Foot-Service With A Smile Volume 1
Pleasing scenes of jolly (and sometimes not so jolly) foot-servitude!
Mistress is just back from her weekend of muddy festival-going.
Whilst she makes love with her boyfriend, my master-sir, in the master bedroom of their shared student apartment (the master-sir had been unable to go to the festival due to a prior engagement with his mates) I have been ordered to deal with the fall-out from my mistress’s weekend of drunken debauchery. Namely:
· Licking the brown mudstains off the sides and soles of her black rubber, wellington boots, thereby tasting where she has been
· Sniffing the insides of her boots, in order to ascertain her lingering foot and leg smells from her vigorous, drug-enhanced, non-stop, music-festival dancing
· Similarly sniffing, and then mouthwashing, her thick, grey, knee-length, festival bootsocks (which, she informs me, were worn for two days and nights in a row throughout the festival), including making ‘damn well sure I eliminate any grass or other stains’ from the surfaces of the sweat-laden socks with my mouth
As the happy couple, who had clearly missed one another greatly, reach their noisy, mutual climaxes in the bedroom down the hall, I too reach the pinnacle of my morning when I discover the unmistakable, salty flavour of some stale, white semen stuck to the crusty, grey toe-end of one of my mistress’s discarded bootsocks!
Naughty mistress! I know that isn’t the master-sir’s semen, since those socks were fresh on my mistress’s feet before she left home for the festival. I had mouth and hand-washed them myself in preparation for her festival going!
Now I understand what she meant by ‘other stains’. Way to go, girl!
I mean, congratulations, most respected and sexually-promiscuous mistress!
‘Tis the season to be jolly… and to get on with your humble and degrading work in the utility room, if you are a downtrodden, household footslave!
Goodwill to all Footslaves by patheticus on GoAnimate
My electronic concentrator-device, surgically affixed to my brain, is programmed so that, even though I rarely get to actually see my office footmistress Melanie’s plain, black, office anklesocks inside her flat-heeled, square-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots – not even when she is sitting down at her desk, thanks to her ubiquitous, grey-pinstriped, bootcut trouser hems – my every third thought must nevertheless relate to her socks. Otherwise I can expect a jolt of searing hot pain through my disobedient and disrespectful slave-cerebrum!
And those sock-thoughts must be suitably lowly i.e. I must think about her socks in one of the following ways:
· How her socks beautify her soft, white ankleskin, hidden deep within her everyday, zip-up, office ankleboots
· How her socks may well be creased inside her boots
· How they must be getting warmer and warmer, and sweatier and sweatier, inside her fully zipped-up ankleboots
· That they may be showing signs of black bobbling in places
· That little flecks of black cotton sock-lint may be coming off her socks and sticking either to the inner lining of her boots, or even to her bare, white footflesh itself!
· How her socks are better than me
· How her socks are higher than me (I must always endeavour to keep my head lower than her ankleboot-rim, and thus lower than her elasticated sock-top, which is ordinarily pulled-up to a level just above the ankleboot-rim; or so she tells me)
· How I am not even worthy to look at her socks
If, by chance, I do manage to catch an undeserved glimpse of my office-mistress Melanie’s black bootsock – for example if she subconsciously reaches down to hitch up her grey-pinstriped, bootcut, office-trouser hem in order to either scratch her leg or straighten her sock-top, or both – then, needless to say, I must concentrate wholly on the sock with my adoring and mesmerised eyes, ears and thoughts. For it is truly an inestimable honour for the lowly likes of me to witness a lovely, blonde mistress’s superior, black anklesock whilst she is still wearing it on her warm foot and ankle inside her boot!
However – there’s a catch! If the concentrator device – which is also programmed for every first and second of my thoughts to be admirous of her boots – believes that I am deliberately neglecting my mistress’s boots in my thoughts, it will proceed to deliver a whole series of painful, electric shocks to my brain, even though my orders are always to concentrate wholly on sock whenever it is visible!
So, I can’t win! I’m damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t (think about sock).
Who would be an office-mistress’s personal footslave?
