Submissive Males Volume 10

1. Poospa’s Footwasher

Goddess-mistress Poospa is having me wash her hot and tired feet:

She has been waitressing on her feet all day, and had absolutely no compunctions whatsoever about making me sniff her sweaty toes, before ordering me to wash the stink off her feet:

That’s because she is an Indian goddess, and I’m just a slave – so she can treat me how she likes!

Her sweaty, discarded sneakers are lying on the floor underneath her chair. No doubt she will be having me sniff, and then lick clean, them also!

2. Daydreamer

The beautiful, dark-haired, Asian-girl businesswoman enters my humble footoire abode and dreamily sits herself down on the seat of absolute female power above and in front of me, almost subliminally hitching up her black cotton, bootcut trouser hems to reveal a thick pair of soft, pink, scrunched down, cotton bootsocks above her black leather, ankle-boot tops.

The socks, and the tiny slither of Asian-girl ankleskin above them, look teasingly inviting to my sex-starved, celibate male-footslave lips, but I know that I must NOT allow my brutish, male lusts to get the better of me, since this superior, young woman is almost certainly NOT soliciting my drooling tongue (or my feverish forehead) on her thick, warming socks or soft, bare legskin, but rather on the cold and harsh exteriors of her dirty boots, which are street-soiled and in need of a good cleaning.

If I were to venture with my mouth onto her pink socks, or above, she would inevitably be offended and call the Female Police in order to have me whipped, since I am just an ugly and anonymous, public footslave to her - NOT a potential suitor!

Her snapped down orders confirm her bright-young-womanly contempt for me:

'Slave shine boots!'

Succinct and to the point, with a hint of female menace if I fail to please her with my bootlicking efforts!

How deliberately cruel she is in her casual choice of bootsock - so pink; so feminine!

Does she not realise the power of a pink, feminine sock over the pathetic, male footslave mind? A slave could truly lose himself in such a thick pair of fluffy, pink, female socks.

And how they tower temptingly over me, filling my peripheral vision with femininity as I tongue-attend to the beautiful boots beneath them!

The thick, pink bootsocks are cruelly preying on my mind, and continue to do so long after their pretty wearer has gone, leaving me with the memory of their pink flashes at the backs of her heels as she had walked triumphantly away from me in her saliva-glistening ankle boots. Oh to accompany those socks to heel - and to eventually manipulate and sniff them as she kicks off her ankle-length boots at the end of another long, working day. I would willingly be the pretty, Asian girl's pink-sock slave - serving only that one pair of socks for as long as they both shall live!

And then I would be buried alive with them when she eventually casts them aside - thrown out into the rubbish heap along with her used socks where I belong, as I am not worthy to serve her personage; only her pink socks - and in perpetuity.

The above encounter in my public footoire happened over two months ago - and I'm still dreaming about serving the Asian customer-mistress's thick, pink cotton bootsocks!

I wonder if she has similar dreams…

…or is she more likely to be dreaming about having sex with some handsome, freemale hunk?!

3. Cherries & Beetroot

So, I have been sentenced to three days and nights of continuous hard labour on the prison punishment-crank. 72 hours of unremitting toil, turning the heavy, metal crank under the close supervision of a number of shift-working taskmistresses, who are seated above and in front of me in the crank-supervisor's chair, their feet resting on the metal footplate at the bare of the chair just inches in front of my sweating face; their whip hovering over or on my bare naked shoulderblades, ever ready to cajole me into more strenuous efforts as I must turn the crank to their female satisfaction.

It is entirely nugatory work, of course - specifically designed to punish rather than be productive; to hurt, rather than be rewarding.

I have just completed my first 16 hours on the crank, and my second taskmistress of the day is getting ready to hand over to her night-shift colleague - a female student from the nearby university who is used to staying up late and partying all night. Night work doesn't faze her - she can sleep during the daytime; she has no lectures tomorrow. So this is an ideal opportunity for her to earn a bit of extra cash - without actually doing any work herself, other than to whip me and make sure I work!

As she climbs up into her night seat of power I am, temporarily, permitted to stop turning the crank and catch my breath. Besides, it is a customary part of the proceedings for a punishee on the crank to kiss-greet the feet of each new taskmistress who takes up the seat of supervisory power in front of him.

This young student-woman is Indian; bright; and wearing a grey and white tracksuit with grubby-white, low-top, lace-up sneakers and bright white, full-length anklesocks with bright red cherry motifs on them. As she hitches up her tracksuit bottoms in front of my breathless and puffing, middle-aged, male-prisoner face, I find myself focussing longingly on the cherries, as they look so appetising, and I am so hungry! I haven't eaten during the 16 hours I've been turning the crank, and won't get to eat (or drink) during the remaining 56 hours of my hard labour punishment. Juicy red cherries are just what I need - even if they are merely images of cherries on a pretty girl's sweaty white anklesocks! So I kiss-greet the sock cherries, along with the flaky white sneaker-toes - and the young Indian woman's sneakers and socks truly taste sweet to me!

Not so sweet is the bite of the whip across my sweating and salty, bare back as she signals that my informal 'meal break' is over, and it's time for me to start cranking again!

She then settles down with her smartphone in her hands, and earphones in her ears, and starts ringing round all her friends, talking to them in Hindi, as I turn the heavy crank below her, my crimson-red face bobbing up and down in front of her cherry socks and grubby sneakers as she studiously ignores me, apart from taking the occasional picture of me with her phone for the amusement of her collocutors.

After an hour or so she temporarily puts her phone to one side in order to enjoy her midnight snack consisting of some sort of cold pasta dish and red wine. I can smell both the food and the wine (even over the musty smell of her well-worn and scuffmarked sneakers), and my hardworking stomach starts to rumble, hungry for sustenance despite my ongoing pain and exhaustion. But there is, it seems, to be no rest for the wicked - not even another quick taste of sweet cherry sock - as my Indian taskmistress is clearly content for me to carry on creaking the crank throughout her selfish mealbreak. Indeed, her cherry socks seem to crease up with laughter at me - the hungry, exhausted, helpless and powerless, middle-aged, male prisoner-slave at her feet; and when she perceives me to be slacking, the whip comes down, slicing my shoulders into red-cherry-like pieces.

Then she is back onto her phone again! For a highly talkative young woman, she appears to have absolutely nothing to say to me; but then, on reflection, that's hardly surprising, given that I don't speak Hindi, and that I am beneath her, in every sense of the word. She therefore let's her whip do the talking when it comes to interacting with her prisoner, and by morning my bare back and shoulders look more like sliced beetroot than sliced cherries!

I do get to taste her sock cherries one last, precious time, on her departure at the end of her shift in the morning. The Indian student-girl, who shall remain nameless, and her cherry-themed socks, are off to bed for a well-earned rest, for they have worked me hard throughout the night. As for me, I am about to start my second day of continuous hard, physical labour on the crank.

I kiss-greet the reinforced, rounded, black leather boot-toes of my next crank-taskmistress - regular prison-officer mistress Olga, fresh from a good night's sleep, and cheerily eager to add to my beetroot back...

4. Footoire Customer-Mistress Fawzia

My demurely-dressed, regular footoire customer-mistress Fawzia, is having me lickshine her brand new, red shoes:

However, she insists on bringing along her former (though still shiny) Sunday-best shoes as well, so that I can smell the insides which are saturated in her superior-female, footsweat DNA: