-up, and my additional punishment whippings, because she loves having her feet kissed and applying the whip to lazy prisoner-slaves’ backs!
· But she is not completely without mercy, for she has deliberately chosen to wear her soft, black leather ballet-flats, and equally soft, black cotton anklesocks, beneath her ubiquitous, navy-blue-uniform, prison-guard, trouser hems throughout the next 28 day additional punishment period, which will be nice and gentle on my lips as I repeatedly bob my head up and down on her shoes and socks – though, to be honest, her motivation in wearing her black ballet-flats and socks probably stems as much from her own desire to really feel my penitent-prisoner lips on her soft feet, as from any sense of young Indian-womanly compassion towards me. After all, she probably blames me for the miscalculation in my sentencing regime, even though it patently wasn’t my fault! Try telling that to her stinging whip!
And so I pucker up, and kiss her feet a total of 5272 times per day for the next 28 days as she sits above and in front of me on the temporarily stationary treadmill – my mouth alternating between sock and shoe, so as not to wear out any particular area of her sweet feminine footwear with my rough prisoner-slave lips – and then brace myself for the daily dose of 29 punishment lashes, delivered because of the delay in moving the treadmill caused by the requirement for me to back-kiss her feet!
Incidentally, if I were, by some miracle, to live beyond the age of 70 in this God-forsaken, but Indian goddess-strewn, place, my daily quota of footkisses – now revised upwards from 74 to 110 thanks to miss Leelawati’s mathematical prowess – would simply continue until my natural death. The sentence of 800,000 footkisses over a twenty year period was only ever meant to be indicative of the rate at which I am to be punished!
And it wouldn’t surprise me if it was the delightful miss Leelawati’s feet I was still kissing in 9 years’ time and on into my seventies, since she will only be in her thirties by then, and still well capable of whipping and cajoling an elderly prisoner-footslave into working harder at her ballet-flated and socked feet!
My new owner, master Philip sir, explained to me on my very first day in his power that I was to provide a speciality service for his paying, female customers. He explained that he would be placing a sign on the outside of his privately-owned, public-footslave booth, in which I would be kneeling and working, which reads:
‘Boot & Sock Nuzzler! For ladies wearing boots with kneesocks only! 20 Fems!’
I must say, 20 Fems seemed a bit steep to me at the time – but the clever master-sir was right to pitch my services that high, as I was soon inundated with customer-mistresses who were clearly keen to be seen as part of an exclusive club – the exclusive club of ladies wearing street-boots and kneesocks!
Of course, relatively narrow though my remit is, I still get to deal with a wide range of boot and sock styles – thanks to the vast array of fashionable boots and kneesocks that young women can choose from nowadays.
This morning – a fairly typical day – in the first hour alone of my boot and sock servitude, I humbly get to nuzzle:
· The brown leather, heavily-buckled kneeboots and creased, grey cotton, lattice-stitched kneesock-tops of a pretty, miniskirt-wearing, Japanese girl (watched with some degree of envy by her two sneaker-and-jeans-wearing, Japanese, female friends!)
· The black leather, fancily-stitched, calf-length, cowboy boots with V-shaped rims, and pale grey, thinly-stitched, calf-length socktops, of a tall and thin, denim-shorts-wearing, brunette-haired, white girl. Her grey socktops are much more creased than her Japanese predecessor’s, and she takes pictures of me pathetically nuzzling her boots and socks on her mobile phone for all her facebook friends to see!
· The flat-heeled, patent black leather, almost riding-boot-style kneeboots, and black and white stripy kneesocks, of a midi-length-skirt-wearing, bleached-blonde lady in her early thirties. She is accompanied into the booth by her boyfriend or husband, who gallantly holds her hand in order to help her keep her feminine balance as she stretches each booted foot out in front of my face, one at a time, for respectful nuzzling
· The brown suede leather, fur-lined kneeboots, and shimmering black nylon kneesocks, of a navy-blue-miniskirt-wearing and highly jocular, brunette-haired woman, who can barely keep her legs still long enough for me to diligently nuzzle them, so much is she shrieking with laughter at my pathetic, footslavish humility and self-degradation at her soft-booted and sheer-nylon-popsocked feet (I think she must be an overseas tourist – possibly Mediterranean – given her evident unfamiliarity with the whole boot and nylon nuzzling process!)
