Feetslaves’ Lives Volume 5
A final sneaky peek into feetslaves’ humble lives!
My chav-mistress Courtney is very clever – she makes me assess my own performance each day as her personal sneaker-servant, and requires me to suggest my own punishment for underperformance!
I crawl nervously into the room and over to the four female parole-board members who are seated in a row at the long table in front of me – three guard-mistresses from another prison (so I have never met them before); and one civilian, board-member mistress, also a complete stranger to me – and therefore able to form an independent judgement on my suitability for release back into the female community as a male, public footservant.
I cup and kiss the feet of each of the esteemed parole-board mistresses in turn, beneath the semi-darkness of the table at which my female judgers are seated. My fate, as well as their feet, are thus temporarily in my trembling hands:
· The heavy, hobnailed, laced-up, black leather, ankle-length boots, and thick, crumpled, dark grey bootsocks of navy-blue-uniformed, officer-mistress no. 1 – a slightly built, young white woman with a black ponytail. A tantalising slither of her soft, bare, pasty-white legskin is just showing beneath her raised, navy-blue, uniform trouser-hem on her right leg (which is crossed over her left), but I dare not kiss her bare, feminine calf-skin, since a prisoner-slave is only ever considered worthy to kiss an officer-mistress on the boots or socks
· The black patent-leather, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up ankleboot and flowery-patterned, blue and red anklesocks of a free and feisty, Indian officer-mistress. Both her feet are resting demurely on the floor , so I don’t get to see her bare, brown legflesh above the sock
· The half-length, low-heeled, black leather booties and smooth, finely-stitched, plain black socks of a blonde-haired officer-mistress. although she, like her other white, officer-mistress colleague, is seated with her right leg crossed dominantly over her left, and even though her boots only reach up to just below her shapely, socked anklebones, her black, finely-stitched, cotton bootsocks are calf-length and fully pulled up beneath her navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems – and thus the sight of her no doubt beautiful, soft, white legskin is frustratingly denied to me
· The flat, black leather, fancily-stitched, lace-up shoes of the plain-black-trouser-wearing, slightly plump but comely, brown-curly-haired, white civilian mistress of the parole panel. Although a tiny slither of her plain, black anklesocks is just visible below her slightly raised trouser-hems on both feet (she too, like the Indian officer-mistress, is seated with both her feet demurely resting side by side on the floor), I do not endeavour to kiss her on the sock – only on the sides and fronts of her shoes – since kissing prison-officer mistresses’ socks is a privilege we prisoner-slaves have to earn, and that privilege does not extend to the socks of any visiting, civilian mistresses to the prison, especially civilian mistresses who are members of one’s parole board, and who are sitting in judgement over one (and representing the views of polite, female society outside the male-prison walls!)
Having kissed all my female judges’ feet, I humbly kneel before each board member in turn, and humbly kiss their feet again, whilst they interrogate me individually.
The first officer board-member mistress – the black-ponytailed white girl with the black hobnailed boots and scrunched-down grey socks – enquires about the many fiery-red whipmarks on my bare back and shoulders. I seek to reassure the young, black-ponytailed guard-mistress from another prison that my back is not scarred because of any laziness, impudence or disobedience on my part, but is due purely to the fact that I must work the heavy treadmill every day, and thus require the constant stimulus of the whip to keep me walking. The black-ponytailed officer-mistress snorts derisively down at me, and opines that a half-decent treadmill prisoner should nevertheless not require quite so much whipping just in order to get a move on with his work! I apologise to the twenty-something, young officer-mistress for my male weakness and feebleness, which I put down to my old age (55).
She puts it down to my being too fat!
Not a good start!
The feisty-looking, Indian officer-mistress then talks, and I swiftly move my creaking bones, and face, over to her pointy-toed, black patent leather ankleboots (officer-mistresses in the Female Prison service, though uniformed, get to choose their own footwear – providing it is black!). In her beautiful, Indian-girl accent she asks me what I am in for, and how long is my sentence.
