Being An Office-Footslave…
Being a communal, male footslave in an office full of superior females means a lot more than just constant, hard work (my personal, default position is to be down on my hands and knees, scrubbing the office floors where the ladies walk, with my tiny and inadequate, male scrubbing brush – anything up to 18 hours a day); it also means:
- Submitting to constant interruptions from one’s female betters, as they require one to stop scrubbing the dirty floor, and to start kissing, or lickshining, their dirty office boots or shoes
- It means doing so with good grace and an air of willingness and submissiveness (however much one may be feeling under the weather, or just fed up with the taste of dirty, feminine shoeleather)
- It means making the office lady feel special as one tongue-attends to her footwear – as if she were the only footmistress in the entire office
- It means respecting and admiring her choice of footwear – even if it is not really to one’s individual, footslavish taste (I, for example, prefer black leather, chunky-heeled, round-toed ankleboots, to flat, laced-up, office brogues; but the brogues must be cupped and respected as if they were boots!)
- That includes respecting the mistress's choice of sockwear – even if she has the female audacity to go sockless inside her boots or shoes!
- It means constantly seeking to ingratiate oneself to one’s office-footmistresses, endeavouring to go that extra mile by kissing them on the socked, nyloned, or shamelessly-bared ankle, in an effort to elicit sweet feminine mercy and compassion in them
- For one can expect to be constantly scolded and beaten – since one is a despised and contemptible slave
- Yet one must never fight back, or complain, or seek to answer back; for one is but a lowly slave, and one is being berated and abused by one’s betters
- It therefore means remaining polite and respectful at all times, even though one is often sworn at and spat upon
- It also means bearing one’s pain – as well as one’s burning, red, office-female-cane stripes – with humility and resignation on one’s bare, maleslave back, and acknowledging that one is always in the wrong, since a mistress is always in the right
- It means praising and blessing, in the language of humble and unctuous maleslavespeak, one’s female, office superiors – including one’s office-cleaner supervisors – for disciplining one with the whippy, female cane
- It means pandering to the capricious, female whims of one’s fairers and betters
- It means remembering that one is kissing the feet, and lickshining the dirty boots or shoes, of an office mistress who is the sexually active partner – be it wife or girlfriend – of another, superior freeman; and that one is just an impotent, celibate, footslave virgin, whose desires must be permanently sublimated into the service of female boots and socks
In essence, it means being a pathetic, submissive, whipped, floor and boot-licking gimp; a fool for everyone to rightfully berate and abuse with impunity!
And yet, there are many different types of office footslave – not just the ‘floor-scrubbers’ like me. There are (to name but a few):
· At Desk human footrests
· Coffee-lounge footrests
· ‘Round-Robin’ footslaves (office footslaves who must crawl around the office desks offering to lickshine footwear)
· Office-corridor shoelicks
· Office footbooth-slaves (or foot-cubicle slaves)
· Smoking-Area footslaves
· Ornamental footkissers (usually based in front lobbies or female restrooms)
Here are some specific examples of the varying types of office foot-servitude found in the modern Gynarchy, described by the office footslaves themselves:
Post Maternity Leave (by an office-corridor shoelick)
Mistress Helena – the sultry, Greek beauty with the dyed-blonde hair – is back from her year’s maternity leave; only she’s no longer quite so sultry; or blonde. She is now much more mousy, and mumsy.
And fatter than I remember her! Plus, she seems to have taken to wearing knee-length skirts and navy-blue tights with black leather loafers (before it was spike-heeled ankleboots and smart, navy-blue cotton, bootcut trousers). But she is still a goddess, of course – an office-footgoddess whom I am duty bound to admire and respect, in my capacity as the office-corridor footslave.
As she climbs, somewhat clumsily, up onto the office-corridor, shoelick throne of power above me, I humbly kiss her uninspiring, flat, black loafer shoes, and her perspiring, navy-blue, thick cotton tights, for old times’ sake; or rather, for old socks’ sake – for I have such fond memories of her navy-blue and black socktops on her shapely, feminine ankles inside her stylish, patent black leather, zip-up ankleboots, before she got all pregnant and fat!
Despite her life-changing experiences, she still has the spark of Greek-goddesshood about her – even though a brand new footslave, who didn’t remember her sexy footwear from the past, probably wouldn’t give her creased, navy-blue tights and flat, black loafers a second glance as he nose-stroked the former and lickshined the latter (as I am diligently doing now!)
It’s clear that her priorities have changed; she has a young family to look after now – and is no longer ‘on the office-pull’ i.e. seeking out a man to impregnate her and be the father of her offspring. She had found that man in master George sir from Accounts, and so her priorities now are to get back to work, in order to earn the money she and her beloved husband need for childcare costs!
