Footoire Flunkey
Footoire: An outdoor cubicle, normally roofless and with tin walls (i.e. similar to a French ‘pissoir’) where ladies can have their dirty, street shoes and boots lickshined by a public footslave in some degree of privacy
I am just a lowly, city-centre, footoire-flunkey, and these are some of my humble experiences:
The first thing I have to do when a beautiful, blonde-ponytailed, skank-mistress walks into my inner city footoire, is show her some respect – by kissing her grubby-white, laced-up, high-top, converse sneakers beneath the elasticated hems of her blue-luminous, shellsuit bottoms, whilst all the while admiring the slither of nominally-white, cotton sock that is on view just above her frayed sneaker rims.
The second thing I have to do is beg her not to hurt me – either by kicking me in the face; or by stubbing out her cigarette on me; or by cutting me with the public-use, whipping stick that hangs over my head on the dirty footoire wall behind me.
The third thing I have to do is politely solicit her orders – does she require me to respectfully tongueshine her street-soiled sneakers? Or to suck the street dirt and grime out of her yellowing, and in places browning, white sneaker-laces? Or to discreetly straighten, and then nuzzle, her white sneaker-sock tops?
The fourth thing I have to do, whilst attending to her footwear in whatever manner she has instructed, is obsequiously praise and bless her for honouring me with her superior female presence, and to congratulate her on her evident recent success in divesting some hapless freemale of his wallet, as she brazenly, and shamelessly, counts her ill-gotten gains above me, shielded from the prying eyes of the Female Police by my graffiti-stained, dark and dingy, footoire walls!
The fifth thing I have to do, immediately after I have finished mouth-attending to her dirty, street footwear, is apologise for the smell of stale urine in my dirty footoire (which emanates from the piss left by various drunken freemales last night), and to invite the beautiful, blonde skank-mistress to come again, and use me again whenever she sees fit.
The sixth thing I have to do, after she has left the footoire, is strain my neck downwards and forwards as far as my chains will allow, in order to lap up the spit she has kindly deposited on the dirty ground next to my kneeling face, and then scoop up with my mouth, and swallow, her still-hot, discarded, cigarette butt lying next to her superior, female spit – and in that specific order, for it would be inappropriate for me to use the blonde skank-mistress’s spit to somehow soothe the burns caused by her cigarette butt in my mouth, or to wash away the dry taste of her skanky cigarette ash.
Yes – I am always on my best behaviour whenever a blonde-ponytailed, shellsuit-wearing, white-sneakered-and-socked, skank mistress enters my humble footoire, for she is like a princess visiting the dungeons!
The two stunningly beautiful, dark-haired, but slightly drunken, young women – one Japanese; one Pakistani by ethnicity – enter my city-centre footoire arm in arm, and somewhat unsteadily.
They are both dressed for the office, in smart, black cotton trousersuits, and have clearly been out drinking after work.
It is the Japanese girl who steps up to my footblock first, stretching forth her pointy-toed, spiky-heeled, patent black leather ankleboot for me to lickshine beneath her. Her boot wobbles on its axis, thanks to her state of alcohol-induced unsteadiness, but my experienced, footoire tongue still manages to get good purchase on the mud-stained instep of her right boot (it has been raining – both outside and inside my footoire-booth, since my humble booth has no roof!)
Her Pakistani friend – the shorter of the two – laughs heartily as I lickshine black, oriental-girl bootleather, prompting the Japanese girl to gently rib me:
‘Ha! Ha! I think my friend Zahda actually quite fancies you, dirty slave! Ha! Ha! Will you please be her boyfriend? Ha! Ha! Ha!’
Miss Zahda – as I now know to be her name – creases up in a fit of girlish giggling, before managing to blurt out the words:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t be silly, Kimiko! He’s, like, much too old for me, and that! Ha! Ha! He’s, like, even too old for you, and that, innit though? Ha! Ha!’
And with that miss Zahda drunkenly lights up a cigarette.
Not a practising Muslim girl, then?! Indeed, like her Japanese counterpart, very much ‘gynarchised’!
Miss Kimiko – also not a practising Muslim girl; nor a practising Buddhist girl – protests at her Pakistani friend’s peremptory dismissal of the whole idea of having an amorous relationship with me – the dirty, middle-aged, public footoire-servant:
‘Oh I don’t know, Zahda! I mean, he could at least satisfy all your dirty boots and shoes, and that! Give them a good tonguing, and that, innit though? Ha! Ha!’
