Footslave Themepark

Footslave Themepark

Part 1 – The Welcome

The four young women and their boyfriends, all in their 20s, reached the entrance to the theme park. They read the sign on the gate:

'Welcome to the Footslave Themepark!

Strictly adults only.

No admittance to persons under the age of 18.'

'This is going to be fun!', exclaimed Olga, the leader of the group.

Her friends knew she was right. It had been Olga's idea to come to the theme park, and it was a brilliant idea! The excuse was to celebrate Angela’s 25th birthday -- not that this particular group of friends needed any excuse to humiliate pathetic, male footslaves. They were all haughty, arrogant, spoilt young people -- confident in their innate superiority over mere slaves. And what better place to exercise and demonstrate that superiority than in a theme park devoted to the subject of foot slavery?

The women in the group had all chosen their footwear particularly carefully that day. They knew that their feet and footwear would be the centre of attention, and they had adorned their feet accordingly. Their boyfriends had merely come to watch, and to enjoy the sight of the footslave-losers worshipping their girls' feet.

At 27, Olga was the eldest of the group. She was walking arm in arm with her boyfriend Thomas. Olga had chosen to wear her blue denim jeans, black sneakers and red socks. She fully realised that this was something of a colour clash, but it was entirely deliberate. She wanted the footslaves who would be attending to her pretty feet to be able to distinguish clearly between her shoes, her socks and the bottom of her jeans. She intended to be quite specific about where they could look and what they could kiss or smell at any given point.

The three different colours would give the slaves no excuse for getting it wrong. If she ordered them to kiss the bottom of her jeans, for example, they would be able to see clearly where her blue jeans ended and her red socks began. She would therefore have a good reason to punish the slave (if she needed a reason), should he inadvertently brush her socks with his slave lips. Similarly with her black sneakers, which had two white stripes on the sides - she could order the slave to lick the white, plastic stripe and not touch the black canvas, if she so wished.

Such absolute power was what turned Olga on. And it was his girlfriend's attention to detail when humiliating slaves that turned her boyfriend Thomas on. He was going to enjoy watching the various footslaves serving his girlfriend's feet. And, by God, he'd make sure they treated her with proper respect!

Angela, whose 25th birthday it was, was Olga’s best friend. Angela had decided to wear her favourite pair of black, lace up, block-heeled, ankle boots. They were quite old and tatty, but that was just a reflection of how much she enjoyed wearing them. Besides, if your boots needed a spit and a polish, what better place to go to than a footslave theme park? Unlike Olga, Angela was not so concerned about colour coordination. She was wearing black trousers, tucked into thick, black bootsocks, the top of which were just showing above her ankle boots. She was, however, conscientiously wearing tatty, old socks to go with her tatty, old boots. It's not that her socks were dirty - just well worn. Her favourite pair of black socks. Her boyfriend, Richard, was so proud of her. She was his special girl and it was her special day. He would see to it that the footslaves understood that.

At 23, Nicola was the youngest of the group. She also looked the youngest -- always had to take her ID with her when she went boozing or clubbing with her mates. And Nicola loved boozing and clubbing. She was the life and soul of any party, kind hearted and fun loving. Everybody loved her, and she pretty much loved everybody. Except for slaves, of course. She despised slaves. Their lives were everything hers wasn’t - lives of abject misery and suffering at the feet of superior human beings like herself. How could she not despise them?

Brightly and sexily dressed as ever, Nicola was wearing a short, red mini-skirt and shiny, black, patent-leather high heels on her bare legs. She was turning heads wherever she went - not that her boyfriend, Robert, was concerned. In fact, he was delighted that other men lusted after his woman, for he knew that for all her fun-loving gregariousness, Nicola was a good girl -- totally faithful to him in the three years they’d been going out together. Other men could look, but could not touch. Except, of course, for the footslaves - but they were only allowed to touch her feet and shoes with their slave tongues and lips. The rest of her beautiful body was his. He loved her and would eventually marry her.

And then there was Olufemi, ‘Femi’ to her friends (‘Mistress Olufemi’ to slaves). Femi was from Africa and was on a student visa. She had only been in the country for 5 months, and her boyfriend, Alek, had only just joined her from Africa for a 2-week vacation. She was over-the-moon having him with her again, and was delighted at how well her new friends, Olga, Angela and Nicola, had taken to him. The girls loved his thick, West-African accent, just as Thomas, Richard and Robert loved Femi’s accent.

Although it was a bright, autumn day Femi thought it was cold. She was therefore well wrapped-up in a thick, long brown suede coat with blue jeans tucked into knee-length, brown leather zip-up boots. Although they couldn’t be seen, she was wearing thick, white socks inside her boots – keeping her soft, black feet cosy and warm. She snuggled into Alek, who had his arm round her, as the 8 friends strolled happily and excitedly through the entrance gate to the theme park.

Immediately inside the gate they were greeted by one of the park’s ‘hostesses’ – who was wearing the official hostesses’ ‘uniform’ of white T-shirt with the words ‘Footslave Themepark’ emblazoned on it; red track-suit bottoms with a white stripe down the side; and red and white sneakers. Kneeling humbly beside the hostess’s feet was footslave no. 42 – one of the so-called ‘greeter’ slaves.

‘Hi folks! Welcome to the Footslave Themepark,’ chirped the hostess with a friendly smile. ‘My name is Amanda, and this is one of our footslaves. Please allow him to greet you, ladies, by presenting your feet for him to kiss!’

Pointedly, Amanda was not inviting the male guests to have their feet kissed, but the group knew the score already. Men could accompany their wives and girlfriends into the Park; they were welcome to watch their women humiliating the slaves; they could even assist their women in tormenting the slaves. But they could not use the slaves. Use of the footslaves was strictly for the women only.

As always, being the natural leader of the group, Olga was the first to step forward, an evil grin on her pretty face, in order to have her feet kissed by the ‘greeter-slave’. She stretched forward her black-sneakered right foot under the kneeling slave’s nose.

Footslave no. 42 was a fairly new arrival at the theme park. He had been bought by the park owners at auction and knew he could expect to spend the rest of his life in the park. It was usual for the most newly arrived, and therefore relatively inexperienced, slaves to be employed at the gate as ‘greeters’. After all, all they had to do was to humbly and respectfully kiss the feet of the park’s female guests – under the watchful eyes of the hostesses, of course. It was quite a simple task – the greeter slaves didn’t have to speak to the mistresses – just kiss their shoes or boots. It was difficult even for a dumb slave to mess that up!

As he lowered his head towards Olga’s outstretched foot he could smell the rubber and canvass of her black sneakers. He could see that she was wearing bright, red socks under her blue jeans, and that her sock was now creased around the ankle – caused by the positioning of her outstretched foot. As his eyes focused on the young woman’s shoe in preparation for kissing the toe of her sneaker, he noticed that it was quite dusty and dirty. The white stripes down the side of the sneaker showed up the dirt particularly well.

They were by no means the dirtiest sneakers he had ever had to kiss during his short period in the theme park, but this young woman had clearly not made any effort to clean up her shoes prior to her visit . But, then again, why should she? Was that not what the theme park was for? For women to come and have their shoes licked and cleaned by male footslaves?

Footslave no. 42 lowered his slave lips to the black, rubber toe of Olga’s sneaker and placed a respectful, audible kiss on the dirt.

Olga squealed with delight:

‘Cool! I can feel his lips on my toes!’

Her friends all laughed, and the hostess Amanda beamed with delight as Olga then withdrew her right foot and replaced it with her left.

Again the slave placed a respectful kiss on the toe of her outstretched, black sneaker.

‘Me next!’ shouted Nicola, moving forward and stretching out her patent leather-clad foot under the slave’s face.

Footslave no. 42 noticed how her shapely, bare ankle wiggled in its spiked heel as she positioned her foot for him to humbly kiss. He lowered his lips to touch the toe of her shiny stiletto. As he pulled away he saw that his slave lips had temporarily left a moist mark on the shiny leather.

‘I can feel his breath!’, exclaimed Nicola.

Robert, her boyfriend laughed:

‘I hate to think what his breath must smell like after having to kiss and lick women’s dirty feet and shoes all day long!’

The guests all laughed, but footslave no. 42 knew that he was not yet considered worthy to ‘lick’ women’s dirty shoes or boots, let alone their bare feet. Even if the lady was wearing sandals or flip-flops he was under strict instructions not to allow his slave lips to touch the lady’s bare skin. In the case of flip-flops he had to carefully kiss the very front of the sandal below the toes.

Nicola quickly placed her other foot under the footslave’s nose. As he again kissed the shiny toe of the shoe he noticed this time how the skin around the top of her heel was creased, and he could even see a small area of redness at the top of her heel where, presumably, the shoe had been rubbing. The shoes looked very shiny and new. He could literally see his pathetic, slave reflexion in them.

Next it was the turn of the birthday girl herself – Angela.

Footslave no. 42 preferred kissing boots to shoes – not that anyone cared about his preferences. But he did like the sense of the lady’s footwear towering above him as he kissed the toe of a feminine boot. Even ankle boots seemed to speak of a lady’s power and authority over him. And when he could catch a glimpse of the top of the lady’s bootsock it always made him feel even more humble. Even her sock seemed to tower above him. It made him realise that he was nothing – the lowest of the low – a boot-kissing queer.

Unlike her friends before her, Angela had decided to give a verbal order to the slave. And why not? It was, after all, her big day. She was the reason they were all here – and she was determined to enjoy herself:

‘Kiss my black ankle-boot, dirty footslave, and make sure you don’t soil my boots with your stinking, slave saliva!’

She stretched out her black boot under the slave’s face as the others roared with approval. They could all see the irony (deliberate on her part, of course) of Angela being in the least bit concerned about the slave soiling the dirty, scuff-marked toes of her boots. If anything, the boots could do with a good dose of slave saliva, if only to remove some of the in-ground dust and street-dirt.

Fired up by his girlfriend’s verbal abuse of the slave, Richard added his penny’s-worth:

‘Yeah, it’s my girlfriend’s birthday today, slaveboy. Make sure you kiss her boots respectfully and don’t slobber over them!’

‘Oh. Many happy returns, Miss!’ exclaimed the hostess, Amanda.

Footslave no 42 also wished he could wish the superior young woman, now towering above him in her black ankle boots, a happy birthday, but he realised, of course, that such words of greeting, even from an official ‘greeting-slave’, would not only be meaningless (because he was just a slave) but would also earn him a severe whipping. Greeting slaves were not allowed to talk. End of story.

