The Footman
By Slave Paul
Paul had a tough decision to make regarding his immediate future.
For nearly twenty years he had been more than content with his current employment at Downsview Manor House. He was the head game keeper and footman to the powerful family that owned the prestigious Gynarchy property. His duties had never altered over the years; he was mainly responsible for maintaining the grounds and stable areas for the family.
Lord and Lady W_ were kind and fair employers. They still very much respected the ways of old with regard to the servant and Master-Mistress routine, but were, on the whole, quite laid back and even lackadaisical with issues surrounding servant discipline. There was, however, one other member of the household who was the all-important lynchpin in the family triumvirate of power - their daughter, Miss Isabella.
Young Mistress Isabella had only just reached the impressive milestone of twenty one years of age! Paul had known her since a child, and watched her grow up to lead a very privileged life within the walls of her opulent, heraldic home. She was, without doubt, a spoilt brat of a girl, if truth be told!
She grew up being read stories from history and make-believe with heroic knights, beautiful Princesses and, of course, slaves! She would now, therefore, regularly talk down to Paul as he saddled her magnificent, white pony prior to the morning ride. She loved to refer to him as “Slave”, even though he was an employee of the family! Mistress Isabella would even make up false accusations against him, and run crying to her father to claim that Paul had maligned her, or pushed her from her horse, and she would show him the muddy marks on her erstwhile pure, white riding britches!
Fortunately for Paul, Lord W_ was a level-headed man, and was never taken in by this ruse! He would look lovingly into her eyes and say:
‘Leave it to me, my dear. I will have a quiet word with our servant and ensure that it will not happen again!’
Miss Isabella would normally reply through a haze of crocodile tears:
‘But father, I insist you flog him at my feet for the outrageous indignation and humiliation he has caused me! Pillory him; fling him into the dungeons beneath my bedchamber, that I may hear his tormented cries for mercy!’
A true bitch!
…
For servant Paul, life changed for the worse when, not one year after her 21st birthday, Lord and Lady W_ left the young Mistress Isabella in charge of the estate, in order to take their biannual vacation to the Gynarchy Island paradise of Domina. The first day that Mistress Isabella was left in charge was quite a shock to the system – for Paul!
She came marching up to the stables at her usual time. She was wearing her standard riding finery, consisting of a black-velvet-trimmed riding hat, with a chin strap that partially covered the vibrant tresses of her golden, princessly hair. She also had on her usual riding jacket - hand tailored to her dimensions in a deep, red, cottony velvet. The jacket fitted her voluptuous, young-womanly, curvy figure closely and looked both very attractive and formal. Her shapely thighs were covered in a tight-fitting pair of elasticated, cream coloured, cotton riding britches. From the knee down she was clad in polished, black leather, flat soled, pull-on riding boots. These were trimmed around the collars with a two inch wide strip of polished, brown leather. The leathery folds in her aristocratic riding boots truly shimmered in the early morning sunlight as she approached her family’s manservant in the dusty stables.
She stood directly in front of Paul - hands on hips and with her thin and swishy, black leather riding crop projecting ominously from her dainty, right hand - and issued him with her new orders for the day:
‘Listen up, little slave, I am now in charge of this estate in my parents’ absence. Understand? There will be some real changes around here from now on, or you will have to pay the consequences for failure! I don’t like all of this, for a start!...’
She was using her well-worn riding crop to roughly pull open Paul’s tweed jacket and play with his tie!
‘I think that, as a mark of respect, you should remove your upper garments whenever the Mistress of the house (THAT’S ME) approaches!’
Paul was not impressed with this latest commandment, but had thought it entirely predictable, given his knowledge of the young mistress’s character! He therefore knew he had no choice but to disrobe in the cold winter air! He thus soon stood before her shivering, wearing only his trousers and leather hiking boots.
Mistress Isabella was, meanwhile, smiling her usual evil smile!
‘That’s better, slave! Now you look the part! We can get you into shape in no time; with a bit of extra work all of this will be more finely toned!’
She was slowly dragging her leather riding crop over his naked torso and commenting on his rather less than manly figure!
‘Now, bend down, slave. I wish to mount up!’
Paul was forced to bend down on all fours and to receive the cold, muddy, leather bootheel of his magnificent Mistress as she mounted the waiting pony! The terrible weight of the Mistress on his back was almost too much to bear (for Paul, if not for the pony!), but that was not because she was in any way large – it was because she deliberately twisted the tiny stones and mud clinging to her riding-boot soles into the bare back of her bended bondsman!
Once fully mounted, she looked down at the man temporally branded with her muddy bootprints, and smiled:
‘Oh, by the way, slave, I think that the term “Footman” should mean just that! What do you think?’
She then pulled her left boot out of its cold-steel stirrup and waved the muddy sole around Paul’s still-kneeling nose and mouth! He immediately understood what was required - a good old mouth-cleaning!
Paul used the purpose-built, wooden mounting block that his haughty Mistress had shunned in favour of his naked back to draw himself up to her booted, left foot. He was seething with rage internally as he set about slowly licking the high quality, leather boot toe in order to remove any muddy deposits! He could plainly feel her female toes wriggle with joy inside the warm, leathery, foot coverings. He then had to ignominiously repeat the process with the other boot, once Miss Isabella was satisfied with the first boot!
Isabella eventually pulled her right boot-toe out of Paul’s grasping, reverential hands and placed it back through the steel loop of her stirrup:
‘Alright, I’m off for a long ride. I fully expect to return to a yard that is sparkling clean, with no traces of horse manure on it! Furthermore, one truly looks forward to seeing one’s reflection in the highly polished horse brasses, or my crop will be gaining the acquaintance of your back, vile bondsman! You really ought not to push my buttons, slave. One will be only too happy to see that you are the first victim in one’s living memory to feel the loving embrace of the ancient, family pillory! HA!’
She pointed her riding crop towards the ancient looking, multiple occupancy, kneeling pillory over in the far corner of the courtyard, surrounded by vast piles of manure. The device dated back to the founding of the Manor House over two hundred years ago, and had not been used in all of the twenty years that Paul had been employed there!
Miss Isabella then clicked loudly with her teeth and pressed her voluptuous thighs tightly against the white pony as it took off at speed.
Paul was left standing there pondering her last sentence, “one will be all too happy to see that you are the first victim in one’s living memory to feel the loving embrace of the ancient, family pillory”. So full of false grace! Nevertheless, it did the trick; he started shovelling the muck, and polishing the brasses, as fast as he could, under the shadow of the cruel pillory!
…
Mistress Isabella was gone for a good four hours. This gave Paul sufficient time to clear away the yard and get everything gleaming for her return. The powerful Mistress entered the yard at a brisk pace, still on horseback:
‘Well! I see that the threat of physical pain is a great motivator, Mr Slave? My foolish father was wrong after all, wasn’t he?’
Paul had to reply through an upturned, top lip:
‘Yes, Miss Isabella. He was.’
Suddenly her rather impressed smile turned to anger, and she lashed out at his naked torso with her riding crop, shouting in a shrill tone:
‘NEVER refer to me as “Miss Isabella”! You will only ever call me “Princess Isabella Ma’am” from now on! Do you understand?’
Paul shrieked back through the itchy, stinging frenzy of the angry riding crop:
‘Y…Yes, Princess Isabella Ma’am! M...Mercy please!’
He had learned a valuable lesson - this mad, power-imbued, young woman was a real force to be reckoned with! With no limiting forces from her parents, she really ruled the roost from now on!
…
Fortunately, Princess Isabella calmed down quickly, and she used Paul’s scarred back (that still bore the muddy print of her riding boot) to hastily dismount:
‘See that my horse is tended, footman, and polish the saddle so that I can see my beautiful reflection in it. Understand?’
‘Yes, Princess Isabella Ma’am! At once, Princes Isabella Ma’am!’
‘Once that is done, come to the Great Hall. I shall have some other jobs for you then!’
As she walked away from the yard, Paul could hear her mumbling:
‘I really wanted to lock him in the stocks, never mind…’
Paul set about his new tasks and was greatly motivated by his recent cropping! It took little time for the holy saddle to become a gleaming artefact fit for only the daintiest rump of a real life Princess!
Paul then made his way (feeling cold and rather embarrassed at being half naked) to the Great Hall of the family mansion. He cleaned his boots at the door and entered. The fireplace was burning vigorously which, was a great relief to Paul! Out of the gloom he could just make out the shape of his young Mistress standing in the billiard room just off the central hallway. He approached with his face downcast in a respectful, servile manner; he did not want to rile her a second time!
‘Not on yer knees then, footman? Hic!’
Mistress Isabella was swirling a very large brandy glass in her pretty, but powerful, left hand. She was drunk! Her father’s fifty year old, reserve cognac had been devoured like a cheap vodka shot! Ominously, her right hand was still clutching the well-used, and recently-used, black leather riding crop!
Paul dropped to his knees out of respect for protocol, and noticed that she was still wearing her riding boots from that morning. For some reason Mistress Isabella had raked out the fire and was pacing up and down in the burnt out coals! She was twisting her heel and boot toe into the powdered coal dust making a loud crunching sound that echoed around the room. She then stepped out of the fireplace onto the virgin white Persian rug! Black footsteps trailed behind her!
‘Oh deary me! What will Pater think, little footman? His favourite Persian rug - ruined! Who will he believe? Some vile, overweight groundsman-cum-slave, or his sweet and innocent, virginal young daughter?’
Paul knew that Lord W_ , his lord and master, had brought that rug back from his overseas travels! He was immensely proud of its heritage! He gulped.
