Submissive Males Volume 4
1. Homework
Mistress and her husband are going out clubbing for the evening.
As I kiss mistress’s feet temporarily goodbye in the basement dungeon, where the happy couple are leaving me for an anticipated 12 hours without any food or water, the master-sir instructs me that I must write a 650 word essay eulogising a pair of his wife's thick, grey bootsocks (i.e. the ones she has on now) as I humbly await their return.
As the mistress cruelly, but kindly, holds one of her thick-grey-socked feet up to my kneeling nose for sniffing, her husband explains that his beautiful wife has graciously deigned to leave her sweaty, grey bootsocks with me all weekend (as she will shortly be changing into her clubbing stilettos), so that I can garner inspiration for my essay.
He further warns me that the essay must:
- Be written in fancy, but humble slave speak
- Be hugely respectful of his wife's socks
- Praise his wife's socks
- Conclude that I am not worthy to serve his wife's socks, and that I am worth less than his wife's socks
If I score less than full marks for my handwritten essay, which he will read and mark on their return in the morning, I shall be sorely whipped.
I humbly assure the master-sir that I shall give all sue diligence to my essay-writing efforts, and shall endeavour to truly eulogise his wife’s discarded, grey bootsocks in the manner in which he has commanded:
And here is that handwritten essay:
Oh pray master-sir; if it pleases you, master-sir. Truly this slave is eternally grateful to the mighty and strong master-sir for arranging the opportunity for this dirty, weak slave to spend some time with the master’s wife’s socks, and then to eulogise them for the master-sir in the form of an essay.
Truly this slave is not worthy of such an inestimable honour, sir!
Oh pray, master; oh pray! The first thing this slave notices wen it is alone with your wife’s sweaty, grey bootsocks, is the marvellous texture of the mistress’s thick, grey, woollen bootsocks – made all the more tender by the precious moisture from the mistress’s feet, master-sir. Truly the stitches in the thick material of the mistress’s socks absorb her divine footpore-excretions, capturing them and fermenting them to make the fine bouquet of your beautiful wife’s socksweat, master sir, thanking you kindly master-sir.
Oh master, I dare not sniff on the mistress’s socks too hard, lest I inadvertently diminish their piquant aroma, which I know must last me a full two days, master-sir. And that just would not do – for it is truly an honour for the likes of me to live and breathe in the pungent atmosphere of your pretty wife’s discarded and used bootsocks, master-sir. The plain, grey bootsocks of a goddess, master!
Oh master, if it pleases you most powerful and mighty master-sir (please don’t beat me, master!) the aroma of your wife’s socks is particularly sharp in and around the sweaty, reinforced toe-areas of your wife’s socks, master.
Pray don’t get me wrong, master! Every inch of your wife’s socks encaptures your wife’s precious footsweat-DNA, and is equally respected and admired by this kneeling slave. Oh but master-sir, if you will be so kind and understanding master sir, the aroma around the toe-areas of the mistress’s socks is, quite simply, overwhelming. Tart and vinegary, master sir – a smell fit for a footslave!
I sniff , master, knowing that the piquant stink shall reside inside my nostrils for many an hour – a truly humble reminder to me of my lowly and despised position in life; that of your wife’s socksniffer, master sir – al thanks to the magnanimity of the master sir, who hath purchased this slave as part of his dowry to the mistress. Praise be to you, most generous master sir!
Master, this slave is acutely aware of not just the stink of the mistress’s socks, but also of his own worthlessness vis-à-vis the socks, since he is their servant, master sir. Truly this slave must not be spared if ever a decision must be made by the master and mistress as to whether or not to retain the slave, or the socks. In such an unhappy event, pray sacrifice me master sir, for it is more important that thy wife’s socks liveth!
This slave would have but one request, master sir – on the eventual wearing away and disposal of the mistress’s socks, pray bury them on top of this slave’s upturned face – that all may know he was the subservient slave of the socks, and shall remain so for all eternity, master sir!
Oh master, this slave doth have an humble confession to make – it hath spotted a loose stitch in one of the toe areas of the mistress’s socks. Oh master – pray don’t beat me for this imperfection, master-sir, though this slave fully deserveth to be beaten, for is he not the supposed carer and protector of your wife’s socks, master sir?
Oh master, pray do not apply the sting of thy mighty whip to my back for this failing on my part. This slave promises that he will monitor the loose stitch in the mistress’s sock, and ensure by means of his mouth that any necessary repair is forthcoming – such as the nibbling away, and swallowing, of the diseased stitch, master-sir.
Long live your wife’s socks, master sir! Long may they reign over me, and have dominion over me!
Upon the happy couple’s return from their night out clubbing, the master sir, true to his manly word, duly did read and mark my essay. He marked me down for arrogance; bad grammar; bad spelling; and for writing more than the stipulated amount of words (659) – meaning that I subsequently received some 25 stinging lashes of the whip whilst I was kneeling again at his wife’s, hastily re-socked, feet.
And rightly so, for a disobedient, disrespectful and incompetent sockslave must be punished!
2. Left on the Shelf
The worst thing about being a footslave is the being left on the shelf!
Right now, for example, my beautiful blonde mistress is wantonly asking her manly boyfriend if he would like to accompany her to the cinema to see the latest blockbuster movie. That's because she finds him sexually attractive.