He would, however, heed the birthday girl’s order for him not to ‘soil her boots’, or, as her boyfriend had so eloquently put it to him, not to ‘slobber’ over her boots.

He lowered his lips to the musty, scuffed leather of her black lace-up ankle boot and placed a respectful dry kiss onto the toe. Because of the scuff marks it felt rough under his lips. He wished deep inside that he could raise his face slightly and kiss the softness of her black bootsock, peeping out over the top of her ankle boot. He had ‘ambitions’ to become one of the theme park’s sockslaves. He liked the idea of having to kiss and smell ladies’ socks – the idea seemed so much more intimate than just kissing their outer footwear. But such ‘promotion’ was probably a long way off for him. For now, he was merely allowed to kiss shoes and boots.

After he had respectfully kissed mistress Angela’s other, equally dirty and scuffed, black leather ankle boot, the group of friends encouraged mistress Femi to step up to the slave.

Femi at first appeared a little more reluctant than the other girls to have her feet kissed. She was still not used to the whole concept of slavery – so ingrained in this society which she had come to as a foreign student, but quite alien to her own culture. She was from a rich family in Africa, and her family had servants. But they treated their servants well and with respect. They certainly didn’t make them bow down and kiss their feet!

However, ‘when in Rome’, as the saying goes.

Femi’s boyfriend, Alek, had a particularly large grin on his face. Unlike his girlfriend he had no qualms about seeing these slave-men humiliated. He just wished he could humiliate them himself. He assisted his girlfriend to step forward, and put his arm round her as the slave lowered his lips to Femi’s outstretched brown, knee-length, leather boot, protruding from under her coat.

Footslave no. 42 was excited. Knee-length boots were even more dominating than ankle-boots. They really did exude power and make him feel small. He stared momentarily at the black zip up the side of the spike-heeled boot. How he would love to undo that zip with his mouth and see what sort of sock, if any, she was wearing inside the long, brown boot. He could sense the look of disdain on the young woman’s face, and her boyfriend’s evil grin of pleasure, as he lowered his slave lips to touch the toe of the well-polished, outstretched boot. The hem of Femi’s coat brushed the top of the slave’s head as he placed his respectful kiss.

Both Femi and her boyfriend giggled with delight. She may not be used to dealing with slaves, but she could, and would, get used to it! This was fun!

Finally, footslave no. 42 kissed Femi’s left boot, and the initial greeting process was done.

Hostess Amanda handed everyone a brochure each, listing the various attractions within the theme park, and the group of friends moved off.

Footslave no. 42, of course, remained kneeling at the feet of hostess Amanda. When not in the actual process of greeting female guests, he was under strict instructions to stare humbly at mistress Amanda’s sneakers. If he was lucky, because her red and white track-suit bottoms were elasticated at the bottom, he would occasionally catch a glance of her thin white ankle socks underneath – or at least the top of them as she was wearing low-cut sneaker socks that barely showed above the top of her sneakers. The slave wished he could take off mistress Amanda’s sneakers and smell her socks. But that was another ‘privilege’ he had yet to earn.

The 8 friends strolled slowly along into the theme park proper, reading the brochures as they went along.

‘I like the sound of the “trampoline”’, said Nicola, ‘Imagine jumping up and down on a human trampoline!’

‘Hardly human’, laughed Robert, ‘slave, more like!’

Nicola acknowledged her mistake.

‘Well I for one intend to have my boots shined by one of the “shoeshine-boys”’, commented Angela.

The others couldn’t help laughing.

‘Oh, Angela, you’re so funny!’, screamed Olga, ‘One minute you don’t want a slave to touch your boots with his saliva, and the next minute you do!’

‘Well, so what?’, replied Angela, smiling. ‘It’s my birthday, and I can change my mind if I want to!’

‘Well said, honey!’, exclaimed Richard, giving her a big kiss on the cheek as he protectively put his arm around her. ‘If you want your boots shined I’ll make damn sure one of these footslave-losers does a good job for you. Don’t you worry!’

Angela quivered inside. She loved it when her man was so strong and macho.

‘I think Femi needs to have her boots cleaned as well’, said Alek in his heavy West-African accent.

‘They do not need cleaned!’, exclaimed Femi, also in her cute African accent, ‘I polished them myself just yesterday!’

‘Why?’ enquired, Alek, not unreasonably, ‘that’s what these dirty footslaves are for – to lick clean my girl’s boots!’ He snogged her as she giggled with delight.

‘Well, I for one intend to visit the “sockslaves”’, interjected Olga. ‘Thomas can vouch for the fact that I’ve been wearing these same socks for 3 days and I want to see how a sockslave likes having to sniff them!’. She stopped momentarily in order to pull up her right trouser leg and display her red sock to her friends.

‘I certainly can vouch for that’, added Thomas. ‘Olga darling, your socks stink. Trust me, you don’t need a sock-sniffing slave to tell you that!’

Everyone laughed.

‘What’s this?’, enquired Nicola, pointing to a section of the brochure entitled ‘Grindstone’.

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Olga. Looks like it’s the centre-piece of the theme park, though, whatever it is!’

‘Hmm, let’s leave it till the end, then,’ proposed Nicola. The friends all agreed.

Meanwhile, Angela had spotted her ‘shoeshine-boy’.

Slave no 167, the ‘Shoeshine-boy’, was actually in his early fifties. He was one of the most experienced footslaves in the theme park, and had been enslaved on one of the shoe-shine stands for some 5 years. There were other shoeshine-stands dotted throughout the theme park, but this one was the busiest, as it was the closest to the entrance. Many women, rather like Angela, made straight for the stand. Indeed, he even had his regular customers, so good was he at his humble task.

The stand consisted of a comfortable, raised leather chair on which the lady could sit. Two metal foot-rests were available for her to rest her feet on, and they were positioned at just the right height for the kneeling footslave to lick clean the lady’s footwear. Unlike on conventional shoe-shine stands, the theme park’s shoeshine-boy had no cloths or brushes that he was allowed to use – just his slave tongue. If the shoe or boot was particularly dirty, he just had to lick all the harder, although, for exceptionally dirty or scuff-marked boots and shoes, he was allowed to dip his slave nose into some shoe polish and apply it to the lady’s footwear with his nose. He was never allowed to touch the lady’s footwear with his hands (which were secured behind his back), so his tongue and/or nose had their work cut out to do a good job. If truth be told, however, the purpose of this particular shoe-shine stand was not so much the polishing clean of a lady’s shoes, as the humiliation of the slave.

And Angela, the birthday girl, was ready for some slave-humiliation. Her friends gathered round to watch as Angela strode purposefully up to the stand and raised herself up onto the leather chair. As she positioned her booted feet onto the two metal footrests she was very aware that she was the centre of attention – as she jolly well should be on her birthday! She felt like a goddess, like a queen sitting on her throne, and she literally looked down through her pretty nose at the pathetic underling kneeling humbly and submissively at her feet.

‘Boy, shine my boots! I want to see them sparkling. Lick away all the dirt and grime, and make sure you remove all the scuff marks with your slave tongue!’, she spat down at the much older man – old enough to be her father.

‘Yes, mistress. At once, mistress,’ replied footslave no 167. Unlike footslave no 42 the ‘shoeshine boy’ was allowed to speak to his mistresses – if only to humbly acknowledge their orders.

Angela’s boyfriend, Richard, true to his word, wanted to make sure this sad old loser of a girls’ footslave fully appreciated how important it was to do a good job on his girl’s boots. He bent down so that his face was close to that of the kneeling footslave, and spoke quietly in his ear (yet making sure what he was saying was loud enough for Angela and the others to hear):

‘Do as your mistress, says, slaveboy, or I’ll warm your shoulders with the whip!’

Richard had noticed in the brochure that each and every ‘attraction’ in the theme park had a nearby whip for use by the clients if they felt that particular footslave needed some extra encouragement. Moreover the brochure had specifically stated that male guests were just as welcome to avail themselves of the whip as the female clients.

Richard lifted the single-tailed, short, brown leather whip from it’s hook beside the shoe-shine stand and ran it through his fingers, ready to bring it down on the kneeling slave’s bare shoulders should he deem it necessary.

Angela felt another erotic thrill pulse through her at the sight of her man being so dominant over the kneeling piece of male filth at her feet. She giggled, took out some gum, and popped it in her mouth. She knew that arrogantly chewing gum whilst the footslave licked her dirty boots clean would make her look even more cool.

Footslave no 167, the shoeshine-slave, shuffled forward on his knees and began licking mistress Angela’s left ankle boot. He began at the top, his nose brushing against the exposed elasticated top of Angela’s thick, black bootsock. The leather tasted foul and bitter. It always did. Despite having been a ‘shoeshine slave’ for 5 years he had never acquired a liking for the taste of dirty, sweaty boot leather. But his likes or dislikes were neither here nor there. What mattered was that he licked the dirt off the superior mistress’s boot-leather as he had ben ordered to do. And so he licked hard.

‘I think he likes it!’ laughed Olga.

If she only knew, thought the footslave.

‘Yeah, lick my girl’s boots, loser!’ shouted Richard, bringing the short, leather whip down across the slave’s right shoulder with a loud crack.

Angela laughed:

“Whip him again, Richard!’ she implored, in between chewing her gum, ‘make him lick all the dirt off my laces!’

Richard, increasingly fired up, duly indulged his girlfriend’s wishes:

Crack!

The whip cut across the slave’s back again, causing him, momentarily, to stop licking as he let out an involuntary gasp of pain.

“Do as my girlfriend says, slave. Suck on her dirty laces! Suck off all the dust and dirt!’

The slave quickly obliged.

‘This is so cool!’ exclaimed Nicola. ‘You look fantastic having your boots shined, Angela!’

Angela continued smiling and chewing on her gum as the pathetic old slave licked and sucked on the leather upper and the lace of her left ankle-boot. As he slowly worked his way down, his back still stinging from the two blows from the whip, the experienced shoeshine-slave quickly realised that he would need to apply some polish to the scuffed area around the toes. No amount of licking alone, however vigorous, could possibly hope to cover up the scuff marks on this young woman’s boots.

And so, to the delight of the onlookers, he dipped his slave nose into a nearby tin of black shoe polish and began to apply it to the toe of mistress Angela’s boot with his nose.

Even the normally quiet Femi was excited by this act of self-degradation and humiliation:

‘Look!’ she exclaimed to her boyfriend Alek, who was standing with his arm around still her, ‘the slave is having to rub in the boot polish with his nose!’

