Pernickety Customer-Mistress Ffion

39 year old, brunette-haired, customer-mistress Ffion could, I suppose, be seen as a somewhat annoying person by her more uncharitable, fellow free citizens – self-obsessed; stuck-up; and pernickety! But to me – a public footservant – she is a very special goddess who MUST be respected and obeyed whenever she deigns to grace my public footbooth with her superior presence. For, in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, a customer-mistress is not only always right; she is never wrong!

As she haughtily takes up her seat of power above me I know I am in for a long haul. She will demand my full and absolute attention to her beautiful boot and socks for at least the next hour or so, and will direct my every minute tongue movement.

Today she is wearing her ubiquitous flat-heeled, chunky, round-toed, black leather, laced-up, uniform ankleboots (she is some sort of security guard by profession) along with a pair of thick, grey-striped, cotton bootsocks which are attractively scrunched up beneath her deliberately hitched-up, navy-blue uniform trouser-hems. She is visiting my booth for an oral bootshine after her long day shift, so I imagine her feet and socks are quite sweaty and moist inside those heavy boots.

There is just the tiniest slither of soft, white, feminine legflesh on show above her plain, grey socktops and beneath her blue, uniform trouser-hems, but I know from past bitter experience that pernickety-mistress Ffion INSISTS that I do not dwell upon her bare leg; she sees me as very much having to focus on her boots and socks (and rightly so, for that is my role, by law!). I guarantee you that she will verbally remind me at some point during this forthcoming, mammoth bootlicking session NOT to look up at her bare legflesh above her socks. Indeed, her whole conversation with me (a conversation of unequals) shall focus very much on her boots and socks – and how I can better serve them.

Yes, I am in it for the long haul; just watch:

She begins by outlining her initial orders in her thick, and unsurprisingly Welsh, accent

‘Slave, lickshine my boots! Start with my right boot, and concentrate on my dirty bootsole to begin with. I walked in some dirty muck earlier today and it’s got stuck in the grooves!’

She points to a particular area on the inner side of her thick-ridged, black leather bootsole with the public-use whipping stick, which, to give her her due, she rarely uses to actually beat me with; she mostly just uses it as a pointing stick, in order to direct my obedient tongue.

There is, indeed, a thick area of gooey, brown, wet mud stuck to the ridges of the sole of her right boot along the instep – mud which I shall now have to taste in order to determine its provenance. It could be anything – any kind of street dirt. For her part, pernickety customer-mistress Ffion doesn’t much care what type of muck it is – she just wants it removed from the lower surface of her boot. And that’s my job!

‘Yes, goddess-mistress Ffion. I obey you, most respected goddess customer-mistress Ffion madam!’

Goddess customer-mistress Ffion likes to hear me verbally grovel towards her in fluent slavespeak – so I lay it on thick; rather like the mud splattered on the side of her boot!

Thankfully, my mud-experienced palate quickly establishes that this is nothing more nor less than pure, albeit bitter-tasting, Gynarchy soil. That’s good, for it will help to line my perma-empty stomach (we public footservants don’t get much to eat, other than our customers’ boot and shoe mud, so a thick dollop of earth is always most welcome inside our stomachs!)

As I start to consume my bitter-tasty treat, I can sense through my peripheral vision how goddess customer-mistress Ffion is cocking her pretty, female head to one side in order to better view my maleslave humiliation. She even unties her long, dark hair from its uniform-compliant ponytail and runs her hands through her hair – clearly relaxing into her role of off-duty, muddy-booted goddess.

At the moment, she still has no need to issue her customary verbal warning about keeping my eyes off her legskin, since my head (and thus my gaze) is very much down at the bottom of her boot. But I guarantee you that such a verbal warning will be forthcoming as my head gradually makes it way up her boot – under her close and strict supervision, and as directed by the whipping stick, of course!

The mud is indeed thick, so she graciously permits me to savour it in silence as we both watch it disappear off her boot and inside my mouth. Indeed, she even takes the opportunity, as I savour my ‘starter’, to phone home on her cellphone and advise her husband that she has left work and will be home in ‘about an hour or so’. Mmm – he’ll be lucky! Goddess customer-mistress Ffion has oftentimes spent much more than just one hour on my public shoelick-stall!

I hear her discuss what they will be having for their evening meal (not that it’s any of my business, since my own meal consists purely of the mud from her glorious boot!), and catch the distant, tinny-sounding voice of her real man on the other end of the phone. I wonder if goddess customer-mistress Ffion is as pernickety with her lovemaking as she is with having her boots licked? I shall never know, of course!

With some customer-mistresses I could decide myself when to move my mouth on up her boot – but, again, I know from bitter experience that pernickety customer-mistress Ffion likes to decide for herself when a particular area of boot is sufficiently cleansed that the slave may progress further. She also has VERY high standards, so, several minutes after I personally would be content to move on, she eventually lowers the end of the threatening whipping stick once more to point to her scuffmarked, reinforced boot-toe:

‘Now lick away the scuffmarks from my toe, dirty slave!’

