Celebrating Footslavery Volume 2
1. A Ribbing
Regular, Asian customer-mistress – miss Thi Oo – likes to give me a bit of a ribbing as she sits triumphantly above me on the public-shoelick throne of female power in her somewhat unflattering, thick-round-toed, black-ribbed-knit, crocheted, buttoned-up, Ugg-style boots beneath her plain black, polyester trouser-hems.
They are 'unflattering' only in so far as they make her dainty, female feet look much bigger than they actually are – for miss Thi Oo is a truly stunning-looking but somewhat petite, Burmese girl in her early thirties. She is recently married, and happily so – though desperate, by all accounts, to fall pregnant and start a family. I actually mean 'by all her accounts', as she quite unabashedly likes to describe to me in great detail her various lovemaking techniques with her husband whom I have never met, but of whom she has insisted on showing me numerous photographs, including their wedding photographs – and whom I must confirm, under pain of the whipping-stick, is a very handsome man, as she requires me to admire, honour and obey her beloved husband too, albeit in absentia.
I surmise, therefore, that there are no ribbed condoms in use when she makes love with her husband, as she wants all of his potent, freemale seed inside her – just as she wants my impotent, maleslave lips on the outsides of her ribbed-knit, Ugg boots!
It's all part of her not-so-gentle ribbing of me, for brown-skinned, dark-haired and sultry-eyed miss Thi Oo does love to lord it over me on my public-shoelick stall – as is her perfect right, for I am here to be ribbed; and she knows full well that I can never have sex, or seek to start a family, since I'm just a humble shoe and boot-licking, public slave!
And licking shoes or boots never got anyone pregnant!
She therefore regards herself, quite rightly, as being better than me, and deems it an honour for the likes of me to kiss her black, ribbed-knit Ugg-boots – the Ugg-boots of a sexually active, and attractive, superior human being.
In addition, today she has a special message for me, for she is also a very clever, young woman:
'Ha! Ha! Do you realise that I've been visiting you and using you for thirteen years now, slave? Ha! Ha!'
'Really, mistress Thi Oo?...kiss to dusty, black ugg boot ...kiss to dusty, black ugg boot... Is it really that long, miss?... kiss to dusty, black ugg boot... kiss to dusty, black ugg boot...'
'Ha! Ha! Yep! That's when I first moved onto this estate – when I was about to start college all those years ago! Ha! Ha! I was only 18! Do you remember, slave?'
'Oh yes, mistress!...kiss to dusty, black ugg boot...kiss to dusty, black ugg boot... I do indeed remember, miss!...kiss to dusty, black ugg-boot...kiss to dusty, black ugg-boot...if it pleases you, most beautiful, young mistress Thi-Oo madam…kiss to dusty, black ugg boot…kiss to dusty, black ugg boot…'
To be fair, how could I forget? Such a beautiful and exotic, student-girl; she still is (beautiful, I mean – she no longer studies, but now works as a teacher in a drama school, I believe!)
‘Ha! Ha! Do you remember my scruffy, black, keds sneakers back then, slave? You used to love kissing those, didn't you? Especially when I wore them with my white socks?'
My God, she's right! Her sneakers and socks! I remember those vividly, even down to the hole on the side of her left, canvas sneaker where part of her white, college-girl sock used to peek through! Ah, such happy memories – since I never get to see her socks nowadays inside her ubiquitous, calf-length, cable-knitted ugg boots beneath her equally ubiquitous, black polyester trouser hems!
I wonder if she's wearing white socks inside her thick, ribbed, Ugg boots right now? If she is, surely it won’t be the same pair of white socks after some 13 years? They would be truly well-worn and used-up by now – jaundiced; a bit like me!
'Oh yes, mistress Thi Oo!...kiss to fusty, black ugg boot...kiss to fusty, black ugg boot....Oh your sneakers and socks, miss!... kiss to fusty, black ugg boot...kiss to fusty, black ugg boot...'
Actually, the memory of her sneakers and socks also brings back long-forgotten feelings of frustration for me, as miss Thi Oo never once permitted me to kiss her on the white socks – only ever on the black, canvas sneakers; a source of endless misery for me at the time as her snowy-white, ribbed-cotton socks always looked so inviting on her soft, brown, Burmese ankleskin!
And now, after all these years, she's still ribbing me:
'Ha! Ha! I'll tell you what, slave – to celebrate our 13th anniversary as footmistress and footslave I've decided to give you 13 stripes across your bare ribs with the public-use, whipping stick! Ha! Ha! Won't that be nice for you, slave? Ha! Ha! Thirteen glowing-red stripes by way of an anniversary present from me to you! Ha! Ha!... Kiss my boots and thank me!'
I'm already kissing her boots, of course – but I must indeed also now thank her for her 'kind' gesture in offering to literally mark our 'anniversary' by marking me, and causing me intense, physical pain; especially since I have omitted to note the happy occasion myself, and have no reciprocal gift for her, other than the pathetic gift of my footslavish gratitude!
'Oh pray, miss Thi Oo!...kiss to musty, black ugg boot...kiss to musty, black ugg-boot... Oh thank you, mistress!... kiss to musty, black ugg-boot...kiss to musty, black ugg-boot... God bless you mistress, and your womb, mistress!... kiss to musty, black ugg-boot...kiss to musty, black ugg-boot...'
It is only right and proper that I – as an impotent, down-in-the-dirt, middle-aged, about-to-be-whipped-across-the-bare-ribs footslave – should wish my young, Burmese (but now fully Gynarchised) customer-mistress well in her efforts to get pregnant by her freemanly husband! For she has been so good to me over the years and, even though she is about to hurt me, she has made it plain that she will be giving my ribs thirteen, separate stripes. There will, mercifully, be no overlays!
Such a kind and generous mistress!
I kiss her black-ribbed ugg boots with even more respect and fervour in anticipation of my imminent ribbing with the public-use whipping stick...
2. A Little Act of Taskmistressly Kindness
Life is unremittingly grim down here in the underground slave-mines – it’s meant to be! We are, after all, undergoing lifelong punishment, having been banished from the polite society of the Gynarchy for some perceived slight to our former footmistresses or other!
And it’s not just the gloominess and lack of daylight and fresh air that makes the mines so grim. It is fundamentally, of course, a life of unremitting, backbreaking toil – as we must hack away at the salt rocks, on our hands and knees, with our blunt, miniature pick-axes. Some say they are miniature and blunt tools as a reminder to us of our own phallic impotence as male slaves, but I think the main reason for their bluntness is so that, if any of us were to go mad and seek to attack our taskmistresses, we could not do any damage to them before their whips brought us back under control; I mean, can you imagine trying to lead a slave rebellion armed only with a three inch pick-axe?
But, speaking of our taskmistresses, what makes our existence almost wholly unbearable is being so near, and yet so far, from their dusty, chunky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, zip-up, taskmistress-uniform ankleboots beneath their navy-blue uniform trouser-hems – for those taskmistressly ankleboots and trouser-hems are just crying out for a good tongue-cleaning in the dust and grime of the dirty mines, and yet we are forbidden, under the terms of our sentences, from any mouth to boot contact with the superior sex!
Oh how cruel that is – for we are all, to a manservant, ex-footslaves of one description or another, and licking dirty, feminine footwear is in our DNA!
The lifelong, prison-galley footslaves get to kiss their galley-taskmistresses’ shoes and boots from time to time, as the latter march up and down the central gangway plying their female whips across the galley-slaves’ backs – and the latter get to kiss all manner of female footwear styles, since prison-galley taskmistresses tend to be in civilian clothing of their own choosing!
Similarly, dungeon-slaves who are chained to the treadmills at least get to study, admire and kiss the uniform boots of their treadmill-taskmistresses as the mistresses sit in front of and above them, directing their hard labour on the treadmill, and alternating between requiring the prisoner-slaves to kiss their boot-toes, and walk the treadmill!
Even the foothole-prisoners, consigned to their dark, windowless cells get to kiss the uniform boots of their female betters – if only when they are permitted to project their heads out through the apertures at the bottoms of their heavy, cell doors into the dungeon corridor outside, at feeding times and the like!
But we unhappy few hundred – those who are consigned to the underground salt-mines – must hard-labour in the more or less constant presence of our whip-wielding, taskmistresses’ dusty, black, uniform ankleboots without any prospect of touching them with our footslave lips. It’s inhuman and degrading punishment, I tell you!
That’s why we are all so grateful to one of the taskmistresses – taskmistress Emily – who takes sweet feminine pity on us, from time to time, if she is in a good mood and it isn’t her time of the month, during her night shifts, when we are all supposed to be getting our 4 hours’ sleep. Taskmistress Emily – she of the sweet, blonde ponytail and bright, red lipstick – has taken to permitting a few of us to actually kiss her dusty, black ankleboots during the night when we should be sleeping, and only when no other taskmistresses are about! Such a generous and kindly act on her taskmistressly part!
Of course, we all know that she isn’t doing it for entirely altruistic reasons – for miss Emily clearly gets a sexual buzz out of having her dirty boots feverishly kissed by a boot-starved prisoner-footslave, even shamelessly rubbing herself on her sweet-feminine groin area whilst the lucky, male chosen one is tongue-attending to the side or toe-area of her female boot! She has even been known to unzip the side of her boot, that we may kiss her on her navy-blue, taskmistress-uniform anklesock – so that she may better feel the intimacy of our prisoner lips on her ankles!
Last night I didn’t get any sleep – for I was the chosen one, for the first time in over a year! But it was worth the sleepless night – just 10 minutes of blonde-girl boot and sock kissing, but you try getting to sleep after that!
She quietly, and discreetly, so as not to wake up the other prisoners, nudged the side of my somnolent face, just 5 minutes or so after ‘lights out’, on the rock where I was about to fall asleep (we sleep chained to the rocks where we work, thus literally on beds of rock!), and sexily, and silently, pressed her dusty and scuffmarked, rounded boot-toe onto my lips. I instinctively knew what to do – for being a footslave is instinctive and, like I said before, ‘in the DNA’, and you never forget how to pay oral homage to a young, blonde woman’s dusty, black leather boot-toe, however long it’s been!
My God that blonde bootleather tasted good, and blonde mistress Emily’s heavy, feminine breathing as she libidinously rubbed herself above me only added to my foolish sense of footslavish pride and honour as I sucked, licked and kissed her dirty, feminine boot-toe.
The question you’re all asking is, though, did she go the whole hog? Did she restrict herself to some boot-toe foreplay, or go further and unzip her ankleboot zippers for full on sox!
Well, I’m pleased to report that I did have sox with her – I actually got to feel taskmistress Emily’s warm, nightshift sock on my prisoner-slave lips! So soft; so inviting; so warming – and with just a hint of night-time footsweat invading my nostrils whilst I nuzzled and kissed the sides of each navy-blue anklesock! Ah the unforgettable aroma of musty, female bootleather and warm, cotton anklesock – how it brought back memories to me of my happier days serving my erstwhile mistress Victoria, before I fell from grace by becoming too old and ugly to be an accessory to her stylish, young-womanly footwear any more!
Talk about trumped up charges!
But that’s another story – you only want to know about my 10 minutes of fame with taskmistress Emily’s boots and socks, don’t you?
Sadly, it had to be only 10 minutes or so – in case another taskmistress popped by to check that mistress Emily was okay. She could lose her job if she was discovered dishing out her boot and sock favours to the prisoners in this dead-of-night manner! We all understand that!