Alek loved the way his girlfriend had a propensity for stating the obvious. Really, he just loved seeing her so excited by the slave’s humiliation.

‘That’s right, sweetie. And he’ll do the same to your boots if you want him to!’

Femi kissed him long and hard on the lips, whilst the pathetic footslave used his tongue and lips to shine up the rest of mistress Angela’s black ankle-boot.
It was a full fifteen minutes before he was ready to make a start on her right boot.

His slave mouth tasted of leather, boot-dirt and shoe polish.

His customer’s mouth, in contrast, tasted cool and minty as she continued to chew nonchalantly on her gum.

Part 2 – Sockface

Slave no.167 spent a further 10 minutes licking, and polishing with his nose, mistress Angela's remaining black, lace-up ankle boot.

By this time Angela was becoming bored:

'Finish now, slave,' she ordered perfunctorily.

Her boyfriend Richard was keen to ensure that his birthday girl was satisfied with her shoeshine:

'Are you happy with the bootblack’s work, darling?’ he asked. 'If not -- you only have to say the word and I'll thrash the living daylights out of him!'

Angela smiled. She smiled because her boyfriend was so cute at such times, so protective of her, so strong and macho. She loved him at times like this.

However, she was smiling also at the thought that the fate of the pathetic shoeshine slave who was kneeling at her feet, his mouth full of the dirt from her scruffy, old ankle boots, was in her pretty, feminine hands. As her boyfriend had said, she only had to utter the word and the slave would be whipped in front of her. Such power! It exhilarated her. At that moment she was truly a goddess!

Nevertheless, she decided to be merciful towards the old man -- not because she felt sorry for him, or because she cared what happened to him, but simply because she was bored with him. She wanted to move on to the next footslave attraction:

‘I guess he’s done ok – not brilliant, but they’ll do,’ she replied, twisting her booted feet from side to side as she inspected them.

Indeed, despite his mediocre results, she kindly decided to give the hardworking bootblack a tip – she took her chewing gum out of her mouth and stuck it on the top of his bald head.

Her friends all laughed with approval.

Richard then stepped forward and helped his girlfriend down from the chair.

'Come on, Richard, I want to go for a pedicure now,' she indicated to her boyfriend. 'Are you guys coming with us?’

'I wanted to stay here for a bit to see Femi getting her boots shined,’ replied Alek.

Femi blushed and looked somewhat coy.

'And I want to find this "slave-trampoline" mentioned in the brochure,' said Nicola.

'Well, I'm off to have my socks worshipped,' added Olga.

And so, the group of friends agreed to go their separate ways and to meet up in two hours time at the theme park restaurant for lunch.

The various boyfriends, gallantly, stayed with their respective women.

Alek had to somewhat cajole his girl Femi into sitting on the high chair on the shoeshine stand. Femi, unlike Angela, did not like being the centre of attention. And there were plenty of people around watching the shoeshine slave at work. Nevertheless she did as Alek requested and climbed up into the chair. After all, he had come an awfully long way to see her, and she did like pleasing him.

Once sat in the chair, her booted feet resting on the respective, metal foot-rests, Femi had to pull up the hem of her suede leather coat to ensure that her knee-length, brown leather boots were fully visible. She didn't want the shoeshine-slave getting any polish on her expensive coat (she dreaded to think what Alek would do to him if he did!)

Alek wanted to hear, as well as see, his girl dominating and humiliating the slave.

'Order him to polish your boots, darling,' he urged her, a huge grin on his face.

Femi felt her lips going a bit dry. She was actually quite nervous. She just wasn't used to dealing with slaves. Servants -- yes. Her family had plenty of servants back home. But dealing with, speaking to, giving orders to a slave was a wholely different matter. She had to steel herself -- make herself sound authoritative and tough. She was acutely aware that Alek was watching her every move, and she wanted him to be proud of her:

'Slave, polish my boots with your tongue,' she ordered in her thick, west-African accent.

To her relief, the old slave immediately obeyed with a ‘yes mistress’, placing his lips at the top of her left knee-length, brown leather boot -- and licking.

The sight of his instant obedience emboldened her. She smiled with satisfaction at Alek, and was gratified to see his smile of approval in return.

She then spoke more confidently to the kneeling slave:

'Slave, make sure you remove all the dirt or I'll have my boyfriend flog you. You are nothing but a dirty slave!’

She leaned forwards and pointed with her pretty, scarlet-painted, fingernail at a muddy patch just above the stitching of the sole of her left boot:

'Lick here! Remove the mud and swallow it, dirty pig!'

‘Yes, mistress. This slave obeys you, most gracious and superior mistress.’

Mistress Femi, for she was now behaving like a true slave-mistress, again smiled at Alek, who was so proud of her -- his girl, his African princess, sitting regally on her throne and making a pathetic old bootblack who was more than twice her age tongue-shine her brown leather knee-length boots. She looked wonderful and he wanted her now more than ever.

Footslave number 167, was aware that this young African mistress was becoming increasingly emboldened. He had seen it many times before, the initial diffidence of the lady giving way to her natural, feminine urge to dominate a lowly male slave. He therefore licked vigorously at the dirty patch on the side of her boot just as she had ordered him to. His back was still smarting and he was desperate to avoid more lashes. The taste of the boot-dirt was by far the lesser of two evils.

And so he tasted brown boot-leather, licked and swallowed, -- as he would continue to do on various female boots and shoes throughout the rest of the day. And the next day. And the next.

Olga and Thomas, meanwhile, had reached the ‘sockslaves’ booths. One of the theme park’s uniformed hostesses greeted them at the entrance to the attraction, and explained to Olga how it worked:

‘There are two types of booth. In the first type, with the red door, the sockslave is lying on his back in a hole in the ground, with only his face exposed. You can sit on the chair above him, remove your sneakers, and rest your socked feet on his face for him to smell, kiss, or massage your socked feet with his face – whatever you wish.

In the second type of booth, with the blue door, the sockslave is kneeling at the end of a couch on which you can recline and rest your feet. The slave again has to sniff, kiss or massage your socked feet – the only differences being that in this booth he can, if you wish, use his hands to massage your feet, and, unlike in the red booth, this slave can also remove your shoes for you.

It’s really all down to your personal preferences, miss – or you can try both!’

Olga felt spoilt for choice, but quite liked the idea of the humble sockslave being imprisoned on his back, lying in a dirty hole and forced to look up at her pretty face as she tormented him with her sweaty socks.

‘I think I’ll try the red booth,’ she decided. Red socks – red booth, she thought. I’ll let the hand of fate guide me on this one.

‘Can my boyfriend come into the booth with me?’ she asked the hostess.

‘Of course, miss. There is a separate chair at the side of the booth for male guests to watch.’

‘No offence, Olga, but I’ve already caught a whiff of your stinky socks this morning before you put your sneakers on,’ interjected Thomas. ‘If you don’t mind I’m off to get an ice-cream and have a wander round. I’ll meet you outside here when you’ve finished – say in about 20 minutes?’

‘Better make it half an hour!’ replied his girlfriend. This arrangement suited Olga fine – she would feel less inhibited about humiliating the sockslave with her sock-smell without her boyfriend being present. After all, he was a real man, and she didn’t want to impose her stinky feet on him!

A wicked grin crossed her pretty features as she entered the red booth alone.

It was fairly dark inside, with the only light being in the ceiling directly above the hole in which the socklslave’s upturned face was lying. This was good, she thought – it helped to focus both the slave’s and the mistress’s minds on the task in hand – the worshipping of the mistress’s socked feet.

Olga locked the door of the booth behind her. She didn’t want to be disturbed.

She sat herself in the comfortable chair directly above the slave and peered down at him. He looked scared – humble and scared, just the way she liked them! She smiled at him, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was a smile which said ‘you are now at my complete mercy, and I’m going to humiliate and degrade you with my feet’.

Slave no. 451 knew that feminine smile all to well. He had been a sockslave, imprisoned in that very booth, for nearly 10 years now. He had experienced pretty much everything a sockslave could experience. And yet each and every female customer was different – hence the look of apprehension on his face. You just never know what the mistress might do to you. You are literally powerless and at her mercy as she towers over you in that chair – ready to rest her feet on your face.

Olga decided she would be particularly naughty and give him a taste of her sneakered feet first. She placed both her black-sneakered feet on top of the slave’s face, making sure his nose was covered by the dirty, mud and gunk-encrusted grooves in her sneaker-soles:

‘How do you like the smell of my dirty sneaker-soles, slave?’ she asked him.

Sockslaves, like shoeshine slaves, were allowed to reply, humbly, to their mistresses:

‘Please mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave is honoured to be allowed to see, smell and taste the soles of your dirty sneakers, mistress’.

Olga was pleased at his groveling response, but wanted to make this whole experience a bit more personal:

‘You may call me “Mistress Olga”,’ she graciously advised him, ‘and I shall refer to you as “Sockface”.’

The newly named ‘Sockface’ knew that he had no choice in the matter. If ever there was a place where the adage ‘the customer is always right’ applied, it was in his sockbooth.

‘Yes, mistress Olga. Thank you, mistress Olga.’

‘I expect you’ll be wanting to sniff my socks now, Sockface? After all, that’s what you do all day long, isn’t it? Sniff ladies’ dirty, sweaty socks?’

Sockface wanted to make sure his customer was aware that he didn’t only sniff socks:

‘Yes, mistress Olga. But, if it pleases you, mistress Olga, this slave can also kiss and lick clean your socks, or massage your socked feet with its slave face, if it pleases you, mistress Olga.’

His pathetic, whining, cringing servility pleased Olga. She sensed that this slave really was frightened of her – as well he should be – for he was completely at her mercy.

She laughed.

‘Let’s see how we get on first with the sock-sniffing, Sockface.’

Mistress Olga reached down to untie her shoe laces and removed her sneakers.

The smell that emerged was more-or-less instantaneous, and strong. She had not been joking when she had told her friends earlier that she had been wearing the same pair of red, nylon ankle socks for 3 days. Equally, her boyfriend Thomas had not been joking when he had said that he didn’t want to catch another whiff of Olga’s dirty socks.

But Olga was not in the least bit embarrassed about the smell she was about to impose on ‘Sockface’. He was nothing but a stupid sockslave – fit only to sniff and lick her dirty, smelly socks. And that was precisely what he was now going to do.

