Footslaves’ Trials Volume 2
More trials and tribulations of everyday footslaves.
Scroll down for trials in reverse numerical order
10. Mongrel
9. Younger; Stronger; Better
8. Down on one knee vs. Down on both knees
7. Everything I am Not
6. Crime & Punishment
5. Nice Work If You Can Get it!
4. Consenting Adults
3. Multilingual Directions
2. Ulterior Motive
1. She ain’t heavy; she’s my taskmistress!
10. Mongrel I suppose I am a footslave-crossbreed – a curious crossover between an ornamental footkisser and a regular, public shoe and bootlicker.
I resemble am ornamental footkisser in that:
- I am mute (I have no voicebox with which to answer back or converse with my customer-mistresses), therefore I have no choice other than to silently obey my betters
- I am permanently and irrevocably masked, in a garish, dayglo yellow, rubbery footfool mask, which hides my ugly, male features from my customer-mistresses’ female sensitivities, whilst declaring, by means of big, bold words written in black on the front and top of my humiliating mask, my wimpish and servile nature – Docile; Whipped; Subdued; Impotent; Fear
- I am only entitled to kiss female shoe and boot – not lick it
- I therefore exist merely to make my customer-mistresses feel superior and good
However, I also resemble a public shoe or boot licker, in so far as I am kneeling in front of a raised chair, in a private footbooth-cubicle – a well-used throne on which my superior customer-mistresses imperiously sit in order to have their dirty shoes or boots kissed whilst they are still wearing them on their feet. I am, therefore, unlike the vast majority of ornamental footkissers, kneeling with my bare back and shoulders exposed to the whipping-stick (as opposed to being a mere, rubbery-masked head protruding at ankle-level from inside a wall!)
My superior customer-mistresses – both the regulars (office-workers and the like) and the strangers (tourists and the like) – treat me with the utter contempt I deserve as a docile, whipped, subdued, impotent and fearful, male public footslave. Thus they will typically enter my booth with a contemptuous scowl on their pretty, female faces; casually lock the door of the cubicle behind them; climb silently up into the shoekiss throne of power in front of me; rest their booted or shoed feet on the two metal footrests in front of my perma-kneeling, rubbery-masked face; pick up the cruel whipping-stick from its container; and either use it to point to the area, or areas, of dirty, feminine boot or shoe they want kissed, or use it to fustigate my bare back and shoulders, whilst contemptuously barking their haughty, female orders down at me – the beautiful, superior bitches establishing their female dominance over the mangy, male, masked-mongrel at their pretty feet!
They will then, invariably – once their boots or shoes have been duly worshipped and kissed to their satisfaction – climb down from the throne and exit my booth without so much as a by-your-leave, since they have nothing to thank me for; I'm just doing my job – I'm a worthless jobsworth!
Some examples for you to watch on my footbooth's CCTV footage from this morning:
*The fat, well-fed, forty-something, blonde office-worker mistress – regular customer-mistress Suzannah – who always wears smart, pinstriped, business suits, but whose plain, black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up ankleboots are perennially dirty and scuffmarked. She is a ‘barker’, rather than a ‘whipper’, preferring to bark her female orders down at me whilst pointing to the area of boot she wishes kissed (normally the insteps) with the whipping-stick, which nevertheless remains a constant threat to my shoulderblades as she is not afraid to whip if she senses any footslave-baulking or reluctance on my humble part to get my lips involved with her dirty ankleboots.
Regular goddess-mistress Suzannah is also a 'hitcher', deftly hitching up her black-pinstriped, trouser hems as she sits down, thereby kindly exposing her fat, stretched, black cotton, elasticated socktops to my gaze as I lower my lips to her street-soiled and musty-smelling bootleather (it is raining heavily outside the booth; you can surely hear the raindrops falling on the rusty, metal footbooth-roof!). The aforementioned beautiful, stretched, black cotton socktops are gloriously set against the pleasing backdrop her soft, feminine, fleshy-white legskin.
Yes, when it comes to serving customer-mistress Suzannah, her bark is most definitely worse than her bite – she doesn't actually strike me at all with the whipping-stick today! But I like to think that's because she senses my utter, slavish respect and devotion towards her forty-something ankleboots, through the medium of my mouth on them. Observe the smug grin on her supercilous and triumphant, blonde-framed, fat, forty-something face as she eventually climbs down from the foot-throne, her boots covered in my saliva-saturated kissmarks!
