Pathetically Pandering to our Female Betters Vol 4
Further examples of suitably ingratiating behaviour by humble, male footslaves towards our beloved Female Masters & Betters!
I am kneeling next to my clever, bespectacled, 24 year old, black-African mistress Komoyo’s shoes and socks in the university lecture hall, admiring them and studying them in great detail whilst she sits her final exam paper.
Throughout the three hours allocated to the examination, I kneel unobtrusively beneath her, and silently admire the way the dark brown shoeleather in her low-heeled, laced-up, oxford brogues creases and folds along the shapely, feminine insteps in tandem with her subconscious, intellectual foot movements.
I likewise admire the way her beige-brown, scrunched-up anklesocks crease and fold subliminally around her shapely, Central-African-girl anklebones, as she writes her considered and intelligent replies on the exam paper above me.
But, above all, I admire the stunning contrast between the soft, beige brown colour of her cascading anklesock-tops, and the deep brown sheen of her Central-African, lower legskin on her calf muscles, just beneath the slightly raised hem of her ankle-length, floral-patterned, traditional African-style, summer’s dress. For this is the sock and skin juncture of the superior, young, bespectacled, African woman who is my female master and infinite better, and who is no doubt destined for a dazzling career at the Bar, should she pass all her exams!
As for me, I can but study her brown, shimmering, lower legskin, her cascading, beige-coloured anklesocks, and her rich, brown, laced-up shoes, with pathetic, footslavish awe and wonderment, since I am barely worthy to even be on my hands and knees in their superior, female presence – ignorant and ugly, male imbecile-slave that I am!
Yes, the only examination that I need to pass today, is my studious examination of my mistress Komoyo’s, undergraduate shoes and socks. For if I am a good and humble footwear-slave to my intellectual, African mistress, perhaps she will allow me to follow in her African-girl footsteps (on my hands and knees, of course – directly behind her heels) after she has graduated, and throughout her forthcoming glittering, legal career!
She reaches down to subliminally scratch her left anklebone, and then casually readjusts her beige socktop over it – and my heart skips a beat!
Everything about 27 year old, Indian office-mistress Gita is thin and wiry – her black, shoulder-length hair; her ears; her prominent nose; her tight lips; her scrawny neck; her wiry body; her spindly legs; her angular anklebones; her narrow , shiny, black leather, single-strapped, mary-jane style shoes; and the veins running down the top of her feet – beneath a thin veil of dark, finest-denier, nylon stocking.
And yet how I love to serve her on my office-corridor shoelick-stand, as, petite and wiry-framed though she is, she seemingly towers above me – my ultimate female master, in a position of absolute female power, having her spindly shoes lickshined and even, occasionally, having me run the tip of my office-footslave nose down one of the nylon-covered veins on her spindly foot, as a sign of my maleslavish respect for her sweet feminine thinness and wiriness!
In another world, I could knock this girl over with a feather, for I’m a big bloke! But in this world – i.e. in the topsy-turvy world of the Gynarchy – she is the one with all the physical power, as she now so ably demonstrates by slapping me across the face with her spindly, right hand when my nose inadvertently deviates from the narrow track of her nylon-covered, foot vein!
Now the side of my cheek is covered in her wafer-thin, finger marks, for everyone to see and laugh at – the fat, burly slave-man, beaten up by the Indian twig-girl in her shiny, black shoes and dark nylon tights. I am a laughing stock – but I’m just glad it was her thin and wiry, Indian-girl hand, and not the thin and wiry, communal office whip, which she utilised to self-righteously discipline my disobedient and disrespectful slave-face!
My 30 year old mistress Victoria’s brown leather, chunky-heeled, calf-length boots have a V shaped upper rim at the back.
My mistress Victoria (‘Vicky’ to her friends) cruelly insists that, whenever she is stationary – for example, standing at a pedestrian crossing waiting for the lights to change; or at the bus-stop waiting for her bus – I must kneel behind her and rest my nose in the ‘V’ of her right upper-bootrim, so that the tip of my nose is just touching the soft, latticed stitching on the back of her ubiquitous, white cotton, knee-length bootsock.
