Foot-Service With A Smile Volume 2
More pleasing scenes of jolly (and not so jolly) foot-servitude!
The pretty, twenty-something, black African girl from the local, Gynarchy township – and I do mean pretty; and I do mean black – has a bone to pick with me, as she sits herself arrogantly down on the raised shoelick throne of power above me and rests her feet on the metal footrests in front of my kneeling face.
She has clearly walked in some mud with her left, flowery-patterned, red, grey and green, lace-up, low-top, canvas sneaker, for its white rubbery sole is covered in sticky brown patches all along the rounded, front-toe area. Her right sneaker-toe, conversely, looks pristine and pure – like the rest of her sneakers; indeed, rather like the beautiful, young black woman herself!
She swings her head back in disgust – both at the offending filth on her sneaker-toe, and the offending filth kneeling humbly in front of her – causing her long, black, braided hair to rustle like a double-thonged whip being readied for action, and barks down at me in a strong, African accent:
‘My shoe is dirty, slave! What are you going to do about it?’
She clearly has a penchant for stating the blindingly obvious! And I would have thought the answer to her shoe-problem was blindingly obvious also – I am going to lick the dirty streetmud off the front of her shoe; for that is my job?
Still, a public footservant must always answer a customer-mistress’s stupid question respectfully and fearfully, as befits a helpless male slave at an angry young woman’s mercy:
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress; if it pleases you, pretty black mistress; please forgive this slave for the dirt on your shoe, and permit him to humbly lick it off for you, madam.’
You will notice that I take full responsibility for the parlous state of the unknown, young black woman’s shoe; that’s because, in law, I am to blame for her walking through mud, if she wishes to blame me (even though I have never met this young woman before, or been anywhere near her sneakers until now – more’s the pity!). I am certainly responsible for the cleaning of her shoe by means of my mouth; I’m sure everyone would agree with that?
She sullenly and blackly shoves her left sneaker-toe forwards on its metal footrest, and continues to bark down at me:
‘Get on with it, stupid street-slave!’
This poor, young lady – and I do mean poor – is clearly unable, or unwilling, to order about a slave in a civil manner. She appears to be suffering from M.A.D (Mistress Aggression Disorder)!
Like I said, I’m convinced she is from the local township; she’s certainly dressed like a township girl – in fetching, blue jeans and a flowery-themed top to match her flowery-red, sockless sneakers – but I’m equally convinced I have never encountered her before, or been the recipient of her young-womanly ire. Perhaps, if I do a good job on her dirty sneaker-toe, she will become a regular?
Let’s hope so, for she looks, and acts, like a true, black-African goddess!
I can sense her watching me like a hawk as I get to work without any further ado on her sullied sneaker-toe. She is indolently cocking her pretty, black head to one side in order to get a better view of my dirty-sneaker-licking humiliation, and her long, braided, hair strands once again dangle in front of me like a menacing, two-thonged whip, helping to very much focus my mind on the humbling task in mouth.
The township mud tastes good – but only because it is connected with the white-rubbery sneaker toe of a black girl’s township-sneaker. I don’t relish the taste of mud per se; only mud that has been ‘elevated’ by the sneaker DNA of an everyday goddess about town.
She takes a piece of minty chewing gum out of her jean pocket and pops it into her mouth, as if to wash away the imagined taste of her sneaker-mud from her mouth – not that her pretty, female mouth shall ever be forced to eat mud; she is above such things!
The mud, being fresh, soon comes off the sneaker-toe, and the latter once again looks good as new.
The haughty black girl quickly ups and leaves in gum-chewing silence, without a word of thanks or even a promise to visit me again with her mud-stained, flowery-canvas sneakers. I do hope she will deign to visit me again, however – and soon. For I had noticed, whilst I was diligently tongueshining her white rubbery sneaker-toe, a tiny red scab on the outside of her sockless, black-skinned, outer anklebone, probably the result of an old insect bite. It looks just about ready to flake off, and boy wouldn’t I love to have a discreet pick at that scab with my footslave mouth!
