Footslaves’ Tribulations Volume 2
More trials and tribulations of everyday footslaves.
Scroll down for tribulations in reverse numerical order
10. Like mother; like daughter
9. She knows what she likes!
8. Happy Retirement, Master Robert Sir!
7. False accusations; genuine whip-lashes
6. Her Needs
5. Dirty Stop-Out, Customer-Princess Natalie & Her Late-Night, Public Bootserf
4. Slings & Arrows
3. Alternative means of communication
2. Scourge
1. Presumptions of innocence
The forty-something, African-Caribbean, officer-worker madam, and her twenty-something, mixed-race, office-junior, mistress daughter, are enjoying a familial cigarette break in the smoking area out the back of their family office (a portacabin).
They, quite rightly, decide they might as well also have their respective shoes lickshined by me, the local, public footservant, since I am located in their unofficial smoking-area – though in the case of the younger woman her shoes are flat, black, laced-up, suede leather, hush-puppy style shoes, and therefore quite difficult to lick to a shine! Except, perhaps, around the rubbery black rims of her muddy soles and insteps.
The young woman’s feet are also correspondingly larger than her mother’s, but then, she is correspondingly much taller; and both ladies are wearing plain, black cotton anklesocks and matching trousers – though, in the case of the older woman, the socks are being worn inside a pair of scuffmarked, low-heeled, black leather, double-strapped and round-toed, mary-jane-style, buckled shoes.
The older woman’s shoes and socks – rather like the rest of her, if we’re being brutally honest – have seen better days, and are a bit ragged and jaded around the edges; though I do like her feisty, forty-something, dyed-auburn hair, and the way her flat, buckle-shoes are designed to show off the ropiness and bobbling in her socks in between her shoe-straps as I lickshine the dirt off her outer footwear. Her daughter’s footwear, by comparison, seems relatively smart and neat – well-brushed, faux hush-puppies, worn with fully pulled up and uncreased, unbobbled, black cotton anklesocks!
Indeed, the younger, mixed-race woman’s black anklesocks only crease when she moves her right foot forwards to stub out her cigarette beneath her black-rubbery shoesole on the dirty, cigarette-butt-strewn, female-smokers’ ground directly beneath my perma-kneeling, male face, whereas her mother’s black anklesocks are wrinkled and creased inside her mary-janes even when her feet are stationary beneath my face.
I endeavour to afford both pairs of female shoes and socks equal footslavish respect and admiration, since I don’t want the fit, young, mixed-race woman to beat me up for disrespecting her mother; and, equally, I don’t want her black mother to give me a clip round the earhole for disrespecting, or being seen to be taking advantage of, her beloved daughter’s youthful feet and footwear!
They must, after all, be a close family – to share not only their modest workplace but even their precious cigarette-break time together; so I’m surely right to presume they would look out for, and protect, one another from an insubordinate, public footslave?
When the mother eventually stubs out her cigarette beneath my face, I admire how the already-existing creases and folds in her short, black anklesocks become even deeper and more pronounced as she arrogantly flexes her forty-year-old, foot muscles beneath my mesmerised face, and I find myself only wishing I could go home tonight with these two dominant women – and serve their bare feet in equal measure, as they share at least some of the same foot DNA.
9. She knows what she likes!
My 34 year old, Indian, personal footmistress, miss Paramjit, knows what she likes:
· She likes to party
· She likes to drink pink champagne
· She likes to watch dancing programmes on TV
· She likes being married to her loving husband
· She likes eating out with her loving husband
· She likes her job as an office manageress
· She likes going away on foreign holidays with her loving husband
· She likes to wear brightly coloured, traditional Indian saris, or salwar kameez, but always with her favourite pair of chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up, black leather ankleboots and plain black cotton anklesocks – with the elasticated sock-tops only just visible above her upper bootrims
· She also likes keeping me, her personal footservant, permanently locked up in my dungeon-basement cell, with no natural light or fresh air
· She likes keeping me immutably confined in the low-level set of authentic, mediaeval kneeling stocks in my aforementioned basement dungeon – stocks which have been in her upper-caste, Indian family for generations
· She likes spending hours seated in front of me in the stocks – relaxing in a comfortable chair with her legs stretched out in front of her so that her dungeon-dustied, black leather ankleboots are resting on the dirty, stone floor directly beneath my confined face
· She likes the fact that I am forced to look down at her boots and socks
· She likes to ask me if I am liking it, being confined in her set of ancient, family stocks? Do I not wish I could move even just one of my poor neck or shoulder muscles for a change? Have my neck and shoulder muscles not completely atrophied by now? Do I think I would even be able any more to crawl to booted heel in the dirt behind her, if she was to suddenly, and unexpectedly, release me from the stocks after all these long years of agonising confinement in wood?