Miss Isabella had not yet finished slurring, though:
‘Maybe you could use this nail brush and bucket of warm water to fix the problem, while I whip you, footman, for letting the rug get dirty in the first place? Does that sound like a good idea to you, footman?’
Paul actually leaped at the opportunity to clean the rug for his kindly master:
‘Yes at once, Princess Isabella Ma’am!’
The enslaved serf subsequently toiled for hours on the Persian rug, scrubbing vigorously as his drunken Mistress repeatedly lashed his bare back with her riding-crop. She deliberately compounded the problem, however, by following closely behind him and thus treading more dirty, black soot into the fibres of the supposedly white rug! Mistress Isabella was also angry and upset, as the action of whipping his back red-raw had removed the muddy-boot branding mark listing him as her personal property!
…
Hours of this painful tedium passed by, but finally the soot had all been walked off the Mistress’s boots, and the rug was virginal white again! Mistress Isabella slumped into a nearby armchair, exhausted. Paul thought that she was asleep, and started to creep out to return to his room in the old servants’ quarters.
‘STOP! I have not given you leave to depart!’
Mistress Isabella was very much awake after all!
‘Footman you are, and footman you shall be; remove my boots at once, slave!’
Paul was furious with the spoilt-princess brat now! She was so demanding, and this little game was wearing thin even for a loyal and docile servant to endure! At least it was all a game; the Lord and Lady of the house would soon return, and all would return to normal again!
Paul obediently set about removing the tight-fitting, leather boots from his Mistress’s lower legs. It took some effort to pull them off - he had to shoulder her somewhat podgy calf (which was at least soft and warm) in order to liberate her from her outer footwear! WHOOSH, and she was free!
‘PHWOAR footman! Sorry about that; they are a tad whiffy, aren’t they? I must have put the old socks from yesterday back onto my feet! Whoops! That’s what happens when a Princess has to do these menial things for herself! I need a menial to do it for me, as I am too busy ruling the castle and looking beautiful!’
The socks that she was referring to were thick, cream-coloured, woolly, calf length socks that showed heavy signs of sweet feminine perspiration! The nasal assault was far worse at close quarters, and Paul was surreptitiously backing away from them, albeit still on bended knee!
‘HA! One thinks that the vile bondsman would greatly benefit from massaging one’s Princess-like, sock-clad feet, while the remnants of daddy’s brandy is consumed? SEE TO IT!’
The footman set about his unenviable sock-massage task with little vim or vigour, but the threatening waving of the riding crop over his already pounded and tenderised back did the trick! He started kneading her woolly-socked feet with his strong hands; her warm, clammy socks lubricated his deferential digits as they probed her feminine and perfectly formed metatarsals.
…
Hours later, they were nearly asleep together in the billiard room. It was now approaching midnight and the grandfather clock was chiming the three quarterly bells loudly from the study.
‘OOH, we had better get to bed, footman!’
Paul was delighted to hear this command! He could not wait to be locked safely in his servant’s quarters safely away from this mad, spoilt brat, in order to, quite literally, rest and lick his wounds!
‘By the way, footman, I had intended to lock you in the dungeons beneath my chamber so I could listen to your chains rattling as I sleep peacefully in my four poster bed, but sadly that will not be possible as daddy has filled what used to be the dungeon with his bloody wine collection!’
Paul was delighted! Back to his room it was, then!
‘But not to worry, footman. I have had the old coal shed emptied out so you can sleep in there. I have been told by the coalman that it is nice and icy cold, and filthy dirty, so it will be a fitting place for you to reside under my rule, HA!’
Paul was then escorted under the crop by his mad, uncontrolled mistress to the outside coal shed (that by chance was directly beneath his Mistress’s bedroom window). She was only wearing her two day old smelly socks on her feet in the icy cold dead of night! Paul was thrust into the blackness of the coal-bunker, and a small candle and a box of matches were thrown his way as the door was then locked tightly shut with a hefty padlock on the outside!
‘Sleep well, footman! HA!’
…
As the night passed slowly, Mistress Isabella slept a happy and contented sleep! She was warm and cosy in her opulent, four-poster bed, surrounded by layers of pleated pink chiffon and fluffy pillows stuffed with down. Meanwhile the down-in-the-dirt footman was rather less well off! The candle had lasted a mere fifteen minutes, and he was now surrounded by blackness, coldness, dampness and a longingness to be free from the cramped, dark, hole of sorrow that was become his home!
The early light of dawn brought little relief. Mistress Isabella was severely hung over by her over indulgence of the previous night! She finally left her bed at 11:35. She dressed and went out into the cold mid-morning air to release her bondsman from his tight quarters. Paul literally flung himself on her ropey, sock clad feet in order to pay them homage for deigning to release him from his unholy bondage!
This act of desperate obeisance almost impressed the Lady in waiting:
‘Enough, slave! I need to get back inside; it’s freezing out here! Footman, go and muck out the horses at once, lest my crop find your back again, you vile creature down at my royal socks!’