To have the dried and disused DNA-crust of her pure-African, anklebone scab inside my unworthy, male-footslave mouth, would truly be an honour to savour; even more so than her township-sneaker mud. For she is my infinite better!
I must humbly follow my cold and haughty, Pakistani-Muslim mistress to heel throughout her long, working day – focussing all my footslavish attention on the backs of her black leather, blocky-heeled, slip-on shoes and slithers of plain black, cotton sock beneath her black cotton, office trouser-hems as she goes about her daily business above me at her executive desk, at board meetings, on the bus, on the train, in the restaurant, or in the coffee bar.
But the real prize comes when she reaches home, and kicks off her hot shoes from her tired and sweaty, successful-young-Pakistani-businesswoman feet, and curtly orders me to massage her socks – the same sweaty and moist, shoe-enclosed socks I have been catching furtive glimpses of throughout her arduous day!
Yes, my Pakistani Muslim-mistress's working day may be over, and it is time for her to relax with a respectful, socked-foot massage from her faithful, infidel footslave; but my work is only just beginning. For now is the time for me to earn my whip-stripes, and discreetly pleasure my mistress through the rubbing of her tired feet. I must absorb her foot moisture off her black socks and onto my white hands, so that her socks will feel less sticky and uncomfortable on her soft, brown, Pakistani-woman feet!
Her husband – my master-sir – joins her on the sofa and they cuddle up together for some erotic foreplay. As he gently fondles and rubs her soft, brown-skinned breasts, I contemplate how privileged I am to be his beautiful, young wife's black-cotton-sock rubber, rubbing her up the right way so as not to rub the master-sir up the wrong way, and thus earn myself another disciplinary, Pakistani-household whipping!
He rubs her pert, brown breasts; I continue to rub her putrid, black socks; and we both thereby pleasure and worship this beautiful, young woman in our own sweet ways!
And that's precisely the way things should be – the man on the breasts; the slave on the socks!
Afterwards, I shall discreetly smell her footsweat-residue on my fingers, whilst ostensibly kneeling and obediently staring at her now sock-liberated, bare feet on the edge of the bed as she makes mad, passionate love with the manly master-sir – her discarded socks soaking inside my washing-machine mouth on the master's say so, so that my heavy breathing doesn't disturb his potent lovemaking with the highly aroused mistress-madam above me.
My master's 24 year old, petite and comely, black-leather-miniskirted, blonde-ponytailed fianc̩e Рhighly sarcastic miss Louisa Рhas a rhetorical question for me, whilst the master-sir is upstairs answering a call of nature:
'So, slave, who do you think I fancy the most? Your young and handsome master – master Samuel sir – with his 3 million Fem fortune, his designer clothes, his mansion in the countryside, his holiday home in Barbados, and, above all, his massive cock which satisfies my every sexual need?
Or you, the penniless and queer, bootlicking and socksniffing, ugly old footslave he has purchased for me – with your shabby, white slave-shorts, your ignominious neck chains, your demeaning whip-marks on your permanently kneeling back, and your non-existent cock?
Mmm? Whom do you think I admire the most between you both? Ha! Ha!'
'Oh pray mistress Louisa madam; if it pleases you mistress Louisa madam; this slave believes that you love and admire the master-sir the most, most beautiful young mistress madam. And rightly so, miss, if this slave may say so madam; for the master-sir is a truly brilliant and magnificent man, miss – and a much better man than I could ever be, if it pleases you young mistress-madame?'
'Ha! Ha! Praise and eulogise your master's cock and its ability to satisfy a beautiful, young woman like me, pathetic, impotent foot-servant!'
'Yes, mistress Louisa. At once, mistress Louisa. Oh pray mistress; if it pleases you young mistress-madam; truly my master's penis is a magnificent and potent weapon, young mistress-madam, and will most assuredly satisfy your every natural, earthy, young-womanly craving and desire in ways that this slave would regrettably be incapable of satisfying, young mistress-madam, if I may make so bold most beautiful young mistress-madam Louisa miss, since this slave is just a bootlicking, socksniffing queer, miss?'