I can touch – but not smell, as the smelliest part of her sock is, needless to say, deep down inside the warm and sweaty confines of her brown leather boot. But by ‘nose-tipping’ the back upper part of her stationary, white-latticed bootsock I am, at least, humiliatingly reminded of my inferiority towards her, and her absolute female power over me – the power to make me kneel with the back of her sock touching my nose!
Of course, as soon as she moves off my nose instantly loses contact with her sock – but my eyes must remain focussed on that V-Shaped upper rim at the back of her stylish, brown, calf-length boot, and on the latticed stitching of the white sock peering out from inside the ‘V’, as she walks along the city streets; for I shall be obliged to humbly reinsert my nose into that gap twixt girlboot and sock just as soon as my mistress Victoria stops walking again.
I can’t wait! Such is her complete and utter, female sock-and-boot Victoriousness over me!
My 23 year old, slim and fit, blonde mistress Tara, is busily masturbating her new twenty-something boyfriend – master-sir Richard – high above me. She is doing so because she 'totally loves him, and that' – even though they have only been together for some two weeks, and, in my humble opinion, she hardly even knows him!
Meanwhile I – her jealous and devoted personal footservant of some two years – am dutifully, and unobtrusively, kneeling on the cold and dirty ground beside her sweet and giving, young womanly feet, which are tonight elegantly clad in a pair of scuffmarked, low-top, lace-up, black and white canvas sneakers, and bog-standard, pale grey sneaker-socks. I should explain that both my mistress and her lust-filled boyfriend are still, more or less, fully clothed, as their act of ‘love’ is taking place outdoors, in the dark back-alleyway near my mistress's student lodgings (the happy couple just couldn't wait to get home before her dainty, feminine hand went down his manly trousers!)
Somewhat ironically, therefore, I am the only being present who is actually semi-naked (being clad only in my flimsy, white slave-shorts and pink-rubbery, effeminate footfool mask) and yet, if the humiliating words permanently emblazoned on my pink, cerebral footmask, with bells on it, are anything to go by, I shall never, myself, experience the joy of having my mistress's soft, feminine fingernails on my redundant, male organ – for my mistress Tara had chosen a footfool-mask with the following public messages written on it, in felt-tip pen (and written by her own fair hand, I hasten to add):
Tiny, limp prick; Ugly; Weak; Timid; Craves the whip; Only likes girls' socks, and that; Pathetic, male loser!
The pink, rubbery mask hiding my shameful face thus eloquently sums up my blonde mistress's feelings towards me, in her own words, and demonstrate precisely why she will never indulge in any form of sexual activity with a footfool-loser like me!
So, I know my place – and, as I said, it is down on the ground, down in the dirt of the back-alleyway, on my hands and knees, and focussing on my beautiful mistress Tara's scuzzy, black, everyday lace-up sneakers and short, grey, angular sneakersock-tops!
Although I can hear the wet slapping sounds above me as the superior master-sir's penis becomes increasingly lubricious thanks to my mistress's fingering dexterity, I do not allow myself to be distracted or to look up, for I am not worthy to look up at the male member of a superior, free man; I am fit only to look at girls' socks – and especially the plain grey socks of my mistress Tara as she is feverishly masturbating another man!
I gather from the moans and groans of libidinous, male pleasure now emanating from master Richard sir above me (along with such disrespectful, male expletives as 'Suck it bitch!' and 'Cock-whore!') that my sweet and kind mistress Tara may now have progressed to giving him oral sex. Certainly her right, pale grey, well-worn, sneakersock top is now much more creased below her shapely, white anklebone and frayed, black-denim jean hem as she changes her position slightly against the backdrop of the street-trashcans in order to obligingly 'give him good head'!
But still I don't dare to look up. Quite apart from any movement in the tinkling bells on my mask possibly disturbing my betters during their lovemaking, as my humiliating, pink-rubbery head-mask says: Only likes girls' socks, and that! I'd therefore much rather look down at my mistress Tara's angular, and now increasingly creased, plain grey sneaker-sock as it disappears down the back of her dirty, blonde-girl sneaker, than look up at her pretty blonde-girl mouth full of master Richard sir's rampant penis!
I feel safe concentrating on my mistress Tara's grubby-grey sock – safe and impotent, which is why she purchased me in the first place! Safe sex is not for me – only safe sox; though, again, it's ironic that the more I focus on the movement in her holey and ankleflesh-revealing, light grey sneaker-sock, the more unpardonably horny I become!
So the footfool-mask my mistress Tara disparagingly chose for me, eloquent though it is, isn't exactly what you could describe as 100% accurate in its merciless mockery of my alleged, footslave impotence!
The way she is dressed she would look like a clown – were she not such a deeply attractive, upper-class young woman. For she is wearing a brown, duffel-coat style jacket, with mismatching red and white chequered pantaloons tucked into a pair of equally colour-clashing, bright green, knee-high, wellington boots!
But this is her young ladyship, mistress Amanda – 21 year old daughter of the master Robert sir on whose expansive country-estate I am employed as a bottom-of-garden bootscraper!
As she positions her outstretched, right wellington boot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling bootscraper-face at the back of her father’s garden, pieces of dried-on mud and grass are already dropping off the backs and sides of her green rubbery boots, thanks to the flexing and folding of the otherwise shiny, green rubber in tandem with her blue-blood, upper class ankles underneath.
But I don’t mind the mud – for this is, self-evidently, eccentric, aristocratic-girl, rubber-boot mud, and will therefore taste regal and rich to a sub-commoner bootslave such as myself!
Her posh, demanding voice reinforces the stereotype:
‘Hey you down there – the dirty footslave-oik! Lickshine my green rubber wellington boots! Ok yah?’
Needless to say, miss Amanda doesn’t know my name – I’m just one of her father’s many decorative footslaves, dotted throughout the vast, country estate on which she lives. Yes – definitely a spoilt, young woman, born with a silver spoon in her mouth; and a young woman who is used to barking down orders to underlings, and to receiving their instant obedience!
This fascinating, young, eccentrically-dressed woman is certainly no clown – she is a posh, young mistress to be very much feared and admired:
‘Yes mistress; thanking you kindly, mistress, your young ladyship mistress Amanda!’
Who knows, if I perform well on her green rubber wellingtons perhaps she might even arrange to purloin me as her personal stable-cum-bootboy; or, even better, as her personal, night time, boudoir slipper-and-sock slave – for such a rich and spoilt, young woman is bound to have a personal footslave in every room!
Just imagine what delicious, posh-totty socks she must be wearing inside those muddy, green rubber, wellington boots – thick, I’m guessing; and made of rich lambs-wool! I certainly wouldn’t turn my lower-class nose up at them, however, whatever their posh-girl texture and hue!
I lick, and swallow, the posh mud off the bitter tasting outsides of her upper-crust, green wellington boot with my lowly, country-garden or commoner tongue, and live in hope!
My pretty, slim and svelte, 25 year old, blonde, ‘at desk’ office-mistress, sadly, operates a ‘look, but no touching’ policy in respect of my foot-servitude towards her.
Thus, whilst other at-desk, office footslaves are permitted – indeed required – to constantly service their desk mistresses’ office boots and shoes, or even their office nylons or socks, I am not allowed to touch my desk mistress Kerry’s beautiful, black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots – not by mouth, nose, face or hand! I am only permitted to kneel and look at her boots – from a respectable distance of three inches or so – whilst they subliminally crease and fold in tandem with the flexing of her sweet feminine footmuscles; close enough to smell her musty, black bootleather; close enough to observe the individual grains in her girl bootleather; close enough to salivate over the greying scuffmarks along the lower insteps of her office ankleboots – but completely, and cruelly, forbidden to do anything about them!
Nor do I get to see her socks – unless she happens to reach down inside her boot, below her raised, black cotton, office trouser-hem, in order to scratch her bare, white ankle – for she (deliberately?) wears ultra-short, black anklesocks inside her boots, the elasticated tops of which come nowhere near the tops of her ankleboot-rims (Indeed, I only know she wears short, black socks inside her office ankleboots because of those rare occasions when she does reach down to subliminally scratch her leg, or adjust her boot-zipper – again, both tasks which I would happily perform for her, and which many an at-desk, office footslave would be expected to perform by other desk-mistresses; but not my cold hearted, desk-mistress Kerry!)
