Thinking Footslaves’ Dirty Thoughts Vol 2
Some cleaner-mistresses can be quite friendly, in my humble experience – but not this new, portly, 40-something, black cleaner-mistress. She is anything but friendly – remaining cold and aloof as she mops around my protruding, ankle-height, ornamental-footkissing face in the office-ladies’ restroom. It’s almost as if she views my protruding, plain rubbery-masked head as an annoyance – an obstacle to get round, rather like one of the porcelain sink-pedestals!
Perhaps I do her a disservice; perhaps she simply doesn’t speak English; or perhaps she is just ultra-respectful of the office rules i.e. never to converse with the rubbery-masked, ornamental-footkissing slave in the restroom, even when there is nobody else about; or perhaps she just regards herself as being too high and mighty to interact verbally with a low-lying, footkissing ornament like myself – in which case she’s quite right, of course, for a cleaner-mistress is eons above the likes of me on the Gynarchy social scale!
But, it’s not all bad news:
- Like the other, more talkative, office cleaners, her employers have kitted her out with a pair of kneehigh, black rubber, wellington boots for work – and I get to watch her soft and malleable boot-rubber creasing and folding around her ankles as she pushes her mop, since she has her fat, blue denim jeans tucked into the tops of said rubber boots
- There is, not unnaturally, some dust and dirt attached to the outsides of those black-rubbery boots – particularly around the broad toe-areas. And so, when she eventually stops mopping, and approaches me in order to utilise the facilities she has just been cleaning, and to have her hardworking boots respectfully kissed by me just before she exits from the freshly scrubbed restroom, I have the pathetic satisfaction of watching, and tasting, her black-rubbery bootdirt and associated germs as they disappear from the surfaces of her graciously proffered boot-toes and into my gaping footslave-mouth.
- I savour the dirt – for it is the superior boot-dirt of a haughty, middle-aged black woman; the dirt of my infinite better
- I even rubberneck so that I can watch her wellington boot-heels walk out of the restroom, pushing her mobile mop-bucket. To my consternation, there is still some dirt stuck to the base of her flat, rubber boot-heels. If only she had twisted her boots around when they were presented to my face, I could have filled my mouth with yet more of her rubbery-boot grime! I feel like inviting the surly and taciturn, black mistress to turn back, so that I may attend properly to her flat, rubber bootheels. But I bite my tongue – for, though it is always open to a rebellious-minded mistress to break the office rules and speak, albeit curtly and abruptly, to the ornamental footkissing-slave, the ornamental footkisser must never speak or answer back to a mistress, under pain of eternal banishment to the underground slave-mines. And if I’m banished to the slave-mines, I won’t get to taste and kiss the shoes and boots of my lovely office-mistresses any more – including the black rubber wellingtons of this portly, office cleaner-mistress!
Making Use of the Facilities by patheticus on GoAnimate
I love it when my blonde, dominant, deskmistress Donatella’s black cotton, bootcut trouser-hem gets stuck inside the top of her black leather, office ankleboot whilst she is seated at her desk. For it means that I – whilst kneeling beneath her chair and dutifully staring at the scuffmarked backs of her chunky-heeled boots – get to observe a slither of her manky, thick-ribbed, blue and red patterned, cotton socktop inside her upper bootrim, instead of just outer bootleather; truly a sight for sore footslave-eyes!
Scuffmarked, black anklebootleather, and manky blue and red socktop, on a dominant, blonde-girl’s boot underneath her office desk; I think life really doesn’t get any more exciting than that?
Well, not for me it doesn’t, anyway!
The question is – is it a deliberate, designer, fashion faux-pas, aimed at cruelly teasing my pathetic sockslave-passions? Or is it just an unfortunate and unintended, bootcut-trouser accident, which I am taking outrageous advantage of by secretly lusting after my dominant deskmistress’s, normally boot-hidden, inner, and most intimate, but now exposed sockwear? Something only her personal footslave should ever get to see, in the privacy of her own household?
Either way, I’m happy; though the thought that it may be deliberate cruelty on her part, makes me even happier. For I do so like a deliberately cruel dominant-bootmistress, who delights in furtively displaying her socks to a footslave’s face!
Petite and comely, fifty-something, non-hardworking, Indian-goddess, cleaner-mistress Anjana can't read or write, but she sure as hell knows how to whip, as she takes advantage of me during her night shift on my office-corridor, shoelick stall long after the office has closed.