She laughs at me, and, hands on her shapely, miniskirted hips, shoves her right, spike-heeled, black-leather-anklebooted foot onto the master’s opulent carpet beneath my kneeling nose:
'Ha! Ha! Kiss my boot, ugly old footslave!'
I catch a glimpse of her elasticated and twisted, black cotton anklesock-top inside her boot on my way down to her beautiful, black leather, pointy ankleboot-toe, and my 'non-existent' slave-penis stirs outrageously in its, admittedly rather puny-sized, metal restrainer!
I am a public footwipe in the lobby entrance to a female office block in the centre of town. The office workers, and female visitors to the office, wipe their dirty feet on my floor-level, upturned face before they enter the building, as it is the polite thing to do (obviously, the office owners don’t want street mud and dirt walked all over their nice, clean floors; much better that it is deposited on my worthless slave-face!)
I am therefore subject to a daily grinding of female shoe and bootsoles all over my face – some of them familiar; some of them belonging to strangers; all of them invariably dirty (for the streets of the Gynarchy can get incredibly dirty, thanks to the often inclement climate – despite the best efforts of the streetlicker-slaves!)
Thus, on this rainy, Monday morning, I am obliged to look up at the dirty, grinding soles of:
· A pair of low-top, lace-up, black-leather sneakers worn with black jeans, belonging to tall, brunette office-mistress Tanya. Her sneaker-soles are beige-coloured, and ridged, meaning that dirt can so easily accumulate in the treads. She therefore has to grind each sneaker-sole across my face quite hard – often hurting me and leaving red marks where her sneakers abrade my skin, particularly when a small stone is trapped in between two of the ridges on her sole. Partly because she is wiping her feet so hard on me, I get to see delicious little snippets of her heart-decorated, pink and white anklesocks – though those pink hearts are not for me; they are for her boyfriend, master William sir, who also works in the same office building.
He doesn’t get to wipe his feet on me, of course – being ‘only a free male’ – but he oftentimes watches his brunette-haired girlfriend and office-colleague whilst she wipes her black-sneakered feet on me, and will even gallantly help her to keep her balance whilst she rubs each dirty, street-soiled sneakersole in turn across my upturned, low-lying face; so I do sometimes get to see the look of masculine disdain he has for me on his handsome, freemale face!
Speaking of faces, and of looking up, I’m not supposed to look at my mistresses’ faces; and certainly not up their skirts (if they happen to be wearing a skirt or a dress); but rather I am to focus on the bottoms of their soles – as they may need my assistance in removing any offending debris from the bottoms of their precious shoes or boots by means of my slave-tongue; and to do that, obviously, I need to be paying attention as to where the dirt actually is! But I often can’t help catching a sweet feminine smirk on their pretty, female faces as they look down on me – just before their descending shoe or bootsole blots out the view. Plus, as I’ve already intimated, I often catch an exciting glimpse of shapely, female sock and ankle!
· The smart, black leather, two-inch-heeled pumps of tan-nylon-stocking-wearing, short-navy-blue-skirt-wearing, and blonde-ponytailed miss Lisa from Accounts. She’s one of the exceptionally beautiful, young women who work in this office – and I’m sure many a free man, if he were in my humble position in the dirty floor, would take the opportunity to furtively look at her upskirt, in order to ascertain whether she is wearing any knickers! But:
a) No real man (free man) would ever be placed into my ignominious position
b) I’m not a real man, and therefore I genuinely have no interest in peeking up goddess-mistress Lisa’s navy-blue skirt!
My only interest is in the dirt on her smooth, leather shoesoles, and the glimpse of nylon-covered plaster on the back of her sore, right heel!
