Foot-Service With A Smile Volume 4
Still more pleasing scenes of jolly (and not so jolly) foot-servitude!
1. Uggs vs Pumps 
My ordinarily ugg-booted, 27 year old, blonde-ponytailed, market-trader mistress Courtney has tonight dispensed with her thick, beige-brown uggs and scruffy, blue-denim jeans, and is instead dolled up to the nines in her fetching, black leather miniskirt; her sheer, dark nylons; and her black patent leather, high-heeled pumps.
It is a timely reminder to me – as I crawl behind her to heel towards the noisy, city-centre nightclub – of the sheer shapeliness of my young, blonde, market-trader mistress's ordinarily hidden ankles, and of just how privileged I am to be her personal footservant, accompanying her to such dens of iniquity (for I am normally a very prudish footservant – all work and no play!)
Needless to say, my mistress Courtney soon 'pulls' a lecherous freemale in the noisy nightclub, and before the night is out I have the indignity of having to watch my blonde mistress's shapely, nyloned anklebones twisting and writhing in libidinous pleasure as she is consensually shagged by the free and mighty master-sir above me amidst the trashcans and dumpsters of the dark and dingy, back alleyway outwith the din of the nightclub.
Nine months later my blonde mistress Courtney's shapely ankles are now much more swollen inside her beige-brown, market-trader, ugg boots as she looks forward to giving birth. I'm still faithfully crawling around on my hands and knees behind her to shapeless, ugg-booted heel, of course, though the free-loving master-sir who had his wicked way with her that fateful night is nowhere to be seen!
30 year old blonde-haired, office-mistress Monica is not exactly the most popular girl amongst her colleagues!
Over the years I have variously heard her described as:
· Moany
· Lazy
· Selfish
· Self-centred
· Self-opinionated
· Self-important
· Holier-than-thou
· Fat (she’s not fat; just a little on the portly side)
· Greasy (her blonde hair – often tied back in a tight bun – can, on occasions, admittedly appear somewhat greasy)
· Bad-breathed (but only after she smokes)
· Greedy (yes, she is always eating – but normally salads)
· Frumpy (her office trousersuit is a bit dull and boring, being plain grey – normally worn with a frilly, white blouse)
· Plain
· Obnoxious
But all of these traits, of course, make her an immensely appealing office-footmistress to a communal office-shoelick like me! Pathetically, I adore it when she moanily, lazily, selfishly, self-centredly, self-opinionatedly, self-importantly, holier-than-thouly, fatly, greasy-hairedly, bad-breathedly, greedily, frumpy-dressedly, plain-lookingly and obnoxiously sits herself down on the office-corridor, shoelick throne of female power above me, and effectively shoves her plain and ordinary, low-heeled, single-strapped, round-toed, brown leather, mary-jane-style shoes in front of my kneeling face for a ‘lickshining’, whilst she tucks into yet another plastic carton of fresh salad resting on her fairly expansive lap.
I even admire her dust-stained and creased, black nylon, chevron-patterned tights underneath her plain grey, bootcut trouser hems – as they are the black, patterned nylons of a superior, young woman whom it is my duty to bow down to and glorify, even if others are free to criticise and disparage her for her frumpy appearance and grumpy personality.
She is, quite simply, for all her alleged faults, my infinite better – being young(ish), free and female; and whilst she is evidently somewhat short of freemale admirers, she is certainly not lacking in maleslave admirers like myself, who feel honoured and blessed simply to be in her dowdy, whingeing presence as she finds fault in virtually every lick we make to her shoe (‘not hard enough’; ‘not long enough’; ‘not humble enough’!)
Small wonder she enjoys visiting my office-corridor, shoelick stall everyday; it’s a place where her male inferior has to shut up and listen to her – both her eating and her moaning; acknowledge all her many criticisms of his work, and apologise to her for his perceived faults; beg her young-womanly forgiveness in vulnerable-maleslave fear and trembling at the ever-present threat of the communal-use, whipping stick; and thus make her feel good about herself – like the goddess that she is (or believes herself to be!)