Paul scurried off to the stables and began mucking out the many horses. A short while later, Mistress Isabella returned, now dressed somewhat casually. She was evidently not going riding today, as she was clad from top to bottom in a rather unflattering, grey towelling tracksuit!
‘One is going out for a run, and will be gone for several hours, footman. One expects that the cobbles of the yard will be scrubbed so clean, that one could literally walk barefoot through here without danger of fouling one’s royal personage!’
With that nonsensical rambling over, she departed, listening to her favourite music in her headphones and clutching her energy drink. Mistress Isabella had ‘forgotten’ to offer the footman any sustenance!
…
Paul was freezing cold now. Today was one of three days that the maid Miss Genevieve called round. He had a soft spot for her, and always liked to impress her by being smartly dressed, as she was a rather old fashioned sort of girl. But Paul looked a wreck. He was currently covered in coal soot, and was a half-naked shell of a man!
Out of the corner of his eye, he espied the discarded raiments of his former self. He had been ordered to disrobe in the presence his all-powerful Mistress, but she had not removed them from the yard. Paul therefore quickly dressed himself once again. It felt so good to be human-being once more!
It was fortunate that Mistress Isabella had gone for a run at such an opportune moment. She would be gone for hours, and the only return route to the house was by the main drive (clearly visible from the stables). Paul would thus have ample warning of his Mistress’s impending return, and time to remove his clothing once more. Additionally to this, Miss Genevieve would not espy anything untoward; she would be oblivious to his shameful plight, and he would remain an equal in her eyes!
Paul began scrubbing the cobblestoned yard as fast as he could. Suddenly he was aware of the presence of another! It was Miss Genevieve! The buxom, dark haired naiad of his dreams!
‘Good afternoon, Grounds Keeper Paul! How are you?’
He rose to his feet and dropped the brush hastily, in order to assure the object of his affections that he was indeed well! Miss Genevieve was astounded by the unusual level of cleanliness that the yard was displaying:
‘Keep this up, and I will be out of a job! HA!’
The two servants laughed for a while and made small talk quite innocently. Genevieve then left to begin the household chores and Paul set about scrubbing the drainage channels of the yard (he did not want to be thrashed again today).
Moments later and all hell broke loose! Mistress Isabella was standing in the entrance of the yard, listening to a very contented Paul whistling merrily to himself as he scrubbed the drains.
‘SO! This is how you reward my trust, slave?’
She threw her crop at the footman to punctuate her anger! Mistress Isabella had returned on foot over the muddy moors in order to make her woolly socks and training shoes extra nasty and wet for her footman; this is why he did not spot her return to the manor!
She turned and ran back to the house, and said no more! The suspense was worse than the previous day’s whipping! Paul actually began to lubricate the hasp on the ancient kneeling pillory, as he felt sure that he was destined for its all-enveloping embrace soon enough now!
Mistress Isabella soon returned brandishing a sharp pair of scissors! Was she going to stab him?
‘Take off those clothes now, and use these scissors to cut them up so that they may be used as rags to clean my horse brasses!’
Paul once again had the humiliation of having to disrobe; worse still, he had to shred his own shirt and jacket that cost him a month’s wages in order to satisfy his petulant Mistress’s whim! She picked up the scissored rags and threw them as far as she could:
‘There! Now your tawdry torso shall forever be bared in readiness for my harsh, scathing lash, slave!’
Paul just stood there, looking down at his Mistress’s muddy, training-shoed feet.
‘Follow behind me, footman. I intend to bring you back to the house for a sound whipping and some muddy foot worship! You will rue the day that you disobeyed your Princess’s royal commandments, slave!’
The pair set out for the main manor house (Paul with a heavy heart). As they arrived at the main door, a police car could be seen approaching. Mistress Isabella went to investigate personally. Two female officers alighted from the car and brought Mistress Isabella back to the house slowly. They would not tell her what was going on. As they reached the doorway with the semi-naked bondsman in tow (which caused some puzzled looks from the officers) Isabella turned forcefully and shouted to them:
‘One will not take another step until you tell me what all this is about, officers!’
The taller of the two Police women took it upon herself to break the news:
‘You are Miss Isabella W_ of Downsview Manor, Miss?’
‘Of course I am! You can see that! What is it, for heaven’s sake?’
‘It is my sad duty to inform you that both of your parents have been listed as missing. It is highly likely that they were abducted by female pirates off the coast for some kind of ransom; as yet we have heard nothing definite, Madam’.
Miss Isabella stood motionless with her mouth agasp!
‘I think you should l…l…leave now, officers. Thank you’.
The Police left some information for the young Mistress to read. She was now the young Mistress of the manor, and had to show deportment and self-control, despite her sense of shock. As she turned to enter the hallway, Paul almost reached out to comfort her; he felt so sorry for her loss! He forgot that he was her pretend slave!