Petitely-built, dark-haired, Indian cleaner-mistress, miss Chapala, has been promoted to the fourth floor. She won’t be cleaning the third floor toilets any more, and so won’t be cleaning around my ornamental-footkisser face with her dirty mop in the ladies’ restroom.
Whilst celebrating her well-deserved promotion (and her concomitant increase in pay) she is keen to, mockingly, tell me – in her cute, Indian accent – about how much she will miss cleaning, and feeding, my dirty, 3rd floor face every night:
‘Ha! Ha! I will be missing you, slave! I will be missing cleaning the dirt off your ugly slave-face, isn’t it?’
She is referring to the dirt on my face caused by the daily dirt from the shoes and boots of my female, office betters as they hold them up to my ankle-level, maleslave lips for some ornamental footkissing. I am gratified that mistress Chapala madam will miss wiping my face with her dirty and smelly mop, and tell her so:
‘Oh pray, mistress Chapala, if it pleases you office-goddess mistress cleaner Chapala, truly this slave is flattered that you will be missing his low-lying, ugly male face, madam!’
I should, perhaps, explain at this point that I work in a very ‘liberal’ female office, and that, unusually for an ornamental footkisser, I am not only unmasked, but even permitted to converse with my female betters – providing they deign to talk to me first.
Goddess-mistress Chapala often does deign to chat with me – though always as a superior to a subordinate; she basically likes to talk down to me!
‘Ha! Ha! And I will be missing not feeding you dirt, slave!’
Here, she is referring to the bland, tasteless slave-mush which she feeds me as part of her nightly cleaning rounds, and which she is in the habit of ‘seasoning’ for me, mainly by walking in it first in her dirty, cleaner’s sneakers, so that the imprint of her rough and ready sneaker-soles is actually visible in the cold, disheartening mush-meal presented to me for my supposed delectation!
I still lap it all up, of course; for dirt from the sneakers of a female superior, like the divine mistress Chapala, may well contain hidden nutrients such as her magnificent, Indian-lady, sneaker DNA!
‘Oh pray, mistress Chapala! Oh pray madam! Truly this slave is grateful for all the tasty tidbits the sweet and kind Indian mistress has fed him over the years, mistress!’
And it has been years now – five years, to be exact!
‘Ha! Ha! What about you, slave-footpig? You will be missing me also, isn’t it?’
I think that’s a question – not just a statement of fact – though it may be intended as a rhetorical question, of course!
‘Oh yes indeed, mistress madam!’
‘Ha! Ha! What you are missing the most about me, slave?’
I don’t have to think very long about this one:
‘Oh pray, mistress Chapala; if it pleases you, divine goddess-mistress Chapala; this slave will miss the mistress’s nice sneakers and socks the most, mistress!’
It’s the truth – I will indeed miss forty-something, Indian goddess-mistress Chapala’s cheap, black sneakers and pale grey sneaker-socks, beneath her cut-off, plain black cotton leggings, more than anything else in my, admittedly very limited, world!
Yes, I appreciate being face-mopped clean by her; yes, I appreciate being dirty-mush fed by her; but it is the mere sight of her manky old, beat up sneakers and socks that I shall miss the most, as they skilfully manoeuvre their way around my, occasionally mop-struck, face.
In particular, her plain, black, low-top, lace-up leather sneakers have holes in the sides where the greyness of her socks sneakerly-peeks through; furthermore, the black laces are well frayed and worn, and about to break in places; the beige-brown, ribbed sole of her right sneaker is starting to become detached at the front; and her ubiquitous, thinning and worn, pale grey sneaker-socks – which barely cover her prominent and skinny, brown anklebones – crease and fold most enticingly along their elasticated tops with her every mop-pushing foot movement, directly beneath my prostrate and protruding-from-the-wall, ornamental-footkissing face!