As soon as her work is partially done, she sits herself down on the office-ladies' raised shoelick-chair of female power in front of which I am permanently tethered on my humble hands and knees, positions her black-suede-loafered and grey-and-red, sneaker-socked feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling nose, grabs hold of the office-use, whipping stick, and belabours me across my bare back and shoulders with it, pausing only to occasionally point with it to a particular area of Indian-cleaning-lady, loafer toe or socktop that she wishes my male-footwear-cleaning lips to diligently attend to!
Faded-beautiful, goddess-mistress Anjana is certainly full of her own self-worth, and is not shy about shying away from her own work in order to have me spruce up her dirty, nightshift footwear under the pain of the whipping stick; nor, despite her somewhat limited English, is she at all diffident about using derogatory language to goad and cajole me into licking harder on her shoes and socks, frequently referring to me as a 'dirty footpig'; an 'Indian-ledy's (sic) footwhore'; and a 'no-good foot flunkey, isn't it?'
I often wish, through my whip-pain, that I could be at her permanent back and call – crawling after her ubiquitous, flat, black-suede loafers and angular, grey-and-red-sneaker-socked heels beneath her equally ubiquitous, brown-ankleskin-revealing, ankle-length, black cotton leggings throughout the day, in the capacity of her personal footslave. For then I would get to serve not only her outer shoes and elasticated socktops, but also her bare feet as well as – holey of holies – the stinky, sweaty, reinforced toe-areas of her well-worn socks!
I think I might as well be her personal footservant, since everyone laughingly remarks upon her fiery-red whipmarks left on my back and shoulders overnight. If she owned me, she could whip me with complete abandonment and without having to worry about permanently damaging someone else's property!
Secretly, I'm hoping that when she retires, in about 5 years' time, the office manageress will donate me to her as a leaving present, so that I can eke out the rest of my days working hard at sniffing and licking her Indian-lady shoes and socks whilst she puts her feet up. For a footslave like me, of course, even though I am 10 years her senior, can never retire!
She’s an overweight, foul-mouthed, blonde-greasy-haired, 20-something skank in a dirty-white shellsuit and matching trainers, who demands respect from those around her – but who rarely gets it; except from me, of course – her local, sink-estate, public footslave. I have no choice but to show her the deepest respect, since she is my better, being young, free and female.
And so, as she swears like a female trooper into her illegally-unblocked mobile phone, cigarette hanging precariously out of the corner of her crooked mouth, and nonchalantly stretches forth her right, grubby-white, low-top, lace-up sneaker onto the well-used and weather-beaten, wooden footblock beneath my perpetually kneeling and bowed face, I do not baulk at the crud and the sink-estate dirt stuck to her sneaker-soles and surfaces – a heady mixture of walked-in fag ends; traces of cocaine; alcohol spillages; chewing gum; street-saliva; general street-mud; dead foliage; and used condom spendings – but rather I, quite literally, lap it all up, lest the overbearing owner and wearer of the cheap, non-designer, misshapen sneaker takes offence at me, and beats me mercilessly with the nearby, public-use whipping stick.
I even suck on the thick, grubby-white laces on her heavily street-soiled sneaker, in a vain attempt to curry favour with the curry-breathed, white-trash mistress above me – she who has absolute, public power over me, and must, therefore, be obeyed!
Only her grubby-white, yellow-duck themed, cartoon sneaker-sock – the upper elasticated-cotton rim of which is just visible along the top of her cheap-white-leather, sneaker instep until it disappears completely at an angle down the back of her sneaker – is off limits to me, largely because my mouth would risk at least partial contact with her superior, if pockmarked, bare feminine ankleskin were I to be foolish enough to try worshipful mouth-contact with her short sock! And a pure and clean-living mistress like this would certainly not want her bare footflesh above her sock sullied by the germ-laden mouth of a public footservant – especially not one that kisses and lickshines the dirty, boots and shoes of a whole host of other sink-estate women for a living, day in and day out!
One of the telephone-talkative, skank-mistress’s female friends, a fellow blonde-skank from the female sink-estate, approaches her, and remonstrates with her to ‘hurry the f*** up’ as she is, apparently, ‘dyin’ for a wee’!
I’m not sure why this secondary skank-mistress, who is equally overweight and overbearing – dressed as she is in a revealing, grubby-white, halter top; tight, red, ankle-length leggings; and a pretty pair of chunky, black plastic clogs on sweaty, bare feet – can’t ease her bladder independently, like any other self-respecting, fat, twenty year old, blonde woman?! Maybe she requires access to her friend’s nearby flat, as the public lavatories on this sink-state are, reputedly, ‘minging’?
But, whatever the cause of her sudden intervention, I am glad of it – as it means I get to observe close up and personal not one, but two decidedly skanky pairs of feminine footwear; one pair of grubby-white sneakers on my lips; and one pair of cheap, black plastic clogs standing impatiently nearby!