· The beige-brown, calf-length, sheepskin ugg boots and nice, thick – if somewhat wonky and uneven – black woollen kneesocks of another miniskirt-wearing, blonde girl in her early twenties. This girl appears to be a chain-smoker, and arrogantly flicks cigarette ash down onto my bowed and balding head as I nuzzle her shapeless ugg-boots. My ever-present, ever-watchful, rich, footbooth-owning master-sir turns a blind eye to her illicit cigarette-smoking in my supposedly non-smoking footbooth, as he, quite frankly, gets off on watching arrogant, young women humiliating me – and paying him 20 Fems for the privilege! Fortunately for me, the sweet and kind, young blonde woman likewise turns a blind eye to the wonkiness in her kneesocks – for she could most assuredly blame me for them being askew below her knobbly knees, and have me sorely whipped!
· The brown leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up kneeboots and fully-pulled-up, plain grey kneesocks of a short-grey-dress-wearing, dark-skinned, east-european mistress (possibly Romany in origins). What is it with the brown boots and grey kneesocks today? They must be the latest fashion! I’m not complaining! Unfortunately, she is – she accuses me of not properly running my nose down the black zipper-track on the side of her boot, and my angry master-sir is therefore obliged to give her a refund, and whip me in front of her into the bargain! He whips me again after she’s gone, and warns me never to neglect a customer-mistress’s boot-zipper track ever again whilst I am nuzzling the sides of her boots! I profusely apologise to the master-sir; regret his loss of earnings; and humbly thank him for correcting me.
· The clumpy, black leather ankleboots and cream anklesocks of a blue-denim-shorts-wearing, fairly plump, redheaded girl, who is drinking a takeaway coffee whilst she stands over me. I can smell the coffee over the musty smell of her somewhat unkempt and slovenly-looking boots, which is a pity, as I prefer to wake up and smell the bootleather every day! (This girl is successfully chatted-up by my master-sir, and he waives her footbooth-fee because she kindly agrees to have sex with him – right there and then in the semi-privacy of the footbooth! I am then forced to watch her cream-coloured anklesocks crease and fold with lust beneath my kneeling and bowed face as the manly master-sir robustly rogers her above me!)
· The grey leather kneeboots and black nylon popsocks of a bright and bubbly, green-kneelength-dress-wearing, black-haired, English girl. She deserves a special mention because of the decorative, black leather studs around the lower fronts of her boots – studs which cruelly cut into my nose whilst I nuzzle them (but, thankfully, not to the extent that my nose starts to bleed all over her boots – for can you even begin to imagine what that other stud present in the footbooth, my master sir Philip, would do to me if I inadvertently bled all over one of his female customer’s boots?) This English customer-mistress’s black-uggboot-wearing (but seemingly sockless), middle-aged, English manfriend prods me with his pointy umbrella-tip as I diligently nuzzle his female companion’s studded bootleather!
· The zany, brown leather, laced-up, scuffmarked and heavily street-soiled, calf-length doc marten boots, and pink, green, purple, orange, and white-diamond patterned, over-the-knee socks, of a thirty-something, pink-haired, blue-denim-culotte-wearing white woman in sexy, dark sunglasses. Like the master-sir, I admire this young woman’s sartorial eccentricity, and regard it as an honour to nuzzle her scruffy, brown leather calfboots and striking over-the-knee socks (though the private chains around my kneeling neck sadly mean that I am unable to reach up beyond her zany-socked kneecaps). Zanily and eccentrically dressed she may be, but she remains stony-faced, and with her arms folded, as I nose-attend to her boots and socks as best I can. She too has me whipped by the master-sir – for not being able to reach all the way up to the tops of her socks (though it wasn’t for the want of my trying!)
· The turned inside out, and therefore sheepskin-woolly, beige-brown, ankle-length, ugg boots of a dark-blue-argyle-patterned, woollen-kneesock-wearing, Swedish girl in a fetching, brown cotton midi-dress. I know she is Swedish because her naturally blonde hair is done up in plaits and tied back into a severe bun. Her socks smell sweatiest at the tops of her thick, sheepskin ankleboots, around her shapely, Swedish-girl anklebones – presumably because the boots are so warm and thick on this moderately pleasant summer’s day; maybe that’s precisely why she has turned her boots over at the cuffs – to try to get some fresh air around her woolly-socked feet?
