Foot-Service With A Smile Volume 3
Yet more pleasing scenes of jolly (and not so jolly) foot-servitude!
The pretty, twenty-something, black girl, face-in-the-crowd is tucking into a packet of ready salted crisps (potato chips) as she joins the rest of the free townsfolk in enjoying my public flogging in the town square kneeling-stocks.
After the other onlookers have gone, however, she lingers; and fingers my fresh, open whip-wounds with her salty digits – not softly, or sympathetically; but cruelly, and for her own enjoyment.
The ‘vinegar’ comes when she slips off one of her scuffmarked and well-worn, black leather ballet-flats and holds her black-socked foot up to my kneeling nose in the stocks. She then wriggles her dainty, black toes inside the short, black anklesocks in order to release more of her intoxicating, humiliating footsmell up my nostrils, before rubbing her moist socksole-sweat and foot-grease all over my helplessly imprisoned face.
So I have her salt on my back, and her vinegar on my face; no wonder she laughs at me as she slips her flat, black shoe back on and, licking her lips, finally turns to leave me alone in my suffering – her empty, carelessly discarded crisp packet blowing freely along the dirty ground beneath my stiffening neck in the stiffening breeze!
They affectionately call her ‘Penny Loafer’ because:
· Her first name is Penny (‘mistress Penny’ to her slave)
· She likes to loaf around
· She always wears flat, brown leather loafers, and crisp, white anklesocks on her dainty, feminine feet
They disparagingly call him the ‘Two a Penny Loafer-Slave’ because:
· He is mistress Penny’s personal footwear servant
· He is thus the slave of her loafers
· Like any slave, he is ‘two a penny’, and can easily be replaced
Actually her name is ‘Pen Yi’, and she is Chinese – but she has adopted the Gynarchised form of her name as she likes to fit in, and, having initially arrived here as a student some 3 years ago, she now has every intention of staying permanently in the Gynarchy.
She shouldn’t have any problems getting a Gynarchy Residence Permit, being young (22); female; pretty (petitely-framed, and with jet black hair and spectacles); clever (she now has a degree in Feminine Domination Philosophy from the Female University of Barbaria [FUB], and a Certificate of Whipwomanship); and a maleslave-owner (having purchased ‘Two a Penny Loafer Slave’ at a second-hand slave auction some 6 months ago).
How her friends, male and female, Chinese and non-Chinese, laugh at her young-womanly mastery over her penny-loafer slave, and mock him for the fact that he never gets to see his personal footmistress ever wearing high-heels; or ankle boots; or even sneakers! Just her flat, brown, penny loafers – with the rounded, brown leathery toe areas; and her equally ubiquitous, plain, white cotton anklesocks – always neatly and evenly turned over at the cuffs. Miss Penny also, demurely, always wears ankle-length skirts, so the slave doesn’t get to see that much of her shapely, Chinese legs either, since he is strictly forbidden to look ‘upskirt’; only ‘downshoe’!
What his mockers and disparagers don’t know, of course, is that – though her anklesocks are always white, they are not always the same! Two a Penny Loafer-Slave has learnt – because he has nothing better to do with his time – that the patterns in miss Penny’s oriental sock-stitching can vary enormously, from white anklesocks with thin and narrow, vertical lines of stitching; to horizontally-stitched , white anklesocks; to flowery-stitch patterned, white anklesocks; to lattice-stitched, white anklesocks; to fluffy-stitched, white, ankle-length towelling socks; to zigzag-stitched, thick woollen anklesocks.
He has thus become a connoisseur not only of brown, penny loafers, but of feminine-white anklesocks, and I can tell you now he has even, pathetically, estimated the numbers of stitches in each of miss Penny’s socks-types! He has made it his pathetic aim to be an expert on his Chinese student-mistress’s socks – not least because he wishes to please her, and is ever mindful of her qualifications both in Female Domination and whipwomanship!
