Footslaves’ Trials Volume 1
The trials and tribulations of everyday footslaves.
Scroll down for trials in reverse numerical order
10. New shoes; old socks!
9. Eating Humble Pie
8. I know what they're thinking!
7. Winner-Slave!
6. Nose-Sock
5. Subtle Sockslavery
4. Not so Subtle Sockslavery
3. Purple & Pink
2. Blessed are the male meek…
1. Scuzzy
Regular, thirty-something, petite, Indian customer-mistress, miss Deepa, is proudly, and excitedly, showing me her new shoes on her feet!
As she sits on the public shoelick-throne of power above me, she manoeuvres her shiny, new, black patent leather, slip-on, low-heeled, loafer shoes on the metal footplate in front of my face, so that I can appreciate them close-up and personal in their entirety, and from all different angles. I must admit, they do look extremely nice beneath her plain, black cotton, office trouser-hems – glistening as they are in the sunlight; I can even see my mesmerised and ugly, footslave reflection in them!
And they smell nice too – fresh out of the shoebox; like new (oddly enough!)
Sadly, however, she has not chosen to wear them with a complementary pair of new, fresh, black socks! Indeed, the plain, black anklesocks she has on have clearly been worn on her dainty, Indian feet inside many other pairs of shoes and boots (which I have no doubt lickshined on many previous occasions), to the unfortunate extent that the nominally black anklesocks are now thinning, greying, and bobbled in many places above the shiny new, black-loafer shoeline!
In fact, as she orders me to stick out my tongue so that she can run the side of her pristine-black, right loafer all along it, I am suddenly confronted, face-on, by the sheer mankiness of her well-worn, sweat-greyed, officewear anklesock. It even appears to have a tiny hole on the instep, through which I catch an intriguing glimpse of her soft, brown footskin! But Indian-goddess mistress Deepa appears to be shameless about the state of her sock; she just wants me to focus on her lovely, new shoe, and to tongue-pay my respects to it. ‘Ignore the sock, slave, and worship the shoe,’ is what she’s thinking!
But I can’t bring myself to ignore female sock whilst I am lick-polishing female shoe – for, if footslave truth be told, I quite like the contrast between manky old sock and shiny new shoe on a beautiful and arrogant, young woman. I’m embarrassed to say it – but her sock excites me, for it announces to the world her holier-than-thou, young-womanly contempt for me!
She would, for example, never dream of imposing such a manky, greying sock like this on her beloved husband’s face; she would ordinarily hide such a sock in public, both inside her shoe or boot, and beneath her bootcut, black cotton, trouser hem. But I don’t count – since I’m just a sub-human (i.e. a submissive human) in her pretty, Indian eyeballs; and besides, it’s my job to be down amongst the boots, shoes and manky socks of my female betters. So, to hell with me – I can just get on with lick-admiring her beautiful, brand new, patent-leather shoe whilst her accompanying slovenly, old sock is in my face, whether I damn-well like it or not!
I dutifully extol the virtues of her new shoe whilst I lick it (though there are some who would say it’s rude for a slave to try to talk with his mouth full of superior Indian-girl shoeleather!):
‘Oh pray, mistress Deepa…lick…lick… if it pleases you Indian goddess-mistress Deepa…lick…lick…lick… truly this slave is enamoured by the beauteousness of the mistress’s shapely new, black patent leather, loafer shoe…lick…lick… and praises and blesses her for imposing it on his unworthy tongue, mistress…lick…lick…lick. Oh pray, mistress Deepa! …lick…lick… Oh pray, madam! …lick…lick…lick. Truly your new shoe looks, smells, and tastes divine, most respected customer-mistress madam! …lick…lick……lick…lick…’
And I would like to go on to say:
‘And truly the mistress’s manky old, black cotton anklesock …lick…lick… complements her shoe, mistress! …lick…lick…lick. This slave truly appreciates the care and attention of the mistress in deliberately wearing such manky, old, thinning and greying, black cotton socks …lick …lick …lick …lick… with her pristine and shiny, new shoes…lick…lick…lick… as a means of deliciously humiliating the slave, madam! …lick…lick…lick…lick…Thank you for your kindness in this regard, madam Deepa…lick…lick…lick…’
But, of course, I dare not say any such thing – lest it be misinterpreted by the young office-madam as slavish sarcasm or insincerity!
