Five A Day – Day Six
Your five portions of footslave-fantasy per day – for seven days on the trot!
Day 6
‘Oh pray, pretty prostitute-mistress! Truly it is an honour for me to meet you! Please will you sleep with my master-sir if I lickshine your streetwalker boots for you, madam?’
It’s such a humiliating mantra I have to repeat night after night, in order to get my sleazy and unemployed, fat master-sir some hot, female action! He cannot afford to pay for sex, and so I am under orders to offer to lickshine the street-prostitutes’ muddy boots in return for their sexual favours with my horny master-sir.
Some of the ladies of the night kick me to the kerb with their scuffmarked boot-toes, and I must crawl away with my footslave-ego, and my face, cruelly bruised. But many of the girls take me up on my offer, and will, at the very least, offer to give my master-sir a blow-job in return for my tongue divesting the outsides of their boots of all their street-dirt and detritus. After all, having clean boots must be good for business – since no real man likes a young woman in dirty boots! Only slaves – like me – are accustomed to the bitter taste of sweet feminine bootdirt.
And so, I first must lick the lady-of-the-night’s black leather, blocky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up ankleboots to a satisfactory shine – all the while respectfully speculating about the sweatiness of her black nylon, fishnet-stockings deep inside those hardworking boots – before my master-sir can get his oats. But, having my footslave-tongue soiled with prostitute bootdirt is a small price worth paying if it means my master’s whip will leave me alone tonight. For, if ever I fail to persuade a superior, young woman of the night to have sex with my master-sir, I am sorely whipped!
And rightly so – since I must always do my master’s bidding.
Drumming Up Business by patheticus on GoAnimate
The skank-mistress’s, truly mountainous, pink-platformed, buffalo-style sneakers have freshly picked daises woven into their thick, pink shoelaces.
And because, presumably, daisies, like all weeds, need earth to grown in, the platform soles of her buffalo-sneakers are laden with mud from the nearby park. And so, as she lackadaisically presents each of her sneakered feet to me in turn at my sink-estate, public shoelick-stand, I help to ‘water’ the decorative daisies by moistening the lower sneaker-mud with my footslave-saliva.
Meanwhile the pink-ponytailed, yellow-miniskirted, skank mistress above me lights up an illicit joint. I choose to admire her red, hemp-themed anklesock which is fully pulled up her shapely, pasty-white and pockmarked anklebone, as I dutifully tongue-attend to her right, daisy-adorned sneaker, and think about how privileged and honoured I am to publicly foot-serve such a stunningly beautiful and attractive, young, sink-estate woman – la crème de la crème of female society – as she shouts obscenities over towards a rival girlgang-leader.
I do hope that I don’t get caught up in yet another female-sink-estate, turf war; the turf on this potty-mouthed, pink-haired, joint-smoking, young lady’s pink-platformed sneakers is the only turf I have any interest in exploring, and I must confess I’m a bit of a weed when it comes to physical violence!
When I was first placed in my permanent set of public kneeling-stocks here in the town centre – some 20 years ago – they were located slap bang in the middle of the then town square.
In the intervening years, however, not only have I grown older and stiffer, but there has been considerable building development around me. The town planners couldn’t move me – as my sentence, handed down by the Gynarchy Courts, was that I be confined for life in ‘immovable stocks’ – and so they just had to build around me!
As a result, I now find myself at the entrance to a narrow, dark alleyway between two office blocks!
Furthermore, the area in which I am located has now become something of an infamous Red Light District, and so I now spend much of my time staring at, kissing, and being teased by the high-heeled boots and shoes of the many female prostitutes who ply their trade in and around my back passage.
One young lady of the night in particular – goddess-mistress Delores madam, a Latina working girl – likes to stand with her back to me on the corner of the alleyway as she solicits business from freemale passers-by, meaning that virtually every night I get a nice view of the backs of her spike-heeled, black patent leather pointy-toed, zip-up, streetwalker ankleboots, and her matching black cotton anklesock-tops – invariably twisted and untidy inside her shiny, slovenly boots!
I always kiss the fronts of her pointy boots to order, and with the greatest of respect – given her high-class, call-girl calling (a prostitute is considered the highest of the high here in the Gynarchy – and rightly so, for she freely gives of herself to freemen; or rather, at a cost!). Truly it is an honour for the likes of me – a permanent, dirty prisoner-slave in the stocks, and an outlaw, to kiss her legitimate-trade ankleboots, both before and after she has pleasured a punter behind the bins further down my alleyway.
