Frigid Footoire
Footoire: An outdoor cubicle, normally roofless (i.e. similar to a French ‘pissoir’) where ladies can have their dirty, street shoes and boots lickshined by a public footslave in some degree of privacy
It's called a 'frigid footoire' for two good reasons:
1. It's cold and draughty, with the wind howling, especially at night, through the flimsy, green, tin walls of my deserted, city-centre-location footoire; tin walls designed not to protect me, the footoire-slave, from the elements, but merely to protect my customer-mistresses from any prying eyes. The footoire, to be fair, does have a partial, tin roof – but only to protect the mistress's pretty head from the rain as she sits regally on the raised shoelick-chair of female power in front of and above me; the rusty roof does not extend over my kneeling and humbly-bowed head. Plus, of course, the mistress can be fully clothed in a warm coat if she so wishes, whereas I, like all male slaves in the Gynarchy, am clad only in my iron chains and flimsy, grey slave-shorts, come wind, rain, hail or high water!
2. My customer-mistresses are instructed to be cold and frigid towards me. Indeed, a sign on the tin wall behind my head reads:
'Ladies! Please do not converse with the slave. Please issue your orders to him in a terse and perfunctory manner, and then watch him obey you in silence. The public-use whip is at your female disposal either for use as a pointing stick, or to discipline the slave. Thank you for your cooperation.'
I didn't write that; the female authorities who own me did! But it's small wonder that my footoire is filled with an atmosphere of frigidity – even in the height of female summer!
Beggar's Banquet
Right now, it is most definitely not summer! Quite the opposite – it is the bleak midwinter, and a bitterly cold and windy night in the near deserted city! It’s even starting to sleet and snow!
I say 'near deserted', for I am not totally without female company in the form of a stunningly beautiful, but surly, twenty-something, jet-black-haired, Romanian-gypsy girl wearing a warm, plain grey hoodie-top and black jeans, who appears to be taking the written instructions in front of her (and behind my head) very literally, for all she has said to me, in her staccato, Romany accent, since taking up her seat of power in front of my frigid, footslave face is:
'Slave, lick brown off the sneakers!'
I presume she is referring to the brown street-mud currently adorning the lower parts of her otherwise grubby-white, low-top, lace-up, leather sneakers! She evidently wants them divested of their alien, brown dirt-stains – and understandably so; for they sully her otherwise streetwise, feminine beauty!
Her frayed and equally brown-dirt-stained, black denim jean-hems are slightly raised, thanks to her seated position, thereby affording me a truly pleasant vista of Romanian-girl, grubby-white anklesock – full-length anklesocks, but carelessly twisted at the tops to reveal just a slither of dusky-complexioned, smooth, unwashed, olive-toned, female ankleskin.
I suspect this young woman had not washed her feet, or changed her socks, in several days, and has possibly been out begging on the streets, but has now decided to take a rest from her labour of love by popping into my humble city-centre footoire, due to the lack of free male and female clientele left to hassle for money out on the unforgiving, Gynarchy streets on this cold and blustery, winter's evening; and to get some temporary, at least partial, shelter from the harsh elements!
If so, I am honoured by her presence, and will most certainly endeavour to lick all the non-ingrained traces of 'brown' off her cheap and nasty, white, laced-up sneakers, whilst avoiding her socks as best I can, since I don't exactly relish the aroma of 3-day-old, unwashed, Romanian-girl, stinky socks!
The wind hoots its devilish derision at my dirty-sock squeamishness through the tin-thin walls of my dark green footoire, as I endeavour not to breathe through my nose whilst licking off ‘brown’ from the Romany girl's leathery-cracked, well-worn, no doubt hand-me-down, nominally white, sneaker surfaces!
For her part, the pretty, but street-dirty, gypsy-girl winds her neck out above me inside her hoodie in order to gain a better view of my consumption of her beggar's banquet of grubby-white sneaker leather, seasoned by spicy and vinegary, white, feminine anklesock and street-stain brown, all so kindly laid on for me al fresco and unsolicited. No further words of either fluent Romany, or broken English, cross her pretty, Romanian-goddess lips as my own slave-lips get to work on her dirty, white sneaker-leather; only her bad breath caused, no doubt, by her rotting teeth, condescends towards me, though that too is soon dissipated by the ever-strengthening winds!
