Everyday Scenes of Footslavery Volume 2

image Scene no. 1 – Back-Alleyway Mercy

One has to be particularly careful, and respectful of one’s customer-mistresses, when one is a back-alleyway, public shoelick. The alleyway is, generally, deserted, and the mistress is at liberty to do whatever she damn well pleases with you! Hence we back-alleyway footslaves are often regarded as the most abused, most humiliated of public footservants – which is no bad thing, of course!

Take the surly, tall and slender, young, auburn-haired, white woman who is approaching me now. Like all the women who make their way towards me down this dingy, back alleyway she does so with a purpose. This shall be no casual, spare of the moment, customer-mistress/public-footservant encounter – she wants to degrade and humiliate me with her dirty, scruffy footwear, and is, quite literally, going out of her way to do so!

And her footwear is decidedly scruffy – black, laced-up plimsolls with scuffmarked, black-rubbery toe-areas, worn with smelly-looking, creased, plain-black anklesocks with are visible thanks to her tight-fitting, grey-denim , jean hems which just about cover her shapely, upper anklebones. A short, purple top; black leather, biker-style jacket; and sinister, dark sunglasses, complete the enchanting ensemble (I say ‘sinister’ sunglasses, because there is no sunlight down this narrow, city-centre, back alleyway that would require the long-auburn-haired mistress to protect her delicate, feminine eyes from any harmful UV rays!)

She stretches forth her left foot first onto the 3-inch high, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face (another sinister sign), and says nothing – clearly expecting me just to get on with my humble business of lickshining her dirty plimsoll (clearly I can’t ‘shine’ the canvas uppers of her low-cut plimsolls, but I can spruce up the rubbery toe and sole areas, and divest them of their backstreet-dirtiness!)

I serve her in silence – since a slave must only ever speak once spoken to – and as I do so, to my horror she produces from underneath her black leather jacket an illegal, and quite unnecessary, three-tailed scourge, equipped with little pieces of bone and jagged metal affixed to the dark-brown, leather lashes!

I cringe at the mere sight of the illegal whip, which, as I said is completely unnecessary, given that there is an, admittedly well used and somewhat frayed, public-use whipping stick hanging on the wall above my back, and I am, in any case, a good and diligent plimsoll-licker! I brace myself for a possible unannounced scourging at the sadistically silent, young white woman’s plimsolled feet! I even gently nose the crease in her bobbled, black anklesock whilst tongueshining the dusty, black canvas upper of her left sneaker, in the hope of eliciting some deep-rooted, young feminine mercy in her dark, female soul!

But – like I said – I am completely at her mercy, and that of her illegal scourge-whip, down here in the depths of the back alleyway, and, even if a passing female cop was to observe me being scourged for no good reason, she would undoubtedly turn a blind eye, since back-alleyway footslaves are regarded as fair game in the Gynarchy for any young woman who requires to relieve her pent-up frustrations and stress on the male of the species!

And rightly so!

As I nuzzle the side of her sock, whilst skilfully keeping my wet tongue on the dusty, black canvas of her upper plimsoll, she teasingly dangles the whip-shards over my back, tickling it with the cold steel of the jagged metal and bits of bone. I flinch at the cruel whip’s gentle touch, and imagine what it’s dreadful sting must be like if it is applied in anger to one’s bare, naked back!

The young woman makes her first sound – an audible giggle – as she revels in her plimsoll-power over me. But still she says nothing.

She languorously withdraws her left plimsoll from my face, and replaces it with her right. It is equally scruffy and in need of my loving tongue-attention, as is her black sock, but I find it increasingly hard to concentrate as the jagged whip continues to tickle and stroke the exposed and vulnerable nerve endings on my bare, kneeling back.

She cocks her head to get a better view of my fear and trembling through her dark sunglasses as I silently lickshine a muddy stain off the side of her black, rubbery instep. The frightening whip could strike at any time, and to her evident young-womanly amusement I am starting to sweat, even though it’s a dull, autumnal day.

She giggles some more, and then crouches down in order to spit a copious amount of thick, female saliva in my frightened, male face. As she does so, I can see that her pretty nose is somewhat reddened and full of snot, beneath her fashionable, dark sunglasses. The poor girl must have a cold. No wonder the young woman is not in the mood for idle chit chat with a back-alleyway footslave, and no wonder she wants to torment me; she is suffering!