He has thus made it his humble business to get to know her white socks inside out – literally so! Every nook and cranny of her socks; every yellowy-brown, sweat stain delivered from the insides of her penny loafers; every loose little sock-stitch (he keeps a particularly close eye on those!); every area of bobbling and/or thinning in each white sock; he can even distinguish between the various nuances of his 22 year old, Chinese mistress’s sweaty sock-stink, dependent on which areas of her dainty, oriental feet the sock has just been covering, combined with the texture of the sock material.
He has discovered, for example – if you’re interested – that the white anklesocks with the larger, trellised or latticed stitching, smell less pungent and vinegary than those socks which have narrower stitching – presumably because the sweat from her foot-pores can oose through the gaps in the stitching and end up elsewhere on the inner linings of her penny loafer shoes (flat, brown, leather shoes which, he has further noticed, despite her limited physical activity and tendency to just lounge around all day with her bespectacled, oriental head in some book or other, do not allow his Chinese mistress’s feet to breathe very easily – especially in the summertime; hence his studious mistress’s varying degrees of footsweat-smell are a major issue in his pathetic, lowly life!)
So, all in all, it’s probably fair to say that Two a Penny Loafer-Slave has actually developed a taste for his mistress Penny’s flat, brown leather shoes, and plain, white anklesocks. At the very least, he has become ‘acclimatised’ to them, and grown to love them. He has no need for sexy high-heels in his face all the time. I mean, think of the advantages of being her two a penny loafer-slave:
· His mistress Penny’s white socks are always within sight (thanks to her tendency to wear dresses and skirts, rather than trousers)
· He can studiously observe the creases in her socks coming and going throughout the day as she goes about her daily business (even during the long periods when she is at rest in the library, he can study her stationary, white anklesock-creases!)
· Likewise the musty smell of her well-worn, brown leather loafers constantly permeates the lowly, foot-level air that he must, by law, breathe – air oftentimes tinged with the background aroma of his mistress’s sweaty, white socks
· He knows that if he does any wrong, or displeases her in any way, she is well-equipped to correct him with her single-tailed, brown leather, punishment whip – being a certified, young whipwoman!
Yes, Two a Penny Loafer-Slave thinks he has landed on his knees at mistress Penny Loafer’s loafered feet, and couldn’t wish for a better footmistress! So the joke is actually on those who think he is missing out on a mistress who wears high heels; he would much rather be down at penny-loafered heel!
Would you?
Just 5 months ago, my petite and comely, demurely-headscarfed, salwar-kameez-wearing, Pakistani-Muslim, office-supervisor mistress – miss Sabah – wore white socks and plain, black leather loafers beneath her black, kameez-style trousers, and told me (in her cute and broken Pakistani-English) that she found it difficult to manage me, the communal office footslave, because:
· I was a man, and she was ‘just’ a woman
· I was an educated, middle-aged white man, and she was ‘just’ a Pakistani peasant girl originally from the countryside, with no formal academic qualifications (?!)
· She was embarrassed to make me crawl around the office on my bare hands and knees, lickshining the office ladies’ dirty boots and shoes, including her own, as a man shouldn’t have to debase himself in such ways before women
· I was some 30 years her senior (I am 50 years old)
· She is not a natural dominant
· She abhors the cruelty of the female whip
· She is a married (young) woman, and finds my male semi-nakedness (naked apart from my slave shorts and chains) disturbing – though she always stressed my body was wrinkly, old, and unattractive to her, and that I am of no sexual interest to her.
Or words to that effect!
Now, five months on, though still demurely headscarfed and wearing salwar-kameez, she wears black socks with black patent leather, zip-up, high-heeled and pointy-toed ankleboots beneath a short, black leather miniskirt, and freely informs me that she enjoys dominating me, the communal office footslave, because:
· I am ‘just’ a man, and she is a superior woman
· She is a superior, young Muslim woman (and therefore, as she herself puts it, the ‘pinnacle of femalehood’)
· She now has no compunctions whatsoever about making me crawl around the office on my bare hands and knees, lickshining the office ladies’ dirty shoes and boots, including her own, as she realises that I am not a real man, but an ‘impotent fool’
· She is some 30 years my junior – and therefore stronger, and fitter than me
· She is fast becoming a natural dominant
· She now enjoys the cruelty she can legally inflict on me with the female whip
· She is married to a real man; a handsome man; an attractive man – and, since her husband’s body puts mine to shame, she barely even notices my semi-nakedness, and thinks of me as little more than a wrinkly, ugly, old worm crawling around her feet who deserves to be whipped! She still stresses that I am deeply unattractive to her, and of no sexual interest to her – other than as foreplay that makes her feel all hot and horny for her husband whenever she whips me!
