Tragic Trophy Hunter
She's such a beautiful, regular visitor-mistress to the outside of my cell! Slim and svelte; long-black-haired; of Pakistani origins; materially poor, but dominantly rich. She never deigns to actually enter my cell, of course – she’s too good for that. So I am left to wallow in my own filth. But she does magnanimously position her shapely foot through the bars of my cell for me to respectfully kiss and worshipfully clean.
It is such a privilege for me to taste her cheap, but hardworking, faux-leather ballet flats on top of her ubiquitous, navy-blue cotton anklesocks and beneath her equally ubiquitous, green cleaner-uniform, trouser-hems – through the rusty, iron bars of my spartan cell. I even get a glimpse of soft, female, lower legflesh!
The young, free Pakistani-woman’s flats are scuffmarked around the dainty, feminine toe-areas, thanks to repeated wear and tear; I can feel the roughness of the scuffmarks-grooves on my respectfully puckered, prisoner lips as they make kiss-worship contact with her rounded, ballet-flat toes amidst the musty aroma of cheap, black, faux leather. Yet the faux toe-leather is simultaneously soft and malleable; it sinks into her navy-blue, cotton sock as my lips press down, to the point where I can even feel the barrier of her hard big-toenail underneath!
Yet the real honour comes when I lick-clean the street-soiled material of the dirty shoe-sole underneath. It tastes salty! And smooth! Synthetic. Worn down, by repeated contact with the Gynarchy prison floors and the streets outside (where I can never go!). I am tasting not only the cheap, salty material of her artificial shoesoles, but also the history of where this beautiful and superior young woman has been; the germs and the filth she has walked through on her cleaning rounds!
And amidst those germs – a gem. Not a gemstone as such, but a dirty, sticky label – gloriously alien to the shoe. Invisible at first – until she graciously twists her foot around to afford my prisoner-slave tongue easier access to the side of her dirty shoesole. A foreign label once white, but now a mixture of grey and black; putrefied and flaky.
I manage to divest it from her superior shoesole – with my teeth and lips – and savour it inside my mouth. I savour the flavoursome remains of a soiled, sticky street-label, extracted from the sole of a beautiful, Pakistani cleaning-girl's cheap and unremarkable shoe; deep inside my mouth!
I do not swallow it. I never want to swallow it! I want it to remain as a permanent reminder of her superior, female shoedirt and detritus inside my unworthy and inferior maleslave mouth. My only female contact. A truly tragic trophy from outside the male-prison walls!