At least the aroma of her shiny-fresh shoeleather overpowers any residual footsweat-aroma which may be lingering in her manky old, black cotton sock!
Petite and comely, regular black customer-mistress Fiona has kindly baked me a ‘humble pie’, which she informs me I am going to eat after I have publicly lickshined her musty-smelling, chunky-heeled and round-toed, black leather, zipped-up ankleboots!
She kindly informs me, as I am diligently enjoying my ‘aperitif’ consisting of her dirty, black, outer bootleather, of the ingredients of her homemade, humble pie which are, apparently:
· Her, and her family’s, jagged toenail-clippings
· Her personal, black toejam – scraped from beneath her residual, red-painted toenails
· Her black bootsock-lint
· Some dead-skin filings from the backs of her chapped, bare heels
· Her salty footsweat
· Her brown bootmuck from her soles (i.e. whatever she has been walking in)
· Some stale, sweaty, bluemouldy slices of white bread which she had been wearing as odour eaters inside her boots all day
· Her fresh green nosepick (she states it’s important that I eat my greens!)
· Her lovely ear wax
· Her saliva, and various bits of food debris that had been stuck between her teeth
· The cold, solidified fat from her family’s last sumptuous meal
· ‘Sundry other items of household waste and decay’ (whatever that means?)
She then took the lovingly homemade, intimate girlpie from her manky old carrier-bag, and, with her surgically gloved hands, inserted it ignominiously into my bootmud-stained mouth.
I have to say, though I approached it with some initial trepidation, mistress Fiona’s homemade, humble pie tasted good – if only because it was full of beneficial nutrients, namely her superior foot-DNA and other feminine excretions and detritus as described above. I praised and blessed her for baking the humble slave-pie for me (even though I’m afraid it reappeared later – thankfully, after she had gone – as my ungrateful and rebellious, maleslave stomach was not so enamoured by it!)
I have been an office-restroom, ornamental footkisser for so long now, that I think I pretty much know what my regular, office customer-mistresses are thinking as they present their pretty, office feet for me to respectfully kiss as they exit the restroom having finished their intimate business (even though I can’t be 100% sure, since they are forbidden to verbally communicate with me, and I with them – because I am deemed to be nothing more than a piece of restroom furniture!)
But here’s what I think they are thinking:
‘Ha! Ha! How long is it now that you have been kissing my feet in this office-restroom, day in and day out, pathetic ornamental footkisser-slave? I was young when I started working here, some 15 years ago – and I’m still young and pretty. But you – you’ve aged! You were old and decrepit even then, but you’re, like, incredibly old and ugly-looking now. No woman would even look at you twice, even if you were a free man walking down the street with your head held high! Ha! Ha! What an ugly, old loser!
Kiss my black leather ballet-flats, skinny and emaciated old-man slave, and make sure, as always, that your feeble old, trembling lips don’t touch my bare, white foot-skin beneath my navy-blue, office trouser-hem as you kiss my soft, black shoeleather – for your wrinkly, old lips are disgusting to me, and I don’t want them anywhere near my nice, soft footflesh!
Ha! Ha! See how my prominent, blue footvein down the front of my outstretched, right foot pulsates contemptuously in reaction to the feel of your dirty mouth on my soft and musty-smelling, black ballet-flat shoeleather! Ha! Ha! I know you prefer it when I wear my familiar, office ballet-flats with my multicoloured, stripy anklesocks – for then there is no danger of your quivering lips straying onto my bare flesh and earning you a severe face-kicking from your masters, my employers, when I report you for lip-insolence; but that’s why I like tempting you and testing you with my bare feet inside my flats! I know you yearn to touch them; I know you relish the sweaty aroma of my unwashed, unsocked feet inside my musty-smelling, well-worn, footsweat-saturated, office-girl ballet flats!
Ha! Ha! So near – and yet so far – the soft, bare flesh of a beautiful, young, blonde woman whom you can never have or touch, since you are nothing but a trussed-up and immured, impotent, ornamental, ladies-restroom footkisser. Ha! Ha! A thing that kisses shoes and boots. You’re truly pathetic, slave – and just thinking about your powerlessness makes me all hot and horny for my husband, master Kevin sir, whom you have, of course, never met even though he works on the same floor as me (since he wouldn’t ever have occasion to enter the ladies’ restroom), but who I can assure you is a much more handsome, and much better, man than you will ever be – you ugly and contemptible, old footkissing loser!’
