Rent A Slave

Part 1 – The bootscraper

Business was booming!

Why wouldn’t it be? I mean, it’s not every girl who can afford to own her own personal slave! So, there will always be a market for ‘rented’ slaves – and the astute businesswoman, Madame Debroue, had been one of the first to realise it.

She had founded ‘Rent-A-Slave’ some 20 years ago, and seen her company grow from its humble beginnings, with just 3 male slaves for hire, to the nationwide company that it now was, employing some 50 saleswomen in its 20 showrooms, and, of course, hundreds of male slaves – all for rent as either work-slaves, personal body-slaves, or footslaves.

Ladies could rent a slave for anything from 1 hour to 1 month – and all at a very reasonable price. And they could use those slaves in any way they saw fit throughout their chosen rental period, the only stipulation being that the slave be returned ‘in a reasonable condition’ – a definition which, unfortunately for the slaves, was open to widely differing interpretations on the part of the mistresses.

Forty-nine year old slave Pierre was one such ‘rent-a-slave’ – forced to sell himself into slavery by unfortunate circumstances beyond his control. The company provided a roof over his head (albeit in a cage in one of their regional showrooms), food in his belly (albeit cheap, slave-mush which, whilst it provided him with the sustenance he needed to perform his slave duties, gave him absolutely no gastronomical pleasure) and ‘steady’ employment under the command of various, demanding female customers.

What he particularly liked about being a ‘rental’ slave was that, at best, he got to work as a slave for a variety of different mistresses in a variety of different locations and, at worst, if he was rented by a particularly cruel or, dare he say it, ‘unattractive’ woman, he would only be required to slave for her for one month maximum (unless, of course, the mistress decided to renew her rental agreement!).

Right now he was in a kneeling position, naked apart from a pair of white, company slave-shorts and a metal collar around his neck containing the company logo, in his showroom cage which was designed to provide him with no privacy and to ensure potential customers to the local ‘Rent-A-Slave’ showroom had a good view of the goods they were contemplating hiring.

He heard the click-clack of the spiked heels of miss Samantha, one of the showroom assistants, approaching and dutifully lowered his eyes to the floor as befits a male slave being approached by a superior female.

Miss Samantha hadn’t been in the job very long, and, if truth be told, she wasn’t convinced that a career with ‘Rent-A-Slave’ ,was really for her. She found it somewhat frustrating that she couldn’t even afford to rent any of the company’s slaves herself on her meagre ‘apprentice’ wages, even though, at 20 years old, she was glad to be earning money of her own for the first time since dropping out of college.

A pretty girl, Samantha looked reasonably smart in her company uniform consisting of a white blouse, short red skirt, and bright red stiletto heels, but she tended to let the side down by her constant chewing of gum and her evident lack of genuine enthusiasm as a sales-person. Her mentors had commented several times on her seeming lack of enthusiasm, and general air of ‘unprofessionalism’ in front of the customers, but Samantha didn’t much care. She very much saw this job as merely a stop-gap. She had ambitions to become a top fashion-model.

As slave Pierre watched miss Samantha’s familiar, bright red stilettos approaching the outside of his ‘show-cage’ he saw that she was accompanied by a pair of lady’s smooth, black leather, flat-heeled, knee-length riding boots, with black jodhpurs tucked into the top of them.

The boots, of course, belonged to the potential customer – always a nerve-wracking yet simultaneously intriguing moment for a rental-slave; the first sight of the feet and footwear of one’s potential (temporary) owner.

‘This is Pierre, one of our most experienced footslaves,’ miss Samantha was saying, sounding rather less than convincing and apparently still chewing on her ubiquitous chewing-gum.

The two pairs of female feet, one shod in shiny red spikey-heeled stilettos, the other in comparatively dull black, leather riding boots, were now standing directly outside the cage in which Pierre was kneeling, affording him a close-up view of the potential customer’s footwear.

He now noticed that the boots were quite dirty – wet and mud-stained. He was aware that it was raining outside, but the owner of this particular pair of riding boots had evidently been out riding, or, at the very least, had been walking through wet, muddy fields that morning. Slave Pierre could even see wet blades of black grass stuck to the sides of the boots.

‘Is he any good at removing ladies’ boot-muck though?’ asked the boots. The woman sounded fairly young – in her early to mid thirties (to 49 year-old Pierre that was young).

‘Oh yes, Madam!’ replied the red stilettos, ‘his ugly face makes an excellent boot and shoe-scraper. As you can see his nose is quite large and can easily catch the mud on the sole of a lady’s boot as she scrapes it along his face!’

Pierre now turned his attention to the red stilettos in front of his face. He knew that miss Samantha could personally attest to the efficacy of his nose as a mud-scraper as she had, rather sneakily, used his face for that very purpose herself on several occasions – even though it was officially against company policy for sales-assistants to use the goods for their own benefit.

Lazy and disinterested though she was, Pierre actually admired miss Samantha. She always seemed to make a sale, in spite of her shortcomings, and, perhaps even more significantly, she had great legs –legs which seemed to tower above him even now as they teetered in her spikey-heeled, red patent leather stilettos.

Even more than her legs Pierre admired miss Samantha’s shapely feet and ankles. They weren’t exactly what you would call ‘flawless’ – her heels in particular appeared to be permanently red and cracked caused, no doubt, by miss Samantha’s preference for wearing her high-heels on bare feet; but Pierre liked such little imperfection’s in a young woman’s feet. He noticed that today she was wearing a small skin-coloured plaster on her left heel – she was obviously suffering considerable discomfort from these shoes, and from being on her feet in them in the showroom all day long. Yet he admired her plaster too, and, conditioned to footslavery as he now was, found himself wishing he could kiss her foot-plaster and perhaps use his slave tongue to provide some comfort and respite to miss Samantha’s sore and chapped heel.

Meanwhile the mistress in the black, knee-length riding boots was continuing her conversation with the young saleswoman:

‘Mmm…we’d also want him to swallow as much of the ladies’ boot mud as he can. As I explained earlier I’m proposing to place him in the entrance to the hall, and I wouldn’t want any ladies slipping in wet mud that had fallen from his face onto the floor.’

Miss Samantha continued to chew her gum and laughed:

‘Don’t worry, Madam, I can assure you that this slave’s mouth and stomach are well used to ladies’ boot and shoe mud. In fact, he probably appreciates the extra nourishment as we don’t feed our slaves very much!’

The female customer in the muddy, black riding boots and jodhpurs appeared convinced:

‘OK. I’ll take him – just for the afternoon please.’

Samantha smiled. This job was just too easy. Boring even. But at least her ‘sale’ meant more commission – which meant she could buy more make-up.

‘Yes certainly, Madam. I’ll just release him from his cage and have him kiss your boots as a mark of respect. One moment please.’

Pierre heard some keys opening the lock to his cage-cell, and then felt miss Samantha grab him by the chain that was attached to his metal collar as she pulled him on his hands and knees out of his cell behind her red stiletto heels.

He now noticed a tiny, black scuff-mark on the back of the superior young woman’s heel-plaster on her left foot, and desperately wanted to kiss that dirty plaster even more.

But instead he was soon positioned directly in front of the older woman’s muddy, black leather, knee-length riding boots and ordered, by miss Samantha, to kiss them:

‘Kiss your new owner’s boots, slave, and express your gratitude to her for hiring you!’ barked the young woman, using the familiar company policy of referring to customers as ‘owners’ in front of the slaves – it often gave the customer a sense of pride and the impression that they were going to be proper slave-owners, at least on a temporary basis. Equally, of course, it reinforced the message to the slaves that they were, to all intents and purposes, owned by their new mistresses for however long the contract was in place – in this case, it seemed, just for one afternoon.

Slave Pierre, as ever on his hands and knees and with head humbly bowed as befits a footslave, lowered his lips to a muddy patch on the top of the toe of his new mistress’s right boot and kissed:

‘Thank you, mistress, for purchasing me and for agreeing to use me as your bootslave,’ he grovelled, prior to placing his now mud-stained lips onto the exact same position on the riding-mistress’s left boot.

‘Actually, you won’t just be my personal bootslave,’ explained the new mistress. ‘I’m taking you to Aspery Village Hall where you will be used as a doormat and bootscraper by the ladies attending our annual gymkhana. I’m afraid we hadn’t reckoned on it being such a wet and miserable day, and so we need a footslave for the ladies to wipe their boots on before they enter the village hall for the prize-giving ceremony and their post-competition drinks and refreshments. I hope you appreciate the taste of ladies’ boot mud, slave?’

‘Oh yes, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave would be truly honoured to remove the filth from the boots of the mistresses attending your annual gymkhana,’ responded slave Pierre politely.

He didn’t, in actual fact, like the taste of boot mud. It was bitter and slimey. But he was a slave, and if that was what his female customer wanted, he had no choice in the matter, so better to obey willingly rather than under the duress of the whip.

And speaking of whips the rented footslave now noticed for the first time that his new ‘owner’ was carrying a slim, red leather riding crop in her right hand. He doubted very much that she had ridden into town on her horse! So the whip, presumably, was for his benefit. He decided to be ultra-obedient and compliant towards his new mistress’s wishes as he had no desire to feel the sting of her whip!

After a few formalities with regard to the paperwork slave Pierre was led out of the showroom by the metal chain, crawling on his hands and knees behind the black knee-length riding boots of his new ‘owner’. He still didn’t know her name.

It was still raining outside and slave Pierre felt the rain landing on his bare back before his new mistress placed him in the back of her 4X4 – on the floor under the back seat, and then seated herself in the driving seat. Before they set off, however, slave Pierre heard his mistress phone what appeared to be a male friend, possibly even her husband, on her mobile:

‘Hello, George? I’ve got one. I’m just heading back now. Can you liaise with the people in the Hall and make sure the hole is ready to put him in as we discussed earlier?...OK. Thanks, honey. See you soon. Bye!’

Slave Pierre thought his new mistress sounded quite ‘posh’. He wondered, momentarily, why such an apparently affluent young woman didn’t have a personal footslave of her own. Then again, maybe she did. It was obvious he was going to be employed merely as a kind of ‘emergency’ doormat – hired at short notice and for a short period only. Such was the excitement of being a ‘rental’ slave – you just never know what you’ll be doing and who you’ll be serving from one day to the next. You really are at the mercy of women – all types of women!

The village of Aspley wasn’t far from the town – about 20 minutes drive. As soon as the car pulled up outside the village hall slave Pierre was ordered out of the back and ordered by his new mistress to follow her on his hands and knees into the lobby.

From his lowly kneeling position slave Pierre could see that there were lots of other young women in riding gear milling around. Perhaps to impress them, perhaps in order to genuinely hurry him along, his new mistress suddenly turned round and struck him with two sharp stings from her red, leather riding crop on his bare back:

‘Get a move on, slave. The gymkhana is nearly finishing and I need to get you in position before the ladies start coming in for the prize-giving!’

At that moment a man came up and embraced and kissed Pierre’s temporary mistress. He assumed this must be ‘George’ – her boyfriend or husband. Even in such an early stage of his temporary relationship with his new mistress, Pierre, the rented slave, felt a twinge of jealously towards the free man who was able to kiss the attractive young woman on her lips whilst he, the slave, had to make do with the toes of her muddy boots.

‘Is that the best you could do?’ exclaimed the man.

Pierre initially thought the man was being extremely rude and ungentlemanly about his mistress’s kissing abilities, but quickly realised, from his mistress’s response, that the man was in fact referring, disparagingly, to him!

‘Well, it’s fairly late in the day, honey, and all of their prime slaves had already been taken. Anyway, at least he’s got a big nose which the girl in the showroom said should help to remove the ladies’ boot-dirt!’

‘OK, I suppose so,’ replied the man, ‘I suppose he is just being used as a doormat. Lucky we don’t need him to serve as a body-slave for our female guests. He’s so pig-ugly I expect most of the women would be sick if they had to let him touch them!’ laughed George.

The superior, free man, whom Pierre guessed to also be in his early to mid thirties, then addressed him directly:

‘Boy! See to it that you do exactly as my wife says, and I don’t want to see any mud-stains from the soles of the ladies’ riding boots on the nice, clean floor of our village hall. Make sure your ugly face scrapes off all the filth – is that clear, slaveboy?’

49 year-old slave Pierre was used to much younger men and women addressing him as ‘boy’ or ‘slaveboy’. He knew it was a reflection of his status rather than his age – and, in any case, he hadn’t been a ‘man’ for a long, long time.

‘Yes, master,’ he responded humbly, to the evident satisfaction of his mistress:

‘Oh George, you really know how to deal with slaves! I’m really looking forward to having that early night we promised ourselves!’ she whispered suggestively.

George smiled and kissed his wife full on the lips again:

‘I have to go and sort out the prizes, honey. Can I leave it to you to arrange the doormat?’

‘Sure! See you later darling!’

And with that, to slave Pierre’s relief, master George departed, leaving him in the sole charge of his mistress.

The latter soon had slave Pierre positioned exactly where she wanted him – face up in a hollow in the floor of the lobby-entrance to the village hall. The hollow in which he was lying meant that his face was at ground level, and his mistress then covered up the rest of his body with a dirty, old rug, meaning that only the slave’s upturned face was exposed and ready to take the mud off the soles of the female gymkhana-competitors’ muddy and dirty riding boots.

Pierre’s new mistress then sat down on a chair beside him. How she towered above him, even though she was seated! For the first time he could see her face. She was a pretty brunette, but she was, quite literally, looking down at him with an expression of disdain on her face as if he himself was something nasty she had stepped in and had scraped off the sole of her boot.

It was now 3:00 PM and the women were starting to come into the Hall in preparation for the prize-giving ceremony. It was still raining outside, so everyone felt the need to use the ‘bootslave-doormat’ to divest their boots of as much dirt and mud as possible before entering the main Hall. It would be bad manners not to.

His first client was a young blonde woman, no more than 22 or 23 years old, who was wearing knee-length, shiny, black leather, leg-hugging riding boots, shinier than those of the mistress who had hired him, with cream-coloured jodhpurs tucked into thick, bright-red, paisley-patterned, knee length socks, the tops of which were just visible above her boots. The young woman in her early twenties laughed as she stared down at 49 year-old slave Pierre’s frightened and prone face:

‘Wow! That ugly face of yours is just made for scraping the dirt off the bottom of my boots, slave!’ exclaimed the young vixen as, with an evil grin on her face, she raised her right booted-foot into the air before lowering it down onto slave Pierre’s upturned face.

As the dirty sole of the leather, knee-length boot loomed into view slave Pierre could see just how unutterably filthy it really was! Wet slithers of mud were actually falling off the bottom of her boot and onto his cheek even before the boot-sole was eventually resting on his face.

He felt globules of mud being smeared into his skin as the young woman ran her boot up and down his face, literally scraping the offending and offensive filth and slime off her superior boot-sole and onto his inferior face – where it belonged.

To the young mistress’s enormous satisfaction large chunks of grass and mud fell directly onto slave Pierre’s tongue and into his mouth:

‘That’s right, bootscraper! Use your tongue to get all that filth off my nice leather boot. Make the sole of my riding-boot glisten and shine as much as the upper parts!’ she laughed at him, mockingly.

After a minute or so her pretty features briefly came into Pierre’s field of vision again as she lifted her boot off his face only to replace it with her equally dirty left boot:

‘Ha! Ha! I hope you enjoyed your first course – now take this for your afters!’ mocked the young woman, clearly enjoying her power over the helpless male footslave who was effectively trapped under her filthy boot.

Even more young-woman boot-mud now found itself sliding down slave Pierre’s throat and into his stomach. It tasted bitter and foul – but it was a staple diet for a footslave.

When she had finished cleaning her boots on slave Pierre’s face to her satisfaction, the young woman walked off into the Hall, without any words of thanks to the slave-doormat.

Why would she thank a doormat?

Slave Pierre’s temporary mistress, who had been observing his work closely, making sure he performed his demeaning task to a satisfactory standard (for, if he hadn’t, she would have sought a refund from the rental company) then bent down over him until her face was just a few inches away from his own upturned face. He saw his mistress pucker her lips and realised she was about to spit on him. He instinctively closed his eyes as he felt his mistress’s feminine saliva spray onto his face, up his nose and into his mouth. He then felt her wipe his cheeks with a rough cloth.

He realised that she was doing him a favour – cleaning his face before his next customer. What a thoughtful and kind mistress she was! He only wished he knew his new temporary owner’s name!

And so began slave Pierre’s afternoon of scraping the mud off the soles of feminine riding boots with his upturned face. There followed a succession of knee-length riding boots, the dirty, wet soles of which slave Pierre was obliged to scrape clean with his nose and lick clean with his tongue. Even though his kindly mistress did her best to wipe clean his face after each and every female customer, his face soon smelt of female boot-leather and boot-muck. Leather and muck was also all he could taste.

Some of his female customers, who were presumably just spectators to the gymkhana, were wearing other styles of boots or shoes, which tended to be less muddy than those of the riding boots of the female competitors. That didn’t stop them, however, from making full use of his services, with one young woman even deliberately ‘muddying-up’ her brown, leather ankle boots in a dirty puddle just so that she could humiliate the doormat-footslave even more in front of her girlfriends. This particular young woman also kindly offered to spit-clean the doormat’s face herself as she was a little bit embarrassed at the amount of dirt she had deposited on the slave’s face, and was worried that the next customer would end up with even more dirt on their bootsoles than they had before they wiped their feet on the human doormat’s face!

Even though he was serving each individual customer for only a matter of minutes, slave Pierre felt he could tell a lot about their differing personalities from the details of their footwear, from the expressions on their pretty faces as they scraped their boots on his ugly face, and from their body-language generally as they approached him and then used him.

For example, even though the gymkhana competitors were all wearing the same kind of shiny, black or brown leather, knee-length riding boots, many of them were also wearing knee-length socks inside their boots, just as his first customer had been, the elasticated tops of which were visible above the tops of the boots. Some were wearing dark, plain knee-socks which were black or brown – to match their riding boots – but others were wearing brightly-coloured or patterned knee-socks, similar to the bright red, paisley-print socks of his first customer, for example, or brightly patterned argyle socks, suggesting more bubbly, outgoing personalities.

He noticed that the more brightly and outlandishly patterned the socks, the more excited and dominant the female customer appeared to be. One or two of them even made a point of pulling up and straightening the tops of their socks as their boots rested on his upturned face – as if ensuring that the footslave had a good view of their socks. They wanted him to see them, to admire them, to appreciate their inner as well as their outer footwear.

Such women were also the most likely to have cruel grins on their faces as they approached him and peered down at him prior to positioning the dirty soles of their boots onto his face. For some reason the women wearing plain dark-coloured knee-socks appeared much more diffident about using his services, and had much more serious expressions on their faces, even pity in some cases – or was that just his imagination?

Probably. For, diffident or not, plain-socked or brightly-socked, at the end of the day they all made use of him – they all, to a woman, deposited their boot-mud onto his slave face.

And then, of course, interspersed with the mud-encrusted riding boots of the competitors, were the muddy ankle-boots, sneakers and shoes of the gymkhana spectators. A few female spectators were even wearing elegant high heels, not really suitable footwear for standing around in the muddy fields of a gymkhana event, but the metal spikes of which he was consequently obliged to suck clean of mud to the great amusement of the majority of women who were wearing more sensible flat or block heeled footwear.

Again, slave Pierre felt he could tell a lot about the female spectators not only from their choice of outer, but also their choice of inner footwear or leg-wear – dresses or jeans; sheer, nylon stockings or thick, woollen tights; cotton ankle socks or thicker calf-length socks – he caught a glimpse of them all as each raised foot descended slowly and deliberately, almost apologetically in some cases, onto his bootscraper-face.

By 3:30 PM, after just 30 minutes or so, but what had seemed to slave Pierre like an eternity and an endless succession of dirty, feminine boot and shoe soles, all the guests to the prize-giving ceremony, both the competitors and the proud friends and relatives, were inside the hall, including slave Pierre’s temporary mistress, leaving him alone in the lobby – still lying on his back in the hollow in the floor, still with the taste of women’s boot and shoe dirt in his mouth.

All the women were now evidently engrossed in the ceremony as he could hear muffled cheers and applause periodically coming from the main hall. He could also hear a man’s voice through a microphone which appeared to be the voice of master ‘George’ – dishing out the awards and prizes and keeping the women entertained, unlike slave Pierre who had now apparently been discarded and forgotten about by the women – now that they had finished wiping their boots on his face.

But suddenly he realised he wasn’t completely abandoned! One of the young women, co-incidentally the very first girl he had served as a doormat, had evidently come back out of the hall to see how he was. As one might expect of a humble footslave he recognised her from her boots and her knee-length, paisley-patterned bright red socks, rather than from her pretty face and blonde hair. However, when she spoke, he also recognised her voice:

‘You know what, slave, you did such a good job on my dirty boots I’ve decided to let you clean my dirty socks as well!’ she grinned, pulling over the nearby chair and then seating herself before reaching down to pull off her shiny, black knee-length boots.

The riding boots had no zips, and so the young riding-mistress had to literally pull off her boots from the foot end, causing the toe-ends of her red knee-socks to dangle off her toes momentarily before she reached down to pull the socks back up and straighten them. She still had her cream-coloured jodhpurs tucked into the tops of her knee socks, allowing the reclining footslave to see the full shapeliness of her socked calf-muscles.

The young woman had that same evil grin on her face as she had had before, as she now positioned the wooden chair to enable her to lower her right socked-foot onto slave Pierre’s upturned face.

As the shapely, feminine, socked foot hovered above his upturned face the slave observed tiny balls of red sock lint hanging from the sole of the sock, and one or two small areas where the stitching of the sock was beginning to wear away. Likewise there were some small areas of discolouration where the leather inner of the young woman’s boot had rubbed onto the bright red sock turning it black. These were evidently a favourite pair of bright red, paisley patterned knee-socks which had often been worn inside the young woman’s black, leather riding boots.

As the pretty, socked foot slowly began to descend the slave’s nostrils also detected the unmistakeable aroma of feminine foot sweat. And why wouldn’t the young woman’s socks be a bit sweaty? After all, they had presumably been inside her riding boots all day during the gymkhana competition. That was precisely why she wanted him to clean her socks for her. She wanted to wipe the sweat off the bottom of her socks and onto the doormat-slave’s face:

‘I hope you like the smell of girls’ stinky socks, footboy, for I’m going to rub my socked feet up and down your pathetic face! Ha! Ha! How do you like that?’

A ‘Rent-A-Slave’ footslave must always reply politely and respectfully to a mistress’s question, even a rhetorical question, whenever she deigns to speak to him:

‘Oh mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave is truly privileged to have the mistress’s socked feet on his face, and begs the mistress for permission to inhale the precious aroma of her socksweat, if it so pleases you, sweet, feminine mistress?’

The sweet, feminine mistress laughed:

‘Of course you can, slave! In fact I want to hear you sniff the bottom of my sweaty, red knee-socks even above the noise of this prize-giving ceremony!’ and with that the young woman carefully and deliberately positioned the sweatiest part of her socked foot, her toes, directly over his nose.

Slave Pierre obediently sniffed as loud as he could – just as another round of applause was breaking out from the nearby hall. It didn’t stop the young mistress from hearing the footslave’s audible sniffs and delighting in the feel of his ugly nose breathing in her sweaty foot-odour. She noticed with delight also how tiny pieces of her sock lint were rubbing off onto his face and getting into his mouth.

‘Ha! Ha! I wish I could afford to rent you for myself, footslave. You make a really good sock-sniffer! If you were mine, I’d make you sniff my socks from top to bottom, and scrape my boots clean with your ugly face, every single day!’ she pined wistfully.

Briefly, slave Pierre could think of nothing he too would like more than to be this haughty, young, blonde woman’s personal bootscraper and sockslave. But the reality was that he was nothing more than a rented slave, hired out for the afternoon, and the coming evening would doubtless bring him a new mistress or mistresses in a new location – with new feminine boots, shoes and socks to serve.

Slave Pierre could be so fickle!

Part 2 – An evening at the theatre

Slave Pierre was back kneeling in his show cage by five o’clock that afternoon. The ladies of the Gymkhana had no further need for him – their boots had been cleaned, their socked feet sniffed, and all the prizes had been distributed.

But a rental slave’s work is never done. They are effectively ‘on call’ 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. So slave Pierre wasn’t at all surprised when further potential customers approached his cage at about 6:00 p.m.

It was an Asian couple in their mid 20s. The man was casually, but smartly, dressed in a european-style jacket and trousers; the woman was also dressed in western, rather than traditional asian, style clothing. She was wearing a red and white shawl over a pretty white dress, with a red floral-pattern on the hem which came to just below her knees, white stockings of the finest denier covering her shapely calves (the stockings were so fine that her brown, asian skin was detectable under the white nylon), and shiny, white patent leather high-heels with some white, floral-patterned stitching around the upper rim of the shoes. The young couple looked dressed to go out for the evening.

They were accompanied towards the cage by the familiar red stilettos of the 20 year-old showroom-assistant, miss Samantha, who was approaching the end of her shift in the showroom. She was therefore, naturally, anxious to make a quick sale, so that she could go out clubbing with her boyfriend:

‘This one would make an excellent footrest for your wife, sir,’ she chirped.

Slave Pierre surmised that the young, married couple must have requested a footslave to rent out for the evening as a footrest for the lady. It was a fairly common request – and not too demanding work; humiliating – yes, having some stranger’s feet or shoes resting on your face all evening; but at least it was nothing too strenuous. A nice way to finish off the day!

Slave Pierre heard the young asian man negotiating the terms and conditions with miss Samantha. He had what appeared to be a slight Indian accent – Indian sub-continent at any rate:

‘It is important that the slave can lie perfectly still all evening. My wife will not want any distractions whilst she is resting her feet on his face in the theatre. Have you any means of ensuring that he is forced to concentrate on my wife’s feet all evening?’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ responded miss Samantha. ‘We can supply you with blinkers and ear-plugs for the slave so that he will not be able to hear, or see anything other than your wife’s feet, as he is lying on the floor at her feet in the theatre. All our footslaves are completely dedicated to the feet of the mistresses they serve, and I can assure you that our slave’s only concern will be to ensure the comfort of your wife’s feet whilst you both relax and enjoy the show.’

Slave Pierre knew that miss Samantha spoke the truth. He was by now so conditioned to his life of footslavery that he almost didn’t need the blinkers or ear-plugs in such circumstances. He would have no interest in the play or the musical that the young couple were about to attend that evening; his only interest would, quite genuinely, be in studying the young asian woman’s feet, stockings and shoes whilst his face provided a comfortable footrest for her in the theatre.

‘That’s good,’ the asian man replied to miss Samantha, ‘I wouldn’t like to think that the dirty slave was getting any enjoyment from the show when he should be suffering humiliation at my pretty wife’s feet!’

The young asian woman had not spoken yet. Slave Pierre got the impression she may be quite shy, as she was standing with her right foot tucked demurely behind her left – causing, he couldn’t help noticing, the fine denier of the white, nylon stocking on her right foot to crease around her petite, delicate Indian ankle.

Her husband was still doing all the talking:

‘I’ll tell you what. We’ll take him at the price you suggested – but only if we can keep him all night and bring him back tomorrow morning, and if you will throw in the blinkers and ear-plugs at no extra cost.’

The man was obviously trying to drive a hard bargain – presumably paying to rent the slave for the evening only, but actually keeping him all night. Miss Samantha, it seemed, was only to happy to accede to this request – probably because she just wanted to finish her shift and get away:

‘OK, sir. It’s a deal! I’ll just release the slave and then we can sort out the paperwork.’

Again, miss Samantha’s keys opened the lock to slave Pierre’s cage and she grabbed him by the slave-collar around his neck that was emblazoned with the company logo and the words ‘Property of Rent-A-Slave Ltd’, pulling him out of the cage on his hands and knees and throwing him to the feet of his new mistress for the evening.

‘Ha! Ha! Put your foot forward for him to kiss, darling, while the shop-assistant lady and I go to sort out the paperwork!’ laughed the man.

Slave Pierre was therefore, momentarily, left alone in the showroom with the young asian woman, who now stretched forward her right foot directly under his kneeling nose and spoke for the first time:

‘Slave, be kissing my foot please!’

Please! Please! It wasn’t often that a mistress used the word ‘please’ when giving him orders! Slave Pierre noticed that the young woman’s Indian accent was much more pronounced than her husband’s. Presumably she hadn’t been living in Europe as long as he had. Possibly an arranged marriage with the young woman being brought over from India?

Whatever the circumstances, slave Pierre took an instant liking to this ‘polite’ young mistress. Not only was she beautiful, she also appeared to be charmingly naïve when it came to dealing with slaves. A slave-owning ‘virgin’?

Naïve or not, slave Pierre knew the young woman was deserving of his respect, for she was infinitely better than him. And so he obediently lowered his lips to the shiny, pointy toe of her outstretched, white leather stiletto.

As his lips touched the toe of the shoe he saw the young woman’s brown, asian footflesh flex under her fine, white nylon stocking in reaction to his act of humble obeisance, and heard her giggle.

He thought she was giggling with shock and surprise at having this much older ‘western’ man humbly and obediently kissing her foot; in fact, the young woman was giggling because she was embarrassed at how much she was enjoying the slave’s humiliation at her feet.

She quickly withdrew her right foot, and replaced it with her left under the slave’s nose:

‘And now be kissing the other one, slave.’

Slave Pierre noticed that, already, the word ‘please’ had been dropped from the young woman’s vocabulary. It always amazed him how quickly supposedly ‘inexperienced’ women adapted to having a male slave to boss around. It seemed to come naturally to all women – given the right circumstances.

He heard her giggle again as his lips gently touched the pristine, shiny, white toe of her left, high-heeled shoe:

‘Ha! Ha! The slave is liking to kiss miss Parminder’s dirty shoe?’ she asked with a tone of genuine curiosity.

So her name was Parminder – ‘miss Parminder’ to him! He answered his new mistress as honestly as he could (although he couldn’t actually see any dirt at all on her pretty, white shoe!):

‘Yes thank you, miss Parminder, if it please you, miss Parminder, this slave is honoured to kiss the dirt on your shoe, mistress.’