Plus, of course, miss Emily has invariably reached her climax by then and, at the end of the day, she is primarily having her boots and socks worshipped for her own pleasure and sexual benefit; we understand that too!
But the memory of the taste, and smell, and touch of her black leather ankleboots and navy-blue cotton bootsocks will linger on with me for much longer – until the next time; if there is a next time! For we are all at the selective mercy of her lascivious, blonde-feminine whims!
As, indeed, we all should be!
3. New Socks
‘You like my new socks, slave?’
The mere fact that sweet and kind, dark-haired, 20 year old, regular customer-mistress, miss Megumi from Japan, even bothers to ask me – a mere down-at-heel, public servant – whether or not I like her new socks, fills me with footslavish admiration and awe, for she doesn’t have to take my slavish opinions into account!
She could, of course, just whip me if I say I don’t like them! But actually, I do like them – not as much, perhaps, as the pure white, lattice-stitched anklesocks which she sometimes wears with her clunky, shiny black patent leather, slip-on shoes – but only because the size of the holes in those lattice-pattern of the stitching permits me to view snippets of her bare, Japanese-girl ankleflesh underneath!
These new, pink and blue, cartoon-character-themed anklesocks have much thinner stitching – but, nevertheless, they are very nice on miss Megumi’s feet beneath her bare legs (she always wears short dresses or skirts with her shoes and socks; never trousers), and they do complement her new, shiny, again chunky-heeled but this time beige leather, slip-on shoes very nicely with their pastel shades.
Moreover – thanks to the outstretched positioning of her right foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face – the right sock, at least, is creased and folded in one or two places at the front; and we public footslaves all love a creased sock to look at whilst we lickshine a lady’s shoes!
And, to top it all – quite literally – the socks have a delicate, frilly top with cute little lace bows on the outer sides; very soft, very feminine – a real girl’s socks!
I therefore gush forth public-footslavish admiration and praise for miss Megumi’s socks, as only a humble, public footservant can, in fluent slavespeak:
‘Oh pray, miss Megumi mistress…Oh pray!...Your new socks, mistress!...Oh mistress, truly they are beautiful, miss Megumi madam…Oh madam!...Oh your socks!... Oh pray let me sniff and lick them when they are steeped in your precious foot-DNA after repeated wearing, miss!....Oh pray, sockmistress Megumi!...Oh pray!...’
I can legitimately call her my ‘sockmistress’ since she always wears socks with her clunky-heeled shoes; whatever the weather!
So thank God she changes her socks sometimes, and wears new ones like these! Truly miss Megumi’s Japanese socks brighten up my otherwise dull and dreary existence on my back-alleyway, public shoelick-stand.
Did I mention that miss Megumi is a prostitute?
4. Muslim-Girl Modesty
There is absolutely no reason why the twenty-something, swarthy-skinned, silken-trousered and colourful-headscarf-wearing, Tajik girl needs to be wearing thick, white cotton socks with her open, toed, strappy, brown leather sandals on such a bright, warm and sunny day as this – other than to protect her Muslim-girl foot-modesty from my dirty, slave lips as she makes use of me on my public shoelick-stand on the Gynarchy suburban housing estate where she and her family now live.
I’m glad she has chosen to wear white socks, however – for they are dusty and dirty, and therefore add to my sense of humility and powerless in the face of such sweet, Tajik-girl power and authority.
Indeed, the very fact that her incongruous, white socks are so thick and dirty – especially around the street-dustied, reinforced toe areas where my footslave-lips are obliged to worshipfully kiss – indicates her utter contempt and disdain for me, the communal, male footservant on her local sink-estate! How she must be laughing at me, internally – and gloating at my obligation to pay oral homage to her dust and dirt stained, white socks beneath her frilly, flowery, Muslim-girl, silken, salwar-kameez trouser hems! My lips are not worthy to touch her bare toe-skin, and so she graciously deigns to wear thick, heavy socks, even in the height of summer – thereby suffering the discomfort of sweaty, sticky feet inside her musty-smelling, cheap brown leather, second-hand sandals – all to protect her Muslim-girl foot-modesty!
At least, that’s the way I like to see it – she probably just likes to impose her sweaty, stinky feet on a helpless, public footslave for the fun of it; for Muslim girls do know how to have fun!
5. The Laundry-Basket Slave
Some families are so rich they can afford to keep household slaves for all kinds of obscure and esoteric purposes.
Take my pathetic self, for example – I am employed by an Arab family as the laundry-basket slave of the 21 year old daughter of the house, miss Aanisah. Or, more accurately, as her 'dirty-sock-basket slave’ – for that's all I do; I lie permanently on my back in her bedroom, with my head inside her dirty-sock basket, for her to lift up the wicker lid and throw her dirty, used socks down into at the end of each day.
My only task, therefore, is to be permanently surrounded by her sweaty sock-stink, for her, and her family’s, delectation and amusement. I don't have to clean the dirty socks; or suck on them; just smell them, and look at them, as they surround my pathetic, upturned face.
I told you it was esoteric!
To help me, my Arab masters have kindly made a number of perverse modifications to the wicker laundry-basket, at great expense – but they regard it as worth it since no expense should ever be spared when it comes to the humiliation of a beautiful, young Arab woman's personal sockslave.
And so:
- Unusually for a wicker laundry-basket, it is specially coated to make it stink-tight; in other words, the stinky sock-air inside the basket cannot escape (a bit like my face), since miss Aanisah's dirty socks can remain in there for anything up to a week, and she can't be expected to live with the fetid smell of her dirty, unwashed socks permeating throughout her bedroom air (only I am expected to survive in such unwholesome, feminine sock-stink!)