Isabella turned back to face the footman and said:
‘No whipping for you, footman. I have much to organise; would you be kind enough to just ask the coalman to lock you in your coal shed for now please?’
She pointed to the recently arrived coal wagon that was under instruction to make all of the deliveries to an alternate store, as the old bunker was now to become Paul’s temporary home. Paul felt somewhat stupid asking the burly delivery driver to padlock the door of the coal-bunker shut behind him! The driver just laughed, as if it were some sort of weird joke! Paul had to literally plead with him to confine him inside it!
…
Worryingly for Paul, three days later the door had still not been opened! Had Miss Isabella forgotten about him, all alone in this tiny, dark bunker?
Late in the morning on the fourth day the door finally creaked open. A very teary-eyed Mistress Isabella stood wearing her running clothes as she dropped the padlock to the floor:
‘Go and tend the horses; then come to me in the Great Hall when you have finished your task, slave’.
She was unmistakably depressed and saddened. Paul dropped to his knees and kissed her trainer-clad feet by way of showing respect and sympathy for his young Mistress. No further words came from the, presumably bereaved, Princess.
The dirty and cold footman finished with the horses and returned to the Great Hall as ordered. As he opened the door, he was surprised to see his beloved maidservant Miss Genevieve! She was milling around the hall organising the ornaments and trinkets. Paul was so happy to see her, he forgot that he looked like a common tramp off the street! She looked over to him and laughed loudly, pointing to his dirty torso:
‘Have you been working out down a coal mine, or something? HA!’
Paul was so taken back by this comment, that it took a few moments for him to notice that Genevieve was barefoot! He pointed at her very pretty, bare feet (he had never seen them out of their normal, black leather, workaday pumps before):
‘You are a fine one to talk! If Miss Isabella catches you with no shoes on, she will go mad!’
‘No, it was her ladyship that ordered me to go barefoot, as my shoes were too noisy for her! She also ordered me to remove my socks, so that I would not slip over and break something; she has actually confiscated my footwear!’
‘Oh, well, it suits you!’
They both began laughing.
Just then a very unimpressed Princess Isabella appeared!
‘I do not encourage fraternisation between the servants in the royal quarters! Follow me immediately to the withdrawing room, footman!’
A once again very drunk Mistress Isabella seated herself in the armchair and ordered her shoes to be cleaned. She was wearing the same outfit from four days ago. The footman began the unenviable task of beginning to lick the musty smelling, formerly white, training shoes clean. The bitter taste of sweaty, mud deposits suddenly awoke his higher consciousness. Paul had been so focused on the cold and hunger pains emanating from his vacant, vacuous belly that he had missed one very important thing: he was now directly employed by Mistress Isabella! She could keep him as her semi-paid, semi-naked footslave for ever more, if she so wished!
He began pondering his unenviable future at the manor. Suddenly he was kicked from upon high and Princess Isabella barked:
‘Off with one’s shoes and socks, bondsman!’
This was it! The moment he thought may never come has just arrived! He would have to get to grips with his beautiful Mistress Isabella’s bare feet!
The training shoes came off so easily, as they were lubricated with feminine foot sweat. It seemed that the shoes were actually pleased to be coming off her feet! The humble footman could soon see why. He was now presented with a pair of dainty, feminine, Princess, sweaty-sock-clad feet. Her nominally white socks were a pale pink colour due to heavy sweat-staining. They obviously did not want to be removed from her royal personage, as they offered up some hearty resistance to the footman’s trembling hands!
Once the socks were peeled off, he was presented with his Princess’s royal, bare feet for the first time!
‘Lay prostrate on your back, footman, and allow my royal feet to dominate you!’
‘Yes, Princess Isabella Ma’am. As it pleases you, your highness!’
The next thing he saw was her dirty, blackened, sweaty foot-soles approaching his upturned face from above!
It was quite a stench! The tangy smell of feminine, foot cheese was not limited to non-regal personages, it seems!
He was ordered to stick out his tongue as a cleansing pad! The bitter/salty taste invaded his mouth without mercy! For her part, Princess Isabella sounded content for the first time in ages, as she mashed her heels and the ball of her right foot into Paul’s face and unprotected tongue!
When the Princess eventually stopped sighing with contentment for long enough, a curious, loud banging and crashing sound could be heard from beneath the floor. On one occasion it was so loud and sudden that it made the footman jump!
‘Not to worry, footman; I have got some workmen down below clearing daddy’s vintage wine bottles out of the dungeon. I wanted you to have your own little dungeon-cell directly beneath my bedchamber, you see? Oh, and they are working on another little project of mine that will become clear in the near future! HA! Bad news is that they will not be finished with your new quarters tonight, so I’m afraid it’s back to the cold, old, coal shed for you tonight slave! Sorry!’