I hope I catch her cold from her, and thereby help to relieve her of her symptoms.

The main thing, however, is that the terrifying scourge is mercifully withdrawn from my back, and hidden once again beneath her short, black leather biker-jacket!

Phew! That was close! I really was just a sweet, feminine whim away from being cruelly scourged, but it would seem that my skill and dexterity with my footslave-mouth on her plimsolls (and my footslave-nose on her socks) has spared my prone and vulnerable back from being literally ripped to shreds!

The mysterious, young redhead withdraws her scruffy, plimsolled, right foot from the footblock and turns to walk away from me, the sound of her female giggling echoing around the deserted alleyway as her green-mucus-laden saliva still slides its ignominious way down the front of my forlorn face.

I live to serve another pair of female shoes – though it could be ages before the next frustrated female seeks to relieve her tension by utilising my footwear-licking services down this quiet, semi-deserted, back alleyway!

image Scene no. 2 – Black Pride

I am so proud to be my 22 year old, slim & petite mistress Toiana’s personal footslave, following her to heel along the pavement as she walks towards the local corner shop for some cigarettes – and not just because she is a beautiful, young black woman in her physical prime, but because she is wearing her fetching, pink shellsuit with the tracksuit-bottoms tucked into the loose and partially open, upper-rims, of her shiny black, patent leather, partially laced-up, flat-heeled, Doc Marten style ankleboots.

Everyone is secretly admiring her boots – I’m sure – and the pleasing contrast between the pink and the black.

What not everyone can see, however, is the tiniest slither of pale-pink, black-girl bootsock just below the upper rim of her left ankleboot. The matching pink anklesock inside her right bovver boot is, sadly, too far gone down her shapely anklebone to be visible – even to one whose face is so close to her boots, like mine – but the twisted top of her left sock is just about visible to me, if I look hard enough.

And I do, for I happen to know something else about that largely unseen, left sock on my mistress Toiana’s pretty, left foot – it is sweat-stained on the bottom of the sock, with several nice, brown sweat-stains caused by repeated wear and tear from the beige-coloured, inner linings of young mistress’s black leather ankleboot. Sweat stains which I shall make it my business, yet again, to remove by mouth later this evening when my black mistress is relaxing with her socked feet up on the end of the couch, smoking her cigarette.

She looks so classy at such times, with her cigarette in her mouth, and her stinky, pink socks in my face! Everyone else in the living room – her family members – says so, and, yet again, I beam with pride at the fact that I am even associated with such a nice pair of sweat-stained, pink, girly socks on a beautiful, young black woman’s feet, albeit merely as their mouth-cleaner and servant.

My mistress casually breaks wind as I lick the brown stains on the bottom of her left sock, much to her family’s simultaneous amusement and disgust. But I revel in it – in the feminine fart; the female cigarette smoke; and the sweat-socky atmosphere of a beautiful, young black woman who is admired by all, and who is self-evidently my infinite better, since I am obliged by law to kneel at her feet and lick the dirty brown sweat stains off her pastel-pink bootsocks whilst she relaxes in front of the tele!

image Scene no. 3 – Colour-Coded Korean Anklesocks

My sweet and kind, South Korean regular customer mistress – miss Yun-Ji – is always colour co-ordinated, and even sends me colour-coded messages as to her daily moods through her choice of anklesocks:

· If she is wearing white anklesocks inside her black suede, brothel creepers it means that she is feeling pure and holier than thou, and my kisses to her feet must accordingly be reverential and respectful

· If she is wearing her purple anklesocks inside her ubiquitous, black suede, brothel creepers, it means she is feeling flush and happy-go-lucky, and that means I can kiss her feet any way I like – on her shoes; her socks; her bare, Korean anklebones (by rolling down her sock); like I said, any which way I like!

· If she is wearing her blue anklesocks inside her black suede, brothel creepers, it means she is feeling a bit sad, and I must cheer her up by kissing her sensitively, and only on the sock;

· If she is wearing her black anklesocks inside her black suede, brothel creepers it means she is in a foul mood, and I must await her precise, snapped commandments as to exactly how she wishes her feet to be kissed that day;

· If she is wearing her green anklesocks inside her black suede, brothel creepers, it means that I am just to go ahead and kiss her feet without waiting to be told by her – green means go!