I've been kissing goddess-mistress Suzannah’s officewear boots for over twenty years now, and her career keeps going up and up, whilst mine stays ignominiously down! She is now an important manageress in her company, and in all that time she has never once passed the time of day with me. And rightly so, for compare to her I'm just a fearful, lowly, bootkissing thing – and she just loves witnessing my male fear, and my spineless, trembling lips, on her deliberately street-soiled boots of a morning!
*Regular, black customer-mistress Olivia – always attired in a suitably modest (for a highly religious girl) black, below the knee, office-skirt; bare black legs; and black pumps with two-inch heels. Softly-spoken, but surly, thirty-something, office customer-mistress Olivia truly hates me, and, unlike her fat, blonde predecessor, lets the whipping-stick do most of the talking for her, though her foot-requirements are always the same: 'Kiss them shoe-toes, slave-bwoy!'
All my submissive-male instincts are to politely acknowledge her orders, of course; but the anatomically-engineered absence of a maleslave voicebox prevents me from doing so. I can't even cry out in pain in response to her whupping-stick blows; only gasp in admiration, both at her skill and dexterity with the whip, and the shimmering blackness of her beautiful, bare ankle and lower leg skin, as she surveys her whip-handiwork on my back through droopy, hate-filled eyelids.
Her bare feet sweat a lot inside her pumps, but I snort up the smell willingly, as it is the fungoid footsmell of my infinite, female better!
*A non-English speaking, yellow-sari-wearing, Indian migrant-mistress whose name I don’t know, and whom it has not been my public privilege to foot-service before – intent, it seems, on having her musty-smelling, flat, brown leather sandal-straps kissed atop her beautiful, brown, unpainted and somewhat dusty toes.
I only established that it was her cheap sandal-straps, rather than her soft, brown footskin, that she wished kissed after several, angry whip-cuts had been delivered to my bare back and shoulderblades, since I'm thick – and don't, unlike her, speak Hindi, however loudly it is barked down at me! She'd have been better off using the angry whipping-stick to point to her sandal-straps, rather than using it to beat me with and thereby raise some angry red weals on my quivering shoulders – but all's well that ends well, and she calms down as soon as I comply with her requirement to worship manky, brown sandal-strap over pure, brown footskin.
Kiss only my brown leather sandal straps, slave! Do not be touching my bare footskin with your dirty lips!
*The feisty and vivacious (outside the booth) redheaded, regular customer-mistress, miss Abigail – a friendly and approachable information-assistant by profession, but who suddenly becomes all surly and officious inside my public footbooth, presumably because she is empowered to whip and be rude to a slave, whereas she must be polite and respectful towards her own, often surly and stuck-up, customers on the outside?
Whatever her motivation for cruelty towards me, I very much appreciate the sight of her plain, black leather ballet flats and equally plain, creased, black cotton anklesocks beneath her black, information-assistant's, uniform trouser-hems as she takes the opportunity to chill out, and let off steam, by slipping her tired feet out of their ballet-flats and baring her sticky-hot socks to me, thus making me kiss her sweat-moistened sock-toes under pain of the whipping-stick. Well, the poor girl is standing on her feet all day inside her booth; she therefore has every right to relax by kicking off her black leather ballet-flats in front of my face whilst seated in my booth, and by imposing her sweaty, black, working-socks on my foot-relaxant face! (And, for your information, her socks smell incredibly vinegary!)
So there you have it – the crossbreed-footslave, with never a cross word to say about his oftentimes bossy and cross customer-mistresses, for they are all superior to him and encouraged by law to abuse him!
I am a Female Police station footslave, and have been allocated to the anklebooted feet of 23 year old, blonde-ponytailed, desk sergeant officer-mistress Naomi for the day. That means I must kneel beneath the Female Police Station Reception Desk with my face right next to her black leather, chunky-heeled, uniform ankleboots beneath her navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems, whilst she politely deals with enquiries from the female public.
She may be polite to the female public, but she shall be incredibly cold and prissy towards me. That's because she knows she is younger, stronger and better than me. It is therefore unlikely that she will even acknowledge me, or permit me to touch her boots with my lips as she sits haughtily above me on her Reception Desk swivel chair.
