Feetslaves’ Lives Volume 2
Further startling insights into feetslaves’ humble lives.
There are, actually, two 'grades' of personal footservant – 'upper' and 'lower'.
An 'upper' grade footservant is permitted by his personal footmistress to look her in the upper foot, whenever she is seated with one shapely leg crossed over the other; whereas a 'lower' grade footservant may only ever look his footmistress in the lower foot – the one resting on the dirty ground.
Every lower grade footservant naturally aspires to become an upper grade footservant, if only because there is so much more to see and admire in a mistress's hovering-in-midair foot, than there is in her stationary foot resting in the dirt. That's because there is, inevitably, much more subliminal movement in the elevated foot; with more concomitant, sexy sock-creases, and more bare ankle glimpses above the female sockline and below the feminine trouser or jean hem!
Take my 22 year old, black mistress Charmaine, for example. Sadly, I'm just her lower grade footservant, and must spend much of my footslave life with my chin resting on the dirty, college floor where she is a student of philosophy, staring at her stationary, left, black and white, low-top, converse sneaker and plain, black, motionless anklesock-slither beneath her somewhat frayed and scruffy, black denim jean-hem, whilst her right anklesock is frustratingly much more creased and exposed on her swivelling, right ankle high above me as she sits at the college library-table devouring her scientific textbooks.
Oh to be permitted to raise my head above the parapet of her left ankle, and study that subliminally rotating, right, sneakered and socked, beautiful, black, student-girl anklebone above me!
But I very much fear it will never happen – for my black-student footmistress Charmaine has a very low opinion of me, and therefore requires me to keep my head very low in her presence at all times; as low as it can go, in fact – down by the white-rubbery side of her stationary, left sneaker; and certainly lower than her motionless, left anklesock. In her pretty eyes I am just not good enough to raise my head up to the giddy heights of her right, sneakered foot; and I never will be.
I am destined, it seems, to remain a lower-grade footservant for the rest of my ignominious career!
Still, at least I get to see some beautiful black-girl, plain black sock throughout the day; I must be grateful for such small-slither-of-sock mercies!
There are no more frightening words uttered from a mistress’s pretty, feminine lips, for a weak and spineless, male slave, than:
‘Wait till the master gets home, slave!’
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Pint-sized, 20 year old, Pakistani customer-mistress Para is certainly no pushover – despite being only 5 foot tall!
When she climbs up onto the public shoelick-throne of power above and in front of where I am kneeling, she clearly feels tall and mighty – as well she might, for she is, at that point, much taller and mightier than me!
Miss Para – the public-footslave bully – likes to wear boots and shoes with big, blocky heels, again, to make her look taller; unless walking in big heels is impracticable, due to adverse weather conditions (e.g. snow and ice), in which case she will wear her favourite pair of bulky-looking and misshapen ugg-boots on her dainty size 3 feet – again, to make her look bigger and stronger than she actually is!
She also exerts her female authority over slaves like me by barking her orders down at us in a curt and intimidatory manner, designed to strike the fear of the goddess into us, and often including dire warnings and threats as to how adept she is at applying the flesh-stinging whip to a disrespectful or incompetent, male slave’s back!
She also calls us ‘pigflesh’ (well, that’s what she calls me, at any rate!)
And she puts her Pakistani girlpower where her gobbiness is – frequently applying the public-use whipping stick to my bare back and shoulders on the pretext of some alleged misdemeanour on my part (for example, she once sorely whip-sticked me for allegedly looking lasciviously at the numerous creases in her beige-brown, woollen legwarmers over her skintight, blue denim jeans above her dark brown leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up ankleboots. Fair enough – I was indeed guilty of such lascivious behaviour (i.e. looking at her above the ankle), and was wondering to myself whether her unseen socks inside her boots matched her outer legwarmers; but I still don’t feel that such a minor infringement quite merited such a severe beating!
I’m sure that, when she is old enough to own her own personal footslave (i.e. next year after her 21st birthday) not only will she go straight down to the slave-market and purchase one – by way of having a young, pint-sized woman’s personal status symbol; someone to crawl to chunky, booted heel behind her and make her look ‘big’! But she will also treat him extremely harshly, and ensure his back is adorned with prominent whipmarks – again by way of a demonstration to all and sundry that she is a petite footmistress who is not to be messed with. She may even mask him, with an ignominious footfool-mask that makes him look permanently startled and afraid of her – not that I personally would need such a mask, were I fortunate enough to be the chosen one to serve permanently at her dainty, Pakistani feet!
For I already look suitably startled and afraid whenever I see her approaching me!
Will he be a successful applicant for the job of household footservant?
She’s a part of the ‘me, me, me’ generation, who expects to have everything ‘now, now, now’!
And if she doesn’t get what she wants right now, she will sulk, sulk, sulk; and a sulky mistress with an itchy whipping-stick, is something best avoided – if you are her personal, household footservant!