We slaves also like her because of her scuffmarked, brown leather, mary-jane-style, rounded shoe-toes – which require to be extensively licked before the scuffmarks give even the semblance of fading away; and e like her because of her ubiquitous, black, patterned, nylon tights – and the fascinating chevrons which seem to point downwards to the areas of sweaty, feminine foot-nylon which require to be respectfully mouth-worshipped and kissed.
We also like the way she is always eating, whilst we go hungry – and the way that the thought wouldn’t ever enter her plain, vacuous-blonde head to share some of her surplus food with her maleslave underlings.
Yes – maleslave-love is blind to the many flaws in a superior and powerful, young woman like ‘moany miss Monica’. And just as well too – because that’s the law!
The fact that she is just 21 years old today, and I am being given to her as a birthday present by her parents, is, actually, neither here nor there. The point is that she is now a beautiful, young, personal-slave-owning woman, and I am her 55 year old, male birthday-slave!
She has literally just taken ownership of me, and is showing me around her wealthy family’s, purpose-built, basement dungeon – my new home. As befits a pretty, young, mixed-race woman's personal slave, I am humbly crawling behind her flat, black-suede, hush-puppy-style heels, and respectfully concentrating on the creases in the backs of her plain black anklesocks directly below the elasticated hems of her ankle-length, matching black cotton leggings, whilst she gleefully points out to me the various implements of punishment which she has at her young-womanly disposal, should she ever feel the need to physically chastise me; namely
- Her collection of whips – ranging from a simple, but no doubt highly effective, single-tailed, brown leather cowhide-whip through to a vicious-looking, multi-thonged, black leather cat o' nine tails
- Her collection of canes – ranging from the thin and whippy to the broad and sturdy
- Her set of wooden, kneeling stocks (again the word 'sturdy' springs to mind!)
- Her rack (ditto!)
- Her thumbscrews (designed to screw up male sized thumbs!)
- Her electric slave-prod
- Her set of flaying knives
She clearly notices my fear and consternation as I survey her feminine implements of lawful, maleslave-discipline, and revels in her sweet-young-womanly, power and authority over me, for she proceeds to laughingly 'reassure' me that she will only hurt me if I 'displease' her. She then goes on to explain that the best way for me to please her, is to continually kiss her feet – and she then graciously shoves her black-suede, laced-up, hush-puppied, right foot directly underneath my kneeling nose on the dusty, wooden floorboards of the dark and dingy, basement household-dungeon so that I may do just that i.e. kiss her imperiously-proffered foot, thereby 'pleasing' her and avoiding the ‘need’ for female-made pain to be inflicted upon me!
I gratefully comply, of course, and in my weak and powerless, maleslave gratitude tremblingly kiss not only her impetuously outstretched dusty, rounded, black-suede, shoe toe, but also her creased, full-length, black cotton anklesock, so that my new, 21 year old, dark-haired and slender, mixed-race mistress may really feel my obedience and submission to her will – and my abject fear of her legitimate, young-womanly power and authority over me – via my limp, lower lip!
And, speaking of limpness, I hope this – presumably lustful and libidinous, young woman who is in her prime – will go easy on me sexually, and exempt me from any sexual duties towards her, since I fear I would only disappoint her! Hopefully she already has a much younger, stronger, and more handsome man to take care of that side of things, whilst I concentrate on pleasing her shoes and socks? For kissing female feet is all I'm good for, really – and even then only in a fearful and respectful manner, as I am doing now; not in a romantic or sexual way, as a mighty, freemale lover might do!
Yes – this all-powerful, 21 year old, beautiful mixed-race girl is my younger and better, and I throw myself on the mercy of her socks!
4. Her Bullying Boot in my Face It’s almost as if her heavy boot is poised to kick me in the face.
As I kneel in front of her, beneath her office desk, she is seated masterfully on her office swivel-chair, with her right leg crossed dominantly, but demurely, over her left and her right, booted foot swaying nonchalantly in the air directly in front of my kneeling and bowed face.