- The lid is lockable from the outside – as a symbolic reminder of my permanent embondagement to my pretty, Arab mistress's discarded, dirty socks. There is no escape (especially as I am secured to the ground by a series of tight, immovable chains!)
- The wicker basket comes with a stick which my young mistress can use , if she is not in a hurry and so pleases, to manipulate her socks over my face, thereby making sure that the stinkiest, sweatiest parts of her used socks (usually the reinforced under-toe areas) are directly converting my nose; or, indeed, that the dirtiest-looking areas of her socks, especially her white socks (normally the shoe-lining-stained soles of her socks) are directly covering my upturned eyes, which are, incidentally, permanently taped open so that I never lose sight of my Arab mistress Aanisah's dirty socks!
- The basket is fitted on the inside with a permanent light – again so that, even with the lid closed, I can always see the sources of the stale stink surrounding me.
- Outside the basket my mistress can operate a dainty-foot pedal once a week which opens up a hatch directly beneath the basket for her dirty socks to fall through into the laundry room below, where another slave is responsible for picking them up and hand-washing them (a metal plate supports my neck and prevents my head from falling backwards when the base of the laundry-basket opens in this way). It should be noted that my mistress Aanisah never empties her dirty-sock basket without immediately refilling it with at least one pair of 'fresh' dirty socks – so that I am never left totally devoid of her dirty-sock stink. She needn't worry, as there is always, in any case, a lingering after-stink of dirty socks after the basket is emptied!
Oh how humiliating and degrading it is for me to have to look up at her wickedly-grinning, but intensely pretty, black-hijab-framed, Arab-girl face as she opens up the wicker-basket lid at least once each day in order to chuck her dirty socks down onto my powerless face with her gloved hands (my mistress Aanisah always wears a pair of white, disposable, surgical gloves to touch her dirty, worn socks – to protect her precious skin from any potential toxicity; never mind my face!)
She is, of course, being a free, young woman, perfectly at liberty to verbally mock me, in English or Arabic, at such times – to deride and denigrate me with unkind words as she stares disparagingly down at me – since I am nothing but her pathetic, dirty-sock slave, imprisoned in her laundry basket. I, however, am forbidden to speak – being regarded as a mere piece of bedroom furniture, albeit a living one.
If you can call this living? There are bacteria in my mistress's socks who I am sure live more interesting and varied lives than I do– though at least the fact that my mistress Aanisah wears a wide variety of socks means that I have all different kinds of lengths, colours, textures and patterns to study in her temporarily discarded socks surrounding my immovable face. Believe me, I can identity a distinctive weave in any given pair of my mistress Aanisah's socks even after months of being apart from them, should they have been languishing for any reason, unworn, in her full-to-overflowing, personal sock-drawer.
I never forget a sock – not when it belongs to my pretty, Arab footmistress and has resided on top of my face!
6. Three’s Company
They say that two is company, and three’s a crowd – but I beg to differ; especially since I have just been entertained on my lonely and under-used, early-evening, back-street alleyway, public-shoelick stand by three delightful young ladies, albeit one after the other!
i) The first such customer-mistress was previously unknown to me, but a total delight to serve. She was one of those fundamentally plain-looking girls, but who looked stunning thanks to her sense of style and her fashion sense: early twenties; slim and flat-chested, but with dyed-red hair; nose and ear piercings; wearing a light grey hoodie (but with the hoodie down) over a black top; shiny, dark green, tight leather leggings; and a pair of patent black leather, eight-eyeleted, ankle-length, doc marten boots, stylishly unlaced in the upper two eyelets so that her boots were sufficiently loosened at the top to allow a couple of inches of lattice-stitched, light-grey, cotton anklesocks to peek out from the tops of her boots. No visible, white legskin – but a stylishly dressed, young punk-woman for all that, whose shiny, black DM boots merely required a quick lick and a shine around the broad, yellow-stitched, leathery toe-areas, due to some incongruous scuffmarks (the rest of her boots are already so shiny I can see my pathetic, kneeling face in them!)
I get to work just as soon as she stretches forth her right, booted foot onto the dampened-with-recent-rain, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face. She doesn’t say much, but it’s clear what she wants – her boot-toes lickshined to match the rest of her boots for I fully expect a style-conscious, young woman such as this must be mortified to see such offending scuffmarks on her otherwise spotless, black patent leather DM boots (even the seemingly sloppily-unlaced, upper eyelets of her boots are ‘designer’ sloppiness – designed to show off her soft, grey socktops to the likes of me!)
Speaking of socktops, I notice that the top of the sock on her now extended-beneath-me, right foot is considerably creased, causing grey-cotton sock-ripples to cascade across the otherwise vertical pattern in the latticed stitching. Nice! I also like the way her socks cover the ankle-length hems of her tight, green leather leggings –for I can see the bump underneath the sock where the leggings terminate. Below that it is pure, grey sock on bare, white ankleflesh!
I like to notice such intimate details whenever I’m lickshining a girl’s doc martens!
Like I said, she doesn’t say much – or anything, in fact! But she is still good company – not just because lickshining her black leather doc martens gives me something to do on a cold and dark, lonely evening, but because she is noisily eating a packet of strong, cheesy-smelling potato chips, and some of those chips, many partially chewed, mercifully, are falling down around my head (for this young, redhaired punk woman is – bless her grey cotton socks – a bit of what you might call a ‘messy’ eater!)
I say ‘mercifully’ because, as usual, I haven’t eaten all day. My owners, who run me as a 24/7 street corner shoelicker only feed me at about 11.00 at night, and even then only the cold and unappetising leftovers from their main business, which is a nearby Chinese restaurant, scraped off their female customers’ plates! So to have some cheesy, if half-chewed, potato chips to eat will be a real gourmet treat for me!