Thus, I am compelled, for the most part, to merely observe and admire the way her pasty, white legskin contrasts and interacts with the black leather of her upper bootrim – particularly on her right foot, as she has a tendency to sit at her desk with her right leg crossed over her left. At least, I suppose, I should be grateful that I am permitted to kneel and stare at her upper, right ankleboot at such times – i.e. at the one hovering and swivelling subconsciously in the air – rather than just the stationary left boot on the ground; for there is virtually nothing to see on that boot – no movement in the leather; no bare legskin; and certainly no sock!
My blonde mistress Kerry never even bothers to talk to me – not even to order me to kneel and stare at her ankleboots beneath her desk; she just takes it as a given! She sees me (or rather ignores me) as a purely decorative object supplied to her by her employers to use as she sees fit – and she doesn’t see fit to use me; not even as a silent footrest!
I have come to the conclusion that young madam simply can’t stand the sight of me – and understandably so; for I am fat, old and ugly – being in my late fifties! Mind you, she does seem to have a thing for the equally fat, old and ugly office master Brian sir – one of her office colleagues – but, then again, he is a free man, with money and prospects; and, no doubt, a penis that works – a penis that can insert itself to order inside her vagina, and pleasure her – unlike mine, which is permanently locked in a metal restrainer, and has been so since my enslavement at the age of 21 (since before miss Kerry was even born!)
I know she likes him, not just because of the amount of office time she wastes chit-chatting away to him, but because, whenever he enters her office space and draws up a chair, she sits with her right ankleboot-toe pointing out towards him, and swivelling furiously in front of my kneeling face; it is, apparently, a sign that a young woman likes a man when her foot is pointed towards him as she sits (unless, of course, that man is merely a slave like myself, in which case it means nothing!)
And so, as she sits and dreams of marrying the fat and ugly master Brian sir, I kneel and dream of how my life might be if the happy couple appropriated me as mistress Kerry’s personal, household footslave…
· I dream about sleeping by the foot of the master bed, with my mistress Kerry’s dirty, black bootsocks from the day before, soaking overnight in my mouth
· I dream about putting her soft, white, furry slippers onto her bare feet first thing in the morning, when she swings her feet out of her side of the bed (still with her dirty bootsocks gagging my mouth)
· I dream of accompanying her to the shower room where I must remove her slippers from her feet again and then observe her ankle-tendons flexing and folding beneath the stream of warm water as she showers herself – stark naked (master Brian sir wouldn’t mind my being in the shower alone with his naked, 25 year old wife, as he knows that I am forbidden to look up at her beautiful body above the ankles; that I am fitted with the penis-restrainer device; that I am, in any case, sexually impotent; and that my mistress Kerry finds me sexually repulsive!)
· I would then have to kneel and dry her feet and ankles, whist mistress Kerry dries the rest of her luscious, white body
· I would then temporarily replace her slippers on her feet; remove her dirty, black socks from my mouth and place them in the laundry basket on top of her used knickers; and accompany my freshly-showered and perfumed mistress Kerry to furry-slippered heel in her dressing gown as she heads back to the master-bedroom to get dressed.
· My role in the morning dressing process, of course, is merely to dress my mistress’s feet after she has put on the rest of her clothes – and, as it’s a work day, I must apply a fresh pair of short, black bootsocks and her ubiquitous, scuffmarked black leather ankleboots to her dainty, feminine feet, below her equally ubiquitous black cotton, bootcut trouser-hems. I have tried to remove the scuffmarks from the sides of my mistress’s boots with my tongue overnight, but they are pretty much indelible now, seeing as how mistress Kerry has regularly worn these boots to work for over 3 years now (plus, of course, I was hampered by her dirty socks in my mouth!)
· I retrieve her boots from the bottom of her wardrobe, and fetch the fresh pair of (previously mouth and hand washed by me) short, black socks from her sock-drawer. Obviously, I must smooth the socks over her toes and onto her feet first, before I zip on her ankleboots. The socks only reach up as far as her lower anklebone – ha ha! That new ‘at-desk’ office footslave of hers will never get to see her socks – not unless my mistress Kerry specifically permits him to look down inside her boots, which she won’t do – as she never speaks to him! I should know – I’ve been there! Ha ha! Mercifully, she does speak to me – her personal, household-footslave – even if only to bark down her orders at me, or to verbally berate me prior to whipping me for some footslavish incompetence or misdemeanour! I love the sound of her young-womanly, blonde-girl voice telling me what to do; it inspires instant obedience!
