Footslaves’ Tribulations Volume 3
More trials and tribulations of everyday footslaves.
Scroll down for tribulations in reverse numerical order
10. The Straight & Narrow
9. Labelled A Failure!
8. Casually Uncaring Clubber
7. Leverage
6. The pop-out, ornamental footkisser
5. Mind The (Age) Gap
4. Faces
3. Bad Girl Socks
2. No Sweat!
1. The Human Concentrator-Device
To be sentenced by the female courts to ‘life in the straight & narrow’ is a truly humbling, and frightening, punishment!
I am effectively bricked up at the far end of a narrow, 20 foot long, dead-end alleyway between two high-rise buildings in the centre of the capital city of the Gynarchy, Barbaria. Mistresses passing by on the street outside are invited, by means of a nondescript sign, to enter the ultra-narrow, dark and dingy alleyway in order to utilise me as a public shoe or bootlick – but only thin mistresses have enough room to walk down the lane in order to so use me; and claustrophobic mistresses need not apply!
To those mistresses that do utilise me it’s often a bit of a laugh and a game; their female or freemale friends ‘dare’ them to make their way down to my boot or shoe licking mouth at the far end of the narrow, confined passage, knowing that there won’t even be enough room for them to turn around when it is time for them to exit; they will have to walk out backwards – to literally back away from me, so narrow are the tall, red-brick walls!
But many mistresses – particularly the young and the drunk at night after closing time – are nonetheless up for the challenge. Take the brave, young woman who – egged on by her manly boyfriend who himself is too fat to make his way down the back alleyway – is, as we speak, somewhat gingerly squeezing her way down my punishment-passage towards me.
As she approaches I see that she is wearing a pair of tight, black cotton, ankle-length leggings on her skinny, twenty-something legs, below which she has on a pair of plain, feminine-black anklesocks and lovely, low-top, lace-up, white leather sneakers. I always admire the contrast between white sneaker and black sock on a brave, young woman – so I am truly honoured that she is pluckily making her confined journey towards me.
I can increasingly smell the alcohol on her breath, and I suspect the ultra-narrow walls are actually helping her to walk upright; were it not for them she may well be staggering towards me, unsteady on her white-sneakered feet due to her state of inebriation.
Put it this way – she wouldn’t pass no breath test!
Her, presumably equally drunken, boyfriend’s manly voice echoes down the narrow walls from outside the entrance to the alleyway:
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, honey! Keep goin’! Ha! Ha! You’re bound to reach him soon! Ha! Ha!’
He won’t, of course, be able to see me from outside the entrance to the back passage; I am too far down; a mystery slave!
Yet another reason why the young mistress-madam is being so audaciously brave!
She giggles as I loom into view, and I lick my lips as her dainty, sneakered and socked feet loom ever closer. She can no longer turn around to see her boyfriend as she is now too deeply involved with me. Only the perma-light in the wall directly above me illuminates the dark and narrow dead-end of the alleyway, revealing my immured, footkissing head at suitably streetankle-level.
The fact that the rest of my body, from the neck downwards, is buried in brick means that I can’t be whipped, of course; just one, minor, advantage to being a bricked-up, public footservant. But I must nevertheless remain vigilant, and keep on my mistresses’ toes – for I can still be ignominiously and painfully kicked in the face by a disgruntled customer-mistress, dissatisfied by my shoe or boot licking services (especially after she has had such a long and difficult, 20 foot journey to the centre of the earth just to get to me!)
‘Are you there yet? Can you see him?’ echoes her enquiring boyfriend’s voice down the narrow alleyway. He sounds a bit nervous himself now – presumably his pretty girlfriend, like me, is now beyond his field of vision! He fears he may have lost her!
‘Ha! Ha! Yeah – I’ve arrived at him now! Man, he looks well ugly, an’ that!’
The young woman sounds black – but I can’t be certain, since her black socks cover the entirety of her ankleskin beneath her black cotton leggings. I do hope she is black, for kissing the scruffy, street-soiled, white sneakers of a beautiful, young black woman is always an inestimable honour for a permanently immured, pale-faced footslave like myself!
‘Ha! Ha! Kick him in the face, love! Kick him for being so ugly!’ counsels her, no doubt handsome, black (?) boyfriend.
The young woman, ever eager to please her man, does just that; I am kicked in the confined face by a thick, rounded sneaker-toe even before I have a chance to lickshine it!
‘M…Mercy, mistress!’ I whine.
My whining echoes down the alleyway.
She laughs, and her laughter also echoes between the red-brick walls:
‘Ha! Ha! It talks! Did you hear that, Winston babe?’
‘Nah, honey! What did it say?’
‘Ha! Ha! It was, like, beggin’ me for mercy, an’ that; after I’d kicked it in the face, an’ that? Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Kick it again, honey! Only harder this time!’
Again the young, black woman (for I’m now convinced she is black – or, at the very least, mixed-race) duly obliges her masterful boyfriend, who appears to be calling all the shots in the dark!