Hours of dirty-foot licking ensued. By the end of it, though, Princess Isabella’s feet had never been cleaner!
‘You are good slave! I do not want to get my feet dirty again, so I will stay here and summon the maid to have you taken away for the night. Meanwhile, lie still under my feet where you belong, footman!’
She was doing this deliberately; she knew Paul had a soft spot for Genevieve! Now the maid was going to see the male servant in the ultimate, lowly position - bare-chested and clamped under the bare feet of his superior Mistress!
Princess Isabella pulled the bell cord to summon the maid. The door swung open and a silent barefoot entry was made by the maid, who was, admittedly, somewhat stunned to see the sight of an oppressed male under the feet of a dominating, young woman!
‘Ah, Genevieve! Be so kind as to escort my footman to the coal sheds and padlock him in for the night, would you? Oh, and when you return you may turn down one’s bed, and I will allow you to have your footwear back so that you may leave’.
Miss Genevieve said nothing, and curtsied respectfully. Paul was released from the foot grasp of Princess Isabella for the night. Genevieve took Paul’s right arm and led him out towards the back garden. She was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of locking her former idol into a small concrete box for the night, but neither of them had much choice, it seemed.
Paul decided to lighten the mood and make an attempt at light humour:
‘What’s wrong? Got cold feet, Genevieve?’
They both laughed nervously as they approached the coal shed. Miss Genevieve then opened the hatch. She looked decidedly uncomfortable, and stammered:
‘L…Look, I’m really sorry, but I must obey her, or…’
‘Don’t worry; I understand!’
Paul was at least taking it like a man!
As he backed into the cramped boxlike cell, he wanted to make one last attempt at gallantry before his beloved locked him away for the night:
‘Your feet look so cold and dirty, Genevieve, would you like me to clean them for you?’
She smiled down at him. Paul felt happy with his suggestion. As it transpires, it was the wrong thing to do. She immediately lost all remaining respect for him, and turned to raise one bare foot from the ground for him to lick the dirt away. She said coldly:
‘Carry on; that’s your job, after all, footman!’
Once Paul had grasped her foot, he could see that she had very pretty toes. He licked all of the dirt away from each foot in turn. As she turned to face his direction once again, he expected some kind of parting pleasantry. Instead, his head was firmly pushed back into the darkness with her cold bare right foot placed directly onto his face!
…
Paul was left alone again to ponder his future fate. As the days and months rolled by he was finally moved from his temporary abode of the tiny coal bunker. He was now permitted to reside in the personal dungeon of Princess Isabella! It was a suitably dank, below-ground, stone clad, chamber with all of the inherent charm of a mediaeval torture chamber!
At least he could now stand up in his accommodation (with the added effort of pulling the many heavy chains aloft). Princess Isabella got great thrills out of hearing the heavy chains rattling over the stone floors in the dungeon beneath her every night. She personally wore the key to his bonds around her slender neck, and would finger it as she slept peacefully in her warm soft bed which was, quite literally, fit for a princess!
A brief break from all of the monotony was offered in the form of the annual shoot. Isabella’s personal, well-to-do girlfriends were on the guest list. No more crusty old windbags from the rotary club! Out with the old and in with the new, as she would frequently put it!
Paul was well suited for the role of chief beater. He was a well-trained groundsman. He was permitted to wear a new, smart pair of tweed trousers for the day (still bare chested of course) In between beating, he was ordered to carry drinks trays and tend to the muddy wellington boots of the many attractive female guests!
One such girl, called Heather, was a genuine, blue-blooded aristocrat. She was a fiery redheaded beauty with a deep, plummy accent steeped in good inter-breading! She took her drink from the silver tray and never broke eye contact with Paul. She asked her hostess (still looking directly into the groundsman’s eyes):
‘So, do tell dear, what’s this one’s game then? A bit early in the year for sunbathing, what?’
Isabella retorted:
‘Oh, he’s a funny one! He insists on being my slave! HA! I am always asking him to put some clothes on, and to stop sniffing and licking my feet; but he’s such a queer fellow, Heather dear! HA!’
What a lying bitch, thought Paul!
‘Well, we will just have to humour the mad chappy, won’t we?’ suggested haughty Miss Heather. ‘Fancy licking one’s boots clean, slave man?’
He had no choice but to obey his Mistress’s guest. In fact, he ended up licking all of the spoilt, rich girls’ dirty, muddy Wellington bootmud off their boots, as they wore them. During each break in the shooting, the royal footman would perform his humble boot-licking duties to order! Such humiliation! He simply had to think of a way of getting out of this! Then it all came to him…. The great hunt!
…
It was now only one month to the ‘great hunt’. The manor was famous for its comical take on the now banned sport of fox hunting. The male partners of the female guests were invited to a ball on the preceding night. Following the festivities, there would be a lavish dinner party with vintage wine and cognac (assuming Princess Isabella had some left!)