Miss Chapala is mercilessly teasing me, however; for she already knows that I very much admire her free-woman sneakers and socks, and am in awe of them; it is writ large on my unmasked, footfool face! In my ideal fantasy world, she would now, thanks to her promotion and increased earnings, ditch the battered old sneakers and socks she currently wears in favour of brand, spanking new sneakers and socks, and would thus leave her castaway, dirty old footwear here on the third floor, right next to my forlorn, footslave face, for me to smell, lick, kiss and worship ad nauseam in between my kissing of the other office ladies’ third floor feet!
But she won’t – for miss Chapala is not wont to cast her sneaker-and-sock-pearls before swine! Indeed, she very rarely lets me even kiss them as she goes about her daily cleaning business, as she regards me as lower caste than her – and therefore untouchable. She will often tease me with them, as she is now by just walking around in them beneath my feckless face; even, on occasions, holding them just out of mouth’s reach right next to my face. But it is a rare night shift indeed, in the third floor ladies’ toilets, when goddess-cleaner mistress Chapala lets me actually kiss her on the scruffy, hard-working sneaker or sock!
It would certainly have to be a mega-special occasion before she would allow me to pay my labial respects to her footwear; such as her birthday; or when she is about to go off on a long, well-earned beak, or something. So, I’m thinking, actually, that I might be in with a shot at her sneakers and socks tonight – given that this is the last I shall ever see of her? And, after all – even if only mockingly and sarcastically – she has stated that she will miss me when she leaves tomorrow night for the fourth floor!
But my hopes are dashed. Her farewell present to me is merely to noisily gather up some Indian-woman phlegm in her mouth, and then expel it down onto the top of my wall-imprisoned, balding pate!
She laughs at me; and her sneakers laugh at me; and her socks crease up with laughter at me, as the thick, gooey, mucus mess slides languorously down the front of my hopes-dashed face:
‘Ha! Ha! I am leaving you now, dirty footslave! Ha! Ha! You can be rotting in this dirty hell-hole for all I care, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! I am not being giving you a second thought from now on! But, if it is helping you, you can be thinking about my sneakers and socks walking on the floor up above you, isn’t it?’
Oh yes! I hadn’t thought of it that way! The fourth floor ladies’ toilets are, presumably, for reasons of plumbing etc., directly above the third floor ones in which I am based. So pretty mistress Chapala will indeed be, quite literally, walking around in her manky sneakers and socks, and mopping the toilet floors, directly above my head!
Oh thank you, goddess-mistress Chapala! God bless you, goddess-mistress Chapala! For I shall indeed find some comfort in that slave-humbling thought!
My mixed-race, 23 year old, dark-haired and sultry-skinned, Pakistani/Italian footmistress has me exceptionally well trained:
- I only ever look her in the anklebone – be it bare, socked, nyloned or booted
- I crawl everywhere to heel behind her on my hands and knees (whilst still focussing on her shapely, prominent anklebones) always ready to obey her mistressly foot-orders. It's known throughout the Gynarchy as 'being at the footmistress's back and call'.
- I never smile – since having a smile on one’s face suggests happiness and contentment with one’s lot, and, in the opinion of my mistress, a footslave should never exhibit contentment, but should have a permanently pained and fearful expression on his lowly face (she graciously facilitates me in maintaining such a suitably downcast demeanour through her judicious and painful use of the raw whip on my bare back – a whip I very much fear and which causes me a goodly amount of biting pain!)
- I do not speak unless I am spoken down to, and even then, depending on the circumstances, only to:
- Acknowledge my mistress's orders
- Beg for forgiveness
- Beg for mercy
- Praise and bless her for whipping me
- I cup and kiss the feet of any young woman who enters our presence as a sign of my respect for her, and to demonstrate to other women how well trained I am by my pretty, mixed-race mistress
- I kiss the ground in front of the feet of any free man who enters our presence, as a sign of my subservience towards him also – since he too is my better, being the almost-equal of my mistress, and able to stand on his own two feet. I must be particularly in awe of him if he has the admiration of my mistress (i.e. if she fancies him!)