She doesn’t give a damn that she will no longer turn heads; or that the pig-ugly, office-corridor footslave misses her stylish, patent black leather ankleboots and crisp, navy-blue or plain black, cotton bootsocks. Nor does she care about the extra weight she has failed to shift after giving birth. She’s a mum now – and nothing else matters to her; except, perhaps, that streak of dirt on the side of her left, loafer-shoe which she impatiently reaches down to point towards with her fat, Greek-womanly finger:
‘Clean here, slave!’
‘Yes, mistress Helena. At once (former) Greek goddess-mistress Helena!’
A Severe Grilling (by an outdoor, office-smoking-area footslave)
The young, Afro-haired, black office mistress is laughing at me as she and her male, black office-colleague look down upon me, and flick their cigarette ash down upon me, through the grille in the ground beneath which I am lying, face upwards.
It is, quite literally – a footslave-gutter; and I am lying it. They say that when you’re lying in the gutter, you can be looking at the stars. But the only ‘stars’ I see are the dirty stars in the pattern of the beige-brown soles of the young black mistress’s high-top, black and white converse sneakers, as she moves to stand directly on the grille above my face.
She scrapes her beige-rubber sneaker sole across the metal bars of the grille in order to dislodge some street muck and dirt from the bottoms of her precious, office sneakers – causing her black, male office colleague to laugh out loud at me; for my imprisoned, upturned face is now adorned not just by dozens of office-workers’ discarded cigarette butts and ash, but by his black, female colleague’s sneakersole-dirt!
I reckon there’s something going on between the young, black mistress-madam in the high-top sneakers, and the young, black master-sir; I reckon they’re an item!
Even though she’s wearing high-tops, I manage to catch a glimpse of the scrunched-up and untidy tops of her slovenly, black and white striped anklesocks above her upper sneaker-rim, on her smooth, black ankleflesh (she is wearing a short, black office skirt); slovenly socks to match her well-used, black and white, high-top canvas sneakers. I wish I could touch her black and white stripy socks, and smell them; but, of course, in my position, I can’t – not unless the Afro-haired, beautiful black mistress deigns to peel them off her feet and drop them as a permanent, sweaty gift onto my face (for the metal bars above my face are welded into the concrete of the ground; they can never be removed, and I shall never be freed from my underground prison. When I die, they will simply fill in the hole around my face with more concrete!)
I don’t dare to even try looking further up the beautiful and arrogant, young black mistress’s smooth, bare legs; and especially not up her black, office skirt – out of respect for the smoking, black master-sir who is also above me. This is clearly his office ‘bird’, and who am I to get ideas above my gutter station?!
I’m just a receptacle for the cigarette remains, and shoedirt, of my superior office-mistresses, who enjoy standing above me, and looking down on me in my helplessness and imprisonment beneath their dirty shoe and boot soles whilst they savour their cigarette. Some of them even grill me as to how I am liking it, being trapped underground beneath their feet, and surrounded by dirty, male and female fag-ends?
My response is to politely thank them for their interest in me, and to praise and bless them for honouring me with their discarded cigarette-ends and the vista of their dirty, feminine shoe and bootsoles.
They just laugh at me, drop their still-ignited cigarette butt through the bars of the metal grille above my face (often aiming for the inside of my mouth), and casually walk off back indoors to their warm and comfortable, office desks – leaving me buried below the grille outside in the cold, hard earth, with only their burning cigarette-ends, spicy-hot bootmud, and warm words for company.
Until their next fag break!
Holier Than Thou (by yet another office-corridor shoelick)
Every working day, religiously at 10:00 o’clock, the humourless, holier-than-thou, bespectacled, bible-bashing, black girl with the big hair; the thick, South-African accent; and the staid clothes – including her opaque, black woolly tights and flat, black leather, straitlaced, office brogues – visits me in the shoelick corridor, and unsmilingly demands that I pay renewed homage to her prim and proper, office feet.
Her below-the-knee, office skirt and thick, black, woolly tights probably make her look more frumpy than she actually is; but grumpy she certainly is, as she delights in finding fault with my public-corridor-kissing efforts on her weekday-best (and one suspects Sunday-best) shoes:
‘Kiss them, don’t lick them, dirty sinner-slave!’
‘Shine my soles, slave-devil! Praise and bless my righteousness, and kiss the dirty shoesoles of your hallowed, female better; wicked, evil slave!’
‘Don’t look up at my ankles! Focus only on my shoes – footslave-lecher. By God, I’ll soon whip some chastity and self-control into you, you dirty, lustful, male foot-whore!’
And the black-African girl certainly doesn’t believe in sparing the public rod when it comes to correcting the office-corridor, shoelick slave! My God, that girl can whip!