I am certainly honoured to be ‘giving good tongue’ right now to miss Kimiko’s pointy, black leather, Japanese ankleboot! Like her, it is stunningly beautiful, if a little street-soiled, jaded and the worse for wear – and most pleasingly of all I can just see the twisted, elasticated top of her plain, black anklesock beneath her flapping, slightly hitched-up, smart, business-suit, trouser hem!
But miss Zahda is having none of it:
‘Ha! Ha! F**k off, Kimiko! He’s like, old, ugly and weird, and that! Ha! Ha! Imagine gettin’ off on lickin’ women’s dirty boots and shoes, and that? Ha! Ha! What a f***in’ weirdo!’
‘Ha! Ha! How do you know he gets off on it, though? He might not like it, though?’
‘Ha! Ha! Well, ask him then, innit? Ask him iffin he’s gettin’ off on lickshinin’ your filfy boot, and that, though, Kimiko?’
Miss Kimiko does indeed ask me that very pertinent question, and I respond truthfully, though. I tell her that my pleasure is purely cerebral, though, as I am but an impotent footslave, though, and comes only in serving the mistress, and in seeing to it that when she deigns to leave my humble footoire-abode her boots are clean and sparkling, and that. I then go on to, respectfully, offer to clean her friend, miss Zahda’s black leather pumps (which, I notice, she is wearing with some dark, intriguingly-patterned , nylon tights beneath her black cotton, trouser hems) whilst apologising to miss Zahda for my maleslavish impotence, and my consequent inability to be her sexual partner, should she even wish for such a lowly thing!
Miss Zahda – relieved, I think, to be off the hook, as it were – laughs heartily at me, and, after I have finished lickshining both her Japanese friend’s black leather ankleboots, drops her cigarette butt in front of my face and extinguishes it on the ground beneath me by twisting her right, Pakistani-girl, black leather shoesole directly over it, causing her flowery-patterned, dark nylon stocking to crease and fold most delectably in front of my suitably downcast eyes.
And they remain downcast as miss Zahda turns to walk away from me, still arm in arm with her Japanese friend, and without even having her court shoe lickshined. She clearly can’t stand the sight of me – not even when she’s drunk!
And so another young woman casually walks out of my life, leaving me with only the sight of her butt – her red-lipstick-stained, cigarette butt. I really must try to cut down on these; they can’t be doing my stomach any good!
What’s that you say – maybe they’re both lesbians? Nah – miss Zahda simply despises me. I’m sure she likes real men; as does her work-colleague miss Kimiko. And rightly so – for I’m not good enough for either of them. I’m just a dirty, public footslave!
Miss Kimiko: I think my friend, Zahda, actually quite fancies you, dirty slave! Will you please be her boyfriend?
Miss Zahda: Don’t be silly, Kimiko! He’s, like, much too old for me, and that! Innit though?
The tall and handsome free man has no qualms whatsoever about leaving his beautiful, leggy-blonde girlfriend alone in the late night, city-centre footoire with me, having her brown leather, blocky-heeled, chisel-toed kneeboots lickshined. For he knows I am no threat to him, and his manliness!
I’m just a down in the dirt, public footoire servant – fit only to lick the street dirt and grime off his ‘babe’s’ boots while he nips outside the footoire for a filthy fag. And he knows that’s exactly how his beautiful, blonde girlfriend views me – as a filthy fag.
Moreover, just like his dirty, cigarette smoke, she clearly can’t stand the smell of me; I can sense her holding her pretty, white, pointy nose as she looks down at me through it!
This superior, young woman wouldn’t even let me so much as nose-touch her finest-denier, tan-coloured nylons, which shimmer above me under the footoire spotlight and, above her upper, brown leather kneeboot-rims. The clever, free man is quite right – his ‘bird’ is perfectly safe alone with me in this footoire!
And besides – I’m kneeling, impotent and in chains!
The fat, Indian, uniformed, security-guard mistress with her black hair tied back into a fetching ponytail, seems very cold towards me as I lickshine her right, blocky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, uniform ankleboot beneath her thick woolly, navy-blue uniform tights and knee-length, navy-blue uniform skirt in my public footoire booth. She is dismissive of me, both in her unsmiling and haughty demeanour, and through her coughing and sneezing all over me!