After the young lady has gone, of course! It would be rude of me to eat whilst I am still working on her boots with my bootlick-tongue!
My only regret is that the cheesy smell surrounding me is not emanating from inside her boots, for those plain, grey, punk-girl socks must surely be moist and sweaty having been trapped inside such a heavy pair of black leather ankleboots all day (even with the tops unlaced!)
ii) I barely have time to finish my meal (or more accurately my ‘snack’) of half-used, punk-girl, potato chips when my next customer-mistress comes along – one who is a regular customer, and therefore actually known to me – mistress Jasmine.
Mistress Jasmine is a truly beautiful and svelte, young, bespectacled, mixed-race, office worker from one of the nearby offices out on the main road. She comes to me regularly for an ankleboot-shine whilst on one of her ‘fag-breaks’ – for the intensely fit-looking miss Jasmine is actually a very heavy smoker (at least 20 a day she tells me, though, sadly, she only ever seems to require one bootshine a day!)
It is very late for her to still be at work, however, and to be honest I didn’t recognise her at first from my humble, default kneeling position – with my head bowed over my empty, still rainsodden, wooden footblock – as she had changed out of her normal, black-pinstriped, smart, office trouser-suit and spike-heeled, pointy-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots, into a casual, black and white top and blue denim jeans, worn with a pair of blue-and-white-striped, lace-up trainers.
Still her same black, office anklesocks, though, for I recognise the pattern in the bobbling of the black, cotton sock on her once again outstretched, right foot!
A footslave never forgets a sock!
Always a chatterbox, she gleefully explained that she was just waiting for her boyfriend to come and pick her up straight from work and take her to the cinema, so she had brought in a change of clothes with her to the office that morning.
Not that she owes me any kind of explanation – it’s none of my damned business (just as the fact she hasn’t bothered to change her socks is none of my damned business!)
Needless to say, the fact that her black, office socks are stale and sweaty inside those unfamiliar, blue and white sneakers fills me with a sense of awe and wonderment as I am ordered to ‘lickshine’ her sneakers (never an easy task – especially when, on closer inspection, the sneakers are actually quite scuffmarked and worn – much more so than the relatively scuffmark-free, doc marten boots of her punk predecessor!)
I lickshine away the ingrained dirt from the surfaces of her sneakers – one after the other, as they are presented to me – whilst she continues to stain her fingers and lungs with yet more tar and nicotine, as is her perfect, young-womanly right! Hark at me, would you? Ha! Ha! I’m only jealous – and have often filled my stomach with the remains of her bootsole-extinguished cigarette butts which she is in the habit of carelessly chucking down beneath my face at the end of her office fag/bootshining breaks!
I wonder whether a sneaker-sole- extinguished, cigarette butt would taste any different from a black-leather-office-ankleboot-sole-extinguished, cigarette butt?
I shall have to carry on wondering for, unfortunately for me, a car pulls up at the entrance to the alleyway along the main road and honks its horn before miss Jasmine is even halfway through her cigarette:
‘Coming babes!’ she shouts at the driver, who has wound down his window.
I presume it’s her boyfriend, come to pick her up for their prearranged rendezvous? She immediately turns her sneakered heels on me, having lost interest in me and what I am doing, and runs joyously towards the car.
‘Have a nice evening, miss Jasmine, and thank you for stopping by and keeping me company with your dirty sneakers, miss!’ I call out after her, with genuine gratitude.
But she’s not listening. Like most young women, she only has eyes and ears for her beloved, a real man – a man who can satisfy her romantically and sexually (if and when he’s around) – and the ugly, middle-aged, down-in-the-dirt, public-footslave is quickly forgotten!
I understand – she would much rather spend time with her boyfriend than with me! Of course she would! I’m just her pathetic boot and sneaker-licker!
iii) I am soon in the company of another delightful stranger, however. This time a somewhat stockier, but pretty-faced, long-dark-haired, white girl wearing a plain, navy-blue anorak; matching navy-blue trousers; and black, low-cut, Velcro-fastened sneakers with a flash of dark, navy-blue sock just visible between her sneaker-top and trouser-hem.
I had thought, at first, in the semi-gloom of the early-evening alleyway, that her socks were black; but it is only now, on closer inspection as she shoves her Velcro-fastened, right sneaker underneath my nose, that I can see the socks actually match the navy-blue hue of her cotton trouser-hems.
She seems quite shy – and only speaks, at first, to order me to ‘shine her sneakers’, but I decide that she has a kindly voice, albeit with a strong East-European accent, and therefore risk striking up a conversation of unequals with her, since I would dearly love to find out more about her.
I am successful – for she soon opens up and tells me that she works as a cleaner in the nearby offices (possibly even in miss Jasmine’s office, for all I know); that she is on her way into work to start another night shift; that she had noticed her black sneakers could do with a bit of a shine; that she had seen me kneeling in the dirt on my own, and therefore decided to put my tongue to good use; that she hates her job and is hoping to get a place at catering college; that she has a boyfriend who also works as a cleaner; that both she and her boyfriend are from Bosnia; and that she has been wearing the same navy-blue anklesocks for three days in a row.
Phew! That’s a lot of information to glean from a customer-mistress during a five-minute sneaker-shine!
Do you get the impression that she too might be lonely – despite having a boyfriend? I’d be more than happy, of course, to be the third member of a ménage à trois with herself and her boyfriend – with me fulfilling the role of her personal footslave; for any young, dark-haired woman who neglects to wash and change her socks for three days in a row, whether she has another male companion to take care of her sex or not, is clearly in need of the company of a personal footslave to take care of her sox!