From his helpless and prone vantage point, Sockface watched as mistress OIga’s smiling face disappeared to be replaced by the bottom of her red-socked feet. As the socks loomed into view he observed little patches of grey and black , where her foot sweat had caused the material of the red nylon socks to stain in a chemical reaction with the insides of her sneakers. He also saw that, in parts, the stitching on the soles of her socks, particularly her right sock, was beginning to wear away. He could see her divine footflesh underneath the worn stitching. He also felt a few pieces of red sock lint fall onto his upturned face.

But the over-riding sensation was the assault on his nostrils – the familiar, strong, unpleasant smell of sweaty, feminine socked feet.

Just as the shoeshine-slaves never acquired a taste for shoe leather, so the sockslaves never acquired a taste for sweaty, female socks. It was a humiliating, degrading smell –and, of course, it was meant to be. Mistress Olga did not want Sockface to enjoy the smell. She wanted him to suffer, to gasp for fresh air, to beg her for mercy, for relief from the foul stink that now was enveloping him.

‘How are you liking it, Sockface?’ she asked mischievously.

Sockface spluttered and moaned:

‘Oh mistress Olga, if it pleases you most beautiful mistress Olga, this slave is truly privileged to be smelling your dirty, red socks, but humbly begs its mistress, if it pleases you, mistress Olga, to allow the slave some respite from the smell, as it finds the smell somewhat overpowering. Oh, pray, mistress Olga.’

The slave seemed genuinely to hate the smell, and mistress Olga was pleased. He was such a pathetic cry-baby!

‘Slave, I would have thought the answer to your problem was clear – if you want to get rid of the smell, instead of whining, why don’t you start licking the sweat off my socks? Surely that would help you to get rid of the smell?’

Still surrounded by mistress Olga’s sock-stink the pathetic sockslave had to agree. He could not, of course, have begun licking the soles of mistress Olga’s socks without her permission. But now that he had that permission, he wasted no time in extending his pathetic slave tongue onto the smelliest part of her socks – the area beneath her toes, and started licking at the soft material in a desperate effort to remove some of the ingrained sweat.

Tasting feminine footsweat was always preferable to smelling it.

As he licked, he caught occasional glimpses of mistress Olga’s smooth, bare legs above the tops of her red ankle socks under her blue, denim jeans. But he had little time to admire her smooth skin or shapely feminine ankles. He was a sockslave – with a job to do, and it was very much in his own best interests to get on with it!

Meanwhile, outside in the fresh air, Nicola and her boyfriend, Robert, had found what they had been looking for – the slave-trampolines. There were dozens off them, with a queue of women waiting their turn to jump up and down on them.

Nicola wanted a go, so they queued.

When they reached the front of the queue the hostess explained the rules – no shoes, unless the lady is merely doing a ‘headstand’. When actually ‘trampolining’ on the slaves, ladies had to be in their stockinged or bare feet in order to avoid excessive injury to the slaves (this was a particularly important rule for young women such as Nicola who had a penchant for wearing high-heels).

The hostess then showed Nicola to her personal trampoline-slave whilst Robert looked on from behind the barrier. The hostess explained to her that she could have fifteen minutes maximum on the trampoline as other ladies were queuing up. It was evidently one of the most popular attractions in the theme park.

Nicola decided she would give the slave a taste of her spiked heels by head-standing on him for a few minutes, before taking her shoes off and pounding up and down on his stomach.

Footslave no 238 hadn’t been a ‘trampoline’ for very long. He hated it. He would have much preferred to be back in his previous position of ‘sockslave’. Being a sockslave was humiliating and degrading, but at least you weren’t constantly feeling winded and in pain as you were when a lady was jumping up and down on you.

He didn’t like the head-standing either, and looked with some trepidation out of the corner of his eye at the young lady’s shiny, black patent-leather high heels as she was escorted over to him. However, secured as he was on his back on the ground, he had little choice in the matter. He adopted the ‘starting’ position that the trampoline slaves had to adopt for each new client – he turned his face towards the approaching young woman and rested his right cheek on the dusty ground. He saw her shapely bare legs approaching him under her tiny, red mini-skirt. At least she was petite and pretty, he thought (a somewhat outrageous thought for a slave!).

Mistress Nicola looked over to her boyfriend who smiled back his encouragement as she, somewhat gingerly, placed first her right high-heeled foot, and then her left, onto the slave’s upturned cheek. She felt her heels digging into the side of his cheek as she struggled a little to keep her balance.

For his part, the ‘trampoline-slave’ remained perfectly motionless. It was ultra-important not to do anything to cause the young woman to lose her balance. The punishment for causing that just didn’t bear thinking about (another reason why footslave no. 238 didn’t relish being a ‘trampoline-slave’). He could feel the grains of dust from the soles of her shoes on his cheek.

In addition, from the corner of his eye, footslave no 238 could still see the red and white sneakered feet and track-suit bottoms of the hostess who had escorted the customer to the trampoline. It was usual practice for the hostesses to wait with the client until they were sure they had their balance and were confident in what they were doing. He saw the hostess’s thin, white nylon sneaker-socks crease as she stepped forward to help steady Nicola as she stood on the trampoline’s face. Footslave no 238 wished he could be sniffing and kissing those white socks, instead of having to bear the weight of the young woman in her high-heels on his face. But a themepark footslave had no choice over where he is placed – it was entirely at the whim of the park’s owners who were all, needless to say, female. Perhaps if his stomach wasn’t so fat and spongy?

‘OK, miss. I think you’ve got the hang of it now. When you’re ready just kick off your shoes and feel free to jump up and down on his ugly stomach,’ the hostess advised Nicola.

‘Thanks,’ replied the latter, now beaming over at her supportive boyfriend:

‘Go for it!’ he shouted to her.

Nicola decided the slave had had enough of her heels digging into his face. She gaily kicked off her patent black leather high-heeled shoes and stepped onto his upturned stomach. She was gratified to hear him gasp, but she very much wanted to make him groan. And so, she stood with both feet together on the middle of his fat stomach, and then jumped.

The slave did indeed groan when she landed.

For a first attempt, Nicola landed quite well. Just a faint wobble.

‘Bravo!’ shouted her boyfriend Robert.

‘I think I can feel his guts!’ she shouted back, laughing.

‘Ha! Ha! See if you can find his kidneys!’, suggested Robert.

Given her limited knowledge of anatomy Nicola was never, realistically, going to be able to do that.

But she could jump up and down on a male slave. And so she did – several more times.

If he hadn’t been winded, footslave no. 238 might have enjoyed the sight of Nicola’s bare legs and undergarments as her miniskirt flapped around her. He might also have enjoyed the feel of her soft, bare feet on his bare stomach if they had rested there for any length of time. But Nicola was jumping up and down vigorously on him now. You could say the young woman was getting somewhat carried away. She had never been on a real trampoline, but being on a ‘human’, sorry – ‘slave’, trampoline was definitely enormous fun.

The hostess had to come back after mistress Nicola’s fifteen minutes of fun was up to ask her to stop.

As she dismounted from her trampoline, the hostess did invite her, however, to place her bare feet on the slave’s lips for him to kiss. It was another ‘ritual’ of the trampoline attraction – the slave had to thank the customer for the privilege of having her trample him.

Still somewhat breathless from her exertions, Nicola duly raised her bare right foot to the top of the slave’s lips and felt him place a reverential kiss on the bottom of her toes:

‘Thank you, mistress, for using this slave as a trampoline’, spluttered the slave, even more out of breath than mistress Nicola.

He would have five minutes respite until the next customer.

Nicola, for her part, put her shoes back on and was escorted back outside the barrier to her waiting boyfriend.

‘You looked like you really enjoyed that, sweetheart!’ remarked Robert.

‘You bet. In fact, I want to go again!’ exclaimed Nicola.

Robert laughed and kissed her on the cheek as they went, arm in arm, to the back of the queue again.

Meanwhile, back in the sockslave-booth, Sockface had done his best to lick and suck out the sweat from the bottom of mistress Olga’s dirty, red ankle socks. The inside of his mouth tasted foul, and the smell of feminine, sweaty feet was still lingering, but it didn’t seem as bad as before.

Although the bottom of her socks were now a bit damp, Olga was, on the whole, satisfied with Sockface’s performance. She was pleased that his face now stank of her sock-sweat and that he looked duly humbled and submissive. She was now ready for her socked-foot massage.

‘You can stop licking now, Sockface. I want you to start massaging my socked feet with your face. Use your nose to rub the ball of my foot and my arches.I want to feel your face relaxing my feet!’

Sockface was only too happy to oblige. Of all his degrading and demeaning duties this was probably his ‘favourite’ – if there as such a thing. It was relatively relaxing for him too – to feel the soft feet and socks of a mistress as she rubs her socked feet up and down his slave face. He enjoyed feeling the creases in the sock rolling up and down his face, and he enjoyed too the little moans of pleasure that mistresses often emitted as they used his upturned face as a foot-massager:

‘Yes, mistress Olga. At once, mistress Olga. As you wish, mistress Olga’.

Best to remain ultra submissive and to continually try to ingratiate yourself with a customer. She could be there a very long time still – unlike with some of the other attractions in the theme park there was no time limit on how long a mistress could remain with a sockslave. He even had some regular visitors who liked to spend entire mornings with him.

As she sat above him having her socked feet massaged by his nose and face, Olga did contemplate the possibility of staying there all day! It must be so degrading and humiliating for the slave to have her socked feet rubbing up and down his ugly, slave face – but it was heaven for her – so relaxing, so peaceful. She closed her eyes and momentarily drifted off. She really hadn’t had enough sleep these past few days.

She was awoken by a polite knock on the door and a female voice from outside the locked cubicle:

‘Sorry to disturb you miss, but your boyfriend is here and wants to know how much longer you’ll be?’

Olga came back to reality with a bump.

‘Tell him I’ll be out in a few minutes please’, she shouted back.

She looked down at Sockface who was still dutifully massaging the bottoms of her socked feet with his slave nose. He had not stopped during her little slumber.

She laughed at him:

‘Ha! Ha! I do believe you’re beginning to enjoy nosing my socks, Sockface! What a pathetic loser you are!’

‘Yes, mistress Olga’, agreed Sockface.

‘’Well, I’m afraid all good things have to come to an end. I have to go now. But don’t worry, I’m sure other ladies will be waiting to use your face to clean their dirty socks!’

‘Yes, mistress Olga. Thank you, mistress Olga.’

