Pathetically Pandering to our Female Betters Vol 2
Further examples of suitably ingratiating behaviour by humble, male footslaves towards our beloved Female Masters & Betters!
My 33 year old, white, unmarried, pint-sized, frizzy-haired and somewhat kookie personal footmistress – mistress Chrystal – is, at least, perfectly clear as to my role in her singleton household:
- My main role is to fetch, and place her ubiquitous, brown leather ankleboots and black anklesocks on her feet every morning, and then take them off her feet again every evening before she goes to bed – not because she is incapable of putting on and taking off her own boots and socks, but because she is just too lazy to do so herself; and besides, mistress Chrystal likes to humiliate me by making me boot and sock her on a daily basis – and, as she is wont to say, why have a personal boot and sock slave and yet still feel the need to touch your own boots and socks?!
- She does permit me to crawl behind her to heel throughout the day, and to accompany her to her place of work – an office – where I must discreetly and silently kneel, and 'intelligently' study her brown boots and black socks. By 'intelligently' she means I must think about what I am looking at – count the stitches in her bootleather, and the creases; study the way the light interacts with the brown leather surfaces of her boots; and similarly with the elasticated tops of her black cotton bootsocks – if they happen to be visible to my kneeling eye. In other words, my mind is to be constantly preoccupied with my mistress's boots and socks, and is not allowed to wander onto other things – not even the boots and socks of her fellow-female, office colleagues (indeed, especially not the boots and socks of her fellow-female, office colleagues – for my kookie mistress Chrystal is quite pathologically possessive of me)!
- My mistress Chrystal has equally made it crystal clear that she will not talk to me throughout the day, since I am, quite literally, beneath her; if anything needs to be said she will let her whip do the talking on my back later in the evening when we are both back in her home. My mistress Chrystal often has a lot to say to me at the end of the day, and my heavily whip-scarred back bears eloquent testimony to her loquaciousness!
- My mistress Chrystal secures me into a set of wooden whipping-stocks which are located in the cold back yard of her modest, end-of-terrace home, and this is also where I sleep at night – outside in the cold stocks, naked apart from my flimsy, white slave-shorts and whip-warmed back! That's because my mistress Chrystal says she cannot bear to have me in the house whilst she is asleep in her warm and cosy bed, but I also think it gives her a cheap thrill to know that I am suffering and shivering in the cold outside whilst she is snug as a bug in a rug ( I often see her standing by her kitchen window at night, in her warm dressing gown and with a warming cup of hot chocolate, enjoying the sight of my insomniac suffering in the frosty, wooden stocks outside; indeed, she often takes her pleasure at such times). To be fair, though, she does tie her sweaty, worn bootsocks over my nose and mouth during the night, to help keep them warm!
At least I know where I stand –- or rather kneel – in her household; in her backyard stocks! And I shall shiveringly look forward to seeing her slippered feet in the morning when she pops out – otherwise fully-clothed – in order to release me from my overnight stocks, so that I can wearily crawl up to her bedroom and fetch her brown leather ankleboots, and a fresh pair of black cotton anklesocks, for her fully-rested feet.
I am about to spend another day studying the boots and socks of my Chrystal-clear mistress!
My 29 year old footmistress – mistress Sally – insists that I kneel by her feet all day long and look down the insides of her black leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboots at the tops of her multicoloured, stripy anklesocks. She says it’s a sign of respect in a humble footslave!
But I hate being on the outside of my mistress Sally’s boots – looking downwards and inwards! I’d much rather be on the inside of one of her boots myself – a shrunken slave-miniman clinging to the warm and clammy side of her stripy bootsock.
I would make my home in the sweatiest, clammiest bit of her right boot – in the humid climate beneath her socked toes. I would sleep there and eat there (her toejam and discarded bits of sock-lint) when the boot was empty of my mistress’s socked foot. Then, during the daytime, whilst she is wearing her boot, I would climb up the stitching on the side of her sock, and cling onto her stripy-socked anklebone.