It doesn’t stop me from having impure thoughts about her black-woolly-tighted ankles, though! Indeed, quite the opposite – the creases and folds engendered in her tights, in and around her tight anklebones, by her wonderful, whip-wielding efforts on my bare back and shoulders, cause me to lust even more unabashedly after her pure, black feet and footwear; which, in turn, causes her to beat me even more belligerently in self-righteous disgust – and so the vicious cycle of pain on my weak, male body continues unabated!
I shall never be found worthy of her, however hard I try. For she is holier than me – holier; younger; and more intelligent – being a female. All I can do is bow down to her, and worship her on the office corridor shoelick-stand – my gawky, black office-goddess, with righteousness on her side, and the bible and the whipping-stick in her hands!
A Study in Bootsock (by an at-desk office footslave)
Because my blonde-ponytailed, office deskmistress Sally is deep in concentration in front of her office computer above me (shopping for shoes online); and because she is seated on her office swivel-chair with her right, trousersuited leg dominantly crossed over her left – I am having the pleasant and very welcome opportunity to study the exposed top of her sky-blue, office bootsock above her black leather ankleboot-rim, set against the backdrop of her flawless, smooth, pasty- white, upper ankleflesh.
And not only that – I get to observe said socktop whilst it is affected by the subliminal movements in her right anklemuscles, as her chunky-heeled, round-toed, and fully zipped-up, anklebooted foot hovers, and occasionally twists, in the underdesk air directly in front of my kneeling, silent face!
Thus, whilst most of her male office colleagues, if they are even aware of her ankle-length bootsock at all, would only see a quick flash of sky-blue in their peripheral vision whilst they looked her in her deep blue eyes, I get to observe, in great detail and up-close and personal, all of the following:
· That the centimetre high, elasticated top of her light blue, cotton bootsock has very distinctive columns of thicker, ribbed, vertical stitching which themselves subdivide into partitions several little columns of narrower, diagonal sock-stitches (I fully intend to count the number of partitions in the sock-stitching caused by those vertical lines of thick-ribbed sock-stiches all the way around the upper, elasticated circumference of my blonde deskmistress’s pretty sky-blue anklesock; and the number of diagonal stitches in each partition. I doubt even the manufacturers of the girly sky-blue bootsocks would know those figures – though I’m guessing that some female sock-engineer, somewhere, has pre-programmed the number of both vertical and diagonal sock stitches contained in her elasticated socktops into an automatic loom!)
· That the sky-blue stitches in the main body of my blonde deskmistress Sally’s bootsock (of which I can only see a limited proportion below the aforementioned elasticated top of the sock), are horizontal, as opposed to vertical or diagonal, and much narrower than their superior, elasticated cousins
· That there are three, very distinct, creases around the elasticated top area of the sock, the bottom one of which (the longest and thickest) becomes even longer and thicker every time my deskmistress Sally subconsciously flexes and twists her right, booted ankle in the air, though it peters out just as it is about to disappear out of view altogether around the front of my deskmistress’s glorious sock (I, needless to say, am strategically positioned beside my blonde-haired mistress’s swivel chair, and obliged to study only the back and side of her light blue anklesock-top)
· However, if I discreetly lean forwards to get a better smell of mistress Sally’s black ankleboot-leather and blue cotton sock, I can actually see a bit further down inside her upper bootrim, and that reveals the great secret of my deskmistress Sally’s socks, known only to her – the wearer of the socks; to her personal, household footslave – the carer and putter-on and taker-offer of her socks; to the sock manufacturers and retailers of the socks; to her freemale boyfriend (possibly); and to me – her humble, at-desk, daily office-footslave; namely that the seemingly plain, sky-blue socks actually have, appropriately enough, little white cloud-motifs on the upper body of the sock, only visible below the bootline! And not only clouds, but birds – seagulls, I think, though I can’t profess to be an expert on ornithology; only on female-sockology. I’m a sock-watcher, not a bird-watcher!
· This exciting discovery (for it is the first time my blonde deskmistress Sally has ever worn this particular pair of sky-blue bootsocks to work – though, clearly not the first time she has ever worn them per se, given the amount of bobbling in the stitching around the fluffy, white sock-clouds!) fills me with the joys of Spring! Appropriately enough – since it is Springtime; and these socks are, of course, the nearest I shall ever get to seeing the bright, blue sky outside, since I am kept permanently cooped up inside this windowless office beneath my deskmistress Sally’s desk! So it is very kind of her to offer me such a pleasing vista in her socks (though, if I’m honest, I doubt she even gave me a second thought when selecting which socks to wear inside her black leather, office-ankleboots this morning!)
I am, of course, aided and abetted in my silent study of sock by the various contraptions and devices my beautiful, blonde deskmistress has had fitted to me, courtesy of her employers:
· The black leather blinkers on either side of my temples – designed to stop me from being distracted by anything which may be happening next to my deskmistress’s boots and socks (such as the feet of other office women walking by!)