· And finally (for this first boot-and-sock rush hour of the busy, working day) the black-wedge-soled, brown leather, fully laced-up (with black laces) kneeboots, and pure white kneesocktops, of a thirty-something, floral-patterned-summer-dress-wearing, blonde woman. I particularly admire the way there is only a hint of white sock showing at the top of each kneeboot – just enough to convince my ever-vigilant master sir that she qualifies to utilise my services in accordance with the trades descriptions act! I still manage, thank goodness, to nuzzle all around the tops of her white kneesocks without touching the blonde woman’s bare kneeflesh, thus avoiding any further reprimandary sting from my master’s supervisory whip!
So there you have it – only my first hour today as a ladies’ public boot and sock nuzzler. I get to have a short break now as my, extremely virile and potent, master-sir jerks off inside the booth whilst thinking about all the lovely, female boots and socks he has made me nuzzle thus far this morning; but he is soon ready to open up the footbooth again, and encourage yet more young ladies to part with their money, at my expense!
She climbs up, seductively, into the shoelick chair of female power above me – the tall, lithesome-looking, black girl with the long, shiny, black hair and sultry, brown eyes.
She is wearing a revealing, white top; skin-tight, black cotton leggings; and rich-red, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, laced-up leather ankleboots. Rather than resting them firmly on the metal footplate directly beneath my kneeling face, the black-girl rests her red-anklebooted feet coyly and at an angle – thereby inviting me to tongueshine their street-dustied insteps.
So that’s exactly what I do – I lower my face to the lower side of her right boot, and start to lick away the dust.
I hear her sigh wantonly above me, and then she speaks, in a soft and sultry, feminine voice:
‘Do you like me, slave? Do you find me sexually attractive?’
It’s a silly question to ask a slave, really. Of course I find the red-booted, black customer-mistress attractive! What red-blooded, male footslave wouldn’t? But I can’t tell her that – for lusting after a customer-mistress on the part of a public footslave is an offence punishable by severe whipping and lifelong banishment to the underground slave-mines!
And this black-girl boot-tease almost certainly knows it!
So, I must deny my masculinity, and reject her feminine-wily advances on a poor, defenceless, male slave; yet, at the same time, I mustn’t insult the mistress, by denying her beauty and sexual attractiveness. My tongue must therefore tread carefully when I respond to her question – as carefully as it is now worming its way around the plastic eyelets through which her thin, black bootlaces are threaded:
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if it pleases you pretty, black mistress, truly this slave is struck by the great, natural beauty of the superior mistress, madam, but is unworthy to think lascivious or libidinous thoughts about the mistress, if you would be so kind and understanding mistress, since he is but a dirty, public footslave, mistress!’
She chuckles to herself, enjoying making me sweat. She knows I am now aching for her shimmering, bare skin, yet must continue to tongueshine merely her outer bootleather. I am powerless and impotent; she is the sexual predator!
She flicks back her long, dark hair triumphantly above me, before deftly reaching down to pull up the elasticated hem of her ankle-length, black cotton legging – and reveal a slither of pure, black anklesock, set against a frame of soft, brown, sensuous, black-girl legskin!
I feel stirrings down below which I know I can do nothing about it. We both know it.
‘Kiss me on the sock, slave!’ she suddenly commands.
Keen to take up her kind offer of soxual intimacy with her, I quickly raise my game, and my mouth, to the creased and folded side of her freshly-exposed, black cotton ankle-length bootsock; my eyes are now just millimetres away from her smooth, bare, brown leg-flesh atop the sock!
As if to tease me further, though ostensibly to protect her sock-siren modesty, she reaches down again with her slender, red-painted fingernails to languorously take hold of the elasticated top of her sock, and pull it up straight. I hear her sock brushing against the smoothness of her soft, brown legskin – bare legskin that is now out of sight once more, but far from being out of mind!
She faux-rebukes me:
‘Concentrate on my black anklesock, dirty footslave; not on my bare ankleflesh!’
‘Y…Yes, m…madam!’ I whine, reduced to a gibbering wreck of a public footservant. I feel like I am simultaneously in heaven and in hell! Her bare legflesh is now so near, and yet so far!