The fat, young, blonde woman in the sneakers subconsciously switches feet beneath me as she angrily shoos her fat, bothersome, blonde-girl friend in the black clogs away, and I watch the latter crease and fold with a mixture of despair and frustration, as their owner desperately tries to hold on to her young-skank-womanly dignity, as well as the contents of her urinary tract, whilst her friend selfishly insists on continuing with her potty-mouthed telephone conversation above me.
Eventually that fraught, phone conversation comes to an abrupt and sweary end, and the sneakers and clogs indulge in a further foul-mouthed, mutual slanging match as they turn to walk away from me. I am sad that both these sink-estate, fat-blonde ladies are now leaving me, as I have only had the privilege of tongue-attending to one of the two pairs of germy, female foot-attire that I might otherwise have been expected to attend to.
Still, I consider myself to be a very lucky public footslave to have even been in the presence of such auspicious, feminine beauty and sink-estate superiority, and I think I shall remember my encounter with those flavoursome and lived-in, grubby-white sneakers for a long time to come!
Honoured By Their Presence by patheticus on GoAnimate
‘How many times have you been forced to kiss my shoes and socks over the years, slave?’
The question, posed by my personal footmistress of some 15 years – 37 year old , blonde mistress Michelle – whilst I am in the vey process of kissing her black, single-strapped, low-heeled and round-toed, mary-jane style shoes and matching, black anklesocks beneath her black cotton trouser-hems – takes me somewhat by surprise; not least because it’s almost impossible to answer! I haven’t exactly been keeping count of my copious kisses to her feet and footwear over the years! (maybe I should have been?)
But I suppose I can hazard a guess:
‘Erm…including these current footkisses, mistress, I think maybe about 500,000 times mistress, if it pleases you most merciful mistress Michelle, madam?’
Her black, cotton, ribbed sock on her outstretched, right foot creases and folds with delight beneath my lips.
‘And how many times have you been whipped during that same period?’
Wow! Yet again – I’ve not been keeping count! It’s difficult to keep count when you’re writhing in agony at the whipping post! But I reckon that, for every kiss to her feet, I must have received about 0.3 lashes. By which I mean, I am whipped fewer times than I must kiss feet – about a third less, I would guestimate. So, if my reckoning is correct, that must make about 166,600 lashes over the past 15 years!
‘Oh pray, mistress Michelle madam, if it pleases you, mistress Michelle madam, this slave would estimate that he has been whipped upwards of 166,000 times by your fair hands, mistress.’
‘Hmm…It’s no wonder I’m bored with you, then, slave! I’m sick and tired of your wrinkly old mouth on my shoes and socks, and the sight and sound of your scrawny old, bare back being whipped! I’m going to get myself a new slave!’
My heart sinks, for I myself am far from being ‘bored’ with either the taste and smell of my pretty, blonde mistress’s shoes and socks, or the sting of her whip!
‘Oh pray, mistress! Oh pity pray, mistress Michele madam! But what will happen to me, mistress?’
She laughs at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry, slave – you can stay in the basement, sniffing and kissing my old, disused boots, shoes and socks. I just don’t want to have you under my feet anymore! You’re ugly and you bore me! I want a younger, fitter model!
‘Yes mistress! I understand, mistress Michele Madam! Oh thank you, most merciful and considerate mistress Michelle madam! Thank you for not casting me out of your home into the wilderness, pretty mistress!’
And I do understand her young-womanly point of view! I am some twenty-five years her senior, and she is perfectly entitled to look for a ‘younger model’ of personal, household footslave to be with her feet. It is only right and proper that an ugly old footslave like me should eventually be consigned to her shoe-cupboard basement!
Ironically, I kiss her mary-jane shoes and black socks on her feet a further 1000 times in humble gratitude for not being sent to the underground slave-mines – the place where most disused slaves are condemned to live out their last days when they have outlived their footslave-usefulness! At least, in my blonde mistress Michele’s household basement, I shall still have all the sacred memories of her feet and footwear surrounding me, and I shall be able to continue kissing them and paying my labial respects to them – hopefully yet further hundreds of thousands of times!
Plus, if I’m very lucky, she may occasionally pop down to the basement and whip me in the semi-darkness, when she won’t have to look upon my wizened old back!
The happy, young, twenty-something, black couple are sizing me up at the slave-market. I think they are minded to purchase me as a personal footslave for the young lady, but first I must convince them of my good and honourable, footslave intentions!