Her whitish anklesocks crease in front of my rueful face as she thoughtfully, though still sullenly, twists her shapely, twenty-something ankles around to one side in order to give my sneaker-licking tongue easier access to the ‘brown’ she wishes removed; but this is one pair of creased, white anklesocks I intend not to nuzzle or pay labial homage to – unless I really have to under Romanian-female law! Those siren, grubby-white anklesocks might look enticing – but their distinctly ammonic aroma, even from within the confines of her fully laced-up sneakers, and even amidst all this windy-fresh air blowing a gale around us, indicates to me that they are bad socks; evil socks – not for the faint-hearted footoire slave!
Fortunately, no cursory order to kiss, nuzzle or sniff soiled sock is forthcoming, in any language. When I have cleansed her white sneakers of sufficient amounts of brown to satisfy her high, feminine standards, the Romany girl merely pushes my face away with the slave-saliva-moistened side of her still grubby-white, right sneaker and climbs down from the chair. She then exits my frigid footoire with the same, glum expression on her grey-hoodie-framed face, but with marginally cleaner sneakers.
I feel foolishly proud of myself, though I know that beggars belief!
She doesn't close the door on the way out, as there isn't one – only a wind-tunnelling curvature in the green tin walls which ensures my continued loneliness and numbness!
I am missing her already!
All hail!
It has, actually, started lashing down hailstones now! The hailstones can be heard bouncing off the partial, green tin roof of my flimsy footoire, and can be felt pummelling onto my roofless and fully exposed, bare back; but I'd much rather be lashed by the hail, than lashed by a fit young woman with a public-use whipping stick!
And speaking of fit young women who could do serious damage to an elderly male slave with a whipping stick, an Indian office-worker girl, who has evidently been working late, rushes into my footoire booth, presumably for some degree of shelter for herself and her precious smartphone – for she is gabbling away on it above me in very loud Hindi.
Even from my kneeling position at her seated, wet feet I can tell she's an Asian beauty – petite and slim; wearing a rainswept, but smart, pinstriped trouser-suit over a soggy, white blouse (though no overcoat; the poor girl must be freezing, as well as drenched!); and, most importantly from my lowly, public-footslave perspective, black leather loafers with a decorative metal buckle over each rounded toe-area, and plain, black sneaker-socks that leave little, soft-feminine ankleskin to the imagination!
Now these are socks I would be more than happy to nuzzle all along the narrow, elasticated-cotton tops – hardworking socks; fragrant; yet clean, apart from the day's inevitable build-up of footsweat deep inside the confines of her flat, leather loafer-shoes.
I must endeavour to surreptitiously brush my nose-tip up against them, without touching her bare skin, as I lickshine her hail-splashed shoeleather. I shall have to be discreet, for it is clear that no verbal command to nuzzle Indian-girl, black, business sock – or even to lickshine Indian-girl, black shoe – is going to be forthcoming anytime soon. She is taking the written instruction on the wall not to converse with the slave quite literally, and is casually carrying on with her noisy telephone conversation in Hindi above me as if I wasn't there – though the mere fact her dripping-wet footwear is resting on the two metal footrests in front of my kneeling face is indication enough that I am to start licking.
Her shoes smell and taste musty thanks to the puddles of rainwater and melting slush she has been walking through on the winter streets of the Gynarchy. It's a pity that previous, Romanian girl's grubby-white sneakers had not been as rain-dampened; they could have done with a thorough wash (though I expect they're getting a good, hard wash now, wherever she is out walking on the rain and sleet-soaked streets!)
The current Indian girl above me suddenly terminates her conversation, and switches to texting mode. She still hasn't acknowledged me – and why should she? For I am just a nondescript, lower-caste, lowlife, public footslave, whilst she is an upper-caste, Indian-goddess babe with a busy and hectic social life. I’ll bet she works hard too! This young woman has the air of someone who is going places – though not quite yet; not until the rain eases off at any rate – for my humble, tin footoire-booth provides her with a modicum of shelter from the elements as she minds her own business above me, whilst I carry on with my intensely humble business of tongue-brushing the dirty rain and sleet water off the superior, outer surfaces of her shoes.
Distracted as she is by her text-messaging, I do manage to find some surreptitious solace in her low-cut, black anklesocks, by gently nudging them along the exposed, elasticated-cotton tops as I respectfully lickshine her upper shoerims. I also try to sniff her socks, but the overwhelming aroma is of musty, damp shoeleather. Her personal, household foot-servant, if she has one, is no doubt in for a treat when she kicks off her tired shoes when she finally gets home later tonight and shoves her damp, black-socked, office feet onto his face for him to dry them out! Just think – the sight and smell of unprotected, Indian-girl socks; in your human-sockdryer face!