I must therefore content myself with passing the time by contemplating how she is younger, stronger and better than me whilst I humbly kneel on the floor and admire the side of her right boot as it hovers in the air in front of my face (sergeant-mistress Naomi is wont to sit with her shapely, right leg crossed over her left), hoping against hope for a furtive glimpse of the elasticated top of her plain black, uniform bootsock set against the pleasing backdrop of her soft, white, blonde-girl ankleskin whenever she subliminally flexes her well-turned, blonde-girl, ankle muscles!
I must contemplate, with every crease of her black ankleboot leather, how she is:
Younger: At the tender age of just 23 she has done well to pass her sergeant's exams, and is clearly now on the fast-track path to well-deserved, female promotion, whereas my maleslave 'career' is going nowhere. At the not so tender age of 64 I am still a down-in-the-dirt footslave, having been such all my adult life – since way before miss Naomi was even born! Yet I must respect her youth, just as she must despise my wrinkly old-agedness, and the fact that, at my advanced years, I am obliged to kneel in the dirt and stare at the side of her boot, hoping for a glimpse of her sock. How pathetic is that? No wonder she despises me – the wrinkly, old footfool at her feet!
Stronger: I am weak, but she is strong – physically strong (despite her feminine petiteness) and morally strong (despite her natural prissiness and self-obsession). She could break my back with one kick of her uniformed, female police boot, being trained in self-defence and aggression towards the recalcitrant male. She could easily wrestle a burly, male criminal to the ground and handcuff him in seconds – so what chance has a weak old man like me got against her? She is a young, blonde-ponytailed woman not to be messed with, and I must never look at her above the anklesock! If nothing else, her frayed, brown leather, single-tailed police-whip (dangling ominously from her shapely, police-girl waist) should warn me of that!
Better: Young officer-mistress Naomi is a beautiful girl, and therefore much better than me, an ugly and impotent, old man. I deserve to be whipped and beaten into oblivion by her – even just for her entertainment, if she so wished it! Yet she will kindly just ignore me and leave me to rot in my humble, footslavish thoughts at her anklebooted feet, providing I concentrate on the side of her boot. And you can't say blonde-fairer than that, can you?
Her right ankleboot suddenly twists on its axis in the air, and I am rewarded with a fleeting glimpse of cold and standoffish blonde-girl, warm, black cotton, vertically-stitched bootsock – the socktop of my superior!
Oh if only I could kiss it!
| Down on one knee An act of chivalry and gallantry on the part of a free male as he readies himself to propose marriage to the chosen, female sexual partner in his life | Down on both knees An act of submission and self-abasement on the part of a male slave as he readies himself to non-sexually kiss his female owner’s feet |
| Looks up adoringly at his future wife, admiring her facial and bodily beauty, as he delivers his lofty proposal of marriage | Looks down adoringly at his mistress’s feet as he kisses them, and delivers his lowly proposal of boot licking and shining |
| The beautiful, young woman accepts her suitor’s proposal of marriage, whilst looking down adoringly at him, her heart full of love and respect | The beautiful, young woman accepts her slave’s proposal of boot shining, whilst looking down disparagingly at him, her heart full of hatred and contempt |
| Offers her not just his hand in marriage, but also an expensive, diamond engagement ring, which she graciously accepts by stretching forth her left hand, and her dainty, smooth, white-skinned wedding finger | Only has his bootlicking lips to offer, which she graciously accepts by stretching forth her right, booted foot. His lips nevertheless leave a respectful ring of footslave-saliva amidst the street-dirt covering her outstretched, dainty, black leather boot-toe |
| Can subsequently get up from his semi-kneeling position, and be his fiancée’s (almost) equal | Must remain kneeling for the remainder of his life, since he is his mistress’s (absolute) subordinate |
| Rewarded with a warm and loving embrace from his beautiful fiancée | Rewarded with a warm and stinging embrace from his beautiful mistress’s whip |
She looks like a young, pasty-white woman who is not to be messed with!
As soon as the long-dark-haired, nose-pierced, twenty-something goth girl, wearing a revealing, pale blue halter-top and ultra-short hotpants, stretches forth her black leather, bovver-booted, right foot into the dirt beneath my kneeling face for public footkissing, my forehead humbly descends below her scrunched up, black cotton, bootsock-top as I lower my lips to her street-soiled, boot-toe leather, and start to kiss.