Several painful kicks later the white sneakers finally come to rest, and the order I have been longing for is at last delivered down to me:
‘Now lickshine my sneakers, bwoy! Ha! Ha! Lickshine off all the filf, an’ that!’
‘Y…Yes, m…mistress! At once, p…pretty m…mistress!’
I don’t actually know if she’s genuinely pretty or not – for I am unable to see any of my mistresses’ faces in this gloomy and confined place, especially since my face is permanently positioned downwards from the back wall at their ignominious ankle level! But, given that she sounds black, and her socked ankles look thin and shapely, I’m guessing that this particular young woman is indeed a veritable black beauty. And the walls of the alleyway seem to echo their agreement – her streetwise voice truly does sound beautiful!
Even the sound of her nonchalant mastication of her chewing gum above me as I lickshine the dimly-lit, scuffmarked, rounded toe of her outstretched, right sneaker conveys her arrogant, young-womanly beauty in this place of middle-aged, maleslave ugliness; this public prison; this back passage; this eventual footslave-tomb – for when I die, the female authorities will simply brick up the entrance and I shall become merely another slave-brick in the wall between two high-rise buildings!
‘What’s he doin’ now?’ enquires a seemingly increasingly bored and impatient boyfriend from outside the alleyway.
‘He’s jus’ lickshinin’ my sneakers’ an’ that, honey!’
‘Ha! Ha! Well tell him to f***in’ get a move on, babe! I’m starvin’! Let’s go an’ get a kebab, honey!’
The young lady too, it seems, must be starving, for she doesn’t even wait to have her left sneaker lickshined. Nor, sadly, does she require her creased and wrinkled, full-length, black cotton anklesocks to be mouth-straightened by the narrow-alleyway, foot prisoner! Her narrow, white sneakers simply start to back away from my face without so much as a by-your-leave as she manoeuvres her way, again somewhat gingerly, backwards out of my ultra-narrow alleyway to the freedom of the street outside, leaving me increasingly alone in my narrow-gauged gloom.
I too am ‘starving’ – and it’s a good five hours until my, fortunately ultra-slim and petite, Filipina minder-mistress will arrive to feed me my meagre portion of prisoner-slave mush for the new day ahead. But I am clearly not invited to accompany the black mistress and her boyfriend to the late-night kebab shop!
Even if I was, I would have to politely decline – since I am trapped in here forever! It’s my judicious punishment – a lifetime to be spent in the straight and narrow.
I do think, however, that the uncaring, if beautiful, black mistress could have left me her used chewing gum. I mean, at least that would have given me something to suck on in lieu of her left sneaker and black anklesocks!
Or am I just being selfish and narrow-minded?
Another cornered footslave…
Cornered by patheticus on GoAnimate
My rotund, black-African, personal footmistress – the beautiful, auburn-haired mistress Yolande – has a white, sticky label stuck to the bottom of her chunky-heeled, black leather bootsole as she walks along. She must have trodden in it (while I wasn’t looking), for I know it doesn’t belong there. I know that because I have lickshined these black-African boots from tip to toe on many previous occasions – and that white label definitely doesn’t belong to those black boots!
But I am thrown into a footslave-quandary! If I were a public boot or shoelicker my duty would be clear – to immediately remove the offending label from the sole-surface of my black customer-mistress’s boot with my public-service tongue. No self-respecting, fat, black-African woman would expect to walk away from a public bootservant with a sticky label protruding out from her dusty, black bootsole!
But, being a private bootservant, I either have to:
· Interrupt my streetwalking mistress and beg her to raise her right, anklebooted foot up in the air behind her so that I might remove, and swallow, the offending barcode label from the bottom of her boot (swallow – because, whatever its dirty provenance, it now contains my glorious mistress Yolande’s bootsole DNA, and therefore, in accordance with the by-laws of the Gynarchy, belongs deep inside my personal-footslave stomach!); or
· Literally let the label lie on the sole of my mistress’s boot – for she has not ordered me to remove it (indeed, I rather suspect she hasn’t even noticed it, since she has much more important things to think about than the state of her bootsoles; that’s my job!)
Either way, I’m likely to get whipped. For, if I choose the former option, I risk being labelled an impertinent slave; and if I choose the latter, I shall be labelled a neglectful slave!
I therefore decide to try a third way – and to wait until my mistress Yolande is seated on a bus with her boots tucked in behind her underneath the seat – crossed over at her fat ankles. My kneeling mouth now has clear and unimpeded access to the offending boot-label, and I endeavour to surreptitiously remove it with my teeth and dispose of it down my footslave-gullet.
However, one of my mistress’s fellow, black-women bus passengers – seated opposite – spots my unauthorised, sticky-label-eating initiative, and reports me to my mistress!
Boy, did I ever suffer under the pain of the whip when my mistress Yolande got me home!