It’s a nice boot – a broad, round-toed, slightly scuffmarked, black leather, heavy duty, lace-up ankleboot, covered for the most part by bootcut, navy-blue trouser-hem; not customary officewear, perhaps; more suitable for the building site? Or the prison guard? But it does, nevertheless, look well-worn and loved; a comfortable boot; lived in - even if it magnifies the apparent size of the deskmistress’s otherwise dainty, right foot!
As it swivels subliminally in front of my face on the axis of the young (blonde) woman’s anklebone, I observe the creases in the boot leather coming and going – in awe. For this is one powerful-looking, well-used boot – and it wouldn’t take much effort for the smartly-dressed, young office woman to suddenly draw back her boot, in anger or in sadistic pleasure, and to then launch it forward, kicking me painfully in the face!
I therefore fear, as well as admire, the boot. I regret not being able to see the sock inside, of course – for I very much suspect it is black sock, perhaps with a hint of red. I have caught a glimpse of this particular deskmistress’s bootsocks before – on a gloriously memorable day when she stooped down to hitch up her trouser-hem and scratch her itchy anklebone.
But today, it seems, she is frustratingly itchless!
And so all I can do is speculate about her sock, whilst focussing my eyes on the outside of her laced-up ankleboot; part willing it to kick me, so that I can feel and smell the scuffmarked leather hitting my face; part fearing the concomitant pain and bruising of any such cruel, office-bootkick to the face!
Yes – her boot is my better; and my stronger. It is a masterful boot, on a mistressful foot.
And I, literally, can’t take my eyes off it – even if I wanted to – being chained to the office floor beneath the booted, blonde mistress’s desk!
I am a professional sock-launderer. I wash young women’s dirty socks for a living.
They bring them to me – wrapped up in carrier bags – in my footoire-like, sockwash cubicle, and leave them for a service wash, to be collected later at a time of their convenience.
Of course, being a slave, I must be respectful of my female masters and betters socks, and so the washing of the socks follows a strict routine:
1) I must begin by kneelingly and respectfully taking each sock out of the smelly carrier bag, and sorting them into pairs. Woe betide me if I mix up the socks into un-matching pairs (an easy mistake to make if the socks are all the same colour; it’s then a case of examining the texture and stitching of each dirty sock in minute detail, in order to determine its rightful sock-partner – and if 4 socks have identical stitch-patterns, I then have the unenviable task of trying to determine which two are the most worn, and thus go together!)
2) Having sorted the dirty socks into their correct pairings, I must then lay each sock pair out on the ground before me, before kiss-worshipping each individual, as yet unwashed, sock 100 times from tip to toe – however long or short the sock may be
3) Whilst I am doing so, I must think about the owner and wearer of the sock, if I know who she is. If I’m not sure of her appearance and character, I must humbly imagine what she is like, and what it would be like to be her personal, household sockservant (it is my dream and ambition to one day be considered worthy enough to put myself forward for personal sock-servitude in a superior young woman’s household, but it takes years of sock-sniffing and sock-mouthwashing training!)
4) Having kissed the socks, I must then sniff each individual sock 100 times – again from tip to toe – in order to immerse myself in the stale foot-odour of the female wearer of the sock. This, needless to say, is a particularly humbling experience, and designed to put me in my place – the male sniffer of an in-absentia mistress’s sweaty, used socks, whilst she, no doubt, is going about her female business of enjoying life, free from the stench of her putrid, dirty and sweaty socks!
5) Next I must pre-wash each individual sock by soaking it in my mouth. This, of course, gives me the honour and privilege of now tasting the tart and vinegary smells within the socks. I also get to extract any stuck-on pieces of living toejam or dead footskin from the inner sides of the socks (for I must turn them inside out before inserting them into my prewash-mouth)
6) However, no amount of diligent sock-sucking can ever totally remove the dirt and grime from a free human-being’s socks, and so the menial mouth-wash must be followed by a humble hand-wash. For this purpose, I have a bowl of lukewarm water, supplied by a tap next to my kneeling face (my head is chained to the ground by means of a chain bolted to the ground and around my neck, so everything I need to perform my humble, sock-cleaning job has to be located next to me and at ground level), in which I gently rub and massage the sock, watching the water discolour both with the dye from the sock (unless it is white) and the sweat.