· She doesn’t like to whip – as she feels that is a cruel and unusual punishment (!)
Go figure!
Drop dead gorgeous, redhaired, customer-mistress Filomena still visits my public-shoelick stall on her way home from work at least once a week – just as she has been doing on a regular basis for over twenty years now.
Her beloved husband, master Robert sir, took early retirement when he turned 50 – some 4 years ago – so I thought it only polite to enquire of her as to his health and well-being the other evening whilst I was diligently lickshining the working day’s office-dust off her ubiquitous, black leather, peep-toe, office pumps, and admiring her sheer, tan-nylon tights on her shapely ankles below her modestly ankle-length, black office skirt.
This despite the fact that I had once been a rival to master Robert sir for mistress Filomena’s affections – even though that was one battle I was never going to win, since he was a rich and powerful, executive free man, and I was but the lowly, local public footservant who lickshined ladies’ shoes, including his fiancée’s!
I hate him, yet I must admire him – for he is now the lawfully-wedded spouse of my beautiful, redheaded, forty-something customer-mistress, and the laws of the Gynarchy declare that he is, therefore, my male better and superior.
In response to my polite enquiry, goddess-mistress Filomena (who is well aware of my soft slave-spot for her) gleefully informs me that her ‘Rob’ is doing very nicely – and is very much enjoying his early retirement. He apparently just lounges around the house all day, though he occasionally plays a round of golf with his fellow early-retirees; and he takes her on many expensive, foreign holidays. In fact, customer-mistress Filomena informs me that she herself is thinking of taking early retirement soon – at the age of 47 – and becoming a ‘kept woman’. She promises, however, that she will still come to visit me from time to time, as she knows how much I would miss lickshining her dirty shoes!
I thank my, soon to be retired, redheaded customer-mistress Filomena for her considerateness towards me, and assure her that it would indeed be an honour for me to continue to tongue-attend to her dirty footwear after she has taken early retirement. I confirm to her that I shall never be able to retire from my public-shoelick position – being a mere slave – and shall therefore spend the rest of my days working on this selfsame stall until I eventually die. So I shall always be delighted to see, sniff and clean, her nylon-clad feet!
I also ask her to pass on my slavish regards to her husband, master Robert sir, and to wish him well from me. I describe him as a brilliant man, partly because customer-mistress Filomena is clearly still very much in love with him, and I wish to ingratiate myself with her so that she will take pity on me and continue to visit me after she takes up her early retirement; and partly because I am obliged by law to pass on my respects and good wishes to my male betters – the male partners of my customer-mistresses – whenever and however the opportunity presents itself.
As she triumphantly climbs down from my shoelick-stall she promises she will pass on my footslavish regards to her wealthy husband, though she doesn’t expect that he will bother to reciprocate my humble greetings, since I am just a raggedy-assed, public footservant and of no consequence to him; she doubts he would even remember me – the down-in-the-dirt, public shoeshiner of his wife’s peep-toe, office shoes!
Making Polite Conversation by patheticus on GoAnimate
Her hobby – the way she gets her kicks – is to falsely accuse public footservants of unwanted licking-advances on her shiny black, patent leather, stiletto-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up, knee-high boots, and thus have them imprisoned for life in the underground footslave-dungeons where she can subsequently visit them, and gloat over them.
