Seaside Ornamental Footkisser
So, you are an ornamental footkisser in a slightly shabby and sleazy, seaside resort – but NOT out on the bright and breezy seafront; rather, in the dank and dingy, subterranean entrance to a ladies’ public restroom in the centre of town.
You’re, quite literally, up to your neck in it; buried, at ankle-level, up to the neck in the side of a wall! Your poor neck permanently aches – for you can only move it an inch or so upwards or downwards, in order to adjust your lips to female-toe-kissing level, dependant on the style of sweet feminine footwear being presented to you for kissing on the concrete footblock below your perma-kneeling face. The female authorities have cruelly seen to it that you cannot move your neck from side to side, as you have no need to. Your job is merely to kiss outstretched feet.
What’s more – you are a DUMB footslave; forbidden to talk – not that any young woman in her right mind would ever deign to talk to an ornamental footkisser; an anonymous, nondescript head-in-the-wall!
Your first foot of the day is a scruffy and street-soiled, red canvas, sneakered one, with incongruous, accompanying, bright pink sock. The sock is fashionably ankle-length, but without fully exposing the pasty white, but feminine-shapely, anklebone. Clearly a new arrival to the resort, for she has not yet developed an ankle tan she feels she can show off to the world!
The bright pink of the ankle sock is, nevertheless, a fashion statement; it emphasises the femininity of the foot you are now required to kiss as it is positioned, arrogantly, without a word, beneath your face. You lower your lips the half inch or so required to make labial contact with the dirty, red-canvassy, rounded toe-area of the outstretched sneaker. It is a well-worn and evidently favourite sneaker. It tastes, and smells, feminine musty.
You are permitted only a split second of contact with the sneaker, before it is hastily removed and replaced by her equally soiled, left sneaker-toe. Perhaps the young woman is in a hurry? Bursting for the loo? Or perhaps she is just shy about having her feet kissed – a foreign tourist not used to the Gynarchy’s ways? Yet, she knows enough to know that, by law, you are required to kiss her sneakers upon her entrance to the restroom.
Upon her exit is optional; her option!
She chooses not to.
Your next ‘customer-mistress’ is well and truly dressed for the beach – in flip-flops; red and black flip-flops.
Her foot and lower leg is encrusted in sand! It is the only way you get to experience the nearby beach for yourself – via the sand brought to you inadvertently on your female customers’ feet. Or is it inadvertent? Maybe it’s deliberate? Designed to humiliate you, and remind you of what you are missing out on – life?
The sand is equally prominent beneath her dark-purple-painted toenails. But it is NOT your ignominious role to scrape the offending sand out with your footslave-teeth – more’s the pity! Your job, remember, is merely to show some respect for the sandy, cheap, flip-flopped foot beneath your face. You may kiss the outer surface of the sandy, big toenail; but not lick it; or scrape at it!
The big toenail is flaky, only the flakiness consists not of dead or diseased nail, but of the stale, purple toenail-paint that sticks to your lowered lip. It hurts you to kiss foot this time – for your neck must strain to lower itself the full inch in order that your anonymous, footkissing mouth may reach the precious, flaky, purple-painted toenail. So soft and hairless; and this time the foot is well tanned beneath the sand; it must belong to a white woman who has already spent days sunbathing on the beach. Either that, or she is naturally olive-skinned.
Either way, you sense she is beautiful above you.
Her flip-flops flip flop on the concrete footblock beneath your face as she switches feet beneath you. When she has gone, they leave a sandy trace on the concrete beneath your kneeling face. No need for you to attempt to blow it away with your feeble, male breath. The next customer-mistress will pick it up on the soles of her shoes or sandals.
Or, indeed, as it turns out – boots!
Yes – boots; on a warm day like this! Fashion over practicality. But you are glad – for boots make a nice change at this time of year, especially brown leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zipped-up kneeboots, seemingly worn on bare legs beneath a pair of bright red hotpants. (I say seemingly because we are reliant on your peripheral vision only for the mistress’s description above her upper boot-level; you can only ever just about see your customer-mistresses up to the knee level, and since none of them ever deign to stoop down and speak to you, you can never know if they are blonde, redhaired or brunette!)
What you do know is that her legskin is brown; and she is speaking with a black accent on her phone above you (there is reception in this subterranean hellhole, if only because the young women using the facility insisted upon it during a survey conducted by the local female council several years ago. You have been down here so long – you remember the days before mobile phones! Ha! Ha!)
She subliminally presents her right-booted foot to you for respect-kissing whilst absorbed in her telephone conversation above you. Perhaps because she is otherwise preoccupied, her boot lingers on your block after the first toe-kiss. The rules state that you must, therefore, go down again on her brown leather boot. The boot-toe, you notice, is gently scuffmarked. You can not only see, but feel the minute scuffmarks and scratches beneath the brown boot polish on your lips.
After the second, ‘extra’ kiss, the young black woman belatedly remembers to switch booted feet below you. The left boot-toe is equally scuffmarked. And like its right counterpart, it is dusty, rather than sandy. You rather suspect that these boots have been out clubbing all night, rather than relaxing on the beach. Are they socked inside?
Oh the agony of not knowing – of not being able to pull down that boot-zipper with your teeth to investigate sock!
The black girl moves on – without a single word directed at you (though she has several choice words for her telephone companion!)
Sweary or demure, you must show respect for all your customer-mistresses down in this God-forsaken place. So you hold your own tongue – which is for kissing; not for talking.
Boots subsequently does stop for her boots to be optionally respected on the way out again, though this time she is nonchalantly texting whilst you are boot-toe kissing!
Aha! Ballet flats! Your first pair of the day – plain white flats, with purply-fishnetty socks of the supposedly ‘no-show’ variety, and yet very much on show since their purple texture contrasts so vividly with the whiteness of the soft, leathery shoes below them (and, indeed, the pale whiteness of the young woman’s partially exposed ankleskin above them!) These ‘no-show’ socks do, to be fair, disappear completely down the back of the mistress’s heels – or, at least, the one on her left heel does, leaving her chapped and reddened heelskin exposed to the bright sunlight; or rather, right now, to the dark, dank and urinary-smelling air surrounding your restroom-wall, entrapped face.
The stale smell of urine is not because the young women who use this place are dirty! It’s their drunken, male boyfriends who often relieve themselves next to you, especially at night, whilst they are waiting for their beloveds to finish ‘powdering their noses’ inside. As a result, the ground around your concrete footblock reeks of stale (male) urine.
No wonder your customer-mistresses rarely tarry at your footblock. You stink!
But no amount of stale urine can drown out the aroma of musty, leathery, white ballet-flat up your kneeling nostrils as you pay labial homage to the soft, white, ballet-flat toe, whilst admiring the angularity of its accompanying, purple-fishnet-patterned sock on the mistress’s left heel. How you would yearn to lick-smooth that dry and chapped heel exposed by the disappearance of the sweet sock at the back, if only you were licensed to do so by the local female council. But, as we have already emphasised, you are nothing more than a dumb, ornamental footkisser – licensed only to kiss toes, be they sneakered; bare; booted; or ballet-flated.
And besides – your scrawny, enslaved neck would never stretch that far!
Ha! Ha! What a ridiculous spectacle you make! No wonder the young woman’s purple sock is creasing up with laughter at you as you go down for your second kiss on her left foot.
She’s enjoying this!