And rightly so – for it is not my place, the place of a personal bootservant, to decide on his own initiative to divest his mistress’s boot of its sticky street-detritus; especially not in a selfish attempt to avoid a beating! That must be her decision, and I must respect my African mistress’s decision whichever way it goes, even though I shall most assuredly be whipped whatever she decides – since a slave is always in the wrong, and only a bootmistress is always in the right.
I shouldn’t have let my mistress Yolande walk on the sticky label in the first place – so I fully deserve all the pain and punishment I get! I am a bootslave-failure, and deserve to be labelled as such with fiery red whip-stripes all over my naked, kneeling back!
It is the morning after the night before. I am smarting in the kneeling stocks on the third day of my five day sentence in the public town square, having received my daily dose of 20 lashes at 10 o’clock yesterday evening – just to amuse the party goers and clubbers at the start of their big night out!
A young, redheaded, miniskirted and nose-pierced girl in her early twenties – one of the aforementioned clubbers – approaches me and sits herself down on the heavy, wooden crossbeam in which my neck and wrists are confined. Like me she is tired, for she too has been up all night without any rest – although she has been drinking and dancing and having a good time, whereas I have been forced to just kneel, and smart, in the stocks; and, of course, she is a liberty to go home to her warm and cosy bed at any time – whereas I don’t have a warm and cosy bed, being a mere slave; and even if I did, I couldn’t retire to it this morning, since I have another two days of punishment in the public stocks, and two further whippings, to endure!
She takes a slovenly swig out of her half-empty wine bottle whilst tucking her thick-laced, thick-tongued, blue and white, high-top sneakers in beneath my chin, affording me both the sensuous feel of her soft, bare, white legskin on my confined cheeks, and the sight of her manky, grey anklelength towelling-sock top deep down inside the confines of her aforementioned grubby, high-top sneaker.
‘Ha! Ha! Your back looks well sore, slave, innit though? Has you jus’ been whipped, or somefing?’
Even though I am tired and exhausted, I must answer the dirty stop-out mistress with all the slavish enthusiasm I can muster. To help me, I imagine having to kiss and sniff her manky, grey sneaker-socks – and that very much enamours me to her, given that the socks, I’m guessing, must be moist and sweaty having been on her dancing and partying feet without a break all night (unless, of course, she temporarily took off her clothes to have sex with some lucky freeman at some stage!)
‘Yes, mistress. Begging your pardon, mistress. This slave was whipped in the stocks yesterday evening, if you would be so kind as to recall, mistress-madam. This slave has been sentenced to 20 harsh lashes with the female whip every evening for 5 nights, miss, if it pleases you pretty, redheaded miss?’
I don’t think she’s even listening to my replies:
‘Ha! Ha! I got well hammered last night, slave! Ha! Ha! It was, like, awesome, or somefing? Ha! Ha! I even copped off wiv’ some fella! Man, he was hot! Ha! Ha!...’
I congratulate the young woman on her drunken dalliance (whilst musing on how her socks and sneakers may well have had a break from her feet during sex):
‘Oh many congratulations, mistress! This slave hopes the mistress had a nice fuck, mistress?’
‘Ha! Ha! Too right I did, slave! Ha! Ha!... Has you ever had sex, old slaveman?’
I feel like saying to her:
a) I’m not that old, miss (45)
b) Of course I’ve never had sex, miss! I’m a slave!
But instead I respond politely and courteously, as befits a virginal, celibate, middle-aged slaveman addressing a superior, sexually-active and attractive, auburn-haired, young woman:
‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, oh no mistress! This ugly old slave could never have sex, mistress, since he is just a public footslave, miss – when he is not being punished in the stocks, miss!’
‘She takes another nonchalant swig out of her wine bottle above me, and I notice her sock-muscles flex as she impishly imbibes the sweet-smelling alcohol. That, incidentally, is something else I can never do as a slave – drink alcohol. Basically, a slave is not permitted to do anything a free adult can do – even a young adult like the sweet, young woman above me.
‘Ha! Ha! Why is you bein’ punished in them stocks, slave?’
I hang my head even lower in shame over her open sneaker-tops (if that’s possible given the constrictions around my neck):
‘Oh pray, mistress, if you’ll forgive me mistress, I got the Chinese name of one of my regular customer-mistresses wrong, miss; and she duly reported me to the authorities, miss!’
And rightly so, I’m tempted to add. It was a foolish – and unforgiveable – mistake on my part; so insulting to the Chinese ethnicity of my regular customer-mistress. I deserve all I get!
The young, non-Chinese lady above me seems to think so too:
‘Ha! Ha! F**k you then, slave! You deserves to be put in the stocks an’ whipped, an’ that, innit though?’
‘Yes mistress. Thank you, mistress!’
She then casually pours the rest of her wine, including her backwash, down my raw-striped back, causing intense pain in my open whip-wounds. She laughs as I moan in extra agony and attempt to squirm, though the heavy wood surrounding me effectively prevents any such compensatory movement. I am no bucking bronco – she has no need to steady herself above me; she won’t fall off the heavy, immovable, wooden crossbeam – despite being half-plastered!
