Footslave Furniture

No self-respecting Gynarchy household would be without its various items of footslave-furniture.

Let’s take the typical and ordinary-everyday household of three sassy and arrogant, but incredibly beautiful, black women – divorcee Madam Althea (45) and her two grown-up daughters, miss Tanesa (22) and miss Precious (19) – as an example.

Human furniture (in some quarters referred to as ‘subhuman’, or ‘submissive human’ furniture) is not normally permitted to speak – but for the purposes of this documentary the male footslaves concerned have been granted a special dispensation:

 

The Human Doormat:

On entering Madam Althea’s humble abode the first item of male-human furniture you will encounter, if you are a woman, is the human-doormat on which to wipe your feet.

Let’s hear from him (or rather it):

‘My black madame and her two daughters are very sociable and have lots of fellow-black friends, who visit their home on a regular basis.

Madame is very fastidious about the cleanliness of her house, and so she politely insists that each and every one of her female guests wipe their feet on me before entering through the front porch (male guests, and there are lots of them also, must simply remove their outer footwear before entering the female home, but female guests are permitted to keep their shoes or boots on – providing they wipe them on my face first).

I am buried on my back in a hole in the ground of the porch-entrance, with only my upturned face exposed to the world. On the wall to my right is a bar on which the female guest can steady herself whilst wiping the dirty soles of her feminine boots or shoes on my male-doormat face.

For my part, I enjoy seeing the supercilious and smug grins on the faces of my female betters – who, like my three mistresses, are mainly all black, African-Caribbean ladies – as they wipe their dirty footwear on my face.

Some of them are quite cruel, as well as smug, and they will deliberately dig the treads of their mud-splattered boots or shoes into my face as they drag their dirty, female shoe or bootsoles roughly across my confined and helpless, upturned, male, facial features in order to cleanse their soles of dirt. They care not if my nose or eyelids get damaged and hurt in the process, and even take some delight in observing the various little infected sores that have developed on my footwipe-face over the years (for I have been a doormat-footslave in this particular, black household for nigh-on twenty years).

At least, unlike some of the other items of malehuman-furniture in this all-female household, I am well fed – for my meagre slave-rations of tasteless and bland slave-gruel are nicely supplemented by the bitter-tasting mud from my female betters’ boots and shoes, and those of their guests.

Miss Precious, Madam’s youngest daughter, in particular seems to delight in ‘feeding’ me from her boots. She likes to wear her favourite pair of chunky-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboots with her thick, grey bootsocks peeking out over the top, covering the hems of her tucked-in, blue denim, student-girl jeans, as she deposits her fresh bootmud all over my face and inside my mouth. I know it’s fresh mud because it is fresh from her garden outside, where she will have deliberately muddied up her boots just for my benefit before re-entering her home from college.

Such a kind and considerate young, black woman – always thinking of others, and taking good care of her everyday, household furniture! I sincerely hope that, when she eventually moves out and forms a household of her own, miss Precious will consider taking me with her and employing me as her new family’s welcome doormat.

Conversely, I wouldn’t like to be her elder sister - miss Tanesa’s - welcome doormat. Although she is, conventionally-speaking, the prettier of the two young mistresses, she’s just too rough and cruel on human-doormats like myself, with her penchant for spike-heeled shoes and boots. And besides, she rarely, if ever, wears socks – preferring bare, black legs or sheer nylon-covered legs to short socks – and I do so like a glimpse of young-black-woman sock above my face whilst it is divesting my female better’s footwear of dirty, street or garden mud.

Sock – and the fact that I am lower than the sock – provides extra humiliation for me; having to admire a girl’s socks from below, whilst she is still wearing them inside her dirty boots or shoes!

Degrading, or what?

My only regret is that I never get to smell the likes of miss Precious’s socks – for I am, by definition, a black women’s shoe and boot-scraper – not their socked-foot rest; or their sock-laundry basket; or their sock-washing machine. I can only ever dream of reaching such lowly, furniture heights!’

‘Eat the mud from the dirty soles of my boots, doormat slave!’