Not that she’s chatting me up, or anything, of course! I know that because she hasn’t asked a thing about me. She’s not interested in my pathetic, lowly life tongueshining ladies’ shoes and boots in a city-centre, back alleyway. And besides, she quite rightly sees herself as superior to me – because she is! She cleans floors; I clean shoes; of course she is my better!
Plus, of course, she’s female – a member of the superior sex; so I could never aspire to any form of intimacy with her. Only free males are worthy to do that – and even then only with the female’s magnanimous consent!
And so, she too walks away from me after her hasty sneaker-shine; she mustn’t be late for work!
But she does leave me her name – miss Dijana – and she does promise to come and have her sneakers cleaned by me again. That’s all I can ever hope for – a repeat customer-mistress; for that’s all I’m good for.
I admit I’m not very good male company for a sex-starved, young woman; or even for three of them!
7. Basement Socks
My new, Sri Lankan footmistress – freshly arrived home from work but still dressed in her smart, dark-grey-pinstriped, trouser suit – is showing me around the basement punishment room of the house she shares with her husband.
I am kneeling on the bare, wooden floorboards with my face just inches behind her chunky-heeled, patent black leather, round-toed, slip-on office shoe which she is using to point towards a set of kneeling-stocks in the corner of the room.
Her act of pointing her shapely, Sri Lankan foot forwards causes the hem of her dark-pinstriped trouser leg to ride up her ankle somewhat, thereby exposing a slither of her matt-black, officewear sock along the instep of her shiny-black, officewear shoe:
‘This is being the set of stocks where you will be being whipped, slave, isn’t it?’ she chirps in a disturbingly matter-of-fact manner – disturbing because she seems in no doubt that I shall merit the whip at some point soon!
I speak only to her shoe and sock – through fear:
‘Yes mistress Chathuri. If it pleases you, goddess-mistress Chathuri. God bless you, Sri Lankan mistress!’
She then moves over to the wall – and I crawl to chunky, black leather heel behind her, always on the alert for a snippet of sock beneath her flapping, dark-pinstriped, bootcut trouser hem. But this time she doesn’t use her right foot to point to anything; instead she just reaches up and takes a single-tailed, thick-girthed, brown leather whip down from the wall (sadly her socks remain hidden as she hasn’t far to reach!)
She deliberately lets the tapering tail-end of the three-feet-long whip trail through the sawdust and dirt of the floorboards next to her shoes – which have now turned to face me – and beside my kneeling face:
‘And this is being my husband’s whip with which we will be beating you, slave, isn’t it?’
Her husband’s whip! Not her whip, then? Not a ‘female’ whip as such?
I flinch at the thought of another man – albeit a superior, upstanding, free man – whipping me in front of my mistress’s feet!
She spots the flinch – even in the semi-gloom of the sparsely-lit basement (presumably as that is just what she was hoping to see; a bit like myself hoping against hope for a clear view of her sweaty, black anklesocks inside her clunky, office shoes amidst the gloom of this terrifying place!)
‘Ha! Ha! Why you are not answering me, slave? Ha! Ha! Are you being struck dumb by the sight of my husband’s thick whip? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh p…pray, m…mistress Chathuri…if it p…pleases you, m…mistress Chathuri…this s…slave is indeed fearful of the master’s whip, madam!...’
‘Ha! Ha! You are having every right to be afraid, slave – for my husband is being most mighty and dextrous with the whip on a slave’s back! Ha! Ha!...’
She stretches her right foot forward again in front of and beneath my face – only this time beside the uncoiled whip – and with the front of her bobbled, black sock over her toe-cleavage area clearly showing beneath her dark-grey-pinstriped trouser hem.
‘…Ha! Ha! Be kissing me on the foot, slave, and be expressing your fear and trembling before me; for I can be having you whipped by my husband at any time, isn’t it?’
I am happy to oblige – for my new Sri Lankan mistress is, self-evidently, speaking the truth!
Although she hasn’t, as yet, expressed her footkiss-preferences to her new slave (black patent leather, rounded shoe-toe or matt-black, cotton sock surface) I take a trembling chance and opt to kiss her on the exposed area of sock – respectfully, of course, since I am genuinely very afraid of her; but simultaneously in the hope that the more intimate feel of my weak and trembling, male-footslave lips on the material of her soft sock will perhaps elicit some innate, young-Sri-Lankan-womanly mercy and compassion in her, as she senses my unflinching submission and devotion to her feet and footwear!
Addendum: It didn’t work. Almost immediately she called out to her husband, bidding him to come down and chastise me with the whip for ‘disrespecting’ her ‘dirty’ office shoes, and for ‘seeking to avoid kissing her on the shoedirt’!
I have been regularly whipped in the basement stocks, over my Sri Lankan mistress’s basement socks, ever since!
8. Extract from the Diary of a Dullard, Office-Corridor Footslave
There were three pathetic highlights to my mundane existence on my office-corridor shoelick-stall today:
i. The day started particularly well when my first early-morning footmistress – the slim and svelte, long-dark-haired, 25 year old Indian office-mistress assistant, miss Tapasi – reached down to hitch up her black, bootcut trouser hem above her beige-coloured, shapeless, calf-length ugg-boot in order to scratch an itchy scab on her otherwise smooth, brown, lower left leg!
It was exciting because, for the first time in over 3 years, I got to see the tops of her Indian-girl socks inside her beige-coloured ugg-boots, and they were pale pink socktops!
I’ve always suspected her of wearing girly-coloured, pastel shades of socks inside her ubiquitous, office uggs – but had never seen the actual evidence before, as she had never previously had occasion to hitch up her trouser-leg and scratch her delicate, feminine legskin!