· If she is wearing her pink anklesocks inside her black suede, brothel creepers it means she is in love with some new man in her life, and I must kiss her shoes and socks in a congratulatory manner

· If she is wearing her multicoloured, stripy anklesocks inside her black suede, brothel creepers it means her mood is changeable, and I must proceed to kiss her feet with caution;

· If she is wearing her all-red anklesocks inside her black suede, brothel creepers it means she is in an angry mood – and I am about to be whipped!

Needless to say, I kiss the red socks most fervently of all!

image Scene no. 4 – Advice to New Footmistresses

Excerpts from a leaflet distributed by the Gynarchy Authorities to every first-time footmistress on her 21st birthday!

From Section 1 – Your Choices

Congratulations on your coming of age, and on owning your first ever, personal slave!

Amongst the things you must now decide as a brand new footslave-owning mistress in the Gynarchy of Barbaria are:

  • Do you wish your personal footslave to be permanently housebound, or to accompany you to heel outside the home? (for example, to your place of work; or whilst you are out dining with your husband?)
  • Do you wish your footslave to be a perpetual kisser of your feet, or only an intermittent kisser (i.e. kissing your feet on demand)
  • Do you wish him to be a dumb-mute footslave, or a talking footslave – skilled in the humble art of slavespeak?
  • He will, of course, as a footslave be required by law to live his life on his hands and knees at all times (except when tied to the whipping post). But do you wish your footslave to be blinkered and/or masked and/or cangued (all are seen as inexpensive ways of forcing your footslave to focus on your feet and footwear)?
  • Do you wish him to be fitted with an electronic ‘concentrator’ device (a more modern, and sadly more expensive, form of slave control)
  • How will you feed him? With specially purchased slave-mush? Or with scraps from your plate? Or will you send him out to forage for food on the dirty pavements?
  • Will he sleep at the foot of your bed, or in his basement dungeon?
  • What will be his daily duties around the house? Exclusively foot-related chores, such as mouthwashing, handwashing, ironing & fetching your socks; tongue-shining all your boots and shoes; massaging your feet; pedicuring your feet etc.? Or will you also require him to carry out other menial, household chores, such as lickshining your bathroom; lickshining your floors; mouth-vacuuming your carpets; mouthmowing your lawn etc.?
  • What routine means of corporeal discipline to wish to employ on your slave, in addition to the obligatory slave-whip? The cane? The stocks? The pillory? Solitary confinement in your dungeon-basement? There are a multitude of options for the modern Gynarchy-mistress!

Remember, in all of these areas there is no right and wrong, and the choice is always entirely yours!...

From Section 2 – ‘Slave-Husbandry’

…Whether or not to you decide to keep your footslave permanently housebound, it is inevitable he will require to interact with others apart from yourself – your husband; your family; your friends; your houseguests etc.

Remember, they are all his betters, be they male or female – since he is just a slave; therefore he is duty bound to show his respects to them.

The golden rule is that he must kiss the feet of every female whom he encounters (with her consent, of course), and kiss the ground in front of the feet of every free male.

He must never be permitted to look any of his betters in the eye – only in the foot – and when kissing the feet of other females, the default position is that he should kiss them on the shoe or boot-toe, unless specifically directed to place his lips elsewhere on a superior lady’s footwear.

Your footslave must show particular respect to your husband – who is your chosen, sexual partner. It is often helpful to involve your husband in the chastisement of your slave; for example, in the application of the whip to your slave’s back. This will reassure your husband that you love him, whilst at the same time demonstrating your utter contempt for your slave.

From Section 3 – Advice on Slave Punishments

…. ii) How to make your slave’s stay in the public, kneeling stocks even more uncomfortable:

· Whip him beforehand (or have him professionally whipped). Kneeling in the stocks for days on end with a sore, whip-scarred back is 1000 times worse than just kneeling in the stocks with an unwhipped back (or so we’re told!)

· Choose a set of sturdy, public stocks that are fully exposed to the elements and, ideally, arrange for your slave to be punished during either inclement, or very hot, weather

· Ensure that the wooden crossbeam is locked tight around his neck, so that it is completely immovable and your slave is prevented from easing the strain in his neck-muscles by moving them even slightly

· Invite your male and female friends to visit him in the stocks and make fun of him. They may wish to bring rotten eggs, vegetables and fruit to throw at him, or, if they are female, suggest they bring along their dirty, unwashed socks and tights to shove into his gaping mouth and up his ugly nose.

