Foot-Service With A Smile Volume 5
The last in a series of pleasing little scenes of jolly (and not so jolly) foot-servitude!
Self-centred and self-important, goddess office-manageress mistress Julia is a born leader – and a born slavemistress!
She really knows how to use the whip to instill discipline and fear in a lowly and defenceless, communal office footslave. She whips often – and when she whips she whips to cut, and she cuts to hurt!
She also whips for the flimsiest of infringements – such as an unlicked scuffmark on her pointy, black patent leather, officewear, court-shoe toe; or a dust streak on the shapely ankle area of her black, opaque, office-nylon tights. She will brook no excuses, or pleas for mercy – indeed, quite the opposite; she demands that her whip-victim plead for more whilst he is writhing in abject agony under the female lash:
‘Oh pray, mistress Julia! Oh do, mistress!’
That last bit means – oh do whip me even more, please, mistress; for I deserve it! I’m just a slave!
After an office whipping, the unfortunate, whipped footslave is required to:
a) Publicly rectify his mistake by lickshining miss Julia’s scuffmarked shoe-toe or suck-cleaning her ankle-nylon in front of her office colleagues
b) Then kiss her warm, post-whipping shoes a mighty 1000 times whilst she is still wearing them (500 times to each instep) – all whilst verbally praising and blessing her in between the penitent and congratulatory shoekisses, so that she may look big and clever in front of her office co-workers, who join in the slave’s congratulations of her whipping-prowess, though in much less self-demeaning ways; they simply shake her hand, or kiss her on the cheek (she is a very popular manageress!)
c) Await her merciful authority to crawl into the far corner of the office and focus his whipped mind on his residual pain (most office mistresses would demand that a freshly-whipped, communal office footslave get straight back to work, lickshining the office shoes and boots of his female betters – so this is seemingly an act of uncharacteristic kindness on miss Julia’s part, though it must be said that it simultaneously adds further to her own aggrandisement within the office as she can point to the ‘broken, whipped cur cowering in the corner’, thanks to the expert sting of her whip!)
Office manageress mistress Julia therefore leads by example – demonstrating the art of mistressly cruelty, tinged with self-interested compassion and mercy; everything is designed to ‘big her up’ in front of her admiring colleagues, even though she’s already standing tall and proud in her freshly-worshipped high-heels! Her female colleagues all aspire to be leaders of men like her; or, if they are free males, they desire to sleep with her!
Yes – office manageress mistress Julia will go far in life and in love, whilst the office footslave remains buckled up in pain, blubbering contritely to himself in the corner of the room, despised and unpitied!
And rightly so!
She’s a busy, young, modern-Muslim mother of Iranian origins, with not enough time to clean her own boots. And so she regularly pops over to my local sink-estate, public bootlick stall for a quick lick and a shine.
There she sits regally, above and in front of me, in the bootlick chair of communal female power – tastefully dressed in her fetchingly white headscarf; and her modesty-preserving, plain black top, with her skinny-tight, blue denim jeans tucked into the upper rims of her aforementioned, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up, brown leather kneeboots.
‘Get a move on, dirty slave!’ she barks in an authoritative, Iranian accent, as she permits my unworthy, kneeling tongue access to the full length of her brown leather kneeboots.
That’s all she ever says to me, for it’s patently obvious what I have to do – lickshine the sink-estate dust and grime off the outer surfaces of her brown boots, from knee-high tips to rounded, scuffmarked toes.
I waste no time in getting to tonguework on her beautiful boots, for time is of the essence for this busy, young lady; she has shopping to do; clothes to wash and iron; meals to prepare etc. This may be her ‘quality’ time, but it must, of necessity, be brief – as she has better things to do than sit around all day having her long, brown boots languorously lickshined by a two-a-penny, street-corner, public bootlick!
While I hastily lick modest, Iranian-girl boot, she deftly texts someone – presumably her husband – on her expensive-looking, mobile phone above me. She doesn’t pay any more attention to me, since I am, quite literally, beneath her, and lowlier than her. Her thoughts are clearly on much higher things – such as her husband’s wellbeing at work.
