Feetslaves’ Lives Volume 3
Yet more startling insights into feetslaves’ humble lives.
I'm just a common-or-garden, office-restroom, ornamental footkisser; and she is 'just' the Indian-girl, office cleaner-mistress.
But, as she temporarily lords it over me, leaning on her mop and with her right foot imperiously stretched forward on the freshly-cleaned, tiled floor beneath my permanently confined, ankle-level face projecting downwards from the inner wall of the public lavatory, it is plain for all to see (or would be if there was anyone else here) that she is better than me, and that she is the master, and I am the slave.
Why, unlike me, she even has a name – proudly displayed on her plastic name-badge on her navy-blue, cleaner's tunic; miss Paramjit!
My anonymous, ornamental-footkissing head is racing with the following thoughts as my already low-lying lips descend the final few centimetres to her outstretched, black suede, loafer shoe-toe:
*she towers over me, and is therefore seemingly stronger and mightier than me, even though she is a petite and slightly-built, 20-something slip of an Indian-girl, and I am a six-foot tall, once muscular, 50 year old man (the fact that I must lie permanently prostate with my face staring at the floor she mops and walks on negates any physical advantage I would once have had over her; and my man-muscles have long since atrophied)
*she knows that she is better than me, and now has the physical advantage over me, by virtue of the simple fact that I cannot move (only my neck – and even then only downwards towards her shoe), whereas she can choose whether, and whenever, to approach me in order to have her dainty feet kissed. She is free!
*her confidence in her superiority over me is displayed by her mere arrogant act of keeping her right, loafered foot still on the floor, beneath my prostate face, until I have kissed it several times (it would also be betrayed by the supercilious and smug smile on her pretty, Indian face – if I could only see it!)
*on their way down to her scuffmarked and dusty, rounded, suede-leather shoetoe, my eyes pass the equally dusty and somewhat frayed hem of her ankle-length, plain black cotton, elasticated legging-hem; her soft brown, exposed ankleskin beneath it; and her grey and red, somewhat ropey-looking, shapely-ankle-bone-exposing, elasticated, cotton, sneaker-sock top. I admire the way her ultra-short anklesock (which amounts to little more than a cheap inner lining for her black suede loafer shoe) is carelessly twisted in a devil-may-care attitude which expresses her utter contempt for me, for she doesn't care that her sock is disrespectfully creased and uneven in my lowly, footslave presence!
*but, hard though it is, I try not to focus on her short, twisted sock, or her smooth, bare ankleskin above the sock, but on her equally disrespectful towards me, dusty and scuffmarked shoetoe – the shoetoe of my better, and the area I must kiss
*within a second or so from the start of my mouth's descent, my dry and parched lips make respectful, simultaneous contact with her soft, dusty shoeleather. The suede leather buckles under the pressure from my mouth, and I press my lips gently down until I can feel her bony toes underneath. That's because I want this beautiful and hardworking, young Indian woman to feel my slavish respect for her through her shoe and sock, as well as see it with her pretty, brown eyes – eyes which are, quite literally, looking down upon me contemptuously, because I'm just a lower-caste slave to her
*her foot-muscles spasm in a voluntary reaction of delight at my male-labial homage to her outer footwear, causing her already twisted and creased, grey and red cotton socktop to crease even further. The movement in her sock reminds me of its presence, and I start to contemplate, as my lips leave the shoetoe (for a respectful footkiss must, sadly, never be a lingering one) what it would be like to be her sock – absorbing all the warmth and clammy moisture from her foot inside her shoe, and reeking of her sweaty foot. I am pathetically envious of her sock, and its intimacy with her bare, brown foot – for such privileged intimacy makes even her sock better than me
*the sock comes to rest again as her foot-muscle spasm passes, and there is now a lull in proceedings whilst the Indian-girl master above me decides whether or not to withdraw her right foot from beneath my face, and replace it with her left; or whether to leave it there, for a follow-up footkiss. Or, indeed, whether to turn and walk away from me altogether! It's entirely her decision, for she has all the power and the glory!
*crucially, as I intimated earlier, her right foot remains stationary on the ground. She wants the same loafered foot kissed again! I'm glad, for it will give me the opportunity to determine whether all that previous movement in her sock has created a new perma-crease in her grey and red socktop. There were three creases before – I'm hoping that there may now be four (sadly, my footslave-eyesight is not what it used to be, and I need my eyeline to be directly level with a mistress's socktop in order to be able to clearly define the individual stitches, and creases, in her socks. I'm pleased to report that there is indeed, now, a fourth crease in her socktop – or rather, a semi-crease, for it is only half as long as the other three above it!)
*there is noticeably less impact-movement in her foot-muscles on the second contact with my mouth upon her dusty shoetoe (now slightly less dusty thanks to the transfer of some of her outer shoedust onto my lips during my previous footkiss - although my objective is not to clean her shoe as such, but rather just to respect it). Already she is getting used to my oral homage towards her footwear – and so she should be; cleaner-miss Paramjit makes use of me in this way every weekday! (unlike me, she gets the weekends off, whereas I must stay here and kiss-worship the dirty boots of the female, office security-guards during their visits to the lavatory; I am never off duty!)
I won't bore you with all the details of my subsequent footkisses to miss Paramjit's right, and left, loafer-shoes, for it will just be more of the same, and you get the picture! I have no choice but to stay here and kiss-worship her shoes whilst studying her socks; at least you can go away and do something else!
Professional punishment-officer mistress, mistress Kirsty, was born to whip:
a) She is fit and beautiful – petite, but with a strong, right whipping-arm
b) She wears black leather, loosely-laced-up ankleboots with plain grey socks over black cotton leggings whenever she whips, so a slave at the whipping post has a nice view of her boots and socks moving in the dirt behind him as she deftly swings the punishment-whip down onto his bare, immobilised back
c) She whips dispassionately and without emotion, and strictly in accordance with the sentence handed down by the Female Courts – though always with a view to maximising the pain. Thus, there is no mercy in her whip-strokes; but nor is there any unseemly anger. It’s just a job for her – albeit a job she likes to do efficiently and well; the job of inflicting pain by way of a judicial punishment.
d) She does not rush the whipping, but rather paces each stroke immaculately so that the victim has just enough time to absorb the pain of the latest stroke before having to deal with the next one. If that next cut is a deliberate overlay – she waits a few extra seconds after its precision-delivery as, although she herself has never experienced the biting, burning sting of the whip (and, being female, never will), she has witnessed enough overlays to male slaves’ backs to know that they do require some extra recovery time from these cruellest of cuts!
e) She does not ‘whip to the crowd’; nor is she put off by the screams and moans or writhings of the weaker prisoner-slaves. She calmly carries on whipping, oblivious to both the raucous pleas for extra cruelty (from the crowd of happy onlookers) and the pitiful pleas for clemency from the unfortunate recipient of the female lash
f) She can handle any kind of whip, though her preference is for the single-tailed, three foot long, cowhide whip, because of its stinging, wraparound qualities (if asked for her professional opinion, you can’t beat a simple cowhide!)
g) She remains unmoved when the whipped victim is eventually released from his bonds and required to shuffle over through the dirt and dust on his prostrate stomach in order to kiss her muddy, dirty boots by way of a thank you for his public correction. Even his penitent and sorrowful kisses to her exposed, grey cotton socktops fail to move her to pity or remorse for what she has done to him – for she was only upholding the Female Law!
h) She does however, enjoy the praise from the whipped slave, and the appreciative applause from the whip-witnessing crowd, and may even allow herself a small, supercilious grin before disdainfully kicking the whipped slave’s face away from her dusty boots. It has been just another day at the office for her, and tomorrow she will be doing it all again to some other male, footslave-numpty who has fallen foul of the strict Female Laws of the Gynarchy!
See the difference in attitude between the freemales and the slavemale, when the lady enters the room…
In the female boardroom the male slave is nothing more than a female bootsniffer…
The ‘great’ thing about being a slave-actor on stage or on screen in the Great Gynarchy of Barbaria, is that you don’t have to be able to act! All your suffering; all your pain reactions to the whip; all your humility and degradation will be for real – for nothing is faked in a Gynarchy stage play!
And when a Gynarchy movie-director yells ‘cut!’, he (or she) means cut!
The demurely-headscarfed, French-speaking, Senegalese mistress arrogantly wipes her nose on a paper tissue, and then carelessly chucks the freshly-used tissue down onto the ground next to my kneeling face. Its wet, female stickiness brushes against my cheek as I endeavour to lickshine her soiled, brown leather, open-toed sandals without touching her bare, Senegalese footflesh, in accordance with her initial orders barked down at me in African-French.
After she has gone, I hastily catch the used tissue in my mouth, before it has a chance to blow away; for it is the used tissue of my infinite better!
'Clean my dusty sandals with your mouth, slave. And don't touch my foot skin, or it will be a blow of the whip for you!'
The prison-governor can’t help but indulge his wife in her cruel passions…
The footslave knows only too well what the master-sir must think of him…
As he kisses my 22 year old mistress Kerry above me passionately on the lips, the manly master-sir doesn’t notice, or care, that:
· The white, rubbery soles of her grubby, pink-canvas, low-top, lace-up sneakers are stained with dirty street-mud
· The rubbery sole on her left sneaker – the one closest to my face – is showing signs of starting to detach itself from the main body of the sneaker; particularly when, as now, it is resting on demure, feminine tippy-toe as she swoons into her new boyfriend’s strong, masculine embrace above me
· The sneakers smell of well-worn canvas and rubber, this close up to my kneeling face
· The pink anklesocks inside the sneakers are creased and bobbled – again, on her left foot at least, thanks in no small part to the angular positioning of her left, in-love foot
· Her skinny-tight, blue denim jean-hems are frayed around her shapely, pink-socked anklebones
The master-sir may not care, but I care – about all of these things; for they loom large in my lowly consciousness as she tiptoes around my two lips. That’s because I am miss Kerry’s personal, sneaker and sock servant. So it is my job to care, and I take my job very seriously!
And it is her job to have a devil-may-care attitude towards life; to live for the moment; and to have fun with a real man above me, whipping me if I take my eyes off her everyday sneakers and socks even for just one second.
So, if you’ll forgive me, talking to you is more than my job’s worth!
It’s an idyllic setting for the master and mistress – enjoying their well-earned holiday.
Their slave too is in paradise!