For now, however, her socks are mostly covered by demure, Indian-girl, black loafer shoe.
The clattering of the hailstones, sadly, starts to ease on the flimsy, tin roof above the Indian goddess's head, and, still engrossed in her texting, she therefore climbs down from the footoire shoelick-chair and heads off back out into the night. I don't, of course, expect any words of gratitude from her for my interim shoelicking efforts, but it would have been nice if she had at least inspected my work!
Slovenly Soles
The next young woman to grace me with her frigidity is evidently Pakistani, rather than Indian – judging by her ornate, black and gold headscarf. She is also chewing gum and (like her Indian cousin before her) avariciously texting.
Unlike her South-Asian cousin, however, this beautiful, twenty-something, Pakistani-Muslim girl is slouched in her seat above me, and resting her outstretched, damp, canvas-sneakered feet on the backs of her wet-rubbery heels – meaning that all I can see are the grey, street-soiled, rubbery-wet zigzags of her sneakersoles.
Mind you, that’s all I need to see – assuming the young Muslim mistress merely requires her wet sneaker-treads to be lickshined? I’m sure I caught a glimpse of short, white sneaker-sock above her green canvas sneaker-uppers and just below her black denim jean-hems; but such higher things are really none of my business if the mistress is content for me to lickshine her dirty sneaker bottoms!
Since it is not my place to interrupt her texting and chewing gum, I proceed on the assumption that I am merely to lick-taste where she has been walking – and there is ample evidence of where she has been in the soggy detritus stuck to her rain-dampened sneakersoles:
· Dead blades of blackened grass (so she must have been to the park)
· Broken twigs (ditto)
· Brown mud (ditto)
· Blackened chewing gum (a previous piece she spat out?)
· Cigarette-butt remains (naughty girl!)
· A lemony-like stain (which persists despite the muddy rainwater surrounding it)
All in all, her soles are quite slovenly!
This arrogant, young, fashion-conscious Muslim woman is not even looking at me, let alone not talking to me, as I get to tonguework on her rubbery zigzag-soles. I respect her all the more for that! For it indicates that I am nothing to her – just a sneaker-licking machine that you shove the dirty, grey-rubbery bottoms of your rain-dampened, green-canvas sneakers onto whilst texting your boyfriend and nonchalantly chewing gum on high. Damn it – she doesn’t even deem me worthy enough to look at her white, elasticated, cotton socktops!
And that’s exactly how things should be in an unfriendly, feminine-frigid footoire!
Cold
I am in a bit of a quandary when it comes to my next, late-night customer-mistress. Although she is very blonde and very pretty, and is wearing nice, black leather, decoratively buckled and chunky-heeled kneehigh boots over her sin-tight (sic), blue denim jeans, she also has a nasty cold, and is coughing and spluttering all over me (needless to say, an arrogant, young mistress feels no need to cover her mouth or nose when she coughs or sneezes in the presence of a mere slave like me; only other free persons are afforded such polite consideration and courtesy!)
I really, really don’t want to catch this young woman’s cold – for working in a cold and frigid footoire is miserable enough even when you are not feeling ill! And yet – she has ordered me to lickshine her black leather kneeboots ‘from top to bottom’; and I want to lickshine her kneeboots from top to bottom; it’s just that, the closer I get to her upper bootrims, the more likely it is that the droplets of moisture on her outer boot surfaces are caused by her snot, rather than the rain, hail and sleet, and I shall consequently be licking her recently expelled nose-germs!
If I have to get ill licking boots, I would much rather it be a 24 hour tummy bug from licking something unpleasant that she has walked in – rather than the inevitably longer-lasting cold and flu viruses! But, what choice do I have? The flu-ridden, blonde girl wishes her boots to be divested of her nasal spray and mucus by slave-mouth, and I am the unfortunate, public bootslave whose mouth she has allotted to the task!
And so I dutifully lick the uppers of her kneehigh, black leather buckle-boots, hoping against hope that my footslave immunity system is strong enough to fight off any sweet feminine germs that my tongue may be coming into intimate contact with.
Will I catch her grotty cold? Only time will tell…
Yet another half-freezing footslave, shivering in his frigid, city-centre footoire at the ugg-booted feet of one of his female betters…
Frigid Footoire by patheticus on GoAnimate