Miss Parminder now laughed instead of giggling. She was visibly more relaxed:

‘Ha! Ha! Good! Miss Parminder is being pleased with the slave. I am telling my husband – otherwise he might be beating you, isn’t it? Just be concentrating on my feet, and I am seeing to it that my husband will not be hurting you!’

Such a kind and magnanimous young mistress, thought slave Pierre. She had absolutely no reason to be concerned for his welfare, yet she was offering to protect him from any beatings her husband might wish to inflict on him – providing, of course, he pleased her as her personal footslave. Slave Pierre resolved that he would do his utmost to continue to win the young mistress’s approval and favour. He had no liking for pain.

By now the young woman’s husband had returned with miss Samantha, armed with the leather blinkers and ear-plugs that would help the slave to concentrate all evening on the feet of his charming new Indian mistress. Just before miss Samantha fitted them onto him, slave Pierre heard the man speak to his wife:

‘Is everything alright, darling? Did he kiss your feet properly? Are you happy with him?’

‘Oh yes, darling, I am being very happy. Thank you,’, and slave Pierre observed her white stockings crease around her ankles above the white, floral stitching of her shoes as she stretched up to kiss her husband lovingly on the cheek.

My mistress is being true to her word, thought slave Pierre. She is protecting me from any anger on the part of the master. I must continue to please her.

Miss Samantha was none too gentle in fitting the blinkers and ear plugs onto the slave. She was so obviously in a hurry to leave – and why shouldn’t she be? After all, unlike the bonded-slave, she was a free woman, whose time outside of work was her own. Unlike slave Pierre she was not on duty 24 hours a day, 365 days a year! She had a life to live!

The company’s black, leather blinkers and uncomfortable, plastic earplugs were highly effective. Slave Pierre’s entire field of vision was now dominated by the backs of miss Parminder’s white-stockinged heels and shiny, white shoes, whilst the only sounds he could hear were the extremely muffled voices of the three superior human beings standing around him. The ear-plugs did mean, of course, that he could not hear any verbal orders from his new master and mistress; but they wouldn’t need to speak to him to make their wishes perfectly clear; after all, he was, effectively, only going to be a piece of mobile furniture for the evening – a lady’s footrest – and the undeniable advantage of the ear-plugs and the blinkers was that they did help him to concentrate on the sight, smell and, if he was lucky, taste of his mistress’s feet and footwear.

He followed miss Parminder’s heels on his hands and knees across the showroom forecourt and out towards a parked car. Miss Parminder, who was now pulling him on a lead attached to his slave collar, got into the back of the car, and positioned slave Pierre on the floor at her feet, his right cheek lying flat on the floor. The car floor was dirty – but that was all the more reason for miss Parminder to rest the smooth, leather sole of her right shoe on his upturned cheek, whilst her left shoe and ankle rested directly in front of his blinkered face.

Although it was quite dark down on the car floor, slave Pierre’s face was so close to miss Parminder’s left foot that he could clearly see all the tiny, individual stitches in his mistress’s stocking – particularly where the material of the stocking was somewhat stretched over her shapely ankle bone. He observed every little crease and fold in her stocking as the car engine started and he felt the floor of the car vibrate under his right cheek . He could also, this close-up, smell the white leather of miss Parminder’s pretty left shoe. He felt trapped – a prisoner under her feet; yet he knew it was precisely where he belonged. He was not fit to sit beside such a superior young woman like an equal in the back of a car. He was ‘beneath’ her in every sense of the word, and belonged on the floor at her feet.

And he remained ‘beneath’ her for the rest of the evening. The couple appeared to be quite wealthy, for they had a private box in the theatre. Slave Pierre was, of course, lying on the carpeted floor of the box – again with his right cheek resting on the floor and with his mistress Parminder switching feet – alternately resting her right or her left foot on his upturned left cheek.

Although it was dark inside the theatre during the performance (and it appeared from the muffled sounds to be a musical comedy), a small spotlight in the lower wall of the box lit up mistress Parminder’s feet, affording slave Pierre a clear view of her stockings and shoes throughout the performance.

Because he had nothing else to do, and because he was a diligent and well-trained footslave, he concentrated on every aspect of miss Parminder’s feet. He observed how her brown foot flexed, and her white stocking creased as a consequence, every time she laughed or applauded. He also had plenty of time to study each of her shoes in detail as she rested them in front of his blinkered face.

It was only as a result of such intense scrutiny that he began to notice the tiniest imperfections in the otherwise pristine footwear. He observed, for example, that on the white, floral-patterned stitching along the upper rim of her left shoe one of the stitches was coming undone and a tiny piece of white cotton was sticking out. He desperately wanted to repair that tiny flaw by biting off the offending loose stitching with his slave teeth, but knew that he could not do so unless ordered to by his mistress. A footrest does not have a will of its own!

Then, on her right ankle, there was an almost imperceptible piece of black fluff resting in one of the stitches of her white stocking. It wouldn’t budge, even when she flexed her ankle causing her stocking to momentarily crease. Slave Pierre found himself obsessing about that piece of black fluff – that foreign object invading his Indian mistress’s fine, white stocking – but, again, he knew it was not his place to seek to remove it, even surreptitiously, without an express order to do so from his mistress.

And mistress Parminder had other things on her mind, for she was enjoying the show, and had better things to think of than pieces of fluff on her stockings. Indeed, she was blissfully unaware of either the faulty stitching in her shoe or the black piece of fluff clinging to her stockinged ankle. At that point in time such things were of no interest either to her, or her husband, or anyone else in the theatre, apart from the footslave – whose pathetic job it was to observe such inconsequential details on his mistress’s footwear.

And so slave Pierre just consoled himself with the smell of his mistress’s white leather shoes. Whilst everyone else enjoyed the show, he did his best to enjoy the fact that he was a young, Indian woman’s personal footrest.

When the show finally ended miss Parminder stood with both heels on his upturned cheek as she joined in the audience’s standing ovation.

Miss Parminder and her husband then went to an up-market Indian restaurant for after-theatre dinner. Slave Pierre, still blinkered and ear-plugged, of course accompanied his Indian masters, although, hardly surprisingly, he was not invited to share their food. Rather, he continued to serve as mistress Parminder’s footrest in the restaurant, although to his chagrin, the smell of the hot Indian food not only made him feel hungry, but also masked the smell of his mistress’s shiny, white leather shoes.

Then there was the car journey back to the couple’s apartment during which time slave Pierre was able to refamiliarise himself with the dirty floor.

When they had all entered the apartment, slave Pierre as ever crawling behind his mistress’s heels, the master (slave Pierre still didn’t know his name) suddenly took out the slave’s earplugs, although he left the blinkers in place:

‘How have you liked being my wife’s footrest, slave-pig?’ the man barked.

It was, of course, a rhetorical question. Everyone knew slave Pierre would have to say he had liked it very much, whilst at the same time indicating that he had found it suitably humiliating :

‘Oh pray, master, this slave has truly been honoured to serve at the feet of your beautiful wife, and is fit only to serve the superior mistress in such a humble way, if it pleases you master.’

The man laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! Well you’ll be pleased to know that we haven’t finished with you yet, slave. I intend to see to it that we get our full money’s worth out of you!’

The man then addressed his pretty, young wife:

‘Darling, your feet must be tired after walking around in those heels all evening. I know your feet aren’t used to it! Why don’t you sit down and relax whilst I have him take off your shoes and massage your feet?’

Mistress Parminder evidently thought this was a splendid idea:

‘I am liking that very much, Ravi. Please be making him do it!’

Master Ravi beamed. He enjoyed showing off his machismo and his power over the much older manservant:

‘Slave, you heard my wife, crawl over to her on your hands and knees and remove her shoes. You’re going to rub her tired feet!’

It was so matter-of-fact. He was going to massage master Ravi’s wife’s feet, for he was a slave, and had to do whatever his owners told him to do – even if they were only renting him for the night.

Slave Pierre crawled over to the armchair in which miss Parminder was now slumped, and gently raised first her right foot, then her left, off the plushly carpeted floor, in order to slip off her white stilettos. They both came off with a ‘whoosh’ as the hot, sweaty air escaped from inside them:

‘’I’m off to have a shower,’ announced master Ravi. ‘Order him about as much as you wish, my darling. He is your personal slave for the rest of the night!’

‘Thank you, darling,’ responded miss Parminder, apparently sighing with relief as she wiggled her recently emancipated toes in the now sweaty air under the footslave’s nose.

‘The slave is liking my smell?’ she asked slave Pierre, with perhaps just a hint of polite, feminine embarrassment in her voice. She was not accustomed to men having to smell her stinky, hot feet.

She needn’t have worried. Slave Pierre, experienced footslave that he was, was well accustomed to the smell of sweaty, feminine feet – not that he could, hand on heart, claim to ever like the aroma of foot odour as such. He therefore gave the appropriate, slavish response to such a question:

‘Mistress Parminder, this slave is privileged to be permitted to inhale the odour of his mistress’s feet, for it is an odour befitting the nostrils of a humble footslave, if it so pleases you mistress’

Miss Parminder laughed as she continued to wiggle her toes:

‘Ha! Ha! Miss Parminder’s feet are being dirty and sweaty, isn’t it? The slave-pig will sniff them. Be putting your nose on my stockings and sniffing in deep. Obey me now, slave, or I am calling my husband!’

Yes, there was no doubt about it! A degree of miss Parminder’s gentleness, even sympathy, towards him had dissipated during the evening. But how else could she be expected to feel about a ‘man’ who had spent the entire evening acting as her footrest. He was clearly a lesser being than her, and deserving of her contempt.

Slave Pierre therefore obeyed his superior mistress. He humbly lowered his nose until it was resting in the folds of the reinforced stitching of the white stocking that covered the toes of her now outstretched right foot, and audibly sniffed.

The smell was very tart and vinegary. Not at all pleasant. But it was a smell fit for him.

Miss Parminder seemingly enjoyed the somewhat pained expression on her rented footslave’s ugly face, and with an evil grin on her own, pretty features, replaced her outstretched right foot with her left:

‘And now be sniffing the other one, dirty slave-pig.’

She was clearly learning quickly from her husband just how to address a slave.

Slave Pierre sniffed in the odour from miss Parminder’s stockinged toes on her left foot.

‘Now you will be rubbing my feet like my husband says, isn’t it, slave?’

‘Yes, mistress, if it pleases you mistress Parminder.’

‘Make sure you are rubbing away all the sweat off my stockings or my husband will be beating you, dirty footslave.’

‘Yes mistress Parminder, at once mistress Parminder.’

Slave Pierre realised he had to keep his increasingly belligerent young mistress on side. Who knows what her husband would regard as a ‘reasonable condition’ in which to return him to the slave-showroom tomorrow morning if he felt inclined to discipline him, and slave Pierre knew from bitter experience just how cruel the husbands and boyfriends of mistresses could be if they thought the slave was not showing proper respect and obedience to their ‘woman’.

And so, as ordered to, he gently but firmly began massaging the sweaty-nyloned feet of his young Indian mistress, feeling the dampness of her footsweat rubbing off onto his bare hands as he did so. His hands would reek of her feet before long.

Miss Parminder appeared to find the foot-rub a bit ticklish at first, but then started to relax more into her chair as the experienced footslave rubbed all the soreness and tiredness out of her sweaty-stockinged feet. She even emitted little sighs and moans of pleasure as the slave’s hands caressed the nerve-endings of her feet through the sheer, white stockings.

Mistress and slave continued with the foot-rub for some 20 minutes, with mistress Parminder almost dozing off to sleep, until her husband, Ravi, suddenly returned from the shower, attired in his dressing gown and rubbing his hair with a towel. He laughed with pleasure at the sight of the humble male slave rubbing his wife’s stinky feet:

‘Ha! Ha! You look like you’re enjoying that, my dear?’ he queried.

‘Oh yes, darling, my feet were being very sore and tired. I must be having a shower also,’ responded miss Parminder making to get up out of the armchair.

‘Wait, my darling,’ interrupted her husband, ‘why don’t you get this fellow to lick clean your feet first? After all, his mouth can probably clean the sweat from between your toes as well as any shower could do!’

Flattering to the slave though that last comment was, it was hardly true – not that the truth really mattered in such circumstances. Master Ravi clearly wanted to see the slave he had paid for licking and sucking clean his young wife’s dirty feet, and so that was what was going to happen – even if miss Parminder might have preferred a shower herself.

Actually, miss Parminder quite liked her husband’s clever idea for further humiliating the slave:

‘Ha! Ha! You are so wicked, my darling. I am sure the taste from my feet will be being foul!’

‘All the more reason for this dirty slave-pig to have to taste your feet, my dear. That is what he is here for, after all, to care for and clean the dirty feet of my beautiful wife!’

Parminder was now in no doubt! Her husband was right. The slave would lick clean her sweaty feet, because he was being paid to do so – or, rather, his company was being paid.

She knew her husband well enough to know that he would not want to see the slave fiddling around with her stocking-suspenders and peeling her white stockings from her soft, brown, shapely thighs. Her husband Ravi had hired a footslave, after all, not a ‘leg-slave’ or a ‘body-slave’. And so, to slave Pierre’s disappointment, miss Parminder detached and peeled off her own stockings, before presenting him with her now bare outstretched right foot.

He now saw for the first time that her toenails were painted red. He had not noticed this previously under the thicker, reinforced white stitching of the stockings covering her toes. Some of the paint, especially on her big toe, was beginning to show signs of being chipped and wearing off – caused no doubt by the sweat generated by her stockinged feet being inside her spiked, leather shoes all evening.

Apart from that the toes looked clean, but smelt sweaty:

‘You were hearing my husband, foot-pig! Be sucking my toes with your mouth and cleaning them with your tongue. Make sure you are removing all the sweat, isn’t it!’

As slave Pierre obeyed and his taste-buds experienced the salty taste of a young Indian woman’s footsweat and toe-jam, her husband laughed with glee:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, darling. Make the dirty foot-pig suck away all your toe-jam. Give him his supper, for it’s the only food we will be giving him tonight!’

And so, slave Pierre lapped up his ‘supper’ of young asian woman’s toe-jam, a fitting complement to his afternoon meal of posh, riding-ladies’ boot muck and sock-lint.

Being a rented footslave really wasn’t all that bad! He hoped tomorrow would be as fulfilling.

Part 3 – The marathon runners (i)

Another day, another dollar. Not for the male rental-slaves of ‘Rent-A-Slave’, of course, but for the company – or if you want to be more precise for the female owner, managers and employees of the company.

Yes, slave Pierre, back in the showroom cage after his night slaving at the feet of mistress Parminder, knew that another day of unpaid foot-labour lay ahead of him, and that the fruits of his labour would end up lining the pockets of the likes of mistress Samantha, one of the showroom-assistants. He had come to fully accept this position over the years – not that it would matter if he hadn’t; he would still have to work for nothing, whilst women got rich on his labours. That was what being a male slave was all about: doing what you’re told, when you’re told by a superior female—whether you like it or not – and humbly accepting that your whole day, indeed your entire fate, is at the disposal of your mistresses.

For her part, mistress Samantha was feeling a bit hungover following her night of clubbing and dancing with her boyfriend. She was sitting at her desk in the centre of the showroom, attempting to preen herself using a small compact, and thinking how lucky she was that her job in the showroom was not too demanding, even to the extent that she could catch 40 winks in between showing potential customers around the slave cages if she needed to.

What the indolent and uncommitted employee, miss Samantha, had forgotten was that today was going to be a busy day for the local branch of ‘Rent-A-Slave’. She was supposed to be ‘acting supervisor’ in the showroom today. The sudden and unexpected arrival of the company boss, Madame Debroue, reminded her of the reason:

‘Good morning, Samantha. Are the slaves ready? The marathon organisers will be arriving in the next few minutes to pick them up!’

Miss Samantha quickly put away her compact mirror on hearing the unmistakeable, authoritative tones of Madame Debroue, the 40 year old owner and founder of ‘Rent-A-Slave’. As her name indicated, Madame Debroue was of French extraction – as, indeed was slave Pierre - although unlike Pierre Madame Debroue still spoke with a slight French accent, occasionally breaking into French when she was angry or frustrated and wanted to swear. Which was precisely what she was about to do now as Samantha had forgotten all about the annual ladies’ marathon, and had made no advance arrangements, even though her immediate supervisor had told her yesterday that she would be in charge of selecting and preparing 5 slaves to serve the ladies at the marathon event:

‘Oh…Ah… good morning, Madame Debroue,’ stuttered Samantha, quickly standing up and adjusting her red, uniform skirt to try to make herself look more presentable in front of the boss.

Madame Debroue, who like most frenchwomen of her age was always well turned-out, was not herself wearing the company uniform of white blouse, red skirt, tan-coloured stockings and shiny red high-heels. As the boss of the company she was considered above such things, and so instead she was wearing a smart, navy blue, pin-striped trouser suit, complete with frilly white blouse and black, patent-leather, maryjanes with two-inch, thick heels on dark nylon stockings. Although she had just turned forty, she still turned free men’s heads wherever she went, exuding as she did an air of sexual confidence and authority.

As for the male slaves in her company ‘Rent-A-Slave’, on the rare occasions they got to kiss her feet, they did so with the utmost respect, fear and humility.

‘Samantha, you haven’t forgotten about the marathon race today, have you?’ enquired Madame Debrue, a trace of annoyance entering her voice as she looked around the showroom and realised that none of the slaves appeared to be ready to go in the marathon organisers’ van that was due to collect them at any minute.

‘Erm..Ah…’

‘Merde!’ exclaimed Madame Debroue, stamping her right foot in its shiny, black strappy, maryjane-style shoe. ‘What have you been doing with yourself, girl! You look like you’ve just woken up! Pull yourself together! Didn’t you get the letter from my office last week reminding you of the order for 5 rental slaves for the ladies’ marathon? Didn’t your supervisor, Carole, explain to you that you were being left in charge of things this end whilst she sorted out the arrangements at the event itself?’

‘Erm..sorry, madame Debroue…yes, madame Debroue..I mean, no, Madame Debroue!’ stuttered Samantha.

You might think that slave Pierre, and the other slaves in the showroom, who could hear miss Samantha’s discomfort and embarrassment, would be enjoying the little scene of their lazy mistress getting her come-uppance from the company boss. But the male slaves knew better than to gloat over a mistress’s discomfort – such incidents invariably lead to suffering on their part, not on the part of the mistress who was at fault. In this society male slaves were the ‘whipping-boys’ for females – a woman could do no wrong, and whenever anything did go wrong it was the male slaves who ended up being punished, one way or another.

Slave Pierre braced himself for a difficult day.

‘Oh.. come along girl, let’s get five of them out of their cages. Hurry up! I trust that at least they’ve all been fed?’ sighed Madame Debroue in exasperation.

‘Oh yes, Madame!’ lied Samantha, who couldn’t be bothered to feed the slaves their daily ration of tasteless slave mush that morning, since she had a hangover and didn’t feel hungry herself.

‘Very well. You get those three over there, and I’ll deal with these two,’ said the boss, competently taking charge and sorting things out as female bosses tend to do when things are going wrong.

One of the ‘two’ that Madame Debroue had decided to ‘deal with’ was slave Pierre. He had only ever kissed her feet once before, and felt honoured to now be staring humbly at the tops of her shiny, black maryjane shoes and her dark nylons underneath the strap as she opened the door to his cage:

‘Out, slave!’ she barked, grabbing the chain that was attached to the collar around his neck, and pulling him rather roughly out of his cell-cage.

As soon as he was out, Madame Debroue extended her right foot directly under her kneeling property’s nose. She knew that, as his ultimate owner, she had no need to give this underling a verbal order to pay his humble respects to her feet and footwear. He may be her compatriot, but he was first and foremost a slave, and she was a superior woman. It was obvious to everyone what a well-trained slave has to do in such circumstances.

Slave Pierre unhesitatingly lowered his lips to touch the shiny leather on the top of Madame Debroue’s toes and audibly kissed. His face was only down there for a split second, but in the blink of a footslave’s eyelid he noticed so much about his supreme mistress’s feet and footwear: he noticed the pretty pattern of the black stitching around the rim of the shoe, and how a tiny hair was stuck to one of those stitches; he noticed that the strap covering the top of her foot was ever so slightly scuffed and turned up at the buckle end; he noticed tiny traces of street dust and dirt along the lower edge of the otherwise pristine shoe near the heel; and he could even see a small vein apparently pulsating under the sheer, dark nylon along the top of her foot in reaction to his humble kiss to her shoe-leather.

But above all there was the smell of a rich woman’s expensive, polished leather shoe – such a pleasant smell compared to the musty and sweaty smell of girls’ sneakers and trainers to which he was much more accustomed – not that a footslave has any right to complain about the state of any lady’s footwear; slave Pierre treated each and every feminine shoe he served with the utmost respect, be it the smart, strappy, block-heeled maryjane of his ultimate boss, Madame Debroue; the red-stiletto of his immediate superior, miss Samantha; or the dirty sneaker of some scruffy, unknown college girl.

As Madame Debroue replaced her outstretched right foot with her left for slave Pierre to respectfully kiss, she berated him, as was her right to do so:

‘You’re off to a bad start, today, slave! The contract I have with the organisers of the marathon is important to my company’s reputation – and therefore, by extension, to my own reputation. You’d better see to it that you pull your socks up - don’t let me down, boy, or I will personally flay you with a whip!’

Slave Pierre knew that a lady like Madame Debroue did not get where she was today without knowing how to whip male slaves; but he also appreciated her sense of mischievousness and humour. It wouldn’t be his socks he would be puling up all day (male slaves only wore two items of clothing – their metal slave collars with the company name and logo on them, and white slave shorts), but rather the socks of the female marathon runners, after they had finished their race, and after he had massaged and licked clean their tired, sore, bare feminine feet.

He had done it several times before – served at the local ladies’ marathon as a footslave; but, in all honesty, rather like miss Samantha, he had forgotten that the annual event was due to take place that day, although, unlike miss Samantha he didn’t have an excuse for being so forgetful.

Her excuse, of course, was that she was a mistress and could do no wrong. Besides, she had a hangover. For a slave, however, there can be no excuse. Madame Debroue was perfectly correct to be annoyed with him, and slave Pierre felt he owed her an apology:

‘Oh pray, Madame Debroue, this slave apologises for his forgetfulness and will strive to serve the superior female marathon-runners to the utmost of his ability, if it so pleases you, Madame.’

But even the forgetful and stupid slave Pierre knew that actions would speak louder than words, and he resolved to work particularly hard in soothing the lady-runners’ feet in the ‘recovery tent’ at the marathon finishing line.

He and his 4 colleagues were soon picked up by the van and transported to the tent where they were chained into separate, private cubicles. Each cubicle came equipped with a chair for the lady marathon-runner to sit in whilst the kneeling footslave washed her tired and aching, not to say sweaty, feet in a bowl of lukewarm water; a soft, fluffy, white towel for the slave to dry her feet; a couch for the lady to lie on if she so wished whilst her tired feet were being massaged by the kneeling slave; some band-aids or plasters for application to the lady’s feet if required; some refreshing fruit juice for the lady to drink; and, of course, last and least, a male footslave.

Slave Pierre, somewhat nervously, awaited his first customer. He was nervous not just because of Madame Debroue’s words of warning, but also because he knew from experience that it was going to be a very demanding day – not like the previous, relatively ‘cushy’, day at all.

The first customers, the experienced athletes who, naturally, finished the race before the other ‘amateur’ runners, would, even though they could be very demanding, probably be ‘easier’ to serve than the inexperienced runners who would require his services later in the day, for the experienced female athlete’s feet tended to be in better condition than the soft feet of the inexperienced runners who, he had noticed, often took part in the race without wearing proper running shoes. As a result their feet would inevitably be more blistered and sore – requiring even more careful handling and attention.

After just over two hours slave Pierre had his first customer – not, it seemed the winner of the race, who was too busy celebrating to have her feet attended to – but the rather disappointed runner-up.

She may have come second in the race, but to slave Pierre, as soon as she stepped into his cubicle and closed the door behind her, she was his number one priority. He was the slave-loser, not her.

The fit, young, black woman, who appeared to be in her early twenties, was almost in tears. He could hear it in her voice; but, unfortunately for him, he could also hear anger and frustration:

‘Take off my sneakers and rub my socks, dirty slave!’ she barked at him in a west-african accent as she slumped into the chair in front of which he was kneeling:

‘Yes, mistress. At once, mistress!’ responded Pierre, submissively. Always best to be very submissive when dealing with an emotional mistress.

He surmised that this young woman was one of the foreign contestants in the race. Many of the ‘elite’ runners came from abroad – they came from all over the world to take part in this rather exclusive ladies’ marathon. She sat with her face in her hands and appeared to be quietly sobbing to herself as slave Pierre carefully undid the laces of her white running-shoes and slipped them off to reveal a pair of very sweaty, brown-stained, white, low-cut sneaker socks.

The young woman appeared relieved to have her socked feet out of her shoes at last. She wiggled her toes in the air causing the white ankle-socks to fold and crease enticingly in front of slave Pierre’s face:

‘Get a move on, slave! And don’t touch my bare skin!’ she ordered, her mood clearly darkened by coming second in the race she had been hoping to win all year. Never mind – at least she could take out her anger and frustration on this stupid, male slave.

‘Yes Mistress. This slave obeys you, mistress.’

Slave Pierre admired the sharp contrast between the crisp, albeit sweat-stained, whiteness of the young, African female athlete’s low-cut ankle socks, which he was allowed to touch with his slave hands, and the soft, smooth brown skin of her ankles and legs, which, for the time being at least, he was not allowed to touch.

The young woman was quite petite, and her feet, correspondingly, small. The white ankle-socks only came up to her ankle bones, so he knew he had to be careful when massaging her socked feet, and to concentrate on the particularly sweaty, area beneath her toes – the area stained brown as a result of the sweat from her feet reacting with the insides of her white sneakers.

As he lifted her right socked foot off the ground and began gently manipulating his fingers over the damp sock he heard the young woman’s sobs turning to sighs of pleasure and relief. Slave Pierre, as you might expect of an experienced footslave, was a good foot and sock massager. For his part, he felt the moisture of the young black woman’s footsweat coming off her white socks and onto his slave hands – where it belonged. He was proud to be able to perform this service for her, and surreptitiously (for he had not been ordered to sniff her socked feet) breathed in through his slave nose in order to experience the full pungency of her west-african foot-odour.

It was an aroma fit for a footslave, and together mistress and footslave where momentarily in their own respective kinds of heaven; she with endorphins flowing though her body and brain as the slave gently massaged the nerve endings in her tired and sore feet through her socks; he surrounded by the intoxicating aroma of young woman’s footsweat, at one and the same time compelling, yet repugnant.

But, regardless of the fact that he had just taken her to heaven and back with his deft fingers rubbing her socks, miss Juliette still regarded the pathetic footslave at her feet as fair game for her frustration at not coming first in the marathon. Indeed, in her mind, he was in some way to blame. And she was right to think that – for she was a superior mistress after all, and the mind of a mistress is always right.

She bent down and, for no reason at all other than that she wanted to, slapped the footslave hard across the face – twice.

‘Finish slave! Now take off my socks and wash my feet – and make sure you don’t touch my bare ankles with your dirty, slave hands while you are removing my socks!’ she spat at him.

Slave Pierre realised that he was subject to the rather capricious whims of a somewhat tetchy mistress. He would have to touch her bare feet with his ‘dirty, slave hands’ - the same hands which, incidentally, had soothed her socked feet so professionally - when he came to wash her feet. And yet the young African mistress could not, it seemed, bear to have him touch her footskin whilst he was removing her socks.

So be it. A mistress orders; a slave obeys.

Slave Pierre carefully pulled off the young woman’s short, damp, white socks from the toe-ends, and respectfully placed them on the ground next to the bowl of water in which he then placed his female superior’s bare feet. And he did think of her as his superior. She may have only come second in the race today, but she was light years better than him; young; fit; attractive; dominant and cruel. All the qualities he lacked.

When the socks were off they revealed a pair of well-kept, pretty, brown feet that showed little sign of any lasting damage as a result of the race. No blisters or cuts – just some areas of redness at the back of the heels. These were undoubtedly the experienced feet of an accomplished and well-trained female, African athlete.

As he gently cradled her petite, soft, hot, bare african foot in his left hand inside the bowl of water, and ladled the soothing water over it with his right hand, she thanked him by bending down and slapping him hard again across his left cheek:

‘Use your slave mouth, stupid slave! I want you to wash between my toes with your tongue! Dip your tongue in the dirty water and then run it between my toes, filthy pig!’

Slave Pierre, his face now stinging and red, obeyed the angry young African athlete. Her toenails were unpainted allowing him to see close-up the sexy contrast between the pink flesh under her toenails and the darker, brown skin of her actual toes. He observed also that, perhaps inevitably given that she had just completed a marathon race, there were considerable quantities of black, sweaty, toe-jam under her unpainted toenails – particularly under the big toenail on her right foot. He resolved to remove that offending toe jam with his watered tongue. He was sure the young African mistress would expect him to.

And he was at last right about something that day. Miss Juliette did expect the pathetic slave to remove with his tongue, and to swallow, any toe jam or toe cheese that he detected down there. She was, after all, an african goddess, and her toe jam was, as far as she was concerned, the only sustenance he was fit to eat. As it so happened, of course, unbeknown to her, that was the only sustenance he had received that day – thanks to the wilful neglect of mistress Samantha.

Whilst she watched contentedly as the male slave’s mouth experienced the salty taste of her foot sweat and her black toe cheese, she poured herself some ice-cold fruit juice in order that her own taste buds were stimulated in a manner more befitting of a free woman. In her heart of hearts she, rather perversely, wished the slave wasn’t so good at his job; she would have liked an excuse to slap him some more, not that she needed any excuse, but she actually found herself not wanting to interrupt him in his humble and demeaning task of washing her feet with his slave tongue – it was just so relaxing!

Never mind, at least she would soon have the satisfaction of humiliating him by making him put her dirty, sweaty, white ankle socks back onto her freshly washed feet – thereby negating all the good work he had done.

Miss Juliette had the slave dry her feet with the towel and then took great pleasure in ordering him to pick up the sweaty pair of white ankle socks:

‘Slave, put my socks back on my feet and make sure again that you do not touch my bare feet with your slave fingers, or I will have you whipped!’

This young woman really did not like having her bare feet touched by a dirty slave. Slave Pierre realise how honoured he had been to be permitted by her to even cradle her bare feet in his dirty, slave hands.