How the worm has beautifully turned – and rightly so; for Pakistani goddess-mistress Sabah now sees things as they really are!
I very much fear my illiterate, Indian mistress – miss Gopika – not because she is illiterate, but because she is better than me, being female; is much cleverer than me, having a female brain; and has power over me, being a first-class female citizen of the Gynarchy.
Thus, whenever she enters my kneeling presence, I respectfully cup and kiss her feet, clad in her soft, black-suede loafers and short, red sneaker-socks, 100 times, and repeat the following maleslave mantra 100 times in between my fearful footkisses:
'Oh pray, miss Gopika; if it pleases you, beautiful and kind miss Gopika madam; this slave truly fears you, madam! Please don't beat me, beautiful, brown-skinned mistress! I will be a good slave to you, goddess miss Gopika madam!'
I am her housebound-footslave, and obliged to remain at home with her remaining shoes and boots whilst she goes out to work. However, when she gets home from work and kicks off her plain, black-suede loafer shoes in order to put her red-socked feet up on the sofa, I respectfully cup and kiss the warm and sweaty insides of her recently discarded shoes 100 times, and repeat 100 times in between my fearful, discarded shoekisses:
'Oh pray, miss Gopika's shoes; if it pleases you, miss Gopika's warm and sweaty shoes; this slave truly fears you, miss Gopika's soft shoes! Please don't have me beaten, miss Gopika's beautiful, black suede shoes; I will be a good slave to you both, goddess miss Gopika's shoes!'
Later, whenever she has stripped off her ultra-short, red cotton, sneaker-style socks, and has climbed into bed to make noisy love with her husband, I respectfully cup and kiss her moist and sweaty, crumpled-up, discarded socks 100 times, and repeat 100 times in between my fearful, discarded sockkisses (softly, so as not to disturb my betters as they make love nearby):
'Oh pray, miss Gopika's socks; if it pleases you, miss Gopika's moist and sweaty, red socks; this slave truly fears you, miss Gopika's stinky socks! Please don't have me beaten, miss Gopika's beautiful, red cotton socks; I will be a good slave to you both, goddess miss Gopika's socks!'
Needless to say, my fearful pleas fall on deaf ears, for my mistress Gopika, and her shoes and socks, recognise maleslave weakness when they see it, and exult in exploiting it by either whipping me, or having me whipped, on a regular basis.
Which is why, after each whipping, I respectfully cup and kiss the warm and still glistening, brown leather, discarded female whip 100 times, repeating 100 times in between my fearful, discarded whipkisses:
'Oh pray, miss Gopika's whip; if it pleases you, miss Gopika's biting and stinging whip; this slave truly fears you, miss Gopika's cruel whip! Please don't beat me again, miss Gopika's beautiful, brown leather whip; I will be a good slave, goddess miss Gopika's whip!'
As a female-office, human doormat I look up to everyone – literally so! But I can always tell those footwipe-mistresses who are a class apart from the rest – by the designer logos and insignias on their dirty boot or shoe soles.
Like beautiful, thirty-year-old, blonde-ponytailed, office-mistress Belinda, whom I have been yearning to face-serve for the past 11 months whilst she has been away on maternity leave, but who has evidently now returned to work. I instantly recognise her (even though she has put on a bit of comely, maternal weight since I last saw her) from the following features, as she disparagingly stands over me, hands on child-bearing hips, slowly lowering her dirty, black leather bootsole down onto my upturned, floor-level, footwipe face:
· From the snooty, holier-than-thou expression on her pretty, round, blonde face
· From her squeaky-clean voice as she converses on her mobile phone above me with some friend or other
· But, above all, from the distinctive, circular-shaped, red logo on the bottom of her thick-treaded, black leather bootsole
It’s that logo on the sole which sets her otherwise bog-standard, black leather, flat-heeled, zip-up ankleboots apart from the other female boots that will undoubtedly scrape across my footwipe-face today. That red logo represents a touch of class – I have never seen it on another pair of boots, other than hers.