And speaking of heels, and soreness, this feisty, young blonde woman’s steel-tipped, two inch-heels do a goodly amount of damage to my face as she nonchalantly drags them across my imprisoned, upturned features, divesting them of their wet grass and mud (she must have taken a short-cut from the bus-stop through the nearby park again!). This morning, she even manages (though I suspect more by luck than design), to impregnate a dead piece of grass into the corner of my right eye – irritating it and making it smart. Not that anyone would notice – or care; least of all goddess-mistress Lisa herself. I’m just a thing to her – a thing you wipe your stiletto-heels on, in order to make them nice and shiny and clean again.
Who knows, in a different life, and in different circumstances, mistress Lisa and I could possibly have been an ‘item’ – for I do very much fancy her. It’s just a pity that, like I said, she hardly even notices me – and my tearful suffering beneath her high-heels!
If I was privileged enough to be her lover, I would sooth that raw and chapped heel for her with my bare tongue; she would have no need of a protective sticking-plaster!
But I digress – and she quickly moves on; for she has better things to do than stop and talk to the public footwipe!
· The tall, beige-coloured, sheepskin kneeboots of dark-haired, Pakistani goddess-mistress, miss Tahira. Miss Tahira is another regular office-worker, and has been wiping her feet on me for many years. I prefer it when she wears her chunky-heeled, black-leather, zip-up kneeboots and bell-bottom, black cotton trousers, for then I often catch a glimpse of her skinny, pastel-pink socktops inside her upper bootrims as she deftly, and painfully, manoeuvres her dirty bootsoles over my face (she has incredibly skinny and dainty ankles, bring a petitely framed, young Asian woman!)
But today I have to make do with a snippet of thick, black woolly tight just above her beige-brown, kneeboot rim. At least she is wearing a skirt, so that I can establish she is wearing opaque woolly tights inside her boots. But is she also wearing socks, in order to fill out her skinny anklebones inside each boot?
We’ll never know!
Her pretty, Pakistani-woman face – though much fatter than it used to be (I believe she has put on weight due to being on a course of steroids for irritable bowel syndrome; it’s amazing the gossip you can pick up from the mistresses wiping their feet above you, especially when they are engrossed in supposedly ‘private’ telephone conversations on their mobiles above you!) – is still recognisably disdainful and disparaging of me; as it jolly well should be – for I am nothing but the dirt beneath her beige bootsoles, and she is better than me.
· The next young lady to grace me with her presence is a redhead and a stranger – and much skinnier than her Pakistani predecessor! I always enjoy an unfamiliar pair of feminine shoes on my face – and these are a particularly pretty pair of mary-jane-style, flat-heeled, single-strapped, black patent leather, office shoes, worn with traditional black anklesocks beneath a smart, black trousersuit. She is evidently here for some important business meeting, for she is carrying an executive briefcase above me.
She seems a little bit uncertain as to what to do with me at first, but the male office worker who is meeting and greeting her in the lobby invites her to wipe her feet on me, and she duly obliges.
As she does so, I notice her black socks crease around her shapely anklebones with the forwards and backwards movement of each pretty foot; and I note also, in the blink of a dirt-encrusted eye, that the shoe-strap on her left, buckle shoe is turned upwards at the end, revealing its brown leathery underside to me with the spare holes in it.
Such little details are important when you are a down-in-the-dirt footwipe, since a twisted shoe-strap can loom large in one’s pathetic, subhuman mind!
She’s faintly amused by, but not really interested in, me. I can tell she’s much more enamoured by the male colleague who is standing up and greeting her, since he, presumably, is her host for the meeting and, who knows, may hold the key to the success of her business venture?
Such matters are, of course, high above me. This young woman, like all the others who literally walk over me, is well and truly out of my league when it comes to human interaction. I only get to see into her sole; not her soul!
And so it goes on – shoesole after shoesole; bootsole after bootsole. It’s the daily grinding I must stoically endure, as I provide my humble service of cleaning the dirty soles of my female betters’ footwear with my footwipe-face. Indeed, my middle-aged face is now indelibly marked with shoe and boot marks. It is a walked-in face – and even uglier (if that’s possible!) than it was when I was first enslaved in this hole in the floor some 17 years ago. No wonder the women who wipe their dirty, office feet on me despise and detest me as they go about their superior, daily business.