But he shouldn’t have been thinking about that. He should have been concentrating on the sock in hand because, having successfully donned her right sock, as he pulled the short, white sock onto her precious left foot the knuckle of his right index finger inadvertently brushed against the young woman’s outer ankle bone. It was only the faintest of touches – but he had felt it, and, more to the point, so had she.

Mistress Juliette went ballistic. She now had the perfect excuse to rain dozens of slaps across the careless footslave’s penitent face if she wished to. And she did wish to:

‘Dirty, stupid slave!’ ...slap! slap!...’What did I tell you about touching my bare skin?’… slap!...slap!...’How dare you touch my foot without permission!’ … slap! slap!...’I am going to have you whipped for this, disobedient slave!’… slap! slap!

There was a knock on the cubicle door and a lady entered:

‘Is everything all right, young miss?’

Slave Pierre recognised the lady’s voice and his heart sank. It was Madame Debroue. Now he was in real trouble!

The young woman, sounding more and more African the more outraged she became, explained to the kind, smartly-suited lady what the problem was:

‘I cannot believe it! This slave has just disobeyed me by touching my ankle while he was putting my sock back onto my feet – even though I told him not to touch my bare skin!’ she exclaimed incredulously.

Madame Debroue took a deep breath, bit her lip, and resolved in her mind, there and then, that she would personally punish this disobedient and disrespectful slave in front of the other slaves back in the showroom that very evening – 20 lashes with the company bull-whip should teach him some manners! Just who does he think he is? Does he think he is too high and mighty to obey a young African woman just because she is some thirty years his junior?

Yes, Madame Debroue was equally incredulous at the recalcitrant slave’s wanton disobedience:

‘I am so sorry, miss! I can absolutely assure you that this slave will be severely punished!’

‘I want him whipped!’ screamed the young African woman, ‘I want the skin removed from his back!’

‘I can assure you it will be, miss. I shall see to it myself this very evening. Please accept my invitation to come to our showroom and witness his punishment. You are also welcome to administer part of his punishment if you so wish, or, if you prefer, I shall personally whip him at your feet.’

This offer seemed to go a long way in placating the young athlete. She very much liked the idea of witnessing the slave suffering at her feet – the feet he had so rudely abused.

‘Thank you, Madam. I will see if I can make it. But for now I just want to go and have a lie down. I am feeling very tired!’

‘Yes certainly, miss. I understand’ replied Madame Debroue ‘but first you must permit me to make the slave kiss your feet and apologise for his unacceptable behaviour!’

For the first time since ‘losing’ her race miss Juliette smiled. It was a victor’s smile, for she realised that although she may have lost the marathon, she had ‘won’ with regard to the slave: he had massaged her socked feet with his slave hands, washed her bare feet with his slave tongue, and swallowed her sweaty toe jam with his slave mouth – and he had done it all well – yet she was still going to have him punished.

Yes – life was sweet if you were a superior young woman!

She remained seated in her chair, content to watch as the smartly-dressed businesswoman, Madame Debroue, ordered the soon-to-be-punished footslave to put the white sneakers back onto the young African athlete’s dirty-socked feet, and then to kiss them:

‘Slave, you will kiss the young lady’s feet ten times each, and, in between each kiss you will beg her forgiveness and humbly request that she agree to witness your forthcoming punishment. Start with her right foot! Move! Vites! Vites!’

Madame Debroue’s voice was palpably impatient and slave Pierre, who was now the only one sobbing in the cubicle, quickly and obediently lowered his face to the young, African woman’s right training shoe:

‘Please forgive this dirty slave for his disobedience, mistress, and do him the honour of witnessing his punishment later this evening, if it so pleases you mistress,’ he dutifully whined before kissing the top of her dirty, sweaty white running shoe.

He then repeated the process – nine times on her right foot, followed by ten times on her left. By the end of his act of contrition miss Juliette was in no doubt that the slave was genuinely sorry and had learnt his lesson – that lesson being that a slave must never allow himself to be clumsy or lacking in concentration when carrying out a mistress’s orders.

But, be that as it may, Juliette still wanted the slave punished, and decided she would accede to his humble request to witness his flogging later that evening.

She left thanking Madame Debroue for her help – another satisfied customer!

Not that Madame Debroue was satisfied. Before leaving the cubicle to make way for slave Pierre’s next customer, she crouched down beside the kneeling, still sobbing footslave, and whispered into his right ear:

‘Mon Dieu, vous allez souffrir ce soir, esclave ! Vous sentirez mon fouet s'enrouler autour de vos nervures, et saurez ce que signifie-t-il d’être puni par moi!'

To paraphrase – she was informing him that he would know that very evening exactly what it meant to be whipped by her across his bare ribs.

As he listened to his owner’s threats in their respective native language, slave Pierre continued sobbing and repeatedly kissed the patent, black leather straps of his superior French tormentress’s shiny, black, patent-leather, maryjane-style shoes.

Part 4 – The marathon runners (ii)

Slave Pierre had some 45 minutes before his next customer entered his cubicle for some foot-attention – 45 minutes in which to mull over his impending whipping at the fair hands of Madame Debroue that evening. But he was a well-trained and conditioned footslave – far too conditioned to a life of humble servitude to allow the prospect of a well-deserved flogging to affect his performance as a footslave. As soon as the next customer entered, he was all slave.

He could tell just from the way she was kitted out that this was one of the first of the amateur runners. It was a young brunette in her mid to late twenties. Her footwear consisting of a rather cheap and tatty looking pair of bog-standard, black sneakers just wasn’t up to the professional standards of the previous footwear of the beautiful african runner – miss Juliette – and even his new customer’s thin, light grey ankle socks looked inadequate for the purposes of protecting her feet against the inevitable stresses and strains of running a marathon. Besides, unlike the svelte and athletically built african goddess before her, this young white woman was ever so slightly ‘podgy’ in her physique – still an attractive young woman, but not anywhere near as fit looking as the race runner-up, miss Juliette.

Yes, this young woman was undoubtedly an amateur, although evidently a bit more than just a so-called ‘fun’ runner – she can’t have done too badly finishing just 45 minutes or so after the runner-up!

Furthermore, she was not alone. She was accompanied into the cubicle by another young woman of a similar age who appeared to be one of the spectators, for she was not dressed in running gear, but rather was wearing blue, denim jeans and white, stiletto-heeled, strappy, sling-back sandals on bare, pasty-white feet. Slave Pierre could tell from the two girls’ conversation as they entered his booth that they were good friends:

‘Really, you’ve done brilliantly, Adrianne! There’s just no way I could have done that in anything like that time!’ the young woman in strappy sandals was exclaiming.

Certainly not in those heels, thought slave Pierre.

‘Aw, thanks, Julie…but I have to tell you, I am completely knackered! And my feet are absolutely killing me!’

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry, sweetie – that’s what this dork is for – to soothe your hot and sweaty feet! Hey you there, the slave, kiss my girlfriend’s sneakers and get yourself ready to do some serious foot pampering!’

Slave Pierre obeyed the young woman with the strappy sandals, mistress Julie, and humbly lowered his slave lips to touch the top of her friend, miss Adrianne’s, black, leather sneaker which was now, helpfully, stretched out beneath his kneeling face.

Even the outside of the black sneaker smelt hot and sweaty. Slave Pierre braced himself – the next few minutes were going to involve a lot of hot, feminine foot-odour and, doubtless, the taste of salty, feminine footsweat.

Miss Adrianne audibly giggled as she felt the slave’s lips on the upper toe of her right sneaker. She didn’t own a footslave herself, and wasn’t that used to having a man, let alone an old man (slave Pierre, remember, was 49 years old), grovelling at her feet.

She quickly replaced her right foot with her left:

‘And the other one, slave-dork!’ she barked, clearly beginning to relish having such an old man in her sweet feminine power.

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, Adrianne, make him pay his respects to your sneakers – it’s all he’s good for! He’s nothing but a dirty, ugly, wrinkly old footslave! Why don’t you kick him in the face before you make him take off your sneakers and sniff your socks?’ suggested miss Julie to her friend.

Slave Pierre could tell already that miss Julie was much more accustomed to handling slaves than miss Adrianne was.

The latter just laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! I’d love to kick his face in, but my feet are just too sore and tired! I really do need to lie down and take the weight off my tired little tootsies!’

‘OK, honey, well you can just lie back on this couch then, and I’ll make the slave take off your shoes and socks for you and give you a nice footrub!’

As miss Adrianne all-too-eagerly adopted her friend’s suggestion, miss Julie gave slave Pierre his next orders:

‘You, the footslave, take off my friend’s sneakers and rub your nose in her socks. You’re going to massage her feet with your face! Move, slave!’

Slave Pierre jumped to it. He could tell from the tone in miss Julie’s voice that she was not a young woman to be trifled with.

Silently (for he had not yet been given permission to speak), and obediently, he knelt at the now fully reclined miss Adrianne’s feet and, keeping his eyes humbly focussed on her feet and footwear, untied the laces, first on her right, then on her left sneaker and pulled the dusty, black, cheap-looking sneakers off the slightly podgy brunette’s grey-socked feet.

The sneakers came off with a ‘whooshing’ sound as the hot, inner, sweaty foot-air was suddenly released – engulfing slave Pierre in the all too familiar aroma of pungent-smelling footsweat.

Miss Julie laughed:

‘God, Adrianne, those bitches stink! I can smell them from here! Ha! Ha! He must be suffocating down there!’

Slave Pierre was not, in actual fact, suffocating, but he did feel a little light headed caused by the lack of clean air and the overpowering sweaty aroma emanating from miss Adrianne’s light-grey, socked feet.

‘Well, what do you expect, Jules? I mean, I have just run a marathon! Get his nose down in there, will you, hon?’

‘Sure thing, sweetie! Slave, you heard my mate - get your ugly, slave nose into my friend’s socks. I want to see you bury that nose in those sweaty, grey socks, and I want to hear you sniffing them as you rub your nose up and down the length of her socks. Do it!’

Slave Pierre wasted no time in plunging his nose right into the bottom of miss Adrianne’s socks. Helpfully, she had rested both her feet together on the edge of the couch, so that his entire face could be engulfed in her sweaty, socked feet.

Now that he could see the young woman’s socks close up his earlier suspicions were confirmed. These were not proper running socks. They felt nice and soft on his face, but they were much too thin to afford any real protection to a female, amateur marathon runner’s soft, feminine feet, and the left sock even had a small hole on the bottom, revealing a tiny patch of hot, red foot. He could only guess at what condition her poor, bare feet must be in inside those socks!

But for now he had been ordered to sniff-massage miss Adrianne’s grey-socked

feet with his face, and that was exactly what he did – and evidently to the high standards demanded by the spectator, miss Julie.

‘That’s right, slave-pig, let us hear you grunting as you sniff Adrianne’s socks. Come on, grunt and snuffle like a pig as you breathe in her sweaty socks through your pig-shaped nose! Grunt! Come on! Oink! Oink!’

Slave Pierre pandered to miss Julie’s whims and duly grunted like a pig as he sniffed and face-massaged miss Adrianne’s grey socks.

The two girls laughed.

‘Ha! Ha! If it looks like a pig, and grunts like a pig – it is a pig!’ bellowed miss Julie.

‘Yeah. The slave-pig is sniffing my piggies!’ quipped miss Adrianne. ‘Smell my little piggies through my socks, piggy-wiggy slave boy!’

Slave Pierre continued to snuffle and ‘oink’ as he obediently concentrated on the sweatiest parts of miss Adrianne’s socks – the areas around her toes or ‘piggies’.

‘Ha! Ha! Do you know, I think he actually likes the smell, Adrianne!’ exclaimed miss Julie somewhat incredulously.

‘Do you think so?’ replied her friend. ‘Why don’t you ask him? Ask him if he likes the smell of my sweaty, putrid socks?’

‘Ha! Ha! I will! Slave, do you like the smell of my friend’s sweaty, grey socks? Do you like girls’ sweaty socks in general? Is that what you crave for and yearn for every day? Is it? Is it?’

Now, for the first time, slave Pierre was being given permission to speak and to answer mistress Julie’s perfectly reasonable, if sarcastic, question:

‘Oh yes, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave does indeed appreciate the pungent aroma of Miss Adrianne’s socks, and acknowledges that he has indeed developed a hankering for the smell of sweaty, feminine socks – on account of his being a pathetic footslave, if it so pleases you mistress.’

The two girls laughed at the footslave’s cringingly awful, obsequious response, but neither could tell if he really meant it or not. He certainly sounded sincere, but Julie, in particular, could not bring herself to believe that the slave could really be enjoying the awful, cheesy smell of marathon-run socks.

She decided, therefore, to make trouble for the slave who must have been lying to her:

‘Don’t just smell my friend’s toes, foot-pig, smell the rest of her socks also - run your nose up to the top of her ankles. And who gave you permission to refer to my friend by her name? Did you give him permission to do so, Adrianne?’

Slave Pierre realised instantly his presumptuousness had been an error. Many mistresses, perhaps most, loved to hear slaves address them as ‘mistress’ or ‘miss’, followed by their first name – but not all. And if a mistress wanted to make an issue out of it, she could.

‘I don’t believe I did, Julie! Would you please punish him for me and give him a good kick up the backside?’

‘It’d be my pleasure, hon!’ replied miss Julie, and just as slave Pierre’s nose had reached the elasticated, grey top of miss Adrianne’s left ankle sock he suddenly felt the pointy toe of a sharp, white stiletto making contact with his anus and causing his nose to, inadvertently, brush against miss Adrianne’s bare calf.

Slave Pierre didn’t know which to be more distressed by – the sudden pain in his backside or the anger of miss Adrianne:

‘Get off me, pig! How dare you touch my bare leg with your ugly face!’ and with that she pushed him away with her socked, left foot.

‘What happened?’ enquired miss Julie, seemingly innocently.

Miss Adrianne was sitting up on the couch now and looking and sounding somewhat flustered:

‘I can’t believe what this dirty slave-pig has just done! Not only did he refer to me by my first name without permission, but he then rubs his nose against my bare leg - also without permission!’

Miss Julie, it seemed, was now beside herself with outrage at the incompetent slave’s behaviour:

‘What? He did what?’, and there followed several more painful, pointy-toed kicks to slave Pierre’s butt.

Of course, as he was being kick-punished, the irony was not lost on slave Pierre that it was miss Julie’s first, sudden kick to his anus that had caused his nose to slip off the top of miss Adrianne’s grey ankle sock and onto her bare, white calf.

But there would have been absolutely no point in trying to make excuses for himself. For an experienced footslave should always anticipate such eventualities, and should not react in such an amateurish way to sudden pain. After all, he was a slave – and pain is part and parcel of a slave’s everyday existence.

No, all he could do was beg the girls for mercy and hope that they didn’t attract the attentions of Madame Debroue again. Another dissatisfied customer was the last thing slave Pierre needed at that moment!

‘Oh pray, mistresses, please forgive this dirty slave for his indiscretion, most beautiful and supremely powerful young mistresses. I throw myself at your mercy!’

And with that slave Pierre took another enormous risk, and began showering miss Adrianne’s socked feet with respectful kisses. It was a calculated gamble – for it would either placate her, and hence her friend miss Julie, or would anger them both even further.

Luckily for slave Pierre the gamble paid off – for miss Adrianne liked the feel of having her socked feet kissed by a distressed, ‘elderly’, male slave.

Miss Julie had, thankfully, stopped kicking him, leaving his anus feeling somewhat battered and bruised. Both girls were, it seemed, now content to watch whilst the duly chastened slave paid penitence towards his mistress’s socks.

‘Ha! Ha! What a loser! First he gropes your leg and then he kisses your socks!’ exclaimed miss Julie happily.

‘Yeah, what a dork! Make him take off my socks now, Julie, I want to feel him licking and kissing my bare feet!’ requested miss Adrianne, again lying back, face upwards, on the couch – her socked feet dangling over the edge directly in front of slave Pierre’s kneeling face.

Miss Julie liked giving the slave orders on behalf of her best friend:

‘You heard my friend, slave-boy, now do as she says – pull off her sweaty socks with your teeth and then start soothing her hot, sore, bare feet with your slave tongue. Do it now!’

‘Yes mistress’ whimpered slave Pierre, before grabbing miss Adrianne’s right sock at the toe end with his teeth - needless to say taking great care not to touch her actual toes with his teeth through the thin, cotton material of the smelly, light- grey sock – and gently pulling it off her podgy foot, before repeating the process with her left sock.

After he had deposited the two socks on the ground, he raised his head to foot-level again and studied, momentarily, miss Adrianne’s bare feet.

As he had feared, they were in pretty bad condition following the long, marathon run. The cheap, black sneakers and thin grey ankle socks had done little to protect the young woman’s precious feet. On the side of her right foot, in particular, were the makings of a blister – it was quite obvious where the inside of her sneaker had been rubbing against the side of her foot through the thin material of the grey sock. The heels too – both of them – looked rather red and sore; and the unpainted toenails contained the unmistakable traces of black, cheesy, sweaty toejam underneath.

Slave Pierre braced himself, and went in, for a rental-footslave has no choice as to the condition of the female feet he serves.

He began by gently kissing and licking the tenderest, reddest areas of miss Adrianne’s bare feet. He was a little bit concerned that his saliva might cause her some discomfort on the raw areas, particularly on the area of the developing blister on the side of her right foot. But, fortunately for him, miss Adrianne appeared to be finding his humble mouth-ministrations nothing other than soothing – at least, if her little moans and sighs of pleasure were anything to go by.

Slave Pierre was quite glad that the young brunette’s feet were rather podgy as it helped him to get good purchase on her feet with his tongue. The smell, somewhat surprisingly, was not too bad – most of the sweat seemed to have attached itself to her socks as he could still smell them on the floor.

Miss Julie appeared concerned about her friend’s impending blister:

‘God, Adrianne, look at that red mark on the side of your foot! It’s still red even after the slave has been licking it! Is it not really sore?’

‘It is a bit’,’ replied her friend, ‘but I think the slave has actually helped to cool it down.’

Slave Pierre, pathetically, felt a surge of slavish pride pulse through him.

‘I’m glad he’s good for something then!’ laughed miss Julie. ‘I think we’d better have him put a plaster on it for you, though.’

‘Yeah – that’d be a good idea. Make him dry my foot first though.’

Miss Julie went to pick up the nearby, white towel, but then had second thoughts as an evil grin spread across her petty features:

‘Slave, use your hair to dry miss Adrianne’s foot!’

Slave Pierre was going a bit thin on top but still had enough hair to dry a lady’s foot. He wondered whether it was such a good idea, however, to dry miss Adrianne’s blistered foot with his dirty, greasy hair – after all, it wouldn’t be very hygienic and might even risk, God forbid, infecting the wound.

But neither miss Julie nor miss Adrianne appeared he slightest bit concerned at that possibility. They were young and impulsive, and much too keen to humiliate the slave by making him use his hair as a ladies’ foot-towel.

And so, to the young women’s whoops of delight, slave Pierre used the top of his head to dry his slave saliva off miss Adrianne’s blistered, bare foot.

‘Now put this plaster on her foot, slave – put it over that red bit on the side of her foot,’ ordered miss Julie, handing him a sticking plaster from the box provided.

Slave Pierre somewhat gingerly, and with the greatest of respect, put the sticking plaster over the would-be blister on the side of miss Adrianne’s right foot, and breathed a sigh of relief that she showed no signs of discomfort or dissatisfaction with the way he performed this ‘operation’. Slave Pierre was well aware that he was not a trained chiropodist. He was a licker of feet – not a foot-doctor. But he seemed to have done ok.

‘What about your feet, Julie? You’ve been standing by the side of the road in those stilettos for several hours! Don’t you fancy a footrub?’

From the tone of her voice it was evident that Miss Julie had not even considered this possibility until now – but the idea definitely seemed to appeal to her:

‘What a great idea, honey! I’ll make him put your shoes and socks back on, and then he can service my feet!’

‘Cool!’ exclaimed miss Adrianne, pulling herself forward on the couch until she was seated at the footslave’s end with her legs dangling in the air under his kneeling face.

‘Slave, put my friend’s shoes and socks back on her feet. You’re going to attend to my feet next!’ barked miss Julie in a very matter-of-fact manner.

And it was a matter of fact – for that was exactly what slave Pierre was going to do.

Miss Adrianne did nothing to help him as he picked up each sweaty, grey sock, rolled them up, and then pulled them onto her podgy, white feet.

‘Turn them down at the cuff, slave’ she ordered, indicating the way she preferred to wear her ankle socks.

Slave Pierre obeyed his mistress, as befits a humble sockslave. He then put her dirty, black sneakers back on her feet and expertly tied the laces.

Two final respectful kisses, one on the toe of each sneaker, and miss Adrianne’s black-sneakered and grey-socked podgy feet were suddenly replaced by the much thinner and narrower, pointy white-stilettoed feet of miss Julie as she took Adrianne’s place on the edge of the couch.

These feet were much pastier in colour, and veinier, than miss Adrianne’s had been. Slave Pierre could see a particularly prominent, long blue vein running under the three, buckle-ended straps that covered the top of miss Julie’s right foot. The hems of her jeans had also ridden up to reveal somewhat boney, albeit shapely, white ankles.

Slave Pierre got the impression that miss Julie was somewhat self-conscious about her feet. For the first time she sounded a little bit shy and vulnerable – not at all like the young harridan she had appeared to be hitherto:

‘How do you like my feet, slave? Do you think they look nice?’

There is only one way that a footslave can honestly answer such a question - he likes all young women’s feet, whatever their shape, colour or condition. For that’s what he is there for – to serve women’s feet.

His answer, therefore, was heartfelt and honest:

‘Oh yes, mistress, this slave truly admires his mistress’s beautiful feet, if it so pleases you mistress’

Miss Julie was pleased and reassured – and therefore able to return to her, more natural, dominant mode:

‘Kiss my sandals, slave. Pay your respects to my shoes!’

Slave Pierre immediately lowered his lips to the pointy white leather toe of miss Julie’s right foot as it hovered in the air and dutifully kissed it. As he did so he smelt the polished white leather, he noticed a tiny, black scuff mark at the base of the toe, and he observed how the prominent vein on the top of her foot appeared to pulsate in reaction to his humble act of submission and subservience.

He also noticed, for the first time, how terribly cracked miss Julie’s heels were at the back – for he could now see them close up and clearly thanks to the open-heels of her sexy, sling-backs. Instead of being repulsed by the dry, flakey, feminine heels, however, he wanted to moisten them for her with his tongue – to attempt to lick away the dead skin and the cracks and freshen up her heels for her. For slave Pierre was quite taken with miss Julie. He was struck by her mixture of vulnerability and dominance, by her delicate, somewhat wirey build and yet her undoubted propensity to cause him pain.

In short - he liked her!

But it was not for him to suggest such an intimate service. If it was for anyone to suggest it was for miss Julie herself, or possibly her friend, miss Adrianne.

Luckily for slave Pierre, miss Adrianne just happened to be thinking the exact same thing:

‘Make him take off your sandals and suck and lick your bare heels, Julie! They look a bit sore and chapped. Make him soften them with his slave tongue!’

Julie, no longer, it seemed, embarrassed by the state of her feet, happily agreed:

‘Ha! Ha! Now you’re talking, Adrianne! Slave, you heard! Unbuckle my sandals and then lick my hard and dry heels until they’re nice and soft again!’

Slave Pierre needed no further encouragement:

‘Yes, mistress! At once, mistress!’, and with that he unbuckled each of the three white straps on each of miss Julie’s white, leather sandals, slipped them off her feet to reveal long, rather boney toes but with delightful, purple-painted toenails, and then moved his head round to the back of the young woman’s heels in order to begin lathering them with his tongue.

He could feel tiny pieces of dry skin coming off onto his tongue. He gratefully swallowed them, for the thought of the delectable miss Julie’s dead footskin being inside his mouth and stomach actually filled him with slavish pride.

Miss Julie was clearly enjoying the experience every bit as much a slave Pierre was:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slavey! Lick your mistress’s heels. Lick away all the dead skin and soften them up for her!’ she exhorted.

Miss Adrianne, on the other hand, appeared somewhat put out by slave Pierre’s thinly disguised enthusiasm for her friend Julie’s cracked heels – an enthusiasm that, rightly or wrongly, she had not detected in him when he had earlier been sniffing her grey socks and licking her sore, sweaty feet. She decided, therefore, to try to make trouble for the disrespectful slave. Whilst he was concentrating on mistress Julie’s dead heel-skin, and miss Julie was closing her eyes and revelling in the feel of the slave’s tongue lapping away at her heels like a puppy-dog, miss Adrianne loosened the lace on her right sneaker.

‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed.

‘What? What is it?’ shouted Julie, somewhat startled.

‘Just look at my lace! It’s not been tied properly!’

‘What?’ exclaimed miss Julie incredulously, swivelling round on the couch to look down at her friend’s outstretched sneaker. Sure enough, the black lace was partially undone, and the end was trailing on the ground.

‘I could have tripped or anything!’ cried miss Adrianne, feigning outrage.

Slave Pierre could detect miss Julie’s mood-swing in an instant. She had previously kicked him with her pointy-toed stiletto sling-backs in the butt. This time she bent down to slap him hard, and repeatedly, across the face with her bony, right hand:

‘Dirty, good-for-nothing pig! Now we know why you’re just a loser rental-slave. No young woman could ever trust you to look after her footwear properly! Just what did you think you were doing by not tying my girlfriend’s laces properly? Do you think you’re like, too high and mighty to tie a girl’s shoe laces, or something?’

Miss Julie then jumped off the couch and put her own sandals back on her veiny feet – she clearly didn’t trust the footslave to do it properly.

‘Come on, Adrianne, we’re leaving – and we’re going to report this dirty slave for his negligence. Let’s see whether the sting of the whip will teach him how to tie a woman’s shoelaces properly!’

Adrianne smiled, spat in slave Pierre’s face, and stormed out of the cubicle after her friend, miss Julie – apparently now unconcerned that she might trip over her shoelace.

Slave Pierre heard the familiar French accent of Madame Debroue immediately outside the tent:

‘Is there a problem, young ladies?’

His heart sank.

Part 5 – The Japanese Family

Slave Pierre is unwell.

Let’s just say that he didn’t take his punishment at the fair hands of Madame Debroue like a man and, as a consequence, he is temporarily indisposed.

Then again, what did you expect? After all, slave Pierre is not a man – he’s a slave.

Fortunately, he is not an essential element of our story – he is just one of many slaves employed by the company ‘Rent-A-Slave’, so, whilst he is licking his wounds, we can follow the misfortunes of one of his fellow-footslaves – slave Stephen.

Slave Stephen is much younger than slave Pierre. He is in his late twenties, quite stockily built and much stronger and fitter. Slave Stephen, for example, would probably not have needed quite as much time off to recuperate from a well-deserved flogging.

Yet, unfortunately for him, slave Stephen is every bit as much at the mercy of those women he serves as his older, weaker colleague, and slave Stephen is very much aware of that. As a result, slave Stephen is always ultra-submissive and obedient towards his female customers.

Slave Stephen would actually make a very good family footslave. Which is just as well, because his next assignment was to be just that – albeit for a week only.

Forty-five year old Mr Asakawa had a problem. He had moved to Europe with his 39 year-old wife, Haruko, their 19 year old daughter, Kimi, and his younger sister, 30 year old miss Yumiko, from Japan nearly two weeks ago to take up his position as European Director of a Japanese bank. Everything was going well – the family were settling in to their new surroundings; their house was wonderful; his wife had obtained a position in the new office as his personal assistant; his daughter was settled at college where she was undertaking a course in media studies; and his sister was happy, as she had been back in Japan, to stay at home and do all the housework in return for her free board and lodging.

Well, nearly all the housework. You see, there was just one setback – the Asakawa family footslave was still being held in quarantine, and the ladies’ piles of dirty socks, stockings and tights were starting to build up! Miss Yumiko drew the line at hand-washing hosiery – including her own. Such things were beneath her, and the family therefore employed a male slave, slave Jun, to wash the female family members’ dirty socks and polish their feminine footwear. Miss Yumiko was more than happy to supervise slave Jun in these chores – but she point blank refused to stoop to such menial work herself. She saw herself very much as the family’s unofficial housekeeper – not the boot-boy!

And so from day one in their new home she had been pestering her brother to get a temporary rental slave whilst they awaited slave Jun to clear through quarantine. She accepted that a dirty slave had to go through a period of quarantine – it was only right and proper. But who was going to wash the dirty feminine socks in the meantime? After two weeks of nagging, she was joined by Mrs Asakawa and Kimi, both of whom were becoming increasingly frustrated at the ever diminishing supply of clean socks and tights they had to wear.

It didn’t occur to anyone in the household to simply throw the dirty feminine hosiery into the washing machine along with all the other clothes. Feminine hosiery had always been hand-washed by male slaves in the Asakawa household. It was just a family tradition!

And so, at last, after two long weeks and an indication from the authorities that slave Jun would have to spend at least another week in quarantine, Mr Asakawa had relented, and he, together with his wife and sister, were now standing in the showroom of ‘Rent-A-Slave’, eyeing up the goods.

To miss Yumiko there could be no doubt as to which one they should take – the handsome, strong looking slave in cage no 3 – slave Stephen to you and me. She had been convinced from the time she very first set eyes on him that she could get a lot of work out of him. His hang-dog expression made him look suitably submissive and obedient, yet his muscles undoubtedly indicated a propensity for hard work. Besides, he was incredibly good looking – semi naked apart from his slave shorts, slave collar, and chains as he knelt in the showroom cage.

You could say that, for Miss Yumiko, it was slave-at-first-sight!

For their part, Mr and Mrs Asakawa were reasonably happy to go along with whatever Yumiko wanted – after all, she would be the one at home all day directing the slave’s chores. But Mr Asakawa just wanted to make sure before he put his money down that the slave was experienced in handling ladies’ delicate hosiery, and wasn’t just some sort of muscle-bound, brutish work-slave, accustomed to heavy labour like breaking rocks. He certainly looked like he spent a lot of time breaking rocks!

Mr Asakawa turned to the young, female sales assistant, miss Rebecca (miss Samantha was on holiday):

‘Slave know how to wash women dirty socks? Wife and daughter have many socks and tights - need wash by hand.’