Moreover, the red logo cleverly shows up the dirt stuck to the bottom of her broad bootsole (miss Belinda has quite wide feet – which block out my vision as she positions her bootsole squarely down onto my floor-framed face); thick brown street-dirt on a red leather background – much easier to detect than brown mud on the surrounding black leather background. So I am doubly grateful to the designer red logo – not just for marking out office-mistress Belinda’s boots from all the others, but also for assisting me in detecting the levels of dirt which I must scrape off her superior, blonde-girl boot and onto my inferior, mud-receptacle face.
She unsmilingly and uncaringly scrapes her dirty bootsole along my face several times whilst otherwise ignoring me and chatting away to her friend on the phone. No enquiries after my health; no inquisitiveness as to whether or not I have missed her whilst she has been away; no attempt, even, to show me pictures of her beloved offspring, or to gloat over her good fortune and female fecundity, for I hear her telling her friend on the phone that she is pregnant yet again, and has therefore only returned to work on a temporary, part-time basis!
So, I must make the most of miss Belinda and her touch-of-class boots, whilst she is still back with us. I must extract as much of her bootmud onto my face and into my mouth as I possibly can each day, perhaps storing it away in my cheeks for the winter. I must internally (for I’m not allowed to speak externally) praise and bless her superior boots, even though they frustratingly hide her socks from me (miss Belinda always wears office slacks with her office boots, and she never hitches them up enough to reveal her female socktops to me whilst she is using me to wipe her boots on; which is fair enough, really – given that my lowly responsibility is merely to clean her bootsoles, not her uppers; I could never aspire to clean her uppers!)
Yes, I am literally at the bottom of the class – the class of miss Belinda’s boots.
She finishes her feminine phone conversation above me, and nonchalantly switches bootsoles on my face. Again – that distinctive red logo, revealing that brown, sticky streetmud. I make sure to discreetly lick out the designer logo as it roughly passes over my mouth and tongue, for the blonde girl’s bootmud somehow tastes better off her red logo than it does from the surrounding, black boot-treads!
For her part, I don’t think office-mistress Belinda even realises, or cares, that I am the same human-doormat she regularly utilised before giving birth; I’m just an object designed for her to wipe her dirty, unkempt boots on – though, unlike them, I have no red designer logo attached to me; just embarrassing red blotches on my footwipe-face where miss Belinda’s superior, black boots have unthinkingly damaged my human-doormat skin!
Let me make one thing perfectly clear – I am the slave of my 23 year old, Chinese, student-mistress's socks.
I am not the slave of her feet; or her shoes; or her boots; or her nylons – though I, naturally, have enormous respect for all of those things, since they are closely allied to her socks. But I was specifically procured, by her 25 year old, live-in boyfriend, to be her personal sock-servant – and that means:
- That I may only look my Chinese mistress in the sock (fortunately she is in the habit of wearing black, backless mules with her full-length, black cotton, officewear anklesocks – so there is a lot of sock to look at)
- That I may only think about her in the sock
- That I may only smell her in the sock
- That I may only taste her in the sock
- That I may only feel her through the sock
In practical terms this means they when my Chinese sockmistress is moving about I must be crawling on my hands and knees behind her socked heels, with my eyes focussing on the backs of her black socks.
When she is stationary (such as when she is seated) I must be kneeling unobtrusively next to her socks, admiring, sniffing, nuzzling and kissing them.
When she has ordered me to remove her black socks from her feet, I must kneel and study her discarded, crumpled-up, moist and sweaty socks on her bedroom floor – even whilst she is making love to the Chinese lord and master-sir (the man who purchased me for her) on the master-bed above me, until such time as I am ordered to mouthwash and then blow-dry her dirty, discarded socks.
Every night, before I go to sleep in my oriental mistress's crawl-in sockdrawer, I must write a 10 page essay about her black anklesocks, praising them and eulogising them for protecting her precious Chinese-girl feet inside her mules, and for simultaneously garnishing her priceless footsweat-nectar (the 'nectar of the goddesses' as it is known throughout the Gynarchy). I must write it first in English, and then translate it for her into Mandarin, without the aid of any machine-translation software (and woe betide me if I make any spelling mistakes in Mandarin!)
Each night's sock-essay must focus on a different, magnificent aspect of my young, Mandarin mistress's Civil-Service socks – be it the texture; the stitching; the aroma; or the creasing in her socks; and every sentence must contain the word 'sock' or 'socks' (in connection solely with my mistress's socks!)
Bizarrely for a full-time sockslave, I am not fitted with an electronic concentrator device in my puny brain. So I have to self-report to my mistress whenever I allow my mind to stray off her socks – like, for example, if I inadvertently focus on her soft, smooth, bare, Chinese legflesh above her sock and below her trouser-hem whilst she is seated with her right leg crossed dominantly in the air over her left:
'Oh pray, mistress Yu-Lin, if you will forgive me for disturbing you mistress Yu-Lin, this dirty sockslave has to report that he has just caught a glimpse of the mistress's beautiful, soft legflesh above the top of her black sock, mistress. Oh pray, mistress, it only happened because the mistress's black anklesock is somewhat twisted at the top, mistress, thereby exposing her upper ankleskin to the kneeling sockslave, mistress. But that is no excuse, mistress! Please beat me mistress Yu-Lin, so that it won't happen again mistress.'
My Chinese mistress will then either beat me, or arrange for her strong and manly boyfriend to beat me, as a punishment for my impudence.
If the young lord and master-sir does the beating, he delights in asking me how I am liking it, and whether or not my surreptitious glimpse of his pretty, Chinese girlfriend’s bare legflesh was worth the pain of the whip?
It’s a rhetorical question, of course!
Every so often the master-sir will also quiz me as to his girlfriend's socks – just to satisfy himself that he and his girlfriend are getting their money's worth out of her sockslave, and to ensure that my every waking thought is about my 23 year old, Chinese sockmistress's socks, and how I can better serve them and honour them.
Occasionally, egged on by the jubilant master-sir, the mistress will cruelly hide her socks from my face, by wearing slacks and ankleboots – just to revel in my feverish, girlsock-withdrawal symptoms. The happy, young couple will revel in my distress and consternation as I must try to make do with imagining my mistress's black socks inside her boots!
If my master and mistress are feeling particularly wicked, they may even make me 'call on' my mistress's socks, by inviting them out of her boots and off her feet, so that I may woo them. Once, the cruelly-mocking master-sir even made me enact a scene in a restaurant, whereby I was taking my mistress's socks out for a meal – wining and dining them – all in a pathetic effort to curry favour with them, and persuade them to let me kiss them (my mistress decreed on that unhappy occasion that her socks should repel my advances, and sent me, still celibate, to her sockdrawer-bed without any supper – much to the quiet satisfaction of the magnificent master-sir!)
Occasionally, however, my pretty Chinese mistress shows her softer side, by exceptionally letting me speak to her, in either English or Mandarin – though only about her socks. Once again I am expected to eulogise them, and even recite impromptu poems about them. I praise them as being my goddesses and my life, whilst, quite literally, putting my mistress's socked feet on a pedestal, so that I may more easily sniff, nuzzle and worship them!
In my last will and testament, kindly drawn up for me by the young master-sir, I humbly request to be buried with a pair of my mistress's well-used, worn and dirty, unwashed, sweaty black socks resting eternally on my upturned face in a see-through coffin, with my cheap headstone reading as follows (in both English and Mandarin):
'Here lies the pathetic, eternal sockslave of miss Yu-Lin. Please spit on his grave!'
All subsequent generations of young, Gynarchy women, of whatever ethnic background, will thus be able to convey their righteous contempt for me by showering my see-through coffin in female spit, whilst I stare up eternally at female, black sock – just as I stared at sock in life.