It’s perhaps somewhat ironic, therefore, that her name is…miss Patience!
It’s a good, well-run, orderly house – where the slave knows his place; which is at the feet of his betters…
She wants to know…
My mistress Sadie deliberately wears her calf-length, red & white crew-socks fully pulled-up, so that my kneeling eyes are always on a level with her socktops.
I am not considered worthy enough to look her above the sock.
My new, married master-sir is giving me some much-needed instruction as to my role as his wife’s newly-purchased, personal sockservant:
'Slave, you are now the full-time servant of my beautiful, young, Nigerian wife's socks.
You will live only for her socks:
*at night you will dream of her socks, and use her dirty socks as your stinky pillows
*you will arise at 04.00 A.M every morning in order to mouthwash, handwash, hand-wring, breathe-dry and then face-iron your mistress's socks
*as soon as my wife awakens, you will kneel by her side of our master-bed and await her instructions as to her sock-selection for the day with eager anticipation and enthusiasm (for you shall love all of my wife's socks, and deem it an honour to serve any pair of socks chosen by my beloved wife throughout the day)
*you will then fetch her chosen pair of socks from her sock-drawer, on your hands and knees and with the rolled-up socks held respectfully in your mouth – and whip betide you if you bring her the wrong pair of socks! So study my wife's socks carefully, slave – and get to know them intimately; your back-skin might depend on it!
*after my beloved wife has showered, you will apply her socks to her feet. You will do so humbly, by keeping your eyes low and on the reinforced toe-areas of her socks as you pull them up her shapely ankles or calve muscles, depending on the length of her sock; yet you will still ensure her socks are smooth, crisp and even on her feet, with no creases. If they are even slightly askew, you will be whipped. If you touch her bare, African footskin, you will be whipped. If she is displeased with the application of her socks in any way, you will be sorely whipped.
*you will then worship-kiss her socks on her feet 100 times each, alternating your sock-kisses between each sock, and ensuring that your lips have paid homage to the whole of her socks by the end of your female-sock-kissing session
*although you are not her shoe or boot slave, you will then have special dispensation to apply her outer footwear to her feet, over her kissed and worshipped socks
*you will then follow my wife to socktop on your hands and knees throughout the day, keeping both your eyes fixed on the visible areas of her socks above her shoe or bootline. If her socktops are hidden by her shoes or boots, you will nevertheless imagine what they must look like inside her footwear throughout the day, and live in hope that you shall catch the occasional, fleeting glimpse of my wife's socks beneath her trouser or jean-hems. You will learn to live for such moments, and your heart will skip a beat every time you catch a glimpse of your beautiful, African mistress’s socks
*whenever you can physically see her socks for a prolonged period of time, you must observe the development of any creases and folds, and silently pray that she doesn't whip you because of them. As soon as she is stationary, you must seek to smooth out any sock-creases on her shapely ankles with your slave-nose, whilst discreetly inhaling the increasingly vinegary aroma of your mistress's warm socks
*when my wife gets home from work, or from her leisure activities, you will await her orders to remove her outer footwear, and then sniff-worship the sweaty aroma of her socks, by audibly and ostentatiously sniffing them on her feet 100 times each – again alternating between her right sock and her left sock. Your facial expression must betray your distaste for the unpleasant, stinky aroma of day-old sock, whilst simultaneously your weaselly words flatter the socks, pretending that you actually like the stench of fully-ripened, cheesy fem-sock
*you will then observe my wife's sticky, sweaty socks gathering dust-mites, fluff and hairs on the soles as she walks around the house in her socked feet. You will contemplate how those dust-mites and other items of household-detritus shall eventually end up inside your mouth and down your throat later in the evening, along with my wife's bobbled socklint, sticky black toejam, chipped toenail varnish, dead footskin-cells and stale socksweat – all garnished from the inner and outer surfaces of her dirty, day-old socks as they soak ignominiously in your sock-obsessed mouth
*you shall be foolishly proud to be my wife's personal sockservant, and shall wear your whip-marks with shame -–for they indicate failure on your part to carry out your sock-servile duties to your mistress's complete satisfaction. Know too that I shall duplicate any stripes my wife lays on your back, as I demand that you please my wife and meet all of her soxual needs at all times. I, of course, shall take care of all her sexual needs as, unlike you, I am a real man who is at liberty to think of higher things than beautiful, young women's socks!
*for the entertainment of our friends, you shall court and woo my wife's stinky socks upon our command, wining and dining them and begging them to go out with you, so that you may enjoy an even more deep and meaningful relationship with them. My wife's socks shall, of course, reject your unseemly advances, since you are not good enough to be their lover! Everyone will then laugh at you – the would be sock-lover, spurned by the very female socks he tried, in vain, to chat up
*sock-queer; sock-fancier; sock-drudge; spurned sock-suitor. You are lowlier than my wife's socks, however short and flimsy they may be! Your name from now on shall be 'Yolandessockslave", or "Yolandesox", or just "Sox" for short, since you exist only to serve my beautiful, West-African wife's socks, and your life has no value, purpose or meaning without them!