Again, the only thing which helps to alleviate my acute pain is the thought of sniffing those manky, grey anklesocks deep inside her blue and white, high-top sneakers. Her socks help to take my mind off the pain – even though I know she has no intention of inflicting her anaesthetising socks on my unworthy face and nose.
Like she said – f**k me; I deserve to be put in the stocks, an’ whipped, an’ that!
Having ‘washed’ my wounds with stinging, red wine she casually climbs off my neck and merrily makes her way home to her bed for some well-earned kip, leaving me smelling of her alcohol, and smarting even more than when she had first joined me on the stocks.
Still, at least I have the continuing fantasy of her manky, grey towelling socks to keep me company. Sweet dreams, young mistress, sweet dreams!
Not content with watching the slave suffering in the kneeling stocks; not content with having him kiss and then lickshine her dusty, black leather loafers; thirty-one year old, petite, black and comely, hobbyist slave-spotter miss Marielle (who gets her kicks out of going around the Gynarchy and ‘spotting’ public slaves either hard at work out on the streets, or undergoing public punishment) casually presses the foot-lever up and down with her right foot – directly next to his confined-in-wood face, in order to tighten still further the ring of rough, jagged wood around his scrawny, prisoner-slave neck.
As she ‘pumps’ the lever with her loafered-foot, he is obliged to watch her black cotton trouser-hem flapping, and her black cotton anklesocks creasing, in tandem with her slow, cruel foot-movements up and down. She tightens the wood as far as it will go – to the point where it is digging painfully into his Adam’s apple and making it difficult for him to swallow.
Fortunately he can still breathe in through his unrestricted nose, and he therefore gets to inhale the leathery-black aroma of her dusty, loafer shoe – the one that is effectively compelling him to breathe all the more vigorously through his kneeling nostrils!
He would croak his abject thanks to her, if he could talk – for a slave must always endeavour to thank a mistress – even a stranger-mistress like this one – for taking the time to discipline him with her manipulative right foot! But as the coarse wood has now, temporarily, robbed him of the power of slavespeak, he instead grimaces for mercy whilst she takes a souvenir photograph of his tightly-confined neck for her online, slave-spotting records.
Thankfully, as soon as she finishes with her cruel foot-pumping, the wood around his imprisoned neck loosens again, freeing his voicebox to praise and bless her. She is content with that, for she is not an innately cruel or sadistic, young woman; like most saintly slave-spotters, she just likes him to know that she has complete, female leverage over him.
And now he does know it! He has witnessed at first hand the power of the dainty, female foot over the male prisoner-slave, and will continue to do so thanks to the repeated foot-pumpings of an array of subsequent slave-spotter mistresses:
· The kitten-heeled, navy-blue courts, and finest-denier, tan-nylon stockings of the blonde-ponytailed mistress (she even twisted her heel around so that her shapely, nyloned anklebone rubbed cruelly up and down the side of his kneeling face as she slowly foot-pumped the lever and tightened the wood around his neck!)
· The black suede, laced-up hush-puppies and matching black anklesocks of the skinny-tight-jeans-wearing, Japanese tourist-girl (she and her friends giggled every time her dainty, feminine foot slipped violently off the lever, causing a painful shiver down his male spineless!)
· The multicreased, black leather kneeboots of the tall and mighty, black, athletic girl (at least, he assumed she was an athlete, given her magnificent, pumped-up build – including her strong, booted calf-muscles!)
· The deceptively kind-looking, strappy, flat, brown-leather sandals (with daisies between her pink-painted toes) of the thirty-something, curly-pink-haired, hippy chick (peace and love, slaveman; and pain!)
· The pointy-toed and spike-heeled, zipped-up, black patent leather ankleboots, and occasional glimpse of matt black bootsock, of the bootcut-trouser wearing, petite and dark-haired, oriental businesswoman-mistress (now you see her sock; now you don’t – in line with her languorous foot-pumping next to his helpless, sock-mesmerised face!)
· The stretched, black leather ballet-flats and bobbled, black anklesocks of the plump, twenty-something, Indian student girl in black leggings (she appeared to be pumping him not just for ‘fun’, but also for information to inform her student project on ‘Crime & Punishment in the Modern Gynarchy’. She was actively taking notes of his suffering courtesy of her continuously pumping, black leather ballet-flat, and kept on asking him how he was liking it?)
Yes, all the above pretty mistresses had powerful leverage over him, in more ways than one, as he languished in the stocks at the mercy of their female feet!