And today, 30 year old, jet-black-haired and lip-pierced, goth-mistress Lucy has hit the jackpot – for she is visiting an elderly footslave whom she had not only had falsely imprisoned in the dungeons, but who has been additionally condemned to hard labour on the footslave-treadmill, since the good lady judge who had heard his case had been particularly shocked at miss Lucy's tall-tale of lascivious and unprofessional bootlicking behaviour on the part of the elderly, local sink-estate bootservant – allegedly in full, public view of her jealous boyfriend who had subsequently 'dumped' her and falsely accused her of 'encouraging' the public bootservant's inappropriately lecherous behaviour!
As blatant liar miss Lucy is now being shown her victim's suffering on the perma-punishment treadmill by the fat and forty-something, blonde-haired prison governess, the former rubs herself surreptitiously beneath her jet-black skirt in the semi-gloom of the underground treadmill-cell whilst admiring the angry-looking and sore whip-marks on the prisoner's bare back and shoulders –- delivered by his uncaring, pint-sized, twenty-something, prison-treadmill taskmistress seated above and in front of him whilst he toils away at her dainty, black-leather-loafered feet!
Miss Lucy is particularly gratified to observe that the slave is being forced to observe the diminutive taskmistress's rather ropey-looking, pink and white, heart-themed socks beneath her slightly raised, black cotton, trouser-hems as the latter sits, whip in hand, with her feet resting on the treadmill-driver's female-sized, metal footplate directly in front of the elderly prisoner-slave's sweating, labouring face! That must be ultra-humiliating for him – such an unkempt-looking pair of pint-sized shoes and socks to have to look at as one struggles for breath!
'She may be petite, but she's one of my best volunteer civilian-taskmistresses', volunteers the prison-governess. 'Miss Guzel originates from Turkey, and she sure knows how to drive a lazy prisoner-slave on to ever greater efforts with the whipping-stick!'
As if on cue, the diminutive, young, Turkish taskmistress delivers yet another stinging, reddening blow to the elderly treadmill-slave's already heavily whip-cut, left shoulderblade, causing him to groan into the Turkish girl's pink and white, heart-themed socks. But there is no love, or mercy, in those socks for him!
Lucy, his nemesis, chortles:
'Can I gloat over him?'
She is a young goth-lady of few words – many of them lying. But in here, she has the perfect legal right to gloat over 'her' convicted prisoner!
'Of course, my dear!' replies the obliging prison-governess. 'Guzel, would you mind stepping down for just a moment so that our honoured guest can take your place in front of him and gloat over him for a bit?'
'Evet, Bayan,' responds the Turkish girl, appropriately enough in fluent Turkish.
Her ropey, pink and white, heart-themed – but loveless and cruel – socks, and plain, black loafers, are suddenly replaced in front of the treadmill-prisoner's eyes by a pair of sexy, shiny black leather, pointy-toed and stiletto-heeled kneeboots – the boots he now recognises, through his whip-pain, as those of his erstwhile false-accuser; boots he would like to have leched over, but never did!
Little does he know the glorious goth-girl is wearing plain, black, ultra-short, sneaker socks on her pasty-white feet inside those shiny, black leather boots! If he did – despite his advanced years and position of abject suffering – he would probably achieve an erection; albeit a rather feeble one!
'Please feel free to pick up the whipping-stick and beat him to a halt, so that he can concentrate on kissing your boots on the footplate in front of him, my dear,' suggests the prison-governess, helpfully.
False-accuser miss Lucy smirks, and does just that. Her elderly victim-of-the-female-courts now has to kiss her false-witness, pointy boot-toes in a non-lascivious and respectful manner, under the ever-watchful eye of the prison-governess and the genuinely biting sting of his false-accuser's victorious whip, before the stylish boots of the prison-visitor are once again replaced by the ropey loafers and socks of his taskmistress, and his eternal hard labour must resume under highly-efficient, Turkish rule!