‘Yes, goddess-mistress Ffion madam. At once, esteemed customer-mistress Ffion, goddess madam!’

I may make it sound as though ‘licking away’ scuffmarks from a lady’s boot is the easiest thing in the world. But, actually, as any experienced, public footservant will tell you, lickshining scuffmarks is invariably only a temporary solution, since they do tend to be deeply ingrained in the fabric of the bootleather. A slave would need to use proper boot polish and a brush to efficiently cover up scuffmarks – items of bootcare which are frustratingly denied to a lowly, public bootlick such as myself. As the name suggests, my only permitted tool is my tongue! And the only boot-polish I may use is my slave-saliva!

But it is not my place to argue with pernickety customer-mistress Ffion. If the lady wishes her boot scuffmarks ‘licked away’, then licked away they must be – under pain of the whipping stick!

So I do my boot-toe level best! Because my forehead is still lower than the top of her boot, and my gaze is therefore still well below her scrunched-up, thick grey socktop (though I am now aware of her sock in my peripheral vision) the long-anticipated verbal warning NOT to look at her bare legskin is still not forthcoming. But I know pernickety customer-mistress Ffion will be watching my eyeline ultra-closely now.

The scuffmarks, inevitably, fee rough on my tongue – but at least that makes them easy to identify. They temporarily darken thanks to my saliva, and thus satisfy goddess-mistress Ffion for the time being. Relatively quickly she orders me on to the next stage:

‘Now move your tongue up the eyelets in my boots, slave. Clean each eyelet out, and suck the dirt and dust off my bootlaces!’

‘Yes, goddess-mistress Ffion madam. At once, goddess-mistress Ffion!’

This task is a bit of a double-edged sword; I like the taste of a lady’s bootlaces on my tongue – they can be quite flavoursome, especially the thick-style bootlaces of a pair of heavy boots like customer-mistress Ffion’s security-guard boots! They remind me (from my former freemale days) of sticks of black liquorice! But the pernickety and intricate task of ‘cleaning out’ eyelets is a particularly difficult task for a thick and boot-hardened tongue such as mine.

Yet, it must be done – for the lady has spoken, in her dominant, Welsh accent. And so eyelets it is for my main course!

There are 5 couplets of eyelets in total in the ankle-length boots, with the fifth pair considerably high up near the upper rim of the boot. It’s as I reach this fifth coupling that the inevitable happens:

‘DON’T LOOK AT ME ABOVE THE SOCK, SLAVE!’

She SNARLS the forecasted warning down at me from on high like a black-haired, black-hearted and black-booted goddess from Mount Olympus.

‘No, goddess-mistress Ffion. I obey you, most beautiful goddess-mistress Ffion!’

That’s the whole point, of course – she is most beautiful; at least, in her eyes she is – and therefore she is NOT to be lusted after by a mere slave like me! (Most people would probably say this brunette-haired, slightly greying, 39 year old woman is of ‘average’ looks, but it’s not my place to argue with her! As I said, a customer-mistress is always right, and never wrong! She thinks she is beautiful; therefore she is!)

Actually, she need not worry – for female flesh-starved though I am, years of conditioning as a public footwear-slave have sublimated my natural, male urges into lusting after my customer-mistresses’ socks and nylons; their inner footwear, if you will – still unobtainable in its most intimate parts, the sweaty and warm toe areas (unless, of course, joy of joys, the young woman is wearing open-toed pumps or sandals with her intimate socks or nylons!), but nonetheless sexy and compelling to look at as they beautify a lady’s ankles.

I especially like scrunched-up, thick cotton bootsocks such as pernickety customer-mistress Ffion’s socks, so, unbeknown to her, it is actually her SOCKS I am shamelessly lusting after – not her bare skin above them!

Her scrunched-up, grey socktop seems to tower above me as I reach the upper eyelets, but I get a wonderful close-up and personal view of not only the multitudinous creases and folds in her grey socktop, but also the vertical lines of stitching, and the glorious contrast between the elasticated top and the main body of the sock. I can even start to count the individual stitches within those vertical lines of sock!

This cheap and pathetic, public-footslave thrill makes all the pernicketiness worthwhile; my face is just inches away from a beautiful (ish), young (ish) woman’s bootsock-top as my mouth tastes her upper bootlaces. I am, momentarily, in bootslave heaven – and would do anything to please my pernickety customer-mistress Ffion, even run my nose down the creases and folds in her socktop should she invite me to! For the sock is imbued with her intimate foot and ankle pore excretions, and is the receptacle for her Welsh goddess foot-DNA!

But, sadly, she never does invite me to nose sock. When it comes to her socktops I can look, but not touch.

But at least I can look – as can you!