As she installs me as an ankle-level, ornamental footkisser in the inner lobby of the Gynarchy Art Gallery, and sits herself down on the pull-down seat above my head, the petite and comely, black security-guard mistress explains my new role to me:
'It's so simple even a dumbass slave like you can understand it, slave-bwoy! All you has to do is kiss the feet of our female guests as they enters the Female Art Gallery, and that. And I'll be sittin' over ya, and watching ya all the time, yeah? So jus' look down at my boots and socks when you ain't workin, dumbass-slave. That way you'll always be lookin' at feet! Hja! Hja!'
I am indeed looking down at, and admiring, the daintily-sized, black leather, zip-up ankleboots of the tough-talking, but petite, African-Caribbean, security-guard mistress. I am particularly admirous of her pink-topped, black cotton anklesocks below her now slightly-raised, navy-blue-uniform, security-guard trouser hems. Her musty-smelling socks and boots, on either side of my immured head, will make for an excellent distraction in between my kissing the haughtily outstretched feet of our gallery's esteemed, female guests throughout the day!
And then, come the gallery closing time, the disparaging security-guard mistress can simply jump up off her pop-out seat and push my head back into the wall with the zipper side of her right ankleboot, since I am a 'pop-out', ornamental footkisser; a permanent fixture, yes – but one that can be easily boot-pushed out of the way when not required, so that, for example, the Filipina, female cleaners don't have to tread carefully around my face as they mop the lobby floor of an evening. I will still be able to see their cheap-sneakered feet as they mop (and hopefully even catch a glimpse or two of beautiful, Filipina-girl sock) but my imprisoned, maleslave face won't be in their superior-female way.
Yes - I think I'm going to like my new job! As the black security-guard mistress says – it's so simple, even a dumbass slave like me can understand it! My only major concern is, what do I look at whenever I have no customers to serve, and the security-guard mistress has popped out to lunch?!
The bare floor, I suppose?
Right from the moment she purchased me at auction – some 3 weeks ago – I've been worried about the age gap between us; for, my delightfully dark-haired and swarthy-skinned, Mexican footmistress is but 21 years of age, whereas I am in my late fifties!
Will I be able to keep up with her youthful energy and impetuousness, and please her? The initial signs are not good:
- She has had me fitted with a permanent, luminous green, footfool mask – luminous, because she spends so much time out in dark and dingy nightclubs, with me kneeling behind her anklebooted high-heels whilst she dances and parties with her manly, young boyfriends, when I would much rather be tucked up in my cell at home with a pair of her dirty sneakers or socks
- The mask contains only three words 'Pain'; 'Fear'; and 'Socks' – and those three words seem to sum up my pitiful existence more than adequately, since she regularly whips me (or has her boyfriends whip me) for the flimsiest of reasons (e.g. because her socks are creased inside her boots; or if one sock has slipped down inside her sneaker further than the other one); since I am, as a consequence, in perpetual, middle-aged fear of being impetuously whipped; and since, well, as I have already explained, the state of her socks on her pretty, Mexican feet determines my footslave-fate!
- She has a fiery, Latina temper, and takes out her female temper tantrums on me! Like, for example, when the male parking attendant issued her with a parking ticket for being illegally parked outside her favourite clothes shop. She slapped him hard across the face – as any Gynarchy girl is entitled to do to a free man by law, even an officer of the law, if he offends her – but then took out the rest of her young-womanly anger on me as soon as she got me home, first by whipping me, and then by kicking me in my helpless, luminous-green face! After which, she had one of her boyfriends punch me several times in the solar plexus whilst I knelt upright with my hands behind my back in a gesture of passive, slavish submission. Every time the younger, fitter, more handsome man winded me, I had to kiss my mistress's angry, sneakered feet 6 times; thank the master-sir for punching me in the stomach; and then kneel up again and beg him for another one (my mistress subsequently refused to pay her parking fine, as is her female right, and so I was summonsed to the local female magistrates' court and whipped on her behalf – 20 harsh strokes of the cane across my bare buttocks! Oh the pain!)
On the plus side, however, my malevolent, Mexican mistress is an exceptionally beautiful, young woman, and it is an inestimable honour for a crusty, old, facemasked footslave like me to follow in her plain-black-sneakered footsteps to heel on my hands and knees, admiring the occasional glimpse of Mexican-girl white sock beneath her blue denim, jean hems! So I should stop complaining, and get on with the business of footserving my feisty, Mexican mistress, succumbing to her youthful power and authority over me (and that of her boyfriends) as befits a fortunate, middle-aged footslave!
After all, she's only young once – though I’m sure she will still be a young(ish) woman when I die!