She makes no attempt to politely cover her pretty, Indian-girl mouth whilst she is coughing and spluttering above me – and nor should she; I'm just a slave – and not worthy of such considerateness on the part of a superior female.
I can feel her mucus-spray on my kneeling, bare back and shoulders every time she sneezes all over me – but that too is perfectly acceptable. Better the cold slime of her snot than the hot sting of her whip!
I expect, in any case, that I shall catch her cold as a consequence of my intimate, oral contact with her female, security-guard ankleboots. They look well-worn and used, and must surely be seeped in her flu-virus-infected, feminine DNA – even on the outsides where my tongue has been!
Indeed, if I do catch her cold, I should feel honoured – for her superior, female virus will have crossed species into my inferior, maleslave body, and I should feel privileged to be carrying her superior, feminine germs! My only concern would be if they mutate back again and infect my other female customers – spread via the vehicle of my germ-ridden, male tongue onto their outer footwear. That would be unforgivable – and sure to get me sent to the underground slave-mines for the rest of my miserable existence!
So, for that reason – and for that reason alone – I must at least try to remain healthy. A public footoire-servant can't afford to be ill, if he wishes to remain in his job. He has too much work to do – and nobody feels any sympathy for a footoire-slave with a dose of manservant-flu; they just despise him even more!
And so I silently pray to the goddesses for natural, maleslave immunity to this fat, young Indian woman's superior, female viruses as I must lick away yet more of her gooey, germ-laden, mucus spray off the exteriors of her dirty, black leather ankleboots.
It tastes bitter.
Regular footoire-mistress, miss Paramjit – the beautiful and slender, thirty-something, Indian banker-mistress with the short, dark hair and smartly-tailored business suits – literally just pops her pretty head round into my footoire and chucks a plastic carrier-bag full of her dirty, office shoes and boots over towards where I am busy kneeling and attending to the outstretched, black leather ankleboot of another, blonde, businesswoman-mistress:
'Sorry, slave – I know you are being incredibly busy, but I am needing these boots and shoes to be tongueshined by 5 o'clock this evening! I will be picking them up on my way home from work, isn't it? Make sure they are being ready for me, or I will be having you soundly whipped!'
And with that she's gone – in an Indian flash!
I apologise, on behalf of miss Paramjit, to the blonde customer-mistress currently standing in front of me (not a regular) for the rude interruption to her semi-private bootshining session in my city-centre footoire, but she just laughs it off:
'Ha! Ha! No apology necessary, slave! You'd better just make sure that you do a good job on that Indian lady's boots and shoes, or it sounds like you'll be getting a taste of her whip this evening! Ha! Ha! Now get back to work on my boots, please, or I'll warm your back with the whip myself! Ha! Ha!'
Sorry! ...Please!... Both these mistresses are being so polite with me! And yet so simultaneously demanding – they expect their dirty boots to be lickshined to perfection, whether they are wearing them or not at the time!
I shall add miss Paramjit's bag of old boots to my 'call and collect' pile – and bump them up to the front of the queue; for I don't want to be whipped by a busy, flustered, Indian businesswoman!
Nor do I wish to be whipped by a beautiful, young, blonde businesswoman, whose name and background I don't know, and so I get on with diligently lickshining her business boots as well – in her case whilst she is still wearing them!
No rest for the wimpish!
Some of my footoire customer-mistresses don’t actually come into my footoire to have their shoes or boots lickshined (even though they could often do with it). They merely wish to ‘stand on ceremony’, and have their feet kissed and worshipped.
Occasional customer-mistress Tasweer – a Pakistani businesswoman-mistress in her early fifties with slightly greying hair, and a fondness for wearing stylish, feminine-white, salwar-kameez trousersuits along with her traditional, Pakistani-Muslim-woman headscarf – is a classic example of one such mistress. She merely wishes me to kiss her chunky-heeled, round-toed, slip-on, black leather shoes and to thus show her some respect.