· Consider extending his sojourn in the stocks, purely on a whim, just as he is due for release. Raise his hopes of (relative) liberty – only to dash them again! Remember – he’s just a dirty slave, for you to treat however you like! You own him!...

Yes, a new footmistress has a lot to learn when she comes of slave-owning age, but the great and the good Gynarchy authorities will always assist her with their feminine wisdom!

imageScene no. 5 – The Stocks-Tormentress

The sweet-looking Japanese girl with the pleasingly dyed-red, shoulder-length hair; the pink, frilly-white-hemmed, above-the-knee, summery dress; and the flat, pink leather loafers worn with pale blue anklesocks with a lacy pink ruffle-trim, is nothing more nor less than an incongruously-dressed, professional tormentress of prisoner-slaves in the stocks!

At least – that’s my conclusion after she opens up a portable chair; places it directly in front of the public kneeling-stocks where I am being imprisoned for 3 days and nights prior to my forthcoming public flogging; makes herself comfortable in it; and then proceeds to introduce herself to me – all the while forcing me to look only at her pink shoes and blue and pink, lacy anklesocks, which are casually creased around her shapely, feminine, Japanese anklebones:

‘Ha! Ha! I miss Shinju! I from Japan. I only 20 years old – so I too young for own personal srave-o. But I make you my srave over next few days. Ha! Ha! I come here every day – after nice, long sleep in nice, soft bed – and laugh at you in wooden stocks! Ha! Ha! I make your life hell!

Every day I sit here for hours – make you kiss my feet. I make you kiss sock; I make you kiss shoe; I make you kiss bare foot! Ha! Ha! But I not wash feet or socks; I not clean shoes! Ha! Ha! I make you kiss only dirty, Japanese-girl feet, socks and shoes! Ha! Ha!

I make you suffer. I eat before you; I drink before you; I add to your hunger and thirst! Ha! Ha! I make you smell my food; I pour all food and water I not want onto dirty ground in front of you; then I rub food into dirt with sole of my shoe, and wipe shoe on srave face – but not near your mouth, so you not able taste miss Shinju dirty shoe-food; only smell and feel! Ha! Ha! You starve in stocks, while I make my belly full! I belch in your face so you smell food from inside my gut! Ha! Ha!

You a prisoner – you not able move or stop me make fun of you. I your master while you in stocks. I pay guards let me stay here and punish you! Ha! Ha!

Then – in three days, on day of your flogging, I watch from crowd! I watch you get whip; I watch you cry in pain! Ha! Ha! I laugh at you – take pictures, for show my friends back in Japan. They laugh at you be whip too! Ha! Ha! We all laugh – you just a worthless, dirty srave-o!

Ha! Ha! I spit on you!’

And with that, she leans down from her chair – causing the blue body of her anklesocks to crease and fold even more beneath my helplessly imprisoned and bowed face; audibly gathers up phlegm in her pretty, Japanese mouth; puckers up; and spits directly into my imprisoned face.

She then laughs at me as her phlegm trickles down my face and into the corner of my mouth – my only liquid sustenance, it would seem, for the next few days; unless you count her foot and sock sweat which she has promised to me!

‘Ha! Ha! Now you start kiss my feet, dirty srave-o. You start by kiss me on sock; you kiss lacy, pink top of sock on miss Shinju right foot. You not stop kiss lacy sock until I tell you. Everyday you kiss my sock, and my shoe, and my foot! Ha! Ha! You just a about-to-be-whipped, Japanese-girl dirty sock-kisser! Ha! Ha! I better than you!’

Professional stocks-tormentress or not, I can’t exactly disagree with that last statement. Miss Shinju is indeed my better, being young and female. I have to admire her, and will undoubtedly make a very nice mistress for some poor wretch when she comes of slave-owning age next year on her 21st birthday, don’t you think? I mean, imagine being at the permanent beck and call of such a delightfully sadistic, young woman!

But for now, as she says, she has bribed the female authorities in order to be my temporary owner, and to treat me like dirt whilst I languish in the public kneeling-stocks. I have no choice but to obey her, and submit to her sweet young-womanly, oriental power and authority over me.