I am somewhat taken aback that the Indian officer mistress has not even bothered to read up on my notes prior to sitting on the parole board in judgement upon my future, but nevertheless humbly confirm my crime of sock-theft from a blonde-ponytailed, customer-mistress who had drunkenly taken off her ankle-length, white cotton bootsocks one night whilst having her toes suck-cleaned by me on my public-footslave stall in the centre of the town, and who had then forgotten to order me to put her socks back onto her feet before she rushed off to a nightclub in her tottering high-heels with her impatient female mates (I had impulsively opted to keep the white socks, you see, in order to surreptitiously sniff them, but the clubbing-mistress had subsequently realised her mistake when her feet got all hot and sweaty inside her high-heeled, patent, black leather ankleboots – not dissimilar to the boots I am confessing all to now – and she had thus reported me to the Female Authorities for attempted, white-sock theft!)
Needless to say, my shame in having to relive my crime before the Indian officer-mistress, and her feisty, red and blue patterned bootsocks, is palpable in the room, and I penitently kiss her creased socktops as I go on to confirm my sentence of 16 years’ imprisonment and hard labour on the treadmill, of which I have now served 14 years.
The shocked Indian officer-mistress (shocked, that is, by the leniency of my sentence for such a heinous crime) asks me what on earth I was thinking about in seeking to steal a customer-mistress’s socks in public, and I feebly seek to reply that I was simply intoxicated by the beauty and stinky aroma of the inebriated, young, blonde woman’s sweaty, white bootsocks. However, I seek to now assure the disgusted, Indian officer-mistress that I am truly sorry for my crime; that I have learnt my lesson; and that I will never do it again. I pray for her forgiveness and mercy.
She just tuts, shakes her head, and calls me a ‘dirty slave-prisoner pig’!
Another bad sign!
Next to quiz me is the third, uniformed office-mistress on the board – the petite, blonde-haired mistress with the low-heeled, black leather booties and fully-pulled-up, calf-length, black cotton bootsocks (her boots are the dirtiest, and her socks are the bobbliest). I know that I shall have an uphill task ingratiating myself to her, as she, like my crime victim, is blonde-haired – and therefore unlikely to have any sympathy for me.
I am correct in my assumptions, for – even though I seek to ingratiate myself to her socks by not just kissing them, but also nuzzling them, beneath the parole-board table – her questioning of me is very aggressive from the start, and she asks me why the Female Parole Board shouldn’t just recommend an increase in my sentence, since I am clearly a disgusting and unreformed male creature, who is not fit to be entrusted with the service of innocent young women’s feet, shoes and socks in public?
I start to blubber and cry into the unforgiving, blonde-haired mistress’s booties and socks – and festoon them with anxious, penitent kisses (much to her amusement) – as I humbly seek to assure her that I am a reformed character, reformed by years of toiling on the heavy, prison treadmill under the biting sting of the female whip, and that, if she and the other parole board members would only give me the chance, I would redeem myself by being a good and loyal public footservant to the female public once more!
She smirks.
Finally, I crawl over to the slightly plump, curly-haired, civilian mistress’s black leather, fancily-stitched, no-nonsense, flat black, lace-up shoes and civilian-black anklesocks, and kiss her dusty-leathery shoetoes as she states her considered opinion that I am now too old and ugly to ever be released back into the community, and should spend the rest of my days turning the treadmill.
As I kiss her shoes and listen to her condemnatory words, I realise that all is lost and I shall now never be released from prison (for the word of the civilian board member is always final – even though, in my particular case, the rest of the board members are in total agreement with her anyway!). I nonetheless kiss her round, black, fancily-stitched, civilian shoetoes with genuine fervour and respect – not least because they contain civilian streetdust from outside the prison, and this is the closest I will now ever get to being a public shoelicker of young, civilian ladies’ shoes again!
