Five A Day – Day Three
Your five portions of footslave-fantasy per day – for seven days on the trot!
Day 3
She is just another, unremarkable, plain grey, angular sneaker-sock amidst the usual cacophony of female-commuter shoes, boots and socks busying their way past my public-shoelick, bowed and kneeling head at the central railway station – until, that is, she stops; stops to have her blue and white, low-top, laced-up, leather sneaker-covering respect-kissed by my humble mouth beneath her blue-denim, jean hem.
Then she, quite literally, stands out from the crowd, and becomes special to me. Special to me because she will forever after be emblazoned on my memory due to:
· The way she – the short, grey sock – flexes in tune with her mistress’s shapely ankle-muscles as they involuntarily spasm in a gleeful reaction to my humble kisses to her scuffmarked, and somewhat flaky, sneaker-toe
· The unique pattern in her grey stitching – a mixture of trellises and flowers
· The tiny, red sore exposed on her mistress’s outer anklebone, thanks to the angularity of the sock
· The faint aroma of city footsweat, emanating from within her blue and white sneaker-rims below her
I believe the sock may belong to an oriental mistress – though I can’t know for sure, since I am forbidden to look up at my female betters, being a mere, celibate maleslave. But, oriental or western, I am indebted to her for taking the time to stop by and be admired, for many female socks are just too busty on their mistresses’ feet to be adored these days.
Even her uneven, sister-grey sock doesn’t stop for a kiss-stop, but marches onwards to catch her train. And so our paths only cross for a brief second.
Who knows where that sock is now destined? Possibly the Airport, and onwards to the Far East, if I’m right in my assumptions? I might never see, or smell, her again! And why should she come back? She is not my friend! Oh, but she shall ever have a place in my heart – the mistress grey sock; just for passing the time of day with me, and for stopping by on the wooden footblock beneath my perma-kneeling neck, that I may kiss her goodbye, and ‘bon voyage’!
My public-footslave day began with a sublime, Japanese customer-mistress – part of a gaggle of 3, excitable, twenty-something, Japanese tourist girls – but, luckily for me, she was the only one wearing socks inside her sneakers; short, black, angular sneaker-socks inside a pair of equally short, black canvas plimsolls – such that, to the untrained eye, her socks were all but invisible!
Unlike her compatriots, she looked distant, as she sat on the shoelick chair of power above and in front of me, dressed all in black from pretty Japanese head to toe; but I only had eyes for her sublime, black anklesock-tops as I lickshined and kiss-worshipped her Gynarchy-street-soiled plimsolls.
Her fellow-female, Japanese tourists audibly found me amusing – but the serene girl whose sneakers I was publicly mouth-cleaning remained stony-faced and businesslike; just the way a customer-mistress should be – cold and standoffish; disparaging; youthfully contemptuous of the middle-aged, male loser-figure at her feet.
I deliberately kept my eyes and nose lower at all times than her bare, Japanese knees – out of footslavish respect for her.
……………….
Then there was the somewhat plain and ordinary-looking, dirty-blonde-haired, 20-something, white girl with the beige, velcro-fastened sneakers and thick, white cotton kneesocks. Not really summery socks – even though it’s the height of summertime. But she redeemed herself, despite her bland-coloured sneakers and unseasonably warm socks, by virtue of the two red hoops at the tops of her otherwise white, fully-pulled-up kneesocks on her shapely, lower legs – especially since the red hoops where so unfeasibly neat and even!
I was thus able to surreptitiously ‘forehead’ those red hoops as I lowered my cleansing tongue down towards the street dust and grime attached to her beige-sneaker insteps, and she didn’t seem to mind; took it all in her stride, so to speak. I actually felt honoured to have rubbed my forehead onto her striking, red and white kneesocks, even though, overall, I wasn’t as smitten by her socks as I was by the short, almost invisible, black socks (with no apparent heels) of her beautiful, if stern, Japanese predecessor!
…………………
And then came the ridiculous – a fat, Pakistani girl in her early thirties with short, black hair, accompanied by her yellow-sari and brown-sandal wearing, 50-something mother – the latter encouraging her westernised, leggings-wearing daughter to sit down above me and impose her dirty, black leather, pixie-boot-style ankleboots on me for all to see!
I should explain that the shoelick-chair of female power before which I am kept permanently kneeling is specifically designed to transfer the weight of whichever customer-mistress is seated in front of me onto my bare, kneeling, back and shoulders – and so my neck (along with my heart) sank when this big-boned and ungainly-looking, Southeast Asian girl took up her mischievous mother’s suggestion and sat down heavily upon me.
Nevertheless, yet again there was redemption in the glimpse of plain, grey anklesock that emerged from within the big Pakistani girl’s black leather pixie-boots as her black denim jean-hems rode up to reveal her elasticated, light grey cotton socktops set against a pleasing slither of soft, if fleshy, pure brown ankleskin – especially since the left sock was somewhat twisted and uneven inside the unseasonal boot. Yet again, pathetically, I felt honoured by the sight of sweaty, female sock in my face on such a warm day, and I made sure to breathe in the fat, Pakistani girl’s boot-engendered foot-clamminess as I diligently lickshined the upper rim of each pixie-style ankleboot.
I could only imagine how warm and vinegary those grey socks must smell deep within those boots around the podgy, unpainted, Pakistani-girl, toe areas!
I must have looked utterly risible to passers-by – visibly enamoured as I was by a fat and ungainly, Pakistani girl’s, plain and ordinary, everyday bootsock. Even her mother is cackling with laughter at me. But, if truth be told, I felt as beholden to the fat, Pakistani girl as I do to all my divine customer-mistresses – from the sublime to the ridiculous – who grace me with their superior-female presence at my sit-down, public shoelick-stand.
Those that are sublime, only serve to accentuate my slime; and none of them – however plain or unprepossessing – are as ridiculous-looking as me!
From The Sublime... by patheticus on GoAnimate
The open-topped, pink, double-decker, tour bus is winding its way through the streets of central Barbaria past all the world-famous sights of the Gynarchy – the Museum of Female Domination; the Superior-Female Art Gallery; the Female Parliament building; the Exhibition of Female Economic Achievement etc. etc.
I am a humble, male-human footrest on the upper deck of the female bus, and I'm delighted to say that my current passenger-mistress, listening avidly to the recorded tour commentary in her native language through a set of earphones, is a beautiful, slim and petite, twenty-something, dark-haired, Chinese girl – wearing a feminine-pink Gynarchy T-shirt; black shorts; green, low-top, lace-up, canvas sneakers with dirty-white, rubbery soles; and short, black, angular anklesocks which disappear down the backs of her shapely, oriental heels.
I am able to give such a detailed description of her footwear because that's all I can see as I lie prostrate on the dirty floor of the bus, with the young, Chinese woman's right sneaker-sole resting on my upturned, left cheek whilst her left sneaker and sock rest on the floor of the bus directly in front of my mesmerised face.
Although I'm a local, male slave, I have never seen the splendid, female sights she is now observing and learning about – furthering her already not inconsiderable, female knowledge. All I ever get to see is the feet and footwear of my female-tourist betters. But what a sight for sore eyes this pretty girl's socks and sneakers are (or her left sneaker and sock are, at any rate!):
· I can clearly see the ingrained street-dirt – some of it, no doubt, Chinese; some of it Gynarchian – on the once-white, rubbery soles along the side of her otherwise green-canvas sneaker, including occasional little black spots of heavy street-soiling
· I can see the thinning areas of fading, green canvas where the well-worn sneaker is starting to wear away
· I can observe – close up and personal – the grubbiness of her off-white shoelaces, and how one end of the lace is longer than the other; a potential tourist-trip hazard!
· I can count the individual stitches in her trellis-patterned, black sock, which is worn in the ultra-modern style at an angle, disappearing entirely down the back of the bright, young woman's, Chinese sneaker-heel, and thereby exposing her bare anklebone to my enforced gaze – a soft, feminine-skinned anklebone with one or two little, red blemishes on it (one of the blemishes appears to have a scab on it, whilst the second looks fresher – perhaps an itchy, insect bite; I am itching to soothe its feminine redness with my tongue, being a female-bloodsucking, maleslave-insect myself!)
· I can wonder at the way the sweet, young Chinese woman's black anklesock creases and folds in line with her excited, involuntary, ankle-muscle flexes as she sees with her own eyes the sights she has previously only read about on the free and unrestricted, Female Internet!
· I can study the dust-marks on the side of her sock
· I can gaze in awe at the gap down the back of her green-canvas, sneaker heel caused by the sheer vagina-shapeliness of her Chinese-girl, heel tendons
· I can imagine what it would be like to be her personal footslave, obliged to crawl perpetually behind those shapely, oriental, sneakered heel-tendons as she walks along the streets of the Gynarchy – always mindful of the fact that, at the end of the day, back in her hotel room, I should be required to de-sneaker and de-sock her, and then nosesniff and mouthwash her dirty, black socks whilst she sleeps, ready for another outing on another day
· Above all, I can smell her left sneaker and sock – a rubbery, cottony smell – so close is it next to my face; and simultaneously I can feel the gravelly, walked-in texture of the young woman's right sneaker-sole on my upturned, left cheek as it unthinkingly weighs down upon me, not caring that it is being protected from the grime and dirt of the bus floor by a human, male slave-face!