I’m literally a walkover for them!
The flesh-toned bandaid on the back of the blonde, miniskirted, customer-mistress's slender right heel – only just visible above the rim of her navy blue pump-shoe – is itself protected by a thin veneer of sheer, flesh-coloured, nylon stocking. The bandaid feels soft and spongy beneath the coarse nylon on my upper lip as I deliver her a respectful, part-shoe part-stocking, heelkiss.
I hugely and admire respect the thinly-veiled bandaid because it is protecting the blonde mistress's soft, pinky heelflesh from the raw wound caused by her walking the streets for so long in these five-inch heels! And yet, the blonde-bimbo wearer of the blister-covering bandaid and the sheer, tan-nylon stockings, would never dream of applying such a comforting, medicated bandaid to the raw and glistening, open whip-wounds on my naked, kneeling back!
A public footslave's whip-wounds being soothed and medicated! Ha! Ha! Whoever heard of such a thing?! Such aid is banned throughout the Gynarchy!
Take my advice, prisoner-slave: when a fit, young, attractive, female police-officer mistress enters your lonely punishment cell armed with a whippy, rattan, punishment cane, throw yourself down on her mercy.
Show fear.
Crawl over across the dirty, cellroom floor, as far as your perma-chains will allow, past the dreaded, wooden punishment trestle in the centre of your cell, and feverishly kiss her feet. Kiss the dirtiest parts of her anklelength, lace-up, black leather, police-uniform boots that you can find; and kiss hard, so that the bright, young woman may feel your male-prisoner fear and penitence through her sturdy bootleather.
Also, kiss her boots intelligently, placing your lips on whichever parts of her boots she officiously gestures towards your kneeling and parched-with-fear mouth. If her black, uniform bootsock appears momentarily beneath her navy-blue, police-uniform, trouser hem (thanks to the outstretched positioning of her foot) kiss it too; again really hard, so that she can really feel your fear and trembling through her black cotton, ankle-length bootsock!
Kiss the cane also, and beg it not to hurt you. Show respect for the punishment cane; remember – a stick may break your bones!
Then seek to ingratiate yourself towards the pretty, young officer-mistress holding the cane; beg her for mercy; assure her that you are admiring of both her youth and her beauty, and point out to her, respectfully, that you are but a frightened, old man, whom it is within her power to hurt muchly with the female cane. Plead with her; suck up to her; flatter her; fawn to her.
And, above all, wish her well! For you are in her absolute, young-womanly power, and there is nobody down here to protect you from the biting, burning sting of her flexible, rattan punishment-cane. This female officer has been sent by the prison governess specifically to beat you; and she is, by all dungeon accounts, very good and enthusiastic at her job!
So, brace yourself, sad and lonely old prisoner-slave! Despite all your pathetic efforts to ingratiate yourself to the superior, young female above you, your bare back and buttocks shall be well and truly smarting tonight!
And rightly so! Ha! Ha!
A mistress and her boyfriend visit the local prison in order to mock and humiliate one of the unfortunate prisoner-slaves!
Mocking The Prisoner by patheticus on GoAnimate
The state-of-the-art ‘super-concentrator’ device which my rich, upper middle-class, Indian mistress has affixed onto my brain, really makes me concentrate on her plain, black anklesocks in very modern ways:
- It completely prohibits me from thinking about anything else – even her chunky, black, lace-up leather shoes or her black cotton trouser-hems
- The pain it delivers to my brain if the latter does attempt to stray off its designated subjected of sock is truly awe-inspiring!
- The device cleverly even prohibits me from thinking about her socks in a non-respectful or non-submissive way. Thus:
- I am prevented from having any kind of disparaging thoughts about her socks, like, for example, that I may be somehow better than her socks; or worth more than her socks. If such arrogant thoughts enter my head the super-concentrator device will immediately bring me back down to earth with a jolt of indescribable pain, thereby reminding me that I am merely the slave of my Indian mistress’s upper-middle-class socks!