At dawn the next day, the men were set loose in the grounds of Downsview Manor. Their aim was to evade capture for twelve hours by the aristocratic huntswomen on horseback! Should a male fall foul of a hunter, or be snared in an aptly named man trap, he must pay a forfeit of some kind. Any man that escaped the grounds into the adjacent fields could claim victory and the auspicious prize of 1,800 Fems! To the wealthy, upper class visitors to the manor, this was just pocket money. But to a down in the dirt footman such as Paul, it could, quite literally, be his passport to freedom! He simply had to apply for entry. As Paul was only technically, and not actually a slave (as, to avoid legal fines, Isabella had to pay him the minimum one Fem a week) he was eligible for entry! What’s more, Paul was an expert grounds man, with a deep knowledge of the surrounding countryside!
At first Princess Isabella was not pleased with her footman for wanting to join in the upper-class game. She then decided that it could work to her advantage!
‘Alright, footman, you may participate in our sport; but as you are of a very much lower class, I think that your forfeit should be somewhat harsher should you fail! This should give the game a hint of zest, don’t you think?’
Paul agreed (mainly because he was confident he could not lose!)
This was to be Princess Isabella’s first attempt at hosting the ball and the hunt. She had a whole month to prepare for the occasion, and wasted no time in getting started. For some reason the manor house always seemed to be full of workmen of late? They were always coming to and from the living room? The humble footman was never allowed in to see the project that was causing so much noise. But in any case he was far too concerned in trying to get fit, and working out in preparation for the hunt!
Finally, the formal evening ball arrived! Paul was safely locked in the dungeon beneath the Princess’s regal chamber. As the entourage got seated for dinner, the door at the top of the dungeon steps opened. No footsteps could be heard descending. The reason for the ensuing silence was simple - the person brandishing the keys was barefoot! It was Miss Genevieve!
Paul was somewhat surprised to see her, as she had snubbed him ever since he made the mistake of offering to clean her dirty, bare feet all of those months ago!
‘I have been instructed by her ladyship to ask you if you intend to join the others for the grand dinner? You will have to eat yours in the kitchen of course!’
Paul was no fool; he graciously declined! He did not want his performance to be marred tomorrow morning. Rich food and alcohol, paired with vigorous exercise, do not mix!
‘Then go hungry, footman!’ Genevieve turned away and ascended the stair case without looking back. She was so cold (and so were her feet; she would have actually been grateful for another offer of tending her bare soles!)
Paul settled down to what was sure to be his last night shackled to a cold stone floor in a subterranean dungeon!
The day of the hunt finally arrived. The men were assembled in the great hall being laced with copious amounts of complimentary pink gin to fortify them against the cold weather. They were all kitted out in tweed jackets and hunting gear! Paul was not so comfortably dressed. His tatty, servant trousers were somewhat ripped and torn. He lost his boots traipsing through the mud to collect bales of straw for his Princess’s favourite horse.
The arrogant free-men looked him up and down and sniggered. Princess Isabella wanted them all to be aware of the lowly status of her footman. She descended the ornate staircase into the grand hallway. She was dressed in full hunting regalia and looked quite stunning.
Nobody in the room (except the footman) had noticed that she was not fully dressed as yet; she was still barefoot! She had done this deliberately in order to demonstrate her power over the enslaved male to her free guests! She passed by the neatly gathered congregation to the ornate looking antique chair and seated herself down. She then clicked her fingers:
‘Footman, bring my socks and boots!’
Paul scurried off to publicly collect his Mistress’s finest riding boots and woollen socks. He returned hastily and was about to start rolling the socks onto her feet, when her pretty hands intervened:
‘Don’t we kiss first, footman?’
He hated her so much! He lowered his lips to her glossy, black lacquered, big toenail on her right foot and kissed slowly and audibly by way of submission! The gaggle of collected free humans began to whisper and chuckle to themselves!
The humbled footman then reached for her sock for a second time, and began to roll the woollen foot-covering up over her regal toes. For a second time in a row he was thwarted:
‘STOP! Use these to clip my toenails first, footman, and then dispose of the clippings accordingly!’
This was just all one big, public tease on her part! He clenched his fist, and collected the nail clippers from his mischievous Mistress’s right hand.
CLICK; CLICK; CLICK!
A small pile of shiny, black toenail-clippings had accumulated on the floor. Once the tenth CLICK was heard, he was finally permitted to roll the thick, woolly socks onto her feet and then pull the tight-fitting, leather riding-boots on for her. He now had the unenviable task of suitably disposing of the offending clippings! He opened his mouth in full view of the gathered toffs, inserted a handful of clippings, and began to chew! Loud cries of ‘ERRR Gross!’ could be heard.
The final humiliation was over; or so he thought!