I lower my kneeling lips to her beige-brown, laced-up, combat boots, and shower them in respectful kisses, along with her fully-pulled-up, navy-blue, ribbed anklesocks over her pale-grey leggings. But I can still detect an air of female scepticism on her pretty, black face – along with a similar look of suspicion on her handsome, black partner’s face. And so I resort to verbal fawning, as taught to me in the footslave training-college:
‘Oh pray pretty, black mistress; oh pray manly, black master-sir; if it pleases you black mistress and black master; truly this humble footslave would be honoured to serve at the young woman’s feet, master and mistress, and to take care of all her boots, shoes and socks, master-sir and mistress-madam. For you are this slave’s betters, master and mistress, and the mistress’s feet, shoes and socks are better than him also, mistress and master! Oh pray, master-sir – I promise that I will never look at the pretty mistress above her ankles, master-sir! Oh pray, mistress, even your shapely, bare black legs shall be out of bounds to me, mistress, as I will be your loyal foot-servant only, madam! Oh pray, master! Oh pray, mistress! Please take me, and whip me at the mistress’s feet, sir and madam! Make me obedient to you, master and mistress, I humbly beg of you! Oh pray, master! Oh do, mistress!’
Several hundred kisses later to her beige combat boots and dark blue socks – and a few test whipstrokes later to my bare back (courtesy of the market-trader’s whip) – and I appear to have successfully sold myself to the handsome, young couple. Money changes hands, and I am yanked away to crawl behind my new black mistress’s flat, combat-boot heels by means of a chain around my neck which is attached to her belt. The backs of her ribbed, blue anklesocks crease and fold in front of my footslave-forehead as I obediently crawl to dusty, booted heel behind her.
Now all I have to do is live up to this dominant, black couple’s high expectations of me – for I have subsequently overheard that I am being purchased on a purely trial basis!
Shopping For Slave by patheticus on GoAnimate
As I humbly kiss the 20-something, dark-haired, young white woman’s rounded and scuffmarked, white-rubbery toe – belonging to her arrogantly outstretched, black and white, low-top, lace-up, canvas sneaker – her black and white anklesock sock appears to be laughing at me!
The white bit at the front of the main body of the sock – below the elasticated top part – has a motif of a grinning face on it; and it is staring straight at me – smilingly; laughingly; mockingly! Not only that – it is literally creased up with laughter at me, as the outstretched positioning of the young woman’s foot has caused the white cotton sock-material around the face to crease and fold in several places; so much so that the sock-face even appears to be turning its nose up at me – like I was the stinky one!
It is clearly a female sock – as it contains a fetching, pink bow on the elasticated, black upper; so I’m guessing that’s precisely why it is laughing at me. I think it – sorry she – is celebrating female power over the male; it (she) is celebrating the fact that my male mouth is obliged to hold its tongue and worship-kiss in public the strong-smelling, street-soiled, rubbery toe-area of its (her) mistress’s covering, converse sneaker. The female sock is laughing at me because I am so weak and pathetic; and fearful – fearful of an essentially inanimate sneaker and sock, even though both items of footwear do contain movement, and are doubtless full of the pretty, young, dark-haired woman’s superior, feminine foot bacteria!
And as for her grubby-white, sneaker laces – well, it’s almost as if they have their fingers crossed that I’m about to be whipped!
Yes, I am nothing but the timorous, male slave of this outstretched, female sneaker and sock – and I clearly must be a something of a public curiosity, as a giggling, passing, Japanese tourist girl and her boyfriend take pictures on their mobile phones of me kissing the young white woman’s sneaker-toe, and being mocked by her sock!
I have no business staring out to the open sea and the windfarms beyond my mistress’s red-cherry-patterned, black anklesocks and plain, black ballet-flats as she sits on the edge of the harbour wall, snogging her manly boyfriend above me.
Just as I have no business looking up at her soft, bare, white-skinned calf-muscles beneath her calf-length, black cotton leggings.
I think my job – in my capacity as her personal footslave – is simply to stare at her black leather ballet-flats and short anklesocks; and admire them; and pick a single, red cherry amongst the plethora of cherry-motifs adorning her otherwise black anklesocks; and count the number of red stitches in that single cherry; and not get angry and frustrated when her sock subliminally creases over that chosen cherry, so that I am obliged to start my meticulous sock-stitch counting all over again – but rather internally praise and bless my mistress for subliminally moving her sock as she melts into the master-sir’s loving embrace above me, thereby making my humble life much more difficult!
I must remember that I am a very lucky slave – for not every footslave gets to cherry-pick his personal footmistress’s socks!
I must make sure to mind the gap between my mistress’s heavily-buckled and chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboot, and her blue and white striped kneesock, as I temporarily bury my nose in the top of her boot.