An office-footslave is taken down a peg or two by a visiting mistress!
Waiting on the Real Man! by patheticus on GoAnimate
The studious-looking and taciturn young, red-haired, white woman in her early twenties – who happens to be wearing a fetching, pink baseball-cap (the right way round!); dark, horn-rimmed spectacles over her piercing, green eyes; a flowery-themed, lightweight, kneelength, summer's dress; and lattice-stitched, white kneesocks with beige-brown, platform-heeled, open-toed sandals – the enigmatic and mysterious miss Clara, also happens to be the prison governor's daughter. I recognise her from the proud picture on his desk; I was impudently staring at it whilst he was earlier reprimanding me in his office and sentencing me to 12 hours in the prison kneeling stocks for prisoner insubordination!
The delectable debutante miss Clara silently moves around to the front of the lonely, isolated stocks in which I am now confined in the centre of the prison yard, and deftly unfolds a comfortable-looking, fully upholstered, portable chair and a similar, small wooden table. I watch her sandals and kneesocks as she then moves around my kneeling face, positioning the table and chair in front of me, before setting up a portable gramophone (yes – gramophone) player on the low-lying table, and putting on some classical music (from the corner of my kneeling eye it looks like an LP sized record (that's 'long player' for those of you who weren't around in the seventies – rather like the enigmatic miss Clara herself!)
She then plonks herself down on the portable chair beside the record player, takes out a book from her pink leather handbag, stretches out her long, white-kneesocked legs beneath my imprisoned face so that her beige-leather, strappy sandals are crossed over at the ankles directly beneath my kneeling nose, and starts to read – silently to herself!
I am, of course, always glad of female company, but what exactly does this strange, young woman – the governor's daughter – want with me? Has she simply come to gloat? Or is she here to seek to add to my suffering, by imposing the sight and smell of her sweaty, white-socked feet upon me?
If it's the latter, she has failed miserably, for I can't smell a thing – only the faint aroma of musty, beige sandal leather. And her long, white socks actually look nice and clean – one or two little areas of prison-yard dust on the sides, perhaps; and I can see her red-painted, big toenails peeking out from underneath the reinforced, white stitching on the toe-areas of her socks, especially when she subliminally seems to wiggle her toes inside the socks – but, there is certainly no unpleasant aroma of sweaty, white girlfoot!
She's not even a particularly good 'gloater' – if that's what she is? For she hasn't said a single, disparaging word to me since her incongruous arrival.
My male-prisoner mouth is gagged, of course, so I can't exchange pleasantries with her, even if she does, eventually, deign to speak to me – if only to depricate and scold me for annoying her prison-governor father!
Or, perhaps I'm doing her a disservice? Perhaps miss Clara was simply looking for a nice, quiet spot to relax, and thought here was as good a place as any? After all, I can be no threat to her, trussed up as I am in the wooden kneeling stocks at her father's pleasure.
So, we both simply maintain our respective postures – she the dignified one of a demure and clever, young, redheaded woman, listening to serious-sounding classical music and reading a book; and I the undignified one of a kneeling, male prisoner-slave in the stocks, forced to look at the superior young woman's demure sandals and socks!
At first I quite enjoy studying them; so much more interesting than just staring at the dirty, prison-yard ground! I mean, there is occasional, subliminal movement in the bright-headed, young woman’s sandals and socks – a wriggling of the red-painted toes here; a creasing of the sock there. None of it intentionally entertaining, as far as I am aware; but at least it gives me something else to try to focus on as the stiffness and pain in my neck and shoulder joints starts to worsen!
And worsening it most definitely is! I must be only some three hours into my twelve hour, punishment non-stretch in the kneeling stocks, and already I'm starting to sweat profusely under the hot, summer sun. No stylish, pink baseball-cap to protect my head from the sun's unforgiving rays – and I'm completely bald, unlike the pretty, red-haired mistress seated in front of me in her summer attire!
The semi-delirious thought occurs to me that I must not allow my sweat to drip onto the prison-governor's daughter's socks, for I don't think twenty year old miss Clara would take too kindly to having her nice, white socks sullied by dirty, male-prisoner sweat, and God only knows what her father would do to me for perspiring all over his beloved daughter's nice clean socks, if she reported me for it? So, I desperately try not to sweat, but it's becoming increasingly hard as the pain starts to bite into my whole, kneeling – and increasingly sunburnt – bare back!
After approximately 40 minutes of further torment (I know it must have been about 40 minutes, as miss Clara had to stand up and move over to the table after some 25 minutes to change the long-playing, vinyl record over to the other side – and the classical piece now sounds like it must be reaching its crescendo!), I start to involuntarily moan and groan into my pretty, young companion's repositioned sandals and socks, as my pain starts to build to its own ignominious crescendo.
Hearing my distress, miss Clara at last puts down her book and leans to one side in order to lift the needle off the vinyl. She then settles herself back down into her chair and I can feel her cocking her pretty, pink-baseball-capped and red-haired head curiously to one side in order to focus all her sweet young womanly attention on me, and my male pain-moans.
My God! That's it! She's a female sadist – come to enjoy watching, and listening to, my suffering in the stocks! The sombre, classical music was just to get her in the right mood, and help her pass the time until my own, prisoner-slave mood music changed to one of audible agony! And I'll bet the book she was reading was 'The Torture Garden' by Octave Mirbeau!
She's not just here to relax; or even to gloat; she's here to achieve female orgasm, at my male-suffering expense!
Yes, I'm convinced that miss Clara's languorously outstretched, scarlet-painted toenails beneath her white socks are increasingly wriggling with female pleasure, and her socks are most certainly increasingly creasing up with joyous, female laughter beneath my entrapped, prisoner-slave face, as my male pain-throes in the punishment stocks inexorably increase. Or am I just becoming self-delusional, trapped as I am in unforgiving, heavy wood beneath this burning hot sun in the presence of a demure and taciturn, young woman of dubious, delegated authority?
Listen carefully, and over my unmanly moans and groans you can hear her soft, feminine breathing become more rapid. So is she criminally cruel; or just curious?
I'll let you be the judge of her sweet feminal motives!
The bright, blonde-ponytailed, 30-something businesswoman in the smart, grey-pinstriped trousersuit, is seated above me on the express train with her colleagues – her right, spike-heeled, black leather, anklebooted foot resting on my upturned left cheek, whilst her left ankleboot is simultaneously resting on the dirty and dusty floor of the train (like the other side of my bootrest-head) directly in front of my mesmerised and boot-admiring face.
That’s because I am a fully adjustable bootrest – for the comfort and convenience of the passengers. They can either have my face completely upturned, or resting to one side on one cheek; whatever tickles their fancy, really!
As she chatters away with her 3 business colleagues seated at the same table, I silently and unobtrusively stare at the zipper-side of her left ankleboot, taking in its shapeliness; its pointy-toedness; its spike-heeledness; and its train-dustiness – for it is perhaps inevitable that her bootsides will pick up some of the train dustiness. I can’t be blamed for the train’s dirt per se, since I am not responsible for the cleanliness of the train; but I will , nevertheless, be punished for the dust on the side of the lady train-customer’s boot – if she complains; for I’m just a slave, and an easy target for blame (unlike the female train cleaners!)
Every so often she laughs and chuckles at some in-joke amongst the mixed-sex in-crowd above me. It may be a joke at my expense; it may not! I can’t tell, for I am unworthy to listen in. I’m just a piece of train furniture – and a lowly one at that; probably held in even lower esteem than the public toilets on the train!
But, whatever the butt of the joke, I’m glad the bright and cheery, blonde businesswoman is laughing, for with each burst of laughter her bootcut trouser-hem on her left ankle flaps and rises a centimetre or so to reveal the carelessly twisted, elasticated top of her plain, black, anklelength, business-bootsock set against the fair backdrop of her smooth, white, flawless upper ankleskin.