And what about my dirty socks, thought his sister, Yumiko? Don’t they count?

Miss Rebecca was confident in slave Stephen’s ability to humbly hand-wash female socks:

‘Oh yes, sir, I can assure you that this slave is an excellent sock-washer. And he knows how to polish female shoes and boots properly too. Like all our slaves he has been well-trained!’

Excellent, thought Yumiko. He can make a start on my dirty and scuffed red leather ankle boots when we get him home!

Mr and Mrs Asakawa held a brief conversation in Japanese, then consulted Yumiko, before Mr Asakawa finally announced his decision:

‘We take him for one week, but bring slave back if daughter not like.’

The two Japanese ladies beamed with delight, as an equally pleased miss Rebecca, moved over to unlock the cage:

‘I’m sure your daughter won’t be disappointed, sir, but if there are any problems at all please don’t hesitate to return the slave and we’ll give you a full refund.’

That was perfectly true – it was company policy to not only refund customers who were dissatisfied, but also to invite them to witness the slave being physically chastised for his ineptitude or disobedience – as evidenced so eloquently by slave Pierre who was at that moment still lying in the recovery cell.

As slave Stephen was led out of the cage on his hands and knees by the red-stilettoed showroom assistant, miss Rebecca, he caught his first close-up glance of one of his new Japanese mistresses’ feet and footwear. They were the white ballet-style flats and black socks of miss Yumiko, who was to be his taskmistress – not that slave Stephen had any understanding yet of the make-up of this particular family. All he knew – all he needed to know – was that miss Yumiko was a superior female whom he was now duty-bound to serve as a footslave, whatever her status within the Asakawa household.

Miss Yumiko was also, quite literally, keen to ‘get off on the right foot’ with her new slave, and so she immediately stretched out her right foot under the kneeling slave’s nose, pulled up the hem of her blue, denim jean by an inch or so to ensure he had a full view of her black sock, and gave him her first order:

‘Slave kiss Yumiko foot. Kiss Yumiko black sock!’

Slave Stephen would actually have preferred to kiss the 30 year old Japanese woman’s white ballet shoe. It looked so cute and delicious – shiny white, but with numerous little creases in the white leather and one or two scuff marks around the toe. But he had been very specifically ordered to kiss the young woman’s black sock, and she had kindly raised the hem of her jean to better enable him to do so; presumably she wanted to really feel his slave-lips on her foot. And so, the sock it was.

As he placed his mouth onto the part of the sock covering the top of her foot he felt little balls of black sock lint on his lips. The sock was quite thick and the stitching rather heavy. He guessed it was an ankle-length sock, but the top of the sock disappeared up the mistress’s jean-leg, so he couldn’t be sure. Anyway, he had to concentrate on the area of sock he was kissing, and so he focused in on a tiny piece of white fluff stuck to one of the thick, black stitches. He would, of course, remove that piece of white fluff from his mistress Yumiko’s black sock if she so wished, but it was so tiny she probably hadn’t even noticed it. Only in the eyes of a humble footslave do such matters loom so large.

Miss Yumiko was indeed, apparently, unaware or unconcerned about the white piece of fluff on her black sock, for, after he had kissed the sock, she promptly withdrew her right foot, replacing it with her similarly attired left foot, and, once again obligingly raising the hem of her jean-leg, repeated her order to the kneeling footslave:

‘Slave kiss Yumiko other sock. Yumiko want hear slave kiss sock. Slave obey Yumiko!’

Slave Stephen was already quite enamoured by miss Yumiko. She certainly knew how to speak to a slave – albeit in her broken English. He understood from what the Japanese master had been saying earlier that he was being rented out on some sort of approval – the man’s daughter had to ‘like’ him. Slave Stephen had already worked out that Miss Yumiko was probably too old to be the master’s daughter, but he was totally convinced that he could at least win miss Yumiko’s approval.

He humbly, and audibly, kissed miss Yumiko’s left, black sock , again conscious of the thick, raised stitching of the sock on his slave lips as he admired, and smelt, the pungent, soft white leather of the Japanese woman’s ballet pumps.

Mr Asakawa was becoming slightly concerned that his wife was beginning to feel a bit left out. After all, she was the ‘mistress’ of the house. He urged his beloved wife, in Japanese, to step forward and to order the slave to kiss her foot also.

The rather petite Mrs Asakawa, however, was the least confident family member when it came to speaking English. She was also, in stark contrast to her sister-in-law, Yumiko, a rather shy woman – even though she had no need to be; she was still very beautiful for her age, and had many male admirers, unlike her somewhat plainer sister in law. She differed considerably from her sister-in-law also in her dress sense, preferring to always be smartly, as opposed to casually, dressed. Mrs Asakawa would never be seen dead in a pair of jeans – and her beautifully shaped legs allowed her to still get away with wearing short, above-the-knee, skirts.

Which was what she was wearing today – a smart, business-like, beige suit consisting of a jacket, and short, almost knee-length, skirt; white, frilly blouse; tan-coloured, fine-denier stockings, and beige coloured stiletto-heeled shoes. Mr Asakawa was very proud of his beautiful wife, Haruko. He took her to as many functions as he possibly could – she looked every bit the glamorous wife of the director of a major international bank, and he was convinced she helped him to win business deals just by being by his side.

As his darling wife was clearly somewhat diffident about ordering the foreign slave to pay his respects to her feet in a foreign tongue, Mr Asakawa came to her rescue:

‘Slave kiss mistress Haruko feet. Slave beg mistress Haruko let slave serve her. Dirty slave obey!’

Slave Stephen immediately turned his slavish attentions to the now outstretched right foot of the other, more elegantly dressed, Japanese lady. He could tell from the tone of the Japanese master’s voice that he meant business – he wanted to see his rental-slave paying the utmost respect to this ‘mistress Haruko’. He guessed she must be the master’s wife.

He lowered his lips to touch the shiny, pointy toe of mistress Haruko’s expensive-looking, beige, leather high-heeled shoe and proffered a kiss:

‘Oh pray, mistress Haruko, if it pleases you, mistress Haruko, please permit this humble slave to serve you as your personal footslave. Please don’t beat me, mistress Haruko. This slave fears and respects his superior mistress.’

If mistress Haruko had trouble understanding ordinary English, she certainly could scarcely understand a word of humble ‘slave-speak’, but the slave’s body language said it all anyway. She looked down on him with a growing sense of power and disdain as his lips grovelled on her pretty beige shoe.

Mistress Yumiko, meanwhile, was jealous. She had understood every word the dirty footslave had said. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She wanted to hear him say that he feared and respected her – though, having just kissed her black socks, he clearly did!

Never mind, there would be plenty of time to make him verbally worship her in due course – well, for a week at least!

Meanwhile, slave Stephen was admiring the tiniest of creases in the stitching in the tan-coloured, nylon stocking around the ankle of mistress Haruko’s left foot, which he was now kissing with the same degree of respect that he had afforded her right foot.

Yes, he was going to enjoy serving these beautiful Japanese ladies. He sensed that he had ‘won them over’ – all he had to do now, it seemed, was to win over the master’s daughter who was not present in the showroom, and he would then be permitted to serve this dominant Japanese family for a week.

Nice work if you can get it!

Slave Stephen had to wait until later that afternoon to pay his respects to Mr Asakawa’s daughter, miss Kimi. The nineteen-year-old finished college at 4:00 PM, and slave Stephen was already in the laundry room hand-washing a pair of her dirty, white ankle socks, under the direction of miss Yumiko, when he was summoned to the living room in order to be introduced to miss Kimi and to seek to win her approval in front of the other family members.

It was just as well that slave Stephen was naturally very obedient and submissive, for Miss Kimi, it has to be said, was a somewhat spoilt and petulant young woman – and very hard to please. Mr Asakawa may have been the powerful director of the European branch of a multinational bank, but he was like putty in the hands of his beloved daughter. And Mrs Asakawa was no better – indulging her daughter’s every whim as she was her only child. Only miss Yumiko would ever dare to criticise miss Kimi, and, for that very reason, miss Kimi and Miss Yumiko didn’t really get on. The only thing that united them was their mutual liking for tormenting and humiliating slaves.

For all her ‘faults’, however, miss Kimi was a beautiful girl, who had undoubtedly inherited her good looks, if not her character, from her mother. Miss Kimi was a real Japanese ‘stunner’; petite and dark haired like all Japanese women, but with a cheeky and self-confident grin that attracted male admirers and even suitors wherever she went. Already, having been at her new college for only two weeks, she had a new boyfriend – Abdulla, a student from North Africa.

All the more reason why she was glad her father had finally relented and gotten a temporary rental slave whilst that lazy slave, slave Jun, languished in quarantine. She had been invited to a party by Abdulla that weekend and needed her sheer, black party-nylons to be mouth-washed by a slave. But would this one be up to the job?

The demanding Miss Kimi was actually quite impressed by her first sight of slave Stephen as he knelt in front of her on the carpet of the living room floor.

He looked quite hunky – for a slave. Not, of course, as manly as her exotic Arab boyfriend, Abdulla, but passably sexy nonetheless.

Not that miss Kimi would ever dream of having sex with a mere slave. Ugh! The thought was just too disgusting and bizarre! Similarly, slave Stephen would never have dreamt of having sexual intercourse with a mistress. The idea of it was just too ridiculous. What woman would ever want to make love to a cretinous slave? But that didn’t stop him from appreciating the beauty of the women he served – the feminine softness of their footskin; the shapeliness of their legs and ankles; their female power as they towered above him in their spiked heels.

And that was the overwhelming impression he now got as he knelt, head humbly bowed as befits a slave, in front of miss Kimi. She was wearing a crisp, white T Shirt, bright red mini-skirt, black knee-length socks with two red stripes at the top, and black, spiked-heel, knee-length, zip-up boots. Petite though this young Japanese woman was, she truly seemed to tower above slave Stephen as he knelt humbly with even his head lower than the tops of her knee-length boots.

He observed too that she was, somewhat incongruously given that she was indoors in her own living room, carrying a black leather handbag which was clearly designed to match her black, leather boots. It all seemed to add, however, to her air of femininity, as the leather handbag dangled above his head. It seemed to be saying that this was a ‘girly girl’ - petite, delicate and very feminine, yet at the same time completely composed and in charge.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the young mistress’s boots were quite dirty. But then, they would be, wouldn’t they? After all, miss Kimi’s regular footslave was currently detained. He couldn’t help noticing also that the tops of her black and red knee-length socks, especially the left sock, needed straightening.

Oh please order me to straighten your socks, young mistress, he thought to himself. Let me show you how good a slave I can be!

He anxiously and expectantly awaited his orders as the young woman walked around him like a tigress studying her prey. He so wanted her to order him to kiss her boots – to show her just how submissive and obedient he could be.

But miss Kimi was not one to be hurried. This was an important decision on her part. It was important to her that she should enjoy tormenting and humbling this new slave for the next week or so, and she was very much enjoying the fact that the slave’s fate was now completely in her hands.

Even though she had already, pretty much, made up her mind that she would be keeping this good-looking slave, she decided that before she formally allowed him to kiss her boots he would have to answer some questions for her:

‘Slave like serve japanese mistress? Like smell Japanese girl socks; lick Japanese girl boots?’

If ever a male footslave had been asked a rhetorical question, this had to be it!

‘Oh yes, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave would indeed be most honoured to serve as the young japanese mistress’s footslave, and to smell her socks and lick her boots, if it so pleases you mistress.’

Miss Kimi laughed and miss Yumiko, who was standing immediately behind slave Stephen, also grinned. The latter was glad slave Stephen liked the smell of Japanese women’s socks – for he would be smelling a lot of them over the coming days. It also reminded her that she needed her red ankle boots to be licked clean.

Meanwhile miss Kimi, to her watching father’s immense satisfaction and pride, continued her interrogation of her new potential slave-employee:

‘Ha! Ha! Miss Kimi socks very dirty; full of sweat! Slave like taste Japanese girl’s sock-sweat?’

Slave Stephen could not quite bring himself to believe just how easy these questions were:

‘Oh yes, mistress, if it pleases you sweet, feminine miss Kimi, this dirty slave is indeed partial to drinking the sweat from his superior mistresses’ socks, if it so pleases you most beautiful mistress Kimi.’

Again, miss Yumiko felt a twinge of jealousy. The slave had not yet flattered her for her great beauty. And she thought she was very beautiful, although, if truth be told, nobody else particularly thought that.

‘Ha! Ha! And miss Kimi boots and shoes dirty; shoes covered in muck; filth. Slave know how to swallow Japanese girl’s boot muck?’

Yes mistress! Yes I do! Please just give me he chance to prove it to you now, thought slave Stephen to himself.

But, of course, he had to verbalise those thoughts in much more respectful language:

‘Oh pray, sweet and beautiful mistress Kimi, my master’s sweet and beautiful daughter, please believe that this slave could wish for nothing more than to swallow the divine muck from the soles of your superior, feminine Japanese boots, mistress Kimi, if it so pleases you sweet, feminine mistress.’

You see – I told you he was submissive, even more submissive than slave Pierre! Indeed, slave Pierre could probably learn a thing or two from his younger slave-colleague’s attitude. Perhaps, thanks to the sting of Madam Debroue’s whip, he already had!

Miss Kimi certainly seemed satisfied by the humble slave’s attitude. He would do.

She told her father so in Japanese, prior to standing directly in front of the kneeling slave and, at long last, extending her right booted-foot for slave Stephen to kiss.

He was quite overwhelmed with the smell of black leather as he slavishly placed his lips on the somewhat dirty and dusty toe of the outstretched knee-length boot, but then, that’s hardly surprising given the amount of leather now surrounding him – two, knee-length, black leather boots and a matching, black leather handbag.

The all-powerful young mistress withdrew her right boot, replacing it with her left – the outstretched positioning of her left leg causing the top of her left knee-sock to crease even further, much to the consternation of the kneeling footslave, who now wanted even more to get his grubby, slave hands on those precious female socks and straighten them for his charming young mistress.

But miss Kimi didn’t seem that concerned about her socks inside her boots. It was the state of her outer footwear that currently most concerned her:

‘Slave follow miss Kimi; crawl on hands and knees. Miss Kimi make slave clean miss Kimi boots in bedroom.’

Her bedroom! This delightful young woman was already prepared to allow him into her bed-chamber. Slave Stephen felt proud at how quickly he appeared to have gained the young woman’s trust and confidence – not that any woman ever had anything to fear from a humble slave – but to be admitted into a young woman’s bedroom when you weren’t even her full-time, personal slave, and just minutes after being introduced to her, that was a real honour.

Miss Yumiko was somewhat put out by the fact that miss Kimi appeared to be appropriating the new footslave all for herself. She may be her niece and the apple of her brother’s eye, but she had boots that needed cleaning too!

She therefore remonstrated with Kimi in Japanese, although she tried to dress it up as concern that the slave hadn’t yet finished mouth and hand washing the pair of miss Kimi’s dirty, white ankle socks in the laundry room.

Miss Kimi told her aunt she didn’t care. She wanted the slave to clean her boots first. The white ankle socks in the laundry room would just have to wait!

Miss Yumiko, biting her tongue, deferred – but decided there and then she would punish the slave later for his impudence in leaving the pair of white ankle socks she had ordered him to wash only half finished.

Yumiko, her brother, and her sister in law all settled down to watch television in the living room whilst miss Kimi led slave Stephen on his hands and knees behind her booted heels up the stairs to her opulent bedroom.

The first impression slave Stephen got as he entered the bedroom was just how feminine and ‘girly’ it was. Pink carpet, for heaven’s sake! And posters of what appeared to be Japanese pop stars or heart-throbs plastering the walls.

But the thing which caught his eye the most, because it seemed the most incongruous thing he had ever seen in a young woman’s bedroom, was the black, wooden shoeshine-stand in the far corner of the room.

It was a real, life-size shoeshine-stand – the type in which the customer sits on a raised chair and rests their feet on two metal footrests in front of the crouching, or perhaps kneeling, shoeshine boy. Why on earth did miss Kimi have a shoeshine stand in her bedroom?

It was, of course, the stupidest, most naïve question a footslave could possibly ever ask himself, and within seconds the dumb-ass slave had his answer, as miss Kimi promptly jumped up onto the stand and settled herself into the comfortable chair, placing her booted feet onto the metal footrests directly in front of the kneeling footslave’s stupid face.

Still clutching her girly handbag in her left hand, miss Kimi reached down with her right index finger to point at her right boot and barked her orders to her personal bootblack:

‘Slave clean miss Kimi boots; lick!’

If the petite young woman had seemed to tower over him when she had been standing, she now assumed veritable goddess stature as she sat in her raised throne with her humble boot-boy kneeling on the plush, pink carpet at her booted feet.

He obediently shuffled forward until his face was so close to the right boot that he could see the tiniest creases in the black leather around the toe area of the boot, and made to lick the top of the toe, only to be rewarded with a sharp blow across his left cheek with the young mistress’s black, leather handbag:

‘Slave start at top of boot! Work down! Dirty slave obey!’, and the sweet, feminine young mistress then promptly, and very audibly, gathered up some saliva in her pretty, japanese mouth and expelled it onto his now stinging left cheek.

Slave Stephen was somewhat taken aback. Mistress Kimi was clearly a young woman of stark contradictions - delicate and petite, yet extremely demanding; feminine and girly, yet totally masterful - and clearly not afraid to hurt and degrade male slaves.

He immediately obeyed his young mistress’s wishes and raised his head to the top of her right, knee-length boot:

‘Slave not touch miss Kimi sock with face. Slave touch only boot! Dirty slave obey!’

Just a few minutes before, down in the living room, Slave Stephen had actually been contemplating straightening miss Kimi’s black and red knee-socks on his own initiative – not as an act of defiance but, on the contrary, as a sign of his desire to devotedly serve his master’s daughter as an attentive foot and sock slave. He was now so glad that he hadn’t been so presumptuous as to act on his impulse. How would this young virago have reacted if he had done? He now suspected her reaction would not have been good! This was a young woman who knew exactly what she wanted, and who demanded nothing less than unstinting obedience and submission in a slave.

And luckily for him, those where the very qualities that slave Stephen had in abundance – unstinting obedience and submissiveness.

As his young mistress’s saliva ran down the side of his left cheek, he lathered the top of her zip-up, high-heeled, black leather boot with his own slave-saliva, ensuring that any dust and dirt was transferred onto his slave tongue, and being extra careful not to touch the tops of the superior, young woman’s knee-length, black and red socks with his slave face.

Yes, slave Stephen felt truly privileged to be licking the boots of this stunning and demanding young Japanese woman.

Wouldn’t you?

Part 6 – A day at the beach

Three days later and slave Stephen was settling in to his life as the, temporary, footslave of the Asakawa family.

Miss Yumiko, the unofficial housekeeper, had worked his mouth hard over the past few days and, as a result, the backlog of dirty female hosiery had been cleared as slave Stephen had sucked and swallowed the feminine sweat out of the multitudinous pairs of female socks, stockings and tights. Thanks to all his efforts, the ladies of the household once again had their full wardrobes of clean hosiery to choose from – and, furthermore, the hard-working slave had polished up all their shoes, sandals and boots into the bargain, again using his slave mouth and tongue to good effect.

Mr Asakawa was now persuaded that renting the footslave for a week had proved to be a good investment. His wife, daughter and sister in law were now in a much better mood, and, to cap it all, the weather had greatly improved – so much so that his wife had suggested the family have a day off work/college and take themselves down to the beach. Miss Kimi, Mr Asakawa’s daughter, thought it was a wonderful idea – but only if she could invite her new boyfriend, Abdulla, along. Her parents agreed, and the arrangements were hastily put in place.

The family also decided to bring their rented footslave along too – not because they thought he deserved a day off for all his hard work thus far, but, on the contrary, because there would be work for him to do at the beach. Who would wash the sand off the ladies’ feet, and then dry them, if not the family footslave?

And so the family, plus Kimi’s boyfriend, Abdulla, drove down to the beach in Mr Asakawa’s luxurious and spacious car, with their beach equipment, including the footslave, locked in the boot.

The ladies had all chosen to wear quite different footwear to the seaside – reflecting their distinctive personalities.

Mrs Asakawa, as one might expect of the refined, 39 year old wife of a senior Japanese banking executive, was wearing expensive, strappy, brown leather designer sandals, with a one inch heel, on her elegant bare feet. Her toenails were, as ever, pedicured and painted bright red, adding a touch of glamour to her already exotic-looking and well-turned ankles. She was also wearing navy blue, cotton trousers which came down to the middle of her equally shapely calf-muscles, if anything drawing even more attention to her beautiful, petite, soft Japanese feet.

They certainly had caught footslave Stephen’s eye before he was unceremoniously locked in the boot of the car.

Mrs Asakawa’s sister in law, 30 year old miss Yumiko, was equally unabashed about displaying her feet to the world, although it has to be said they were not the shapeliest or prettiest feet on view that day. She was wearing a short, bright yellow summer dress and yellow flip flops which exposed fully her somewhat dumpily-shaped legs, ankles and toes. Not that miss Yumiko herself was by any means overweight – it was just a genetic thing inherited from the female side of her family. And it certainly didn’t seem to bother her that her ankles were not as shapely as those of her older sister in law.

Nor did it bother slave Stephen. He was well used to serving female feet of all sizes and descriptions, and he respected all women’s feet – for they were the feet of his superiors and therefore deserving of his slavish respect.

Miss Kimi, you won’t be surprised to hear, had inherited her mother’s shapeliness of ankle. But, unlike her mother, she was, somewhat bizarrely, not so keen on displaying her pretty, bare feet to the world. Indeed, for no legitimate reason, miss Kimi hated her feet. She thought they were ugly – even though they patently weren’t. If truth be told, she thought all feet were ugly, not just her own, and that was why the endearingly self-conscious and insecure 19 year old Japanese girl preferred to wear her white keds-style sneakers and white ankle socks with her red and white shorts that particular day.

Perhaps the description ‘white’ keds is a bit misleading, for they were her favourite pair of well-worn canvas sneakers, and, despite the efforts of her regular footslave, slave Jun, who was still in quarantine, and, indeed, the copious licking and sucking of her new rented slave, slave Stephen, the keds were still showing the signs of their age. The ‘white’ was more of a ‘grey’ now, and there was even a small hole appearing over the little toe on the corner on her left sneaker.

However, to slave Stephen, always keen to see the positives in a woman’s footwear, the greyness of the canvas sneakers only served to accentuate the snowy whiteness of his young mistress’s ankle socks – or, at least, the parts of her socks that were on view, for, having put those very same socks onto his mistress’s feet earlier that morning he was aware, even if nobody else was, of the brown sweat stains ingrained into the soles of her white socks.

This particular pair of socks were distinctive for another reason – they had some words written in red Japanese letters at the sides covering miss Kimi’s outer ankles. Miss Yumiko had kindly informed him, as he had been mouth-washing those same socks in the laundry room some three days’ before, trying in vain to remove the brown sweat stains from the soles, that the words were a personal message to miss Kimi’s regular footslave, slave Jun, and said:

“Slave concentrate on sock or feel whip!”

Slave Stephen had never come across socks with messages to footslaves written on them before, and, of course, not being a japanese speaker he had no way of knowing if miss Yumiko was telling him the truth or ‘winding him up’. But, whatever the truth of the matter, he had to agree with the sentiment of the alleged message – it was, after all, a footslave’s job to concentrate on his mistress’s socks whilst she was wearing them. That was what his company was being paid for, and if he didn’t do his job properly, he could expect to be punished, both by mistress Kimi and by his employers. And so he determined that, whenever he was kneeling by miss Kimi’s feet, he would assiduously focus his attention on the sides of her snowy, white socks – as a good footboy should.

For now, however, he could only imagine studying her socks as he lay in the pitch black of the car boot during the uncomfortable and bumpy hour long drive to the beach.

Having alighted from the vehicle the family set about sorting out the delicious food they had brought with them for their picnic on the beach. Miss Yumiko had lovingly prepared all the food, and there was more than enough for 5 hungry people i.e the Asakawa family and their guest, Abdulla.

Needless to say, miss Yumiko had not bothered to prepare any food for slave Stephen. There was no point – he was there to work; not to relax and enjoy himself like the rest of them. Any leftovers could go to the seagulls!

Once again miss Kimi appeared to have appropriated the footslave all for herself for, as the rest of the family, and even her boyfriend, were helping to unpack the food and set up the wind-break, she was sitting on a sand dune staring out to sea with slave Stephen kneeling with his head to close to her sneakered feet – concentrating, as he had resolved to do, on the red Japanese characters in the stretched stitching on the sides of her white, cotton ankle socks:

“Slave concentrate on sock or feel whip!”

He hoped that was what the characters did indeed say, for that was exactly what he felt compelled to do. He wasn’t distracted by the view that was clearly impressing his young mistress, nor even by the blades of grass blowing in the sand dune around her feet. He wasn’t even distracted by a small insect crawling across the ground beside her canvas sneaker. His eyes, and his attention, were entirely focussed, as they should be, on the side of his mistress’s, white ankle sock.

Mistress Kimi appeared to be listening to pop music on her MP3 player because, although slave Stephen couldn’t himself hear the music, he could observe his mistress’s ankle socks creasing and folding at the sides as she tapped her foot in time to the music. Furthermore, his face was so close to the greyish-white sneakers that he could also smell the somewhat musty canvas through the crisp sea air.

If truth be told, slave Stephen would have been perfectly content to kneel there all day by the side of his mistress’s sneakered feet, observing the twists and folds in her white socks.

But, of course, all good things have to come to an end, and within 10 minutes or so miss Kimi was joining the rest of the family inside the wind-break in order to start eating the delicious food. She was now sitting cross-legged on a blanket beside her boyfriend, with slave Stephen now staring at the beige, rubbery sole of the otherwise whitey-grey, canvas sneaker on her right foot.

As she chatted happily with her boyfriend, Abdulla, slave Stephen concentrated on looking at the patches of sand that were now ingrained in the dimples of her sneaker-tread. He noticed also the black stain near the heel of the beige sole which he had tried so hard to lick away the previous evening – to no avail. It was deeply ingrained, whatever it was, and had left slave Stephen feeling somewhat of a failure. He hoped his mistress, or her boyfriend, wouldn’t notice the black stain on the sole of her shoe and punish him.

But, of course, he needn’t have worried – for ingrained stains on the rubber soles of miss Kimi’s tatty old keds were the last thing on either her mind or her boyfriend Abdulla’s mind, as they kissed and canoodled in between taking bites of their sandwiches and slurping noisily at their refreshing, chilled juice drinks.

The smell of the delicious food was making slave Stephen hungry too, but he knew he had absolutely no prospect of receiving any titbits from his superior masters, not even their left-overs. He had already received his rations of stale bread and lukewarm water that morning from the kind-hearted miss Yumiko, and was acutely aware that he was here to serve his betters, not to gorge himself.

Having finished their picnic lunch the three ladies decided to go down to the water’s edge in order to have a bit of a paddle. None of them fancied a swim, as such – there was a bit too much of a breeze – but a paddle at the water’s edge would prove refreshing.

Slave Stephen was promptly ordered to remove each of the ladies’ footwear.

He began, unsurprisingly, with the sneakers and socks of miss Kimi. It was ‘unsurprising’ because she really did seem to think of him as her personal servant, duty-bound to attend to all her needs first.

Abdulla decided to make it quite clear to the humble slave that even though, at just 20 years old, he was some 9 years the slave’s junior, and even though he was not a formal member of the Asakawa family as such, at least not yet, he nevertheless wouldn’t hesitate to discipline him if he didn’t remove his girlfriend’s shoes and socks respectfully and efficiently. Perhaps Abdulla also had an eye to impressing Mr and Mrs Asakawa with his ability to look after their precious daughter’s interests :

‘Take off my girlfriend’s shoes and socks, slaveboy!’ he barked in his thick, north-african accent, ‘and make sure you don’t touch her pretty, bare foot with your dirty, slave fingers!’

A shiver of excitement ran down miss Kimi’s spine. Regardless of whether her parents were impressed or not by his manliness, she loved hearing her boyfriend being so masterful towards the pathetic slave. She had a sudden vision of Abdulla whipping slave Stephen, and she liked what she saw in her mind:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave obey master Abdulla. Say “yes master”’ she demanded.

Slave Stephen was aware that miss Kimi wanted to see him submit to master Abdulla’s authority every bit as much as he submitted to her authority. He therefore complied with his young mistress’s wishes:

‘Yes, master. I obey you, master.’

Abdulla grinned, Mr and Mrs Asakawa hugged each other, and Kimi giggled as the humble slave then untied the laces of her tatty, old canvas sneakers as she was seated on the ground, with master Abdulla standing protectively over her.

The sneakers came off with a bit of a ‘whoosh’, and slave Stephen caught a brief whiff of the familiar, delicate fragrance of sweet, feminine footsweat as miss Kimi wriggled her recently liberated toes inside her soft, white cotton socks.

As he then respectfully pulled off the socks, carefully pulling them from the toe ends in order to make sure he fully complied with master Abdulla’s command not to touch his Japanese girlfriend’s precious bare skin, slave Stephen could also feel little damp areas of footsweat on the bottoms of the white ankle socks – particularly on the areas beneath the toes where most of the brown staining was.

He heard master Abdulla laughing above him as he handled the free man’s girlfriend’s dirty socks:

‘Ha! Ha! Now put those sweaty socks inside your mistress’s shoes!’ ordered the north-african, and slave Stephen, of course, obeyed.

He next had to remove the brown leather strappy sandals of Mrs Asakawa from her pedicured, bare feet. Mrs Asakawa was standing up so she had to balance on her husband’s arm as the humble slave unbuckled the main straps covering the tops of both her shapely, Japanese feet. Slave Stephen noticed how the sweat from the base of Mrs Asakawa’s feet had, over time, partially worn away the gold lettering of the label inside her sandal. He found himself wanting to check whether any little traces of gold were perhaps stuck to the soft, wrinkled sole of her Japanese foot, but Mrs Asakawa was apparently unconcerned at such a possibility. After all, she was about to bathe her feet in the sea, so any debris from the inside of her leather sandals would soon wash off.