I would choose the right boot as it is the most active one – being the one that hovers and swivels in the air subliminally whenever my mistress Sally is seated with her right leg crossed dominantly over her left – and I would therefore need to keep my miniman-footslave wits about me, so as not to be crushed by the constantly creasing and folding, inner linings of her boots!
On hot, sticky days I would be truly drenched in my mistress’s footsweat; on cold, frosty days I would endeavour to warm my mistress’s precious, shapely anklebone through her sock with my pathetic, miniman, body heat, and by blowing onto her bare, white ankleskin through one of the (huge to me) cotton stitches in the sock.
I would live surrounded by her foot-odour air, and adapt and evolve to my new inner-girlboot and sock environment, so that I would be unable to survive anywhere else.
Of course, my life expectancy would be low – as I’m sure to get crushed sooner or later by my mistress’s socked foot. But what a way to go!
My mistress Abigail is having me whipped, and getting rid of me as her personal footslave, because I don't match her brown leather ankleboots. My face is pinky-white, and her boots are a lightish shade of brown.
She could, of course, just change her boots – but her boots are more important to her; and rightly so.
Women often like to match their boots with a slave's skin-tone at the slave market. 'He matches your boots', is one of the best compliments a slavemistress (and her footslave) can be given! But I was chosen for her as a surprise present by her unthinking boyfriend, without his even considering whether I complemented her boots.
Still, at least he kept the receipt!
I am a humble, facial bootscraper at the entrance to a Chinese takeaway restaurant, deep in the heart of Chinatown. My Chinese owners – the excellent Ling family – have positioned me outside the doorway of their restaurant as an 'extra' service to their customers. They have even tattooed the Chinese word for 'WELCOME' onto my upturned face in bright, red lettering (æ¡è¿Ž) , so that their female customers at any rate – the ones entitled by law to use the male-human welcome mat to clean the dirty bottoms of their female shoes, sandals or boots – feel suitably welcomed and valued as they enter the premises.
I am forbidden to talk to my Chinese masters' customers, or to socially interact with them in any way, since I am regarded as just an item of furniture – a doormat-cum-boot-and-shoe-scraper. I'm not even allowed to actively lick the bottoms of my female betters' shoes – just passively allow my nose, lips, cheeks and eyebrows to act as mud and dirt scrapers, like the dumb doormat that I am!
Of course, such public doormats are two-a-penny in the Gynarchy, and so the various customer-mistresses – be they strangers or regulars, from the local Chinatown community or beyond, don't even give me a second thought as they, almost subconsciously, stop to politely wipe their female feet on my upturned face at the entrance to the takeaway restaurant, so as not to dirty the restaurant floor. On their way out of the restaurant they don't even stop to wipe their pretty feet on me, but just walk over my upturned face as they exit.
Still, I'm not complaining, as there are a number of advantages to being in my ultra-lowly position in the dirty ground, looking up:
- I get to see up my customer-mistresses' trouser-hems as they arrogantly wipe their feet on me, and, therefore, I get to see their socks – albeit fleetingly! I have even come to recognise some of the socks of the regular customer-mistresses over the years, including those, of course, of my Chinese owners who use me every day to enter their home-cum-workplace! I particularly like the red and white striped anklesocks of the keds-and-jeans-wearing, 19 year old daughter of the family – miss Wei-Ling – as they sit so fetchingly on her shapely and dainty, Chinese-girl anklebones beneath her ubiquitous, scruffy and frayed, bellbottom jean-hems; wide, flapping hems which afford me a virtually unimpeded view of her stripy socks underneath as she nonchalantly scrapes the street-muck from the rubbery-smelling, beige-coloured soles of her otherwise grubby-white-canvas, low-top, laced-up sneakers onto my mesmerised, upturned face. Another plus to miss Wei-Ling's flats is that the dirty soles are nice and soft, and there are therefore no sharp heels digging into my flesh or eyesockets as she scrapes her shoe-bottoms across my face! I love being literally lower than my mistress Wei-Ling's stinky, creased socks – as I do the socks of all my customer-mistresses, even those whose socks are partially hidden inside their cruel, spike or black-heeled ankleboots! I just find it such a humiliating thought to be lower than a beautiful young woman's sock – whilst she is unthinkingly wearing it on her foot!