27 year old, petite and comely, Indian footmistress Aruna has lots of needs when it comes to her personal footservant, all aimed at making her feel powerful and in control in spite of her physical daintiness and innate, Indian-girl kindness of character:
- Being a modest girl, she needs her personal footservant to focus exclusively on her feet and footwear (rather than any other part of her glorious body), and so she has fitted him with a heavy, dark wooden cangue around his neck, which forces him to perpetually bow the neck over her dainty, feminine feet. He cannot physically stand up, or kneel up, or even look up; all he can do is crawl, painfully, behind her to heel, or kiss her feet when she presents them on the ground in front of his heavily-bowed-down-in-wood head
- Although she is prepared to have him humbly kiss the feet of other women (her friends and relatives, for example) she needs the world to know that he belongs to her, and that she owns him. She has therefore fitted him with a permanent, sickly-green rubber footfool-mask which contains just one word on it – 'Arunasslave'. Unlike other mistresses, she has not individualised her footservant's mask with uniquely identifying little adornments on the outside, as she wishes him to be essentially faceless – just another, sickly-green, footfool face in the crowd, albeit one identified as being her personal property. He therefore must wear her name on his faceless with slavish humility
- She needs him to feel permanently lonely and isolated – separated from the rest of humanity and an outcast behind bars; she has therefore made some inconspicuous adaptations to the mask, fitting tiny, metal bars over the eye slits, so that he feels like he is permanently in prison (even though he is physically at liberty to follow her to heel); and blocking up the ears, which she had fitted with electronic earplugs through which he can hear, and obey, only her voice (thanks to the tiny microphone on her lapel). When she is not ordering him about in live time, the earplugs are set to repeatedly play a recording of her beautiful, high-pitched, Indian-girl voice saying 'you are being my slave...you are being my slave...you are being my slave...you are being my slave...', so that the simple message is being permanently drummed into his stupid, maleslave brain, even at night when he is trying to sleep!
- She needs him to be seen and not heard, so he may not talk, though he is permitted, exceptionally, to cry out under the sting of the lash, through the stinky sock-gag she always inserts into his mouth during a beating; he is not permitted to beg for mercy, as such; only moan and cry with the pain
- She needs to ensure that her personal footservant takes her seriously, in order to enhance her reputation as a pint-sized but no-nonsense footmistress, and so she always wears dark-coloured and sombre, ankleboots and socks with black trousers or jeans; even in the summer time. If her Indian ankleskin is inadvertently on show, she will deliberately pull down her trouser-hems to hide her beautiful, brown legflesh from his barred gaze. Not for him the pleasing sight of her soft, brown, Indian footskin, let alone her brightly-painted, Indian-female toenails – not out in public, anyway!
- She needs him to feel perpetually anxious and unhappy at her feet, since, in her view (which as far as he is concerned is the only one that counts) a slave should never experience joy or contentment, but rather should feel the constant burden of bondage at his Indian mistress's boots and socks, and so she regularly injects him with fear-inducing, humility-inspiring slave serum. As a result he always feels low, as well as being lowly
- She needs the world to know that she can, and does, whip – and so his naked back, which is permanently bent over at her beck and call, is also perpetually whip-scarred; and not neatly – but randomly, with the fiery red marks of the leather lash often criss-crossing one another by way of demonstrating her female anger and contempt for her slave whenever she whips him
The slave has only one need, of course – the need to please his charming, Indian footmistress by meeting all of her foot-needs!
![image[16]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEoXfvgFKnttXNzt1LwST1TFMYHWZXuL6k4YRXtSw5s0uR2ts6U-Tw8NjSQH0c7yOT31NBwlXtbPiYF3JMSEEKaoyr2qfDni9lBguM9SoQBzXRx_uTcXMp1i-3PUP9n0yv-HuI9J-FvVjh/s1600-h/image162.png "image[16]"){kind=small}
She delights in waiting until I am just about to finish my long, arduous, 18 hour, marathon shoelicking day before stepping into my footoire and demanding last-minute servitude just before my official ‘rest’ time. It’s how she gets her kicks!
And customer-mistress Natalie – or ‘customer-princess Natalie’ as I must call her (because she likes being addressed as a ‘princess’) – doesn’t exactly race off, even though she knows full well my biker-boot licking at her late-night feet is eating into my sparse and valuable, supposed downtime. I only get 6 hours of official rest per day! I must be awake again at 06:00 hrs, and shining shoes – and yet princess Natalie is seemingly in no hurry to get to her bed; she always lingers and tarries in my late-night footoire – seemingly pleased to have me all to herself!