Meanwhile my own bootlicking thoughts turn to her socks i.e. is she wearing any inside those long, brown leather kneeboots? And, if so, what texture, length and colour might they be? I’m guessing they are cotton, ankle-length bootsocks, since there is no hint of sock peeking out from the tops of her kneeboots – but are they perhaps white, to match her fetching headscarf and her purity? Or black, to match her plain top? Or blue to match her jeans? Or dark brown, to match her brown kneeboots?
Or would she surprise me – by wearing completely incongruous socks inside her boots, precisely because they are hidden from view, rather like her long, dark hair beneath her white headscarf? Red, pink and green, cartoon-themed, fun socks, perhaps?
Sadly, I shall never know, for an outwardly prudish Persian girl’s socks are for her manly husband’s eyes only – even if she is fun-loving underneath. And rightly so!
When she is subliminally satisfied with my bootlicking efforts she ups and leaves without a word – in Persian or in English – whilst still furiously texting away on her smartphone. Like I said – I am nothing to her; not even worthy to look her in the inner bootsock.
And that’s exactly how it should be.
The footslaves were lined up on the ignominious auction block in chains.
‘I want the one wearing the yoke!’ exclaimed the bright, twenty-something, Afro-haired, black girl to her elderly, white husband.
She was pointing towards the middle-aged, male slave wearing a heavy, metal cangue around his scrawny, white neck. He could barely kneel up – such was its weight!
The fat, young woman’s indulgent, sugar-daddy husband laughed:
‘Ha! Ha! But why, my dear? Surely the yoke means indicates he is more trouble than he’s worth?’
‘Oh, but I want to sit on it, Alfred darling – and make it feel even heavier around his puny neck!’ she pouts in reply.
The elderly freeman laughs out loud again:
‘Ha! Ha! Very well, my dear! What you want, you shall have! But, all I can say is – I am glad the yoke is on him! Ha! Ha!’
The young black woman laughs too.
Meanwhile, the butt of the yoke – forced to look ever downwards by the permanent, cruel, heavy metal collar around his slave-neck – watches his prospective new black mistress’s red and white anklesocks crease and fold atop her pink sneakers as she stands on sneakered-tippytoe in order to lovingly kiss her witty and wealthy, elderly white husband on the side of his wrinkly, old face.
Wrinkly or not, the old man certainly hasn’t ended up with egg on his face!
The Yoke's On Him! by patheticus on GoAnimate
'Wake up, slave! It's time for your next whipping!'
The smelling salts, and excitable female voice, take their effect, and I drift back into consciousness in the basement dungeon, and the horrible reality of the residual pain from my previous whipping – delivered some 4 hours ago – and the impending reality of my next batch of 100 lashes; the second batch of a total of 300!
The break in between batches is not to give me any respite from the pain – I am being punished, after all! Rather, it is to afford the whipper – the tall and handsome master Patrick sir, my mistress's husband – the chance to rest his, somewhat elderly, whipping arm for a bit, whilst at the same time, of course, prolonging my agony and fear in the whipping stocks, as I must await my next inevitable round of sore whipping-punishment.
My mistress and master will not be pleased that I drifted into unconsciousness whilst they relaxed in between whippings (I'm guessing they have been enjoying a meal upstairs and then making love whilst I continue to kneel down here in the basement-stocks), but at the same time it will amuse them that I am in such intense pain I effectively passed out!
Indeed, my pretty, blonde mistress's pale blue towelling socks appear to be creasing up with laughter at me inside her sparkly, black leather, lace-up sneakers as she crouches down before me holding the strong, reinvigorating smelling salts up to my kneeling nose!
Having been brought round, I remember my whipped-slave manners:
'Oh pray, mistress. Thank you, mistress. God bless you, mistress!'
She laughs out loud at me, along with her creasing socks:
'Ha! Ha! Your master Patrick is rolling up his sleeves and getting ready to whip you again, slave! Ha! Ha! You'd better brace yourself!'
The mention of mighty master Patrick sir brings me fully back to my senses:
'Oh pray, pretty mistress, if it pleases you pretty mistress, please will you stay with me and witness my whipping by standing in front of me, mistress? The sight of your female sneakers and socks beneath my face comforts me whilst the mighty master-sir is whipping me, mistress!'