- The muck and detritus from the soles of my female betters' shoes and boots helps to keep my belly full, for I am expected to swallow their feminine shoedirt, of course! It all helps to supplement my meagre slave-diet of leftover chip-fat from my Chinese owners' deep fat fryer, which they dispose of down my throat at the end of their long, working day. I like the smell of my mistresses' shoemud as well! Every piece of feminine shoemud smells, and tastes, unique – interacting as it has done with the individual sole of their female boot or shoe!
- Because my buried-upwards face is outside the restaurant, and exposed to the elements, my face gets naturally washed on a regular basis, since it often rains here in the Gynarchy – though, ironically, my various customer-mistresses' shoes and boots are, of course, at their dirtiest and foulest, and therefore their tastiest, during wet weather. The only weather I don't like on my exposed face is the extreme cold of the frost, ice or even snow, in the wintertime. But even that has its compensations, I suppose, since the bitter cold helps to numb my face against the piercing pain of a spiked bootheel, or the crushing pain of a fat girl's heavy, wedged boot or shoe soles!
- The other major advantage to my low-lying position in the permafrost is that I can't be whipped, since my body is encased in concrete, and only my face is exposed. Mind you, I can still be physically punished by being stomped on – and I frequently am by my Chinese owners, especially by the lady of the house, madam Wu-Ling, who is incredibly short-tempered as well as short-assed! Her black leather mary-janes and black socks are frequent, 'stamping' visitors to my face, and have painfully broken my nose on more than one occasion! Trust me, you don't want a broken nose when your face is having to act as a shoewipe for a constant steam of customers to your owners' takeaway restaurant; it takes an eternity to heal!
But, right at this moment, my bootscraping nose is intact, and things are, literally, looking up for me as a coach-load of female, Chinese tourists have just stopped off to buy some food to go. I'm looking forward to the sights and sounds of lots of new, oriental-female, dirty socks, shoes and boots, from below, as they excitedly queue up to wipe their overseas feet on me, some of them taking pictures of my shoe-soiled, welcome-tattooed face as they do so (well, for them, this is all part of the exciting, female-domination tourist trail in the Gynarchy – unlike for the locals who barely notice me!)
I can think of worse ways of scraping a living!
My 26 year old, pretty Muslim mistress – mistress Nazeefah – is deliberately hitching up the hem of her long, black burka as she gingerly makes her way through the rain puddles in her flat, black leather loafers, as she doesn’t wish to get the hem of her beloved, black burka dirty.
She looks quite prim and prissy as she does so – but I’m not complaining! For, as I crawl along the rainsodden pavements behind her to black-loafered heel, thanks to her hitching up of her burka hem I am afforded an unusually candid view of her shapely, black-woolly-tights-covered, heel tendons, and the glorious creases and folds in the backs of her tights as she moves along!
Some liberal, Muslim mistresses allow their personal footslave’s head to remain underneath their burka at all times – but my mistress Nazeefah is a particularly chaste and clean, young woman; and so she does not.
So this is a real, unexpected treat for me!
I am walked over by women all day and every day – literally so, since I am a ‘human paving stone’ in one of the Gynarchy’s city centre streets.