7) Every sock is, of course, hand-washed individually; wrung between my trembling, sockslave fingers; and then hung on a sockline next to my kneeling face, where I can keep an eye on it as it drip dries. Sometimes, if I have no more dirty socks to wash, I am required to just watch my lady-customers’ socks drying on the sockline; or even seek to expedite the drying process by breathing heavily on them (for I always have a set deadline to work to, and a superior, young woman must never be kept waiting for her freshly-laundered socks!)
8) Once the socks are dried in their pairs, I must iron them with a hot electric iron on the ground-level, sock-sized ironing board which is again located next to where I am kneeling. I must iron them purely out of respect for them, because I am subsequently required, by law, to then roll the washed and ironed socks up into neat little balls, in their pairs, ready for collection by the mistress in a pristine-clean, sock-carrier bag. On the outside of the bag are the following, disparaging words:
‘Female socks freshly laundered with gratitude by public sockslave no. 5999; 103 Julia Caesar Avenue; Barbaria. Please be kind enough to bring me more of your dirty socks.’
My services are thus advertised to all and sundry, and, hopefully, the satisfied customer-mistress will help to drum up more custom for me. For, as far as my employers are concerned – the Patel family – I can never have enough dirty socks to wash, even though I already work an 18 hour day, and must sleep in my sockwash-booth! More dirty socks means more money for them (they charge 2 Fems per pair), and helps to keep them in the luxuries to which they have become accustomed. Of course, the Patels, and their extended group of family and friends, all use me for free to wash their respective dirty socks; and rightly so, since they own me, albeit on behalf of the Female State!
9) The Patel family are also responsible for disciplining me, of course, in the event of any customer complaints or demands for refunds. To this end, they keep a single-tailed, thick-girthed, bull’s-pizzle knout in my sockwash-booth – hanging on the inner wall above my head, so that it is, literally, always ‘hanging over me’, and ready to strike. A sign next to the knout states:
‘Dissatisfied customers are welcome to chastise this sockslave with the knout!’
But they also have feedback forms for those customer-mistresses who can’t be bothered to knout me themselves. That’s when the Patel family impose the discipline on me – beating me soundly for every written complaint recorded on the forms by my, often very demanding, or just mischievous, superior customer-mistresses.
10) And yet, thankfully, those selfsame, allegedly dissatisfied customers, keep on coming back to me with their dirty socks; which is just as well for me – for I need their dirty, sweaty socks to keep me in employment, and my Pakistani owners in relative luxury.
11) Finally, I should mention that whenever a customer-mistress calls to pick up her socks, it is customary for me to kiss the socks that she is wearing – if they are accessible to my mouth – by way of an invitation for her to bring those very same socks on her feet to me for cleaning, once she has finished wearing them. For a lady’s socks must be regularly washed – and I’m the maleslave to do it!
I am truly a pathetic, professional sock-launderer!
Sock-Launderer by patheticus on GoAnimate
My 22 year old mistress and I are going out tonight – so we both need to look our best.
She will be wearing her revealing, red halter top; her short, black leather miniskirt; her finest denier, dark-toned nylons; and her sexy, black patent leather, high-heeled pumps. Her blonde hair will be tied back in ringlets, and her naturally pretty face will be beautified even further with tastefully-done make-up, including bright, ruby-red lips and blue eye-shadow.
My mistress Lara can be a real freemale-headturner when she wants to be; even in her normal daytime attire she attracts wolf-whistles. She looks the business!
I shall be required to wear my ubiquitous, pink cotton, emasculating slave-shorts, along with fresh red stripes on my wrinkly old, bare back and shoulders, courtesy of my mistress Lara’s expert, single-tailed, brown leather cowhide-whip. The gashes shall cover my entire backspace, and will appear to randomly criss-cross one another in places, but it’s all part of a deliberate pattern of whip-wounds based on my mistress’s knowledge of my personal pain-receptors; in other words, she knows where to hurt me the most!