‘Ha! Ha! I don’t even have to descend to this floor to use the facilities, slave, since I am entitled to use the managerial facilities on the upper floor! But I choose to come down here, just to give you a taste of how the other half live, and because I like having you grovel over my feet! I like watching your bald, male head bobbing up and down over my smart, black leather, three-inch-heeled pumps – repeatedly kissing in turn each of my imperiously-outstretched, upper-caste, Indian-lady, pointy shoe-toes until I withdraw them from your confined and helpless face.
And I love the look of sheer disappointment on your face as I withdraw each foot from your humble mouth in turn – since I know you enjoy watching the intriguing lady-creases and folds in my dark, opaque, nylon stockings around my shapely anklebones as my foot totters in its high-heel beneath your ugly, old-maleslave mug.
Ha! Ha! You are conscious of how my sexy nylons stretch high up my bandy legs above you, and beneath my black, knee-length, office skirt – though the heavy chain around your neck prevents you from looking up any higher than my fatted, lower calf-muscles! Ha! Ha! That’s why you must focus on my ankles, as you kiss my pointy shoe-toes; but beware, footslave-coolie – for you are very much in my female power and at my female mercy, isn’t it? I could kick you in the wandering eye with my pointy, black shoe-toe whenever it takes my fancy – particularly as I don’t fancy you, since you are nothing but a hopeless, useless footslave with absolutely no prospect of promotion, as you aren’t even particularly good at kissing ladies’ feet!
If you were a real man – a fanciable man – your kisses to my feet might be a turn-on; but in your case they merely make me despise you all the more, since I know you must kiss the feet of many women throughout the day! Foot-slut! You’re nothing but a dirty foot-whore, and I utterly despise you! Ha! Ha! Look at my dark, nylon creases around my outstretched anklebone; look at them and weep, slave. For they are the closest you will ever get to my bare, brown footskin underneath! Ha! Ha! Until next time – you ugly, old foot-whore slave!’
‘Hja! Hja! Yeah man – what a loser-slave! You cain’t even reach the tops of my chunky-heeled, round-toed, scuffmarked, black leather, zip-up ankleboots wit’ yoh ugly, male mouth, innit though? Hja! Hja! I is better than you; I is stronger than you; you ain’t even worvy to kiss the tops of my boots, an’ that, innit though?
Man, you are like, truly pafetic, or somefing? You’re, like, almost dead, or somefing? Least, you might as well be, since you don’t have a life, like me! Hja! Hja! I ain’t the one confined and trussed up like a jerk-chicken in this smelly, ol’ restroom ! Hja! Hja! I is free to go outside, an’ that – wit’ my man; wit a real man! Hja! Hja!
You wouldn’t catch him trussed up in a ladies’ restroom, kissin’ their dirty shoes an’ boots, an’ that! Hja! Hja! Man, you’re queer! You’re perverse! You is freaky, man! Hja! Hja! Stop tryin’ to look up at my black socktops inside my boots, pafetic ol’ slaveman! Like I said, yoh ugly ol’ head cain’t reach up high enuff, an’ that; you is well beneaf my socks, an’ that! Hja! Hja!... Tch!’
‘Ha! I may be only the office intern, and probably 40 years your junior, but I am still better than you, old slaveman, and you still must kiss my smart, navy-blue, court shoes while I am wearing them on my feet. Ha! Ha! See how my pretty, tan nylons mock you by creasing up with laughter around my shapely, outstretched, Japanese-girl anklebones – for they know you cannot touch them with your mouth; your lips may only touch my dirty, germ-covered shoe!
Ha! Ha! Even though you cannot see them, I must have been walking in germs in this place. It is a dirty toilet, after all! Ha! Ha! And you must kiss my germy shoes because I present them to you for kissing. It’s your humble job! Ha! Ha! It doesn’t matter if you get sick and die from my shoe-germs, old slave man – for there are plenty more ornamental footkissers where you came from (which is the Gynarchy!)