*my wife shall never throw away an old pair of socks when they are worn-out and no longer wearable on her feet; instead they shall be added to your unwashed collection of her disused socks – a collection you shall eventually be buried with when you too are worn-out and of no further use to us. You shall be buried with dishonour in a shallow, sock-pauper's grave with my wife's dirty, disused socks resting on your upturned, skeletal face, and your ignoble epitaph shall read:
'Here lies Yolandessockslave. Died aged 53, impotent, whipped and sock-celibate. Now suffering beneath his superior mistress's dirty socks for all eternity!'
*how the female construction-workers of the distant future shall laugh as your dry bones are eventually unearthed to make way for a female park, and placed as an exhibit in the Gynarchy museum – my wife's now decaying socks still resting on your female-sock-dominated, upturned, grimacing skull for future generations of females and freemales to mock and make fun of; an apposite example of early 21st Century sockslavery!
I am a whip-showroom slave. My job is to offer my back up to those mistresses who wish to choose a new whip for their personal footslaves back home. My back becomes a testing ground for their new whip – so that they can get a feel for it; its length; its girth; its velocity; its wrap around the ribs!
Of course, I must always do my best to persuade the customer-mistress that the whip she is testing out on me befits her, so that she will be inclined to buy it. I thus must make sure to scream suitably loudly with each test-stroke of the whip, and to twist and writhe in my whip-showroom bonds. Furthermore, the mistress must be able to observe my pain reactions in my suffering face as I plead for mercy – so, immediately following the painful test-run of the whip, I must collapse at the prospective customer-mistress’s boots or shoes and furnish them with feverish, fearful kisses, assuring her not just of her great, female prowess with the whip, but also of its oiled-leathery efficacy in flaying me of my poor and vulnerable, maleslave backskin.
My employers particularly like me to cry into a lady’s sensitive socks – atop her shoes or boots – if they are visible to the naked-slave eye, by way of a demonstration of my abject fear and trembling before her, and my complete and utter subjugation at the hands of her new whip!
This morning, for example, I am blubbering over the thick, black cotton bootsocks and black, lace-up, hobnailed ankleboots of what appears to be an off-duty, blonde-ponytailed, uniformed, prison-officer mistress – after a genuinely excruciating whipping at her fair hands with one of our deluxe-range, brown leather, single-tailed, cowhide whips!
I must say, she did, genuinely, suit the whip – and her evident professional training in the use of the female whip on a male slave shone through in the form of my glistening, red-striped back! The trouble is, I can’t tell if she’s just a ‘whip-waster’ – an off-duty mistress with some spare time on her hands, and who perhaps just wishes to take out her monthly, female frustrations on some hapless whip-showroom slave, without ever having any real intentions of purchasing the pricey implement of pain!
My current suspicions are particularly aroused by the fact that this deluxe and super-painful whip would ordinarily be considered outside the price range of a common-or-garden, low-ranking, prison-officer mistress (and she can’t be much older than 22 or 23, so I’m guessing she is of junior rank, and therefore earns a relatively low wage, within the Female Prison Service!).
But who am I to pass judgement upon her? Right now, I’m just her personal, well-whipped whipping-boy! And so I do not stint in my kissing of her plain black bootsocks; in my begging her for mercy; in my praise and congratulations for her undoubted skill and dexterity with the whip; and in my assurances that she is well-suited to this particular whip, and that her personal footslave will tremble every time he sees her black leather, prison-wardress boots approaching him, with the tail of the brown leather whip trailing ominously behind them in the dirt.
Indeed, given her occupation, I find the post-whipping strength to go even further in my gushing flattery of the potential customer-mistress, and opine that she would do well to take this new whip into work with her, and teach a few of the prisoner-slaves in her charge a lesson or two in respect and obedience for her blonde-female personage! This is so much more effective a whip than the bog-standard, prison whips issued to prison-officer mistresses like herself as part of their everyday disciplinary equipment, doesn’t she think?
As I suspected all along, the young blonde woman is not, in the end, a serious buyer. She feigns interest in the beautiful, brown leather whip – still warm from my back – and lovingly runs it through her dainty, white fingers after she has finished using it on me, but then makes her excuses and leaves; leaving me feeling whip-used and abused – all for nothing!
Plus, of course, I shall be whipped again over my freshly-delivered whip-wounds by my angry manager-master for not securing the desired whip-sale!
I nevertheless kiss my blonde timewaster-mistress’s reinforced, scuffmarked, black leather boot-toes before she turns to walk out of the whip-showroom, and praise and bless her for experimenting with the deluxe, brown leather, cowhide whip on me – for, I must say, that girl sure knows how to whip!