How she despises me, for I am everything she is not:
· Male
· Enslaved
· Compliant
· Submissive
· Obedient
· Weak
· Impotent
· Ugly
· Old
· Frightened
She, by way of complete contrast, is a beautiful, powerful, self-confident and rebellious young woman – who knows her own mind and bows the knee to no-one. She is truly everything I am not, and so the contempt is writ large on her pretty, pale-gothic face as I abase myself at her black-booted and socked feet, fearful of the black whip that dangles dangerously from her nymph-like waist!
Fearful even of the thick, green laces which loosely lace-up the fronts of her bovver boots, lest they become undone in my presence and I am apportioned the blame; and the consequential sting of her dominant goth-girl whip on my prone and vulnerable, bare back!
Her goth-boyfriend approaches and she melts like putty in his arms; a real man; a manly man. Only he can tame her, and earn her respect.
She turns her back on me – and her bovver-boot heels; and walks away, arm in arm with her fellow-goth boyfriend.
Phew! I survive unwhipped for another moment!
The softly-spoken, petite and dainty, black officer-mistress seems almost too sweet and kind to be a professional punishment officer. She is almost apologetic as she gently manoeuvres my neck and wrists into the ignominious holes of the public kneeling-stocks, and then locks the heavy, wooden crossbeam down over them.
I watch as her dainty, black feet – clad in their dainty and soft, black leather ballet flats and opaque, black, uniform tights beneath her black, uniform, knee-length skirt – walk around to face me in my crouched-up shame, and then kiss each dusty, black ballet-flat toe as it is raised up to my lips in turn for respectful and penitent, prisoner-slave homage.
She giggles softly as I publicly perform my humble act of male-prisoner obeisance at her feet, and then I am forced to watch those same, freshly-kissed ballet flats, and their concomitant opaque-black tights, crease and fold below her shapely anklebones as she deftly reaches over to spread burning hot pepper into my fresh whip-wounds with her delicate fingernails – whip-wounds which she herself had inflicted on me not 10 minutes ago!
Indeed, her single-tailed, brown leather punishment whip is still dangling warmly from her slender, police-uniform waistbelt. Again, she had almost apologised for having to whip me, and had seemed disarmingly sympathetic towards me as each stinging stroke had cut mercilessly into my bare back and shoulderblades!
But that’s the whole point, of course! That’s precisely why she makes such a good police punishment-officer – because, despite her size, and her natural softness and kind-heartedness, she is a consummate professional, not just whipping me on the flanks where it hurts me the most, but then rubbing hot, unforgiving pepper into the sorest of my wounds so that I will truly smart as I languish for hours on end in the stocks, my whipped-back shame on ignominious show for all to see!
‘Have a nice weekend, slave!’ she says as she turns on her soft, ballet-flated heels to walk away from me. And she says it without a hint of cruel sarcasm or irony. She means it; she really does want me to have a nice weekend – crouched over in the kneeling stocks with an aching back and having to kiss the feet of my many female passers-by and mockers as they go about their free, daily business!
And she means it because she knows that she is in for a nice weekend – making love to her manly, freemale boyfriend in their opulent double-bed in their third floor apartment overlooking the very square in which I am so publicly imprisoned! I expect she is so sweet and kind that she is wishing for it to rain on me during the weekend, if only so that the rainwater can wash out the burning hot pepper that she has just rubbed into my whip-inflicted wounds as a deliberate irritant.
For she genuinely bears me no malice, this petite and comely, black officer-mistress. She was only doing her job – and doing it for all its worth!
As further proof of her empathy with me, if it were needed, she visits me from time to time throughout my weekend ordeal, often in the company of her boyfriend – to mock me; to supposedly sympathise with me for the lack of rain, and yet simultaneously to irritate my whip wounds still further by tracing her delicate fingernails through them, pressing the stinging pepper even deeper into my gashes in a selfless effort to reignite the flames of pain; and in order to show me her off-duty ankleboots and socks, without letting me touch them with my mouth, lest it receive succour from her dusty, black bootleather.