- It perversely prevents me from lusting after my mistress’s socks – from yearning to smell them or interfere with them whilst they are adorning, and protecting my Indian mistress’s soft, brown feet inside her black leather, chunky-heeled, platform-soled shoes
- It prevents me from falling into the trap of thinking that I have some kind of right to my mistress’s socks and reminds me, through pain, that my face and eyes being so close to her socks as she goes about her daily, upper-middle-class business is a privilege and an honour for me, graciously bestowed upon me by my magnanimous mistress
- Furthermore, the super-concentrator device ensures that I don’t just observe my mistress’s socks on her feet, but that I also study them in great detail. Thus I
- Don’t just observe the fancy patterns in her black sock-stitching, but endlessly count the stitches; my concentrator-impregnated mind cannot rest until I gain an accurate count, and so I am compelled to double and triple check the number of visible sock-stitches in each line of vertical-flowery stitching! (It’s a neverending task)
- The cruel device, which warps my brain, also encourages me to ‘multitask’, however, and to concentrate on counting also the visible creases in my mistress’s socks – either the stationary creases in her socks whilst she is standing or sitting, or the fluid creases in her socks as she walks along.
- And, speaking of fluidity, the device simultaneously makes me admire the dark sweat-stains on the lower sides of my mistress’s black anklesocks – just above the shoeline. It further compels me to think about the presumably even more expansive areas of moist sock-sweat deep inside her chunky, black leather shoes (which prevent her feet from breathing) – but, as I indicated before, only in a non-lustful, non-lascivious way. My thoughts of her sock-sweat must be humbling, self-demeaning thoughts; even full of fear as to how unpleasant my mistress’s sock smells may be to my nose when she, eventually, orders me to untie her shoelaces and take off her shoes so that she can rest the sweat-dampened soles of her black-socked feet on my upturned face
- Any lint or bobbling on the surfaces of my Indian mistress’s black socks must be studied and analysed by my artificially sock-obsessed brain, and solutions must be found within that brain for the disposal of any detached sock-lint which ends up being rubbed onto the surface of my face (usually involving that precious lint being consumed inside my unworthy sockslave-stomach!)
- Any alien fluff or objects attached to my Indian mistress’s socks must be hastily removed and reported to my mistress, with a view to her punishing me for not protecting the surfaces of her socks from foreign invasion. Thus a single, foreign hair attached to the stitching in my mistress’s sock can lead to 100 whip-stripes across my bare, sockslave back! And yet, if I even think about trying to just ‘cover up’ the foreign detritus, however small, the shocking pain of the super-sock-concentrator device will far outweigh the sting of 100 lashes! That’s how unspeakably painful it is! It is a fiendishly cruel device; but at the same time very clever. It’s amazing what technology can do these days!
Foot-service with a smile? I’d say it’s more foot-service with a grimace – a grimace of more or less constant pain!
A terrifying mishap happened on my mistress Sandra’s way home from work this evening – she stumbled over a loose, Gynarchy paving stone and almost fell! In the end, however, it was only a momentary loss of dignity for her, and she skilfully managed to stay upright and carry on walking.
Needless to say, I knew that, as soon as we got home, I would have to be punished for my mistress’s near-mishap; for, even though I had been dutifully crawling along the rickety pavement behind my blonde mistress’s spike-heeled, black patent leather ankleboots and thus had no direct involvement in her loss of dignity, I nonetheless am legally responsible for my mistress’s well-being, and must be warned of what would have happened to me should she, say, have fallen over and grazed her knee or twisted her ankle.
My mistress Sandra therefore, quite rightly, summoned me to her anklebooted feet for correction. Fortunately for me, she was in a relatively forgiving mood, and she explained, therefore, that she would only inflict 1/10th of the punishment I would have received had she actually lost her balance completely and fallen over. She advised me, nevertheless, to brace myself for a lot of pain – as even one tenth of my punishment would be very harsh!