· The magnification contact-lenses over my retinas, which artificially augment the size of my mistress’s bootsock-stitches in my vision
· The earplugs permanently inserted into my ears, which block out all extraneous noise other than my deskmistress Sally’s high-pitched, feminine voice when she barks her orders down at me via her lapel-microphone
· The electronic concentrator-device which is programmed to the words ‘Mistress Sally’s boots and socks’, and which therefore gives me a terribly painful, electric shock to my brain if the latter fails to concentrate, even for just a few seconds, on my blonde mistress’s aforementioned items of office footwear
Furthermore, in order to make it clear to everyone else that I am required, by law, to concentrate at all times on my deskmistress’s boots and socks – even when she is absent from her desk – I have the following, demeaning words tattooed across my footslave-face:
‘Mistress Sally’s pathetic, at-desk, boot and sock fancier; please do not disturb from his inner contemplation of miss Sally’s boots and socks!’
That’s because the fiendish concentrator device requires me to think about my deskmistress Sally’s boots and socks even when they are not present in front of my face – always a much more difficult task, of course, than when her boot and sock is swivelling in front of my face as it is now! But, fortunately, I have a good, photographic memory when it comes to a beautiful, young blonde woman’s ankleboots and socks, and so I am able to think about them, and nothing else, even when she is away from the office for lengthy periods of time; for example – during her summer holidays abroad with her manly boyfriend.
Yes, as she rests on the beach with him on some tropical island somewhere in the Pacific – hopefully below a cloudless, blue sky – I shall now be able to close my eyes and think of her sky-blue, cloud-themed anklesocks inside her boots (which she will no doubt have left at home somewhere in favour of her beach flip-flops) as I continue to kneel, chained up beneath her office desk and empty swivel-chair.
That will be how I shall be spending my summer ‘holiday’ this year – come July or August; contemplating my deskmistress Sally’s socks and boots, and imagining how her sky-blue socktops will look set against her flawless, smooth, and now deliciously tanned, upper ankleskin!
An At-Desk Office Footslave by patheticus on GoAnimate
Sexy Slingbacks (by another at-desk footslave)
I must be the luckiest, at-desk footslave alive:
· Not only is my Chinese desk-footmistress, miss Ling, young and beautiful
· Not only is she cold and sit-offish
· She is a bit of a rebel when it comes to the office dresscode – and perpetually wears pointy-toed, metal-studded, shiny black leather slingbacks on her dainty, oriental feet, beneath her smart, black cotton, trousersuit hems
She wears her sexy slingbacks on her bare feet in the summer, and with socks in the winter; so I get the best of both worlds!
In the summer time I get to kneel beneath her and admire the soft wrinkles in her bare, Chinese heelskin, and especially the little pinky pits of flesh where her off-duty sneakers and/or ankleboots have evidently been rubbing. I even, on occasion, get to see some shards of dead, flaky skin on the backs of her shapely, oriental heelbones!
And in the winter time I get to admire her sock-covered heel-tendons. Miss Ling always wears suitably matt-black anklesocks – to match her black cotton trousers; but no two pairs of her socks are alike, and they will often be bobbled and thinning in different places, depending on the age and history of the sock. Her socks will also, of course, be creased in different places each day that she is wearing them – so life is never dull, as I earnestly try to keep track of her ever-changing, Chinese sock creases, caused by the subliminal movements in her feet, ankles and heels as she sits above me on her office swivel-chair at her desk.
And it’s all thanks to the sexy slingbacks! Most of my at-desk, office footslave colleagues only ever get to see a mere slither of bare, feminine ankleflesh, or the very top of a young woman’s socks, above her ubiquitous, black leather, office-ankleboots. But I get to see Chinese-girl bare heel and sock!
Yes, I know I’m a lucky so-and-so, and I do make sure always to please my Chinese deskmistress, miss Ling, by not only respectfully kissing her pointy, metal-studded, shoe-toes every time she sits down at, or stands up to walk away from, her office desk, but by also gently nuzzling the backs of her bare or socked heels whilst she is actually seated at her desk, as a humble reminder to her of my cowed, footslavish devotion towards her – lest she should suddenly decide to dispense with my footslave-services beneath her desk, and banish me to the communal-shoelick stand in the office corridor.
I would much rather remain here beneath sexy miss Ling’s desk, eyeing her bare or socked heels. Indeed, I don’t think I could bear to live any more without her oriental heels in front of my kneeling face, be they bare or socked inside her sexy, office slingbacks!
The Pointing Stick (by an office footbooth-slave)
Office goddess-mistress Karolina is a petite and comely, deaf-mute brunette. However, she has absolutely no difficulties whatsoever in communicating her orders to me in my office footlick-booth, via the medium of the office whipping-stick.