She doesn’t have to visit me; this is her weekend also; her free time. But she loves her job, and finds it hard to switch off – especially as the sight of my suffering in the stocks turns her on so much, and makes her even more lubricious and wanton for her boyfriend. Indeed, I think he probably encourages their joint visits to the stocks – particularly the nocturnal ones – as it helps to improve the happy couple’s lovemaking. I can even hear the master and mistress’s groans and grunts of animalistic pleasure whilst they are making love in their apartment high above me, as they deliberately leave their bedroom window ajar, just so that I (and anyone else in the vicinity of the town square) can appreciate their joint sexual prowess and potency!
Having sex – even publicly – isn’t a crime, or even considered shameful, here in the Gynarchy, providing it’s between free persons. What is shameful is being a celibate prisoner-slave stuck in the stocks with a burning, striped, peppery back, and what is a crime is sex with a slave. Though that wasn’t my crime, in case you were wondering; my crime was to disrespect my own mistress Pamella’s pink and white sneaker socks by focussing on sucking the sweat stains out of the white areas of sock only. You can read about it on the shame-board above my head:
Crime: Pink and white sock neglecter (neglecting the pink)
Punishment: 25 lashes of the female whip, followed by 48 hours in the public stocks
Please feel free to humiliate and goad the whipped prisoner by poking at his wounds with sticks and/or your dirty fingernails!
The fat and lazy, but intensely beautiful, young, civilian, dark-haired woman with the stunningly attractive, heavy eyeliner – seated above and in front of me as I walk my personal, punishment treadmill – clearly hates her job.
As I stare forlornly at her so-near-and-yet-so-far , plain, black, low-top, laced-up sneakers and short, ankle-revealing, angular, black sneaker-socks resting on the taskmistress’s metal footplate directly in front of my sweating face, it is obvious that she has no interest in supervising me properly, as she has put down the whip and is instead texting her mates on her mobile phone.
But her part-time, taskmistressly job no doubt helps pay her bills – including her phone bills; so she should pay more attention to my back with the whip – or, at least, make me stop walking and start kissing her sneakers and socks from time to time, like she’s supposed to!
Instead, she is barely aware of me as I labour languorously below her, unbelaboured by the treadmill-driver’s whip, my mouth bereft of soft, black cotton sock and/or soft, black leather sneaker. I’m just a meal ticket for her. She will place a few token stripes across my bare back and shoulders just at the very end of her ‘tedious’ shift, and similarly have me deliver a few token kisses to her scuffmarked sneaker-toes before climbing down to the freedom of her ‘official’ free time, when she can go where she wants, and do what she wants, spending her easy-earned cash on whatever she so desires.
Which, in her case, is almost certainly food; for she is always eating, as well as texting, in my experience.
As for me, I love my job of walking the treadmill for 16 hours a day, and of being ignored by such an indolent, beautiful and self-centred, young fat woman – which is just as well since, unlike her, I have no choice in the matter! I have been sentenced to life imprisonment with hard labour on the treadmill by the Female Courts, and so this is my whole life from now on – only a whip and a sneaker-kiss to look forward to, in the company of a disinterested party.
I am now a nothing and a nobody – a panting, sweating, permanently exhausted nobody, turning the nugatory treadmill day in and day out at my disinterested, female betters’ feet.
Nice work if you can get it!
A public footwasher must get the explicit, verbal consent of his superior customer-mistress at every stage of the demeaning (for the slave) footwashing process.
Thus, as the petite and comely, short-haired, black mistress is seated on the raised chair of footwash-power in front of and above me in my private footwash-cubicle, I kneelingly begin by seeking her consent to remove her black leather, office ankleboots:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, may this slave please have the mistress’s kind permission to remove her ankleboots from her socked feet, mistress?’
‘You may, slave.’
Fortunately she is wearing zip-up ankleboots, so the boot-removal process is relatively straight forward: I must first respectfully kiss them; then unzip them; then gently pull them off her petite and dainty, black feet without disturbing her socks – and, of course, without balking at her subsequent, sweaty bootsock-odour.
Boots duly off, I proceed to the next consent-seeking stage:
‘Oh pray pretty mistress, if it pleases you pretty mistress, may this slave please have the mistress’s kind permission to remove her black socks from her bare feet, mistress?’
‘You may, slave-bwoy.’