Although, as a ladies-restroom ornamental shoekisser, I never get to see the pretty faces of the various office-mistresses whose feet I must silently kiss upon their egress from the necessary facility, if I could see them above me, I would have humbly observed this morning:
· The supercilious and self-satisfied, righteously smug grin of the slim and petite, pink-dupatta-headscarfed, Pakistani girl with the chunky-heeled, black leather mules and wrinkled, black cotton anklesocks beneath her navy-blue, officewear trouser hems (as per usual, she tarries a bit at my footblock so that I must kiss her feet as many as 10 times each!). Over the 10 or so years that she has worked in this office she has, of course, never once spoken to me – sine it’s not considered the done thing to converse with a lavatorial, ornamental shoekisser! And besides, even if she did bark some suitably disparaging words down at me in her pretty, Pakistani accent (I have, on occasions, heard her lovely, Pakistani voice as she converses with one of her fellow female-workers at the wash-hand basins) I am forbidden to verbally respond. I would have to convey my response through the medium of even more fervent shoekissing! She despises me all the more, sensing as she does that I am just itching to kiss her creased, black, young-Pakistani-woman socks inside her mules, but cannot even humbly beg to do so!
· The nonchalant, gum-chewing expression of the pretty redhead with the heavily-laced, boot-style, black leather sneakers and flash of bright red anklesock beneath her subliminally hitched-up, black cotton trouser hem. I am, sadly, permitted just one quick peck to each of her broad, rounded, sneaker-boot toes.
· The disparaging scowl of the dark-haired, Indian cleaner-girl with the flat, black suede leather loafers and smooth-brown-ankle-revealing, grey and red-patterned, angular sneaker-socks (which disappear completely down the backs of her loafered-heels) beneath her tight, ankle-length, black cotton leggings. Like her Pakistani cousin, she is a ‘tarrier’, and lingers with her feet on my blog, one after the other, so that I must kiss each of them in turn anything up to a dozen times (unlike me, she clearly doesn’t have enough work to do!)
· The nondescript, but cocked sideways out of curiosity, blonde-framed face of the deaf-mute, office mistress wearing flat, matt black leather, backless mules and plain, bobbled, black cotton anklesocks beneath her black polyester, office trouser hems (I would dearly love to kiss the exposed backs of her bobbled socks, out of respect for them, but am instead obliged to focus my lips on the scuffmarked, rounded toes of her backless mules – since I am an ornamental shoe and boot kisser, not a sock-kisser; more’s the pity!)
· The angry and hateful, podgy, round face of the holier-than-thou, religious black girl with the pointy-toed and spike-heeled, black patent leather ankleboots and fully-pulled-up, black cotton bootsocks beneath her hitched-up, bootcut trouser hems. She despises me as both a sinner and a slave, and is annoyed that I am protected from the sting of the lash by virtue of my being immured up to the neck in the inner restroom-wall; spare the rod, spoil the sinner-slave, is her motto! She compensates for her inability to chastise me by tarrying, and making me kiss her pointy boot-toes a full 24 times each! She also calls me a ‘dumbass’. I’m not allowed to answer her back, though I desperately want to reply to her – if only to praise and bless her for stopping by my humble head with such a lovely pair of stylish, shiny black ankleboots. I therefore kiss her boot-toes with a feverish devotion, but that only serves to make her despise me – the dirty, unchastened sinner-slave – all the more; and so she duly kicks my face away with her pointy boot-toe; eventually!
· The bemused, but simultaneously happy, face of the über-pretty, blonde-ringleted, office girl with the smart, navy-blue, kitten-heeled courts on shapely tan-nylon stockings beneath her navy-blue, knee-length, officewear skirt. She doesn’t have a care in the world, and certainly doesn’t care about me having to kiss her feet; that’s because she innately knows she is better than me
· The veiled grin of the modestly-attired, full-black-burka-wearing, chaste, Arab-Muslim girl who, somewhat ironically, is the only one of my restroom-footmistresses to be barefoot inside her black leather ballet-flats this morning – not that my unworthy, maleslave lips would ever dare to stray onto a lady’s bare, naked footflesh! I may not be whippable, but I can easily have severe physical pain inflicted upon me by way of a punishment, since my head is permanently exposed to the potential kicks of my superior footmistresses! (Again she lingers, since she enjoys having a helpless and powerless, male slave kiss her musty-smelling and footsweat-saturated, well-worn, black leather ballet-flats whilst he must exercise the slavish self-restraint of avoiding all contact with her bare, Arabian-girl footflesh!)
· The serious, studied expression of the visiting courier-mistress, as I repeatedly kiss her chunky, black suede, brothel creepers beneath her scrunched-up, black cotton anklesocks, bare white legs, and green shorts. She has only stepped into the office-restroom on the pretext of a call of nature – for her main motivation is to have her dusty, black, laced-up brothel creepers worshipped by the office shoekisser-creep. She’s heard about him from her courier-colleagues!
And so it goes on. As I said, I only ever get to see feet; not faces. But then, my lady-customers never get to see my (ugly) face either – since my protruding head is ignominiously covered in a sickly-green, rubbery footfool-mask, with the simple word ‘Fool’ emblazoned on it in big, black letters right across the top!
Still, at least it’s nice to know that I, the fool, am constantly being looked down upon by an array of pretty, unmasked, feminine faces as I apply my lips to the various office-mistresses’ dirty, germ-laden footwear.