- If her relationship with the free man progresses to the point where the mistress wishes to make love with him, I must humbly facilitate their foreplay by submitting to a sore whipping from the master-sir, in order that he may feel empowered and aroused. I must then impotently withdraw to a corner of the master bedroom with my mistress's discarded sneakers and socks and sniff her young-womanly lusts on them, my back still smarting from the whip, whilst she gives herself to the privileged master-sir.
- I remain downcast throughout their happy conflagration – downcast but never surly, as befits a well-trained and unobtrusive, young-woman's personal footservant.
Yes, I am indeed a well-trained, performing footslave; all credit to my Pakistani/Italian mistress-madam!
I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my personal deskmistress – 42 year old, mixed race (Pakistani/Indian) mistress Deepa – on her night shift (she womans a 24 hour helpline for female drug addicts).
My deskmistress Deepa only works part-time, so it has been a few days since I last saw her shoes and socks underneath her office desk – and I'm starting to get withdrawal symptoms. Only the Paraguayan cleaner-girl's dirty-white sneakers and black socks have been keeping me company in the absence of my beautiful, Desi deskmistress's feet – and even then, only for a few minutes each day whilst she feeds me my daily bowl of slave-mush; empties my colostomy bag; and busily hoovers around my office footrest-face!
As soon as my beloved (but happily married) deskmistress Deepa arrives, she takes off her coat; sits down at her desk above me; stretches out her black-sneakered feet beneath my forward-looking, prostate face for kissing, once each in turn; and then settles down at her desk in order to receive her handover from her late shift colleague on the neighbouring desk.
Although I am designed so that my deskmistress Deepa can use the top of my bald head as a footrest for her dainty, sneakered feet, she can, equally, rest her feet on the floor beneath my face if she so wishes – thereby giving me a close up and personal view not only of her scuffmarked sneaker-toes, but also her socks! Fortunately for me, deskmistress Deepa does this quite a lot, which is why I enjoy serving beneath her desk so much; it is so much more interesting to be able to visually study and admire one's deskmistress's sneakers and socks, rather than just feel them weighing down on the top of one's head – though the latter is a great honour as well, of course!
Tonight I am gratified to observe that delectable deskmistress Deepa is wearing a rather manky-looking pair of off-white, blue-dot-patterned, full-length anklesocks on her dainty and slender, Pakistani/Indian anklebones inside her plain black leather, round-toed, lace-up, low-top sneakers and beneath her blue-denim jean hems. I have not seen these blue and white socks on her feet before, so there will be much for me to learn and take in tonight; I shall have to count all those little blue, patterned dots on her socks for a start!
That should keep me occupied!
And then there are also the numerous creases in her socks – my deskmistress Deepa's socks never seem to sit neatly on her ankles, caused in part, I think, by the sheer slenderness of her mixed-race, South Asian anklebones. But that's what I like about being her observant underdesk, footslave-cum-footrest – having the pathetic privilege of counting the creases in her socks, and watching those creases come and go in tandem with her subconscious foot-muscle movements as she concentrates on answering the phone to distressed, female drug-addicts above me.
I rarely listen in to my deskmistress Deepa's telephone conversations above me, as it is not my place; my place is to focus on her socks and sneakers! But I do overhear her telling her late shift colleague, in her delightful Pakistani/Indian English, all about her recent holiday to Spain with her husband. I, of course, never get to go on holiday (or, indeed, to ever leave the confines of this desk), but I do get my rest-periods in between my deskmistress Deepa's part-time shifts; plus, of course, I get to observe and feel wherever she has been on the back of my head – when she switches to resting her dirty, beige-brown and ridged sneaker-soles on the top of my bald head and uses me as an occasional footrest. So I'm hoping there will be foreign, Spanish soil on the soles of her sultry, black sneakers tonight (assuming she wore her sneakers to Spain?)
But for now I must study her socks, and count the blue dots. I wonder if she wore these socks on holiday too?
One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...
Damn! Her sock moved!
One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight...nine...ten...eleven...