For I am just a human-footrest for our overseas-tourist betters, and should deem it an honour to serve them in this humbling way.
Meanwhile the side of the dusty, short, black sock creases again – another sight worth seeing!
The pretty, young, Japanese girl in her early twenties manages to catch my ordinarily kneeling and downcast eye across the street from where my public shoelick-stall is based. She is smiling, and laughing, and waving at me!
I decide to reciprocate by blowing a respectful kiss to her faraway, chunky-heeled, brown leather ankleboots – aiming at the tops where there is just a tantalising slither of plain, black bootsock on display against the backdrop of her bare, miniskirted legs. She jokingly pretends that her boots are in receipt of my blown kiss, by coquettishly lifting her right ankleboot up into the air behind her!
………………….
Some three weeks later I am informed by the Female Authorities of a complaint by a visiting, Japanese tourist alleging inappropriate footslave-behaviour on my part, in that I had both disrespected her by looking up at her, and had mocked her boots by faux-kissing them. My punishment, I am informed, is to be 25 harsh cuts of the whip, on both counts!
There is a slight delay in implementing the punishment due to a technical hitch in establishing the internet connection to the young lady’s webcam in Japan – so that she can witness my punishment online – but as soon as this is resolved my public beating proceeds.
Just to rub Japanese salt into my wounds, the young woman smilingly blows me a kiss via her webcam when the official, police tablet PC is held up to my agonised face so that I can see her distant joy and pleasure at my suffering.
My beautiful, fat, 33 year old, Pakistani mistress regularly demands that I wash her feet in a very ritualistic way:
1. I must kneel before her whilst she is seated comfortably in front of me, and begin by respectfully kissing her flat, black leather pixie boots 70 times each on the chiselled boot-toes
2. I must then gently remove each slip-on boot from her black-socked feet, one at a time
3. I must then rectify any creases caused to her socks by my careless boot-removal by straightening her sweaty socks by hand
4. I must then sniff each black sock in turn – on the sweaty toe area – 70 times, in order to demonstrate that I am honoured to be in the humiliating presence of my beautiful, Pakistani mistress's very personal footsmell
5. I must then respectfully kiss her newly-straightened socks – again 70 times each, and on the sweaty, black reinforced toe-areas
6. Then I must gently roll down and remove each sock from her feet – without touching her bare, brown, foot or ankle skin – placing the rolled-down sock inside it's respective boot (and woe betide me if I get her boots and socks mixed up!)
7. Next I must dip my tongue in the bowl of lukewarm footwater, and use it to wash in between her unpainted, toejammy toes, again 70 times on each foot (I am expressly forbidden to touch my superior, fat, Pakistani mistress's bare feet with my bare hands, or to in any way manipulate them actually into the bowl of water)
8. I must then lick the sides, soles, heels and uppers of her bare feet, 70 times over each area on each foot – again after dipping my tongue in the lukewarm bowl of footwater before every lick
9. Then I must blow-dry each foot 70 times with 70, long, hard, audible breaths, before towelling them
10. Then I must kiss her fully-dried feet 70 times each, making sure not re-moisten them with my dirty saliva
11. Then I must extract each of her sweaty, rolled-up, black anklesocks from its relevant boot, and again kiss it on the toe area 70 times, before rolling it neatly back onto my mistress's foot – without touching her skin!
12. Then I must again sniff each sweaty sock-toe on each foot in turn 70 times
13. Next I must kiss each of her chiselled, black-leather, pixie-boot toes 70 times each both before, and after, I slip the boots back onto her sweaty-socked feet.
14. And finally I must prostrate myself fully on the floor before her, so that she can rest her street-soiled bootsoles on the back of my head, and glory over me.
Throughout this, humiliating-for-me, ritual, my mistress's husband – the slim and fit, young master Andrew sir – will be standing over me with the household whip, and will not hesitate to deliver a cutting blow to my bare back and shoulders if I:
· Baulk or grimace at any of my ritualistic duties, even for one second
· Mess up at any stage (e.g. by inadvertently touching her footskin)
· Am perceived by him to be disrespectful in any way of his beloved, fat wife's feet, socks or boots, and their concomitant smells
Needless to say, thanks to the encouragement of the master-sir's whip behind me, I am a very good, ritualistic footwasher for his fat wife!