How I wish she would have me take off her black shoes and socks and order me to suckclean her sticky, warm and clammy toes; who knows, she might even forget to have me put her black anklesocks back on her feet again!
In the Gynarchy of Barbaria, superior free men often pay to watch public footslaves sniffing beautiful, young women’s socks!
In all weathers, and whatever she is wearing, I loyally serve my equally loyal and regular, auburn-haired, beautiful black customer-mistress at my waterside, public shoelick stall.
Indeed, I had foolishly thought that perhaps the black customer-mistress may even like me, as much as I like her – so regularly does she visit me; and this in spite of the fact that she always seems to look down her pretty nose at me, and never even deigns to talk to me.
But my self-delusory daydreams were well and truly dashed last night when she visited me with her brutish boyfriend in tow. I knew instantly that he was a much better man than me; and so did he. He, quite rightly, laughed at me, as I humbly lickshined his pretty girlfriend’s dirty boots in front of him.
Small wonder, then, that subsequent passers-by laughed at my sad, heartbroken face yesterday evening, as I sobbingly knelt at my public shoelick stall and dutifully awaited my next customer-mistress!
As they quite rightly say ‘There’s no fool, like an old public-footslave fool!’
The Heartbroken Public Footservant
As an experienced, public footservant of many years kneeling, I have learnt, courtesy of the burning sting of the female-wielded whip, to fawn towards and flatter my customer-mistresses – even, shall we respectfully say, those 'less immediately prepossessing' ones amongst them!
Thus, when overweight and lazy, greasy-blonde-haired miss Alison – a denizen of the nearby sink-estate – deigns to visit me for a quick lick and a shine of her manky and holey, floral-patterned, grey-rubbery-soled, low-top, lace-up, cheap canvas plimsolls – worn with her equally cheap and nasty, ubiquitous, short, plain grey, sneaker socks which are straining at her fat anklebones beneath her black and white, frayed, cheap tracksuit bottoms – I gush forth the following sycophantic laudations:
'Oh bless, mistress! Oh praise! Oh glory be to you, most beautiful and kind goddess-mistress Alison madam, for honouring me with your divine, female presence, madam! Oh do, mistress! Oh pray! This slave is not worthy of your wonderful, floral-patterned plimsolls and plain grey sneaker-socks, madam! Oh praise!'
I then put my tongue where my toadying is, and shower her manky, fat, everyday-ordinary, sink-estate sneakers and socks with fervent and heartfelt kisses and licks, even reverentially cupping them whilst I kiss them! For I have actually come to believe my own weaselly words over time; fat skank-mistress Alison is a goddess, and I am truly privileged to be kneeling in her superior, female presence!
A Gynarchy mistress lays down the law to her new, personal footslave…
The whipping-post stands forlorn,
Eager to be embraced.
Yearning for the writhings of a wretched slave against her wooden torso,
Aching for the love bites of desperate, male pain.
She will not have to wait long,
On this promiscuous sink-estate.
For her partner in punishment – the female whip,
Is equally as wanton.
Do male slaves in the Gynarchy of Barbaria empathise with one another?
What do you think!?
I am an information-booth footslave in a busy shopping mall.
My chore is to kneel all day long by the feet of the pretty, female information-booth assistants at the base of their swivel-stool, and to stare at and admire their feet and footwear, shift after shift, whilst they deal with the enquiries of the shopping public.
That’s all! But that's fine – because, even though I don't normally get to kiss or lick the information assistants' footwear, I do at least get to study up close and personal the various creases and folds and subliminal movements in their boots, shoes and socks; the sublime footwear details of my female betters!
And at night – when the mall is closed – I can sleep and dream of all the lovely footwear things I've seen, unless, of course, I’m disturbed by the shopping-mall cleaners.
Here’s some edited CCTV footage of the meagre highlights of my footslave day:
The Highlights of a Shopping-Mall Footslave’s Day
Sadly, I only ever get to kiss the feet of my betters through the bars of a public cage…