And so I lower my lips to the lacy, pink ruffle at the top of her pale-blue anklesock, and respectfully, and fearfully, kiss it – the first of many such kisses to this same, all-powerful, Japanese girl’s ruffled socks over the next few days; or so she has promised!

image Scene no. 6 – She’s got Rhythm

The pleasingly tall, black girl in the bright yellow, high-visibility jacket, is tapping her pointy, black leather boot-toe on the dirty ground directly in front of my kneeling face beneath her black-polyester, bootcut trouser-hems as she awaits her early morning bus to take her into work!

The ground is wet as it has not long ago been raining, and her boot-toe therefore makes a satisfying squelching sound with each tap.

Not that they are taps of impatience and frustration at having to wait for her bus on this cold and dark, November morning. Quite the opposite – these are happy taps, as she is tapping her right toes in rhythm with the music on her MP3 player!

Which means, of course, that unlike me – a bus-stop, ornamental footkisser – she cannot hear the squelching noises of her toe-taps in the muddy rainwater; just as she is oblivious to the occasional splash of dirty rainwater to my kneeling face caused by her involuntary boot-movements!

I’m guessing they are ankleboots; they certainly felt like a pair of black leather, zip-up ankleboots as I kissed them beneath her flapping trouser-hems on her arrival at the bus-stop. That’s my job – I am employed by the Gynarchy Omnibus Company to kiss the feet of all superior, young women as they enter the area of the bus-stop by way of a welcoming gesture; and then to kiss them again as they board the bus.

So I will get another chance to test my theory as to the length of her boots when her bus eventually comes – perhaps by discreetly resting my forehead against her trouser hem in an effort to feel where the boot leather ends (you see, I’m giving away all our little, public-footslave secrets here!)

I also want to try and establish if I can feel sock beneath those boots, for a nice pair of pink or black socks inside those heavy boots would finish off the black mistress’s footwear-ensemble just fine, in my humble footslave opinion!

Not that I have any chance of actually observing her bootsocks inside her boots; her bootcut trouser-hems are just too low. Not unless, that is, she subconsciously reaches down to scratch an itch on her shapely, black-girl anklebone!

Now wouldn’t that be a sight for tired and weary footslave-eyes first thing in the morning – a black-girl shiftworker’s hidden bootsocks, exposed, albeit fleetingly, to my humbly kneeling face?!

And still she taps away. This beautiful girl’s got rhythm, as well as a fine tasting pair of black leather ankleboots!

image Scene no. 7 - Maximum Power

My 23 year old mistress – mistress Deepa – who is of Indian origins, but a Gynarchy girl born and bred, has, sadly for me, set my concentrator device to maximum on the word 'socks', which means that I not only have to think of her socks with at least every third thought; if I don't comply I receive the maximum pain voltage to my brain!

Furthermore, her husband checks the concentrator device's records fastidiously every evening, and for every recorded, judicial shock I have received during the day (i.e. for not thinking of my beautiful, young Indian mistress's socks every third thought) he happily gives me three harsh lashes across my bare, kneeling back – in front of his pretty, young wife – with the household whip!

And so, if I am to avoid a life of more or less constant pain, my thought and speech processes are obliged to go like this:

'Your white socks are nice socks, mistress. Your socks are brilliant. Socks. Please don't socks hurt me socks mistress! I can socks see your sockwhite beneath your socks blue tracksuit socks bottoms, mistress, socks, and inside socks your white socks sneakers, sockmistress. Truly your socks are my socks betters, superior sockmistress! I fawn socks to your socks, mistress; so socks white and socks pure, ankle-length socks (the unforgiving concentrator device gave me a painful shock at this point as it interpreted the hyphenated word 'ankle-length' as two separate words!), mistress. Truly socks it is socks my honour socks and privilege socks to think socks continuously about socks your white anklesocks on your socked feet, mistress. Socks. God bless socks you sockmistress Deepa for socks switching on socks the sock-concentrator device to socks maximum, mistress! Socks. For there socks is nothing socks I deserve socks more than socks to be socks punished severely socks, both by socks the device socks, and your socks husband, for socks failure to socks focus on socks and admire socks your socks, madam Deepa!'

Remember, I don't just have to talk like this – I have to think like this, with the word 'socks' at least every three words in my humble thoughts, if I am to avoid the piercing, shocking agony of the concentrator device on my brain (and the subsequent indignity of being man-whipped in front of my mistress by her husband!)

Furthermore, it's not just any old pair of socks I have to think about and concentrate on; it's the pure, white pair of Indian-female anklesocks which are perennially in front of my face (or, at least, which are always partially visible in front of my kneeling face).