Unfortunately for me my pretty, black, intoxicated mistress has failed to order me to stop sniffing her sweaty, discarded, crumpled-up in a heap on her bedsitting-room floor, plain black anklesocks before she falls asleep on the unmade bed above me.
Thus I shall be obliged to stay awake and sniff them all night in her somnolent presence!
At least the unremarkable, everyday, black-girl black anklesocks are rather vinegary and ripe, so the sheer stink should help me to stay alert! I make sure to touch the sweat-dampened, black cotton socks with the tip of my nose as I sniff them – as this too is what my beautiful, black mistress would expect of me.
When she eventually awakens in the morning – with a sore head – she summons me over to the side of her bed and asks me ‘what the f*** I am doing?’
I explain that I have been sniffing her beautiful, black socks all night. She laughs at me, lights up a cigarette, and then swings her unwashed, black feet down off the side of the bed onto the floor whilst ordering me to put her socks and her high-heeled, black leather, streetwalking pumps back onto her feet as she intends to go straight back out onto the streets in order to earn yet more money for drink, fags and drugs.
I do not question my beautiful, black mistress’s hedonistic lifestyle, and immediately obey her – gently smoothing the now stale-sweaty socks back onto her precious, soft, black feet whilst she casually flicks her cigarette ash down onto the top of my balding, ash-tray head. The embers burn my head, but despite my pain and lack of sleep I still make damned sure that my black mistress’s socks are straight and neat over her shapely black anklebones, and that her high-heeled shoes are comfortable on her sweaty-socked feet – as befits a superior prostitute’s diligent and conscientious, personal footslave.
The twenty-something, black taskmistress’s feet look perfectly relaxed and at ease – resting as they are on the civilian taskmistresses’ metal footplate just inches in front of my hardworking, treadmill-slave face, and clad in her pink and white striped, low-top, thick-tongued, lace-up, leather sneakers and short, pale grey sneaker-socks – only the elasticated tops of which are just visible along her shapely black-girl insteps below her prominent, brown-skinned anklebones.
The only sweat anywhere near her sneakered and socked feet is on my reddened, pink face, as I labour laboriously on the cutting-edge, punishment-treadmill (that ‘cutting-edge’ being on my own, bare, red-raw, prisoner-slave feet!).
Of course, there is almost certain to be a modicum of inter-toe, sweet feminine footsweat deep inside those everyday, civilian-girl socks and sneakers – but nothing like the offensive rivers of sweat dripping off my overworked and fearful forehead!
Fearful – because every so often my relaxed taskmistress applies the taskmistress’s whipping-stick to my bare back and shoulders, to urge me on to ever greater efforts at her lazily-sneakered feet. She clearly enjoys watching me sweat, just as I appreciate staring at her non-sweaty socks and sneakers. I like the crisp, rubbery smell of her white sneaker-soles, fusing with the leathery aroma of the pink and white uppers and tongues. Boy she smells good from down here!
I only hope my own offensive, sweaty, maleslave smells aren’t putting her off her food, as she unwraps a refreshing fruit-flavoured ice-lolly above me, and starts to languorously suck on it.
Oh what I wouldn’t give for a quick suck on that iced lolly – or even a quick suck on her pale grey sneaker-socks; anything to ease the dryness in my parched mouth! But such female iced-lolly and grey-socked delights are not for the likes of me; I am, after all, a male prisoner-slave being punished… Swish…Ouch!... as that latest blow of the wafer-thin, but hugely stinging, whipping-stick confirms!
An amateur taskmistress who can suck and whip at the same time! Magnificent! She’ll go far; unlike me – I’m not going anywhere, despite walking for miles and miles on the punishment treadmill each day!
Swish…Ouch!
My black taskmaster, master Mboso sir, has been tasked with making sure I concentrate on my 23 year old, white mistress Sophia’s sneakers and socks beneath the restaurant table where she is dining out with her boyfriend, master Robert sir.
Unfortunately taskmaster Mboso sir suffers from bad breath and a cruel disposition, and so he is forever in my face asking me what I am thinking about – almost like a human version of the cruel, electronic concentrator-device sometimes implanted into their footslaves’ brains by wealthier, Gynarchy mistresses.
But my mistress Sophia is an impecunious student – she can’t afford such electronic luxuries; so I must make do with a cheaper, old-fashioned, human taskmaster to keep my one-track-mind on track!
‘What are you thinking of now, slave?’ whispers my halitosis-breathed, taskmaster sir into my face as I kneel with my face next to my blonde mistress Sophia’s grey and black, low-top, lace-up leather sneaker beneath the table.
I must answer him in equally whispered tones – so as not to disturb the happy couple above us, or indeed any of their fellow diners in the restaurant:
‘Oh pray taskmaster sir, if it pleases you taskmaster Mboso sir, this slave is focussing on his mistress’s stretched, blue sneaker-sock top on her right ankle, if it is so pleasing to you most respected, African taskmaster sir? Oh pray, master, if it pleases you taskmaster Mboso sir, I am endeavouring to count the stitches in the stretched, cotton material of my mistress’s sock.’