For her part, the sultry, black mistress sits back and relaxes in the chair – safe in the knowledge that her fully pulled-up anklesock is now protecting her bare, upper ankleflesh from prying sockslave eyes! The rest of my boot and sock worship session proceeds without any further teasing or incident, and the anonymous, black mistress appears to leave as yet another satisfied customer.
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Two days later, however, I am hauled by the Female State Police before the local Female Magistrate (coincidentally another highly-attractive, young, black woman) where I am informed of the charges against me – that two days ago I did wantonly and lasciviously lust after a customer-mistress’s bare legskin, which is contrary to Section 3.4.1 of the maleslave-criminal code.
Needless to say I was obliged to plead guilty – not because it was true, but because a slave can never plead innocent to any female charge lodged against him, not even if his accuser can’t even be bothered to turn up in Court, and has lodged her complaint on paper only!
I’ll bet the sultry, black tormentress in the red ankleboots was watching somewhere in the crowd, however, when the first part of my sentence – 55 harsh lashes of the Female Whip – was being carried out at the whipping post in the middle of the town square, and probably pleasuring herself in the process! For she had chalked up yet another maleslave scalp; another innocent maleslave had been cruelly led astray by her pitch-black siren-socks, and was subsequently being whipped because of her irresistible, black beauty!
And now, he was destined to be broken on the rocks – the rocks of the underground slave-mines where he would spend the rest of his celibate life away from the sweet feminine temptations of cute, red-anklebooted and black-socked, siren customer-mistresses like her.
It is a truth universally acknowledged (amongst public footslaves at any rate) that a customer-mistress’s feet and footwear on her journey into work will be naturally much fresher and cleaner than they will be should she present them to you for public pampering on her return journey home later in the day:
· Her shoes or boots shall, inevitably, have picked up dirt and detritus during the busy, working day – dirt and detritus which, of course, it is your public duty to remove from her outer footwear
· Her socks or nylons (should she be wearing any) shall be much warmer and tarter to the smell inside her boots, which is no bad thing for a footslave’s nostrils, since it reminds you of your maleslave place in polite, female society – that of a ladies’ unofficial stinky-feet sniffer. Indeed many ladies will obligingly make it official by temporarily slipping their warm and sweaty, socked or nyloned feet out of their shoes or boots just so that they can rub their stale footsweat all over your publicly-imprisoned face in the middle of the street, and thus publicly humiliate you with their unpleasant, afternoon or early evening, feminine foot odour!
· Her socks or nylons shall be much more creased on her pretty feet – again, requiring your diligent, crease-smoothing attentions with your nose and face, for it is your unspoken duty, as a public footservant, to iron out any uncomfortable creases in a customer-mistress’s hosiery before she walks away from your public shoe or bootlick stand
The greatest privilege of all, of course, is when a customer-mistress visits you twice in one day – both on her way into work and on her way home – for then you get to compare and contrast her living footsmells as she goes about her superior, female business, and really appreciate how hard she must be working, up on her feet all day!
Where and how did that tiny snag on the side of her finest-denier, tan-coloured nylon occur, for example – the one just above her navy-blue-court shoeline, on her left ankle? That wasn’t there this morning – you’re sure of it; for this particular, blonde-haired, shop-assistant, customer mistress is a very beautiful, young woman, and you never forget a pretty, tan-nylon stocking!
You kiss the snag in a vain attempt to make it better, but sadly know it is only a matter of time before the fastidious, young blonde woman notices it herself, and dispenses with her ‘torn’ nylon stockings in favour of a new pair. Still, at least they too will inevitably show increasing signs of wear and tear on her shapely, white anklebones as she visits you for a shoelick and a shine day in and day out, mornings and evenings – for this particular, young woman is regular as clockwork when it comes to having her ubiquitous, navy-blue, shop-floor courts spruced up by your public-footslave tongue!
And she likes using you, and imposing her early-evening footstink on your anonymous, public face; in fact, she’s one of your regular, so-called ‘face-rubbers’ – a customer-mistress who casually slips off her court shoes, one at a time, and unabashedly rubs her sweaty, stinky, foot-moistened shop-floor nylons all over your face at the end of her long, working day, just so that you can fully appreciate the difference between her early morning and going home feet!