· I must then accompany her on my hands and knees to heel down to the breakfast table, where a devoted master Brian sir has made them both breakfast (I am not allowed to eat at the table myself, of course, but I do get to eat my master and mistress’s leftover, half-eaten scraps after they’ve gone out to work together.)
· During breakfast, I very much resemble an ‘at-desk’ footslave, as my role is simply to kneel and stare at my mistress’s breakfasting boots, and listen to her inane, lovey-dovey conversation with the master-sir over the breakfast table. Sometimes they discuss their previous night’s lovemaking, and what they plan to do tonight again – and I crimson with shame and embarrassment at the thought of my own slavish impotence.
· Then I must kiss my mistress’s boots goodbye as she exits the house with her manly husband, and heads for the train station.
· I am now left alone with my master and mistress’s food scraps – which I consume voraciously – before I must start my household-footslave duties of hand washing my mistress Kerry’s aforementioned, dirty black bootsocks from the day before: the ones which had been pre-soaking in my mouth overnight, and which are now languishing in her knicker-basket in the bathroom. I am not required, or permitted, to handwash my blonde mistress Kerry’s soiled knickers – only her socks and/or nylons; her hosiery in other words – since I am employed exclusively as her foot and footwear slave; not her underwear slave!
· Having washed the socks, I must dry them – with my breath; a process taking several hours – but I don’t mind, as I love watching my mistress’s black socks dry; I get to study the pattern in the stitching and even count the individual stitches in a row of stitching.
· When they are finally dry, I must ‘iron’ the creases out of my mistress Kerry’s black socks with the sides of my face – another lengthy and time-consuming process!
· I must then spend the rest of my lonely day tongueshining my mistress Kerry’s collection of shoes, sneakers, sandals and boots – lest she requires to wear any of them this evening after she has me remove her black leather, office ankleboots from her sweaty-socked feet when she comes home from work, which she might do if she’s going out for a meal in a restaurant with the master-sir. If, however, she’s planning on just staying at home and lounging around in front of the television with her husband, I shall be required to kneel by the end of the sofa and sniff her sweaty, black-socked feet all evening – inhaling and absorbing her damp bootsock-sweat whilst she cuddles and canoodles in the arms of her portly, but loving, middle-aged husband above me.
· If she’s going out, however, I must desock and then nylon her – for my mistress Kerry always likes to wear short skirts and dark nylons when she’s out on the town with the master-sir; or rather, master Brian sir likes her to wear short skirts and nylons – and she obliges him, because she loves him! He also likes her to wear high-heels, and I must apply those to her dainty, nyloned feet on his behalf; he particularly likes her shiny, black patent leather stilettos (which are so shiny thanks to my dutiful tongue-licking efforts whilst my master and mistress were out at work earlier today; not that master Brian sir or mistress Kerry madam would ever thank me for tongueshining her stilettos; they both take me for granted in that regard; and rightly so – for I am merely their household slave!)
· Again, if they go out, I am not permitted to accompany my mistress and master – as I am a housebound, household slave whom they wouldn’t be seen dead with outside the home – and so I am obliged to remain home alone once again with my mistress Kerry’s sweaty, black, workaday bootsocks now soaking in my mouth, whilst I kneel and sniff the insides of her, still warm and moist, temporarily discarded officewear ankleboots. During such times I like to think about where her office boots have been – on the train; on the streets; walking along the office corridors; in the office restroom; beneath her office desk – where her loser, at desk, office-footslave was obliged to kneel and study them, but not touch them, throughout the working day! Ha ha! What a loser! Just think – right now he will still be kneeling beneath her office desk, in an empty, blackened out office, with nothing to show for his humility – whilst I have the very boots he has been admiring all day long beneath my nose; and I have her salty-tasting, secret, black bootsocks inside my mouth – socks which he rarely gets to even see! Ha ha! Who would you rather be – me or him? Ha ha!