My stripes will enhance her reputation still further tonight, as they will demonstrate all of the following:
· That she knows how to whip, and is not afraid to whip
· That she is capriciously cruel towards her slave, and knows how to keep him in line
· That she is no respecter of age (I’m 39 years her senior)
· That she is a sweet-looking, young blonde woman who is, nevertheless, not to be trifled with – not even by randy freemales
· That she is prepared to whip her elderly slave’s bare back red-raw, just to match her own youthful-red, halter top
These are all Gynarchy qualities that will lead free persons, both male and female, to admire her; and want to associate themselves with her; in much the same way that I too admire her – spurred on by my pain and my fear of her whip. I too shall be ‘proud’ to follow her on my aching hands and knees to heel, and to be associated with her nyloned and spiked heels as she socialises with my free-person betters above me, be it seated on a bar stool or dancing around her handbag on the dancefloor.
I have already danced this evening – my writhing dance of pain under the harsh sting of the whip as she cruelly ‘dressed me up’ in my smarting, red, stripy shirt for my big night out on the town with my beautiful, young, cruel, blonde footmistress!
Music; vibrations; din.
Flirting; fucking; sin.
I focus in on my mistress’s socks,
Whilst the rest of the nightclub parties and rocks!
I must say, dark-haired, regular Mexican customer-mistress – 35 year old, office cleaner miss Isabella – looks absolutely stunning tonight!
Normally I serve her on my street-corner, public shoelick-stand on her way to and from her cleaning job in the city – and that means having to lickshine her rather plain and ordinary, practical, matt black, leather loafers, worn with black polyester trousers and creased, black anklesocks, whilst she stands over me with her dark hair done up in a tight, Mexican bun. Mind you, even then I catch the occasional glimpse of her central-American exotica, namely her soft, brown, Mexican upper-ankleskin – when one of her black socks has inadvertently slipped down inside her ill-fitting, loafer shoe!
But tonight I witnessed her exotic, Latina-girl, ankle-beauty in all its sweet feminine glory, as she had literally let her long, dark hair down, and was dolled up to the nines for a works night out on the town! Instead of her dayjob-wear, she was clad in a revealing, sparkly-silver top; tight, black cotton leggings, which reached down to her shapely, upper anklebones; a fetching, silver ankle-bracelet; and high-heeled, open-toed, black leather slingbacks on bare feet that left nothing to the imagination when it came to her bare, veiny, Latina-girl footflesh!
My God, it was all I could do to prevent my footslave-tongue from straying onto her bare, brown footskin, and running down those blue-blood, Mexican ankle-veins, as I sought out the skimpy, black leather of her sultry, Latina slingbacks! And her toenails were immaculately pedicured and painted bright red – as befits a fiery, Latina-girl, office cleaner mistress on her night off!
She was with her macho, Mexican boyfriend tonight, of course – so I had to be on my best behaviour, despite the tempting Latina footflesh on such wanton display beneath my slingback-licking face; but I did manage to verbally congratulate the mistress on her sexy appearance, when her manly boyfriend’s back was turned and he was distracted on his mobile phone.
It was a calculated gamble; I was banking on her sweet young-womanly vanity getting the better of her, and that she would brush off my impertinent comment like she would brush the street-dirt off the bottom of her workaday, black-loafer shoe and onto my mouth, rather than report me to her boyfriend.
And I was right – no whipping for me tonight! Indeed, if anything, I’m sure her blue, Latina foot-veins throbbed with pleasure and delight at my impotent flattery of her – for she knows I can look but not touch!
She left me with a smirk on her pretty face, as she went off to have some fun.
And she knows it will be back to business as usual on Monday when she returns for her early-morning, cleaning shift in her plain, black loafers and anklesocks – only next time, perhaps, I will remember the beautiful, bare, Latina footflesh beneath those creased, black socks, and as a consequence lick her plain black loafers with a bit more footslavish respect and admiration!
For I now know that goddess-mistress Isabella is not just a good and diligent cleaner – she herself also scrubs up well!