Finally, miss Yumiko stepped forward in order to have her bright, yellow flip-flops removed from her already sandy feet. As she raised each foot slightly into the air to enable the slave to slip them off her feet, it did occur to slave Stephen that no woman really needed any help in removing her flip-flops. All she had to do was to literally slide her feet off the flimsy plastic and rubber sandals. But that, of course, would not be the done thing – not when one had a footslave on hand to do it for you – even if it was a more awkward process. It was the principle of the thing. Footslaves removed ladies’ footwear, and put it back on for them. That was what they were there for!

And so, having respectfully and slavishly divested the ladies of their footwear, slave Stephen knelt in the sand, with his head humbly bowed, staring at the three pairs of bare, Japanese, female feet that now surrounded him, two of them petite and shapely, the other with somewhat fat ankles, as he awaited his next orders.

There appeared to be a short delay whilst the three ladies discussed in Japanese what to do with the footslave whilst they went down to the water’s edge. Should they take him with them? Or would he be better off staying where he was and minding their shoes and sandals?

As the two men had decided to accompany the ladies down to the water, they decided that the slave should stay behind and watch over their discarded footwear. But it was Abdulla who came up with the best suggestion of all – he proposed that they bury the footslave up to his neck in the sand, and then surround him with the ladies’ shoes and sandals – so that he could ‘keep a really close eye on them’.

The ladies loved the idea, and within minutes, slave Stephen found himself buried in a hole in the sand with only his head exposed as the 5 free and superior human beings towered over him, all of them laughing and joking at his predicament.

Master Abdulla even deliberately kicked some sand into the slave’s face, to the immense amusement of the 3 Japanese ladies, and the immense pride of his girlfriend, miss Kimi.

Slave Stephen knew he had little option other than to ‘suck it up’. He was a helpless and powerless slave, buried up to his neck in sand at the mercy, and the bare feet, of his tormentors. What choice did he have?

It was miss Yumiko who then placed the ladies’ shoes around the slave’s exposed face. Naturally, she wanted to give pride of place to her own yellow flip-flops, and so she actually rested them both up against his nose, and then placed Mrs Asakawa’s brown, leather sandals, and miss Kimi’s grey canvas sneakers with the sweaty white socks inside them, up against the base of the flip-flops to help hold them in place.

Slave Stephen, therefore, now had an ultra close-up view of the sand-covered, black, plastic soles of miss Yumiko’s yellow flip-flops as they rested against his forehead:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave make sure not move! Make sure Yumiko flip-flops not fall away from face or Yumiko beat slave!’ ordered his taskmistress-come-housekeeper.

Miss Kimi, however, was not happy with miss Yumiko’s arrangement of the footwear. Why should her aunt’s flip-flops have pride of place on the slave’s face? She wanted the slave to be staring at her dirty sneakers whist she paddled in the sea.

In a flash of inspiration she came up with a compromise idea. Temporarily moving the flip-flops away from slave Stephen’s face, she pulled the sweaty, white ankle socks out of the insides of her keds and stuffed them into the slave’s mouth. She then replaced Yumiko’s flip flops over his face:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave also suck miss Kimi stinky socks while look at Yumiko flip-flops! Ha! Ha!’

In a rare moment of harmony both Yumiko and her niece Kimi were happy with the arrangement. The slave would be staring at the dirty soles of one woman’s footwear and sucking the sweat from the dirty, white socks of the other woman. They were now both content, and the more mature Mrs Asakawa appeared unconcerned that her expensive leather sandals were merely being used to prop up the cheap flip-flops of her sister in law. She cared only that the footslave was surrounded by ladies’ footwear – as he should be.

And so slave Stephen remained buried in the beach, surrounded by the sight, smell and taste of feminine footwear, as his superior mistresses and their men folk went down to the sea to enjoy the cool, refreshing sea-water.

They were gone for some time – at least an hour and a half, and whilst they were away various passers-by had a good laugh at the sight of the footslave buried up to his neck in sand and surrounded by female footwear.

One young couple in particular took great delight in teasing and tormenting him:

‘Look, Alex,’ said the young woman in full hearing of slave Stephen, ‘look at that slave buried up to his neck. Ha! Ha! His mistress has actually gagged him with her dirty socks! Look!’

Because he didn’t want to risk disturbing the flip-flops resting up against his face, slave Stephen could only catch a glimpse of the young woman’s silver-coloured sneakers on her bare feet out of the corner of his eye. She appeared to wearing nothing else, apart from a fetching, blue bathing suit.

‘Yes, darling. Ha! Ha! I wonder if he likes the taste of girls’ sweaty, white socks!’ replied the young woman’s boyfriend.

‘Why don’t you ask him, honey? Ask the dirty slave if he likes having his mistress’s sweaty socks inside his mouth. Go on! Ask him!’

The young woman appeared to be getting increasingly excited at the sight of the helpless slave buried up to his neck and, effectively, at the mercy of her and her boyfriend.

‘Ha! Ha! Alright, sweetheart, I will. I’ll ask him!’, and with that the young man crouched down until his grinning face was just inches away from the pathetic footslave’s exposed head:

‘Well, sock-sucker, answer me and my girlfriend – do you like the taste of a young woman’s dirty, white socks in your mouth as you stare at her flip-flops?’

The master had, of course, got it wrong. The socks did not belong to the owner of the flip-flops, but this was a mere technicality. The gist of the question was clear – did the slave like the taste of sweaty girl-sock in his slave mouth?

Slave Stephen knew the answer, but his only concern was how he could answer the master and mistress respectfully and clearly with the socks clogging up his mouth:

‘Yeth, mathter and mithtreth, thith thlave doth like the tathte of hith mithtretheth thocks, if it pleatheth you mathter and mithtreth.’

The young couple were now in hysterics.

‘What did he say?’ asked the young man.

‘Ha! Ha! I think he said that he does like the taste!’ replied his girlfriend. ‘Must be an acquired taste!’

‘Ha! Ha! Yeah right! replied her boyfriend, ‘’Well don’t think I’m ever going to try acquiring the taste of your sweaty, stinky socks, honey!’

The girl laughed:

‘I wouldn’t want you to, darling. After all, you’re a real man, not a dirty sock-sucking queer like this dork!’

And with that the couple walked off hand in hand, still laughing at the pathetic ‘sock-sucking queer’ buried up to his neck in sand.

For his part slave Stephen was just relieved that the young couple hadn’t disturbed the flip flops over his face. But the breeze appeared to be picking up all the time, and he was anxious that it might catch at least one of the flip-flops and blow it over. What would miss Yumiko do to him then!

Fortunately for him there had been no perceptible movement in the flip flops when his masters and mistresses returned from their paddling expedition. Miss Yumiko was gratified to see that the slave was still dutifully studying the underside of her flip flops, and miss Kimi was equally gratified to see that the slave was still savouring her dirty, white ankle socks in his footslave-mouth.

However, the ladies now had to remove their footwear from his face, because slave Stephen had some more work to do. He now had to lick the wet sand off their feet and dry them.

They decided, collectively, that he could do so still imprisoned in his sandy bunker.

Miss Kimi, as ever, wanted to use him first. She crouched down to remove Yumiko’s flip-flops, her mother’s leather sandals, and her own canvas sneakers, putting them all to one side, before pulling her now sodden white socks out of the slave’s mouth.

She feigned concern for her slave’s well-being:

‘Aw…poor slave! Slave thirsty? Mouth taste of miss Kimi sock-sweat? Slave want nice drink of water?’

She was, of course, referring to the drops of salty sea-water still clinging to her pretty, bare feet, and, without waiting for the slave’s reply, she straightened up and shoved her right foot deep into slave Stephen’s mouth.

He tasted not only the salty sea-water, but also the lumpy, wet sand. It was like swallowing a mixture of gravel and salt, but it was precious gravel and salt, for it was gravel and salt from his all-powerful young mistress’s bare, japanese feet.

Slave Stephen, therefore, relished it. He made sure to run his tongue in between mistress Kimi’s bare toes so that every last grain of sand and sea-salt was removed. He then repeated the process with her left foot, enjoying the feel of her toe nails as they scraped against the roof of his mouth.

Then it was the turn of mistresses Haruko and Yumiko, in that order.

Slave Stephen thought he could even detect a difference in the tastes of the various ladies’ bare feet. Were miss Yumiko’s bare feet really more ‘vinegary’ than those of the other two ladies? The skin on her feet certainly felt rougher on his sensitive, slave tongue than the smooth footskin of the other two Japanese ladies. And Miss Yumiko was undoubtedly rougher with her feet inside his mouth – pushing each foot deeper into his mouth than the other two ladies had, and insisting that he use his teeth to scrape out the dirt from underneath her plain, unpainted, rather dumpy toenails.

But slave Stephen was every bit as happy to serve miss Yumiko’s rough feet as he was the elegantly-pedicured feet of Mrs Asakawa and the soft-skinned feet of her daughter, miss Kimi. For he was a consummate ladies-footslave and took his job very seriously. The reputation of ‘Rent-A-Slave’ was at stake!

Only when the ladies had each dried their mouth-washed feet on his hair was slave Stephen dug out from his sandy prison, and that was primarily so that he could perform his next humble, slavish task of putting the ladies’ footwear back on their feet for them.

There was one difference, though. Miss Kimi, understandably, didn’t want a pair of slave-saliva sodden socks back on her now dried feet, and so slave Stephen was ordered to put her canvas sneakers back onto her pretty, bare feet.

Master Abdulla offered to help punish the slave for soaking the socks with his saliva if miss Kimi wanted him to. But even miss Kimi thought this would be an injustice a bit too far. Even she couldn’t think of an excuse for punishing the slave for wetting her socks when she had been the one to stuff them inside his mouth. Besides, she could make him dry them with his breath in the boot of the car on the way home. Perhaps if they weren’t dry by the time they got home she would have him punished.

In the meantime, she was content to snuggle up in her manly boyfriend’s arms in the back of her father’s comfortable car, knowing that her personal footslave was imprisoned in the boot with her wet ankle socks resting on top of his mouth.

Yes, everything was in its proper place, and a fun day out had been had by all!

Part 7 – Party Preparations

A further two days had elapsed and slave Stephen was still doing his utmost to ingratiate himself with his temporary owners—the Asakawa family. Indeed, he had come to respect every member of the family as they were clearly his betters and, more importantly, they knew it and treated him accordingly with the contempt he deserved.

Even Mr Asakawa’s wife, Madam Haruko, was more confident in dealing with the ‘foreign’ footslave, although she was very much looking forward to the family’s own footslave, slave Jun, being released from quarantine as she would no longer have to struggle to give her orders in English.

This particular evening Mrs Asakawa was preparing for an important dinner party at which her husband’s deputy at the bank, Gunter, his wife, Elsa and their 18 year old daughter, Sabine, would be present. It was an important matter because Mr Asakawa was keen to get to know his deputy and his deputy’s family well and to build a good relationship with them – he saw this as crucial to the bank’s success in its European expansion. Gunter already had all the local knowledge and had done the groundwork. Mr Asakawa was keen to show that he valued Gunter’s experience and all his hard work thus far.

And so, his wife, Madam Haruko Asakawa, was determined that the evening would go well. She had taken the day off from her job as her husband’s PA to assist her sister-in-law and unofficial cook-cum-housekeeper, Yumiko, with the food preparations. They had to prepare a sumptuous meal for 7 people – the Asakawa family and Gunter’s family – and Mrs Asakawa wanted it to be a mixture of both traditional Japanese, and European, food. She wanted to make sure there would be something for everyone – everyone, that is, apart from the hired footslave, slave Stephen. He would not be partaking of the delicious meal – not even the left-overs. He would have work to do - attending to the female guests’ feet rather like a house-slave in Ancient Rome. In fact, Yumiko had even gone to the trouble of hiring out a plain, brown slave tunic for slave Stephen from the local fancy dress shop, so that he would really look the part. She thought it would make a nice, extra touch to the evening’s festivities and, to her enormous delight, her idea had been greeted with enthusiastic approval by all the other members of the Asakawa family.

Come the late afternoon, with most of the food prepared and stored in the fridge ready for cooking, Mrs Haruko Asakawa wanted to put her feet up and have a relaxing pedicure. At 39 years old, she was still a glamorous and attractive- looking Japanese woman who took great pride in her appearance. Slave Stephen (already attired in his plain, roman-style slave tunic) had noticed how immaculate Madam Haruko’s feet always appeared to be as she had a preference for wearing high-heeled, open-toed sandals – even with her finest denier stockings – thereby ensuring her petite and shapely, feminine toes were on more or less constant display. But why shouldn’t they be? If you have great feet, and you’re a superior woman, why not show them off to everyone?

Mistress Haruko’s exquisitely feminine footwear presented a stark contrast to the more ‘sporty’ footwear preferred by her 19 year old daughter, miss Kimi, or the ubiquitous plain ‘flats’ worn, usually with socks, by Haruko’s sister in law, miss Yumiko. But that was precisely one of the reasons why slave Stephen felt honoured to serve the women of the Asakawa household as a footslave – such a variety of footwear from the ultra-elegant and feminine to the casual and much more practical. Whatever the chosen style of footwear – they were the shoes, sandals and boots of his superior Japanese mistresses, and slave Stephen admired them all.

It was miss Yumiko, his taskmistress and now, it seemed, wardrobe-mistress, who informed slave Stephen - as he was in the kitchen on his hands and knees staring humbly at the white ballet-style flats which she was wearing with multi-coloured, stripy socks under a pair of black, corduroy jeans - that he was now required by Madam Haruko in order to perform a full pedicure:

‘Slave report to Madam Haruko in bedroom. Take pedicure box. Slave wash Madam Haruko feet – give pedicure!’

And with that the rather plain-looking and dumpy mistress Yumiko handed slave Stephen a small wooden box containing all the equipment he would need to cut and polish her more glamorous looking sister-in-law’s divine toenails.

Meanwhile, Yumiko was admiring slave Stephen’s tunic. She was very proud of her brainwave of going to the fancy-dress shop. The slave shorts of the ‘Rent-A-Slave’ company exposed too much slave-flesh for her liking, even though she had to admit that slave Stephen had a good body. She nevertheless thought it more appropriate for a slave to be covered up – and in plain, dull, cheap-looking clothes such as the tunic he was wearing. It would really serve to emphasise his lowly status at the dinner party – contrasting as it would so starkly with the glamorous party clothes of the women (even Yumiko would be getting ‘glammed up’) and the smart suits of the free men.

Yumiko decided to make the slave thank her for getting him his slave tunic:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave first kiss Yumiko feet – thank Yumiko for pretty slave tunic; make slave look humble.’

Slave Stephen felt that he always looked humble whatever he happened to be wearing or not wearing – at least, he always endeavoured to look suitably humble. Uppitiness, or arrogance, was most unbecoming in a slave!

He decided he would demonstrate his humility by simply obeying miss Yumiko and respectfully kissing her socked feet.

Miss Yumiko had adopted the classic stance of a superior young woman waiting for a slave to pay homage to her feet – hands on hips, right foot outstretched, causing the hem of her black, corduroy jean-leg to rise slightly thereby exposing more of her stripy-socked foot for the slave to humbly kiss.

Some mistresses, of course, don’t like having their socks kissed and expect the slave to kiss merely the toe of their shoe. But slave Stephen had already been following the first rule of a footslave – get to know your mistress, her likes and dislikes – and he already knew that miss Yumiko preferred to feel the slave’s lips touching her socks. She doubtless felt a greater surge of power coursing through her veins as the slave had the extra humiliation of having to kiss her inner, rather than just her outer, footwear. It was a much more intimate gesture of submission – touching the material with his slave lips which was itself in direct contact with his mistress’s warm footflesh.

And so, he slowly lowered his lips and placed them gently onto the soft, multi-coloured, cotton material of miss Yumiko’s ankle sock, feeling her foot twitch inside the sock in delighted reaction to his gesture of supreme humility.

He then raised his lips off the sock and, still staring humbly at the superior, female sock he had just kissed, expressed his thanks for his own not so glamorous ‘party frock’:

‘Thank you, mistress Yumiko, for giving this slave his humble tunic. It is indeed a garment fit for a dirty footslave such as I.’

Miss Yumiko clicked her tongue with delight, and promptly withdrew her right foot from under the slave’s nose, replacing it with her left:

‘Hah! Slave kiss Yumiko other foot – kiss twenty times! Yumiko want feel slave lips on sock!’

It wasn’t totally clear to slave Stephen why miss Yumiko would want her left foot to be kissed twenty times when she had appeared satisfied with just the one respectful kiss to her right foot. Perhaps she was just on a power trip?

Whatever, a mistress’s whim is his command. And so, for the next twenty seconds or so, the kneeling slave Stephen’s head bobbed pathetically up and down as he planted respectful kiss after respectful kiss onto miss Yumiko’s outstretched, stripy-socked, left foot inside her scruffy, scuff-marked white ballet-flats. Even a martian from outer space, had he landed on earth at that particular moment, would have had no doubt as to who was the master and who the slave in this world.

It appeared that miss Yumiko was counting the kisses silently (just as slave Stephen had been inside his own head), for after the twentieth humble kiss she kicked slave Stephen’s head away with the scuff-marked toe of her, white ballet-flat, her own fat toes scrunched up for protection inside the soft shoe, and sent him on his way:

‘Slave go now! Madam Haruko wait for slave! Slave hurry. Move!’

And so he crawled away on his hands and knees from one superior Japanese mistress towards the master bedroom, where another superior Japanese mistress awaited his slavish attentions. It was slightly awkward having to carry the wooden pedicure-box in one hand, and crawl on the other. But he managed it. He was, after all, an experienced footslave – well used to living life on his hands and knees.

He knocked on the door of the master bedroom and heard Madam Haruko’s voice bidding him to enter.

As he entered the room he saw that she was reclined, in her creamy, silk dressing gown, on the luxurious double bed which she shared every night with her husband. She appeared to be reading a glossy magazine, and had evidently just showered or bathed in the en-suite bathroom. Lying beside her on the bed was a pair of finest denier tan-coloured stockings with reinforced toes and tops, and a pair of pink, open-toed high heeled, sandals with a single strap. She would doubtless be getting dressed for the dinner party immediately after her pedicure –with the slave’s humble assistance. After all, the guests would be arriving in about two hours’ time.

Slave Stephen crawled over to the end of the bed where Madam Haruko’s feet, currently clad in fluffy white slippers, were resting on a white towel:

‘You summoned me, mistress?’

Madam Haruko always kept her conversations with the rented slave brief and curt – partly because she felt that talking to a slave was somewhat beneath her, but partly also because of her limited English and the slave’s total ineptitude at understanding simple orders in Japanese!

She therefore kicked off her slippers and barked her orders at him:

‘Hah! Srave-o cut toenails. Paint Haruko toenails. Use-o pink!’

It may have been in broken English and with a heavy Japanese accent , but it told him all he needed to know. He was to cut Madam’s toenails, and then varnish them with pink toenail paint.

Madam Haruko appeared content to resume reading her magazine whilst slave Stephen worked.

As he removed the stainless steel toenail clippers from the pedicure box he wasn’t at all nervous about cutting Madam Haruko’s toenails. Cutting a lady’s toenails was always a delicate job, requiring great care and attention, but slave Stephen was a well-trained and experienced footslave. He had never once hurt a lady whilst performing this delicate and degrading task.

If he had, he wouldn’t be here.

And so he began with the big toe on her left foot, gently cradling it as he clipped the top of the nail, and then ensured that the clipping was placed where it belonged – in his footslave mouth. Then came the filing process – with slave Stephen having to swallow any residual flakes of feminine toenail that he filed off. He next had to scrape out the delicate layer of feminine toejam from the top of the remaining toenail – again depositing the extracted material into his receptacle-mouth, tasting it, indeed savouring it, before swallowing it.

He repeated the process with each and every toe, haughtily ignored by Madam Haruko as he did so. She was much too engrossed in her glossy magazine to pay any attention to his humble ministrations to her superior feet, though she would doubtless want to inspect the finished work.

Having clipped and filed Madam Haruko’s pretty, asian toenails, and swallowed the contents, slave Stephen than extracted from the pedicure box the little bottle of pink toenail-paint, and started applying it with the tiny brush that came inside the bottle.

On many occasions he had been required to paint women’s toenails with the brush inside his mouth – an added humiliation much beloved by dominant mistresses. One young woman, a ‘Goth’, had even demanded of him that he paint her toenails black by dipping the end of his, admittedly rather pointy, nose into the paint and then rubbing the end of his nose on the toenails. Needless to say he had smudged the paint on that occasion – and had been severely punished for his efforts. And rightly so – smudging paint onto the skin of a lady’s toes whilst painting them is a cardinal offence, if not a cuticle offence.

However, Madam Haruko, fortunately for slave Stephen, appeared content to allow him to hold the tiny brush in his hands as he painted her sweet, feminine toenails bright pink – perhaps because she didn’t have enough English to order him to place the brush into his mouth?

As a result – there were no smudges, and slave Stephen was quickly able to finish off the job by blow-drying each painted toenail with his slave breath.

Some ladies would say that’s all a slave’s breath is good for.

Despite appearances to the contrary, Madam Haruko must have been paying some attention to her slave’s work as she put down her magazine and inspected her feet immediately after he had finished blow drying her last little toe.

It appeared that she was satisfied with his efforts, for she was now ready to snap her next order to him:

‘Srave-o rub oil on Haruko feet. Rub on heels-o. Make soft. Srave obey!’

Again, the wooden pedicure box conveniently contained the necessary foot-oil. It smelt nice and sweet as slave Stephen gently and respectfully massaged it onto Madam Haruko’s petite and shapely bare feet as they rested on the towel on the end of the bed. As instructed he paid particular attention to his mistress’s heels, moisturising and oiling them – making them even more soft and beautiful than they already were for others to admire and, who knows, perhaps even for Mr Asakawa to enjoy fondling and kissing himself later as he made love to his beautiful wife in bed.

The oil absorbed quickly into Madam Haruko’s skin and her feet were soon smooth and dry. Time for his next order:

‘Srave-o fetch stockings-o. Fetch shoes-o. Put on Haruko feet.’

And with that Madam Haruko slid forward, so that she was now seated on the edge of the bed, and undid her dressing gown to reveal her white bra, panties and suspenders – not that slave Stephen, a mere footslave, had any business looking at such intimate female garments. He quickly turned his attention to the nearby tan-coloured stockings – as befits a footslave – and carefully rolled up one of them in his hands prior to positioning it over Madam Haruko’s right foot and then respectfully pulling it up her shapely calf muscle as far as her dainty knee. Madam Haruko took over from that point – footslaves were never permitted to touch a mistress above the knee.

The process was then repeated for her left leg, prior to slave Stephen putting the expensive, designer pink sandals onto Madam’s feet and doing up the pink straps.

Madam Haruko then stood up and peremptorily dismissed him. His work, for now, was done:

‘Srave-o leave. Go to Miss Yumiko. Srave obey miss Yumiko.’

‘Yes, Madam. At once, Madam.’

And so slave Stephen exited his superior Japanese mistress’s bedroom on his hands and knees and departed from her presence with no word of thanks from her for his hard work in beautifying her feminine feet. Nor did he expect any thanks – he was a slave.

He reported back to miss Yumiko who was still in the kitchen and showing no signs of having changed into evening clothes herself yet. She again extended her white ballet-pumped and stripy-socked feet, one after the other, for him to kiss as she took the pedicure box from him:

‘Slave finish?’ she enquired, her voice betraying some incredulity at how quickly the pedicure had been performed.

‘Yes mistress Yumiko, if it pleases you, mistress Yumiko,’ replied slave Stephen, almost proudly.

Yumiko sighed:

‘Yumiko get ready for party now. Slave follow. Heel!’

She barked her orders at him like he was an obedient puppy dog and, rather like an obedient puppy dog, he followed behind his mistress on his hands and knees, his face close to the backs of her white ballet-pumps, catching the occasional exciting glimpse of her stripy, multi-coloured socks underneath the frayed hem of her black, corduroy jeans.

As they went towards her bedroom, slave Stephen wondered what sort of footwear miss Yumiko would be wearing to the party. She was not the most fashion-conscious of women in the household, and he guessed that she would not be bothered with a pedicure. But presumably she would not be wearing socks, ballet-flats and jeans to the party? He had only ever seen her in ballet-flats or flip-flops, but he knew from his daily shoe-polishing duties that she also possessed several pairs of boots and smart high-heeled shoes.

As they entered her bedroom, which was noticeably less opulent, and less tidy, than the master bedroom he had just been serving Madam Haruko in, slave Stephen noticed a pair of black, leather, chunky-heeled, zip-up ankle boots lying on the floor, and guessed that miss Yumiko had already selected these as her footwear for the evening – less elegant than Madam Haruko’s evening footwear, but better than the scruffy, old white ballet flats she had on now.

Miss Yumiko kicked off the aforementioned ballet flats on entering her bedroom and walked towards her own en suite bathroom in her stripy-socked feet, before turning and clicking her fingers at the kneeling footslave:

‘Slave wait here. Yumiko go get changed. Slave put nose in Yumiko boots. Sniff!’

She indicated towards the black ankle boots lying on the floor. It seemed that miss Yumiko could not bear the thought of slave Stephen having his senses free of her footwear even for a few minutes whilst she changed out of her corduroy jeans in the bathroom, and so he dutifully crawled over to the boots which were standing un-zipped, but upright, and placed his nose into the top of the right boot.

As he did so he smelt the musty smell of stale, feminine footsweat, and he observed how the grey inner lining at the back of the boot was quite blackened with wear. His mistress’s socked and/or bare feet had obviously rubbed against the backs of these boots on many occasions.

Slave Stephen inhaled the aroma of miss Yumiko’s well-worn, but expertly polished (for he had polished it himself that very morning under miss Yumiko’s close supervision) ankle boot through his pointy, slave nose out of respect for his Japanese mistress’s foot-smell. It was a female smell truly befitting the nostrils of a humble, male footslave.

When she returned from the bathroom after just a few minutes, 30 year old miss Yumiko was dressed in a black leather mini-skirt, probably more suitable for a woman ten years her junior, and was still wearing her multi-coloured, stripy socks on her, slightly fat, ankles. Slave Stephen, more concerned in his capacity as a footslave with his mistress’s socks than with her sexy, leather mini-skirt, now noticed out of the corner of his eye (for his slave face was still ensconced in the top of her black, leather ankle boot) how the toe area of the socks was just red – as was the back of the heel; it was only the rest of the sock that was striped and multi-coloured.

If miss Yumiko was looking for the slave’s approval of her chosen attire she didn’t show it. She simply strolled over to the edge of her bed and sat down, directly in front of where slave Stephen was still sniffing the well-worn inside of her ankle boot.

‘Slave stop smelling Yumiko boot. Straighten Yumiko socks,’ and with that she extended her right, socked foot into the air below his kneeling face for him to straighten her sock for her. She had evidently decided not to wash her feet or change her socks for the evening. So be it – that is a mistress’s choice.

Straightening girls’ socks is an everyday occurrence for a footslave – rented or otherwise. The knack is to avoid touching the mistress’s bare flesh without permission. In slave Stephen’s experience most women hated that. They liked the feel of a male slave’s dirty fingers on their socks, but preferred his tongue on their bare feet.

Mistress Yumiko cocked her head sideways to get a better view of the kneeling slave’s labour in straightening her right ankle sock. The stripy sock was a bit twisted at the top, and so slave Stephen carefully smoothed out the creases until the socked foot was ready for the boot to be put on it.

Miss Yumiko first twisted her foot round a few times to make sure the sock was staying in place, and then placed her now smoothly-socked right foot back onto the floor before offering up her left socked foot for straightening. She wasn’t helping slave Stephen by continuously wriggling her toes inside the sock, and moving her foot from side to side, both activities causing the sock to crease and fold in front of the slave’s face and undoing any straightening work he had managed to achieve.

However, eventually the sock was straightened to mistress Yumiko’s satisfaction and she was ready to give him her next order:

‘Slave put boots on miss Yumiko feet. Make sure sock not show above boot. Slave obey!’

So, miss Yumiko didn’t want her multi-coloured ankle socks to be visible inside her black boots? Perhaps even she, the un-fashion conscious member of the family, was somewhat embarrassed that the socks did not match the colour of her boots and her black, leather mini-skirt. Perhaps it was just another of her capricious whims. Whatever the reason, slave Stephen was relieved to find that when he zipped up the chunky-heeled, black ankle boots the coloured socks were not visible to the naked eye. It would be their little secret! Only a kneeling footslave such as he, kneeling with his face directly over the tops of mistress Yumiko’s ankle boots, which he may well be ordered to do during the evening meal, could see the tops of the stripy ankle socks inside.

For her part miss Yumiko appeared satisfied with the results as she stood up and walked over to the other side of the bedroom, admiring her boots and legs in a long mirror which, quite frankly, flattered her rather dumpy body-shape.

At that moment there was the sound of the front door banging and someone running up the stairs:

‘Slave! Come to bedroom now! Slave! Obey!’ screeched a female Japanese voice.

It was miss Kimi, the mater’s 19 year-old daughter, returned, somewhat late, from college. Presumably she too wanted to change for the impending dinner party, and required the footslave’s assistance in changing her footwear.

‘Slave go to miss Kimi room. Move!’ barked miss Yumiko, presumably pleased that, for once, she had been able to use the services of the footslave before her niece!

Miss Kimi’s bedroom was just down the corridor from her aunt Yumiko’s, and so slave Stephen reached it on his hands and knees in seconds.

Even so, that, apparently, wasn’t quick enough for miss Kimi. It was almost as if she expected her personal footslave to be ready and waiting for her in her bedroom on her return:

She appeared a bit flustered and was throwing her college books angrily down onto her bed:

‘Where dirty slave been? Why slave not clean miss Kimi dirty socks? Shine miss Kimi dirty boots?’

She was referring to the pair of dirty, white, knee-length socks in her linen basket and the accompanying pair of black, knee-length zip-up ankle boots that she had been wearing the day before. The socks, to be fair, did need a good mouth-washing as miss Kimi had chosen to wear her knee-length socks and boots again on what had been another hot day – and, as a consequence, the socks were rather sweaty. However, slave Stephen had not yet gotten round to dealing with miss Kimi’s footwear mainly because miss Yumiko had kept him occupied all morning cleaning and polishing her own boots and shoes.