· Finally, when my master and mistress return home from their evening out – both slightly squiffy and the worse for wear – I divest my mistress of her shiny (and now sweaty) black stilettos, and her dark, finest-denier nylons (from the calves downwards – I’m not allowed to touch my mistress above the calves!) as she climbs into bed in order to make love to the superior master-sir in front of me. Her black cotton, office socks shall remain in my mouth all night, but her sweaty nylons must wait until morning for their mouth-soaking (they shall, in the meantime, be dutifully tied over my nose so that I can at least pay my respects to them by sniffing them all night!), as will the stilettos, which I shall tongue-shine whilst my mistress is out at work again tomorrow...
Yes – I truly let my at-desk, office footslave imagination run away with me as I kneel beside my mistress’s booted feet whilst she chats up master Brian sir in the office. I don’t even know if they’re actually seeing one another outside of work; their relationship may, for all I know, be purely platonic. But I have to do something to keep my brain occupied all day, especially since, when it comes to my deskmistress Kerry’s black leather, office ankleboots, I can look – but not touch!
My pretty, mixed-race (Bajan and French) mistress Delilah had an unexpected visit from the Female Police the other morning.
My mistress Delilah deals drugs, but they weren't concerned about that; some interfering, nosey busy-body, it seems, had told the Female Police that my mistress was pampering me – feeding me real, human leftovers (instead of statutory slave-mush); not making me tongue-attend to her boots properly; and neglecting to whip me on a regular basis!
My shocked mistress only had to show the officers my whipped back, where I was confined in her wooden stocks in her cold, back yard; my emaciated and scrawny physique as I languished in said stocks; and the shiny and well tongue-polished state of the black leather kneeboots she was wearing over her black denim jeans, for them to be wholly satisfied that she was in no way neglecting her mistressly duties (plus, she offered them some puff, which they gratefully accepted).
Having then made me kiss the two Female Police Officers' heavy, black leather, rounded, reinforced boot-toes beneath their navy-blue-uniform, trouser hems – and thank them for checking up on me – my mistress Delilah the showed them to the door, and returned within a few minutes with her dreaded, single-tailed, brown leather punishment whip! She clearly believed that I was the one who had 'grassed her up' for not mistreating me enough (even though that would be a physical impossibility for me as I am kept permanently locked in her private, back yard stocks) and informed me that she 'would soon give me something to bleat about!'
My mistress Delilah then vigorously whipped my bare, kneeling back for a full hour, before making me lickshine her chunky-heeled, pointy-toed, black leather kneeboots until my slave-tongue was also red raw. Then she left me for three whole days without any slave-mush or dirty drinking water.
How dare anyone accuse her of neglecting to mistreat me!
I really am an incorrigible old lech of a public-footslave!
Glamorous, pint-sized, twenty-something, Asian, regular customer-mistress miss Jamnong (who originates from Thailand) is ordinarily wearing plain, black anklesocks with her ubiquitous, plain, black ballet-flats beneath her equally ubiquitous, plain, black, cotton trouser hems whenever she approaches my public footslave-stall for her dainty, Thai-girl feet to be worshipped and kissed.
However last week – with it being such a warm and sticky day – she went sockless for the first time inside her soft, black leather shoes, meaning that I had a full frontal view of her Thai-girl, foot-nudity!
Normally I would be permitted to kiss her feet on her socked toe-cleavage, but public-footslave protocol dictates that, whenever a footmistress-customer is barefoot inside her shoes or sandals, I must avoid lip to skin contact with her, since she is a superior, female being and I am not worthy to touch her bare skin – not even her sweaty footskin – with my maleslave lips!
But I’m afraid I just couldn’t resist those, normally hidden, soft brown feet and pulsating, Thai-girl foot-veins, and so, instead of respectfully kissing her solely on her musty-smelling, ballet-flat shoe toes, I lecherously kissed her on the same spot I normally would – her toe-cleavage; only this time it was her bare toe cleavage!
Well, needless to say, all Thai hell broke out! The Female Police were summoned, and I was taken to the Female Police station and soundly whipped, before being carted off to the underground slave-mines – where I am now toiling away, breaking underground rocks, and will do so for the rest of my miserable, workslave life.