She is wearing plain, black, ankle-length bootsocks beneath her matching plain, black cotton, office trouser-hems – so, again, the removal of her inner feet-coverings is not that difficult. I must once again kiss them – on the sweat-moistened, reinforced, black-cotton toe area of each living, breathing sock – before respectfully pulling said sweaty, black anklesocks off her delicate, black feet from the toe-ends. It is important I touch only the toe-ends lest my fumbling, footwasher fingers inadvertently touch her bare, black ankleskin near the elasticated tops of her socks; I don’t yet have permission to touch her bare naked footflesh!
But I bloody well soon will:
‘Oh pray, black mistress, if it pleases you pretty black mistress, may this slave please have the mistress’s gracious, feminine permission to touch her bare, black footskin, pretty mistress, with a view to placing them in the footbowl, mistress?’
She deftly hitches up her trouser hems so that they are clear of her upper anklebones.
‘You may, slavey-bwoy, innit though?’
I kiss her bare feet – on the insteps. They feel warm, sticky and soft, both on my lips and in my trembling hands (trembling with both fear and excitement, that is!)
I lower the precious, black feet into the bowl of fresh, lukewarm water.
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if it pleases you pretty black footmistress, may this slave please have the black mistress’s kind permission to now ladle the water over her beautiful, bare feet and in between her dainty, black toes, mistress?’
‘Tch! Git on wiv it, bwoy!’
‘Yes, black mistress. Thank you kindly, black mistress.’
I ladle away the sweat, toejam, and dead skin from her bare, black feet, and watch the erstwhile clear footwater turn cloudy. The whole footwashing process takes about 10 minutes.
‘Oh pray pretty black mistress, if it pleases you pretty black mistress, may this footwasher-slave now have the mistress’s kind permission to stop washing, and to start drying, her black feet, mistress?’
‘Yeah man! And be quick about it though, yeah?’
‘Yes, mistress. Thank you, black mistress!’
I gently lift her dainty, black feet up out of the bowl and down onto the fluffy, white towel. I then kiss her wet feet before wrapping them in the towel, and gently rubbing them. In particular, I make sure to dry in between her wriggling, black toes (which are unpainted, by the way!)
Feet duly dried, I then seek her black-girl consent for the next humble stage of our public footmistress/public footslave interaction:
‘Oh pray, black mistress, if it pleases you black customer-mistress, may this slave now have the mistress’s kind permission to place her black bootsocks back onto her pretty, washed and dried feet, if it pleases you mistress?’
‘Go ahead, bwoy!’
I kiss each still sweaty, black sock before rolling it up between my fingers and then gently stretching it over her outstretched, freshly-washed toes. I then respectfully pull each sock all the way up her shapely ankles, so that the elasticated top will appear neatly just above her upper bootrim (though, for the most part, hidden by her unhitched black cotton trouser-hem)
Socks duly smoothed and neatened onto her shapely feet and ankles, I proceed to the next stage:
‘Oh pray, pretty black mistress, if it pleases you pretty black mistress, may this slave have the mistress’s informed consent to place her black leather ankleboots back onto her socked feet, and to rezip them up her beautiful, black anklebones, mistress?’
‘Go on, slave! Whatever floats your boat! Hja! Hja!’
I pick up each temporarily discarded boot in turn; kiss it on the scuffmarked toe-area; and then apply it to the relevant socked foot and ankle, taking great care whilst zipping up the side of the boot not to snag the mistress’s precious, though unwashed, black sock!
There – we’re nearly done! Only one more element of consent which I am duty-bound to request, though it always pains me to have to do so:
‘Oh pray, pretty black mistress, if it pleases you pretty black mistress, thank you for making me wash your black feet, pretty mistress. Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, please will you consent to whip me, mistress? For I am a slave, mistress, and must be regularly whipped, mistress!’
‘Tch! I’s in a hurry, slave-bwoy! Give I the whip – quickly, though, innit? Tch!’
‘Oh thank you for your sweet kindness and understanding, mistress. Please don’t spare me, black mistress!’
Reluctantly, but consensually, she whips me – twice across both my shoulderblades. And, although they are hurried lashes, and limited in number, she graciously does not spare me; for they are also very hard and sore!
I again kiss her boots, this time in whipped-slave gratitude, before she quickly climbs down from the raised footwash-chair of power, and rushes off to the nearby shops, with fresh feet, inside still-sweaty socks, but without so much as a ‘by your leave’!