Tall and svelte, ginger-haired, local girlgang-leader, miss Vicky, gets her kicks out of battering her local, barefaced, street-corner, ornamental public-footkisser (myself) with her chunky-heeled and round-toed, black leather, lace-up ankleboots – usually in the dead of night when nobody else other than her fellow girlgang-members are about (not because it’s illegal to boot-bash an ornamental footkisser, but simply because she and her girlgang followers get bored at night when there’s nothing else to do for girlgang entertainment other than a bit of defenceless slave-bashing!)
She belabours me with her boots until my face is well bruised and broken, and my lips are thick and swollen. She will then, encouraged by her gleeful, female acolytes, have me kiss the same pair of boot-toes, that have so royally boot-beaten me, with those selfsame swollen lips, asking me how I am liking it, having to kiss her bully-boots with my sore mouth?
It is, of course, a rhetorical question since, as an ornamental footkisser, I am forbidden to answer her back, and must suffer both her boot-bashing, and her mocking, in abject and respectful silence (though miss Vicky does permit me to let out involuntary cries of pain with each cruel bootkick to my imprisoned and defenceless face!)
As I become increasingly delirious with the pain, I imagine miss Vicky’s unseen, black socks inside her warm, black leather, bovver boots, and beneath her ubiquitous, black bootcut jean-hems, likewise creasing up with laughter at me as I humbly kiss the scuffmarked boot-toes covering them. Ha! Ha! they are saying. We, the socks, have aided and abetted our mistress whilst she was kicking your ugly, male face in, by protecting her scrunched-up, red-varnished toenails inside her bovver-boots, and by absorbing the sweat generated on her pretty, white feet as she boot-beat you to a faceless pulp! Ha! Ha! Pathetic, weak old slave-man!’
In the morning, after my sleepless, boot-bashed night, when my so-called minder/feeder mistress – a local, Indian, Female-Council worker mistress by the name of miss Pratima – comes to feed me and shave me, she sees the damage done to my face, and likewise laughs at me. She has no sympathy for me, or concern about the broken street-ornament in her so-called charge.
On the contrary, she shoves her plain, black-suede, flat, loafer shoe underneath my perma-kneeling, ankle-level, street-corner nose for kissing, and says:
‘Ha! Ha! You look like Panda with big, black eyes! Ha! Ha! Slave mouth sore when kisses Pratima on nice, soft shoe? Ha! Ha!’
Again, I am forbidden to dignify her sarcastic question with a verbal response, though I would dearly love to be able to praise and bless her for wearing such soft shoes, and thereby inadvertently having sweet feminine mercy on my thick and swollen lips. I imagine that not all of my customer-mistresses this coming day will be so considerate!
‘Ha! Ha! You not get any blood on Pratima shoe, slave – or I whip hard with stick across slave dirty, sore face, innit?’
Fortunately, the trickle of blood from my swollen upper lip seems to have ceased; miss Pratima can relax – her precious, black, feminine-suede loafers shall remain unsullied by my male-footslave blood!
She then launches into a lengthy telephone conversation above me in Guajarati, whilst I continue to pay homage to her soft, street-cleaner shoeleather with my swollen mouth. I don’t mind the prolonged kissing of her flat, black suede loafers, however, despite my sore lips, since it gives me a chance to study and admire her subliminally creasing and folding, grey and red sneaker-sock tops, set against her soft, brown, Indian-girl ankleskin, beneath her skintight, ankle-length, elasticated, black cotton leggings, as she gabbles happily away on the phone above me, oblivious to my pained mouth!
Following her phone call, a chuckling miss Pratima decides there is no point in trying to feed me my tasteless slave-mush through my swollen lips this morning, but she does proceed to shave me, ignoring my flinches of pain and distress as the blunt razor-blade ploughs through my fresh, facial bruises, peppered amongst the older ones.
For, make no mistake about it, redheaded miss Vicky will be back in a few days’ time to begin the bovver-boot process all over again, and add new bruises to my permanently battered face. She boot-beats me on a regular basis. It’s the natural order of things here in the Gynarchy – the female strong batter the male weak; and deservedly so!
It’s a guessing game.