But I still don’t regret it – for the taste, and the feel, and the memory of miss Jamnong’s soft, bare, warm, brown footflesh shall forever linger on my parched and dry lips whilst I am undertaking my backbreaking, lifelong sentence of hard, underground labour!
You see what I mean? I’m incorrigible!
As if being a lowly, ornamental, office boot and shoe kisser at the door of the ladies’ restroom wasn’t a humbling enough existence, some of the office-mistresses delight in making me not only kiss them on their outer footwear as they exit the restroom, but also on their inner footwear – their socks, tights or nylons.
As they well know, this is so much more humiliating for me, as my lips are that much closer to their precious, soft, feminine foot and ankleskin, and yet still so far; for their hosiery protects their flesh from my dirty, maleslave lips!
They torment me so by haughtily hitching up the hems of their ankle-length, office dresses (or, more usually, the hems of their office trousers) as they present each foot to me in turn for respectful kissing on their way out of the female restroom, whilst simultaneously barking their office-female orders down at me:
‘Kiss me on the sock, slave!’
Or:
‘Kiss me on the nylon, slave!’
Here are some examples of their cruelty:
· The fat, white, forty-something mistress with the blonde hair and black leather, flat-heeled, round-toed, zip-up, somewhat street-soiled ankleboots. She hitches up her black cotton, bootcut trouser hem to reveal the elasticated top of an unremarkable, but nonetheless feminine and sexy, plain, black cotton, anklelength bootsock: ‘Kiss me on the sock, slave!’
· Her slim, blonder, younger counterpart, with the more stylishly pointy-toed and chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots, who hitches up her narrower, black polyester trouser-hem to reveal a pleasingly creased black anklesock with tiny, white spots: ‘Kiss me on the top of my spotty sock, slave!’
· The petite and comely, bespectacled, thirty-something black office-manageress with her hair tied back in a severe bun and her black leather ballet-flats covering a pair of rich, dark, finest-denier nylons: ‘Kiss me on my nylon-stockinged anklebone, slave!’
· The slim, black-woolly-tighted, thirty-something, ginger-haired manageress mistress in the short, black skirt and plain black, two-inch-heeled, office pumps who has no need to hitch up anything before barking her female-management orders down at me: ‘Kiss me on the back of my woolly-tighted heel, slave!’
· The pretty, twenty-something, Asian office-mistress with the flat-heeled, musty-smelling and scuffmarked, lace-up, black leather ankleboots, who hitches up her incongruously smart navy-blue trouser-hem to reveal a bright blue and yellow, cartoon-animal-themed anklesock: ‘Kiss me on the side of my cartoon sock, dirty slave!’
· Her equally beautiful, but more loquacious, Asian sister, who insists that I kiss her on the matt-black of her bobbled, cotton sock, rather than the shiny and smooth, black patent leather of her ultra-smart, round-toed, wedge-heeled, office shoe, beneath her black cotton trouser-hem: ‘Be kissing me on the front of my black, office sock, humble footslave. Do not be touching my nice, shiny, black shoe with your dirty slave-mouth!’
Of course, there are many more office-mistresses utilising my ornamental, footwear-kissing services throughout office hours, whose socks or nylons I would dearly love to kiss, but cannot – either because they remain mysteriously, and even more cruelly, hidden inside their calf or knee-length boots, or because the mistress is simply not disposed to feeling the tickle of my quivering, footslave lips on her shapely, hose-covered foot or anklebone!
I respect their footwear choices and footwear-kissing preferences too, of course; but I shall always maintain a footslavish soft-spot for those relatively magnanimous office-footmistresses who add to my daily sense of slavish impotence and humiliation by making me kiss them on their intimate socks, tights or nylons!
If she was whipping me to make me work…I would work;
If she was whipping me to make me walk…I would walk;
If she was whipping me to make me beg…I would beg;
If she was whipping me to make me talk…I would talk;
If she was whipping me to make me move…I would move;
If she was whipping me to make me sigh…I would sigh;
If she was whipping me to make me run…I would run;
If she was whipping me to make me cry…I would cry;
For such is the all-consuming power of my mistress’s stinging, female whip.
But…she is whipping me just for fun!