Sockface breathed a sigh of relief as mistress Olga finally removed her stinking feet from his face and put her sneakers back on. She looked down at him one last time as she stood up:

‘Here, I’ll help you wash your face for your next customer!’ – and with that she puckered her pretty lips and spat a huge globule of saliva onto his face- her way of thanking him for all his efforts.

‘’Thank you, most kind and generous mistress Olga.’

Olga had a smirk of satisfaction on her face. If he hadn’t been a prone and vulnerable footslave, his comment could almost have been interpreted as sarcasm. But she knew that Sockface actually meant it – he was actually grateful to her for washing his stinking face with her precious saliva.

She laughed and exited the cubicle.

Sure enough, in addition to her boyfriend in the brightness outside, was a young woman waiting to go in to the sockslave’s booth, with what looked like a pair of very dirty and smelly white canvas plimsolls and short, white ankle socks with an orange trim.

Part 3 – The Pedicure

Meanwhile Angela and her boyfriend Richard had located one of the pedicure-stands.

Angela sat down on the comfortable leather chair, with Richard standing beside her. The first thing she noticed was that this chair was at ground level, unlike tthe raised chair on the shoeshine-stand. However, as with the shoeshine-stand, the slave was on his hands and knees in front of her -- head humbly bowed over her booted feet, ready to obey her every whim.

Footslave number 701 fully realized how privileged he was with his position as a pedicurist-slave. Unlike many of his compatriots he got to smell, touch, lick and kiss the bare feet of his female Masters -- not just their outer footwear like so many of the other footslaves in the themepark. However, he felt that he had earned this privilege after many years of service in the Park.

Not that he had become arrogant. He realized too that however privileged he might feel, to his customers he was nothing more than a pathetic footslave -- fit only to clean and pedicure their dirty feet with his slave mouth. As he stared humbly at the black, block-heeled, lace-up ankle boots of his new customer he noticed immediately the smell of fresh boot-polish. Yet the polish could not disguise the scuff marks around the toes and the creases in the leather -- all sure signs that these were the young woman's favourite pair of well-worn ankle boots. He noticed also the tops of her thick, black, nylon boot-socks peering out of the top of her ankle boots, and into which her black trousers were tucked.

Footslave number 701 humbly lowered his lips to the toe of each boot and gave each a respectful, slavish kiss as an indication of his readiness to serve the mistress.

A nearby, uniformed hostess explained to Angela all the options -- basically, she could have the slave do anything to her bare feet from just kissing and licking them clean, to having a full pedicure. Her wish was his command!

Angela had decided she would begin by having him suck clean her dirty toes. She had not bathed her feet that morning, and they were starting to feel a bit sticky and sweaty inside her thick, black socks and her leather ankle boots. She cleared her throat and announced her wishes:

'Slave, take off my boots and socks and suck the dirty toe-jam and toe-cheese from my bare toes!'

She glanced over at her boyfriend Richard to see if he approved. The evil grin on his face indicated that he did.

' Yes, mistress. At once, mistress.'

Footslave number 701, acutely aware that both the themepark hostess, and his customer's boyfriend, were watching him intently, wasted no time in obeying the mistress’s orders.

Still with head bowed, he reached up to the top of her laces and began to untie first the left boot and then the right. As he removed the young woman's boots his fumbling, slave fingers inadvertently brushed against the tops of her black boot-socks. He hoped he would not be punished for touching her socks before he had actually removed her boots. But of course, neither mistress Angela, nor her boyfriend, nor the themepark hostess, had even noticed his small ineptitude in this regard. Indeed such matters were inconsequential to everyone except the humble footslave himself. He alone needed to concern himself with such insignificant details, as he alone was the one who had been tasked with removing the young woman's footwear with the utmost respect and humility -- as befits a pathetic footslave.

He was acutely aware of the fact that the very act of having to remove his customer’s boots and socks from her feet was a deliberate part of his humiliation. She was, after all, a fully grown woman, more than capable of taking off her own footwear. But why should she? Why should she do anything to help him? He was the slave and she was the mistress. Removing her own footwear was, quite literally, beneath her, but it was an honour and a privilege for a mere slave such as he.

Having removed her ankle boots and placed them on the ground beside him, footslave number 701 had his first close-up sight of the mistress’s thick, black, nylon boot-socks. They had felt warm, and rather like the boots, were evidently a favourite pair as they displayed unmistakable signs of being well worn -- notably the areas of grey around the toes where some of the black colour had faded. However there was only the faintest odour of feminine foot-sweat. The socks did not appear to be very dirty. He respectfully kissed the toe of each socked foot.

As he did so, Mistress Angela wiggled her toes inside her socks, enjoying the feel of the cool air around her socked toes.

Her boyfriend Richard, however, was becoming a litle impatient. He wanted to see this loser-slave sucking his girlfriend's dirty toes:

'Come on, Angie,' he exclaimed, 'make him take off your socks and eat your toe jam!'

Angela smiled lovingly at Richard before barking down at the humble footslave:

'You heard my boyfriend, footlick! Now do as he says -- take off my socks and get licking. I want my toes cleaned and polished with your tongue!'

'Yes, master and mistress. At once, master and mistress. This slave obeys you,’ responded footslave number 701.

And with that he quickly, though respectfully, peeled off the mistress’s thick, black, nylon boot-socks to reveal her bare feet.

They were not the prettiest feet he had ever seen – quite long, pale and white, and her left foot in particular had quite a prominent vain across the top. Furthermore, her toes were rather long and one or two of them might even have been described as mis-shapen. He noticed too that her unpainted toenails, especially on the big toes, were chipped and rough at the edges, and there were clear signs of dark toe-jam under the tops of the nails. In addition, her socks had left some tank-marks around the top of her ankles where the elastic had been digging into her skin.

Nevertheless, they were unmistakably the soft, warm, bare feet of a superior young woman -- and they needed his slavish attentions. So he gently raised mistress Angela's left foot to his slave lips and allowed her big toe to penetrate into his slave mouth.

The toe tasted salty. He could feel the roughness of the big toenail on the roof of his mouth as the little balls of sweat and dead skin, commonly known as toe-jam or toe-cheese, slid onto his tongue and down his throat -- where they belonged.

'Ugh! That's totally gross!' exclaimed Richard. ‘What a pathetic loser! He really is having to swallow your dirty toe jam, Angie!'

Angela giggled, and smiled lovingly again over at her boyfriend. She was pleased that he was disgusted. She would never want him to do what she was making the footslave do. He was a real man, and she would lose her respect for him if he were to perform such a humiliating task on her feet. As far as the footslave kneling humbly at her feet was concerned, however, she felt it entirely appropriate that he should be compelled to eat her sweaty toe jam. That was, after all, all he was good for.

The footslave, for his part, had moved on to the other toes on her left foot. Mixed in with the salty toe-cheese he could taste little pieces of black sock-lint. It was a feast fit for a footslave. He could see the dirt disappearing from the superior young woman's feet into his inferior, slave mouth, and felt satisfied with his efforts. Everything was as it should be.

It took him some 10 minutes of vigorous licking and sucking to clean both mistress Angela's bare feet. By this time, Angela had decided her toenails could do with being painted. She glanced over at the equipment arranged on the ground beside the kneeling footslave. There was a cloth - presumably for drying her feet; an array of little bottles of paint of various colours; and some spongy, white toe-dividers. She decided that she would have the slave paint her toenails black as she was a bit of the closet ‘Goth’ (even though she was currently blonde!). She was very much into the Goth music scene, and liked the Goth fashion even though she wasn't quite brave enough to wear all the heavy Goth style make-up. Dressing in black was about as far as she normally went!

'Finish that now, slave. I want you to dry my feet with that cloth and paint my toenails with that black paint. Move!' she barked down impatiently at the humble slave kneeling at her feet.

A flash of inspiration entered Richard’s head. Inspired by what he had witnessed at the shoeshine-stand, he made the following suggestion:

'Ha! Ha! Why don't you make him paint your toenails with his ugly nose, Angie!'

Angela laughed out loud. She thought it was a brilliant idea -- anything to humiliate the slave even further had her unflinching support.

'Great idea, Richard!' she chirped happily. She then looked down on the footslave and altered her tone to a more dominant one, suitable for addressing a mere slave:

'Slave, you will do as my boyfriend suggests, and apply the black paint to my toenails with your stupid, slave nose. And you'd better make damn sure you don't smudge any of the paint onto my skin or I'll paint your flesh red with the whip!'

She was referring to the thin, leather whip hanging by the side of the pedicure-stand -- for use by the guests on any inept or recalcitrant footslave who failed to please.

Actually, this wasn’t the first time that footslave number 701 had been ordered to apply toenail paint using his nose. The young couple were not the first to come up with that particular idea. However, he knew it would make his job all the more difficult, and could sense that this particular young mistress was not bluffing when she had threatened to punish any ineptitude on his part with the whip:

'This slave obeys you, master and mistress,' he replied humbly. He was an experienced footslave and knew it was essential that he remained ultra-humble and submissive in front of this young woman and her boyfriend as they became increasingly emboldened in their domination towards him.

He obediently dried mistress Angela's bare feet with the clean, white cloth before inserting the soft, white, spongy toe-dividers in between her feminine toes. To the great amusement of the young couple he then began painting the tip of his nose with the black toe nail paint, using the small brush from inside the bottle, before lowering his nose to the big toe on her left foot.

As the slave dutifully lowered his nose in order to apply the paint to her big toenail, mistress Angela consciously kept her foot still. She fully realised, of course, that she didn't have to do anything to help the dirty footslave in his humiliating task. However, she genuinely did not want to see the paint smudge onto her skin. She actually wanted the footslave to do a good job and to beautify her toenails with the paint. To the slave's relief, therefore, she did not wiggle her toes, and because his ugly nose was quite thin and pointy at the end, he did manage to apply the paint relatively efficiently.

Mistress Angela indicated that she was quite impressed at his efforts:

' Who’s a clever slave-boy, then?’ she said in a mocking tone, 'able to paint his mistress’s toenails with his pathetic slave nose?'

Her boyfriend Richard didn't quite pick up on her mocking tone:

'There's no need to praise him, darling,’ he urged, 'he's just a dirty footslave doing his job!'

Angela laughed. She loved it when her boyfriend displayed even the tiniest signs of jealousy -- especially jealousy towards a slave:

'Don't worry, honey, if he smears even the slightest trace of paint on my skin he'll soon hear the harsher side of my tongue as his back feels the sting of the whip!'