I can only tell you about this now with relative liberty because my mistress Deepa has, temporarily, switched the device off – to kindly give my brain a rest from her socks (and save the battery), even though I'm still kneeling and staring at them right now as she lies back in the manly arms of her husband with her pretty, Indian-girl, white-socked feet up on the edge of the sofa!

image Scene no. 8 - Cruel, Frilly Socks

My 21 year old Turkish footmistress – footmistress Ayta – is particularly cruel in her choice of socks in front of my permanently kneeling face. She likes to wear frilly, pastel-shaded or plain white anklesocks inside her ubiquitous, musty-smelling, black leather ballet-flats and beneath her equally ubiquitous, cotton-smelling, calf-length leggings – which is fair enough. But she cruelly elects to wear frilly socks in which the lacy trim is not at the very top of her anklesocks, but half way down the body of the sock!

This is cruel, of course, because it means I am forbidden from looking at a good two inches of pale pink, green, blue, or yellow, Turkish-girl sock above the frill, even if there is a tempting particle of alien sock-lint or a dusty, dirty sock-mark above the frill! That's because, as we all know, frilly trims on a mistress's socks are designed as a barrier above which a sockslave is not permitted to look by law; they are designed to protect a mistress from a footslave's eye wandering onto her bare ankleskin, which admittedly it would be very easy to do in the case of my mistress Ayta's beautiful, soft, olive-toned, Turkish-Asian skin!

But why design the socks to have the lacy trim half way down the sock?! The anklesock is already short enough without denying me the upper third to study and admire on her skinny anklebones!

I suppose that's her answer – that she is only wearing such a cruel design of pretty, feminine sock to 'fill out' her otherwise somewhat gaunt anklebones – but the effect on me is truly mindblowing! Not only do I have the indignity of having to look only at her lower sock; I am perpetually aware, in my peripheral vision, of what seems like a vast expanse of forbidden, female sock above the lacy trim – sock with vertical stitching quite distinctive from the rest of my Turkish mistress's sock (be it pink, white, blue or green); sock that hugs her precious, smooth feminine legskin immediately above her jutting anklebones; sock which is better than me because it is above me, both literally and figuratively.

How her husband laughs at me, and teases me about my impotence in the face of his young wife's frilly anklesocks! He is forever reminding me that he, being a free man – a real man – is at liberty to admire the whole of his wife's pretty socks on her prominent anklebones (albeit from afar), whereas I, even though I am her officially designated sock slave, and must live with my crawling face just inches away from her socks, am prohibited from looking at her in the sock above the lace!

The master-sir is quick to point out the cruel irony of the situation, and to revel in it – as well he might!


image Scene no. 9 - Little White Lies

It's a virtually impossible stipulation to comply with, yet I must try since it is the stipulation of my blonde-ponytailed, slim and svelte, 23 year old mistress – miss Danielle – who, being young, blonde and fit, is self-evidently my superior and better.

Her stipulation is that I must never look her in the pinky, bare footflesh – only in the white sock; and yet, she insists on wearing pure white, ultra short sneaker-socks inside her grubby-white, low-top, lace-up sneakers, so that, whenever I am obliged to follow her on my hands and knees to heel – which I constantly am – I cannot avoid noticing her fully exposed, bare heel-tendons at the backs of her shapely heels, which haven't seen protective sock in years and are, therefore, quite rough-skinned and chapped for a beautiful, young woman's heels!

Only her young-womanly insteps are shielded by sock, and so I must look beyond her pinky-blotched, bare, blonde-girl heelflesh and endeavour to focus on the elastic of her disappearing, white cotton socktops above her white sneaker-rims as I dutifully follow her to heel whilst she walks along the street, or sits at the table in her local cafe with her mates.

My mistress Danielle is unemployed and cannot afford to fit me with a concentrator device, or even a simple pair of leather blinkers, and so it is through pathetic footslave-willpower alone that I must comply with my unthinking, blonde mistress Danielle's near impossible demands, and focus on her angular socks!

And woe betide me if I don't – for, though she may not have the luxury of a concentrator-device printout of my brain activity at the end of each day, she (and her boyfriend, master Derwent sir) will test me by asking me pertinent questions about my mistress's socks:

  • How many stitches were visible on each sock throughout the day?
  • How many creases have emerged in the tops of her short, white socks during the day?
  • Why is one sock slightly lower than the other?
  • Why is the gap between her skin and her sock slightly wider at the back of her right heel than on her left heel?
  • Where did that piece of black, alien sock-lint stuck to the top of her left sock originate from, and what am I going to do about it?
  • How do her socks smell?
  • Do I want to be whipped?