But it’s not only Latina ladies of the night who avail themselves of my boot and shoe-kissing services. During the daytime the locals, and female tourists, enjoy tormenting me in the stocks with their feet and footwear. Indeed, I have several regulars amongst the shop and office girls who work in the area – particularly the smokers in the adjacent buildings who must smoke outside nowadays. Not only do they sexily stub out their used, female cigarettes on the grey ground directly beneath my perma-kneeling, female-ankle-level face; they are also inclined to hold their cigarette-butt stained shoe or boot soles up to my mouth for a ‘quick lick and a shine’ – particularly since they know I am helpless, and at their sweet feminine mercy, and have no opportunity to decline to lick their dirty shoe or boot soles. Unless, of course, I fancy a few burning, stinging cuts of the public-use, whipping stick?
One such regular ‘smoker-mistress’ is the seemingly demure and innocent, but now increasingly fat and pregnant, miss Alison – a dirty-blonde from the tall office block next door. I think she is some sort of junior manageress.
It is not my place, of course, to criticise or reprimand her for smoking whilst she is pregnant; my job is merely to facilitate her reckless smoking by lick-cleaning the crushed-cigarette stains off the bottom of her plain black leather, office loafers – which I do so with added enthusiasm, as miss Alison always wears black, cotton socks with her black leather loafers and matching, black cotton, office trousers, and I get to see her superior socks creasing and folding beneath her flapping, bootcut trouser-hem whenever she stubs out her cigarette on the dirty ground beneath my face!
Oftentimes, I get to taste her residual, red lipstick from the otherwise bitter-tasting, ridged, black sole of her black loafer-shoe (lipstick transferred onto her shoesole from her finished cigarette butt, and now inside my mouth and destined for my unworthy, footslave-prisoner stomach; just think, miss Alison’s private saliva DNA is now inside me!)
Miss Alison rarely deigns to talk to me, as she is always chatting on her phone – presumably to the father of her future offspring, if she knows him? Or possibly just with her other mates? Whoever it is, it usually involves plans for a night out drinking, for Miss Alison, I gather, likes a drink as well as a fag!
But, it is not my place to judge, or even to eavesdrop on fat, blonde mistress Alison’s mobile phone conversations above me, as I kneel-stare at the subliminal movements in her shoes and socks beneath my permanently-stockaded face. My job, as I said before, is to admire and respect my female betters – whatever their walk of life – as they move about freely (unlike me) and get on with their busy lives (unlike me).
I’m just a lowlife prisoner-footslave, confined in a set of low-lying stocks in a bustling, built-up area, full of female high-flyers – everything from top-notch prostitutes to pregnant, single mums – and dutifully watching the female world go by (or rather, the female world’s feet!)
My black master sir’s highly rebellious, and religious, 20 year old daughter, miss Charity, has kindly come out into her family’s cold and lonely back yard in order to comfort me – the household footservant – in the punishment stocks.
It is an act of pure kindness on her pretty part, as she unfolds a portable chair in front of where I am kneeling in wood, stretches out her long, black, brown-thigh-length-socked legs and black, high-top, converse sneakers (with grubby white laces) beneath my face, and starts to apply specially-formulated, stinging slave-salve to my freshly-made whip wounds.
The salve stings mightily at first – and worsens the pain; but I know it is for the best in the long run, as it is a simultaneous disinfectant. Miss Charity only has my wellbeing at heart:
‘Look only at my socks, slave!’ she counsels me – again with my footslave-wellbeing at heart; for she knows that her long, brown, ribbed-cotton, thigh socks will help take my mind off the pain; plus, of course, we both know that if her angry father catches me looking up above his daughter’s socks towards her nether miniskirt – especially from my lowly vantage point in the low-lying kneeling stocks – I shall be sorely whipped again.
And I would not like that!
And so I focus, cautiously, only on miss Chastity’s lower thigh-sock areas – the areas around her shapely, upper anklebones where her long, brown cotton socks finally disappear down into her high-top, black canvas sneakers – as I absorb the salve; and the pain.
What’s that you say? Judging by the mischievous smile on her pretty, black face she is enjoying rubbing the slave-salve into my gaping whip-wounds? Maybe! But it’s still an act of kindness on her pious part – designed to prevent infection from setting into my open wounds. So I won’t hear a word said against miss Charity; she is charitable by name, and charitable by nature.