Her timing is always immaculate – and always deliberate, of course! Like I said – she loves catching me when I am at my weakest; and most exhausted; and most likely, therefore, to require the sting of the whip to spur me onto ever-greater licking efforts on her black leather, calf-length bootwear; or because of a disrespectful, late-night yawn on my part; or just because she has the means, and the perfect legal right, to whip me!
For, fundamentally, that is what this is all about – the whip; and princess Natalie’s fondness for using it on me for the flimsiest of biker-chick excuses; a piece of dust left beneath a boot-buckle here; a tiny mud-stain missed along her chunky boot-instep there.
It’s not like she doesn’t have a home to go to, or anything; I know for a fact that she lives in a female council flat on the nearby sink-estate just around the corner. No, she is just a malicious, insomniac, dirty stop-out, who likes to keep me awake also, when I should be asleep. She treats me like I am her personal, night-time bootslave – and if she wants to stop up all night having her regal, dirty biker-boots lickshined over her scruffy, blue-denim biker-jeans, whilst plying her ‘royal’ whip down onto my naked and kneeling back, then who am I to complain?
Exactly! I’m just a nobody; a vassal; a bootserf to a sink-estate princess!
![image[16]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUmC4kLGBcXiSLcshPByTa2c0gZjfQHrSbqp5LUunAKIldqQp5kyanNRk__vlzpvuUW30TIe_van3tyblAVNxnEkbAaCdcZ9zbL49FgbfHG7evD2OJABMwktgC_ry4MHarC7NNm0OjoHT/s1600-h/image164.png "image[16]"){kind=small}
We are both waiting in the female-court punishment cell to be punished.
She, the young, twenty-something black woman, is seated nonchalantly high on cannabis in a comfortable chair; she is the guilty party – found guilty of shoplifting.
I, the fifty-something, court-service whipping boy, am kneeling nervously by her low-top, lace-up, black-canvas-sneakered feet, admiring the tiny slither of red and black anklesock just beneath her frayed, blue-denim, jean hem on her dainty, African-Caribbean, right foot; I am the innocent party – having been nowhere near the convicted shoplifter-mistress at the time of her offence. Yet I am the one who is soon to receive her punishment of 40 lashes of the whipping cane!
It’s only right and proper, of course, that I should suffer the punishment cane on her female behalf – in the eyes of the Gynarchy Law. A sweet, young woman like this can’t be expected to experience pain and humiliation! That falls to me!
I fully accept that. However, it does rancour with me somewhat that the young-lady offender gets to enjoy my pain and suffering; for she shall shortly be politely invited to finish smoking her weed, and then sit in front of the wooden punishment trestle over which I shall soon be ignominiously secured – butt naked and face downwards, with my head hanging low and in shame over her scruffy, black-canvas, criminal sneakers!
I may even have the added indignity of catching a glimpse of her socks, creasing up with joy and laughter at my vicarious suffering on her behalf. She will even be permitted to film my pain and degradation on her mobile phone, for all her mates to see.
Then, when the 40-stroke caning is finally over, I shall be formally obliged to kiss her scuffmarked, black rubbery sneaker-toes, and nuzzle her red and black anklesocks, and praise and bless her for committing her crime, thereby leading to my stripy and sore, red bottom. Casually, she shall click her teeth in disgust at me, before thanking the female, court caner – a tall, blonde girl wearing her court-bailiff, uniform consisting of a white blouse, navy blue knee-length skirt, and chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up, black leather kneeboots – for her ‘lovely punishment’, of me, and promising the latter a new pair of designer boots from her next, planned shoplifting expedition later that very same afternoon. The black-girl recidivist promises the openly corrupt court-caner to bring the stolen boots with her to court if and when she is arrested again, and enquires as to the latter’s boot size!
The blonde caner-girl thanks the black shoplifter-mistress for her kind offer, and duly gives her her boot size (a size 9½, it transpires). She also apologises to the convicted shoplifter for having to detain her whilst she awaited the carrying out of her sentence upon me, the ‘elderly’, court whipping ‘boy’.
Meanwhile my middle-aged, maleslave buttocks are burning with fresh pain and shame in the face of these two superior, lovely young ladies – one black; one white – and I find myself whining and whimpering pathetically as their respective sneakers and kneeboots exit the punishment cell, leaving me to suffer the stings and harrows of outrageous misfortune on my miserable lonesome.