He knew that miss Kimi was unlikely to accept that as an excuse, however, and so he resigned himself to apologising for his laziness and receiving the inevitable slap:

‘Oh please forgive this dirty, lazy slave, mistress Kimi. This slave apologises that he has not yet had the chance to clean his mistress’s dirty socks and boots…’

Whack!

Before he could properly finish his verbal grovelling towards the young woman the inevitable angry slap from miss Kimi’s delicate, feminine hand resounded across his slave face:

‘Slave a dirty lazy pig! Slave kiss miss Kimi feet. Beg miss Kimi mercy. Beg miss Kimi not tell father!’

Slave Stephen certainly did not want miss Kimi telling her father about his wanton neglect of her footwear – not so much because he would then be beaten by her father, but because word might get back to his employers at ‘Rent-A-Slave’, and the worst thing any rented slave can ever face is the fall-out resulting from a dissatisfied customer (as his colleague slave Pierre was still experiencing!)

Slave Stephen, therefore, immediately obeyed mistress Kimi and lavished kisses on her pretty feet as he begged her for mercy:

‘Oh pray, mistress Kimi, please have sweet, feminine mercy on this stupid slave and forgive him for his idleness. Please don’t report me to your father, miss Kimi. I promise I will be a good slave to you from now on! Oh please, mistress, this slave worships your dirty socks and boots.’

Although he was referring to the knee-length white socks and black leather ankle boots from yesterday which he had neglected to clean, slave Stephen was actually in the process of kissing the favourite pair of tatty old pink converse-style sneakers and black ankle socks that miss Kimi happened to be wearing that moment on her return from college. She was wearing them under a short, white, cotton mini-skirt that, unlike miss Yumiko’s black leather mini-skirt, showed off miss Kimi’s shapely, young, 19 year-old legs a treat.

The light pink uppers of the converse sneakers were soon showing dark, wet patches caused by both the saliva and the tears of the grovelling footslave – and this seemed to go someway to placating miss Kimi’s entirely justified wrath.

She kicked him away contemptuously with her pink-canvas sneakered foot:

‘Hah! Slave fetch miss Kimi roman sandals. Take off miss Kimi socks and sneakers. Put sandals on miss Kimi feet. Slave move! Obey! Quick!’

This appeared to be one young woman in a hurry – although slave Stephen was sure there must still be at least half an hour to go before master Gunter and his family were due to arrive.

He knew that miss Kimi could only be referring to her brown leather, ancient roman-style lace-up leather sandals which he had so lovingly polished with his tongue on the very day of his arrival in the Asakawa household. How appropriate, he thought, that whilst I am dressed as a roman slaveboy my mistress will be attired in sandals befitting a young roman lady.

It was, of course, a thought which had equally occurred to miss Kimi.

Slave Stephen therefore scurried over on his hands and knees to mistress Kimi’s shoe-cupboard and found the pair of lace-up roman sandals, carrying them back over to his mistress respectfully in his mouth by their straps.

The latter was now seated somewhat haughtily at her bedside cabinet, but with the chair facing the bed.

Slave Stephen knelt in front of her and began to untie the dirty pink laces on her tatty old converse sneakers. It was as if he was removing her 21^st century footwear in preparation for donning her 1^st century footwear. Either way, it was a typical scene from ancient roman history – a humble male footslave removing his mistress’s footwear from her superior feet, desperate to do a good job and not to incur her wrath.

Miss Kimi, even though she was in a hurry, did nothing to help him. He was her slave, after all. Why should she help him – a mere footslave, and a rented one at that! Like her mother she wished slave Jun was out of quarantine. Slave Jun may have been a lazy, fat pig – but at least he had never, to her knowledge, neglected to clean her footwear from the previous day by the time she returned home from college!

As he peeled off miss Kimi’s black ankle socks, again taking great care not to touch her bare flesh until ordered to do so, slave Stephen momentarily enjoyed the faint whiff of young-woman hot foot odour that wafted up his slave nostrils. The socks did feel warm to the touch, and a little damp around the toes.

Miss Kimi must have detected the aroma as well:

‘Miss Kimi feet sweaty. Feet stink. Not have time wash. Slave lick miss Kimi feet clean. Obey!’

‘Yes mistress Kimi. At once, mistress Kimi’

Slave Stephen was now in fully subservient mode. He wondered whether his ancient roman counterparts would ever have been ordered to lick clean their mistresses’ feet. Whatever, he knew he mustn’t, if you’ll forgive the pun, put a foot wrong whilst Kimi was in such a stressed and angry mood. She may only be 19 years old, but she was his master’s daughter, and therefore had complete and absolute power over him – the power to have him whipped, and he would be powerless to prevent it. That much he did have in common with a roman slave!

He therefore stopped his verbal grovelling long enough to enable him to lick the sweat off miss Kimi’s bare feet. As he did so he noticed the little tank tracks along the top of her ankles caused by the elastic at the tops of her now divested black ankle socks. Miss Kimi, apparently, had noticed the tracks too, and, given that she was planning on wearing her strappy roman sandals on her bare feet, was anxious that the slave should remove the unsightly marks:

‘Slave lick top of miss Kimi ankles. Remove sock marks. Slave obey!’

Needless to say, slave Stephen could not actually ‘lick away’ the tank tracks, but he could use his mouth and tongue to massage the colour back into the tops of

miss Kimi’s ankles, thereby achieving the desired effect. Equally, miss Kimi could simply have rubbed her ankles herself, but she much preferred to have her personal footslave do it with his mouth – especially as he hadn’t bothered to clean yesterday’s boots and socks.

And so slave Stephen, having spent the afternoon cutting and painting her mother’s toenails, and kissing and straightening her aunt’s stripy ankle socks, now found himself furiously licking the tops of miss Kimi’s bare ankles prior to lacing up her roman sandals for her– and all this was by way of assisting the ladies of the Asakawa household to prepare for their dinner party that evening.

What would they have done without him?!

Part 8 – The Dinner Party

The guests arrived a fashionably 20 minutes late.

Slave Stephen was now well into his role as a roman household slave as mistress Yumiko had him kneeling in the hallway, just inside the front door, head bowed and attired humbly in his plain, brown, roman slave tunic, ready to greet the Asakawa family’s guests in a manner befitting a roman footslave – by kissing their feet.

Master Gunter, his wife Elsa and 18 year old daughter Sabine (all three of them blond-haired) stepped into the porch and were warmly greeted by the dark-haired Mr and Mrs Asakawa and their daughter miss Kimi whilst, amidst all the commotion, slave Stephen was simultaneously given his orders by the equally dark-haired ‘housekeeper’, mistress Yumiko:

‘Slave kiss feet of honoured female guests. Obey!’

‘Aaah..!’ exclaimed master Gunter’s wife, Madam Elsa, ‘I see you have a humble roman footslave to serve us! How exciting!’

The older German woman, whom slave Stephen guessed to be similar in age to his mistress Haruko Asakawa i.e in her late thirties, spoke impeccable English but with a distinctive German accent. She was obviously a very well educated and successful woman in her own right – as you would expect of the wife of a successful European banker.

She was power-dressed to match her evident intellectual and financial power – a bright red, ankle length dress over bare legs and sparkling silver sandals exposing her bright-red, painted, shapely toenails.

Slave Stephen knew instinctively that he had to kiss Madam Elsa’s feet first. He knew that because he was naturally drawn to her power, and because she was the first of the two female guests to extend her right foot under his kneeling face for kissing.

The outstretched positioning of her foot caused the hem of her red dress to rise up exposing yet more of her pretty, soft, feminine ankle bone under the strap of her sparkly-silver sandal. He could now see clearly the veins running up the top of her pretty German foot, as he lowered his already bowed head even further towards ground level until his slavish lips made their first contact with Madam Elsa’s teutonic footflesh.

The first touch of lips on foot was electrifying for them both. Madam Elsa licked her own lips with lust as the handsome but humble 29 year old slaveboy, clad only in his roman-style plain, brown slave-tunic, submitted to her power, whilst for his part, the slave acknowledged in his heart and soul that this woman was his complete master and superior in every sense of those words – attractive, rich, intelligent, dressed in bright designer clothes and all-powerful.

The contrast between the two beings could not have been starker. She was, quite simply, his better – and everyone present knew it.

Master Gunter and Master Asakawa, in particular, enjoyed the scene. It was as if the degradation and abasement of the younger male slave only served to emphasise their own power as free men – as it displayed to everyone that their wives had to be treated with the utmost respect as the powerful spouses of successful, free businessmen.

And, of course, their daughters too.

Having kissed Madam Elsa’s left foot with equal humility and respect, slave Stephen was then ‘encouraged’ by his task-mistress, mistress Yumiko, to pay his slavish respects to Master Gunter’s 18 year old daughter Sabine, who had been waiting in the wings:

‘Slave kiss miss Sabine feet. Bless miss Sabine. Thank miss Sabine for enter master Asakawa home!’

Slave Stephen wondered how often similar scenes had been played out in Ancient roman households all those centuries ago. How many humble roman slaveboys had been required to kiss the feet of their master’s guests as they entered his villa? Had they too felt as powerless and as humble as he now did? Did the roman ladies’ feet feel as soft to the kiss as Madam Elsa’s? Did the veins in their soft, feminine feet twitch and flex in delighted reaction to the slaveboys’ humble kisses as Madam Elsa’s had done?

Like her mother, miss Sabine had somewhat veiny, although nevertheless pretty, feet. Also like her mother she was barefoot – although she was wearing shiny black, high-heeled stiletto pumps on her feet, shoes which, if anything, accentuated the most prominent veins in her feet. Miss Sabine had chosen to wear black footless-tights under a short, grey skirt. The nylon tights came down to the tops of her ankles where they ended in a black, lacy frill. The footless tights definitely served to frame her pretty, shapely ankles, and, as the young woman copied her mother and extended her right foot forward for the kneeling ‘roman’ footslave to pay homage to, the latter noticed a small red scar on the outer ankle bone of her right foot.

Such tiny imperfections however - the visible, blue veins and the small red cut - only served to emphasise to slave Stephen that although she was a flawed human being, miss Sabine was nevertheless his goddess, at least for the evening, and he must therefore demonstrate his inferiority and submissiveness before her by kissing her feet in public for all to see.

For that is what kissing a woman’s feet is all about. It’s the outward expression of that inner instinct on the part of the inferior male to submit to the superior female. By kissing miss Sabine’s feet he would be saying you are my superior, and I am fit only to touch your bare footflesh with my dirty slave lips. No other part of your body is appropriate for me to touch – for I am not a free man; I am not your equal, young mistress. I am worth less than the bacteria on your feet which my lips must taste.

Of course, these were not the words he had been commanded to speak out loud. A soon as he had respectfully placed and then withdrawn his lips from the veiny crown of her white foot, slave Stephen greeted miss Sabine as he had been bid:

‘God bless you, miss Sabine. This slave thanks you for visiting the household of his master, and prays that you will allow this dirty, unworthy slave the honour of being your personal foot-servant as you enjoy the hospitality of my master and his family this evening.’

Miss Sabine, as befits a charming if somewhat shy young woman, said nothing, but by withdrawing her right foot from under the kneeling slave’s nose and replacing it with her left, she signified that she would graciously accede to the humble slave’s request.

Her left foot seemed to wobble on its stiletto heel as slave Stephen’s lips made contact with the soft, white flesh on her upper left foot. It was, however, her mother, Madam Elsa, who responded verbally to the slave:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right slave. Kiss my beautiful daughter’s feet. We are your betters and you will treat us with the respect we deserve!’

Mr Asakawa reinforced the message, assuring his guests that his slave was their slave:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave will obey you and your daughter, Elsa. If not obey, slave feel miss Yumiko whip!’

Miss Yumiko, who had been starting to feel a little jealous of the slave’s evident humility before his two German mistresses, smiled again at the thought of being in charge of the footslave’s discipline for the evening. She hoped she would indeed have cause to fetch the brown, leather, single-tailed slave-whip from her brother’s study in order to apply it to the back of ‘her’ roman slave. The whip had not been withdrawn in anger since slave Stephen’s arrival, although she had kept it oiled ready for the return of the Asakawa family’s regular slave – the indolent and lazy slave Jun who was still ‘relaxing’ in quarantine (Slave Jun was actually at that moment chained up in a ‘kennel’ that was no more than 4 feet squared and was longing for nothing more than to be released from quarantine so that he could serve his beloved mistresses in the Asakawa household again.)

Miss Sabine’s ears appeared to prick up at the mention of the ‘whip’!

The host Japanese family and their German guests were beginning to pair off in their conversations and polite small-talk – Master Asakawa & Master Gunter; Madam Haruko and Madam Elsa; and miss Kimi and miss Sabine. They all spoke in English – their only common language.

This, of course, left Miss Yumiko to direct the slave – a role she was only too happy to fulfil, especially as the ‘roman footslave’ theme had been her idea.

As the hosts and their guests settled into the comfortable chairs in the Asakawa family’s opulent living room, miss Yumiko decided that the next thing a roman taskmistress would make her charge do would be to wash the feet of the female guests.

She approached the senior female guest, Madam Elsa first:

‘Madam like dirty slave wash Madam feet?’

Slave Stephen noted how mistress Yumiko had quite deliberately described him as being ‘dirty’, whilst Madam Elsa’s feet were not described as dirty. In fact, he could already tell from the kisses he had earlier placed on Madam Elsa’s divine feet, that they were perfectly clean. And yet, that which was dirty was about to be required to wash that which was clean. It was a topsy-turvy world!

Be that as it may, he had to acknowledge that it was only right and proper that the dirty male slave should be forced to wash the clean female feet.

Madam Elsa, at any rate, seemed to think so:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes please, Yumiko. My feet are rather tired. Please have the slave undo my sandals and wash my feet in some lukewarm water.’

‘Yes, Madam. At once Madam.’

Miss Yumiko, seemingly falling under Madam Elsa’s powerful spell herself and willingly adopting the role of female housekeeper-cum-servant, was nevertheless delighted that she would have the opportunity of overseeing the inferior male footslave’s humble work.

From his kneeling position slave Stephen saw the black leather, zip-up ankle boots with the ‘hidden’ multi-coloured stripy ankle socks of miss Yumiko disappear temporarily from view as she went to the downstairs bathroom to fetch a bowl of lukewarm water, a small sponge and a towel – all the equipment the roman footslave would need to wash his mistresses’ feet.

In the meantime he knelt forward in front of Madam Elsa in order to start undoing the silver ankle strap on her right sandaled-foot.

In keeping with a superior ‘roman’ matron, Madam Elsa ignored the slave fumbling at her footwear as she established a rapport with her hostess, Madam Haruko, who was sitting beside her on the sofa. The two ladies were talking about their mutual interests; the pressures of being married to workaholic men their respective outfits for the evening.

Slave Stephen wondered if slaves in Ancient Rome also felt ignored by their mistresses as they took off or put on their mistresses’ footwear. But then why should a superior, free woman give any attention to a faceless male slaveboy at her feet? Slaves were two a denari! Madam Elsa didn’t even know slave Stephen’s name – nor did she need to know it.

With perfect timing miss Yumiko returned with the basin of lukewarm water, a soft sponge and a fluffy, white towel just as slave Stephen was gently and respectfully removing the second sandal from Madam Elsa’s left foot.

The superior woman did nothing to help him as he carefully lifted her now bare right foot off the luxurious carpet of the living room and placed it gently into the bowl of water which mistress Yumiko had kindly placed beside him on a newspaper on the carpet.

Madam Elsa continued to ignore him as he cradled her pretty foot in the water with his left hand and gently rubbed the now wet sponge over the veins on the top of her foot. She did appear to wiggle and spread her toes in order to afford him easier access to the sticky and sensitive areas between her toes, but that may just have been an instinctive reaction on her part to the pleasant sensation of the lukewarm water and soft sponge rubbing along the top of her foot.

After some 5 minutes slave Stephen then lifted Madam Elsa’s right foot out of the bowl and placed it onto the white, fluffy towel lying on the ground directly in front of her.

He then, under the watchful eye of his self-appointed taskmistress, miss Yumiko, decided to wash Madam Elsa’s left foot, before drying both her feet together. This appeared to be the correct thing to do as he wasn’t scolded or criticised by either Madam Elsa or miss Yumiko.

Having thoroughly dried Madam Elsa’s freshly washed feet, he then made to put her sparkly-silver designer sandals back onto her feet. At this point miss Yumiko intervened:

‘Excuse me, Madam, Madam happy with slave work?’

Madam Elsa smiled and interrupted her conversation with Madam Haruko momentarily in order to crouch forwards in her seat and inspect her feet.

As befits a ‘roman matron’ she then indicated her satisfaction with a somewhat derisory flick of her bejewelled hand:

‘Yes thank you, Yumiko. Have the slave put my sandals back on my feet, please.’

Yumiko beamed, genuinely pleased that her slave had performed his humble chore to the honoured guest’s satisfaction.

She decided to go around the other ladies in the room:

‘Madam Haruko want slave wash Madam feet?’

Madam Haruko just laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! Madam Haruko wear stockings-o. Not want srave-o wash stockinged-o feet! Besides, srave-o already wash Madam Haruko feet earlier!’

That was partially true – he had given his master’s wife a full pedicure earlier that afternoon which had included rubbing oil into her soft feet.

Anyway, as he wasn’t required to wash Madam Haruko’s feet he just humbly kissed both her tan-stockinged feet inside her pink, strappy sandals.

Yumiko and her kneeling footslave then moved over to where miss Sabine and miss Kimi were sitting – both girls apparently engaged in an animated, but friendly, conversation about the respective merits of European and Asian pop music.

Yumiko, conscious of the protocol in such situations, approached the guest first on the slave’s behalf:

‘Miss Sabine want dirty slave wash miss Sabine feet?’

Miss Sabine giggled and, with some encouragement from her new best friend, miss Kimi, indicated that she would indeed like to have her bare feet washed by the slave:

‘Yes please, Yumiko. Do I have to slip off my shoes myself or will you make the slave take them off for me?’

Like her mother – perfect English, but with a strong German accent. It was, moreover, a perfectly reasonable question from the inexperienced 18 year old German mistress. Her family didn’t have a footslave and, after all, she was perfectly capable of kicking off her own black, shiny leather, high-heeled pumps. She wouldn’t even have to reach down to do so. However, she already sensed that it was the slave’s job to take off her shoes – and she didn’t want to make a, quite literal, faux-pas.

Miss Yumiko kindly put her right:

‘Miss Sabine relax. Miss Yumiko make slave take off miss Sabine shoes; gently wash miss Sabine feet.’

And with that she changed her tone in order to snap her orders at the kneeling slave:

‘Slave remove miss Sabine shoes while miss Yumiko fetch clean water. Slave obey!’

Unlike Madam Elsa and Madam Haruko, the two younger women appeared content to interrupt their conversation and concentrate on witnessing the humble, but attractive, 29 year old slaveboy as he attended to the younger female guest’s feet. He was, actually, quite fanciable – and may even have been considered as boyfriend material by the two girls had he not been a down-in-the-dirt footslave.

For her part, miss Sabine very much enjoyed the feeling of the hunky slave removing her shiny, black high-heeled shoes from her pretty young feet. She not only enjoyed the feel of his hands lifting and cradling each foot as he slipped off the shoes, but also the feeling of power she got over him as she looked down at the top of his bowed head. He was so close to her feet he must be able to smell them! The thought, momentarily, embarrassed her, but then she remembered that she had bathed earlier that day and, in any case, the slave was about to wash her feet, so any sweat that had built up in the meantime would soon be washed away.

When the slave eventually began ladling the water over her feet with his cupped hand and massaging the lukewarm water into her soft bare feet with the ultra-soft sponge she felt as though she were in heaven. She even closed her eyes at one point.

Miss Yumiko, on the other hand, had her eyes wide open as she kept a close watch on her slave’s performance:

‘Slave be careful! Not splash miss Sabine tights!’

It was a timely reminder, for slave Stephen was sponging miss Sabine’s upper right, ankle – the one with the small cut on the outer anklebone - when miss Yumiko’s verbal warning came. The black, lacy hem of miss Sabine’s footless nylon tights was very feminine and attractive – but it must not be splashed with her dirty foot-water.

And so he exercised caution. He knew miss Yumiko was just itching to fetch her brother’s whip!

Having dried miss Sabine’s feet and put her shoes back on for her (she already expected him to put her shoes back on her feet as she was now a fully-fledged supporter of male slavery), slave Stephen waited to see whether his master’s daughter, miss Kimi, wanted her feet to be washed.

Silly question – of course she did!

And so, whilst miss Yumiko again withdrew to the bathroom with the foot-basin to get some fresh water, slave Stephen began untying the laces on miss Kimi’s roman-style flat sandals.

The laces criss-crossed her feet and lower leg up to the top of her shapely calf muscles, and as he fumbled to untie the laces from the top, slave Stephen knew that he really was repeating a common scene from ancient history – a household footslave undoing his master’s daughter’s brown, lace-up, leather sandals in order to humbly wash her dirty feet in front of her father and his guests.

As he knelt in front of his young mistress, for a split second he felt almost as if he had been here before. Had he, perhaps, been a slave in a previous life in Ancient Rome? Did that explain his natural submissiveness? Was he not only born to be a slave, but destined to serve women and to be their slave in his next life? And the one after that? For all eternity?

He hoped so, for although kneeling at the feet of a 19 year old girl was humiliating, it also felt right.

Miss Kimi directed him in the washing of her feet herself. Unlike the feet he had washed of the other two ladies, Miss Kimi’s feet did actually need a good wash. If you remember he had only had time to mouth-wash miss Kimi’s feet prior to the guests’ arrival, and so she was keen to point out to him the bits he had missed with his tongue – especially on the underside of her toes:

‘Slave wash here!... Rub sponge underneath miss Kimi big toe!... Slave not rub heel…concentrate on side of miss Kimi foot! Dirty slave obey!’

Her new friend, miss Sabine, was impressed with the way her counterpart spoke to the slave – curtly and authoritatively. Her father, Gunter, could already tell from the expression in her eyes that she wanted her own personal footslave.

During dinner itself slave Stephen was made to kneel under the table at miss Yumiko’s boots. He was hungry, and the food smelt delicious, but the only way of dismissing the hunger pangs from his mind was to concentrate on the black, leather zip-up ankle boots in front of his face. He in fact, because miss Yumiko had her left booted foot positioned on the floor at an angle, could observe the multi-coloured top of her ‘secret’ ankle sock – the socks she didn’t want anyone else to see that she was wearing inside her boots. He therefore felt privileged to have sight of his mistress’s inner footwear, and duly concentrated his thoughts on that.

Just think, he told himself, your mistress Yumiko’s multi-coloured ankle sock is gradually absorbing her footsweat inside her hot ankle boot as she eats her delicious dinner. That will be your sustenance later in the evening – the sweat from your mistress’s socks – and it is the only sustenance you are worthy of!

After dinner, the two younger women, miss Kimi and miss Sabine, retired to the former’s bedroom, whilst miss Yumiko stayed in the living room with the girls’ parents. Slave Stephen was ordered to follow miss Kimi.

In miss Kimi’s bedroom the two girls, both sitting on the edge of Kimi’s bed, initially discussed in some detail the contents of her wardrobe, and their respective tastes in fashion. The conversation soon turned, however, to the subject of male slavery and, more specifically, to the footslave kneeling at their pretty feet.

Miss Sabine began by admiring the ornate and rather imposing shoeshine stand in miss Kimi’s bedroom. She then had lots of questions for her host:

‘How long has your family had a footslave, Kimi?’

‘Hah! We have slave Jun nearly 2 years now! Kimi father buy him on Kimi 18^th birthday for present. But slave Jun dirty; lazy. Sit in quarantine nearly 2 weeks – so father buy this rented slave for help look after Kimi feet!’

It was not slave Stephen’s place to say so, but, of course, he wasn’t just hired to be miss Kimi’s personal footslave. He was the footslave of Mr Asakawa’s wife, Haruko, and her sister-in-law Yumiko, too. But miss Kimi, to be fair, did regard him as her personal footslave. And why not? Was she not perfectly entitled to do so – especially given that, if she was to be believed, the family’s regular slave, slave Jun, had been her 18^th birthday present!

Miss Sabine evidently believed it anyway:

‘Cool! I wish my father would buy me a slave! What sort of things do you make the slave do?’

Slave Stephen was kneeling humbly with his head bowed at the two girls’ feet as they sat on the edge of their bed and talked about him. Again, the comparisons with Ancient Rome occurred to him – slaves were always in the background; left out of the conversation; silent; obedient; ready to serve their female masters at the click of a finger.

He listened as miss Kimi described his daily life, as she perceived it, in her broken English:

‘Slave must kiss and wash Kimi feet every morning before Kimi go to college. Then slave stay at home and wash Kimi dirty socks; clean Kimi dirty boots with tongue until Kimi come home in evening. Then slave rub Kimi sock feet; smell dirty socks, before sleep at end of Kimi bed near Kimi bare feet.’

Again, this description was only partially true. Slave Stephen had many other duties in addition to taking care of miss Kimi’s feet and footwear, but it was true that he had spent several nights sleeping at the end of her bed so that she could use his face as a hot water-bottle for her feet.

Miss Sabine clapped her hands with delight. Slave Stephen concentrated his humble gaze on the veins along the top of her right foot as she asked her next question of her host:

‘And do you ever beat him? I mean, are you allowed to whip him?’

Miss Kimi laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes. Miss Kimi allowed use father’s whip if slave insolent or not obey!’

Slave Stephen didn’t know if this was actually true or not, as miss Kimi, indeed no-one, had had occasion to whip him since his arrival earlier that week in the Asakawa household. He hadn’t even seen this dreaded brown, leather slave-whip which Mr Asakawa apparently kept in his study.

His heart sank, however, as he realised he was about to make its acquaintance:

‘Sabine want whip slave? Want Kimi fetch whip?’

‘Oh yes please, Kimi! That would be fun!’ replied a now exuberant Sabine.

Miss Kimi promptly jumped off the bed and ran down to her father’s study to fetch the family slave-whip.

Slave Stephen decided to take liberties and to beg the inexperienced miss Sabine not to whip him. He began to feverishly kiss the young woman’s bare feet and black, leather pumps:

‘Oh pray, mistress Sabine, if it pleases you beautiful and all-powerful mistress Sabine, this slave begs you not to whip him. I will kiss your feet 100 times, sweet, feminine mistress, but please spare me from the sting of the whip!’

Slave Stephen had been whipped often enough to know that he didn’t like it.

It seemed, however, that he had misjudged miss Sabine, for she was not, or rather she was no longer, the timid, inexperienced young mistress who had tentatively stretched forward her foot for him to kiss in the porch just 3 hours before.

She was now a fully paid-up slave owning mistress:

‘Shut up, dirty slave. I am going to whip you because I want to! Pull up your slave tunic so that I can get a good look at your bare, white back. I want to see where I can put the stripe!’

The stripe! Singular! Praise be! Perhaps this kind-hearted and merciful young woman was only inclined to give him one lash. He probably deserved more for daring to beg for mercy. Yes, this young woman wanted to find out what it was like to whip a slave, and so whipped he would be.

When miss Kimi re-entered the room carrying the brown, leather whip coiled up in her pretty right hand, slave Stephen was already kneeling in front of a now standing miss Sabine with his slave tunic pulled up to his shoulders exposing his lower back.

From his kneeling position, forehead touching the floor, he could only catch a fleeting glimpse of the brown, leather slave-whip. It did not appear to be too long, and it looked like it was indeed single-tailed. However, he knew from bitter experience that these were the very whips which often caused the greatest sting.

Miss Kimi proudly handed the whip over to miss Sabine, who lovingly ran it through her fingers before gleefully cracking it in the air a couple of times above the kneeling slave’s back, causing him to flinch. He saw the veins and muscles in her bare feet twitch inside her patent, black leather, high-heeled shoes with each crack of the whip as she stood in front of him and played with her new toy.

Miss Kimi, however, wanted to help with the slave’s punishment:

‘Kimi stand in front of slave. Make slave put head between Kimi ankles; hold slave in place while Sabine whip slave!’ she helpfully suggested.

Miss Sabine, who now, somewhat bizarrely, appeared to be in charge of the whole scene, ‘agreed’ to her friend’s suggestion, and positioned herself at a suitable distance behind the kneeling slave whilst miss Kimi stood with her roman-sandaled ankles on either side of the slave’s bowed head, before closing her legs in on the slave’s head until he could feel the straps of her sandals digging into his temples.

He could now see and smell nothing but the brown, leather sandals and soft, white feet and ankles of his mistress Kimi as he heard miss Sabine warn him to prepare for the first stroke as she stood behind him.

The first stroke!

How many did the girls end up giving him? That would be telling!

Suffice it to say that the following morning, when the doorbell rang and a crate was unexpectedly delivered with slave Jun trussed up inside it, slave Stephen was actually glad to be leaving the Asakawa household and returning to the showrooms of ‘Rent-A-Slave’ – even if he would be ‘out of service’ for a few days whilst the nasty wounds on his lower back healed!

Part 9 – The Novelty Slave

And so the showroom of ‘Rent-A-Slave’ now had two of its ‘best’ footslaves temporarily out of action – slaves Pierre and Stephen.

Fortunately for two of the potential customers of ‘Rent-A-Slave’ at least, namely 23 year old miss Trinity and 22 year old miss Floella, that wasn’t a problem. They were looking not for a footslave in the prime of life, but for a novelty slave – a fun slave for their 25 year old friend Ruby’s hen night – and miss Samantha, one of the showroom assistants, knew she had just the slave for them!

Slave Alfredo had recently turned 80 years old. He had been a footslave all his adult life, but had only been in the employ of ‘Rent-A-Slave’ for the past 10 years or so since his lifelong mistress had disposed of him when he had started to outlive his usefulness to her.

Slave Alfredo was lucky. His mistress could have just thrown him out into the street when she had replaced him with a newer model. But instead she had decided to get some money for him – and selling him to ‘Rent-A-Slave’ had been the best option all round. The company was always looking for ‘novelty’ slaves for hen nights; birthday parties etc – and slave Alfredo fitted the bill perfectly: old, decrepit; ugly; and ultra-submissive towards superior young women.