Ha! Ha! Poor doormat – aspiring to be a sock-laundry basket!

We’ll come on to the human laundry basket in this Gynarchy household a bit later, but first we must observe another ‘outer-footwear’ piece of human furniture in operation – the humble doorstopper.

 

The Human Doorstopper

You may have read about human-doorstoppers at the entrances to public buildings such as restaurants; shops; offices etc. Their role is to simply kiss female boots and shoes – usually on the toe areas – by way of a humble, symbolic, inferior-male greeting to the superior mistress.

However, many middle-income, private Gynarchy households have them too – and madam Althea’s black household is no exception.

After the female household members, or their female guests, have wiped the soles of their dirty shoes or boots on the upturned, gormless face of the welcome-doormat, they stop a little bit further inside the porch in order to have their boot or shoe-toes respectfully kissed.

Again, let’s hear what it’s like to be a household doorstopper-slave from the subman (submissive man) responsible himself:

‘We are called doorstoppers because the lady must stop momentarily by us to have each of her freshly-wiped shoes or boots kissed in turn.

Of course, just because the lady has wiped clean the soles of her outdoor shoes or boots on my human-doormat colleague, it doesn’t mean that the uppers of her boots or shoes – including the toe areas – are nice and clean to the kiss. But our standing instructions are to always kiss the dirtiest part of a lady’s shoe or boot-toe, as an added symbol of our respect for her superior, feminine footwear. Even the remaining street-dirt and dust on the toes of her boots is better than us.

I am buried in a vertical position up to my neck in the ground of madam Althea’s front-door porch. I am therefore reliant on the black lady household-member, or black lady guest, holding the toe of her boot or shoe up to my lips for respectful kissing, otherwise my pathetic, male mouth won’t be able to reach it!

Miss Tanesa, madam’s 22 year old daughter is particularly considerate in this regard – she even goes so far as to penetrate my mouth with her stylish, pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled boots or shoes as she very much enjoys exercising her female power over me in this way. But then, she is a fashion designer and a model by profession, so she knows all about penetration (market penetration, I mean!)

‘Swallow my spiked heels, doorstopper slave! Can you feel my superior high heel scraping against the back of your lowly throat?’

She takes after her mother – madam Althea – in this respect, for the latter also has a penchant for stylish and fashionable, pointy-toed footwear, especially high-heeled, patent black leather pumps or courts with pointy or chiselled toes.

Madam’s youngest daughter, 19 year old miss Precious, is much less precocious in this regard, and – preferring thick, round-toed, clunky-heeled, casual footwear as she does – she tends to merely brush her reinforced shoe or boot-toes against my lips, as do her many sneaker-wearing, or ballet-flat-wearing, fellow, black, student-girl friends. When it comes to miss Precious and her college friends I have the added indignity of having to admire superior black-girl sock at close quarters, and at my confined eye-level, as I kiss dusty and scuffmarked sneaker or ankleboot-toe.

It’s an added indignity purely because I am thus made aware that I am having to pay my respects to female, outer footwear that is covering soft cotton or woollen girlsock, and yet I am denied the intimate aroma of such nice-looking sock up my doorstopper-slave nostrils!

Sadly, my lips are also forbidden to brush against female sock – even sock inside soft and inviting, round-toed ballet-flats, for my job as a humble doorstopper-slave is merely to kiss young-black-woman boot and shoe-toe. If my lips ever did stray onto her youngest daughter’s, or her daughter’s friends’ socks, madam Althea would dismiss me from her service instantly – and I wouldn’t like that, for I am not qualified to do anything else; not even to tongueshine superior-female footwear, like my footslave-colleague further down the hall! So I would doubtless end up on the footslave-scrapheap –or even down the slave mines!

Now do you understand why I kiss female boot and shoe toes painstakingly and without complaint?’

Ha! Ha! A doorstopper with no ambitions, other than to remain as a black-female household’s humble boot and shoe-toe kisser for the rest of his miserable, male life! Ha! Ha! I like that in a slave – he knows his place. Or should I say, it knows its place – since it’s just a piece of living furniture!