I don’t know you as well as some of the older mistresses who have been here a while; but I do know that long after you are dead I shall still be young and alive, and walking on the earth in which you are buried. I shall forget about you when you are gone, like all the women in this office – for you are nothing; just another anonymous footkissing head at my superior, female foot! Ha! I laugh at you – ladies’ footkisser! Office intern’s footkisser! I kick you for slacking! Kiss my foot harder – I want to feel your lips through my navy-blue, oriental shoeleather. No rest for you, wicked slave – in the ladies restroom! Ha! Ha!’
Ha! Ha! I better than you slave. You kiss my smart, navy-blue court shoes, while I am wearing them on my feet. Ha! Ha! You see how my pretty tan nylons mock you. They crease up with laughter at you, around my shapely anklebones.
…
I’m pretty sure that’s what my four, pretty footmistresses from around the globe were thinking – and, judging by the CCTV pictures of the self-satisfied, smug grins on their freshly-footkissed faces as they emerged from the restroom (shown to me later by a kindly security-guard), I can’t have been far off the mark!
The gaggle of pretty, black prison-officer mistresses enter my cell and their ringleader – mistress Chantelle – gleefully announces my triumph in their cruel, internal competition:
‘Hja! Hja! Congratulations, slave-bwoy! We has just voted you as the prisoner-slave we all likes to whip the most! Hja! Hja!... Grab him, girls!’
And with that two of them hold me down – with their dusty, black, uniform-ankleboot soles on the back of my head and the nape of my neck respectively – whilst the third takes it in turn to whip me with the heavy, prison whip across my bare back.
And all because I’m a winner in their ‘male prisoner with the most whippable back’ competition! An accolade I would much rather do without!
It’s a style of sweet-feminine, white anklesock known as a ‘nose-sock’, for it contains a little pocket on the outside (located just above anklebone-level) for a footslave’s nose to rest in whenever the sock is stationary i.e. either whilst it is on his mistress’s foot, or lying all crumpled up and discarded on the floor.
Of course, I cannot be expected to keep my nose in the nose-sock whilst my mistress Amanda is walking, or jogging, along – but it is my default position whenever she is seated or standing still. It is a symbol of my slavish respect for her white sock; of my belonging to her white sock; of my imprisonment to her white sock. And it is only her right sock that has the nose pouch – in recognition of that being her dominant foot.
I am pathetically proud to bury my nose in my mistress Amanda’s right sock-pouch, so that everyone can see my obsession and devotion for her beautiful, white anklesock. It also means that I get a very close-up and personal view of her stationary, white sock-stitches, which is a sight everyone else in her life is not privy to; so I feel immensely privileged to be her ‘nose-sock slave’, even though I am mercilessly mocked for it!
Some sockslaves are the slaves of so-called ‘sock-slut mistresses’ – young women who shamelessly foist their sweaty, socked feet in their personal-footslaves' faces, even rubbing them down the front of their faces in the raw so that their sweet feminine footsweat is ignominiously transferred between the female sock and the male face in the most publicly humiliating of ways!
But my softly-spoken, perennially headscarfed, modestly demure, Muslim mistress Muna is much more subtle in her public duty of sock-humiliation towards her pathetic, sockslave-subject:
- Firstly, her socks – always dark-coloured and suitably sombre – are, for most of the day, kept hidden beneath her dark trouser-hems and inside her plain black, but fancily stitched, office loafers. It is only when she is seated, with slightly raised trouser-hems, that I get to see her precious, dark-coloured anklesocks
- Furthermore, her dark socks are, of course, full-length, and smartly pulled-up anklesocks – to hide her bare, brown foot and smooth ankle modesty from my sinful-sockslave, prying eyes (she would never wear those sluttily-short, anklebone-revealing, sneaker-style socks so beloved by young, western women!)
- Whenever I get to kneel and stare at her dark, pulled-up socks on her shapely anklebones – for example, when she is seated at her office desk – I am under strict, Muslim-girl instructions to focus on any lines or creases in her socks, and to contemplate how, by rights, such sock-ceases should be mirrored on my back by painful, red whip-stripes; the fact that they are not merely demonstrates my mistress Muna's incredible kindness and mercy towards me – her incompetent sockslave; for it is my job to smooth her socks onto her feet of a morning and to be responsible for making sure they stay that way on her hot and sticky feet throughout the day (even though I am forbidden to touch them!)