Having silently entered my footlick-cubicle and locked the door behind her, she deftly climbs up onto the footlick-throne in front of which I am kneeling and positions her feet on the two metal footrests at my face-level.
Her dainty feet are invariably clad in her deliberately scruffy and scuffmarked, black leather, slip-on loafers (no point in having clean and tidy footwear for the office footlick to attend to!), but her matt-black, full-length, office anklesocks always look suitably fresh and clean beneath her pressed, black polyester, trouser hems, if rather wrinkled and creased.
She then picks up the whipping-stick – though not to beat me with (necessarily). She first graciously gives me the opportunity to satisfy her demands by tapping me on the lips or the nose, and then pointing to the relevant area of shoe or sock she wants licked or sniffed. When she wants me to stop licking or sniffing, she taps me with the stick on my bare shoulderblade – an ominous reminder of just how painful the female whipping-stick can be on an already raw set of male shoulders since even the gentlest of taps is enough to make me flinch.
She will then inspect my work, before tapping my lips (or nose) again and repeating the pointing process onto another part of her shoe or sock.
And so it continues – until she is completely satisfied, and climbs down from the chair in order to exit the booth. Not a word has passed between mistress and slave – and yet I’m pleased to say her shoes and socks have been duly worshipped in whatever way(s) she deemed appropriate. The proof that that is the case is in the absence of any fresh whip-cuts on my bare back, for sweet and kind goddess-mistress Karolina clearly had it within her grasp to beat me with the whipping stick. But what would be the point, if she can use it to communicate her superior-female orders to me in other ways?
I sometimes wish all my office-footmistresses were as adept with the ‘pointing-stick’ as goddess-mistress Karolina!
Concentrating on mocking (by a mobile, ‘round robin’ office-footslave)
'Ha! Ha! What's it like having your stupid slave-brain set to 'socks' all the time, communal, office foot-flunkey? Aren't you fed up with having to think about nothing other than young women's smelly socks? Ha! Ha!'
It's a perfectly understandable and legitimate question from the curious, twenty-something, Hong-Kong Chinese, office-mistress with the thick, grey ropey anklesocks inside her black leather loafers. After all, she herself has much more important things to think about than the socks on her feet, being a beautiful and free, young woman with a high-flying fiancé and a stellar career of her own!
What she doesn't realise is that years of having a concentrator device embedded in my brain have turned my concentration on my office-mistresses' socks inside their shoes and boots into the norm:
'Oh pray, mistress Yan-Li, if it pleases you beautiful office-footmistress Yan-Li, this pathetic footslave's male brain is now so programmed to focus on the beautiful socks of his female superiors that he cannot imagine a moment without obsessing, most humbly and reverentially, about the socks of his betters, young mistress-madam!'
'Ha! Ha! I am reckoning that he could not be living at all without the thought of our socks on his mind, Yan-Li!' chips in the petite and comely, Indian girl seated at the office desk next her – with the black cotton bootsocks and chunky-heeled, black-leather, office ankleboots; her socks are quite twisted around the elasticated tops. 'I mean, quite apart from the agonising headaches the concentrator device would be causing him if he was ever stopping thinking about our socks, I am reckoning that he is constantly yearning to think about nothing else – simply because he is being a pathetic, girls' sockslave, isn't it? Ha! Ha!'
'Ha! Ha! Too right, Indira! He's, like, all over my socks whenever it's time for him to lickshine my ballet-flats, an' that,' interjects their blonde-ponytailed colleague, miss Emily, with the short, black, below-the-ankle, sneaker-style socks inside said fetching pair of plain, black ballet-flats. 'He's well pafetic, innit though?'
All three young, office footmistresses then laugh out loud at me for not being able to take my mind, and my downcast eyes, off their humble socks on their feet, despite their being beautiful, young women with firm and luscious bodies. Ha! Ha! I'm not a real man; I'm just a pathetic, down-in-the-dirt, male, communal office-footslave, literally programmed to study socks whilst he crawls around the office floors lickshining mocking young office-ladies' dirty office shoes and boots!
Miss Yan-Li's ropey, grey anklesock on her left foot now has an extra crease over her shapely, oriental-girl, outer anklebone.
Pulling her socks up (by an office-corridor shoelick)
It's her way of lording it over me; of showing me who's boss (even though she's only a junior clerk).
The pretty, 19 year old, dark-haired intern who is of Burmese origins, stretches forth her right leg onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face in the corridor, and then, as I make to lower my shoelick-slave tongue onto the scuffmarked, rounded toe area of her black leather, loafer shoe, suddenly, and unexpectedly, reaches down to hitch up her black cotton, bootcut trouser-leg – up as far as her shapely knee – in order to pull up straight her long, grey kneesock above me, as high as it will go!