You can watch me at work below:
Sidewalk Slave by patheticus on GoAnimate
They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but as the silent and mysterious, bookish, thirty-something customer-mistress with the brunette frizzy hair, black spectacles, and pointy nose, perennially poked in her ubiquitous ereader, sits on my public-bootlick stall every weekday morning on her way into work, having her black suede, calf-high, flat-heeled and round-toed, buckle-boots ‘lickshined’ beneath the long, flowing hem of her floral-patterned, gypsy-style dress, I can’t help imagining all kinds of things about her, based purely on her appearance:
· I imagine that she must have some gypsy blood in her somewhere, given her good looks and exotic clothing-style;
· I imagine she must be wearing a pair of modest, black-woolly tights inside her boots and beneath her dress – though I have never seen her legs above the middle of her calf-length boots, since she always makes sure to adjust her dress-hem over the tops of her boots when she is seating herself down in front of me, and she absolutely forbids me to lickshine the uppers of her boots about the ankle-level; I think she must be quite frigid and cold when it comes to matters of the flesh!
· I imagine she would be a cruel and demanding bootmistress to serve full-time in a private capacity;
· I imagine, for example, that when she whips, she whips to cut, and cuts to hurt – probably concentrating the bulk of her lashes on one particular area of her slave’s back, thereby making it red raw;
· Similarly, I imagine that if she is disposed to flay her slave, she would do so slowly and intelligently, picking the areas of skin whose removal would hurt the most, without actually killing him!
· I imagine that if she was disposed to rack her slave, she would continue stretching him even after his joints had ‘popped’, ignoring his scream for sweet young-womanly mercy and compassion;
· I imagine that if electric shocks were her thing, she would apply the electrodes to all the slave’s most sensitive parts, which she would have diligently researched on her ereader (indeed, that’s probably what she’s so engrossed in right now!)
· I imagine that, if she was dissatisfied with her personal bootslave’s performance on her boots, she would punish him in the stocks for hours on end, only releasing him when his neck-numbing pain became utterly intolerable to him, and he had demonstrated his commitment to reform, and respect for her boots, through his pitiful kissing of her scuffmarked, black suede boot-toes for hours on end!
All of these things I am imagining as I endeavour to lick the dirty, damp rainwater off the lower sides of her suede leather boots, and replace it with my boot-curative saliva, whilst she sits seemingly disinterestedly above me, with her pointy, bespectacled nose continuously buried in her modern ereader.
Of course, these could all just be the fevered imaginings of a maniacal masochist – since this particular quiet and modest, young librarianesque customer-mistress has never once raised a finger to hurt me in any way.
But I somehow just sense that she is not a young woman to be messed with, and so I serve her musty-smelling, suede leather boots with all the public-bootslavish vigour and devotion I can possibly muster – just in case I’m right!
All-knowing blog author’s note:
· In fact, miss Colette (for that is her name) is French, not Romany;
· She is wearing knee-high, brown woollen socks inside and above her calf-length, black suede, buckle-boots – not black woolly tights (though admittedly the slave wasn’t too far off the mark on that one);
· She is not a librarian, but a teacher;
· She is reading a romantic novel – not articles on how to torture a slave!
· She would never dream of physically chastising a male slave, being a so-called ‘pacifist’ mistress – which in Gynarchy terms means a female believer in non-corporeal methods of punishment and disciplining of male slaves, such as scolding and reprimanding, and the possible withdrawal of food for several days!
· She simply doesn’t talk to him (and therefore may come across as more mysterious and sinister than she actually is) because she is conscious of the fact that she is his social superior and better, and he is, quite literally, beneath her. How else is she supposed to regard a humble, public bootlicker?
· And as for her seeming, young-womanly leg-modesty – ensuring her dress-hem always covers the top half of her boots and forbidding his tongue to lickshine her boots above the ankle, well – mistress Colette is merely a pragmatist: the upper halves of her boots don’t need cleaning – only the lower halves; that’s all there is to it (far from being ‘frigid’, she actually has a voracious sexual appetite – though only with real men; free men, unlike the bootslave – who know how to satisfy a lady’s earthy needs!)
It all just goes to show that a male slave should never judge a superior female book, or indeed a bookish mistress, by her cover!