Rather like the next male item in madam Althea’s typical, Gynarchy household – the shoe-polisher.

 

The Human Shoe-Polisher

On entering madam Althea’s household a lady first wipes her feet on the human-doormat’s gormless, upturned, male face; then stops, briefly, to have her shoe or boot-toes kissed by the mesmerized, human doorstopper; but she must then proceed to have her boots or shoes respectfully tongue-polished by the diligent human shoe-polisher.

In some households the lady or her female guest would sit down to have their shoes or boots polished, but madam Althea’s household is rather more modest than that (lower middle-class, let’s say), and so she has a bog-standard, human shoe-polisher in front of which a lady must stand to have her pretty boots or shoes shined up by male tongue.

Yet again, however, to compensate for not being able to sit down, there is a support bar onto which the lady can grab hold whilst presenting each lady boot or shoe in turn for footslavish, male-tongue-polishing attention.

Let’s hear what the black ladies’ human shoe-polisher has to say for himself:

‘I love the taste of ladies’ boot and shoe leather – which is just as well since I must spend the greater part of my day licking the dirty shoes and boots of my black female betters as they enter my mistress Althea’s busy household.

I prefer patent leather to matt leather, as the former is much smoother on the tongue, and it is therefore much easier to detect any offending dust and detritus on the lady’s shiny boots or shoes, and therefore remove it by mouth.

On the other hand, creased and worn leather – such as you get on miss Precious’s ubiquitous ankle or calf-length, student-girl boots – tastes nicer, as it is more bitter, and it has a mustier smell, all of which affects the footslave-tastebuds!

I especially love licking shoes or boots which are covering socks – what footslave wouldn’t? Most girls, in my humble footslave-experience, reveal something of their socks, even when they are tucked inside their boots, as they are often a fashion statement – designed to colour-coordinate with another item of clothing they have on that day.

Take miss Precious, for example – she normally wears light grey socks, the elasticated tops of which will be peeking out over the tops of her boots, and which are designed to match her plain grey hoodie-top which she seems to wear everywhere and in all weathers.

Even when it is raining and she is wearing her muddy, rubber, flowery-patterned Wellingtons, her plain, grey, kneehigh bootsocks will be in evidence down the insides of her boots – and I will get to see them in all their glory as I peer lasciviously down her boot-tops whilst tongue-shining the extreme uppers of her mud-splattered Wellington boots.

Oh how I adore the smell of muddy, rubber girlboot mixed in with the aroma of slightly damp girlsock! I only wish I could take off the wellies from miss Precious’s feet completely, and sniff the toe and instep areas of her grey, woollen kneesocks!

But that’s not my role – my role is to lickshine rubber or leather boots and shoes as I kneel, with my head humbly bowed, over my female betters’ footwear; to tongue-shine them up so that they can observe their pretty, black faces in them. I am just grateful for small mercies, therefore – such as the mere sighting of a beautiful, young, black woman’s socks inside her muddy, Wellington boots.’

Ha! Ha! Another pathetic piece of no-hoper human furniture!

But it’s time to move further up the footslave-foodchain, now – to more ‘intimate’ pieces of furniture!

Let’s begin with the human footrest.

 

The Human Footrest

Ideally, every female sofa or armchair should have one – a male, human footrest cut into the floor beneath it, and on whose upturned face a lady can rest her debooted or unshod feet whilst she relaxes in front of the television, or in good, freemale company.

It’s a smelly job – but someone’s got to do it.

Let’s hear from that someone in madam Althea’s household:

‘I have been a footrest in madam Althea’s living room for some three years now. I love my job – even though it stinks; literally.

The chair beneath which I am situated happens to be miss Tanesa’s favourite chair, and so much of my life is spent staring up at the soft, black, wrinkly soles of a 22 year-old fashion-designer – normally beneath her black cotton, calf-length leggings.