Her seemingly casual act of straightening her sock beneath her office trouser-hems is, no doubt, designed to stress and humiliate me even further – for it's as if the cruel, young, Burmese intern is saying to me:
'Ha! Ha! Even my sock is higher than you! Can you see the row of decorative, white flowers running along the very top of my sock, just below the knee? Can you see how they beautify my otherwise ropey and somewhat dull-looking, plain grey trouser-sock? Ha! Ha! Oh – no; silly me! I forgot, you can't! For the heavy chains around your kneeling neck force you to look down at my feet, don't they? Ha! Ha! So you will never be able to view the flowery-patterned top of my sock! Ha! Ha! Only the manky, grey bits of sock around my shapely, Burmese-girl anklebones! Ha! Ha! Not for you, the full glory of my superior sock, which towers above you, tall and proud on my lower leg. And you – you are just a nothing and a nobody, worth less than my sock! Ha! Ha! '
She then lowers her black cotton, trouser hem again, and hastily withdraws her right shoe from my footblock -–before I get a chance to lickshine it – only to replace it with her left shoe on the block, and to then repeat the whole process with the public pulling up of her left sock in front of me.
The pretty, Burmese intern's actions have the desired effect – I feel well and truly humbled, and lower than her sock.
A Six-Pack? (by an at-desk, office footslave)
My blonde, office deskmistress, mistress Anita, has taken to wearing flowery-patterned socks with her clunky, black leather, low-heeled and round-toed, lace-up, office shoes.
She clearly bought the socks in a pack of three, for they are identical pairs in their pattern and design, apart from the various colours (needless to say, I have had many hours to study her socks, trapped as I am beneath her office desk!)
Three days ago, for example, they were basically white socks with pink flowers; then, the day before yesterday, they were green socks with red flowers; yesterday they were pink socks with white flowers; and today -–pink socks with white flowers again!
My deskmistress Anita must be wearing the same pair of socks two days in a row!
Unless, of course, they come in a double pack of six pairs! Only time will tell – and my nose, as my desk-footmistress Anita is wont to have me untie her hefty shoelaces, remove her clunky, black shoes from her feet, and then lie on my back beneath her desk with my upturned face acting as her socked-foot rest! She tends to do that in the afternoons, however – when her feet start to get hot and sticky inside her clumping-great shoes!
I'll also get a visual clue at that point as to whether this is the same pair of pink socks with white flowers that she had on yesterday, as there was a distinctive, yellowy sweaty-stain beneath the reinforced toe-area of one of her previous socks; I shall definitely keep an eye out for that as I humbly lie beneath her stinky socks this afternoon!
Pathetically, I do hope that my blonde-haired deskmistress Anita is indeed wearing the same pair of sweaty socks two days in a row, for she is my infinite better, and I deserve to be shown such sockfaced cheek by her; the contempt of a young woman who won't even change her office socks for me!
Horsey (by an at-desk footslave)
My deskmistress Geraldine is such a lovely girl – upper-crust; a bit horsey in appearance; long-brown-haired; snorts a lot when she laughs etc. But she is nonetheless a truly delightful and charming young woman to be in service to, with never a bad word to say about anyone – even me, her underdesk-footslave. Though, admittedly, she never has a good word to say about me either; I’m very much just a piece of cheap, office-furniture to her – a human, underclass footrest. Oh, and she does horsewhip me with her at-desk riding crop quite a lot – mainly when I’ve displeased her. But still, one couldn’t really wish for a kinder, gentler soul seated above one on her office swivel-chair!
And I do very much like being her office-footrest – if only because her office footwear is somewhat eccentric; shiny, pink leather ballet-flats with horse-shaped, silver buckles over the rounded toe-areas; on narrowly-stitched, fully-pulled-up, black cotton anklesocks; over almost matching, black cotton leggings. Indeed, her socks and leggings are such a good match that it is virtually impossible to see the join on her shapely, lower calf-muscles; or should that be fetlocks? Unless, that is, like me you are obliged to kneel all day underneath her office desk beside her legs, and to stare at her socks (out of respect for her inbred superiority over you).
Then you start to observe the very slight differences in the textures of the socks and the leggings, including the greying areas of worn, thinning black sock (as opposed to the bobbled freshness of the black leggings), particularly around the heels and outer anklebones; plus the tell-tale elasticated top of the sock, with its slightly thicker, vertical stitching – especially where it is twisted over the (presumably ankle-length) leggings, though bear in mind that an at-desk footslave’s eyes must always be kept suitably downcast – towards the deskmistress’s shoes or boot-toes; and so the elasticated top of a fully-stretched anklesock will only be apparent in the dutiful, at-desk footslave’s peripheral vision!