Still, let’s look on the bright side – at least, given the severity of my caning, it will be a further two weeks or so until my whipped buttocks are sufficiently healed for my next vicarious sentence!
![image[16]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPoFoT_30xC23zeNhEIc2sVcMLowz0YqvPyfgjjDGOPxqCEzl047m38VHCv2CJKnSkxNUJyEvpG3SJPObuSRtOHl73TfBzQ7FsNRuyUvgDFNKtWvh3cnO-miOAsAa0Y9WLVzYrSaA6Trx/s1600-h/image166.png "image[16]"){kind=small}
Many slaves and mistresses are on talking terms throughout the Gynarchy – the mistresses barking their verbal orders and criticisms down at their slaves in curt, abrupt mistress-speak; the slaves responding in humble, penitent maleslave-speak.
But I, unfortunately, don’t have that luxury; because my 25 year old mistress Carly is a beautiful, pint-sized, dark-haired deaf-mute, I too am forbidden to talk. She communicates with me purely through the sting of the whipping-stick – one cut to my bare, kneeling back for ‘start kissing the backs of my socks, slave’; two stings for ‘stop kissing the backs of my socks, slave’; and three or more stings by way of punishing me, and expressing her young-womanly displeasure towards me.
For my part, I convey my obedience and humility towards my beautiful, deaf-mute mistress by worshipfully kissing the backs of her ubiquitous, plain black anklesocks – socks which are perennially exposed to my personal-footslave lips as she deliberately wears black, flat, backless mules with trousers, both to work and in her spare time – whenever I am ordered to do so by the single blow of the whipping-stick. She can therefore feel my footslavish devotion through the backs of her exposed, cotton socks, so that she has no need to hear me verbally grovel and whine, like most footslaves are required to do behind their mistresses’ feet!
It’s a wholly effective, alternative means of mistress/slave communication – the whip and the sock – albeit a painful and humiliating one for me! But at least the world can see – writ large in the painful stripes on my back – my mistress’s utter, young-womanly contempt for me. And through my constant lip-homage to her socks, the surrounding world can equally observe my pathetic, footslavish devotion to my silent and surdy (i.e. deaf and surly) personal footmistress Carly!
![image[16]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_ShFcyPkMKRBA85b3lQ-ehZnoCbB7-ykslg60oFBI1KRnEC3DzhJepVOtpB1jQiPtmMK-613jViOC9CFFPHyMe9HXS-CsZSWEA-XfWONctFCYFaEXsYWrFRY4F93mKn9Rymr6aqnhhvb/s1600-h/image168.png "image[16]"){kind=small}
‘What sort of whip are you looking to buy, madam’? asks the slimy, but manly, whip-salesman in the whip-showroom.
‘I want one with all the attachments on it!’ replies my evidently whip-naïve, first-time personal-footmistress Olivia. She doesn’t even realise that she’s talking about a scourge!
What’s more, I have the utter indignity of having to kneel and look at the backs of her scuffmarked, plain white, low-top, lace-up plastic sneakers and scrunched-up, black anklesocks beneath her ultra-short, white leather miniskirt whilst she inspects the multithonged, black leather, lead-shot-laced scourge above me, by running her delicate, feminine-white fingers through it. This whip, like my 21 year old personal footmistress herself, is barely legal – but that’s not going to stop her from clumsily trying it out for size on my bare, kneeling back.
The salesman secures me in the whipping-shop whipping-stocks, and my new footmistress Olivia brings it crashing down willy-nilly all over my bent back. The thongs, and little leaden balls, cut painfully into my back – but not painfully enough for the whip salesman! He helpfully grabs hold of my mistress Olivia’s right whipping-arm and guides her into how to lacerate an innocent slave’s back in a much more tidy and professional manner – with crisp and even stripes, interspersed with occasional overlays.
I notice, incidentally, that the heavy-breathing master-sir has bad breath – caused, no doubt, by his love for his job flogging whips to lovely, young ladies, for he mustn’t have time to brush his teeth of a morning, so keen is he to rush into his beloved place of work!