The sight of her sock (even though I have to strain my eyes upwards to see it, since even her plain and ordinary sock is higher than me) pleases me immensely, for it indicates to me that:
· She clearly does not have a personal footservant to sock and boot her properly at home. I mean, what household sockservant worth his salt would allow such a pretty, blonde-haired mistress to travel to a business conference with such a wonky, black anklesock inside her boot? And the pathetic reason this revelation pleases me so much? It means I can at least dream of becoming her personal sock and boot servant – and all that humble role would involve; for there is clearly a vacancy!
· It indicates that she thinks nothing of me, and that I am just a sexless, inanimate being to her – for she is wantonly exposing her bare legskin to me; something she would be ashamed to do if I were a real man, unless she was seeking to bed me, of course! I can definitely relax, however – she clearly doesn’t find me in the least bit attractive, having failed to draw me into the superior conversation above me, or even acknowledge me; and therefore she won’t be seeking any sexual favours from me. Phew! That’s a relief – for it means my innate impotence will, thankfully, remain, and I won’t be expected to perform for her! (I rather suspect, in any case, that she has her beady, blonde-businesswoman eye on the handsome, male business colleague seated directly opposite her; her boot-toes are girlishly pointed towards him – always a sign of attraction on the part of a free woman for a free man, as opposed to when her boots are pointed towards a male footslave, for respectful kissing; the latter is, paradoxically, a gesture of utter, female contempt!)
· The fact that I am worthy only to act as her bootrest and sock-admirer whilst her boots point towards her suitor, reminds me that she is so much better than me. Her life revolves around important business meetings, conferences, and powerful, rich, sexually potent, real men; whereas my life revolves around my superior train-customers’ dirty boots and twisted bootsocks; and rightly so, for that’s all I’m good for!
Yes – all aboard the bootrest! For this ugly and impotent, weak-male bootrest terminates here; he isn’t going anywhere in life – unlike the ambitious, young, blonde woman above him!
Her Serbo-Croatian sneakers are just the way I like them:
· Nominally white, but actually grey and blackened due to age, wear and tear, and ingrained streetdirt
· With matching, grubby-white laces
· High-tops, with thick, spongy tongues
· Plain and unbranded
· Strong smelling – of cheap canvas and rubber
As the East European customer-mistress climbs up onto the public, sneaker-lick throne of power above me, and rests her grubby-white, high tops on the two metal footrests at my kneeling face-level (I know she’s East European because she is speaking fluent Serbo-Croatian on her mobile phone), my only gripe is that her beige-coloured jeans are tucked stylishly into her sneaker-tops, thereby concealing her socks; assuming she is wearing any socks!
I therefore have to guess the colour of Serbian-girl sock as she gabbles away above me, and as I start to lickshine the grey-rubbery soles of her otherwise grubby-grey-canvassy, high tops. I’m guessing black sock – since colour coordination does not appear to be this semi-skanky, greasy-blonde-ponytailed, beautiful young white woman’s strongpoint!
My heart leaps at one point when she subconsciously reaches down with her grubby, unpainted, East-European-girl fingernails to untwist the tops of one of her grey laces – as I think, just for a moment, that she might also be about to adjust her beige-denim jean hem, and thereby inadvertently afford me a furtive glimpse of her (black?) sock. But – no such luck! She doesn’t care about me, or my feelings; as far as she is unconcerned, my job is merely to lickshine her dirty sneakers whilst she engages in her superior conversation with her Serbian boyfriend on the phone above me – a conversation between a young man and a young woman that is, quite literally, above my head!
Still, it’s an honour for the likes of me – a cheap, public, middle-aged footslave in grubby-white, slave shorts – to be in a position to lickshine the dirty, imported sneakers of an overseas-visitor goddess like this. So I lick her rubber and canvas footwear with abandonment. If she is wearing socks, she will surely be able to feel my devoted tongue-lashings through them, as I make sure it digs deep into the rubber grooves of her soles and the canvas material of the uppers – dutifully extracting all the dirt!
I’m a cheap footslave, giving her a cheap thrill – and I expect nothing in return; not even my longed-for glimpse of superior, Serbian-girl sock!