In particular, she is very conscious of social status, and loves hearing me verbally fawn and grovel to her – though, being her social inferior, she also requires me to speak only when spoken to, and thus my verbal sycophancy resembles a kind of catechism, with me answering her rhetorical questions in a very formulaic manner, all whilst kissing her outstretched, street-soiled, black leather shoe and her warm, black cotton, businesslike anklesock, beneath her haughtily hitched-up, white cotton, salwar trouser hem:
‘Am I being better than you, dirty footoire slave?’
‘Oh pray mistress Tasweer…kiss to black leather female shoe-toe…kiss to black leather female shoe-toe…kiss to black leather female shoe-toe…if it pleases you, mistress Tasweer…kiss to black leather female shoe-instep…kiss to black leather female shoe-instep…kiss to black leather female shoe-instep …truly you are better than this dirty, lowlife, public-footoire slave, madam…kiss to black leather female shoe-heel …kiss to black leather female shoe-heel …kiss to black leather female shoe-heel …being a beautiful…kiss to finely-stitched black cotton female anklesock…and kind… kiss to finely-stitched black cotton female anklesock …magnificent…kiss to finely-stitched black cotton female anklesock …young woman, mistress…kiss to black leather female shoe-toe…kiss to black leather female shoe-instep …kiss to black leather female shoe-heel…’
‘And are you being honoured by my presence in your dirty footoire, slave?’
‘Oh pray mistress Tasweer… kiss to finely-stitched, black anklesock crease…kiss to finely stitched, black anklesock crease… if it pleases you Pakistani goddess-mistress, mistress Tasweer madam… kiss to scuffmarked black leather shoe-toe…kiss to black leather scuffmarked shoe-toe… truly this slave feels blessed and honoured to be in presence of such goddesshood, madam…. kiss to finely-stitched anklesock crease …kiss to finely-stitched anklesock crease… as that of the divine, Pakistani mistress, madam… kiss to finely-stitched anklesock crease…kiss to finely-stitched anklesock crease… Even your sock is better than me, madam…kiss to finely-stitched, black sock crease…kiss to finely-stitched, black sock crease…kiss to finely-stitched, black sock crease…’
‘And are you being frightened of me, dirty footoire slave?’
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Tasweer… nervous kiss to dirty shoe-side…nervous kiss to dirty shoe-side…nervous kiss to dirty shoe-side… Oh pray!... nervous kiss to creased black sock-side…nervous kiss to creased black sock-side… Truly this slave fears the beautiful and elegant, Pakistani mistress-madam, mistress Tasweer… nervous kiss to dirty shoe-side…nervous kiss to creased black sock-side… for you have the female power of life and living death over him, mistress… nervous kiss to creased black sock-side…nervous kiss to creased black sock-side… as you can banish him to the underground slave-mines, mistress… nervous kiss to creased black sock-side…nervous kiss to creased black sock-side… with a mere click of your feminine, Pakistani fingers, most esteemed and high-class mistress-madam… nervous kiss to dirty black leather shoe-side…nervous kiss to dirty black leather shoe-side…nervous kiss to dirty black leather shoe-side…’
That last piece of unctuousness may be a slight exaggeration on my part – goddess-mistress Tasweer would have to fill out several forms before being able to have me consigned to the underground slave-mines, since I perform a useful, public service. But, be in no doubt, my fate is always at my customer-mistresses’ hands – or, more accurately, at their feet; for, if I fail to please, I can easily be replaced.
There are hundreds more public-footslaves just waiting in the wings for the chance to fawn and grovel at the feet of beautiful, sharp-suited, Pakistani businesswomen-goddesses such as stuck-up, middle-aged, goddess-mistress Tasweer!
I am being better than you, dirty slave! Fear me, and worship me, or I will be having you harshly whipped, isn’t it?
Regular footoire-mistress Sandra – whom I quite fancy as she is a beautiful, slim and svelte, young brunette woman – is over the moon; for she has just fallen for a new boyfriend, whom she apparently met at an office party over the weekend (I was working – here in my dirty footoire – all weekend; as I must do every weekend, and every weekend. I don’t get to go to parties, being a public footslave!)
She stands there eulogising her absent boyfriend (in between taking drags on her cigarette) as I dutifully lickshine her outstretched, black leather, blocky-heeled and pointy-toed, office ankleboot beneath her helpfully hitched-up, grey-pinstriped, trouser hem (thereby exposing her twisted, black cotton socktop to my mesmerized face!)