I am referring to the short, blue sneaker-sock, the elasticated top of which is currently stretched most fetchingly by my mistress Sophia’s protruding, right anklebone – caused by her girlish, turned-inwards positioning of her sneakered feet beneath the restaurant table. I am focussing on her right sock purely because it is the one closest to my kneeling face. I know my taskmaster-sir will approve of that. He can always count on me to count my mistress Sophia’s sock stitches, whenever her socks are visible and at rest beneath her black denim jean-hems. He has no need to whip me at such times.
Sure enough, he withdraws his face from mine to watch me count blue sock-stitches for a bit, but after some 5 minutes his inquisitive face, and his bad breath, return into my personal space, drowning out the much more desirable aroma of my mistress’s musty sneaker-leather:
‘How many stitches have you counted now, slave?’
I’m guessing I could make up a number at this point! How could taskmaster Mboso sir – clever and numerate man though he is – possibly know how many hundreds of tiny, blue sock-stitches I have just counted in my mistress Sophia’s stretched cotton sneaker-sock? But I tell him the truth – for a slave cannot lie to his taskmaster:
‘739, master sir, if it pleases you, taskmaster Mboso sir?’
Of course, having interrupted my sock-stitch counting to answer his question, I now have to start all over again, for I have lost my place!
This time, my counting is interrupted at 503 by a sudden, subliminal movement in my mistress’s feet – her feet are now tucked in behind one another at the ankles as she appears to be leaning forwards over the table above me and romantically kissing her boyfriend, lucky master Robert sir, on the lips.
The ever alert master Mboso sir spots the commotion in her feet, and once again checks what I am doing:
‘What are you thinking of now, footslave?’
‘Oh pray master Mboso sir, if it pleases you taskmaster Mboso sir, I am now focussing on the newly-formed creases in both my mistress’s blue sneaker-socks, master sir; I am admiring them and studying them, master sir, if it pleases you taskmaster Mboso sir? Please don’t beat me, master-sir!’
I don’t believe I am in any imminent danger of a beating at the moment – not least because there isn’t enough room to swing a cat-o-nine-tails, let alone a taskmaster’s knout, in the cramped confines beneath this restaurant table (though master Mboso sir could certainly deliver me a good, hard slap across the face with the bony back of his hand, if he were so cruelly inclined!) But, every so often I just like to verbally remind the master sir of his delegated power and authority – bestowed upon him by my sweet mistress Sophia – to beat and chastise me should he so desire; just in order reassure him who is boss – in the hope that he won’t physically boss me about! Especially since I am being such a diligent and dutiful personal footservant towards my mistress tonight!
Perhaps not so convinced by my humility this time, master Mboso sir is back on my case just a couple of minutes later, whispering halitotically into my kneeling ear:
‘What are you thinking of now, slave?’
‘Oh pray master Mboso sir, if it pleases you taskmaster Mboso sir, right now I am looking at that chewing-gum stain stuck to the dirty sole of my mistress Sophia’s left sneakersole, master sir, and I am contemplating how I might discreetly lick it off for her, master sir?’
‘Do not touch the chewing gum without my permission, slave!’ counsels my taskmaster, whilst he himself takes a look at the offending object, leaving me in a temporary haze of his bad, masculine breath.
‘Very well, slave! You may scrape it off your mistress’s sneakersole with your teeth; but do not disturb the mistress, or it will be the whip for you!’
‘Yes, master sir. Thank you, taskmaster Mboso sir!’
That’s precisely what I was planning to do anyway – not least because taskmaster Mboso sir hasn’t fed me since 6 o’clock this morning, before he supervised my regular, early-morning boot and shoe licking of my mistress’s footwear collection; and the smell of the delicious hot food wafting through the restaurant is making my poor, empty footslave-tummy rumble!
I cautiously start to pick the gum off my mistress Sophia’s blissfully unaware sneaker-sole with my teeth.
‘Have you finished yet, slave?’
‘Not yet, master sir. It is quite sticky, if you will forgive me master Mboso sir?’
‘Hurry up, slave, or I will beat you with my fists!’
‘Yes, master sir. Pray have mercy on me, master-sir!’
I hurriedly finish my stale and walked-in, chewing-gum dinner – before either master Mboso sir loses patience with me, or my mistress Sophia inadvertently moves her sneakered feet again! Her dainty, female feet are getting very jiggly all of a sudden! I sense that master Robert sir is in for a night of enjoyable sexual intercourse with the mistress – again!
As she gets up to leave the restaurant arm-in-arm with her current sexual partner, master Robert sir, the ever-diligent taskmaster Mboso sir takes hold of my neck chain and ensures that I follow behind miss Sophia at a discreet distance to her sneakered heel, keeping me on the straight and narrow with his taskmaster’s knout…