Unlike Richard, the slave realised that mistress Angela had been mocking him. But he realised also that her mocking words had been the closest he would ever get to genuine praise and gratitude from a superior female customer. He was therefore pleased, and redoubled his efforts to avoid the sting of the whip – successfully, as it turned out.

When he had finished painting the final toe on her right foot to her satisfaction, mistress Angela barked down her final orders at the slave:

'Finish now, slave. Blow on my toenails to make them dry, and then put my socks and boots back on my feet.'

'Yeah, and don't forget that’s all your slave breath is good for – drying my girl’s toenails!’ added Richard.

‘Yes, master. Yes, mistress’, agreed the footslave. How could he not agree with the young master's observation? It was true.

When her toenails were suitably dry, footslave number 701 put mistress Angela’s socks and boots back on her feet, kissing each sock and each boot with humble adoration as he did so. As he laced up her black ankle-boots he was acutely aware that all the work he had just done was, effectively, in vain as mistress Angela had no intention of displaying her newly pedicured feet to anyone else that day. Her feet were firmly back in her comfortable, tatty old boots and socks.

As she walked away from him, arm in arm with her boyfriend, without so much as a backward glance or a word of thanks to the pedicure-slave for all his efforts, mistress Angela was aware of it too. She laughed.

The happy couple made their way towards the themepark restaurant as it was getting close to the prearranged time for their rendezvous with the rest of their friends. Sure enough, when they reached the entrance to the restaurant the others were already waiting for them.

The group of 8 friends talked excitedly for a few minutes about the various services they had witnessed thus far in the Footslave Themepark. It was Olga who then suggested that it was time to have lunch.

As they approached the door into the restaurant a red-and-white sneakered themepark hostess greeted them:

'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,' she chirped happily. 'Welcome to our restaurant! Before you go in, can I ask the ladies, in the interests of hygiene, to please wipe their feet clean on this footslave-doormat?’

She pointed down at a footslave who was secured, on his back, in a hole in the ground with only his pathetic slave face exposed to the elements at ground level.

‘And please don't worry if your boots or shoes aren't very dirty! You can dirty them up first in this mud-bath’, continued the hostess helpfully - pointing to a large tray of mud and dirt just a few feet away from the prone and vulnerable footslave.

Olga squealed with delight and clapped her pretty hands. How deliciously perverse! The request to wipe your feet on the footslave-doormat was clearly nothing to do with ‘hygiene’ - not just because the men weren’t required to wipe their feet, but because if your shoes weren't already caked in mud you were being encouraged to 'dirty them up'!

‘I want to go first!’ she declared excitedly.

Although her black and white sneakers were already quite dusty and dirty, Olga wasted no time in going over to the mud-bath in order to smear even more mud and filth onto the soles of her shoes.

She then made her way over to the doormat-footslave, a wicked grin on her face. As she towered over him, hands on hips and with one sneakered foot on either side of his upturned face, his pathetic, frightened features reminded her of 'Sockface’.

Olga lifted her right foot and slowly brought it down onto the doormat’s face.

Footslave number 63 did not enjoy being a doormat. He had much preferred his previous role as a 'ladies' footwasher’, as it had allowed him much more intimacy with his female masters’ bare feet. As a doormat, he never got to feel the softness of ladies' feet -- even on his face. All he ever got to experience was the roughness of their dirty shoe and boot-soles as they wiped their footwear clean on his upturned face. The best he could hope for, in the summer, was that they were wearing sandals -- as their bare toes would occasionally brush against his skin.

Even worse than that, however, was the fact that, as a doormat, he was regarded by the ladies as nothing more than an object. As a 'footwasher’ they had at least deigned to speak to him -- even if only to bark down their orders at him. They never addressed him in his role as a doormat. He was just a thing that they wiped their feet on.

As Olga lowered her sneakered foot onto his face he caught a glimpse of her bright, red ankle-sock above the black of her sneaker and inside the blue hem of her denim jeans. The sole of the sneaker was actually beige in colour, and had thick treads which were now ingrained with mud and grass from the mud-tray.

Footslave number 63 instinctively closed his eyes as the sole of the sneaker pressed into his face. He could smell the rubber of the sneaker-sole and feel the wet mud rubbing off onto his eyebrows, his nose and his lips as the mistress rubbed her shoe up and down his face.

Olga rubbed vigorously, occasionally raising her foot to inspect the underside of the sole in order to make sure the mud and filth was coming off.

It was.

She did the same with her left foot, endeavoring to get as much of the mud as possible into the slave's mouth.

When she had finished, the slave swallowed the bitter mud and grass, and uttered the only words he was ever allowed to as a doormat-slave:

'Thank you, mistress.’

Olga walked away smiling happily, but without saying anything. She wasn't going to speak to a doormat!

The hostess crouched down to wipe some of the excess mud from the doormat’s face in preparation for his next customer.

It was Femi who elected to go next. Unlike her friend Olga, Femi did not feel the need to 'dirty up’ her brown, knee-length leather boots prior to wiping them on the footslave's face. Femi was actually quite fastidious about the cleanliness of her footwear, and she was worried that smearing mud on them would not be good for the leather. Furthermore, she had just had her boots tongue-shined by the shoeshine-slave, and she didn't want to lose that sparkle. However she did like the idea of wiping her dirty soles clean on the doormat's face.

Her boyfriend, Alek, helped her with her balance as she stood over the footslave’s upturned face and raised her left booted-foot to bring it down on him.

Footslave number 63 observed how the African mistress's bright red painted lips were pursed into a cruel smile on her pretty face as the sole of her boot descended onto his face. Just before he was again forced to close his eyes he noticed also how the hem of her knee-length, brown, suede coat fluttered in the breeze around the tops of her boots, which in turn covered her blue denim jeans.

The sole of this African mistress's leather boot was quite smooth and not too dirty, but he nevertheless could feel little bits of gravel and grime rubbing off onto his face -- where it belonged. He realised, that for all his moaning, he was actually a very privileged slave to be able to use his face to clean the soles of a beautiful African mistress’s boots in the presence of her boyfriend.

Unlike Femi, mistress Nicola had decided that her shiny, black, patent-leather, high heeled shoes could do with some mud being splattered on them. Whilst Femi was rubbing her boots up and down the slave's face, Nicola, with the help of her boyfriend Robert, was vigorously rubbing the soles of her shoes up and down the mud-bath. She was particularly keen to get lots of mud stuck onto her spiked heel, as she wanted to penetrate the slave's mouth with the heel.

She reached the doormat-footslave just as the themepark hostess was finishing wiping away the remainder of Femi’s boot-dust and dirt from his face.

Nicola looked down at the pathetic footslave's upturned face and saw only a receptacle for her shoe-mud. Again, the girls' boyfriends were proving themselves to be real gentlemen, and Robert was no exception. He happily held on to Nicola’s hand as she positioned her left foot onto the slave's face.

Footslave no 63, not unsurprisingly, feared high-heeled shoes above all others. The women who wore high-heels to the Footslave Themepark were often amongst the cruellest, and had chosen their footwear with the specific aim of doing damage to the poor footslaves beneath them. However, unbeknown to him, Nicola was not a particularly cruel girl. She just liked to wear heels, and her boyfriend liked her to wear her heels as well! They made her ankles and legs look ultra-sexy and feminine, and she knew she was turning heads everywhere she went.

Footslave number 63, however, was unable to turn his head as he saw the dirty sole of the young woman's leather shoe descending onto his face. If he had been a real man, he might have taken some pleasure out of the brief glimpse of her shapely, bare legs and her sexy, frilly red underwear underneath her short, red miniskirt. But footslave number 63 was not a real man. He was just a footslave -- and so as he closed his eyes to protect them from the shoe he opened his mouth to take the young woman’s dirty, spiked heel. He also dutifully sucked all the mud off the heel and made sure it was left as clean as it had been before the mistress had dirtied it up in the mud-bath.

Again, under the ever watchful eye of the hostess who was standing nearby, the slave humbly thanked the mistress.

Mistress Angela, the birthday girl, was the last of the group to use the doormat.

It might be thought that, rather like Femi, having had her boots recently tongue-shined and polished by a shoeshine-slave, mistress Angela would not want to dirty up her black leather ankle boots in the mud-bath.

Wrong!

Angela was straight over to the tray of dirt and mud, and with the help of both Olga’s boyfriend, Thomas, and her own boyfriend, Richard, who kindly smeared the upper soles of her boots with extra mud using sticks, she managed to cake the bottom of her boots with a thick layer of dirt and filth.

Angela had a truly wicked grin on her pretty face as she stood with her feet on either side of the doormat-slave’s vulnerable face.

As he looked up at her pretty features, framed in her bob of blonde hair, footslave number 63 prepared himself for the next onslaught of boot leather and mud. As the young woman raised her right foot and began to lower it onto him he saw and felt globules of wet mud falling off the sole of the boot and landing on his face. He just hoped his face would be up to the job of removing all this filth and muck from the superior lady's boots.

Fortunately for him, mistress Angela gave the impression that she knew exactly how to use a doormat to best effect. She moved her boot not only up and down his face but also from side to side, ensuring that the extra mud that had been smeared on the side of the boot-soles by Thomas and Richard was transferred onto the slave's cheeks. The slave was grateful to her.

With the ladies’ boots and shoes all suitably wiped clean, the group of friends entered the restaurant and sat down to a light lunch.

The restaurant had supplied a footslave for each of the female customers. These restaurant-footslave's didn't really serve any purpose, other than to make the female guests feel superior and important as they had a personal slave kneeling humbly at their feet like an obedient puppy-dog, perhaps waiting for a tasty tidbit from their mistresses’ plates.

Angela's restaurant-footslave was the only one in this particular group to be honoured with such a tidbit -- a piece of cold ham from her sandwich, although, needless to say, she only threw it to him after she had spat it out from her own mouth and had sucked all the flavour and goodness out of it.

Still, compared to the pedicure-slave who had earlier dined on her dirty toe-jam and sweaty toe-cheese, the restaurant-footslave could feel himself truly privileged.

Part 4 – The Grindstone

The party of eight friends finished their light lunch and discussed what to do next. It was Olga, ever the ‘group leader’, who decided that they should now go to the main attraction in the themepark -- the curiously named 'Grindstone'. Everyone was in agreement.