Although I can, and do, make up the answers to many of these questions, since there is no way my master and mistress could possibly know the answers themselves, I know I shall be sorely whipped if they deem them to be incorrect or lacking in veracity, and so my answers must always sound credible. For example:

  • Oh pray master and mistress, if it pleases you master and mistress, there were 453 stitches visible on my mistress's right, white sock, and 511 on my mistress's left, white sock, if it is so pleasing to you master-sir and mistress-madam? (My mistress Danielle always insists on my addressing her boyfriend first, as she really loves him)
  • Oh pray master and mistress, if it pleases you master Derwent sir and mistress Danielle madam, there are currently three creases on the mistress's right socktop, and just two on her left, if it pleases you master-sir and mistress-madam, though a third crease was in evidence on the mistress's left socktop also earlier in the day, strong master-sir and sweet mistress-madam, which has subsequently, inexplicably, disappeared, if you will forgive me master and mistress? (Failure to account for the whereabouts of a mistress's sock-crease – even a made-up one – is a whippable offence here in the Gynarchy, hence my pathetic pleading for forgiveness!)
  • Oh pray master and mistress, if it pleases you master and mistress, the sock on the divine mistress's right, sneakered foot is lower than that on her left due to the excess sweat on the mistress's right foot, if you would both be so kind and understanding to a humble sockservant, most respected master-sir and mistress-madam? (Accusing a Gynarchy mistress's feet of being sweaty is seen as a compliment – not an insult; if anything I am in danger of insulting her left foot by implying it is not sweaty and stinky enough!)
  • Oh pray master Derwent sir; oh pray mistress Danielle madam; if this dirty slave's answer does not seem flippant master and mistress, the sock on the back of the mistress's right heel has a wider gap precisely because it has slipped further down inside the mistress's precious, white sneaker than the sock inside her left sneaker, if you will be so kind master-sir and mistress-madam?
  • Oh pray master-sir and mistress-madam, the tiny piece of black fluff on the mistress's left, white sock is from the black anklesock of the mistress's best friend – miss Whitney – and it became inadvertently attached to the mistress's left sock when they embraced in greeting one another in the cafe at lunchtime, if you will be so kind and understanding, master and mistress? Would the master and mistress like the slave to remove it with his tongue, master and mistress? (Always best to at least offer to remove any offending sock-fluff from a mistress's sock surfaces, especially if the mistress or her manly boyfriend have spotted it themselves!)
  • Oh pray master and mistress, if it pleases you master and mistress, the mistress's socks smell leathery and vinegary, master and mistress – especially the sock on her right foot, master and mistress.
  • Yes please, master and mistress! Please do whip me master-sir and mistress-madam, if you would be so kind and understanding to a slave at your mercy, master-sir and mistress-madam. This slave craves the sting of the mistress's whip, along with the stink of the mistress's sock, black master-sir and blonde mistress-madam. Thank you for asking, master and mistress.

That last answer is a lie of course. They all are – little white lies about little white socks; but designed to flatter my master and mistress, and to ingratiate myself with them. For I am in their power and at their mercy!

image Scene no. 10 - Feeding-Time For The Footslaves

In the adult amusement park one of the most popular activities is 'feeding time for the hungry footslaves'! It's particularly popular because it only happens once a day, and because guests to the amusement park have to be specially selected to participate in the footslave-feeding process by means of a lucky dip.

I am one such amusing activity, and the lucky lady who has won the right to feed me today is, appropriately enough, a well-fed, fat, forty-something Indian lady wearing black cotton trousers, black socks and black, single-strapped, block-heeled, round-toed, mary-jane style shoes.

This is significant because it is her shoes that will flavour the otherwise tasteless mush of the bland, white slave-gruel which she will be feeding me, as you will soon see!

She lines up in front of me, her black-leather, mary-jane shoes standing directly in front of my face which is jutting expectantly out of the recently-opened hatch at the bottom of my cell door. I see that my footslave-colleague in the neighbouring cell will be tasting bright red ballet flats, on white anklesocks, with his humble slave-gruel today – but I'm not jealous; ballet-flats taste bitter and foul, in my humble experience, no matter how good they look on a young woman's socked feet – even on a stunningly beautiful, blonde-ponytailed, young woman's feet like the slim and svelte wearer of the red ballet-flats next door! I'd much rather have my fat, middle-aged, dark-haired (but greying at the temples), Indian mistress's, block-heeled mary-janes feeding my face!