‘Ha! Ha! My new boyfriend Robert is everything you’re not, dirty footoire slave! He’s as handsome, as you are ugly; he’s as clever, as you are thick; he’s as eloquent, as you are dumb; he’s as strong, as you are weak; he’s as virile, as you are impotent – and he satisfies my every sexual need! Ha! Ha! That’s why he gets to lick my nice, warm, soft body, and you only get to lick my cold, dirty boots! Ha! Ha!’
She haughtily switches booted feet beneath my face at this point (again hitching up her grey-pinstriped, trouser hem to reveal her untidy, black cotton bootsock-top), so I take the opportunity to verbally congratulate regular customer-mistress Sandra on her latest, male conquest:
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Sandra! Oh many congratulations, goddess-mistress Sandra. This slave is truly happy for the mistress, in finding such a magnificent man, madam!’
I mean it. I am pleased for her – for, even though I too fancy her, I am in no position to ever be her sexual or romantic partner, being a mere down-in-the-dirt, boot and shoelicking public footservant! At least master Robert sounds like he has prospects (and a working penis!)
Customer-mistress Sandra happily laughs out loud at me:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, he is magnificent, and, if and when I introduce him to you, you will show him some respect! You will not only address him as ‘master Robert sir’; you will kiss your wooden footblock after he has stood on it! I know it’s illegal for you to actually kiss another man’s foot, but you can at least kiss the ground he has been walking on, so to speak, since he is a better man than you’ll ever be! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress madam... bootlick…bootlick…I will obey you, mistress Sandra madam... bootlick… bootlick… It will indeed be my honour and privilege to kiss the dirt where master Robert sir has been standing, madam…bootlick…boot-zipper lick… for he is your virile, sexual partner, madam, and therefore a much better man than me, mistress Sandra madam…. boot-zipper lick…boot-zipper lick…’
I decide to go further; strike whilst the iron is hot, so to speak:
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Sandra madam… bootlick…bootlick… brush of nose against top of sock… Please will you also have master Robert sir whip me in your presence, madam?...brush of nose against top of sock…brush of nose against top of sock… For truly that would teach this dirty, footoire slave some manners and respect… bootlick…boot-zipper lick… in the face of genuine masculinity, mistress- madam?... bootlick…bootlick…bootheel-lick…’
Customer-mistress Sandra ponders my self-deprecating proposal:
‘Mmm… I might just do that, bootboy! Ha! Ha! Now shut up, and get on with lickshining my boots! I want my boots to be nice and sparkling for the master sir!’
‘Yes, mistress Sandra madam. At once, mistress Sandra madam!...bootlick…bootlick…bootlick…’
At least I can be part of her foreplay – warming her up, and beautifying her still further, for the mighty master-sir!
And I get to swallow her red-hot, discarded cigarette butt!
‘Do you think God wants me to make you lick my shoes clean, slave?’
It’s a somewhat surprising question – coming completely out of the blue – as I am lickshining regular Sunday-mistress, miss Abigail’s, leopard-skin-print ballet flats beneath her pure white anklesock-tops and elasticated, red cotton leggings on her way home from church.
She is a truly delightful, young black woman in her early twenties, and I certainly wouldn’t wish to lose her as a customer-mistress, even if she does only make an appearance in my humble, city-centre footoire but once a week! But she is clearly wrestling with her conscience, and so I must think on her feet if I am to secure her continued custom, and the concomitant, ultra-pleasing view of her soft, black footflesh beneath the somewhat creased stitching of her fine, white cotton socks:
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Abigail; if it pleases you, goddess-mistress Abigail; it must surely be so, mistress-madam? For, is it not written in the Scriptures, ‘Slaves, obey your masters?’ And you are my master, mistress, and I am your public footslave, miss; and you have just ordered me to lickshine your leopard-skin, ballet flats madam; therefore it must be God’s will that I obey you, mistress-madam?’
She seems reassured by my, admittedly tenuous, theological argument; relaxes; and orders me to lickshine a particularly dirty street-stain off the side of her right ballet-flat, creasing the side of her Sunday-white anklesock even more as she twists her foot around on my footoire footblock in order to afford my tongue even easier access to the offending mud.
Praise be!
You’ve heard of a ‘dickhead’?