And just as importantly – she now knows that I fancy her, but am too far beneath her on the Gynarchy social scale to do anything about it. So she can delight in giving me the brush off, and in wiping all my foolish thoughts of intimacy with her from my pathetic footslave-mind. For she is already spoken for – and by a much better man than me!
Of all the personal footmistresses I served down the years, miss Rekha was undoubtedly the cruellest.
A petite and softly-spoken, Indian woman in her thirties, she could nevertheless pack a punch with her ever-present, equally short and sturdy, bulls-pizzle whip – and she regularly found many pretexts to do so throughout the day:
- If her ubiquitous, musty-smelling and tasting, plain, black suede loafers were scuffmarked or dust-stained, just from her walking about in them
- If her equally ubiquitous, dark nylon stockings beneath her black trouser-hems were creased on her dainty feet, just from the everyday movement of her feet inside her loafers
- If she perceived me to be lacking in footslavish fear and/or humility towards her, or towards her husband
- If I even raised my head above her ankles, or took my eyes off her loafered and nyloned feet for one second
Mistress Rekha never once smiled at me, or had a kindly or encouraging word for me, in all the many years I was in her foot-employ. She spoke only to command or to criticise; or to pronounce punishment.
Every Sunday morning I would have to religiously worship her for three long hours. This would involve me kneeling down before her whilst she sat in an armchair in her living room and, under the watchful eye of her husband who was handed control of the bulls-pizzle whip on a Sunday, ritualistically cupping and kissing her feet a full 7,000 times – alternating ignominiously between her right and left feet, and her black-suede-loafered, shoe toes and dark nylons on her ankles beneath her Sunday-best, black cotton trouser-hems – and repeating the following mantra, devised by my mistress for her own aggrandisement and flattery, in between each fearful and respectful, slavish shoe or ankle kiss:
'Oh pray, Indian goddess-mistress Rekha; if it pleases you most beautiful and divine Indian goddess-mistress Rekha; truly this footslave fears the mistress and her whip, and begs to be beaten for the slightest failing on his part. For only the powerful pain of your bulls-pizzle whip can impress upon this dirty slave's thick skull your innate, feminine superiority and his lowly, maleslave wretchedness, if you would be so kind and understanding to a lowly manservant, Indian goddess-mistress Rekha. Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray! God bless you, mistress! And your manly husband – my almighty lord and master-sir! And God bless the whip that bows my back and subjugates me to your Indian will, most divine and merciful mistress Rekha!'
She would lap up every word, and her Indian foot-veins would throb beneath her dark nylons in Sunday delight and libidinous pleasure at her absolute power and authority over me – especially when her husband capriciously delivered an occasional blow of the bulls-pizzle whip to my bended back whilst I ritualistically kissed and worshipped his beloved wife's fully clad and protected feet! (Only he was ever permitted to touch her bare feet, and I was very much relegated to the role of her personal, household footwear-servant; and rightly so – for I could never be worthy enough to touch my mistress Rekha's bare, brown footflesh; not even the hard skin on the back of her heels; or the verruca on her left foot!)
In the end, she and her husband tired of me after several years of my ritualistic foot-servitude towards her, and I was unceremoniously dumped out on the streets and left to fend for myself as a feral, public footslave.
For all the pain it caused me over the years, I did regret the withdrawal of mistress Rekha's bulls-pizzle whip from my back, for it certainly kept me in line; and, for a while, I knew my place!
The smell of white rubber
Envelops my nose,
As my footslave tongue
Lickshines her toes.
Her sneakers are converse,
Low-top and green;
Her socks are all white,
Frilly and clean.
Her whip, it is poised,
Ready to hurt.
So my tongue licks the harder,
Seeking out dirt.
For these are the shoes,
Of my mistress and better,
My owner and master,
My cruel tasksetter.
And right now that task,
Is to lickshine her sneaker;
To prove to the world,
That I am her weaker.
So I breathe in the smell,
Of dirty shoe-rubber.
And in between licks,
For mercy I blubber.