Unlike her big sister – miss Chastity!
They are a variant of the kneeling-stocks with a particularly cruel twist – literally so, since they are deliberately skewed to force the incumbent slave to kneel with his back at a 45 degree angle, thereby contorting his back muscles even more painfully than a regular set of kneeling stocks would do.
The deliberately wonky set of stocks in which I am currently confined are actually located at the back of my master and mistress’s dark and dingy garage, so I am surrounded by the smell of petrol, oil and car. Every so often, one of them, or one of their friends or neighbours, will enter the garage in order to mock my angular agony.
Right now, it is my master’s 20 year old niece who has come to gloat – blonde airhead miss Tiffany. Miss Tiffany laughs at the contortions in my kneeling body, and my agonised face, and accuses me of looking like ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’! I suppose that makes her my beautiful ‘Esmeralda’?
Beauty and the beast!
The beauty languorously holds up her soft-white-sneakered, right foot to my kneeling face, and asks me how I am liking being in the wonky kneeling-stocks (or the ‘Contortion Stocks’ to give them their proper name)? I can smell the white, rubbery toe-area of her van-style, slip-on, low-top sneaker, and see the angular line of ribbed stitching running along the top of her ultra-short, soft white cotton, heel and ankle revealing, sneaker sock as she torments me with her shoe-toe.
I kiss it, and thank her kindly for enquiring after my wellbeing in the stocks, but assure her that I a suffering mightily – as her aunt and uncle intended – in my contorted and kneeling position. She giggles, and switches sneaker-toes on my lips, so that I get to kiss her left foot.
Then she leans over, with both feet firmly on the dirty ground of the garage floor, and applies pressure with her dainty hands to my ‘hump’ in my recently whipped and unnaturally curved back – ostensibly, as she puts it, ‘to try and push my spine back into place’. But, predictably, it’s no use; it only causes me even more pain and grief, causing me to cry out for her blonde-girl mercy. As soon as she lets go of my ‘hunchback’s hump’, it springs out again, for all to see and mock.
Like my middle-aged master and mistress themselves, who have come to see what all the screaming and fuss is about. They laugh at the sight of their 20-year-old niece trying to ‘de-hump’ me, and my petrol-head mistress Sandra – another blonde bimbo – counsels me to ‘shut the f**k up’ as I am in danger of disturbing their neighbours. She then stands directly in front of me – in her black leather, low-heeled, heavily buckled, calf-length biker boots and black cotton leggings, and tilts herself sideways so that she is looking down on me at an angle – as if further mocking my misshapen and buckled position as I kneel in the wonky wood at her feet.
Her black, biker-boot socktops, I can’t help noticing, are themselves made wonky by her contemptuous tilt (and speaking of her biker boots, her beloved, and well cared for motorcycle is over in the far corner of the garage; I can smell it.)
The master sir – her husband, and the one who has condemned me to four painful hours in the wonky stocks – just laughs, and supportively puts his manly, tattooed arm around his biker-chick’s slender torso. She straightens herself back up (as I am unable to do) and kisses him full-on on the lips. Miss Tiffany turns to look away as she thinks it’s gross to see her aunt and uncle snogging in front of her – even more gross than the ugly, household hunchback-slave’s whipped and contorted back!
I notice everything down here – or at least, everything to do with my betters’ feet – and as 20 year old miss Tiffany turns around I observe that her short, white, angular sneaker-socks disappear completely down the backs of her white canvas sneaker-heels, exposing her shapely, white heel-tendons (and a little, red heelsore on her bare and exposed, left heel!). I find myself wishing that I could suck that sore for her, and soothe it – just as she had kindly attempted to soothe the pain in my back.
The dominant threesome then leave me to rot for another 3 hours in their garage stocks, surrounded by the smell of motorbike, car and oil as my back becomes increasingly sore and warped in the so-called ‘wonky stocks’. I can’t help but wail and moan – whatever the neighbours think! With any luck, I might attract the attentions of 30-something, goddess-mistress Carole from next door – she of the long, dark hair and black leather, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up kneeboots over tight, blue denim jeans – who may be moved to bring me a cup of tea for my parched and dry, whining throat?
Ha! Chance would be a fine thing!