I know, of course, that she isn’t exposing her pink socktops purely for my footslavish benefit – her pretty, screwed up face makes it perfectly plain that she simply has an irritating itch which needs to be scratched (and, sadly, an itch which is too far up her soft, Indian leg for it to be appropriate and seemly for a humble, office-corridor footslave like myself to scratch in public on her behalf!) But it nevertheless does benefit me to know that, when I am licking the outsides of those musty-smelling and bitter-tasting, beige-sheepskin ugg boots in future, chances are I will be doing so over a pastel-shaded, pink pair of hidden anklesocks!
And the fact that pink and beige don’t really go together aesthetically only adds to my sense of admiration for office ugg-booted, goddess-mistress Tapasi. For it shows how little attention the outwardly stylish and beautiful, young Indian goddess-mistress pays to her everyday socks inside her boots; they are just something she casually throws onto her delicate, Indian feet, in order to cushion and protect them even more from the ravages of a Gynarchy winter, and with no thought for the poor, office footslave having to ‘lickshine’ her dirty, wintry ugg-boots, who might also have to observe her colour-clashing, pink socks inside her misshapen and oversized, beige-brown, sheepskin boots whilst he dutifully tongues the latter clean – especially if she subliminally hitches up her black office trouser-hem to scratch an itchy leg-scab!
Yes – a flash of incongruous pink sock inside a brown boot on a brown, female leg; what better way to start the day?
ii. Then, the next thing I knew, the normally bossy and morose, black, buxom office-mistress Sandra was bouncing happily up onto the office-corridor shoelick throne in front of me in a pair of fetching, blocky-heeled and round-toed, fully zipped-up, black leather ankleboots. What’s more – I could just see the elasticated tops of her plain, black anklesocks above her upper bootrims and beneath her black polyester, office trouser-suit hems!
Why was this such a thrill, I hear you ask incredulously? After all, what’s so exciting about a normal, young black woman in a pair of black office ankleboots and black socks?
Well, the fact is that I’ve never been privileged to lick her feet in boots and socks before! Hitherto, I have only ever seen her black feet in dark, black nylons and plain, black, office courts (again, always beneath her black, polyester trouser hems; nearly all the girls wear trousers in this office!) So this is something of a real treat for me – and moreover, the black leather boots, though new to me, are clearly not new to her feet, judging by the well creased and worn-looking, matt-black leather on the sides of the boots, and the dirty, grey scuffmarks on the thick toe areas!
These are a delightful pair of well-worn, well lived-in, black-girl boots – presumably from her casualwear wardrobe – which, for some unknown reason, she has decided to wear to work today.
I wonder if her change of office-footwear is connected with her evident change of mood, from bossy to ebullient, from beat-up to upbeat, as, remarkably, she even smiles and thanks me for my enthusiastic bootshining efforts as she steps down from the shoelick-throne of female power and heads happily off towards her office desk!
I’m guessing she’s got a new man in her life – a real man who can satisfy her sexually – and that she is going out on a date with him tonight straight from work; hence the glowing smile, and the stylish boots?
Whatever, I am truly blessed this morning; first a flash of hidden pink sock on a beautiful, young, Indian office-mistress’s itchy ankle; and now a peek at the casual, dating footwear of an equally beautiful, young black mistress. Truly my footslave-cup of humility runneth over!
iii. But, just when I thought things couldn’t get any better for a footslave, up steps the red-hoodie-top-wearing, mixed-race, goddess secretary-mistress Jezebel in a pair of black, low-cut, lace-up sneakers with unique, shiny-metal insteps which are just crying out for a good tongue-polishing after her early morning jog into work along the Gynarchy’s dirty streets!
My God, I actually get to lick cold, outer steel, rather than just warm, outer sneaker-leather, all along the shapely insteps of the dark-curly-haired and bespectacled, sporty, young office-mistress’s street-soiled, office sneakers!
And, as I do so, I see yet another pair of bobbled, black anklesocks beneath black polyester trouser-hems. In fact, I can actually see my ugly and perverse, maleslave face lusting after the mixed-race girl’s running socks as I lickshine along the cold steel on the insteps of her feminine-sized sneakers!
What a treat! What an honour – to actually observe my ugly, male slave-face at work on a young woman’s shoe, and to physically be reminded that my face is lower, and less, than her sweaty, black anklesocks!
So there you have it; the three highlights – pink, black and shiny steel – of my pathetic, footslave day! I’m afraid it all went downhill after that – all ballet-flats and no socks!
9. Control Freak
My new, black footmistress – beautiful, petite and svelte though she is – is clearly something of a control freak!
I am under strict instructions to not only continuously kneel and stare at her ‘freakin’, low-top sneakers and socks beneath her frayed, navy-blue, denim jean-hems – but also to continuously think about the hidden areas of her ‘freakin’ socks deep inside her warm and clammy sneakers. And I must do so under the constant threat of the ‘freakin’ whip!
I must say, it’s not too difficult to comply with my black mistress’s freaky demands, since her grey and white sneakers are so delightfully worn and beat-up, with particularly grubby, nominally white, thick laces; and her accompanying, short, cheap cotton sneaker-socks are a matching grubby-white!
It’s just that – having to forsake looking at, and thinking about, everything and anything else that’s going on in the world around and above me – even the neighbouring shoes and socks of other young women – is a bit of a bind on a virile, young footslave such as myself! Like most natural footslaves I am polygamous, and instinctively drawn to multitudinous pairs of female feet – and all styles of female footwear. To expect me to be a monogamous, male footslave – at the tender age of 25 – is asking a lot!
But, thankfully, my black gangmistress’s ‘freakin’, bulls-pizzle whip is successfully taming my unseemly, youthful lusts and my footslave’s wandering eye, and I do now increasingly find myself diligently studying the white-cotton creases along the narrow, elasticated, visible tops of my mistress’s grubby-white, sneaker socks on her shapely, black insteps, and imagining what the hidden creases must be like on her cheap socks deep inside her rounded, leathery-grey, sneaker toes – all whilst she is eating her breakfast; or making her way into town on the bus; or working behind the shop-counter; or meeting up with her gangland mates; or drinking in the local bar; or dancing at a rap concert; or fighting with a rival girlgang-member.