I’m not just a street-corner, public boot and shoelicker; I also double up as a public information booth.
The beautiful, slim, black girl with the white, summery top, pink skirt, and low-heeled, brown leather sandals is clearly in something of a hurry. She runs up to where I am kneeling and barks:
You the slave; tell me where is the nearest tram stop?’
Her unpainted, sweaty toenails are just crying out to be soothed and kissed by my public-footslave lips, but instead, sadly, I must put those lips to merely answering her dominant question:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you pretty mistress, the nearest tram stop is just around the corner, madam.’
Her unpainted toenails breathlessly run off – unkissed and unworshipped; for she has a tram to catch! But I am nonetheless glad to have been of service to her – as I am with all my female enquirers.
I can even give out information in French, if needs be:
‘Tu, l'esclave ; où est le tabac le plus proche?’
‘Oh prie, madame, s'il vous plaît madame, c'est là-bas, très jolie mademoiselle!’
Are you impressed ? She wasn’t! The pretty, dark-haired, tomboyish French girl in the pink and white T shirt, black leggings and heavy, black biker-boots just walked away – like her black mistress antecedent-enquirer – without so much as a begrudging compliment for my fluent, French accent!
Her buckled boots too could have done with the attention of my lips, but she’s off, presumably, to buy her cigarettes. Filthy habit !
Shame!
If required, I can also reply to my mistresses in Russian, German and Italian, for I am a bit of a polyglot-footslave !
But I’d prefer to just shut up and lickshine their bare feet or boots! And I’m sure you’d much prefer to watch me doing the same !
Footslave-Cum-Information Booth by patheticus on GoAnimate
On the pretty face of it, the black beauty with the big hair has little need for my public shoelicking services. I mean, she’s wearing pink, plastic flip-flops on her dainty, brown feet, with really only a single, pink plastic toe-strap accessible for lickshining between her painted big and second toes on each pretty black foot.
But, her feet are nonetheless presented onto the footblock beneath my face for public cleaning, and so who am I to question her wishes ?
Having token-licked the pink straps between her red-painted toenails, however, her ulterior motive for visiting me soon becomes apparent. She reaches down and hands me a leaflet before turning her back on me and saying, in a thick, African acent :
‘God bless you, slave!’
Now, unlike many footslaves, I can actually read (being an ex-professor of Applied Lingustics in my previous, pre-slave life), and so I can instantly tell that the leaflet is exhorting me to repent of my wickedness and my sins, and turn to God, lest I burn in hell for all eternity. The African girl was seeking a convert, as well as a flip-flop sandalshine !
Now it all makes sense ! I suppose, in her innocent eyes, I must look like I need repentance and salvation, being much closer to death than she is (I am in my sixties, whereas she looked about twenty!)
I resolve there and then to repent of my sins, in order to please her. However, just two minutes later my sinful lusts are reignited when I am presented with the dirty, black leather ankleboots and white socks of another, much less religious-looking, black girl. I’m afraid I fall into my old, sinful ways, and suureptitiously, and without permission, nuzzle her white bootsock-tops whilst lickshining her upper ankleboot-rims.
I shall, quite rightly, be damned for all eternity!
Many Gynarchy taskmistresses – especially those supervising lifetime prisoner-slaves like myself on the grindstones – tend to be of a heavier build. It makes our prisoner lives all the harder, since it gives us extra female weight to have to push around as they sit above and in front of us on the grindstone-supervisor’s chair, their feet resting, as always, on the metal footplate in front of our face.
Grindstone-taskmistress Fiona is one such pleasantly fat and heavy, brunette-haired taskmistress; she weighs about 15 stone! But she makes damn well sure my grindstone constantly moves by means of the judicious application of her supervisory whip on my bare back and shoulders beneath her; apart, of course, from when she requires me to stop the grindstone in order that I may kiss-worship her boots – known as a ‘kiss-stop’ – which also doubles-up as her lunch break (no fat, young, brunette-haired woman wants to be eating whilst her scrawny and underfed prisoner-slave is pushing her round and round in circles; that would make her stomach turn, and feel somewhat queasy!)
