Footslave Wallflirt

I have to admit, I'm a bit of a footslave wallflirt!

My actual, humble and demeaning, job is to kiss-greet the often dirty and sweaty feet, not to say swollen ankles, of returning residents and overseas visitors to the Gynarchy just after they have passed through Passport Control at Barbaria International Airport.

Because I am a lowly, head-in-the-wall  'footkiss-greeter' I am also, exceptionally, permitted to lavish praise on the free person whose feet I am greeting, providing I do so in the most humble and obsequious of slave-speak, as befits a slave who is genuinely 'delighted' to be in a position to kiss dirty, smelly feet!

But the feet of the beautifully curvaceous, young Indian woman in front of me now are truly immaculate-looking – clad in flat, beige-coloured, open-toed sandals, and with her toenails sweetly perfumed and painted bright pink.

She is also in a cheery and jaunty mood, and initiates the conversation of unequals between the two of us:

'Slave, kiss my feet while I'm waiting for my husband to finish using the loo!'

I can tell from her accent that she is a native-born Gynarchy girl of Indian ethnicity:

'Yes, mistress madam. At once, mistress madam. It will be my honour, mistress madam!'

She kindly facilitates me by raising her pink-pedicured and perfumed, dainty right foot up into the lower air beneath my wall-confined, perma-kneeling face, and I promptly lower my obsequious lips to her exposed big toenail.

'What's the weather been like here, slave?'

It's, fundamentally, a stupid question to ask the likes of me, of course, since I am permanently confined on my hands and knees inside an inner wall in the International Arrivals Hall! But I do my best to answer the mistress's silly question politely and professionally, and based on the gossip I have overheard from the many airport staff whose feet I must also kiss on a daily basis:

'Oh pray, pretty mistress, if it pleases you, pretty mistress, this slave believes that the weather has been rotten, mistress!'

'Ha! Ha! I was hoping you would say that, slave! We've had a lovely time out in Turkey where the weather was gorgeous!'

She triumphantly switches feet beneath me, and I lower my lips to her left big toe, relieved that I appear to have said the right thing!

'Oh pray, pretty mistress, many congratulations on your choice of destination for your holiday with your husband, mistress! I trust that you had a wonderful time with your lucky husband, madam! Pray invite him to have me kiss his feet also, after he has finished his ablutions, madam, that I may congratulate him on both his pretty wife, and his choice of holiday destination with the mistress!'

Yes – I am a 'unisex' footslave, required to kiss the feet of both my male and female betters; and I am permitted to flirt with my mistress's in this way, being a heterosexual male myself, but an impotent one, trussed up as I am and obliged to remain permanently celibate. It gives my female customers a cheap thrill!

She giggles, as if tickled pink by the feel of my lips on her pink toenail, and when her husband rejoins her having relieved himself in the public lavatory, she fully invites him to present his manly feet to me – the 'pathetic and impotent footservant' – for respectful kissing.

A hairy, open-toed-sandalled, unperfumed and unpedicured foot is roughly shoved under my nose, and now I am the one feeling ticklish as his masculine toe-hairs tickle my reluctant lips (for, although I have asked for this, I still baulk at the sight, feel, taste and smell of a hairy and unwashed, male foot!). It appears to be the foot of a white man, though sunburnt and flaking in parts.

But, simultaneously peeling and unappealing though it is, kiss-greet it I must:

'Oh pray, master sir, if it pleases you, master sir, many congratulations on your choice of destination for your successful holiday, master sir! And many, many congratulations on being the sexual partner of such a stunningly beautiful young woman, if I may make so bold, most magnificent and superior master-sir?'

He too laughs down at me, and deftly switches hairy feet beneath me, that I may pay labial homage to his left big toe also. His toenails are dirty, and I can detect the, thankfully relatively faint, aroma of male footsweat as my nose and mouth descend to the feet of my freemale better in front of his amused, Indian-Gynarchy girlfriend.

'Ha! Ha! Loser!', he gloats!

He then withdraws his man-sized left foot from my

24/7 footblock, and turns to his submissive wife:

'Come on, Jazz! Let's go get our luggage!'

She embraces him and they walk off hand in hand, without so much as a by-your-leave, for, in spite of all the Gynarchy pleasantries between us, they are NOT my friends; they are my betters – and I am just a down-in-the-dirt, public footkisser!

............................................................

Shortly afterwards, one of the airport workers – blonde-haired, skinny, Airport Security Officer miss Naomi, whom I recognise from her shiny, blue leather, laced-up, low-heeled and reinforced-toed, uniform ankleboots – positions her left, booted foot beneath my face and hitches up her pale-blue-uniform, trouser hem to reveal the top of her plain black cotton bootsock too:

'Slave, stop flirting with the passengers and kiss my boot!'

'Yes, officer-mistress Naomi, madam! At once, pretty officer-mistress!'

I'm glad to be flirting with a dainty, feminine foot once more – even if it is clad in an oversized, masculine boot!