- At the end of the working day, immediately after I deshoe her in preparation for her cuddling up on the sofa into the warm and loving bosom of her manly Muslim husband, I must kiss her warm-socked feet 70 times in a respectful and ritualistic manner (35 times to each sock-toe – alternating between left and right, and cupping each socked foot worshipfully between my hands). Such sock-kissing ritualism must in no way be lascivious or lustful on my part, but rather appear semi-reluctant; under coercion – so to speak, lest the master-sir become jealous of my darksock-intimacy with his beautiful, Muslim wife. On the other hand, I may not turn my nose up at any feminine sock-stink emanating from the dark, sweat-moistened socks, but must fully absorb it enthusiastically through my gaping nostrils.
- My mistress Muna will then take off her socks in private – away from my sockslave gaze, so that I do not have the pleasure of seeing her bare ankleflesh again (once a day is considered enough – in the mornings when I sock her freshly-showered feet as she gets dressed). I must instead await my Muslim mistress’s sweaty discarded socks by lying on my back with my face upwards inside her used-sock basket; when she is ready, she will smilingly drop them onto my upturned face and close the basket lid, whilst simultaneously switching on a light inside the basket so that I can observe, as well as smell, her unwashed, dark-coloured socks throughout the night, admiring the sweat stains and crusty, crumpled toe-areas that I was earlier forced to worship-kiss on her feet. Meanwhile, below my head, acting as smelly pillows, are her still-dirty socks from earlier in the week.
Every so often, the Muslim master-sir will examine me on my knowledge and understanding of his wife’s socks:
§ What are my favourite pair? And why?
§ Which of her socks are the most worn and prone to bobbling?
§ What do I intend to do about the bobbling?
§ How many stitches are in any given sock?
§ What is my favourite pattern in the stitching?
§ What happened to a particular pair of socks the last time his pretty wife wore them i.e. how often did they crease? And how many creases developed? Where exactly on the socks did those creases occur? What, if anything, did I do about them – given that I am responsible for the smoothness of his wife’s socks on her feet throughout the day, yet am forbidden to touch them?
It is a ‘mock’ examination, of course – designed to mock and humiliate me (indeed, the master-sir will often ask me such demeaning questions in front of his wife and their guests). But I must answer the master-sir truthfully and respectfully – otherwise it is the whip for me!
I must say, I like the fact that my modest, Muslim sockmistress doesn’t flaunt her socks in my face, but covers them up during the daytime when she is out and about. You know what they say – ‘treat your sockslave mean, and keep him keen!’; and ‘less sock is more sock, for the pathetic sockslave!’
Thanks to her attitude, I am obsessed by her socks – and, literally, can’t get enough of them!
Some Gynarchy mistresses like to have their sockslave perpetually sniff their socks, even when the socks are still being worn inside their shoes or boots. The slave is required to audibly sniff any, and all, visible areas of sock above the female shoe or boot line – and this applies even to thigh, knee and calf-length socks; not just ankle socks!
Of course, the hardest sock to sniff whilst the mistress is still wearing her outer footwear is the low-cut sneaker-sock, where only a thin slither of sweet feminine sock is visible just above the sneaker-line. The diligent sockslave must nose-tread very carefully in such circumstances, and ensure that he does not end up nose-touching, or sniffing, his mistress’s bare ankleflesh!
So-called ‘Socksniff-mistresses’ will often, kindly, make their sockslaves’ lives a bit easier by deliberately wearing footwear which exposes areas of sock to the slave – even if the lady is wearing slacks. Thus, for example, she may wear a pair of black leather ballet-flats with her black sneaker-socks – thereby exposing much of the top of her sock, above the toe-cleavage, to her sockservant’s nose, even if her trouser-hems cover the elasticated tops and sides of her socks. Or, she may choose to wear T-bar style shoes, thereby dividing the tops of her socks into two halves for the sockslave to ostentatiously sniff between and around the leather shoe-straps. Or, she may discreetly unzip a little triangle of sock at the top of her black leather ankleboot, for the sockslave’s nose to rest in.
Each sniff must be distinct, audible, and respectful. It must not appear rushed; and the sniffer must focus his nose on any creases in the mistress’s socks, especially in public.