The whip is also utilised to signal to me when I must stop or start – two sharp cuts for ‘move’; one for ‘stop’; more than two for ‘move faster, slave’. The signal to kiss her taskmistress-uniform, black leather ankleboots is equally straightforward – she simply holds the dust, reinforced, rounded toe of her chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboot up to my dry and parched lips, and holds it there until the requisite number of respectful-slavish kisses have been delivered to her complete taskmistressly satisfaction!
What I particularly like about fat and heavy taskmistress Fiona is her black, uniform socktops which are more or less permanently visible whist she is seated in front of me with her taskmistress’s boots at my prisoner-face level. I like the way her elasticated, but often wonky, socktops are just visible beneath her raised, navy-blue-uniform, trouser hems, set against the backdrop of her white, upper ankleskin, throughout her relaxing shift on the grindstone.
Despite being a big-boned girl, her ankles are still shapely inside her black leather, zip-up ankleboots, and, as I have already intimated, her socks always look nice and twisted – though they are, of course, out of bounds to my prisoner-slave lips, since I am being punished down here in the grindstone dungeons, and sweet-sock denial is invariably an element of any lifetime-prisoner’s judicial punishment in the Gynarchy of Barbaria. We have lost the privilege – as footslaves – of kissing our female superiors’ socks, and must make do with the dirty outsides of their boots!
Still, even kissing the boots of one’s taskmistress is an honour and a privilege, especially as, as I described earlier, one is obliged to do so whilst the taskmistress above one is stuffing her fat face with nourishing food, whilst one’s own prisoner-footslave stomach is agonisingly empty and rumbling with hunger! We prisoner-slaves only get fed one meagre meal a day of nutritional, but bitter-tasting, prisoner-slave gruel (it’s like ordinary slave-gruel which tastes bland, but, by way of an extra punishment, it has been specially seasoned to make it taste bitter and foul!)
Some of our fat taskmistresses take pity on us, since they ‘know’ what it’s like to go hungry (?!), and deliberately muddy up their boots before the start of their shifts, so that we can at least supplement our meagre, prisoner-slave diets with some female bootmud. I’m pleased to say that taskmistress Fiona is one such kindly mistress! However, it would never occur to any of them to share their lunchboxes with us – not even their half-eaten leftovers which they have sucked all the flavour and goodness out of – since that would be deemed ‘unprofessional’ behaviour on their taskmistressly part, as it would amount to undue compassion towards the prisoner-slave in their charge!
Thus, if a taskmistress fails to finish her female meal, she merely scraps away the leftovers into a bin in front of her starving prisoner-charge. And rightly so!
No, we must make do with our extra helpings of taskmistressly bootmud from the world outside our dungeons – the mud in which they have been walking – whilst they tuck in to their strong-smelling pasta, cakes and fruit juices above us.
That’s another thing, of course – despite having dry and parched mouths from our constant, sweaty exertions on our individual punishment-grindstones, our professionally-minded taskmistresses would never dream of helping to alleviate our prisoner-slave thirst with a sip of fruit juice, or even plain water. The best we can hope for is that it has been raining outside, and their boots are wet enough for us to be able to suck some dirty-rainwater sustenance off the soles and surfaces of their sodden ankleboots!
I sometimes wish the prison authorities would allow us even to temporarily remove our fat taskmistresses’ ankleboots so that we could at least partially quench our raging thirsts by sucking the sweat out of our mistress’s black, uniform socks – but, again, such tasty ‘treats’ are for the likes of unconvicted, female-law-abiding footslaves; not convicted, law-breaking prisoner-footslaves such as me! You lose a lot of footslave-privileges as soon as you are sentenced to the grindstone dungeons by the Female Courts – and rightly so!
Meanwhile, my taskmistress Fiona has nearly finished her lunch break; I can hear her licking her lips, scraping away her leftovers into the waste-bin above me, and letting out a delicate (for a large girl) lady-belch. I, for my part, finish off kissing her boots and ensure there is no bootmud left untouched, as I brace myself for the withdrawal of her boot-toe from my face and the stinging, double-cut of the taskmistress whipping-stick on my bare, right shoulderblade which shall be the painful signal for me to start pushing the heavy grindstone again – now even heavier thanks to the extra food inside taskmistress Fiona’s fat, female belly!
She picks her teeth as I push the grindstone, my eyes fixated on her wonky, black cotton socktops.