Erm…actually, the following account of post-whipping worshipfulness by one of miss Colette’s personal footslaves (she has several), suggests that, despite the supposedly all-knowing blog author’s comments above, the public bootslave’s gutless instincts weren’t all that far off the mark after all!
‘My brunette-frizzy-haired mistress Colette is gloating over me in her ubiquitous, black suede calf-boots and ankle-length-hemmed, flowery-patterned, cotton dress as I languish over her booted feet in the kneeling stocks following one of her many severe canings to my bare back.
She always likes to hear a slave’s humility and contrition immediately after a whipping (or rather, after she has returned from her bedroom having libidinously pleased herself following the delivery of a back-caning to her slave), and requires us to remain in the kneeling-cum-caning stocks, where we must address her boots in a suitably worshipful manner, before she will even entertain the thought of releasing us from our wooden bonds!
The conversation goes like this:
Mistress Colette: Ha! Ha! How did you like it, slave? Are you ready yet to thank me for cutting you down to size with my cane?
Me (the cane-cut slave): Oh pray, mistress Colette…oh pity pray…oh truly this slave praises and blesses the mistress for caning him in such a lovely way, mistress! Oh pity pray, mistress!
A mischievous mistress Colette (gently drawing the tip of her punishment-cane over my wounds): Ha! Ha! Does that mean you want some more, slave? Was the pain not sharp enough for you?
Me (the sufficiently cane-cut slave): Oh pray mistress! Oh no, mistress! Oh pray – this slave is truly indebted to the sweet and kind mistress, mistress Colette madam, for her taking the time and energy to discipline him, mistress, but although he is truly appreciative of the pain delivered to him so expertly by the mistress’s cane, mistress, he does not like it that much mistress, that he would impose upon the mistress to beat him again, mistress, if you would be so kind and understanding to a chastened slave, mistress Colette madam?
A jubilant mistress Colette: Ha! Ha! So, what lessons has my nice cane taught you today, slave?
Me (the reformed slave, thanks to the sting of the cane): Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave has learnt never again to lick the dirty soles of his mistress’s boots in a lacklustre manner, mistress! (Or, more specifically, in a manner that is perceived by the mistress to be lacklustre, for I didn’t think I was being lacklustre!)
Mistress Colette (drawing up a chair in front of me): Ha! Ha! Very well, slave. I shall now take off my boots, and allow you to audibly sniff my socks 1000 times each, as a demonstration of your respect for me, before I release you from the stocks. Make sure your nose touches the surface of my sweaty socks during each and every sniff, and I want you to count the sniffs out loud for me. Be warned that if your nose fails to touch my sock during even just one sniff, for example if I pull my socked foot out of reach of your nose, I shall repeat the caning punishment you have just undergone! So you are still very much in my power and at my mercy – do you understand, pathetic, whipped slave?
Me (the pathetic lady’s-socksniffer): Oh yes, mistress! Oh pray mistress! I am in your power and at your mercy, mistress Colette madam! Please don’t beat me again mistress! I will be a good sniffer of your sweaty, brown bootsocks, mistress!
Laughingly and smilingly, mistress Colette then pulls off each of her black suede leather, flat-heeled and round-toed, calf-length boots in turn – the same boots I allegedly lickshined with insufficient lustre – to reveal the creased and crumpled, brown-woollen-socked toes of her ubiquitous brown bootsocks in front of my face. She studiously adjusts the hem of her dress over the tops of her socks, in order to avoid rewarding me with a furtive glimpse of her bare, white legflesh. So all I can see is stinky, brown bootsock.
She wriggles her toes:
‘Begin, slave!’
I lower my nose into the folds of her right sock, and audibly sniff. I then, briefly, come up for some fresher air:
‘One, mistress.’
Then back down again, and up again:
‘Two, mistress’
And so it goes on – a thousand times on her right foot, followed by a thousand times on her left foot. Mercifully (for she is not normally disposed to be merciful) my goddess-mistress Colette, whom most of the world views as a mild-mannered, bespectacled and bookish, young woman, doesn’t withdraw her socks from my confined face at any time; so I am not to be caned again.