I know every nook and cranny of the bottoms of miss Tanesa’s feet by now – every mole; every area of hardened-by-stiletto-wearing skin; every bunion; every corn. Above all, I am intimately acquainted with her very personal and individual footsmell. Like a dog, I would recognise it anywhere. Put me in a room full of smelly, bare, female feet and blindfold me – and I would still be able to pick out miss Tanesa’s feet by smell alone.

It’s not that she has a particularly bad foot-odour problem; it’s just that – given her predilection for wearing her high-heeled boots and shoes on bare feet – her young-womanly feet do tend to build up a sheen of sweat on them during the long, working day in her fashion-studio; sweat which she then takes great delight in rubbing off onto my face whilst she is seated eating her favourite popcorn in front of the television at night.

Sometimes I think maybe the smell of the popcorn is mixing in with the smell of her feet, but its, actually, purely her popcorn-feet that I must savour!

I catch the occasional glimpse of pretty, but conceited, black-girl face from beneath her feet – not that her pretty face is focussing on me; but it does give me enormous, pathetic pleasure to observe her stuffing her face full of popcorn whilst I must feel her rough foot-corns rubbing against my upturned face, and wallow in the pungent aroma of her sweaty, workaday feet – freshly liberated from their tight-fitting, high-heeled, patent black leather shoes or ankleboots.

Occasionally her younger sister, miss Precious, sits above me in her elder sibling’s chair, but her feet aren’t normally as smelly – either because they are still in socks (which help to absorb the sweat), or because she has discarded her socks and the socks have taken much of the day’s perspiration and smell with them.

Miss Precious does suffer from toejam, however – manly because I don’t think she washes her feet as often as her sister. She ‘can’t be assed’ apparently.’

Ha! Ha! Popcorn and toejam – some lucky slaves experience all the culinary delights, don’t they?

But that last footslave-fool mentioned miss Precious’s discarded socks. What happens to them whilst she is watching television with her bare, black feet resting on the human-footrest’s face?

 

The Human Laundry-Basket

Well, naturally enough, she chucks them into the household laundry-basket – a male face in a basket full of dirty and smelly, discarded female hosiery.

In some posh households each individual female member would have her own human laundry-basket; but in madam Althea’s household there is only one communal basket.

Let’s hear his side of the story:

‘I live in stink – the stink of my three beautiful, black mistresses’ dirty, unwashed nylons and socks.

The stinkiest of them all are madam Althea’s tan-coloured, nylon stockings and tights, but her daughter Tanesa’s dark-coloured nylons come a close second – particularly as the latter likes to carefully position the sweaty toe-ends of her dirty nylons directly over my nose.

You can smell the inner shoe-leather on them!

Madam Althea tends to just chuck her unwashed, tan-coloured nylons down into the basket any old how, without even giving my upturned face at the bottom of the wicker laundry-basket a second glance – as does her youngest daughter, miss Precious, when she throws her dirty, grey socks disparagingly down into the basket.

I do love it, however, when one of the black girl’s grey socks fortuitously falls on top of my upturned face, as I love the smell of young women’s sweaty, cotton bootsocks. So much less tart and pungent than sweaty nylons, and yet a demeaning sight and smell – the sight and smell of bobbled, well-worn, inside-out, plain grey girlsock carelessly resting over my upturned slave-nose, polluting the confined air that I must breathe, and poisoning my footslave-nostrils.

The basket has a lid, of course, to protect the female inhabitants of the household from the pre-wash stink of their soiled hosiery – but it also has a lightbulb inside so that, even when the lid is closed, I can still see clearly every sweat-laden wrinkle and crease, every bobbled area of well-worn nylon or cotton, which graces my upturned face.

I have no need to travel the world and see the sights, for I can see the sweaty results of the daily interaction of my black mistresses’ socks and tights with their inner shoe and boot linings – and that is good enough for the likes of me, a mere laundry-basket case!’

‘Inhale the stinky aroma of my used, tan-nylon tights on your upturned face, laundry-basket slave!’

Ha! Ha! Another footslave who knows, and appreciates, his place!

But what of the skilled job of mouthwashing all that dirty, feminine hosiery? It may fester on the human laundry-basket’s upturned face for anything up to a week at a time, but what happens when washday finally comes?