Well, in my country – the Gynarchy of Barbaria – we have ‘shoeheads’ – footslaves who must suffer from the added indignity of having a female shoe welded to the top of their head (pointing backwards)!
It’s a generic term, and for the footslave-shoehead thus humiliatingly adorned it signifies:
· That he is perennially oppressed beneath the sweet feminine foot
· That he is permanently lower than the female foot
· That he can have nothing but the female foot, quite literally, on his pathetic, footslave mind
It can be ignominiously applied to the head of any public, or private, footslave. And it isn’t necessarily, a spike-heeled, female shoe (or boot) – the traditional symbol of female power – that adorns the shoehead’s risible head; in my case, for example, it is a scruffy-looking, well-used, pink converse, high-top sneaker – with the tatty, dirty white laces dangling down by the side of my temples like mini-white whips.
I suppose I am, technically, a ‘footoire-shoehead’ (or ‘footoire-sneakerhead’) to give me my full title (or fool-title), as I work in a public footoire, and boy do I suffer mightily from being thus permanently oppressed by a grungy, feminine sneaker! For not only must I be the subject of constant male and female ridicule:
‘How would you like me to slip my stinky, pink-socked foot inside your pink and white sneaker-head, sneakerhead-boy?’
I would, actually, much prefer to be known as an ‘ankleboot-head’ – for my particular footslave-penchant has always been for chunky-heeled, zip-up, black leather, feminine ankleboots . I would actually wear a female ankleboot on top of my ugly, maleslave head with a degree of foot-foolish pride, and positively invite my smartly-dressed, businesswomen customer-mistresses to slip their dainty, but sweaty, black-socked feet inside my boothead!
But having a dirty, grubby, ex-student-girl sneaker on top of my lowly head is nothing but shameful; it makes me feel grubby and cheap; and it’s just humiliating in the extreme!
I love Friday afternoons. My city centre footoire is awash with tired, and well-worn, female, office ankleboots at the end of the long, working week, wearily making their way home – and stopping by for a quick, reinvigorating lick and a shine before they get kicked off at home and replaced by their, often slinkier and spikier, weekend counterparts (worn to please their owners’ freemale boyfriends; or perhaps to pull a mate!)
But I prefer the no-nonsense, no-fun, clunky-heeled and businesslike, workday office boots! I guess they’re just what I’m most used to, being a footoire-slave in the busy business district of the Female city:
· Mainly black leather ankleboots, with block or wedged heels
· Boots that are well creased in the leather, and individually moulded to the contours of their female owners’ office feet and ankles
· Boots with grey scuffmarks
· Boots with brown mudstains on the blocky, back heels
· Boots worn with predominantly dark anklesocks; or oftentimes dark socks with pretty, pastel-coloured, or perhaps even brightly-coloured, decorations in the stitching – pink pansies; yellow daffodils; red lipsticks; white sheep; purple handbags; pink piglets. Basically anything that makes the dark socks look more sensual and feminine than male socks, not that anyone really cares about, or gets to see, the exclusively feminine sock logos, apart from me – the public bootlicker; and even then only because the office lady has deigned to hitch up her black cotton, office trouser-hem on her outstretched foot, in order to afford my bootlicking tongue access to the uppermost rim of her fully zipped-up, black leather ankleboot!
· Occasional non-conformist, office boots – such as ugg-boots; or snakeskin boots; or synthetic moonboots (though always still black, or at least suitably dark-coloured); worn, presumably, because they are more comfortable than ordinary, leather boots on the soft, feminine feet all day? God only knows the colour and texture of female sock inside such warm, oversized boots; sadly, it must remain a sweet feminine mystery!
But be they leather, or sheepskin; synthetic or snakeskin; clean or dirty; I honour and respect them all – for they are the chosen boots of my female betters who are heading home for a well-earned rest; and probably some sex; leaving me with nothing but their bitter boot-taste in my mouth! The taste of failure; the taste of impotence; the taste of loneliness – until they reappear on Monday morning on their glorious way into work, and formally brighten up my pitiful life again, after a weekend of wearily lickshining casual, off duty sneakers and boringly bland, black leather ballet-flats!
I sometimes wish I was an exclusive, 9-5, Monday to Friday, public bootoire-slave, rather than a commonplace, 24/7 public footoire-slave!