Basically – her ‘freakin’ whip has brought me well under control, and made me compliant to her black-girl, control-freak wishes. I wimpishly yield to her feisty-black-girl, unreasonable, sneaker and sock commandments, for I am in her female power, at her sweet feminine non-mercy, and under her whip-induced, young-womanly control-freakery.
So, if you’ll forgive me, I want to get back to concentrating on my beautiful, new black mistress’s grubby-white sneakers, and greyish-white sneaker socks, as she stands on tippy-toe and wantonly snogs her latest boyfriend in this dingy, back alleyway on the sink-estate where she lives. I expect her stinky, white sneaker-socks are well creased deep inside her sneaker-toes right at this moment, thanks to her having to stand up on tippy-toe just in order to reach her tall, black boyfriend’s ‘freakin’ manly mouth!
10. Mercy
The inaptly-named miss Mercy has taken out a formal grievance against me. The chubby, black-African girl is alleging that my office-footslave lips deliberately brushed against her bare, brown footskin whilst I was lickshining her plain, black leather ballet-flats at my office-corridor, communal shoelick-stall.
The fact is that I didn’t deliberately touch her skin with my mouth – it was an accident; her feet are so broad, and her ballet-flats so low-cut, I’m afraid it was almost bound to happen sooner or later!
But, of course, her office-mistress colleague who has been appointed to hear the case – 27 year old, slim and svelte, ginger-haired miss Emma – is having none of that. She has already decided that I a guilty since it is the word of one of her fellow office-mistresses against the silence of the office-footslave (I am not allowed to proffer any defence – being a mere slave; the purpose of the disciplinary hearing is merely to establish the degree of punishment I must suffer for upsetting miss Mercy!)
Miss Emma decides, quite rightly, that the ‘victim’ of my ‘unseemly lust’ on her African-colleague’s bare foot should be the one to, not only witness, but determine my punishment – and, as I’ve already intimated, this particular black-African girl is known for her lack of Mercy. She demands that I receive a full 100 lashes of the office cane!
Ginger-haired miss Emma, gleefully, consents, and pronounces my punishment thusly:
‘Office slave, I hereby find you guilty of touching miss Mercy’s bare foot with your dirty, slave lips without her explicit, female permission. I therefore sentence you to 100 lashes of the office cane, to be delivered by the office caner, miss Nitya, in the punishment room whilst you are secured, naked, over the punishment trestle at miss Mercy’s feet. I further decree that the punishment shall be delivered in slow time, in order to prolong your suffering, and that to this end you be required to kiss miss Mercy’s black leather ballet flats 100 times after every 20 strokes of the cane, whilst she is wearing them on her feet and seated comfortably in front of you. Furthermore, I decree that the final 20 lashes of the cane should be overlays, in order to augment your pain and make it truly unbearable.
Now kiss my feet – once on each shoe – and praise and bless me for sentencing you so harshly!’
‘Y…yes…m…mistress Emma! Thank you, m…most glorious m...mistress Emma! God b….bless you mistress!’
I shuffle forwards on my hands and knees and kiss the shiny, black, rounded shoe-toes of the court-shoe-wearing miss Emma below her smart, black polyester, office trouser-suit hems – taking great care, of course, not to inadvertently brush my clumsy footslave-lips against her pinky-white toe-cleavage inside her shoes, for that would lead to yet another grievance being taken out against me!
I kiss miss Emma’s quasi-judicial court shoes about 20 times each – alternating between right and left – before she orders me to be ‘taken down’:
‘Nitya, would you kindly escort the prisoner-slave down to the punishment rom, and carry out his punishment forthwith?’
The Indian office cleaner-mistress – who doubles up as the official office caner – and who has been quietly and unobtrusively waiting in the wings of the ‘court’ room (i.e. one of the meeting rooms) during the grievance-hearing proceedings beams broadly:
‘Yes madam! Thank you madam. I very happy carry out punishment on dirty footslave for miss Mercy. I make sure he many pain!’
My accuser – and now gloater – miss Mercy, for her part thanks both the investigating officer, miss Emma, and the willing cane-wielder, miss Nitya, for their time and assistance, and then follows behind me as I sobbingly crawl on my hands and knees out of the meeting room behind the shiny-black-loafered and navy-blue sneaker-socked heels of the Indian office cleaner-mistress – the one who is about to cane me.
Miss Emma, it seems, will not be enjoying witnessing my punishment – the punishment she has decreed – as she has another office meeting to go to. But she wishes miss Mercy well, and hopes she enjoys my suffering at her feet!
As the Indian caner-mistress secures me over the wooden punishment trestle and unceremoniously divests me of my flimsy, white slave-shorts, I can’t help wishing it was her black leather loafers that I had been ordered to lickshine earlier on my office shoelick-stand, since her somewhat ropey-looking, navy blue anklesocks would have at least provided a buffer-zone for my straying lips and prevented them from inadvertently touching her bare, Indian-girl footflesh whilst I mouth-polished her outer, office footwear.
But, what’s done is done – and it is the bare, brown, African feet and musty-smelling, black leather ballet-flats that I must fawn over during my prolonged and lengthy corporal punishment, since they were the victims of my footslavish incompetence!
I must ensure I don’t repeat my mistake during the footkissing element of my sentence – however much my ballet-flat-kissing lips start to quiver and tremble with the pain. For miss Mercy would, I’m sure, have absolutely no compunctions whatsoever about taking out yet another office-mistressly grievance against me, for the exact same thing!