Over to the human washing-machine:

 

The Human Washing-Machine

‘I suck sock for a living – dirty, female sock and nylon.

My job is to ‘pre-wash’ my brilliant, black mistresses’ dirty stockings, tights and socks before they go into the automatic washing-machine – to divest them of their heaviest areas of stale, feminine footsweat, dead footskin, and sticky toejam prior to their proper wash.

It is such an honour! The taste! The smell! The feel of nylon and cotton sock in my mouth! I’m salivating now even just thinking about it!

While I’m sucking on stale girlsock or girlnylon, I like to think about where the owner of the female hosiery has been; about what she has been doing in order to build up and generate such a sweat on her hosiery – sweat which is now sliding down my throat-drain.

Take miss Precious’s grey bootsocks, for example: whilst I am absorbing into my sockwash-mouth the turned-inside-out, reinforced toe-areas of her already-damp-with-stale-sweat socks, I am thinking about how she will have been wearing these selfsame, precious socks inside her black leather, heavily-buckled, low-heeled, calf-length, biker-style boots as she sat in the lecture hall of her female university absorbing all the information the eminent lecturer wishes to convey to her students about quantum mechanics. She is very clever, miss Precious – much cleverer than me; she knows all about physics, whereas I only know about the taste of her socks.

It is an honour and a privilege for me to suck the sweat out of a such a brainy, young black woman’s plain grey bootsocks, just as I feel honoured to suck on the reinforced, nylon toe-ends of her beautiful mother’s tan-coloured nylons after she has been out on a date with her latest, black beau; or on the dark-coloured nylons of miss Precious’s fashion-designer sister, after her latest successful fashion shoot.

All my mistresses in this household are successful, black women – and, if truth be told, I am not worthy to be their human washing-machine and dirty-hosiery sucker! I am truly blessed!

My only regret is that, when I take the mouthwashed socks or tights out of my footslave-mouth, they no longer smell of sweet, feminine foot-perspiration – a smell worthy of a humble footslave. But at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that that’s because their respective, female footsweat is now lining the insides of my male-footslave stomach – where it belongs.’

Ha! Ha! A male slave glorying in the fact that his stomach is lined with his mistresses’ footsweat! Ha! Ha! What a dork!

But perhaps the biggest dork of all is the human clothes-horse – the slave whose stupid, gormless male face is used to dry his mistresses’ freshly-washed socks, stockings and tights.

He doesn’t even get to smell his mistresses’ footsweat! Ha! Ha! What a loser!

Let’s hear it from the (clothes)horse’s mouth:

 

The Human Clothes-Horse:

‘My face is used to dry my black mistresses’ freshly-laundered tights, stockings and socks.

They hang them over my face so that they can drip dry. Miss Precious, in particular, likes to drape her thick, heavy bootsocks directly over my mouth so that my slave breath helps to speed up the process of drying out her socks.

It is an honour to breathe on her socks – even whilst she isn’t wearing them – for they are the precious bootsocks of a very precious, young black woman, whose sweaty socks I am not worthy to breathe in. I am fit only to breathe out onto her clean socks.

That’s because I am the lowest of the low, who has not yet earned the right to smell a mistress’s dirty socks. I hope to reach such a lofty position some day, but for now I am content to help with preparing my mistress’s freshly-laundered socks for their next wearing on her precious, black feet.

Watching girls’ socks dry on my face is all I am good for at this present stage of my humble footslave-career, and so, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll just get back to counting the individual stitches in miss Precious’s left, grey sock as I think I may have miscounted them last time – and I would so like to know exactly how many stitches there are in each of her precious socks!’

Ha! Ha! So there you are! What a bunch of losers – every one of them. The common-or-garden items of human footslave-furniture found in virtually every Gynarchy home!

It’s rare to hear from them – for they are just male-human objects and things, existing in the shadows of their superior mistresses’ lives. Still, it’s useful to know they are there – if you are female and fancy a bit of foot-service of one kind or another as you enter a typical Gynarchy household!