Now, I would dearly love to accompany this lusty, young woman to the cinema - not to watch the movie, of course, but to watch her black nylon, fishnet tights subliminally creasing and folding on her dainty, feminine feet and ankles as she watches the movie, seated, no doubt, in the back row of the darkened cinema next to the superior, gloating master-sir (a real man).
But chance would be a fine thing, for:
A) She is not interested in my company, since I am merely an unattractive, male footslave (and her property); and
B) She never permits her household footslave to accompany her on her frequent dates with various free men (I am deemed not to be worthy enough).
I shall therefore be left, home alone, to languish in my cold and lonely, basement cell, with instructions to handwash my mistress’s dirty socks.
Still, at least the master-sir kindly orders me to kiss his stunning date’s high-heeled sandals (as a demonstration of his machismo) before the happy couple head off, arm in arm, to the nearby picture house.
'Make sure you do a good job of washing your mistress’s dirty socks, sockslave!', the man barks down at me in a dismissive and unfriendly tone, by way of a passing shot. He clearly sees me as nothing more nor less than a blonde girl’s impotent, pathetic sockwasher (and he’s right!)
'Yes, master sir. I obey you, master sir. Thanking you kindly, sir.'
I wish it was his girlfriend’s dirty fishnets I was washing tonight (since I am not permitted to accompany said teasing tights to the cinema!) for at least then I would get to sniff my lubricious and horny mistress’s female hormones on her feminine hosiery!
3. Painted
The public footslave kisses his exotic, Indian customer-mistress’s painted toenails in front of her gloating boyfriend:
4. Her New Beau
‘Slave, when my new boyfriend arrives you will immediately start kissing my feet in front of him as a demonstration of your impotence and powerlessness before me. I want him to see that you are no threat to his manliness or a rival for my affections. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, mistress madam! I will be a good and humble footservant to you in the presence of your new boyfriend, madam. Please don’t beat me, madam!’
………………………………………..
‘Hi, honey! Great to see you again!’
‘You down there, the slave; kiss my foot!’
‘Yes, mistress madam. At once, mistress madam!’
‘Ha! Ha! What a pussy-whipped wimp! What a rusty-necked dork!’
5. Tamil Tormentress
All I have managed to glean about her (from her gloating over me) is that she is in her early twenties; very pretty; married; an office cleaner by profession; originally from Tamil Nadu; and that she loves teasing and tormenting freshly-whipped prisoner-slaves like myself in the post-flogging, kneeling stocks!
It is the dead of night, and the happy crowds who witnessed my flogging have all gone to bed; but she has wrapped up warmly in her black hoodie top; traditional, modesty-preserving headscarf; and modern, brown cargo-pants in order to torment me during the night with her plain, black leather loafers and short, blue and red sneaker-socks, beneath her shapely and exposed, brown-skinned anklebones.
She knows full well as I kiss-worship her leathery footwear, graciously held up to my kneeling face, that I cannot answer her back, thanks to the deliberately jagged, inner edge of the heavy, wooden neck hole which helps to confine me - digging into my Adam's Apple and thus rendering me speechless!
That amuses her:
'Ha! Ha! Slave whipped? Sore? Ha! Ha! I like watching slave whipped! Hear slave cry; beg. See slave twist. Ha! Ha! You not able escape sting of whip! You broken. You cut. You red! Ha! Ha!
After you whipped, I feel horny; go make love with husband. He a real man, isn't it? Ha! Ha! He f**k me; he satisfy me while I think of your sores! Ha! Ha!
You never make love with woman; you just a slave. You not a real man, like husband. He better than you. Tomorrow night, after you whipped again, I bring him here; show him my public footslave; make him laugh at you! Ha! Ha!’
As my Tamil tormentress continues to verbally berate me in her broken English, I demonstrate my slavish respect for her in the only way I can, by fervently kissing her dusty and street-soiled, black leather loafers and short, red and blue stripy sock tops, taking great care not to lip-touch her precious, feminine ankleskin, for I am not worthy to touch bare, female footflesh with my dirty, maleslave mouth.
The following night, true to her word, my Tamil tormentress invites her manly husband along to gloat over me:
At least my Tamil customer-mistress has graciously changed her socks from the night before, whilst she watches me being laughed at by her husband…
…socks, the backs of which, I subsequently get to see all close-up and personal, as she subsequently embraces him above, and in front of, me:
Truly, I am in the presence of Tamil greatness!
6. Basement Corridor Footslave
I am dutifully lickshining a customer-mistress’s heavy, black leather biker boots:
I very much keep to the job in mouth – as befits a humble and diligent, public footservant:
I refuse to be distracted by bootsock…
…sexy though it is, being the plain, black bootsock of a beautiful, purple-haired, young woman:
Looking nonchalantly down at me:
Soon she is replaced by a beautiful, blonde-haired mistress:
I 
I can’t help but be distracted by this latest customer-mistress’s socks, since they are so much on view, and I am very much an admirer of girls’ socks – especially when they are creased and uneven, and close enough for me to count the stitches whilst the young woman wearing the socks inside her shoes on her feet is smirking down at me:
Truly I am the public footservant of all women who pass my way in the basement corridor, be they purple-haired or bleached blonde!