Again she laughs out loud at me, and stands up so that her black jean-hems once again cover her pale blue towelling socks, cruelly hiding them from my view:
'Ha! Ha! Well, we can't have that, can we slave? I mean, I'm not here to bring you comfort, am I? I'm here to enjoy watching you suffer, innit though?'
I could kick myself, for I have effectively shot myself in the foot! My mistress now deliberately walks away from me so that I won't have my only solace of observing her sparkly-black sneakers and pale-blue anklesocks in front of me whilst I am undergoing the next stage of my painful flogging!
Instead, those beautiful, laced-up sneakers move round behind me to stand on tippy-toe as she reaches up to kiss her manly, black husband on the lips – he who is now ready to deliver a further 100 searingly hot lashes to my already red-raw back!
'Don't spare him, Patrick honey,' I hear her coo seductively into his manly ear.
'Ha! Ha! Yeah man!' he responds, gleefully running the entire length of the freshly-oiled, brown leather cowhide-whip through his fingers.
And with a quick flash of blue sock, the female sneakers then disappear from sight behind me altogether, moving to a place of nearby safety, well away from the whip; but still, no doubt, close enough to enjoy hearing and watching the forthcoming gory proceedings, whilst remaining far enough away to be unseen by, and therefore of no sweet female comfort to, the unfortunate maleslave-whippee!
My new, 20-something, average-build, redheaded mistress – who has purchased me at the footslave auction-house just 3 hours ago – is now telling me some home truths as I kneel for the first time before her black-leather-kneebooted legs and feet in the middle of her opulent living room:
- She begins by sexily unzipping the side of her right boot in order to show me her personal preference for wearing double hosiery inside her boots i.e. grey and red patterned, short cotton anklesock over tan nylons. She kindly explains to me, the slave (though, as she also points out, no explanation is legally necessary on her part) that the socks help to 'fill out' her ankles inside her boots, thus making the heavy boots more comfortable to wear.
- She warns me not to disrespect her socks just because they are not in direct contact with her ankleskin, and explains to me that, if anything, they become even more saturated in her personal footsweat and foot odour throughout the day, as her foot moisture seeps through the thin nylon and onto her socks thanks to the warm clamminess of the trapped air inside her kneeboots. My new mistress assures me that her discarded anklesocks will always reek on my face as I sleep with them resting on my upturned face overnight!
- Having redone up her side boot-zipper, she then proceeds to explain that, even though for most of the day I won't be able to see (or smell) her protective, grey and red anklesocks hidden deep inside her long boots, I must nevertheless be constantly thinking about them, and what might be happening to them. For example, when I observe the outside of her bootleather creasing and folding as she either walks along or flexes her ankle-muscles whilst she is seated, I must contemplate how her socks will be creasing and folding in tandem inside that black bootleather. That's because I am her personal footslave, and she will have me thinking about her socks!
- Next my informative, new mistress turns her attention to the whip! She proceeds to forewarn me that the minimum punishment she ever dishes out to her footslave is 300 lashes of the cowhide whip! She then physically shows me the whip – a three-foot-long, single-tailed, brown leather, cowhide whip, which is thick-girthed at the handle end but tapers to a cutting slimline at the maleslave end, and the entire length of which she now lovingly runs through her sparkly-pink-painted fingernails like it was her prized, pet snake! She does go on to explain that the minimum punishment shall always be delivered in three, painful batches of 100 lashes each, separated by one hour – not to graciously give me time to absorb the pain, but in order to prolong my agony (as well as to give her dainty whipping-arm a bit of a rest in between batches!). She advises me that I shall never receive any treatment for my whip-wounds, and that she shall enjoy opening up the old, freshly-dried sores again with her whip during each new batch of lashes! Finally, she points out to me that she keeps her beloved cowhide-whip well lubricated and oiled, so that it naturally wraps itself around a slave's ribs with every strike, and she suggests that I use the lubriciousness of her whip to help remind me of the sweaty lubriciousness of her socks inside her boots whilst I am being whipped. She thinks, if anything, that will help me to grimace and bear the pain!
My triumphant, new mistress – seeing the maleslave fear and consternation etched onto my kneeling face – then permits me to respectfully kiss the outsides of her black leather kneeboots from tip to toe beneath her knee-length, navy-blue, uniform skirt (did I mention that she was a female prison-officer mistress by profession – indeed, a professional whipstress?)