Not today at any rate!
Further note from the supposedly all-knowing blog author:
Mmm…In view of the above account, I take it all back. We are clearly talking about the same young woman!
I kneel corrected (rather like the chastened, socksniffing slave in the stocks!)
I am the personal sockslave of my 29 year old, dark-haired mistress Hannah, and her 60 year old husband (my master-sir) has made it perfectly clear to me that my sockcess as a footslave shall be determined by my ability to focus only on his pretty, young wife’s socks, the whole of her socks, and nothing but her socks.
What that means in humiliating practice is that:
· I am only ever allowed to be in my mistress Hannah’s presence when she is wearing socks (thus, during the warm, summer months, when she often goes sockless inside her sandals, I am frequently banished to her live-in sockdrawer – about which more later!)
· When my mistress is wearing socks, I am only allowed to look her in the sock – and at the lowliest visible part of her sock at that (thus, if she is wearing boots – at the very top of her sock; if she is wearing sneakers or shoes with full-length anklesocks – at the side of her sock covering her shapely anklebones; and if she is wearing low-cut, so-called ‘secret’ socks – at the tiniest slither of sock above her shoeline and along her instep).
· If my mistress Hannah is wearing socks, but they are not visible (e.g. they are totally hidden beneath her trouser or jean-hems inside her boots; or they have slipped right down inside her sweaty sneakers) I am still permitted to accompany her to heel, but must mentally visualise her socks on her feet, since I will still know what type of socks she is wearing at any given time, having been responsible for socking her first thing in the morning.
· If her socks have inadvertently, as opposed to deliberately, slipped down inside my mistress Hannah’s sneakers, boots or shoes, I shall be sorely whipped by the master-sir later in the evening – since I am responsible for the well-being of my mistress’s (his wife’s) socks.
· Incidentally, in case you were wondering, if my beloved mistress Hannah is wearing knee-high socks inside her kneeboots, I am permitted to raise my gaze to the tops of her socks (if they are visible), but this is the only time my footslave vision is permitted up that high. Normally my eyes must be kept low – even though I do look up to my mistress – and focussed at ankle, or near-ankle, level! Another exception to the ‘ankle-level’ rule, however, would be if my mistress was wearing socks with sandals – particularly open-toed sandals – as then I must be focussed down on her socked toes or insteps (but, as I indicated before, my mistress Hannah is not much of a ‘socks-with-sandals’ girl, more’s the pity, and is much more likely to go sockless in her summer sandals, leaving me to fester amongst her unworn socks in her sock-drawer at home).
· Whenever my mistress Hannah is wearing only socks on her pretty, white feet i.e. without shoes or slippers about the house, I am required to constantly, and ostentatiously, sniff them for the amusement of my master and mistress. Moreover, I am required to sniff them on the sweatiest, smelliest parts – usually the undersides of the toe areas, but often also along the sweaty soles and insteps – and my socksniffing facial expressions must simultaneously convey my fear, disgust and ‘joy’ at what I am being required to do!
· Similarly, when my mistress Hannah eventually decides to divest her feet of her sweaty, daytime socks – and orders me to take them off her feet – I must retire to the corner of her bedroom and respectfully sniff them as she showers and/or bathes prior to going to bed with the master-sir. Only when she is ready for her thick, woolly bedsocks to be applied to her feet (in the winter months) am I permitted to, temporarily, put down her unwashed, daytime socks in order to night-time sock her.
· My mistress’s bedsocks are the only socks I am permitted to abandon whilst they are on her feet, as I have other sock-related work to do throughout the night.
· Such duties routinely include, mouthwashing her dirty, discarded, daytime socks in my mouth, before handwashing and then wringing and ironing them, ready for her live-in sockdrawer which is my night-time place of abode (and my daytime place of abode if she isn’t wearing any of her socks!). I must sleep amongst her laundered socks, using them as my night-time pillows; and if I am banished to her sockdrawer during the daytime hours I must worship her socks, by repeatedly kissing them in their rolled-up balls 1000 times each, until such time as my master or mistress require me to sock her again.