The handsome, white, forty-something master-sir and his beautiful, black, twenty-something girlfriend – my current customer-mistress – want to know, as I lickshine her plain, grey loafers on my stand-up, public shoelick-stall, whether I think she is wearing knee-length woollen socks, or full-length woolly tights, beneath her modest, below-the-knee, yellow-woollen skirt.
It’s hard to tell, of course; and it’s meant to be hard – for, if I guess wrong, I can presumably expect to be whipped by the master-sir, for the insolence of ‘inattentiveness’ towards his beloved, black girlfriend’s, stunningly bright legwear!
The yellow leggings are certainly thick enough to be full-length tights, reaching all the way up to her groin. They are rib-stitched, and clearly designed as a warming, winter garment. Therefore I am veering towards them being tights.
But, like the lingering, blackgirl shoemud on my lips, I have lingering doubts in my mind; the yellow leggings could well end up at the black kneecaps, folded over at the tops to create a pretty boundary between the young madam’s shapely lower legs and fleshy upper thighs – thighs which are the gateway to her young-womanliness, where no doubt only a very few lucky and privileged free men, like the current master-sir, have had permission to venture!
I would certainly love for them to be yellow kneesocks – for then I would know her upper legs are deliciously bare beneath her skirt above my kneeling head, even though I can’t touch them. But, being socks, my remit would then extend to the tops of her socks, should the master-sir and mistress-madam wish it to. I could legitimately be ordered to kiss, or sniff, or nuzzle her yellow kneesocks all the way to the thick-ribbed, folded-over tops, whereas if they are tights my remit must end at the upper ankles!
That’s the footslave-law here in the Gynarchy; a pubic footslave, or shoelicker, like myself, may only have dealings with a mistress’s foot-areas below her upper anklebone, unless she is wearing long socks (be they calf, knee or thigh length), in which case he may, with the wearer’s explicit, verbal permission, attend to the upper areas of sock also. Tights, however, are excluded from this liberal law, since they are defined as legwear, rather than footwear! (Actually, the law is also quite academic when it comes to thigh high socks, since no downtrodden, public footslave, forced to live and serve on his knees, could ever physically reach his lowly head up high enough to attend to the tops of a young woman’s thigh-length socks!)
The thought occurs to me – maybe this is a trap, set by the cruel master sir and mistress madam? Maybe she is, in fact, wearing thigh-high socks, but they have deliberately hidden that option from my deliberations, because they want me to get it wrong; and get whipped!
Be that as it may, I must slavishly choose between the two options presented to me by the master-sir – knee-high socks; or full-length tights. For a slave only ever has the choices given to him by his masters and betters. He has no mind of his own!
The master-sir kicks me in my kneeling flanks:
‘Hurry up and answer me, slave! Is my girlfriend wearing tights or kneesocks?’
‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master sir and mistress madam, this slave believes that the beautiful mistress-madam may be wearing knee-length socks, master sir, if you would be so kind and understanding superior master-sir and mistress-madam? Please don’t beat me if I’m wrong, master-sir!’
It’s a gamble – but one I hope will pay off, as the master-sir ‘orders’ his submissive girlfriend to smilingly reveal all, by slowly and demurely hitching up her thick, woollen, orange skirt-hem.
To my relief and delight, as she slowly hitches up the hem of the skirt on her outstretched, right leg, a vision of thick, folded over, ribbed-woollen, yellow kneesock begins to appear, followed by a fleeting glimpse of pure, black-girl kneecap. I was right! They are kneesocks!
My ‘reward’ is to receive a stinging slap across the right cheek which sends my head reeling back onto the black girl’s grey-loafer shoeleather, as the master-sir falsely accuses me of ‘lusting’ after his pretty girlfriend’s black knees. For her part, the demure young black woman quickly lowers her skirt- hem again in apparent shock at my public-footslave lascivousness, whilst urging her boyfriend to ‘cuff’ me again; only harder!
Which he deftly does!
Personally, I think it’s just sour grapes on the happy couple’s part; they are annoyed and frustrated that I guessed correctly.