As they left the restaurant, Olga, in particular, was pleased to notice that the footslave-doormat, as always under the watchful eye of the uniformed themepark hostess, was still licking clean the dirty soles of the boots and shoes of other female customers who were about to enter the restaurant. She couldn't help smiling. It tickled her to think that whilst she and her friends had been enjoying their tasty food inside the warmth and comfort of the restaurant, the pathetic footslave had been outside, lying in the cold, bare, dirt, tasting nothing but female shoe-mud and boot-filth. She hoped he had a taste for it, for she knew he would be consuming mud and dirt for the rest of the day -- and the day after that, and the day after that…

According to the brochure, the attraction known as ' The Grindstone' was located right in the centre of the themepark - so it wasn't difficult to find. It was really just a case of following the crowds -- it was, after all, by far the most popular attraction in the Park.

As they approached ‘The Grindstone’, the group of friends, in common with virtually everyone else who saw it for the first time, were stopped in their tracks with a sense of awe. The women in the group, particularly, felt tingles rushing down their spines.

There in front of them, on a raised platform, surrounded by hordes of screaming and shouting women, was a semi-naked male hunk, on his knees, his hands and arms shackled to a heavy, wooden beam which in turn was attached to an even heavier, concrete grindstone. He was pushing slowly and laboriously on the wooden beam as he followed a repetitive circular path round and round the platform on his bare knees, causing the heavy grindstone to creak and shudder as it in turn moved slowly round.

The male slave was sweating profusely, his facial muscles contorted in pain and agony as he was employed in his backbreaking chore. But what really impressed the ladies was his sheer manly physique. 99% of the slaves in the themepark could be described as ‘wimps’ – pathetic, sickly-looking individuals whose only expressions were of fear and submission under their mistresses’ feet. The superior women, rightly, despised them.

But this guy was something else – long, blond hair and rippling, sweaty muscles, the veins in his arms protruding as they felt the pressure of the unbearable weight of the grindstone. And yet, he was, somehow, bearing it! He was succeeding in moving it! What a brute! What a powerful beast of a man! Totally unlike any of the other exhibits in the themepark!
But what really made the sight impressive, was the fact that, seated on a raised leather chair in front of him, a chair which was somehow attached to the wooden beam, with her pretty, dainty feet resting on a metal foot-rest directly under the slave’s nose, was a petite Japanese girl, urging him on with a whip!

The slave was not only having to move the heavy grindstone, but was simultaneously having to ‘give a ride’ to the young woman who was seated in front and above him! He was like ‘Samson’ being tormented at the feet of his Asian ‘Delilah’!

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Olga, echoing the thoughts of her three female companions, ’check him out, girls!’

Nicola laughed:

‘He’s absolutely gorgeous! Look at the size of his biceps! What a spunk!’

‘Yeah’, agreed Angela, ’that’s what I call a male slave! Imagine being in control of that!’

Even the normally quiet and bashful Femi had to say something:

‘He is more like a god than a slave!’

Thomas, Robert, Richard and Alek, had they been insecure men, may have felt jealous at their respective girlfriends’ obvious desire for this slave-hunk. But they couldn’t really argue with the comments – this ‘slave’ was truly unlike any other male slave they had ever seen. He was like something out of a mythological story from ancient times!

And yet, footslave no 34, as he was known by the themepark staff, knew that he was not a ‘god’. Indeed, footslave no 34 was actually one of the humblest creatures in the Park. Yes, he was physically strong – but years of unrelenting toil at the themepark grindstone had taught him humility. He knew he was attractive to women – but only in his proper place, shackled at their feet as he pushed them slowly round the circuit of the grindstone.

And at that very moment, as if to reinforce that very point, the young Japanese mistress who was presently towering above him in the grindstone chair, brought her slender, black leather whip down sharply across his already aching shoulders, and shouted at him in her pretty Japanese accent:

‘Slave go faster! Move! Slave obey!’

The sting of her whip caused him to redouble his efforts and move just that little bit faster. His shoulders ached, his neck ached, his back ached and his knees ached. But he was a slave and had to satisfy his mistress’s wishes.

As always his sweating, grimacing face was just inches from his female tormentor’s feet. This particular tormentress was wearing large, rather unshapely, beige-brown, suede knee-length boots, with suede tassels hanging down from the tops which swung in the breeze, and dark blue knee-length socks, the tops of which were only just visible above the tops of her boots. Not that the grindstone-slave had any energy to look up at her knee-socks. It was all he could do to concentrate on the toes of her boots – so close to his face that he could smell the musty smell of the suede leather.

The boots appeared somewhat unkempt – the toes were heavily scuffed, and, if truth be told, they could have been said to have been rather too large for the petite japanese girl’s pretty, slender legs. But that was, apparently, the current fashion amongst young Japanese women – the grindstone-footslave had a lot of Japanese female ‘customers’, and was well used to their often ‘eccentric’ footwear.

The watching crowd, for their part, were admiring the sight of the slightly-built Japanese girl controlling the great strapping hunk of the male slave. Her name was Aiko, she was 20 years old and on her first trip to western Europe, and in the crowd was her best friend, Fujita, also 20. They had read about the ‘Footslave Themepark’ back in Japan and had been determined to visit it. They had both persuaded their respective fathers to pay for their trip, although exactly what Aiko’s father would think of her now wasn't entirely clear to her!

Footslave no. 34 continued to push Miss Aiko, in her booted feet, around the grindstone-circuit. As she towered above him seated in her comfortable chair, whip in hand and her boots resting in front of his nose, nobody, least of all he, could be in any doubt as to who was the superior master and who was the inferior slave. Miss Aiko reigned supreme -- and she knew it. Her face was beaming as the grindstone-footslave’s circuit brought them both round once more to where her friend Fujita was standing.

Fujita shouted something at Aiko in Japanese, some words of encouragement, or perhaps impatience, as she too wanted a go on the grindstone.

Fujita didn’t have long to wait. Because of the popularity of the 'grindstone' attraction, ladies were limited to 10 minutes each on the chair. Aiko’s 10 minutes were now up. The themepark hostess indicated to her, politely, that it was time for her to stop.

As she had earlier been instructed by the hostess, Aiko gave the slave the ‘stop’ signal by means of a sharp cut with the whip across his bare right shoulder, and the simple command:

'Slave stop!'

Easy! So much muscle and energy -- and so easy to control, just a flick of the whip and a crisp command from a young woman’s voice!

As Aiko was helped down from the chair by the hostess, to be replaced by her friend Fujita, the two girls exchanged views excitedly in their own language. Fujita had an evil grin on her face. She was really going to enjoy this!

She made herself comfortable in the leather backed chair. The first thing that struck her was how high up she was -- and how many people were looking at her, dare she say it, even admiring her. She was a pretty girl, and she knew it. Petite and slightly built, rather like her friend Aiko, indeed, rather like most young Japanese women.

And also in common with most young Japanese women, Fujita had a cruel and dominant streak. She was determined to not only make the slave work, to make him sweat and ache in every limb, but also to humiliate him at her feet.

Fujita had chosen to wear sheer, black nylon tights under bright green shorts that day. On her feet she was wearing a tatty old pair of green and white converse-style sneakers, sneakers which, it has to be said, were doing nothing to enhance the fragrance of her nylon-covered feet. As she positioned her feet on the footrest in front of the chained and kneeling grindstone-slave, Fujita decided that, before she put him to work, he would get a taste of her nylon-covered toes.

She listened somewhat impatiently as the hostess explained to her the basic commands and the use of the whip. Although Fujita’s English was somewhat limited, she had witnessed her friend in action and got the gist of what was being said.

Footslave number 34 was always grateful for the brief respite in between customers. There was also, inevitably, a sense of apprehension -- what would his new customer be like? Would she be cruel, or kind? Would she insist on him going ever faster, constantly applying the whip to his back and shoulders, or would she be content for him to take her slowly and respectfully around the circuit - perhaps slowly enough for her friends in the audience to get some good photographs for their photo-albums?

Even more importantly, what sort of build would the mistress be? Heavy or slight? This was perhaps the most important question of all for the grindstone- footslave - for, strong though he was, pushing a heavier woman around the grindstone circuit was always an extra burden -- particularly on his aching knees which were swollen and bruised due to their continual journey around the stone platform.

Perhaps most important of all, however, was the chosen footwear of the superior mistress sitting in front of him. It would, after all, dominate his senses for the next 10 minutes. He would be so close to that footwear that he would not only see it, but smell it, and taste it. At the very least, he was required to kiss the feet of his 'slave-driver' as a means of showing his respect and readiness to serve.

As he duly lowered his lips to kiss the white, rubber toes of Miss Fujita’s rather dirty converse sneakers, he could smell rubber, canvas, and just the faintest hint of warm, feminine foot-sweat.

No sooner had he done so, than Fujita leaned down to untie her dirty, white laces and take off her tatty sneakers (of course, she had to do this herself as the slave’s hands were bound to the wooden beam – otherwise she would have made the slave do it for her!)

She threw the sneakers down onto the ground and then wiggled her dark nylon-stockinged toes directly under his nose:

‘Slave smell Fujita’s stinky toes!' she barked.

The watching crowd roared its approval. It was always nice when a mistress indulged in a bit of slave humiliation before putting a slave to work!

The grindstone slave instantly and obediently lowered his nose to the dark area of reinforced nylon covering the Japanese girl’s stockinged toes, and audibly sniffed.

The aroma was rather strong – very tart and vinegary. Not at all pleasant. But slave no 34 appreciated that it was an aroma fit for a footslave, and that was, at the end of the day, all he really was – a glorified ‘footslave’ – just like all the others in the Park. He was no better than the rest, he was equally as pathetic, equally as down-trodden, equally ‘underfoot’. He therefore took in his Japanese mistress’s foot odour with resignation and humility – as befits a footslave. Besides, the longer he was required to sniff her stinky, sweaty nylon toes, the less time he would have to push her round the exhausting grindstone-circuit.

Fujita was laughing:

‘Slave like smell Fujita’s toes? Smell strong?’ she asked him.

The grindstone-slave was permitted, indeed required, to answer a mistress whenever she deigned to ask him a direct question:

‘Yes, mistress, if it pleases you most glorious mistress, this humble slave is indeed privileged to be allowed to inhale the strong odour of its mistress’s sweaty nyloned toes.’

Fujita didn’t quite catch everything the groveling, servile slave had said, but she guessed from the crowd’s loud and gleeful reaction that it had been suitably respectful and submissive.

So Fujita laughed too:

‘Slave wipe sweat off Fujita’s toes with mouth. Use tongue!’