As they looked down at him in his showroom-cage (slave Alfredo was, of course, like all footslaves in the showroom kept tethered in his cage on his hands and knees), the mistresses Trinity and Floella couldn’t help laughing at the pitiful sight of the decrepit, submissive old man:

‘Ha! Ha! Ruby’s gonna love him, innit?’ exclaimed Trinity. ‘What a wrinkly old wimp! I’ll bet he can’t wait to get his wrinkly lips on our pretty, feminine shoes!’

From his humble kneeling position, head suitably bowed to the floor, slave Alfredo could see out of the corner of his eye that the young woman who had just spoken was wearing a bright blue mini-skirt and strappy, blue high-heeled leather shoes on her soft, white, bare feet. Even from an angle he noticed some redness around the backs of her heels where her new shoes had obviously been rubbing.

You’re not wrong, young mistress, he thought to himself. I would truly be honoured to kiss your superior shoes and feet. Please let me soothe those red heels for you with my slave tongue!

He thought it but, of course, he was in no position to say it!

‘Yeah!’ agreed the other young woman, who appeared to be chewing gum, ‘What a dweeb! I hope he likes the smell of girls’ sweaty socks for I can’t wait to rub my socked feet in his ugly, wrinkly old face, innit?’

This second young woman was black and was wearing black culottes that came down to just below her shapely knees, black, scuff-marked sneakers and black, footie-style cotton socks - the elasticated tops of which were just showing above the upper rim of her sneakers. Ever one for an eye to detail when it came to young woman’s footwear, slave Alfredo noticed also that the black sock on the young black woman’s left foot was lower at the back than the one on her right foot. It had evidently slipped further down into her sneaker-heel than its counterpart.

Oh please, young mistress, please permit me to straighten your black ankle socks for you after you rub your sweaty socks in my face, thought Alfredo – again, wisely, keeping his thoughts to himself.

‘Ha! Ha! Let’s take him, Flo! Like I said, Ruby will love having him serving at her feet tonight, innit? I just know she’ll be up for it!’ said the white girl.

The black girl, whom slave Alfredo now knew to be ‘mistress Flo’, still nonchalantly and noisily chewing her gum, agreed:

‘Cool! Even if Rubes isn’t up for it I sure as hell am!’

And so, the deal was done. Mistress Samantha unlocked slave Alfredo’s cage and pulled him out by his chain that was connected to a metal collar around his neck which had the company logo on it, before handing the chain to miss Trinity.

‘What time do we have to bring him back?’ Trinity asked the showroom-assistant.

‘Whenever you like, miss’ responded miss Samantha politely. ‘He’s yours for as long as you wish although please remember that we charge by the hour.’

‘Cool!’ replied Trinity, ‘we’ll try to get him back here by 09:00 tomorrow morning, innit?’

‘That’s fine. Enjoy!’ chirped Samantha happily, as slave Alfredo, clad only in his slave shorts, neck collar and chain, was lead away by mistresses Trinity and Floella towards the car park.

‘Where shall we put him? In the boot?’ queried the young white woman, whose red-chapped heels in shiny, blue, high-heeled shoes slave Alfredo was crawling directly behind. He liked the way the hard skin at the back of the young woman’s heels creased and folded as they wobbled in her spiked heels in front of his face.

‘Nah, I want him lying in the back under my dirty sneakers, innit?’ exclaimed miss Floella. ‘There’s a lot of dirt on them sneakers and he might as well lick the soles clean while we drive to the bar. After all, we wanna get our money’s worth, innit?’

It was a fair point – so miss Trinity agreed that slave Alfredo could lie in the back of the car under her friend Floella’s black sneakers whilst she drove the 5 miles or so to the city centre bar where they would be meeting up with their girlfriends for Ruby’s hen-night - including the star guest herself, of course, miss Ruby.

The pretty young black woman ordered slave Alfredo to crawl into the back of the car and then stretch out on his back on the floor. The dirty floor of the car felt rough on his wrinkly old, octogenarian back. He now saw miss Flo masticating her chewing gum as she sat above him, her pretty face staring down at him with what could only be described as a mixture of contempt and dominance etched into her features. He noticed that she also had a pretty nose-stud in the side of her nose.

She looked sexy, powerful and arrogant, but sadly it was a view that quickly disappeared as it was replaced by the beige coloured, ribbed sole of her dirty right sneaker resting on his upturned face. As Trinity started the car engine in the front, miss Floella barked her orders down at slave Alfredo:

‘You, the slave! Lick the filth off the bottom of my shoe, and make sure you remove that stuck-on gum at the front, innit? It’s been there for, like, weeks!’

Slave Alfredo had already noticed the blackened piece of chewing gum his young mistress was referring to. It appeared to be well ingrained into the beige treads of her sneaker-sole, and he knew from bitter experience that it would require a lot of effort with his tongue to get it out. He would first have to try softening it with his slave saliva and then might even have to try using his false teeth to scrape it off the shoe!

He wondered whether the offending piece of gum had come from miss Flo’s own pretty mouth, or whether it had belonged to someone else. Not that it really mattered. He was a mere slave, and was honoured to be allowed the privilege of tasting any dirty chewing gum that graced the sole of a young black woman’s sneaker.

‘Yes, miss, at once mistress Flo!’ he humbly muffled under the tread of her dirty sneaker sole.

The black sneaker was immediately raised and brought crashing down again on his prone and vulnerable upturned face:

‘Dirty slave! How dare you refer to me as “mistress Flo”! Only my friends are allowed to call me “Flo”, innit? And you’re not my friend, old man. You’re just my dirty shoe-licking slave, and don’t you forget it, ugly pig!’

Slave Alfredo heard the other young woman laughing in the front of the car as she revved up the engine and switched on the radio:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, Flo. You tell ‘im. Kick ‘im again, innit?’

Mistress ‘Floella’ duly obliged, leaving slave Alfredo in no doubt that he owed the young woman a fulsome apology:

‘Oh pray, mistress Floella, please forgive this dirty old slave his insolence. This slave begs your forgiveness, sweet feminine young mistress!’

Judging by the fact that the area of the sneaker sole with the offending piece of chewing gum stuck to it was now resting over his slave lips again, slave Alfredo surmised that his apology had, temporarily at least, been accepted.

Best now to just get on with the job in mouth – and lick and scrape away at the dirty, black gum.

He felt the vibrations of the car engine under his neck as the car sped off. He hoped the young female driver, whose name he was still not a party to, would be able to drive carefully in her high-heels! He certainly wouldn’t want to be killed in a car crash. He enjoyed his life too much!

Fortunately the traffic into the town appeared to be quite heavy – which slowed the young woman driver down and had the added benefit of allowing slave Alfredo more time to work on the chewing gum on miss Floella’s sneaker sole. She appeared to be quite disinterested in his work, content to just listen to the dance music emanating from the car stereo and to look out the window as she continued to chew on the fresh gum inside her pretty black mouth whilst slave Alfredo attempted to consume the stale gum that was on her pretty black sneaker.

After some twenty minutes or so, however, she decided it was time to inspect his work. She suddenly reached down and, without untying the laces, pulled off her

right sneaker, leaving her black-socked foot resting on slave Alfredo’s upturned face.

As miss Floella inspected the sole of her sneaker, slave Alfredo inspected the sole of her well-worn black sock. He could see little areas, especially on the underside of the toes, where the material of the black cotton was either grey or wearing away completely. Yes, these were a favourite and well-worn pair of sneaker socks, an impression reinforced by the unmistakable aroma of young-woman socksweat that now engulfed his slave nostrils.

Miss Floella had earlier promised him that she would be rubbing her socked foot in his face, and that was exactly what she now did, still examining the sole of her right sneaker and chewing her gum.

Slave Alfredo was aware that he had not been entirely successful in removing every last trace of the gum that was stuck to the sole of mistress Floella’s sneaker. He braced himself for some criticism, but was saved by the fact that the car had now, seemingly, arrived at its destination in the town centre. Mistress Floella, and her friend, were evidently anxious to get a few drinks down them in the bar, as miss Floella hurriedly put her sneaker back on, and merely grabbed slave Alfredo’s chain, before opening the back door and stepping out onto the pavement with slave Alfredo back over on his stomach and following in tow at her sneakered heels.

To his consternation, not only had he not had time to remove the blackened chewing gum from his young lady’s sneaker-sole, but nor had he had the opportunity to straighten her black sneaker socks for her. As a result the sock in the left sneaker had now all but disappeared at the back, whilst the elasticated top of the right sock could still be clearly seen.

Of course, it could only still be clearly seen by slave Alfredo. Nobody else would notice it, or care about it, not even miss Floella herself.

It was getting dark outside as the two young women walked, and slave Alfredo crawled on his hands and knees, across the car park attached to the noisy bar full of young people. Incidentally, even if slave Alfredo had been permitted to, he would have been quite unable to walk upright. That’s what comes of living your entire adult life on your hands and knees as a footslave. You can’t get up off your knees.

As the trio entered the bar and headed towards the table where the rest of the hen party were gathered they were greeted with cheers and wolf whistles. One young woman, whom slave Alfredo guessed to be mistress Ruby, the young woman who was about to be wed, put her hands up to her mouth and kept repeating the words ‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’

There was, indeed, great merriment and laughter all around him as the kneeling footslave tried to take in the various feet and footwear of the girls of the hen party.

In a split second his well-honed footslave powers of observation established that there were 7 young women in total now seated at the round bar table.

Aside from the two young women who had brought him from the showroom, miss Floella and the other young white woman with the bright blue strappy high-heels and red-chapped heelflesh, whose name he still didn’t know, there was a young woman in, stiletto-heeled, zip-up, black leather knee-length boots. She was also wearing a very short yellow mini-skirt on what appeared to be bare legs.

Then there was another young woman (they nearly all appeared to be in their early to mid twenties) who was wearing smart, white, stiletto pumps on bare feet under a pair of very short white hotpants. Though it wasn’t his place to think so, slave Alfredo couldn’t help but notice that this young mistress had truly great legs!

Then there was another young woman with dumpier legs who was wearing pink ballet flats with little pink bows attached to the uppers over the toes, pink patterned ankle socks, and pink culottes similar in style to the black pants of mistress Floella. Dumpy or not, slave Alfredo found this young woman equally attractive as the leggy girl in the white stilettos.

Seated next to her was another slightly older woman. Slave Alfredo could just tell she was older by the sound of her voice as she laughed rather raucously. Hmm…a heavy smoker, he thought! This woman ,whom he guessed to be in her late thirties, and therefore from his perspective still young, appeared to have come dressed as a tart – black fishnet tights in shiny, red, stiletto shoes and a bright, red mini-skirt.

What slave Alfredo didn’t know was that Patricia, for that was the woman’s name, always dressed like that. For she was not a tart. She was just ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ – not that it was any of slave Alfredo’s business how she dressed, for she was the superior woman and he was just the inferior, male slave.

And then, last but not least, there was the ‘hen’ herself – mistress Ruby – actually quite conservatively dressed for a hen party in white mini-skirt, black opaque tights or possibly leggings, and black, zip-up, block-heeled, ankle boots with some pretty patterned stitching around the uppers.

‘Where on earth did you find him?’ exclaimed the latter incredulously as miss Floella deposited slave Alfredo under the table at Ruby’s booted feet.

Mistress Trinity laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! Meet your new footslave, Rubes. He’s all yours for the night, innit? Isn’t he a hunk!’

The whole pub appeared to break into hysterical laughter.

‘Aww… I think he’s really cute!’ exclaimed the young woman in the pink ballet flats and bright pink socks. ‘We should call him “slave Pops”!’

Again – raucous laughter.

‘Susan, don’t be so disrespectful!’ chided the girl in white stiletto heels. ‘He’s, like, old enough to be your granddad, or something! Your great granddad even!’

‘Ha! Ha! You’re not wrong, Jessica! I know, we should call him “great grandslave, innit?” shouted the young woman in the strappy blue stilettos who had driven him here.

Everyone, even mistress Susan, appeared to agree:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s brilliant Trinity! “Great grandslave” it is!’ decreed mistress Ruby.

At last I know my chauffeuse’s name, thought slave Alfredo. Mistress Trinity. He still hadn’t kissed her red-chapped heels, though, and he was longing to, just as he was longing to pay slavish homage to miss Jessica’s white stilettos!

‘I’ll tell you what, Rubes, he likes the smell of girls’ sweaty socks!’ exclaimed mistress Floella above the general din. ‘I had him sniffing my socks in the car on the way here, innit?’

‘Ha! Ha! Cool! You all have permission to use my slave, tonight, ladies!’ declared an exuberant miss Ruby. ‘I’m not wearing socks myself, but if you want to have him sniff your socks, Susan, be my guest!’

She was referring to miss Susan’s bright pink patterned ankle socks inside her pink ballet flats. For her part miss Susan seemed a bit embarrassed at the prospect of taking off her shoes in order to have the old slave smell her socks in public. She turned a bright shade of pink herself to match her socks – not that slave Alfredo could see it. He was dutifully staring at mistress Ruby’s black ankle boots.

‘Well, if you don’t want him as a sock-sniffer I’ll have him, Susan!’ exclaimed the young woman in the black, spike-heeled knee-length boots and yellow mini skirt. ‘I’m wearing socks inside these boots, and it’s so hot in here they must be reeking, innit?’

The girls all laughed, as slave Alfredo found himself wondering what colour the girl’s socks might be inside her knee-length leather boots – black to match her boots? Or perhaps yellow to match her mini-skirt? It was just one of the many frustrations of being a footslave – the not knowing!

‘Honestly, Angelica, we don’t want to see or smell your dirty socks this evening,’ joked the older woman in the group, mistress Patricia, slurring her words. ‘Besides I quite fancy having great grandslave sniffing the toes of my fishnets!’

Again, there was raucous laughter. Some of these women were already quite drunk, thought slave Alfredo.

‘Ha! Ha! Guys! Guys! I think that Rubes should have first use of the slave, innit? After all, it is her big night!’ opined miss Trinity.

‘What do you think, girls? Should I have him take off my boots and suck my sweaty toes?’ asked mistress Ruby.

Everyone seemed to think that she should, and so she pulled slave Alfredo from under the table by his collar and chain and swung her legs out where everyone could see them:

‘Great grandslave, I want you to unzip my ankle boots and suck my bare toes clean. Make sure you suck away all the sweaty toe jam as I don’t want anything spoiling my big day tomorrow, innit?’

‘Yes mistress. At once Mistress.’ Slave Alfredo had decided, following his earlier encounter with mistress Floella, not to call mistress Ruby by her first name at all. You can’t go far wrong with a simple ‘Yes, mistress’!

His ancient fingers were still quite nimble and so he had little difficulty in unzipping the young woman’s black, leather ankle boots.

As soon as he did so he realised that she was, in fact, wearing black leggings that came down to her ankles, as her pretty white feet were bare inside the boots. As he raised her right foot gently off the ground and put her soft, unpainted toes into his mouth, he tasted the familiar saltiness of sweet, young-woman footsweat. He ran his tongue over the stickiness between her big toe and second toe.

‘Ooooh…gross!’ exclaimed mistress Susan, clearly the most uncomfortable of all the girls with the ‘novelty slave’ act for the evening. Actually though, the more she watched slave Alfredo sucking on her best friend’s bare toes, the more she wondered what it would be like to have him running his nose over her pink-socked feet – but only in private. Not in public!

The other girls were just laughing and drinking.

‘Come on, great grandslave, get that tongue in between my dirty, sweaty toes. Really use that tongue to lick away all the dirty toe-jam and toe-cheese that’s built up on my bare feet inside my boots, innit? Get my feet all nice and clean for my fiancé!’, and with that mistress Ruby began manipulating her pretty foot deeper inside slave Alfredo’s wrinkly old mouth.

Which was fine until she went to pull out her foot – his false teeth suddenly went flying across the floor of the pub, to the enormous amusement of everyone present, apart, of course, from the mortified footslave.

‘Ha! Ha! I think great grandslave has gotten rid of his teeth in order to make more room for your foot, Rubes!’ exclaimed mistress Patricia in her raucous, smoky voice.

Mistress Ruby, once she had calmed down from her hysterical fit of laughter, asked slave Alfredo if that was, indeed the case:

‘Ha! Ha! Ohh…tell me, great grandslave, is that why you got rid of your teeth? Did you do that for little old me just so that I could shove my entire foot in your dirty slave mouth?’

Slave Alfredo saw every reason to lie to his mistress:

‘Yeth, mithtreth’ he mumbled through his gums.

All the women creased up with laughter.

‘Oh well then,’ said mistress Ruby, ‘in that case it would be rude of me not to take full advantage of your empty mouth, innit? Here - suck on this, great grandslave!’

And with that she shoved her entire, as yet unwashed, left foot into slave Alfredo’s open mouth.

‘Ha! Ha! What does it feel like having your foot inside a gummy old man’s mouth, Rubes?’ inquired mistress Jessica, the girl with the white stilettos.

‘Erm…it feels a bit like sticking your foot into a blancmange, innit?’ declared mistress Ruby, to raucous approval from her playmates.

‘For God’s sake go easy on him, Rubes man! We don’t want him catching foot ‘in’ mouth disease – after all he is just a dirty pig, innit?’ quipped the black girl miss Floella, still masticating lazily on her chewing gum.

‘Yeah, a great grandpig!’ chirped the girl in the white stilettos, miss Jessica, to girlish laughter all round.

Slave Alfredo, for his part, was just concerned that his false teeth wouldn’t get lost, but he needn’t have worried as the kindly, pink-socked miss Susan had already picked them up for him, albeit with a tissue, as she thought his set of false teeth were totally gross. She then manipulated the upper and lower rows of the false teeth and imitated slave Alfredo’s voice:

‘Please can I kiss your shoes, mistress Patricia?’ and with that she placed the false teeth on the toe of mistress Patricia’s shiny, bright red stiletto so that slave Alfredo’s teeth could pay homage to the older woman’s feminine shoe whilst his mouth simultaneously paid host to mistress Ruby’s feminine foot.

It was quite a scene, and the evening had only just begun!

But slave Alfredo, the ‘great grandslave’ didn’t mind. He might be old, but the night was still young and, surrounded as he was by the sight, taste and smell of the feet and footwear of 7 beautiful, vivacious young women, he felt like the luckiest slave alive.

Here’s to another 80 years, slave Alfredo! Enjoy… innit?

Part 10 – The Soap Star (i)

Good news!

Slave Pierre has recovered from his flogging and is back on his knees.

More precisely, he now finds himself on his knees inside the dressing room of a TV soap star – miss Stephanie, who plays a petulant and wilful young woman who is always getting into trouble.

Talk about type casting!

Slave Pierre was very excited. Although he had not been permitted to watch TV for many years, even he had heard of miss Stephanie, and had caught snippets of her soap opera on TV whilst massaging women’s feet as they relaxed on their sofas in their living rooms.

Although he was still waiting to meet her, 49 year old slave Pierre was already somewhat star struck – just being on his knees in her dressing room in the TV studio was thrilling. Put it this way - If he had been permitted to ask the women he served as a footslave for autographs, he would certainly have wanted to ask miss Stephanie for hers.

A beautiful brunette; regarded as a bit of a ‘goth’ and a trailblazer in her tastes in fashion; pursued by the paparazzi wherever she went – 20 year old miss Stephanie (not her real name!) relished the constant attention she received in the media. Some more serious critics might have implied from time to time that her acting skills left something to be desired. And her music career hadn’t exactly taken off! But she was young and pretty, went to all the right parties and premieres, and dated other celebrities – so there was barely a day went by that her photograph – usually of her leaving a nightclub a bit the worse for wear - didn’t end up in some paper or other.

Of course, all this admiration and attention at such a young age had rather gone to miss Stephanie’s head. She was, it has to be said, rather ‘full of herself’. But those closest to her indulged her – she made them money, and if Stephanie was happy, they were happy.

Slave Pierre was equally determined to make the spoilt and petulant soap actress happy. As he knelt in the middle of her dressing room awaiting her return from rehearsals, he couldn’t help but notice a pair of her famous, black, lace-up doc Marten boots in the corner of the room.

Oh if only he had permission to crawl over to those discarded boots and sniff the insides of them – the insides of the beautiful, young soap star’s Doc Marten boots! What a privilege and an honour that would be! Her famous footsweat in his humble, slave nostrils! But, sadly, he hadn’t been given permission to sniff the insides of her boots. And so all he could do was dream.

Suddenly the door to the dressing room opened behind him. His heart was racing. Was this finally her? Was this the delightful miss Stephanie?

Sadly, no.

It was miss Stephanie’s Personal Assistant, Chan-sook, or ‘miss Chan’ as the slave had been ordered to address her, a Korean lady in her early thirties who had picked him up from the Rent-A-Slave showroom earlier that morning.

Under normal circumstances slave Pierre would have felt privileged to be in the presence of the attractive Korean PA - small, dark-haired and slender, like most oriental goddesses, she was dressed in a yellow top, black trousers, and black, zip-up ankle boots. He knew they were ankle boots because of the boot-cut in her trousers – he could just about see the top of her ankle boot below her trouser hem whenever she had stretched forward her foot for kissing, as she did again now.

Her right boot was slightly scuff-marked on the toe and accordingly felt somewhat rough on his lips as he placed a respectful kiss on the Korean PA’s outstretched right foot. He liked the way her boot-cut trouser-leg flapped somewhat as she then replaced her right foot with her left on the carpet of the dressing room floor directly under his kneeling nose. Again there were scuff marks on the young Korean woman’s boot.

Yes, ordinarily this would be the highlight of his day.

But compared to meeting miss Stephanie…?

Miss Chan spoke down to him in her cute Korean accent:

‘Miss Stephanie come soon. Slave stay on knees. Prepare to serve miss Stephanie feet. Kiss miss Stephanie feet when miss Stephanie enter room!’

Slave Pierre was already prepared to kiss miss Stephanie’s feet as soon as she entered the room. Wait until the other slaves heard about this!

Miss Chan, however, was not yet convinced that slave Pierre was in the right frame of mind to serve her all-too-demanding boss, especially as miss Stephanie was in a particularly foul mood that morning (she had only got back from her clubbing at 3:00 am and hadn’t had a lot of sleep).

As the humble rent-a-slave stared at the scuffed toes of her black ankle boots below her black, boot-cut trouser hems, miss Chan told slave Pierre everything he needed to know about miss Stephanie:

‘Miss Stephanie not know normal slave sick – not expecting dirty rented slave. Slave obey miss Stephanie; pamper miss Stephanie; pander miss Stephanie every whim – or miss Chan make slave back sting with whip!’

Although he was now deemed fit for service again, slave Pierre’s back still bore the scars of his encounter with Madam Debroue’s whip more than a week ago. His back was still feeling a bit tender, and the last thing he wanted was another whipping. He resolved, therefore, in the light of miss Chan’s kind words of advice, to obey unquestioningly miss Stephanie’s every whim, however petulant or capricious it may be. He would treat the young, female soap star as the goddess that she was, and leave her in no doubt as to his sense of awe and humility in her divine, goth-like presence.

Furthermore, he felt he must thank miss Chan for her timely words of advice and her offer to discipline him if he failed to perform to miss Stephanie’s satisfaction:

‘Oh pray, miss Chan, this dirty slave knows its place and will obey miss Stephanie to the utmost of its ability, if it so pleases you miss Chan. This slave thanks mistress Chan for threatening to whip it if it fails to satisfy miss Stephanie.’

And with that he kissed the scuffed toe of miss Chan’s still outstretched, left ankle boot.

Of course, in thanking miss Chan for offering to whip him slave Pierre was fervently hoping inside that she would not feel the need to do so. The trouble was that once women saw whip marks on a slave’s back , such as he still had, it tended to put ideas into their pretty heads. He could only hope against hope that miss Chan would be true to her word and only whip him if he failed to pander to miss Stephanie’s every wish – for he was confident that he would not fail.

Miss Chan had some more words of advice for the rented slave:

‘Slave not talk to press. Press want know all about miss Stephanie love-life; what miss Stephanie like eat, drink; even what miss Stephanie wear on feet inside boots; what miss Stephanie feet smell like! Slave stay silent. Respect miss Stephanie privacy – or feel miss Chan whip!’

Miss Chan even crouched down at this point in order to run one of her pretty, Korean fingernails along one of the welts on his bare back – just to emphasise to the slave the importance of not betraying his new mistress’s confidences.

Miss Chan needn’t have worried. Slave Pierre would never betray a mistress’s confidence – not even for money. Besides, what use would money be to him anyway? He was a full-time slave.

He was just about to verbally reassure miss Chan once again that the sting of her whip would not be needed when the dressing room door flew open and miss Stephanie herself stormed in.

Both the kneeling slave and miss Chan were momentarily startled by the abrupt entrance of the soap star. She did indeed appear to be in a foul mood. But slave Pierre couldn’t help thinking how lovely she looked when she was angry. She was dressed in a light blue top, black denim jeans, dark and light blue striped socks, and soft, black, ballet-style flat shoes – not at all like the ‘goth girl’ he was expecting to see:

‘Idiots!’ she was screaming, ‘Can’t those fools get anything right!’

Slave Pierre guessed that something must have gone wrong on set at rehearsals. He immediately thought ‘it is my role to calm this young woman down by kissing her feet and letting her take out her anger and frustration on me. Perhaps she would like to punch or kick me?’

The problem for slave Pierre, noble though his ambitions to be her punch bag were, was that miss Stephanie appeared not to have even noticed him, and was pacing up and down inside her dressing room, shouting at miss Chan as if whatever had gone wrong was her PA’s fault – which, from the soap star’s own words, it clearly wasn’t:

‘Can you believe how much those morons get paid, Chan-sook, and yet they can’t even set up a shoot in time for lunch! I mean, I had to drag myself out of bed at 10:00 this morning, and now they’re telling me they won’t be ready for me until 2 o’clock this afternoon! Imbeciles!’

Miss Chan, well used to taking the flak from her employer, just sucked it up:

‘Sorry, miss Stephanie. Chan-sook make miss Stephanie some nice coffee?’ she offered in a calm and placatory voice as her young boss slumped into a dressing room chair.

Miss Stephanie now appeared to notice slave Pierre for the first time:

‘What the hell’s that?’ she barked, pointing, it has to be said rather rudely, at the slave kneeling at her PA’s booted feet.

‘Miss Stephanie, your regular footslave, slave Sabit – sick. Doctor say slave Sabit need plenty of rest. This replacement slave from ‘Rent-A-Slave’ – slave Pierre.’

‘What? Sick? What do you mean sick? A slave can’t be sick! Skiving more like!’

Miss Chan had been expecting this reaction from her employer:

‘Doctor say slave Sabit spread disease if not taken away. Doctor not want miss Stephanie catch disease of slave!’

‘Hah! What a load of bull! Slave Sabit is nothing but a dirty, lazy waste of space! You can tell the doctor I don’t want him back. He can stay in quarantine forever for all I care. Get me a new footslave – and I don’t mean this one! Just look at the whip marks on his back! He must be totally useless!’

Slave Pierre was impressed with miss Stephanie’s astute observations. He must indeed be a useless footslave to have incurred the wrath of Madame Debroue’s whip. In a sudden crisis of confidence he realised that miss Stephanie was quite right – he wasn’t fit to be her personal footslave.

Miss Chan, however, kind hearted and forgiving Korean woman that she was, was prepared to speak up for him – sort of:

‘Please, miss Stephanie, slave Pierre just a temporary slave – serve miss Stephanie feet until miss Stephanie get new slave or slave Sabit get better.’

Miss Stephanie, it seemed, wasn’t convinced:

‘Hah! I don’t want some dirty, whipped rental slave slobbering all over my feet! Couldn’t you at least have gotten a better looking one?’

As always, miss Stephanie, quite rightly, had to think of her public image. And there was no doubt that having a good-looking and attractive male footslave constantly at her feet as, she had to admit, albeit reluctantly, slave Sabit was, went down well in photo-shoots.

She seemed particularly concerned about the ugly whip marks on slave Pierre’s back:

‘What if the press notice those weals on his bare back!” They’ll think I did them!’

‘Ha! Ha! That good – miss Stephanie! Show press that miss Stephanie strong, young woman – know how to discipline dirty, male slave!’

For the first time since she had stormed into the dressing room miss Stephanie appeared to calm down. A wicked grin spread across her pretty face:

‘Mmm… you could be right, Chan-sook. Maybe I should actually whip him in public. I mean, it would make a great cover-picture, wouldn’t it? I can just see the headlines – ‘Beautiful soap star Miss Stephanie flogs her pathetic footslave!’

‘Ha! Ha! Yes, miss Stephanie!’ agreed miss Chan, ‘Stephanie the slave-spanker!’

‘Ha! Ha!. Stephanie the sexy sadist, more like!’ joked the soap star.

At least, slave Pierre hoped she was joking.

All joking aside, she appeared to be warming to him, as she beckoned him to crawl forward to her feet.

Because she was now seated the hems of her black denim jeans had risen up to reveal her short, blue striped ankle socks in all their glory inside her soft, black ballet flats. Such a contrast to the heavy, lace-up doc Marten boots still lying in the corner of the room.

As he approached the precious stripy blue socks of the precious soap star slave Pierre’s heart was pounding. Could it really be about to happen? Could he really be about to kiss the socks of a famous and beautiful young TV soap star whist she was still wearing them?

This was surely too good to be true!

Unbelievably, it wasn’t:

‘You, slave Perry, or whatever your name is, kiss my sock!’ and with that the young 20 year old soap star arrogantly stretched out her right foot under the kneeling footslave’s nose.

‘It slave Pierre,’ clarified miss Chan.

‘I don’t need to know its name!’ miss Stephanie snapped back. ‘It’s just a footslave!’

She was right of course. Slave Pierre was just another slave, even if miss Stephanie was far from just another mistress.

Somewhat chastened by her mistress’s rebuke, miss Chan went over to the kettle to prepare some coffee for her petulant young boss.

Meanwhile slave Pierre felt a rush of blood coursing through his entire body as he experienced what would probably be the highlight of his slave existence – kissing the sock of a famous young female soap star.

And, bizarrely, it did feel like the sock of a famous star under his slave lips – somehow different from an ‘ordinary’ mistress’s sock. He wondered whether it might be an expensive designer sock. Just think – that sock will be seen by millions around the world on TV as it graces the young woman’s foot – but only he would get to see it close up; to see any tiny imperfections in the stitching – such as the slight tear he now noticed in the stitching where one of the dark blue stripes merged with a lighter blue stripe.