I home in on her outer bootleather and smother it with genuinely fearful and respectful kisses in the middle of her living room, whilst imagining that I am kissing her grey and red anklesocks underneath the musty-smelling black leather in the foothole-dungeon where she works; for I shall clearly be her off-duty, boot and sock prisoner, as whipped and downtrodden as any of the poor, male prisoner-sods in her lifelong, female custody!
I don’t want to get you all excited and that – but I thought you might like to know that, whilst the 23 year old mistress is currently standing on tippytoe in order to kiss her tall and masculine, 40-something boyfriend (my master-sir) on the lips, I have a close up and personal view of the fetching creases in the backs of her black-socked heels, thanks to the fact she is wearing backless, black leather mules!
Not only that – her black anklesocks have frilly, black trims along the tops, which partially cover her cute, rose-themed, ankle tattoos; and her well-worn, black socks are bobbled and thinning on the balls of her heels, affording me a furtive, veiled glimpse of her pinky-white, blonde-girl heelflesh underneath!
Yes – I thought you’d be interested!
See how the ball of her coquettishly raised, right socked-heel almost pushes my face away as she swoons into her manly boyfriend’s lips above me! And then, when the happy couple turn their backs on me and start to walk arm in arm further along the country lane, it’s as if those thinning and worn, black frilly anklesocks are trying to get away from me!
Except, they aren’t, of course! Quite the opposite, in fact! I am inexorably drawn towards them and duty-bound by law to crawl to black-socked heel behind the lubricious, blonde mistress – far enough away to avoid being a ‘gooseberry’; close enough to be able to study and admire the movements in her lowly anklesocks; and certainly diligent enough not to look the pretty, blonde mistress in the bare leg above her frilly sockline, and below her short, summer dress. Only my manly master-sir is permitted to look her, or touch her, in the calf and thigh, since she is his girlfriend. I’m just his holiday-home property – a down-in-the-dirt, raggedy-assed footslave, serving an inner-city-girl mistress’s socks on her vacation with the magnificent, middle-aged master-sir in his beachside, log-cabin!
I wonder if I’ll be able to smell her lust on them, once the couple get undressed back in their isolated cabin and her frilly black socks are lying forlornly and discarded on the wooden, bedroom floor? That’s when I shall be required to bury my nose in them, and inhale them to the sounds of my masters’ and betters’ wanton lovemaking in their nearby creaky bed!
Oh, if only the young woman would deign to leave her dirty socks behind when she, and the master-sir, return to their apartment in the city. At least I would then have something female to smell in my isolation and loneliness – until the happy couple’s next vacation!
The North African, black mistress is enjoying watching my head and shoulders swinging painfully backwards and forwards in the heavy, wooden crossbeam which is suspended at kneeling level by two metal chains hanging from a tuareg tree. Indeed, it is she who is manipulating the crossbeam, by means of her desert-dusty, sandalled foot!
This place of punishment is no oasis of tranquillity for me; it is an oasis of pain, and humiliation. No wonder the Tuareg womenfolk gather around to point at me, and mock me!
‘Ha! Ha! How you are liking it, prisoner-slave? How you are liking the view of my dusty feet and sandals, from your wooden window-sill? Ha! Ha! Am I causing you pain, when I move the crossbeam backwards and forwards with my dusty foot?’
'I'm going to whip you, slave – not because you've done anything wrong, but just because I enjoy whipping you and watching you writhe!'
'Yes mistress. Thank you mistress.'
'Kiss my shoes and socks, and praise and bless me for taking the time to whip you!'
I lower my trembling-with-fear lips to her now outstretched, right foot on the ground, and feverishly kiss the rounded toe of my beautiful, dark-haired, swarthy-complexioned, Armenian mistress's dusty and somewhat scuffmarked, black leather loafer, and her creased and bobbled, plain black cotton anklesock, beneath the dust-stained hem of her black polyester trouser-leg, whilst she sensuously oils the phallic-like, black leather, single-tailed, cowhide whip above me with her sweet feminine, Armenian fingers:
'Oh pray mistress Anayis...kiss...kiss... if it pleases you all-powerful goddess-mistress Anayis... kiss...kiss... praise be to you for whipping me, mistress... kiss...kiss...kiss... for no other reason than your female pleasure, mistress... kiss...kiss...kiss...kiss... You are too kind to this lowly, impotent slave, Armenian mistress madam!... kiss...kiss...kiss...'