…
Everyone assembled in the field outside the hall. The free-men did not want to get too close to the toenail-clipping-eating, semi-naked, foot freak, so they gave him a wide birth and awaited the horn to signal the commencement of the hunt. Just as the bugler was about to raise the mouthpiece to his lips, Miss Genevieve ran up to Paul (still barefoot). She gave him a hug and wished him good luck!
Maybe all was not lost, after all! She even gave him a lucky charm to wear around his neck! Paul was about to thank her when the horn blew, signalling the hunted men were to flee!
The males all scarpered. Paul made for the undergrowth. His plan was to allow the advanced party of huntresses to pass by on horseback, and then follow them to the perimeter wire for the final crossing under cover of darkness. He was no stranger to stalking. He watched through the foliage as some of the free-males collapsed with indigestion pains from last night’s gargantuan repast. What fools they were! The women swooped in to pick off the easy prey as the more savvy males went deeper under cover. Some of the easy pickings were taken off for their “punishments”. This would normally involve a bit of conjugal naughtiness behind the stables!
As the day wore on, more and more men were picked off. They were dragged back behind the horse of the triumphant young Mistress. It was her decision as to what punishment the man was to endure. Not all of the captors were treated to a frolic in the hay! One poor unfortunate was told that he was going to be set in the kneeling stocks for a whole hour! That was one thing that footman Paul had evaded all together!
As night closed in, Paul was the only man unaccounted for. It looked as though all was going well for him. He was now just twenty yards from the fence. All he had to do was cross the final stretch of grass and jump the fence. Princess Isabella was the only one not to have made a “kill” in today’s hunt. She was starting to look a bit nervous! Had her plan backfired?
Once again she looked down at her fancy wrist watch and pressed the button. For some reason she had been doing this all afternoon! Suddenly the watch started beeping. She made off at full speed with no explanation into the darkness! Moments later, and the sound of blank shots could be heard firing in the distance! The other women rolled up on horseback just in time to see an exhausted Paul being hog tied on the wet grass. He had been caught just six inches from freedom!
Mistress Isabella’s panting, hot breath blew into his ear as she sneered:
‘Wait till you see the special forfeit I have got planned for you, flighty footman!’
Paul was dragged, by horse, back to the house. The other guests were ordered to wait in the hall and help themselves to drinks. Paul was meanwhile brought into the hitherto forbidden living room. The fire was raging in the hearth.
Isabella began stripping her prey naked! What was she doing? Paul’s hands were still tied behind him. He was then backed into a small enclosure next to the fire place. The oak panelling was closed around his neck. He was suddenly trapped in a shield-shaped pillory with only his head visible!
He began to panic but could not do anything. As he looked up he could just see his Princess approaching, grasping a heavy iron hoop that had equally heavy-looking, iron antlers attached to it. She jammed the hoop tightly over his head, and then ratcheted it even tighter! The weight was intense!
She stood back to admire her handy work:
‘There we are! You look like quite the catch now, footman! Which is ironic, really; all you need now is a little plaque fitted, just here…’
She carefully hammered a small, brass plaque over the bottom of the shield. It simply read “Footman”.
He was now confined permanently at foot height, and looked like a bizarre hunting trophy! The heavy, iron antlers were designed to keep his head weighted down and cause maximum discomfort. They would also make a noise when they banged and scraped against the wall, signalling that he was not looking at his Mistress’s precious feet!
Princess Isabella simply sat back in her favourite armchair, pulled off her hot, sweaty, riding boots, and offered her moist, smelly, woolly-sock-clad toes up to the confined footman’s trophy nose! He was finally her prisoner for ever more!
Once the gaggle of upper-crust visitors had all posed for photographs with the confined-in-the-wall slave (with him kissing the feet of all the female hunters), he was left alone to ponder his bleak future.
The door opened suddenly and a distinctive shuffle could be heard… Bare feet on wood! Miss Genevieve had returned to check on her vanquished hero! She sat in the armchair opposite and finished the brandy that Princess Isabella had been drinking:
‘AWW, you poor thing! How do you feel?’
Paul answered honestly; he was in agony and heartbroken. He could not understand how he had been caught! He was miles from anyone when he had made the break for freedom!
Genevieve smiled and swallowed the last gulp of brandy:
‘Well, like you, my dear, the answer is quite simple! That lucky charm I gave you was a tracking device. Her ladyship could monitor you throughout the hunt using her wristwatch. You were never going to get away, you see! HA!’
Paul was dumfounded! Treacherous bitch!
Genevieve offered her cold, dirty soles up to his confined-in-wood face, and asked him if he would still like to be the ‘gallant gentleman’ and lick them clean?
How could he refuse! It seemed that Miss Isabella was not the only one that wanted her feet attended to! This was clearly the treacherous maidservant’s reward for trapping him for his Mistress. With hindsight, Paul now realised that his biggest mistake had been offering to lick Genevieve’s feet in the first place; it had ignited the flame of female dominant desire in her sultry soul!