On a given signal, she dips the rounded toe of her right shoe into the meagre bowl of stone-cold slave gruel next to it (causing some creases to appear in her black, cotton sock which I am confident is a full-length, foot-modesty-preserving anklesock) and then holds it up to my anklesock-level, jutting face.

Our instructions as 'feeding-time footslaves' are never to be greedy. We are to behave with footslavish decorum as follows:

  • We must never rush to suck the mushy gruel off a mistress's shoe or boot toe until such time as she graciously holds it up to our face (however hungry we may be!)
  • We must never gulp our food (though it would, in any case, be difficult to gulp such meagre portions, even from a fat girl's broad leather shoe-toe)
  • Having said that we must clean our 'foot-plate', and not leave any residual mush behind on the mistress's shoe, however bitter-tasting and shoe-polish-soiled our humble food may be
  • If the mistress is barefoot inside her shoes we must admire any blemishes on her warm, living and breathing footflesh whilst we are sucking the cold, dead mush off her outer footwear (incidentally, sandals are prohibited to invited footmistresses during footslave feeding-time due to the possibility of the mush infecting the mistress's bare footskin and causing so-called 'footmush rash' – which just goes to show how vile and toxic the mush must be; I dread to think what it's doing to our footslave-insides!)
  • If the feeder-mistress is wearing nylons or socks inside her shoes (as mine is) we must study and admire any creases and/or imperfections in her female hosiery whilst we are sucking on our mush – imperfections such as tiny tears in the nylon-stitching; or areas of thinning and greying on the instep of a black sock (such as on my current footslave-feeding mistress's Indian sock); or little balls of fluffy, black sock-lint stuck to the outer surface of the mistress's sock (again, my current, Indian mistress has several such sock-lint balls stuck to the surface of her well-worn and consequently heavily bobbled, right sock) – because all of these seemingly inconsequential things are the hosiery-imperfections of our female betters, and must therefore always loom large in our pathetic footslave-minds!
  • We must never speak to our feeding-footmistresses since they are much too high up the foodchain for the likes of us to converse with. We merely express our gratitude to them by eating up all our female-shoeleather-soiled food!

A goodly crowd of female and freemale onlookers will always have gathered to watch the footslaves' feeding-time, and to mock us and take pictures. They exhort the line of footmistresses, including my fat, Indian mistress, to feed us roughly, rather than gently.

Here are just some of the comments I overhear from one gloating, would-be-film-director freemale in the audience, as I publicly tuck into my meagre meal of mush and fat-Indian-woman, mary-jane shoeleather:

'Ha! Ha! That's right, darling – shove the whole of your dirty, black shoe-toe inside his gaping-wide mouth! Ha! Ha! Extend open his ugly mouth even further with your shoeleather so that it looks like he's grimacing while he's eating! Ha! Ha! That's right!... Now rub some of the mush onto his nose! Ha! Ha! Make him smell what his tongue can't reach! Ha! Ha!... Be careful not to get any of the white slave-mush on your nice, black sock, darling – we don't want him having the honour of tasting female-sock-flavoured mush, do we? Ha! Ha!'

Sadly, the fat Indian mistress will indeed not wish to flavour my food with her middle-aged-Indian-woman, spicy-hot socksweat – for slave-gruel is traditionally served bland, with only the aforementioned bitter shoepolish or ballet-flat mustiness for seasoning (quite apart from the fact that she won't wish to sully her nice, bobbled black anklesock with dirty slave-food! White slave-gruel can be efficiently sucked off shiny, black shoeleather, but invariably leaves a stain on black cotton sock fibres!)

And so she continues to smilingly dip her scuffmarked, leather, mary-jane, shoe toe in the bowl of slave-mush and repeatedly hold it up to my gaping footslave-mouth for conspicuous consumption, delighted by all the unusual freemale attention she is receiving, and looking forward to her own forthcoming sumptuous meal of steaming hot curry and narn bread in the amusement park restaurant, after she has pushed my meagrely-fed face back through my cell-door hatch with the sole of her dirty, mary-jane shoe!

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