She chortles triumphantly to herself, and switches feet beneath my kneeling face. I now respectfully kiss her left shoe and sock.
'Now show fear, slave! Explain that you are weak, and frightened of both me and my whip!'
'Yes mistress Anayis. At once mistress Anayis, madam!... Oh pray, mistress... kiss...kiss... please don't beat me, beautiful and kind Armenian mistress!... kiss...kiss...kiss... Truly I fear the sting of the female whip, mistress... kiss...kiss... for I am just a weak and powerless, male slave, madam... kiss...kiss...kiss...kiss...kiss... if you would be so kind and understanding to a grovelling slave at your sweet feminine mercy, most powerful and magnificent, Armenian mistress madam?... kiss...kiss...kiss...'
She again switches dusty feet beneath my face:
'Ha! Ha! Now beg me to whip you, slave! Beg me to inflict pain on you because I'm better than you!'
'Oh yes, mistress... Oh at once, mistress Anayis!... Oh pray, pretty mistress... kiss...kiss...kiss... if it pleases you, pretty Armenian mistress... kiss...kiss...kiss... please beat me with your female whip without mercy, mistress, I beg you ... kiss...kiss... for you are better than me, mistress... kiss...kiss...kiss...kiss... I'm just your slave, mistress... kiss...kiss...kiss... I deserve to be whipped, madam!'
Gigglingly, she withdraws her dusty shoe and sock from my face and, with the tapered tip of the black leather whip now trailing along the dusty ground behind her, moves languorously behind me in order to take up her punisher position.
I observe her still-creased, black sock on her freshly outstretched right foot behind me flex with absolute power as she first flicks back the female whip, and then brings it whistling down onto my bare, kneeling back...
I’ve never been anywhere – and never will go anywhere; not unless I ever become too old and decrepit to continue to lick dirty, female shoes and boots inside the four, grim, metallic-green walls of my sit-down, city-centre, footoire booth, and consequently get consigned to the underground slave-mines!
But I love to hear about all the exciting places my superior, footoire customer-mistresses have been to – not just because it reminds me of how much better and richer their lives are than mine, but also because it means they tarry longer in my footoire, giving me longer to lickshine their shoes. And licking ladies' shoes is not just what I do for a living – it’s what I live for!
Take 30-something, brunette-haired, regular footoire customer-mistress Gullivera, who has been all over the world! I love it when she has just come back from somewhere exotic and is dying to tell me all about it. She will often spend anything up to an hour telling me about her latest adventures in some exotic clime, all whilst reminding me of my tiny and enclosed world as I ‘taste where she has been’ on the soles of her large, black leather, high-heeled, sturdy and strappy, office shoes. Her shoes need to be ‘large’ and ‘sturdy’ because she is a big girl – indeed, a veritable giantess some would say – with big feet and thick ankles. Cankles which she is wont to try and hide beneath dark, opaque, nylon stockings and long, ankle-length dresses. But I love being on my hands and knees beneath her flowery dress-hems – licking her street-dustied, workday shoes!
A typical conversation will go like this:
‘Have you been anywhere nice lately, mistress Gullivera madam?... lick…lick...lick...lick…’
‘Ha! Ha! Yes – I’m just back from a holiday in Vietnam with my boyfriend!’
I’ve met customer-mistress Gullivera’s boyfriend once before – he’s a wealthy banker, and a very lucky man to have such a charming and friendly, sexual partner!
‘Oh how wonderful, mistress!...lick...lick...lick… Were you in Hanoi, mistress?...lick…lick...lick…’
‘No, it was mainly in Saigon, actually! We stayed in a plush hotel there!’
‘Oh congratulations, mistress!...lick...lick…lick...lick… And may I ask, mistress, were you wearing these selfsame beautiful shoes to walk around in Saigon, mistress? ...lick…lick…lick...lick…’
‘Ha! Ha! I know you like tasting where I have been, slave – but, unfortunately for you, I was wearing my brown leather sandals on holiday! I’ll tell you what, though – I’ll bring them with me next time I visit you, for you to have a quick lick and a shine of the soles, if you like? There should still be some Vietnamese dust and dirt in the treads, and that?’