But it was a footslave-educated guess at the end of the day, based on the dominant aura being given out by the young, black, fully-clothed mistress-madam above me; she just looked like a socks kind of girl beneath that knee-length, woolly skirt!
Of course, being punished in the town square kneeling stocks isn’t just about the pain and agony of being confined in wood for hours on end; it’s about the humiliation of being fair game to the fairer sex (and their freemale partners), and of having to suffer whatever cruelties and humiliations the great, female public gigglingly choose to inflict on you – back-beatings; face-slappings; ear-pulling; spitting; etc.
A prisoner-slave can expect to be spat on many times during his sojourn in the stocks – but one young lady (well, actually, not so young – she looks to be in her early forties) has the whole process of slave-humiliation via spit down to a tee: she first holds her waterproofed, yellowy-rubber, wellington-boot toe up to my face; then noisily, and ostentatiously, gathers up female phlegm in her smoker’s mouth; before slowly dropping it onto her elevated boot-toe directly in front of my helpless, confined, downcast face, and then ordering me to ‘lick it off’!
Great big globules of stringy, green, feminine throat-phlegm for me to lick off her dirty, street-soiled, yellow-rubber boot-toe! She calls it a ‘spit-shine’ – only it’s her spit that I must take a prisoner-slave shine to!
Of course – once one girl does it, they all want to do it, though with varying degrees of success, it must be said! Some miss their, more daintily-shaped, shoe or boot-toes altogether, and sully their poor socks or stockings with their phlegmy mucus – forcing me to try to divest their nylon or cotton hosiery of their misdirected spit around their shapely, feminine anklebones. I soon notice that, however hard I try, I cannot ‘spit-shine’ socks; but nylons ‘spit-shine’ up quite nicely, to the immense amusement of the female wearers, and their freemale partners.
I soon start to trend on social media as the ‘spitshiner in the stocks’, and before I know it almost my entire punishing day is spent tasting female phlegm and mucus on boot and shoe leather, or, not infrequently, on sock and nylon!
Gradually, the ‘newbies’ to this sport live and learn – and come prepared; in wellies, like the initiator of the trend:
‘Grab your wellies, darling; we’re off to the stocks for a spitshine!’
To be honest, my phlegm-filled tormentresses need waterproof wellies just to stand in front of me in the ever-growing pool of female spit that soon develops on the ground beneath my kneeling and confined face!
Ha! Ha! Come and have your rubber footwear cleaned by the prisoner ‘spitshiner’; the word has even entered the dictionary in these here parts, it seems. It must have done, for the Female Authorities have put a makeshift sign on the heavy, wooden crossbeam above my imprisoned head:
‘Prisoner-spitshiner’
I’m told it’s written in green for a reason!
I’ve always had what I would regard as a good working relationship with my petite and comely, 27 year old, brunette-haired, personal footmistress – miss Ivy. Having been enslaved to her all our adult lives since we were both 21 years old, I think we have come to know each other rather well, and we have become an integral part of each other’s existence – so much so that she rarely needs to beat me with her household cane, since I now know all her footmistressly likes and dislikes quite intimately!
I know, for example, that she likes me to kiss her right foot on the middle of her shapely instep, in between two little natural, brown moles which are conveniently positioned a mouth-distance apart. This applies even if she is wearing socks, nylons, shoes or boots – my footkissing mouth will always endeavour to kiss her on the instep of her right foot as an acknowledgement of her foot moles. For reasons of symmetry I routinely kiss the same area of her left foot, even though there are no corresponding birth-moles on her left instep!
Similarly, she knows that I suffer the most if she beats me with her thin, whippy, rattan cane on the crease at the back of my bare thighs; I seem to be particularly sensitive to pain in that area of my footslave anatomy, and so she will always direct her cane-strokes to that specific area, with me bent over her basement punishment-room punishment trestle, admiring her shoes and socks behind me whilst she beats me. Not that she has occasion to beat me very often these days, since I know what she likes so well, and consequently am a good and obedient, personal footslave who is apt to please her!