Actually, it’s goddess-mistress Geraldine’s shiny, pink ballet-flats that intrigue me the most – for they are remarkably scuffmarked and skidmarked for a refined posh girl’s shoes, with several, inch long, black streaks along the outer sides and insteps. What has miss Geraldine been doing in them? Riding a motorbike? Falling off skateboards?
She doesn’t much look like the motorbike-riding or skateboarding kind of sweet, young woman. Much more of a horse rider, I’d say – so perhaps the scuffmarks come from her father’s stables?
Whatever, I don’t baulk at trying my best to lickshine the offending black streaks away, whenever the perky, pink ballet-flats sit still long enough for me to get a decent purchase on them with my slithery slave-tongue. And the very fact that – whilst I am dutifully tongueshining her dirty, pink patent leather, horse-themed, ballet flats – her often prettier (and occasionally cattier) office co-workers are completely ignorant of the fact that she is actually wearing plain, black cotton anklesocks over plain, black cotton leggings (and are under the illusion that she is simply wearing opaque, black cotton tights beneath her short, office skirt) pathetically fills me with a sense of knowing, footslave pride.
For I know something the ignorant, free persons don’t. It’s my little secret (or rather, mine and miss Geraldine’s). And, if she does ever wish to reveal her sartorial, socks-and-leggings secrets to her female co-workers, they will have to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak; for I won’t tell anyone – not even under pain of the horsewhip!
Pain & Boots (by a justly chastised, office footslave)
I am so weakened by the whip, I can't even crawl across the ten feet or so of office-basement, punishment-room floor towards my female whipper's booted feet, in order to respectfully kiss them and thank them for whipping me to a pulp. All I can do is slither, like a whipped worm.
They aren't, actually, boots – but rather clumpy, heavy, laced-up shoes, with scuffmarked, reinforced boot-toes; footwear befitting a big and burly, female, office bully. I now know that because, as brunette-haired, office-mistress Arlette was in the process of whipping me, I had caught the odd glimpse of plain, black, female-office anklesock behind me with each swing of the whip, below her smart, black cotton trouser-hems. But her shoes certainly look big and strong enough to be boots, and so I fully intend to grovel all over them – as if they were boots – just as soon as I manage to reach them in my whip-agony!
Mistress Arlette does nothing to help me. She could, of course, walk closer towards me, to spare me that last few feet of slithering agony; but she remains unmoved – literally so, as she simply stands there, cleaning her bloodied whip of my back-skin.
Even when I eventually reach her, full of female-whip-engendered contrition and remorse, she glumly refuses to even stretch forth her feet one at a time beneath my blubbering face to facilitate my penitent kissing of her scuffmarked, whipper's boot-toes.
And so my lips must painfully pucker that final extra few inches onto the rough scuffmarks, without even the visual stimulant of plain, black, feminine anklesock, in order to demonstrate my respect and admiration for big and strong mistress Arlette's punishing, office 'boots', and her punishing whip.
And the reason for my pain and distress? Daring to look up at her in the eye, instead of the three eyelets of her black leather, laced-up 'boots'. Perhaps if I'd paid more office-footslavish attention to her footwear in the first place, I wouldn't now be doing so under the burning, stinging pain of her black leather, office whip!
The other girl who was watching her whip me, from the shadows of the dark punishment room –miss Arlette's blonde-ponytailed, 19 year old mentee – is mightily impressed by her; we both are! But I'm much too sore to bring myself to slither on my belly over to the other girl's boots. Even though they genuinely are boots – purple leather, laced-up, DM ankleboots worn with bright yellow anklesocks, beneath a short, black, office miniskirt; that's how weakened I am by the whip!
Used & Abused (by an executive office-washroom, ornamental footkisser)
Since, in my humble capacity as a deluxe, ornamental footkisser in the plush, executive-female washroom on the third floor, I am nonetheless just considered by my female betters to be nothing more than a lowly, footkissing object, I am often only talked about; not to – even though, unlike my non-deluxe, ornamental-footkisser colleagues on the lower floors I do have permission to speak (if spoken to!).
I'm afraid most office-mistresses just don't even have the time of day for me!
Take office-mistress Arlette from the first floor, for example, who is showing a new girl around. Miss Arlette kindly demonstrates my humble use to the new girl, by presenting her own booted feet to me, one at a time, after having shown her around the rest of the, otherwise impressive, executive restroom:
'And this is their so-called 'deluxe' ornamental footkisser, an' that; though I thinks he's just like the ordinary ones we have downstairs, an' that! You just presents your feet to him, one at a time, to kiss, after you've been to the loo, an' that. Like this. only difference is he's wearin' that fancy mask, an' that...'
Miss Arlette is referring to my green-rubbery footfool mask, with the wonky, gold-trimmed mouth and eye-slits, designed to make me look special!