‘Oh pray, mistress!...lick…lick… Oh you are too kind to me, most beautiful mistress Gullivera! ...lick…lick…lick…lick… Truly this slave would be honoured to taste genuine Vietnamese street-dirt from the bottoms of your holiday sandals, mistress!...lick…lick…lick… This slave does have a regular Vietnamese customer to his public footoire-booth, mistress …lick...lick...lick...lick… overseas-student goddess-mistress Huyen… lick…lick… who wears beautiful, black leather, zip-up ankleboots, mistress…lick…lick…lick… but whose bootdirt is purely homegrown from the Gynarchy, miss…lick…lick…lick…lick… since she hasn’t been back to Vietnam in over 3 years, mistress… lick…lick…lick…lick… if it pleases you, mistress?... lick…lick…lick…lick…I believe she is a female refugee in the Gynarchy, madam? ...lick…lick…lick…lick…’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, I’ll try and bring you some Vietnamese sandal-dirt for you to taste, slave – all the way from the dusty streets of Saigon! Ha! Ha! Especially since you're just a dirty slave with chains around your neck, who can never go anywhere!'
'Yes mistress, Gullivera!... lick...lick... Oh thank you, mistress Gullivera!... lick...lick... God bless you, beautiful goddess-mistress Gullivera!... lick...lick...lick...lick...'
Her black, opaque nylon stockings crease and fold with laughter around her fat anklebones at my pathetic enthusiasm to taste foreign mud from the soles of a large, 30-something, office lady’s dirty, unwashed sandals.
But that’s my lot! That is destined to always be my only form of contact with foreign soil – tasted from the bottoms of my customer-mistresses’ shoes – since I am a lifelong prisoner of the Gynarchy; confined in a dirty footoire-booth; a lilliputian, public footslave listening to the exciting adventures of superior yahoo-mistresses like giantess goddess-mistress Gullivera, seated so smugly and imperiously above me!
She likes to be feared!
And as prison-galley taskmistress Sandra walks the gangway with her long, black leather, single-tailed whip trailing along the wooden planks behind her flat, black leather, round-toed, lace-up shoes, she is feared – by each and every one of us galley-slaves! Particularly when she stops to stretch out her right shoe-toe to one of us for respectful and fearful kissing!
When it's my fearful, footkissing turn, I make sure to go straight for her scuffmarked, rounded toe-edge – partly because I think it is the most respectful thing to do (to kiss the dirtiest, dustiest part of a taskmistress’s outstretched shoe on the wooden gangway next to my face); and partly because it means my shoe-kissing eyes are level with miss Sandra’s black anklesock, visible only thanks to the slightly raised hem of her navy-blue, prison-galley-taskmistress, uniform trouser-leg caused by the outstretched positioning of her foot.
I'd much rather respect and admire the black of her soft, cotton, taskmistressly sock set against the pleasing backdrop of her smooth, white ankleskin, than feel the harsh and unpleasant sting of her black leather, taskmistressly whip on the drop of my naked, maleslave back!
But my lips are invariably all atremble as I endeavour to kiss-placate her dusty, black shoeleather – atremble through abject fear. Which in turn leads her to do the thing I fear most – to whip me, for supposedly disrespecting her, and slobbering wilfully all over her 'nice, clean shoe'!
To be honest, I think that even if I managed to kiss her scuffmarked, leather shoe-toe without slobbering and quaking over it she would still find an excuse to whip me; for prison-galley taskmistress Sandra loves to mark a meek prisoner-slave's bare back, and watch him quiver not just with fear, but with pain! Female inflicted pain; superior pain!
Inflicting fear and pain on the males in her charge, and at her mercy, is her taskmistressly bread and butter, as we helpless galley-slaves dread and stutter:
'Oh p...pray, t...taskmistress mistress S...Sandra madam!... kiss...kiss... Oh p...pray!... kiss...kiss... M...mercy, m...mistress!... kiss...kiss...kiss... P...please don't w...whip me any m...more, m...mistress!... kiss...kiss...kiss...I am in great p…pain, m…mistress… kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…'