Some of you may be wondering – what’s the point in making a slave sniff the upper parts of a mistress’s socks? Surely the smelliest, dampest parts of the socks are hidden deep inside the shoes or boots, around the toe and instep areas? That’s all true, of course – but the point is not to inflict stink on the sockslave, but rather to visibly humiliate him; to demonstrate that he is the pathetic and helpless slave of his female owner’s socks, and subject to their will. If they wish to be publicly worshipped and sniffed from top to shoeline, then sniffed they shall be, even if it means the poor sockslave’s nose has a long and ignominious journey down the patterned sock-stitching on the side of his mistress’s shapely, lower leg – in the case of knee-length socks!
Of course, the sockmistress can, equally, limit her socksniffing-slave’s activities to a designated area of her socks should she so wish – such as the ankle-areas below the frilly, ruffled tops (if applicable); or the elasticated tops (typically of sneaker-socks); or the bobbled balls of the heels – if she is wearing backless mules or sandals with socks. Likewise she may direct her sockservant to sniff a particular logo on the side of her sock (or just part of a logo).
It is entirely the sockmistress’s choice – and her socks will be sniffed in absolute accordance with her superior-female instructions. Otherwise the ‘sockslave’ will become a ‘whipslave’, forced to sniff the whip after it has regally regaled his bare back!
Addendum: Public socksniffing is now so trendy and popular, the Gynarchy authorities have set up permanent, public socksniffers, next to public shoelicks and bootlicks, on virtually every street corner! Here, young women who don’t (yet) own a personal socksniffer can stop and have their socks sniffed in public above their shoes or boots. The Female Authorities, who think of everything, have even supplied whipping-cum-pointing sticks at such designated socksniffing-stalls, so that the customer-mistress, whether seated or standing, can point to the area or areas of sock she wants sniffed (and beat the slave with the same pointer-stick if he fails to comply!)
She has one purple, and one pink, sneaker-sock on her pretty feet inside her scruffy, nominally white, barely-laced-up, keds-style sneakers.
It’s difficult to know whether her odd socks are a fashion statement, or a fashion faux-pas. But, given the overall slovenliness of her appearance – pink-dyed, greasy hair; tatty, garishly-coloured T shirt exposing her pierced belly button (to match her pierced eyebrows and left nostril); and grubby-white shorts – I’m guessing it’s more of a fashion faux-pas, and that both the short socks are meant to be pink, to match her hair!
Then again, who am I to speculate or criticise? I’m just a two-bob, down-in-the-dirt, ornamental footkisser! It is not my place to criticise a young mistress’s dress sense or accuse her of being un-colour-coordinated! I must simply respect both her socks with equal, maleslave reverence as I toe-kiss her grubby, white sneakers, and be grateful that this elegant and gracious, young woman has stopped by me at all to have her feet kissed on her way out of the female public toilet!
Blessed are the male meek, for they shall be
Walked over;
Whipped;
Forced to kiss feet;
Forced to lick shoe;
Forced to sniff sock.
Blessed are the male meek, for they shall be
made to obey their female betters.
I have never seen regular, blonde customer-mistress Kerry's bare feet before, as she practically always wears her black, officewear ankleboots and socks whilst visiting my public-shoelick booth. But today – presumably because the Gynarchy weather is just too hot for boots and socks – for the first time ever she presents me with a nice pair of spike-heeled and strappy, white leather slingbacks on nude feet for kissing; and, to my slavish surprise, her bare, white footflesh, normally covered by winter-black sock, turns out to be quite scuzzy – red-blotchy and hard-skinned, particularly around the heels and insteps!
I had always assumed such a beautiful, young, blonde woman would have soft, well-kept feet inside her protective boots and socks – but it would appear not! Don't get me wrong – she has painted and pedicured her blonde-girl toenails for my public-footslave delectation; bright red, in fact. But the red toenails merely complement the red, blotchy patches of hard skin on her otherwise unkempt feet!
I respect the blotchiness of her footskin, of course – and deliberately kiss it as a public-footslave priority; for this is the scuzzy footskin of my female superior and better, and it is an honour for my lips to feel such rough, hardened, blonde-girl footflesh on my naked lips! Furthermore, in future, when those black leather ankleboots and black cotton bootsocks are once again hiding this flawed footskin (as they inevitably will be once the weather turns), I shall kiss them with all the more humility and respect, now that I am aware of the leathery-skinned scuzziness underneath!
It will be our scuzzy little secret!