· Needless to say, it is my mistress who always chooses whether she will be wearing any socks, or not, on her feet – and if so what style and colour of sock (though she will often be aided and abetted by her husband). Ironically, I have absolutely no say in the matter, even though I am her personal sockservant, and thus am permitted, by law, only to address my master or mistress in connection with her socks. Therefore every sentence I utter must not just contain the word sock, but relate specifically to my mistress Hannah’s socks – under pain of the whip!
· And when I am whipped for some sockslavish failure or other, I am, of course, gagged with my mistress’s dirty socks – not just to muffle my screams, but to demonstrate to everyone watching that I am the prisoner of my mistress’s socks, and subject to them!
However, I’m pleased to say that my master and mistress have little occasion on which to whip me, since I am a good and sox-cess-full, personal sockslave. In fact, I even suffer from ‘morning sockness’ (i.e. withdrawal symptoms from my mistress’s overnight-socked feet, as I yearn to remove her thick woolly bedsocks and replace them with her chosen daytime socks on her pretty, freshly-showered-again feet!).
My mouth may constantly smell like a cesspit of sweaty, young-womanly sock – but I’m the best at what I do! I’m a sockcess!
(Sorry – no more terrible puns! I promise!)
You’ve heard of nailbars? Well, I work in a socksniff bar! It is my humble job to sniff young women’s socks whilst they sit back, relax, kick off their shoes or boots, and have their stinky, sweaty socks sniffed.
All day long my face is surrounded by the smell of sweaty, female-human feet, and all I can see are the filthy bottoms of dirty, female socks.
Of course, being female socks, they come in all different shades and colours, and some of my socksniff-bar customer-mistresses can be quite pernickety when it comes to the specific areas of their socks they want sniffed.
Take, for example, the young dark-haired woman who is lying back and having her socks sniffed right now. I’ve never met her before – or her socks – but very nice she is, and they are, too!
She is wearing a pale green and white, stripy top; stylishly ripped and frayed, blue denim jeans; and the most delightful pair of green and grey patterned anklesocks I think I’ve ever seen (or smelt!).
The soles of the socks are light grey, with some green lettering which contains the message ‘hello sockboy’ on each sock!
But the smelliest, sweatiest parts of the socks are the actual green parts which cover her toe and heel areas. You can tell they are the sweatiest parts by the extra bobbling in the cotton sock material, and by the tell-tale signs of fading in the green dye, where her sweet young-womanly footsweat has reacted with the chemicals in her socks and washed them out.
It’s no surprise, therefore, that – anxious to make a good sock-impression on my face – the pretty, twenty-something wearer of the socks is insisting that I bury my ‘ugly sockslave-nose’ specifically in the fading-green creases and folds beneath her socked toes, and that I sniff them out loud, and palpably!
She initially watches me, unsmilingly, as I obey her orders and touch-sniff her stinky, green socks with my nose, but then switches her attention to her mobile phone when she receives what I believe to be a text message. Obviously a communication from one of her friends is of much more importance to her even than my obedient and diligent sniffing of her socks.
Of course, even though the pretty, dark-haired customer-mistress is distracted, I wouldn’t dream of disobeying her, and allowing my nose to stray onto the forbidden grey areas of her socks – despite the fact that I am yearning to smell the difference!
In any case, the mistress would be bound to notice the feel of my nose running down the grey, sensitive sole of her sock, and would most probably call over my sockbar-supervisor and have me sorely whipped! I fear the whip even more than I hanker after the smell of her grey socks, and so I shall limit myself to the faded green areas until I’m told otherwise.
I’m just a stinky-sock submissive in a common-or-garden, female socksniff bar. Sniff your socks, anyone?