Both girls are special in their own ways too – fat and dominant. And miss Arlette's flat-heeled, laced-up, almost high-top-sneakerish-style, black office ankleboots look truly fabulous beneath her black cotton, bootcut trouser-hems; I even catch a fleeting glimpse of her black bootsocks with the white, tick logos beneath her flapping trouser-hems as I respectfully demonstrate to the new girl my humble, office-girlboot, kissing 'skills' on her mentor's boots-cum-sneakers.
The mentee, a beautiful-looking blonde (miss Arlette is brunette) decides to try me out on her purple DMs for herself. Her pastel-pink bootsocks belie the power behind her boots, as the young-woman wearer of the female ‘bovver-boots’ spontaneously kicks me in the deluxe, rubbery face with them.
Such different, female footwear from what I am used to (I am much more used to executive pumps and pointy, spike-heeled, designer ankleboots on sheer, dark nylons, up here on the third floor!)
Miss Arlette laughs approvingly at her trainee's contempt for me, and I kiss the violent, violet girl-DMs with every bit as much respect as I did mistress Arlette's plain black, sneaker-style boots before them – even though, technically speaking, neither young woman is actually entitled to use the executive-washroom facilities, including my ornamental-footkisser face, on this, the top floor. It was purely a fact-finding trip to the top floor as part of the fat, young, blonde woman's induction into the office! But both cruel, young women are, nevertheless, still my self-evident, female betters, and therefore it is only right and proper that I should kiss their lower--grade boots before they exit the executive restroom, even if they should only be using the loos, and the non-deluxe ornamental footkissers, on either the first or second floors!
And besides, I wouldn't want to upset mistress Arlette, or her trainee, for I've heard on the female-gossip grapevine (the ladies' executive washroom is a great place for gossip, even if I myself can never take part) that miss Arlette fairly pummelled one of my unfortunate, office-footslave colleagues half to death the other day – with the office-whip and in full view of her trainee – merely for looking her disrespectfully in the eye!
No chance of me making the same mistake – I keep my eyes firmly on the boots and socks of my two female betters from the lower floors, and breathe a sigh of relief when they've gone!
At least I've been introduced to a face-smashing new pair of office boots!
Sweet & Cuddly (by a an office-lobby, shoelick slave)
I lickshine workers’ and guests’ dirty shoes and boots as they enter the main lobby of the 16 storey office. I am a courtesy-footslave, provided by the office owners.
This morning, I had the inestimable honour of licking the shiny, black leather ballet-flats, and teddy-bear themed anklesocks, of a sweet, twenty-something Swedish girl – who is over on secondment from our Stockholm office.
I know she’s Swedish, and from Stockholm, and that she is called ‘Yngvild’, for she was introducing herself in a strong, Scandinavian accent to the equally young, Asian woman (presumably her ‘mentor’) sent down from the 5th floor to meet her, whilst I was tongueshining her lovely, street-soiled, Swedish ballet-flats. The visitor also has long, blonde, plaited hair – surely another giveaway as to her ethnicity? And, as if all that wasn’t enough by way of confirmation as to her Nordic origins, her teddy-bear themed, blue and yellow anklesocks (blue background; yellow bears) had the word ‘teddybjörnar’ written on them in bright, red stitching. Now, I’m no cunning linguist, but even I know that sounds very much like the Swedish for ‘teddy bears’!
I find the socks particular intriguing, as one comes to expect young office women to wear much more sober, dark socks to work (like, indeed, the plain, black socks of the escorting Asian girl, peeking out over the upper rims of her plain black, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankleboots). But shiny black sneakers and garishly-coloured teddy-bear socks? At work? On secondment?
And yet, I admire them too – for they remind me of this beautiful, young Swedish intern’s softer, cuddlier side; the side that probably wouldn’t whip me if my tongue inadvertently strayed onto the creased sides of her smiling, teddy-bear socks; the side that would actually respond well to unsolicited fawning and flattery on my part, if I told her how much I admired her socks, and how they had brightened up my miserable day!
But I daren’t risk it – for, as we all know, bears can bite; and maul; and rip a man apart – however cuddly they may appear to be at first sight! And so I respect her ‘teddybjörnar’ socks, and keep my dirty, footslave-mouth off them, even though my pathetic, maleslave mind is very much on them, as I lickshine miss Yngvild’s already quite shiny, black shoes.
She never even acknowledges me, or stops to say ‘Hej! Tack så mycket!’ as she walks off in the company of her black-anklebooted and socked, Asian-female mentor, with her own, Swedish shoes glistening with my shoe-cleansing, footslave saliva. I’m convinced the yellow teddy bears at the backs of her blue anklesocks – beneath her black cotton, ankle-length leggings – gave me a quick wink, however!
Or was that just them creasing as she moved?