For I think my boot and sock sniffing nose is in mortal danger of being trapped inside that boot; all it would take is a sudden movement of my mistress Joanna’s lower leg, and my nose would be sorely squashed between her plain, inner boot lining on the one side, and her stripy, cotton sock-lining on the other.
And that just wouldn’t do – for the squeeze on my nose might cause me to sneeze, thus sullying the side of my mistress’s socked leg and her inner boot. And the penalty for that is, quite rightly, 1000 lashes!
And so I carefully dip my nose in and out of my mistress’s open boot-top, lest it be buried alive!
Mind you, the rewards are great – the smell of clammy, warm feminine-bootsweat, mixed in with the aroma of fresh, stripy kneesock-cotton. It would almost be worth getting buried alive in there!
I think that, to be the personal footslave of a pasty-white and pockmarked, thin and wan, greasy-blonde-haired, chain-smoking, drugs-addled, twenty-something, skank mistress, is actually a blessing in disguise!
For, to be forced to kneel amidst the empty crisp packets, pizza boxes and used condoms on her bedsitter floor, with one’s unworthy face next to her scuffmarked, chunky-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboots and accompanying, grubby, lacy-white anklesocks whilst she bares her breasts on her webcam for paying freemen the world over to leer at, is nothing more than an honour and a privilege for the likes of lowly, old me.
That’s because, for all her skankiness, my skank-mistress Lisa is still a much better person than me – being young, free and female; and it thrills me to the core to know that her lacy, off-white socktops hide a multitude of much more serious sock-dirt and griminess deep inside those street-soiled boots (for example, her frilly, white anklesocks have blackened bottoms, no matter how much I strive to suck-clean them); and that I shall eventually be ordered to sniff those dirty, white socks when she finally kicks off her dirty boots later this evening – shortly after she has scored, no doubt.
Equally, it thrills me to know that – whilst my skank-mistress Lisa will happily have sexual congress with any free man, however old and ugly, who is willing to pay the price, she would never even so much as look at me in a sexual manner. That’s because I am much too lowly a being for her to ever contemplate sleeping with me. Even if I had any money, she would rather rob me at knifepoint than indulge in sexual relations with me! For I am beneath her – in every sense of the word – and she, quite rightly given her own beauty and attractiveness, cannot help but find me deeply unattractive.
No – my role in her superior life is to kneel admiringly by her booted and socked feet, and to mouthwash those dirty boots, socks and feet to order whenever she so pleases. I am basically just her feet and sock washing-machine, and her human ankleboot-cleaner. Oh – and also, on regular occasions, I serve as her court whipping-boy, since, by law, I must be the one to suffer on her superior, feminine behalf any punishments handed down to my personal skank-footmistress by the Female Courts for her many crimes (such as shoplifting, burglary and prostitution)!
Everyone, including the female magistrates she is frequently up before (and with whom she often socialises) congratulates her on her cruel neglect and mistreatment of me as evidenced, for example, by my festering whip-wounds, and they urge her not to have my open sores medically treated; indeed, her friends and magistrates will often add to my pain and discomfort by joining my skank-mistress in drunkenly pouring their leftover wine onto my wounds whilst they are out socialising with her in the pub, and that really stings! Her mates also urge her to make me continuously kiss her scuzzy, black leather ankleboots, and to nose her lacy, off-white, anklesock tops, whilst I am kneeling in pain at her bar-stool feet.
Even complete strangers, male and female, have been known to come up to her in the street, and congratulate her on my emaciated and whip-scarred appearance! (My skank-mistress Lisa uses a thick-girthed, black leather, bulls-pizzle whip to lash out at me – a gift from her social worker – and it leaves thick weals and bruises all over my bare back and shoulders). It also amuses them when they see that she has left one of her drug-needles stuck in my arm. My mistress Lisa frequently injects her dirty, used needles into my arms – not, I hasten to add, in order to share any of her precious heroin with me, but purely to cause me pain and alarm, since she knows I'm frightened of needles, and, of course, I also run the risk of catching a number of deeply unpleasant diseases (already I suffer from hepatitis B, even though I've never had sexual intercourse with anyone!). Oftentimes, my forgetful mistress Lisa will carelessly leave one of her dirty 'punishment' needles stuck into my arm overnight, but I am never allowed to remove it myself, since only my mistress herself is authorised to prick and unprick me; my maleslave body is not my own!
And so, to sum up, I am her lacy-sock washer and nuzzler; her black leather ankleboot licker; her feet cleaner; her mistreated and badly abused whipping-boy; her diseased pin-cushion prick; and her badge of sweet feminine cruelty.
And she is my skank-goddess, whom I fear and respect very much!