My mistress Olivia, naturally, falls in love with him – big and strong-armed, hairy man with halitosis that he is – and the next thing I know he has asked her out on a date! This bodes ill for me – my personal, whip-hungry footmistress dating a highly professional whip-salesman!
I fervently kiss her cheap, white, low-top sneakers and plain black anklesocks after my showroom whipping, by way of a public demonstration towards the master-sir of the efficacy of his whip tuition, and my determination to respect and obey my new, naïve, personal footmistress – his new girlfriend!
![image[16]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUkSK8VHi5-Dm5CaXhjn-I8gRGkNzrhYrn-Tw1zHxL56YoHzlKTEu0_cJCKnP086HXcQ6S9cYYj3IOhVkbXPOOUcIqtE34HxZVw6IP-g_MGKjwMMGIB_3mkHDUa2PWtZYQh-dToKP8mOl/s1600-h/image1610.png "image[16]"){kind=small}
She seemed a bit ‘odd’ right from the start.
From the moment the cute, dark-curly-haired, twenty-something, westernised, Indian girl climbed up onto the female shoelick-throne of power in front of me, I could tell she was ‘eccentric’ by her flat, seemingly oversized for her dainty Indian feet, beige-brown leather loafers, worn with plain black anklesocks and grey-pinstriped, bootcut trouser-hems. An office worker, evidently – but clearly not an office-worker in a fashion house!
Then she opened her pretty, Indian mouth:
‘Good morning, slave! My name is being ‘Varsha’!...’
She’s telling me her name! Introducing herself to me – and without the customary mistressly title in front of it (i.e. ‘miss’; ‘mistress’; or ‘goddess’!)
How quaint! How innocently naïve!
Before I can respond, she has then, quite literally, put me on her back foot:
‘…Kindly be lickshining the dirty muck off the backs of my heels, isn’t it?’
She must be referring to the muddy-pool stains on the very backs of her beige-brown loafers – mud distinguishable only by virtue of the fact that it is a deeper shade of brown than her surrounding shoe-leather.
‘Y…Yes, m…mistress Varsha! At once…m…mistress Varsha!’
Her disarming forthrightness in revealing her name to me – a mere slave – like she were introducing herself to an equal human-being, has made me extremely nervous! No public footservant likes eccentric and unconventional customer-mistresses; you never quite know what they might do next!
Don’t get me wrong – she seems a pleasant enough young woman; but, for all I know, miss Varsha could be some sort of mistress-psychopath, recently escaped from a mental hospital! Perhaps those ill-fitting and incongruous shoes aren’t even hers?! Perhaps she stole them from one of the nurses to make good her escape?!
Anxiously, I stretch my head, as far as my neck-chains will allow me to, round to the back of her brown leather, loafer heels which – again, uncharacteristically for a ‘normal’ customer-mistress – she helpfully twists round to the side so that my tongue may have easier access:
‘And do not be touching my socks with your face, slave, isn’t it?’
Oh, here we go! Here’s the catch! She must be looking for an excuse to whip me! She’s a ‘wanton whipper’ as we public footslaves like to call such cruel customer-mistresses – soft, curly-haired and fluffy on the exterior; sadistically cruel on the inside!
I’ll bet that’s what she is!
‘No, m…mistress! I m…mean, yes, m…mistress V…Varsha! Please don’t b…beat me, m…mistress!’
She chuckles down at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Do not be frightened of me, slave! I am not going to hurt you! I am merely warning you that it is not the backs of my socks you must be cleaning with your stupid slave-face, but my dirty shoes, isn’t it?’
Gosh! Maybe I’m wrong! If I take miss Varsha at her Indian-accented word she is not itching to whip me! And, to be fair, she has not shown any sign of reaching for the dreaded, nearby whipping-stick. A ‘wanton whipper’ surely would have done by now?!
‘Y…yes, m…mistress. I understand, m…mistress Varsha! Oh thank you, m…mistress! Bless you for your k…kindness and c…compassion towards me, a mere s…slave, m…mistress!’
‘Ha! Ha! That’s okay, slave! Now shut up and get on with your dirty-heel licking, isn’t it?’
I shut up and lick.