However, all that, it seems, is about to change – for my beloved mistress Ivy has summoned me, ominously, to the punishment room; she appears somewhat agitated as I kneel before her black jeans, black socks, and black ballet-flats. Holding the punishment cane in her pretty, feminine hands, she sullenly stretches forth her right foot beneath my face, and I kiss it in the middle of her shapely, black-socked instep, as per usual.
The dainty, ballet-flated and socked foot is angrily withdrawn from my face and, unusually, not immediately replaced with her left:
‘Stop it, slave! Now that I’m dating master Simon sir things are going to have to change around here! I don’t want you making him jealous by kissing my feet on the insteps, like a lover! From now on you may only kiss my feet on my outer shoe or boot toes! Is that clear, dirty slave?’
‘Y…yes…m…mistress Ivy, m…madam! I will obey you, m…madam! P…pray forgive me, m…mistress Ivy madam. P…please don’t b…beat me on the backs of my thighs, m…madam!’
I am somewhat taken aback at her distinctly unfriendly tone! It was certainly never my intention to embarrass the mistress in front of her manly new boyfriend! Why would he be jealous of a slave’s kiss to her instep? I am clearly not fit to be his girlfriend’s lover!
Meanwhile, miss Ivy seems sceptical of my assurances that I shall avoid touching her socks with my lips in future:
‘Hah! I know you can’t resist kissing me on the sides of my socks, slave, but I’m warning you – if you can’t keep your lips away from my socked insteps I’ll just switch to wearing boots all the time! I am your mistress, not your friend. Do you understand, slave?’
‘Y…yes, m…madam!’
She does indeed know me well – I do like the feel of her soft, black, bobbled cotton socks on my lips; almost as much as I enjoy (or have enjoyed hitherto!) the feel of her soft, white footskin on my mouth. Indeed, the mere thought of my lips being confined to her scuffmarked shoe or boot-toes from now on fills me with dread, for I shall truly miss the intimacy of her skin and sock!
But the sight of her agitated, whippy cane twisting through her dainty fingers above me reminds me that I shall have no choice in the matter; my mistress (not ‘friend’) of 6 years has spoken!
‘Oh, and another thing, slave! I don’t very much care for the look of smug contentment on your face whenever you are kissing my feet! If you can’t develop a more suitably downcast and downbeat demeanour, I shall be forced to fit a permanent footfool-mask on your smug face – one which will make you look suitably pained and oppressed! Do you understand, fool?’
Fool! My beloved mistress Ivy has never called me that before – not even in anger! Nor did I realise I was kissing her feet with a look of ‘smug contentment’ on my face! I humbly apologise to her, for I certainly don’t wish to be fitted with an ignominious and soul-destroying footfool-mask – a mask that would turn me into just another, literally faceless, rubbery-masked footslave-face in the crowd!
‘Oh p…pray, mistress Ivy… pray f...forgive me, m…mistress Ivy! Truly this slave will amend his ways, m…mistress…and look suitably oppressed in front of your friends, and the m…master-sir…in future, m…most sweet and understanding mistress Ivy m…madam! Please don’t beat me, madam! Please don’t mask me, m…madam!’
Her mood lightens at my evident sense of fear:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes – a garish, sickly-green mask with a wonky, downcast mouth and sad eyes; and the words ‘Property of mistress Ivy madam and master Simon sir’ written all along the front in big, bold letters! Ha! Ha! Yes - I like that idea, slave!’
‘Oh p…pray, m…mistress Ivy! Oh p…pray!’
She wishes her cane through the basement punishment-room air – a few ‘practice’ strokes, it seems:
‘Bend over the trestle, slave, and hitch up the backs of your slave-shorts! I’m going to give you twenty strokes cross the backs of your bare thighs – just to reinforce my message that things are about to change around here!’
‘Y…yes, m...mistress Ivy! Thank you, m…mistress! At once, m…mistress Ivy!’
Evidently only some things are about to change; I may no longer to be able to kiss her feet on my favourite spots, but she is still about to cane me on her favourite spot:
Swish…Crack!
Aiiiiiii!... My thighs!