She then ordered me into the heavy, wooden, kneeling stocks in her back yard and fastened the crossbeam tightly across my neck. I could tell she was angry with me by the rough way she handled me into the stocks.
She then gagged my mouth with a pair of her dirty, white, running socks, before walking behind me – her heels click-clacking ominously on the concrete paving stones – and selecting the three-thonged, brown leather punishment whip.
She then, whilst fingering the strands of the cruel, leather whip behind me, informed me of the gory details of my impending ‘one tenth’ punishment:
· First she would whip me one dozen times (that’s 36 stripes, given it’s a three-thonged whip!)
· Then she would move around to sit on a patio chair in front of me and remove her dirty, white sports-socks from my mouth so that I may kiss her pointy, black patent leather, high-heeled, ankleboot toes for one full hour, and beg for her forgiveness for ‘letting’ her almost fall
· Then her neighbour – the strong and muscular master Thomas sir – would be coming round to deliver a further dozen whip-strokes to my bare back, taking great care to deliberately overlay the weals created by my mistress herself during my first bout of whipping. Once again, her socks will be inserted into my mouth so as not to disturb the other neighbours living nearby.
· Afterwards, the socks will be finally extracted from my now footsweaty mouth so that I can praise and bless master Thomas sir for kindly assisting my mistress in my correction, and assure him of his prowess with the whip. I must then invite him to literally rub salt into my wounds (table salt kindly supplied by my mistress-madam), so that I may smart more acutely in his presence.
· After master Thomas sir has gone, my mistress Sandra shall resume her seat in front of me; unzip her black leather ankleboots to reveal the ultra-short pair of plain black cotton, below-the-ankle, sneaker-style socks I placed on her feet first thing this morning; and require me to penitently ‘sniffkiss’ said socks. ‘Sniffkissing’, as the name suggests, is a mixture of sniffing and kissing a lady’s socks simultaneously, whilst she is still wearing them on her feet. It is normally reserved for the punishment of dirty foothole-prisoners in the underground dungeons of the Gynarchy, but my mistress Sandra wishes me to experience the humiliation of having to sniffkiss her socked feet as a reminder to me of just how close I myself came to being consigned to the aforementioned foothole-dungeons for life, had she actually tripped and fallen! She therefore orders me to sniffkiss her socks 1000 times each – alternating between both feet, and between sniffs and kisses on each foot (thus a sniff to her right sock; followed by a sniff to her left; followed by a kiss to her right sock; followed by a kiss to her left; it’s not rocket science – but it is demeaning and degrading for a freshly-whipped, kneeling-stocks-imprisoned footslave!)
I am quite exhausted by the end of my ‘one tenth’ punishment, which lasted for nearly three hours! Indeed, in a way, it lasted all night – for my mistress Sandra left me to sleep outside in the stocks all night, even though wintertime is drawing in, with no supper, and only her dirty, sweaty black boot-socklets inside my mouth for company.
Thank God she didn’t actually fall to the ground, is all I can say; or I would if my mouth wasn’t stopped-up with plain, black sneaker-sock!
Her otherwise unthreatening-looking, plain, flat, grey, lace-up plimsolls have metal spikes jutting out from the backs – as a warning to me not to get my crawling, admiring face too close to the backs of my spiky-red-haired, punk-mistress Angelina’s sneaker heels!
They also, helpfully, keep my downcast, footslave-eyes at the correct focussing distance for zooming in on her plain black anklesock-stitches – so I should be grateful for the occasional warning-jab of her plimsoll-heels when I get too close. This way I get to study the creased backs of my mistress’s black socks, in great detail, but at a suitably respectful distance.
Yes, I am indebted to my mistress Angelina’s spikey plimsoll-backs, designed to keep me at a distance; if not her spikey scourge-whip, which is designed to excoriate my poor, vulnerable back-flesh!