The slave obediently placed his tongue on the underside of her stockinged toes and began licking. The reinforced, dark nylon was already damp, presumably with the young woman’s toe-sweat, and he could feel little bits of fluff and dust
coming off onto his tongue – little pieces of shoe-debris that had inevitably come off the inside of her sneakers and had stuck to her nyloned feet.

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling, make him suck on your sweaty nylons! Give him a taste of your stinky toe-jam!’ shouted one of the free men in the crowd, excitedly.

Again, Fujita didn’t really understand what the free man had said. People spoke too quickly! But she knew she was definitely enjoying the feeling of this great hulking brute’s delicate tongue as it licked the underside of her nyloned toes:

‘Mmm, Fujita like feel slave tongue on toes!’ she sighed wistfully, ‘slave good licker!’

Encouraged by this unexpected compliment, the slave enthusiastically turned his attentions to the tops of her toes. He could see and feel her dainty toes moving underneath the stitching of the nylon. If only his customers would realize that he didn’t need the whip to instill him to greater efforts – just tell him what to do and he’ll gladly do it – however humiliating, however onerous – for he was a slave. He had to obey!

Both mistress and slave were, momentarily, in a dreamy world all of their own.

It was her friend Aiko who brought Fujita back to reality – reminding her that she only had ten minutes in the chair!

Suddenly the slave felt the dreaded sting of the whip across his left shoulder – the signal to start crawling!

‘Slave start! Move!’ barked mistress Fujita – annoyed that the slave had not reminded her himself of the time limit on her stay in the chair (as if it was his place to remind her!)

With her pretty, nylon-stockinged feet still only inches away from his face, and the sharp aroma of feminine foot-sweat still assailing his nostrils, the slave garnered his muscles and slowly moved off – the noise of the large grindstone creaking into action beside him.

The hostesses were often asked what exactly the grindstone was grinding? Flour? Wheat? The answer, of course, was ‘nothing’. It was there purely to make the slave’s task of pushing round the seated mistress all the more difficult and painful. At the end of each day, the grindstone-slave had achieved nothing other than his own exhaustion and humiliation – and had the prospect of looking forward to another day of the same, 365 days a year.

As she looked down on his rippling shoulder muscles, covered in whip-marks, Fujita was overwhelmed by a sense of her own power and authority over the huge brute. He really was at her mercy – like her friend before her, she just couldn’t resist giving him another stroke of the lash:

‘Slave go faster! Obey Fujita! Work!’ she screamed.

The slave flinched momentarily at the whip-stroke, and then found some inner reserves of strength to move the heavy grindstone just that little bit faster. All the time he was concentrating on the beautiful young woman’s stockinged feet, as they wiggled and moved on the footrest in front of his face, causing the nylon to crease and flex. ‘Those are the feet of your superior mistress’ he kept telling himself, ‘you must obey her. She is your goddess!’

Slave no 34 had the right attitude, and Fujita was well-pleased with his efforts, not that you would have guessed it from her constant barrage of commands:

‘Slave move! Keep head low! Look at Fujita feet! Work hard! Slave obey!’

Slave no 34 did all of those things – until miss Fujita’s ten minutes was up, when he kissed her stockinged toes one last time prior to the hostess helping her down from the chair. His only regret, was that he could not put the mistress’s sneakers back on her feet for her. He was embarrassed that his female superiors had to take off and put on their own footwear. That should surely be his job!

Meanwhile, Olga and her female friends had already, somewhat regretfully, realized that there was no way they were going to get a ride on the ‘grindstone-slave’ today. The queue was just too long!

It had been great fun watching, however!

In fact, the group of 8 friends would have to leave the themepark in an hour or so’s time if they were to catch their train home. They had traveled quite a distance to be here. And so Richard whispered something in Olga’s ear – it was, he had decided, time for him to present his girlfriend, Angela, with her secret birthday present. He had already presented her with a necklace, but she had no idea that Richard had another present planned for her that day. In fact only Olga and Richard himself knew of his big surprise.

‘Let’s go to the souvenir shop’, suggested Olga at Richard’s behest.

Nobody ever disagreed with Olga, and so off they all went, the four young couples – each arm in arm.

The themepark souvenir shop consisted of two levels- a ground floor and a basement. On the ground floor were lots of, what might be described as, ‘novelty’ items – little miniature models of some of the footslave exhibits, including the glorious ‘grindstone’; picture-postcards of the themepark; ‘Footslave Themepark’ T-Shirts – just like those worn by the hostesses; whips etc

But Angela’s ‘present’ was on the shop’s other level – in the basement. Richard was naturally keen to lead Angela and the rest of the group down the stairs.

As they entered the large, rather dimly-lit basement, the women’s eyes lit up – all along the walls, kneeling and in chains, were male footslaves for sale.

A young, female shop-assistant, dressed in the themepark hostess’s uniform, greeted them:

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen – please feel free to browse and inspect the goods. All our footslaves have been fully-trained in the Park and would make an excellent house-pet for the ladies. Please don’t hesitate to ask me any questions if you have any!’

Nicola giggled and whispered to her boyfriend Robert:

‘Like any of us could afford one of these! Look at the prices!’

‘Yeah, they’d have to be very well-trained at these prices!’ Robert whispered back.

At that point Richard declared to everyone that he had an announcement to make:

‘Angela, darling, I hope you like the necklace I bought you for your birthday. But I’d have to be the first to admit that it’s not enough for a beautiful babe like you!’

Angela blushed and looked quite coy for a moment.

‘And so, I’d like you to now choose your real 25th birthday present’ continued Richard, ‘I’m going to buy you your own personal footslave!’

Angela gasped and put her hands up to her mouth:

‘Richard, are you serious!’ she exclaimed delightedly.

The others were aghast too, apart from Olga who was just beaming with joy.

‘I sure am!’ replied Richard, moving to put his arm round his girlfriend and kiss her on the lips.

Angela’s friends all cheered:

‘Happy birthday, Angela’ shouted Olga. ‘Three cheers for Angela and Richard, everyone…hip! Hip! Hurrah!’

The whole group of friends, all the other customers, and all the hostesses in the shop joined in - then applauded. Only the kneeling, shackled footslaves remained silent – heads humbly bowed.

‘But…but…where did you get the money from?’ croaked Angela, tears of joy in her eyes.

‘Never you mind!’ ,chided Richard, ‘All you need to know is that money is no object. You can have any one of these creatures that you like – just take your time, and take your pick!’

Angela still couldn’t believe her ears! Her very own footslave! This was just too good to be true!

But she composed herself, and began, hand in hand with Richard, to ‘inspect the goods’.

Olga was inspecting the goods also:

‘What about this one, Angie?’ she shouted over to her – pointing with her outstretched foot to a rather thin and scrawny looking individual who, in common with the rest of the goods, was kneeling humbly, head-bowed, with his back to the wall on which was secured a chain, which in turn was attached to a collar around his neck. ’He’s a bit scrawny, but the card says he specializes in foot massages!’

Olga was referring to the card which was on the wall beside each slave outlining their age, distinguishing traits, and any ‘specialities’.

Angela and Richard, now inseparable, laughed and moved over, holding hands, to look at Olga’s suggestion:

‘Ugh! He’s pig-ugly!’ exclaimed Angela. ‘I don’t much care if he’s a good foot massager or not. With that ugly face he’d make me feel sick however good he was at rubbing my feet!’

The friends all laughed.

The slave in question could only see mistress Angela’s booted feet as she expressed her disgust for him, but, in his mind, he had to agree that she was a very astute and perceptive young woman – he was ugly and was not good enough to be a woman’s personal footslave. He was convinced the shop-owners would have to reduce him in price if they were ever to sell him.

After some 10 minutes of careful browsing, however, one kneeling footslave did catch mistress Angela’s eye. He wasn’t all that good-looking, but, unlike with the ‘pig-ugly’ one, she would not be offended to have her bare feet resting on his face. What excited her even more was the information on the slave’s card:

‘Lot no 23. Aged 45. Fully trained boot-slave. Fears the whip. Skilled in all aspects of boot care and boot-worship. £499.99’

Angela knew that any footslave of hers would have to know how to care for her boots. She wore virtually nothing else – and her slave would have to appreciate the taste, the smell and the sight of ladies’ leather boots. It sounded like this one fitted the bill – plus he was an old man – much older than her beloved boyfriend Richard, and therefore no threat to him or to his ‘machismo’.

She moved closer to the slave to have a better look. The hostess had noticed her interest:

‘This would be a fine choice, miss!. One of our fully trained bootslaves. He has served 14 years in the themepark as a bootblack and we’re only getting rid of him to make way for some younger models. He is very humble and submissive – please step forward and have him pay homage to your boots.’

Angela, still holding hands with her boyfriend Richard, stretched forward her right foot and watched as the kneeling slave lowered his lips to the toe of her black ankle-boot.

Lot no 23 knew this was a crucial moment. This was the first time he would be kissing his potential new owner’s boots, and he had to make a good impression if he wanted to get out of the dank and dim basement of the themepark shop. Anything, even a life of drudgery and servitude at the booted feet of an arrogant and cruel young woman, would be preferable to the sheer boredom of being chained to a wall day in and day out!

As he placed his lips gently and respectfully onto the toe of her outstretched boot, he could feel the scuff marks under the recently polished, well-worn leather.
Angela withdrew her right foot and slowly replaced it with her left.

Again lot no 23 kissed the scuffed leather toe of his potential mistress’s boot, and Angela knew that he was the one:

‘I’ll take him’, she said gently, and turned her head to one side to gaze lovingly into her boyfriend Richard’s eyes before kissing him.

Everyone cheered.

‘What are you going to call him, Angela?’ asked Nicola.

‘I don’t know’, replied Angela. Do slaves have names? I thought they just had numbers!’

Nicola laughed:

‘I think personal slaves ought to have names – unless you’re planning to have so many that they need to be given a number each!’

‘I know what you could call him!’ exclaimed Olga. ‘Since you always wear boots, Angie, and since he’s going to be spending nearly all of his time from now on staring at your boots, and kissing them, and licking them, why don’t you call him ‘Bootface’!’

Angela clapped her pretty hands with approval:

‘I like it! “Bootface”! It suits him, especially since his face looks a bit like an old leathery boot! ”Bootface” it is!’

And so, the party of friends who had earlier in the day entered the ‘Footslave Themepark’ as a group of 8 people, ended up leaving the Park as a group of 9 people – or rather 8 people and one pathetic, down-in-the-dirt footslave who went by the name of ‘Bootface’, crawling on his hands and knees behind his new mistress’s dirty black ankle-boots.