Of course, nobody else in the world was really that interested in seeing the young soap star’s socks that close up – whatever miss Chan might have said about the media’s obsession with miss Stephanie’s footwear. It was only a privilege in slave Pierre’s mind, conditioned as he was by years of servitude as a humble footslave.

The stripes on the short ankle sock were quite thick, and it occurred to slave Pierre that he could, if mistress Stephanie wished, kiss only the dark blue or the light blue stripes to order. Some mistresses liked that – specifying which parts of their socks a slave could kiss. It gave them an even greater sense of power.

But miss Stephanie didn’t seem that bothered. So long as his slave lips were making repeated and respectful contact with her sock she was satisfied. She flexed her foot inside her soft leather, black ballet shoe in a pleasurable reaction to the rented footslave’s humble ministrations, causing her sock to crease and fold under his lips. Slave Pierre couldn’t resist a surreptitious sniff, so desperate was he to inhale the aroma of this famous young woman’s footsweat. But all he could smell was the pungent leather of her black ballet flat.

Suddenly it was withdrawn from beneath his face, and replaced with her left foot:

‘And the other one!’ barked miss Stephanie.

She watched intently as slave Pierre obediently lowered his lips to the top of her exposed left sock. It tickled when his lips touched. She liked the sensation – pleasure mixed with absolute power – the absolute power of being able to force a man who presumably would love to have sex with her, like all her other male admirers worldwide, to instead humbly kiss her socks.

What miss Stephanie didn’t understand, of course, was that slave Pierre had no such aspirations of having sexual intercourse with her, or with any woman for that matter. Not because he didn’t find women attractive. Quite the opposite! Women were so beautiful and attractive that he was only worthy to kiss their feet and footwear. Miss Stephanie was, therefore, unwittingly, pandering to his every whim!

Not that any of that mattered. What mattered was that both mistress Stephanie and slave Pierre were now connected – through his kissing of her socks. She was the master and he was the slave.

She decided she would keep him after all – at least temporarily, until slave Sabit was better (she hadn’t really meant it when she had said in the heat of the moment that she didn’t want her regular footslave back. He was just too photogenic to get rid of!)

Slave Pierre continued to kiss miss Stephanie’s blue-striped left sock as she sipped the coffee Chan-sook had made for her.

Stephanie decided to find out more about her new foot-servant, even though she still wasn’t interested in his name:

‘How do you like having to kiss a famous, female soap star’s socks, slaveboy?’ she queried.

‘Oh pray, mistress Stephanie, if it pleases you, mistress Stephanie, this slave is truly honoured to touch the precious socks of such a beautiful, wonderful and supremely talented and successful young actress with his unworthy slave lips, if it so pleases you, sweet feminine young mistress Stephanie.’

Slave Pierre guessed that flattery would be the best policy in dealing with such a powerful young woman. And he wasn’t wrong – not that miss Stephanie recognised it as flattery. She thought the dirty male slave was merely stating the obvious.

‘Ha! Ha! Yes, that’s right slave. I am extremely successful. In fact, I’m the complete opposite of you, for I am loved and adored by millions of fans all around the world, whilst you are just a down-in-the-dirt, faceless footslave – a nobody who is fit only to grovel at a girl’s feet and kiss her stinky socks!’

The only inaccuracy in mistress Stephanie’s last statement was, sadly, that her socks were not ‘stinky’. In fact, he could not smell anything off them at all – only the leather of her ballet flats mixed with the aroma of her hot coffee.

Perhaps if she took her shoes off he would be able to get a whiff of feminine sock sweat? He decided, rather naughtily for a slave, that he would try to manipulate his young mistress into doing so:

‘Oh pray, mistress Stephanie, if it pleases you mistress Stephanie, this slave would be feel truly privileged and blessed if the superior and most beautiful mistress would deign to allow him to remove her shoes and sniff the toes of her most adorable stripy blue socks, if it so pleases you, most gracious and feminine mistress Stephanie’.

Most mistresses don’t do requests, but it has to be said that if a slave was ever going to make a successful request to a mistress, slave Pierre had shown how to do it. Such cringing, verbose servility, a fine demonstration of humble slave-speak, was bound to appeal to a self-obsessed and arrogant young woman such as mistress Stephanie.

She smiled contentedly:

‘Very well, slave. If you must! I suppose smelling my socks is the most you could ever hope for in life. After all, compared to you I am a supreme being, and even the bacteria on my socks is better than you.’

She said it like she believed it. And she did believe it.

As did slave Pierre.

The charming and gracious young mistress Stephanie now raised her left foot off the ground in order to facilitate slave Pierre in slipping her soft, black ballet flat off her foot so that he could sniff the toe of her stripy blue sock.

A soon as the shoe was off he caught a whiff of the aroma he had been yearning for – soft, delicate, feminine footsweat. The toe end of the sock was all dark blue, and he knew that most of the sweat would be on the underside of that dark blue end.

He therefore positioned his nose directly underneath the socked toes and audibly sniffed.

Mistress Stephanie wriggled her toes inside her sock with delight. She often made slave Sabit, her regular slave, sniff her socks whilst she was wearing them, but having a ‘strange’ slave do it was somehow even better – even more empowering. Perhaps it was the fact that this rented slave was so old! He looked in his forties, and yet here he was on his hands and knees smelling the dirty socks of a superior young woman who was only half his age:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right slaveboy! Sniff my stinky sock. Make sure miss Chan can hear you sniff! Hey, Chan-sook, would you like me to make him sniff your socks?’

Slave Pierre had been wondering whether miss Chan was wearing socks inside her pretty, black ankle boots – and, if so, what colour they might be. He guessed black, but it was only an intelligent guess. Most women wore socks that went with their outfits even if their socks weren’t on show. So he was guessing that miss Chan would be wearing black socks to go with her black, boot-cut trousers and black, zip-up ankle boots, just as miss Stephanie appeared to be wearing blue stripy socks to go with her blue top.

Chan-sook, if truth be told, wasn’t that fussed about having her own socked feet sniffed by the new slave, but she had worked for miss Stephanie long enough to know that when she came up with an idea you went along with it. Nobody ever said no to miss Stephanie – not if they could avoid it.

Chan-sook therefore put on her ‘what a wonderful idea, miss Stephanie’ face, and indicated her willingness to play along:

‘Yes please, miss Stephanie. Chan-sook socks very hot and sweaty inside boots!’

‘Ha! Ha! So much the better! Slave, stop sniffing my sock and go over and take off miss Chan’s boots and sniff her sweaty socks! Chan-sook you sit down over there!’

Miss Stephanie was just an actress – not a director. But she had aspirations to be a film director.

Chan-sook pulled up a nearby chair and dutifully sat down as directed by her mistress to await the arrival of slave Pierre at her booted feet. She, of course, did nothing to help slave Pierre as he pulled up the hem of her left trouser leg in order to unzip her left ankle boot.

As he respectfully pulled the zip down the side of her ankle boot he saw that he was right – miss Chan was indeed wearing plain, black bootsocks. For her part, she had been equally correct – her socks were indeed hot and sweaty inside her boots – much more so than mistress Stephanie’s socks.

But there was no cause for any embarrassment on the part of the Korean PA. Her foot odour was what was wanted. Slave Pierre wanted it because he liked feminine foot odour. Mistress Stephanie wanted it because she wanted to see slave Pierre humiliated. And miss Chan wanted it because that was what was keeping miss Stephanie happy – seeing her rented slave humiliatingly having to sniff her Korean PA’s sweaty socks at her behest.

As slave Pierre audibly sniffed at miss Chan’s black-socked foot, miss Stephanie squealed with girlish delight:

‘Ha! Ha! How do you like smelling women’s socks now, slave? I’ll bet that stink is giving you pause for thought, eh?’

Slave Pierre knew he had to be ultra-diplomatic in his answer to the young mistress. She clearly would want to know that he felt honoured to be allowed to sniff her PA’s sweaty socks, and yet at the same time was repulsed and humiliated by the sweaty, unpleasant smell. Simultaneously he would need to make it clear to miss Chan, however, that he wasn’t actually repulsed by her sock smell; that he in fact quite liked it, for no woman, ultimately, liked to be told that her foot smell was totally abhorrent:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress Stephanie, this sock sniffing queer likes the smell of miss Chan’s sweaty sock – but not that much, if it so pleases you mistress Stephanie.’

It was a well-balanced slavish response.

Mistress Stephanie just laughed.

Mistress Chan laughed too, but, though suitably gratified herself by the slave’s reply, was nevertheless slightly concerned that miss Stephanie might be disappointed that the slave was not totally repulsed by her socks:

‘Miss Stephanie want Chan-sook punish slave for say like smell Chan-sook sock?’ she asked.

Miss Stephanie, still laughing at the footslave’s obsequious response, was now in a good mood however:

‘No, it’s all right, Chan-sook. The poor dolt has no choice but to like it. After all, even a footslave has to breathe – I suppose he just gets used to breathing in air that’s contaminated with women’s sweaty socks. Ha! Ha! What a sad loser!’

Sad loser or not, it’s amazing what a footslave can achieve with a bit of good, honest, humble, female sock-sniffing. Miss Stephanie’s whole demeanour had now changed. She felt back in control of events again, as she liked to be, and that meant an easier day for everybody.

Everybody, that is, apart from the architect of her newly found good humour – the ‘faceless’ footslave himself.

Life really isn’t fair, is it?

Part 11 – The Soap star (ii)

In the afternoon miss Stephanie, accompanied by her Korean PA, miss Chan, was preoccupied with the delayed rehearsals in the TV studio.

Slave Pierre, much to his disappointment, was not permitted onto the set – lest he prove to be a distraction to the young, relatively talentless, 20 year old , brunette actress, who, if truth be told, found it difficult to remember her lines at the best of times.

Not that you would ever know from the finished product. Clever editing and production values always made miss Stephanie appear to be the consummate professional. The studio employed a whole host of people whose sole purpose was to make their young star look good – and slave Pierre, arguably, was just one of them, even if his role was restricted to looking after her precious feet and footwear.

He had been ordered to remain in miss Stephanie’s dressing room and to lick clean her heavy, black, lace-up, Doc Marten style, calf-length boots. It was a task he was relishing, even though he would have preferred an order to sniff the inside of the female soap star’s DMs. The honour of smelling her residual footsweat would have been a step up from merely licking the outsides of her boots, but, having said that, he fully understood the reasons why he had been ordered to give the pair of heavy, black leather boots a thorough tongue-polish.

Firstly, they needed a lick and a clean as there were small patches of dried-on mud on the lower parts of the boots. And secondly, he gathered from a conversation miss Stephanie had had with miss Chan, that the soap star was off to an Awards Ceremony (at which she was a nominee) that evening – and so she would, once again, be spending the evening in the public eye, being photographed by the paparazzi; signing autographs for her army of fanatical fans as she strolled down the red carpet etc. It seemed that miss Stephanie intended to wear her DMs to the Awards Ceremony – not, perhaps, the most glamorous footwear to wear to a high-profile evening out, but it would certainly fit in with miss Stephanie’s public image as a young ‘rebel’ and a ‘goth’ - unconventional and unpredictable in her tastes in fashion.

And so slave Pierre had been allocated the important chore of ensuring miss Stephanie’s DMs were fit for purpose.

He therefore deemed it an honour to be tasting the dirt and the mud from where she had been – street mud, mixed with dead grass. Perhaps she had been for a walk in the park with her celebrity ‘fiancé’ – master Shahid – whom slave Pierre understood would be accompanying miss Stephanie to the Awards ceremony tonight.

Slave Pierre had heard of master Shahid too – he was famous as being the, by all accounts extremely handsome, boyfriend of miss Stephanie. Slave Pierre wasn’t sure what else master Shahid was famous for – but then slave Pierre knew next to nothing about the real world.

As he swallowed a particularly large globule of dried mud from the back heel of miss Stephanie’s left Doc Marten Boot slave Pierre suddenly realised that the long, black laces on her DMs were also dirty and dusty. In particular, the many eyelets through which the laces were threaded needed a bit of a tongue polish and slave Pierre knew that he had just the tongue for the job – dextrous and flexible, well used to seeking out female shoe and boot dirt in the most inaccessible places. He was absolutely determined to ensure that miss Stephanie’s heavy, lace-up, calf-length, black boots would truly shine in the glare of publicity on that red carpet tonight. He only hoped he would be allowed to crawl at her heels along said carpet. What an honour that would be – to be photographed by the world’s press staring humbly at the backs of her pristine DMs, the very boots he himself had polished with his slave tongue just hours before!

More importantly, Madam Debroue, the owner of ‘Rent-A-Slave’, would be pleased as it would be good publicity for her company. She might even forgive slave Pierre his earlier ineptitude vis-à-vis the female marathon runners. Although Madam Debroue had been kind enough to discipline him, he also wanted her forgiveness, for it is not good for a slave-employee to be in his all-powerful female owner’s bad books.

Slave Pierre was still tongue-polishing the eyelets on miss Stephanie’s left boot when she stormed back into her dressing room, as was her wont, with her long-suffering Korean PA, miss Chan, bringing up the rear, as was her wont.

This time miss Stephanie immediately shoved her pretty, right foot, still clad in her soft, musty-smelling, black leather ballet flat and stripy blue ankle sock, under the kneeling footslave’s nose for him to respectfully kiss. It was actually a good sign – evidence that she was warming to the rented slave and was graciously prepared to admit him into her immediate entourage and to let him serve her as her footslave.

As he kissed her sock slave Pierre overheard miss Stephanie and miss Chan discussing the former’s performance at the rehearsal:

‘Miss Stephanie brilliant today; very strong performance; very emotional. Miss Stephanie truly great actress!’ gushed miss Chan.

Miss Stephanie was agreeing:

‘Yes, I was very good – in spite of the feeble efforts of those lighting engineers, I still think I managed to shine in front of the cameras. Wouldn’t you say? I heard the producer saying they may even use some of the takes in the final edit – so strong was my performance.’

She withdrew her right foot from under the footslave’s nose and replaced it with her left.

‘Oh yes, miss Stephanie. You the best,’ fawned miss Chan.

Miss Chan was actually fulfilling a very important role at the moment- almost as important as that of slave Pierre who was humbly kissing the stripy, blue sock on the female soap star’s outstretched left foot, for both the PA and the footslave were effectively massaging the insecure young actress’s ego.

The only difference was that whilst miss Chan knew the producer had actually been talking of binning the footage taken of miss Stephanie’s lacklustre performance at the dress rehearsal, slave Pierre was genuinely admiring of the soap actress’s socks.

Be that as it may, it was in both the PA’s and the footslave’s interests that miss Stephanie should be kept happy. And so, in their respective ways, they would continue to flatter her.

It was now time for miss Stephanie to get changed into her ‘evening wear’ for the Soap Awards:

‘You, the slave, take off my shoes and socks,’ barked miss Stephanie, slumping into a comfortable armchair in her dressing room, her feet outstretched before her.

She had already forgotten slave Pierre’s name, not that she had ever needed to know it in the first place.

Slave Pierre’s heart was racing again. He could not believe his good fortune! He was about to touch with his bare hands the soft, leather ballet flats of a famous young actress, to slip them off her delicate, socked feet, to then touch her very ankle socks themselves and peel them off her delicate, feminine footflesh revealing her divine, bare feet in all their glory.

Was there any footslave alive on earth in such a privileged position at that moment in time?

Probably not.

The shoes and socks slipped easily off miss Stephanie’s feet below the hems of her black, denim jeans, and slave Pierre suddenly got something of a shock. Her toes, which were beguilingly painted deep purple, were nevertheless quite shapeless and dumpy. They were not at all the shapely, pristine, perfect toes that he had somehow been expecting of a famous, young mistress-goddess.

And yet, somehow that only endeared her to him even more, for it reminded him that he was not serving a female deity, but a ‘flawed’ human being – a human being who, nevertheless, was better than him and totally deserving of his respect, for she was a superior young woman in her prime and he was but a middle-aged male slave.

Miss Stephanie, of course, thought her feet and toes were just perfect – because everyone always told her they were. Just to make sure, however, she asked the new footslave for his opinion:

‘Well, slave, what do you think of my beautiful, bare feet? How do you like them? Aren’t they the prettiest feet you have ever seen, slaveboy?’

Slave Pierre followed miss Chan’s example, and lied and fawned upon the young actress:

‘Oh yes, mistress Stephanie, if it pleases you most beautiful and perfect mistress Stephanie, this slave wishes it could be struck blind so that it could remember forever the vision of your supremely attractive bare feet and painted toes, if you would be so kind, goddess-mistress Stephanie.’

Goddess Stephanie considered the slave-mortal’s humble request to be struck blind, but decided against it as it would hinder his future service to her feet and footwear that coming afternoon and evening:

‘Ha! Ha! I can well understand your sentiments, slave. It must truly be an honour for an insignificant piece of dirt like you to be so close to the feet of a goddess like me, and I appreciate that you must long for nothing more than to remember my pretty feet as the last thing you see, but I’m afraid you need to keep your sight as you have work to do on my feet. My feet are sweaty and dirty so you’re going to wash them for me.

Chan-sook, would you be so kind as to fetch a bowl of lukewarm water and some towels for the footslave to wash and dry my feet?’

Miss Stephanie was clearly in a good mood following her perceived outstanding performance at rehearsals. It wasn’t often she was this polite to her PA.

‘Yes certainly, miss Stephanie. Chan-sook return in just a minute!’

Just as the PA was leaving to fetch the bowl of water an asian man entered the room:

‘Hi sweetness!’ he exclaimed.

It must be miss Stephanie’s fiancé, master Shahid.

Miss Stephanie suddenly stood up in order to embrace her celebrity boyfriend. From his kneeling position at her feet slave Pierre saw how the skin on her soft bare feet creased as she raised herself on tip-toe in order to lovingly kiss Shahid on the lips. Master Shahid was not particularly tall, but miss Stephanie was truly ‘pint-sized’.

She remained standing as the couple continued to embrace and engage in lovey-dovey small-talk until miss Chan re-entered the dressing room with the bowl of water and towels for miss Stephanie’s feet.

It was only now, apparently, that master Shahid noticed that his girlfriend’s regular footslave, slave Sabit, was absent:

‘Where’s that dog Sabit, sweetheart? Have you finally gotten rid of him?’

Slave Pierre could tell just from the tone of master Shahid’s voice that he didn’t like miss Stephanie’s regular slave, slave Sabit. Perhaps because slave Sabit was, by all accounts, young and attractive (for a slave)? Perhaps master Shahid regarded him as some sort of love threat?

In that case he won’t mind me – an unattractive, non-threatening, middle-aged footslave with a big nose, thought slave Pierre to himself.

‘Nah, the lazy pig is apparently sick or something,’ miss Stephanie answered her boyfriend. ‘The doctors have told us that he needs to stay away from me for a bit in case I catch his disgusting slave germs. They’ve sent me this temporary replacement instead.’

With that miss Stephanie gently kicked the kneeling slave Pierre in the bare ribs.

Even though it was a gentle kick from a soft, delicate, feminine foot, it nevertheless hurt his flesh which was still tender from his whipping at the hands of Madame Debroue.

Master Shahid had evidently noticed slave Pierre’s shame - the stripes across his bare back:

‘I hope this new slave hasn’t been causing you any problems?’ he enquired in a darkly protective tone.

Miss Stephanie reassured her masterful boyfriend:

‘No, this one’s very submissive and docile. He’s actually just about to wash my feet. Would you like to watch, honey?’

‘Sure thing!’ replied master Shahid, genuinely enthusiastic to see the much older man respectfully washing the sweat and dirt from his girl’s feet.

Slave Pierre was glowing with pride inside. Miss Stephanie had described him as ‘very submissive and docile’. What better complement could a humble footslave ask for?

As miss Stephanie relaxed back in her chair, miss Chan placed the white, porcelain bowl, filled with clear, lukewarm water, in front of her employer’s feet, and gave the order to slave Pierre:

‘Slave wash miss Stephanie feet. Place feet in bowl. Ladle warm water over miss Stephanie tired feet. Dirty slave obey now!’

Master Shahid laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, Chan-sook, you tell him. Make him wash all the sweat off my girl’s feet and toes. I might even want to kiss them myself later tonight!’

Although slave Pierre couldn’t see it from his humble kneeling position, miss Stephanie was actually blushing at her boyfriend’s words. Having a dirty, raggedy old footslave kissing and sucking on your bare toes was one thing. But having your handsome boyfriend do it – that was quite another! Very sensual! Very sexy!

As slave Pierre gently lifted miss Stephanie’s bare feet into the bowl, one at a time, master Shahid, evidently fascinated at the whole humiliating procedure, decided to give him some further directions:

‘Use your nose as a sponge, slave boy. Rub the water all over my girlfriend’s pretty feet and in between her sweaty toes with your nose. And God help you if you splash any water onto the hems of her jeans, boy!’

Master Shahid was much younger than slave Pierre – probably in his late twenties, if that, but slave Pierre was genuinely appreciative of the young master’s guidance and advice. After all, he probably knew miss Stephanie’s preferences when it came to foot-washing almost as well as slave Sabit; he would doubtless have witnessed the latter washing his famous girlfriend’s feet on many occasions (for miss Stephanie did seem to have rather sweat-prone feet.)

Slave Pierre therefore did as the young master told him to, and used his nose to sponge between miss Stephanie’s sweaty, bare, stumpy toes. The previously clean water soon had tiny pieces of browny-black toe jam and blue sock lint floating in it.

Miss Stephanie and her boyfriend engaged in further small talk whilst slave Pierre concentrated on nose-washing miss Stephanie’s feet. Miss Chan, meanwhile, concentrated on watching slave Pierre’s every move, making sure he was using his pointy nose to good effect by dislodging any toe jam from between her mistress’s toes.

After some 15 minutes of foot washing the water was starting to become cold, and miss Stephanie was satisfied that her feet were now sufficiently clean to be dried.

She managed to indicate this to her PA, without interrupting her conversation with her boyfriend, by merely signalling to her with her eyebrows.

‘Slave stop washing. Take miss Stephanie feet out of bowl. Dry miss Stephanie feet with towel. Slave obey. Move!’ barked the ever alert miss Chan, still wearing her black, leather, zip-up ankle boots on her own, sweaty, black-socked feet.

Slave Pierre did obey.

As soon as her feet were dried miss Stephanie, somewhat bashfully, stood up and walked over to a screen behind which she changed out of her black, denim jeans and into a short, black leather mini-skirt.

Whilst she was getting changed, and whilst miss Chan had left the room in order to empty the bowl containing miss Stephanie’s dirty foot water, master Shahid explained to slave Pierre what was going to happen next:

‘Slave, in a minute you’re going to put my girlfriend’s knee-high, dark nylon pop-socks on her feet. As you do so make sure you keep your gaze respectfully lowered to her ankles, and make sure you smooth the nylon stockings onto her legs gently and respectfully. Do you hear what I’m saying, boy?’

‘Yes, master.’

Once again slave Pierre was ever so grateful to master Shahid for the helpful advice and guidance.

‘Good! You’ll find the pop-socks in that drawer over there. Crawl over and get them, slave!’

‘Yes master.’

Sure enough the nylon pop socks were ready and waiting in the bottom drawer of miss Stephanie’s dressing table. She was just sitting down again in her chair, now changed into a black, silk top and the aforementioned black, leather mini skirt, as slave Pierre crawled on his knees back in front of her using one hand, with the delicate nylon pop-socks draped over his other hand.

A black, skimpy, silk (almost see-through) top; black leather mini-skirt; black nylon knee-highs; and black, calf-length, lace-up Doc Marten boots. Yes, the goth soap star, miss Stephanie, would actually look stunning at the forthcoming Awards ceremony. The press would have a field day with the handsome master Shahid on her arm.

Miss Stephanie, whom slave Pierre had already noticed appeared to be on her best behaviour in master Shahid’s presence (certainly much of the immature petulance had gone!) kindly stretched out her right leg first from her still seated position for slave Pierre to start rolling the knee-length, dark nylon stocking up as far as her pretty right knee.

‘Remember what I said, slave boy. Keep your head bowed and your eyes fixed on my girlfriend’s ankles. Make sure you put the stockings on straight and fold over the dark, reinforced cuffs at the top. My girlfriend likes the tops of her knee-highs to be folded over! They look even sexier that way.’

Yet again, slave Pierre was grateful for master Shahid’s advice, although he suspected it was master Shahid’s own personal preference for his girlfriend’s pop-socks to be turned over at the cuffs. No matter, it was clear that miss Stephanie was besotted with master Shahid, and that she basically liked whatever he liked.

Slave Pierre was also slightly concerned that he would be expected to make sure the pop socks were on straight, were on even, and were turned neatly over at the tops - without actually being permitted to look at the tops of the knee-high nylon stockings. But he knew that such concerns would be of no interest to the mistress and master. He was a slave who had been given an order by his mistress’s boyfriend, and by God he had better fulfil it. Or else!

Remarkably, and perhaps because of his years of experience pulling knee-length socks and stockings onto women’s legs, he appeared to have carried out his humble task to both the master’s and mistress’s satisfaction, for no sooner had his slave hands folded down the black, reinforced, nylon cuff of her second pop-sock than miss Stephanie barked her next order at the slave:

‘Now put my boots on me, dirty slave!’

Once again slave Pierre found himself carefully and respectfully lifting miss Stephanie’s, now nylon-stockinged, right foot off the dressing room floor and pushing it gently into the open top of her lace-up, calf length Doc Marten style boot - a boot which he had so lovingly tongue-shined just an hour or so earlier.

The boot looked good with the dark knee-length stocking coming out the top of it. When he had respectfully done the same with her left boot, and laced both the boots up, mistress Stephanie truly looked the business – a powerful young goth-goddess ready to hit the town with her manly asian boyfriend.

But, it seemed, the handsome and talented young couple wanted some fortitude for the night ahead, for the next thing slave Pierre noticed was the strong, distinctive smell of cannabis in the room.

Miss Chan, who by now had returned from disposing of the bowl of miss Stephanie’s dirty foot-water (a job she personally thought the footslave should have done), was also, apparently, partaking of the illegal drug.

Needless to say the footslave wasn’t offered a spliff. Slaves were not allowed to imbibe any substances – illicit or otherwise – apart from their daily rations of tasteless slave mush and, if they were lucky, their mistresses’ toe cheese and boot dirt.

The cannabis was evidently relaxing and emboldening the superior human beings, for it was leading them to tease the humble, rented footslave even more relentlessly.

Master Shahid, in particular, appeared fascinated by the footslave’s lifestyle – so dramatically different from his own:

‘Tell me slave,’ he enquired, now sitting on miss Stephanie’s knees and playing with her long, dark hair as slave Pierre was humbly kneeling at her booted feet, ‘how do you like the taste of girls’ boots? I mean, do they taste sweet, or bitter? Take my Stephanie’s boots, for example. How would you describe the taste of her boots on your slave tongue?’

It was clearly yet another of those situations were the correct slavish response would have to satisfy the master and mistress both as to the unpleasantness of having to taste a woman’s boots, whilst at the same time regarding it as the sweetest, most pleasant taste on earth – simply because it was such a genuine honour to lick feminine boot-dirt.

Slave Pierre therefore delivered his standard slave-response to such questions:

‘Oh pray master, if it pleases you master, this slave is humbled by the bitterness of feminine boot leather on his tongue, but at the same time regards the leather of mistress Stephanie’s boots to be the sweetest taste on earth, for he is truly not worthy to lick the superior boots of such a beautiful, sweet, feminine goddess-mistress such as goddess-mistress Stephanie, if it so pleases you most respected master.’

The trio of free human beings - mistress Stephanie, miss Chan and master Shahid - all roared with laughter at slave Pierre’s obsequious, slave-speak response. Yet, pathetically cringing though his response had been, it had done its job – for none of the trio appeared insulted or offended by it.

Or perhaps it was just the cannabis causing them to chill out.

‘Yeah, but, I mean, when you’re outside, say, and you’re ordered to lick the ground under your mistresses’ feet, does it taste of their leather boot-soles?’ asked master Shahid, seemingly genuinely curious to know what life was really like for a humble footslave.

It was, of course, a somewhat silly, cannabis-induced, question. But a master’s question must always be respectfully answered, however silly:

‘Oh pray, master, if it pleases you master, this slave has not noticed the taste of leather shoe or boot soles when he licks the ground on which his superior mistresses have been walking, if it so pleases you master.’

Master Shahid, in actual fact, appeared somewhat displeased to hear this:

‘Oh that’s a shame for you, slave. I mean, you must yearn to taste the soles of your superior mistresses’ shoes and boots at every opportunity – rather than just the taste of boring old concrete pavements?’

‘Yes, master, if it pleases you master.’

It was slowly dawning on slave Pierre that, for all his manliness and masterfulness, master Shahid was actually a secret foot and shoe fetishist, and in all probability his thinly disguised curiosity about slave Pierre’s experiences was driven, believe it or not, by envy. It only served to remind slave Pierre how fortunate he was – not to be free; not to be a man – but to be a down-in-the-dirt footslave, let alone the footslave of a beautiful and charming young soap star such as miss Stephanie.

Master Shahid might get to walk arm in arm with miss Stephanie down the red carpet, but slave Pierre would get to crawl on his hands and knees along the red carpet behind her signature, Doc Marten boots - and in front of the world’s media!

Yes- slave Pierre was ready for his world premiere. Bring it on!

Part 12 – The Soap Star (iii)

Miss Stephanie was posing, arm in arm with her boyfriend master Shahid, in front of the cameras on the red carpet. Miss Stephanie’s PA, miss Chan, was busy negotiating interviews with the various media organisations who were filming the stars arriving for the TV Awards Ceremony. Hoards of adoring fans were shouting Stephanie and Shahid’s names in the hope that they could get an autograph or take a close up picture of themselves beside their idols on their mobile phones.

Slave Pierre, meanwhile, was kneeling behind miss Stephanie’s Doc Marten style boots, his eyes dutifully focussed on the backs of her heavy, black leather boots as they stood on the red carpet. He noticed, close up, that the carpet was, perhaps a little surprisingly given the auspiciousness of the occasion, not exactly pristine – there were one or two little black stains on the carpet beneath miss Stephanie’s feet, doubtless caused by the soles of the boots and shoes of previous celebrities who had already walked down the carpet that evening into the theatre. However, the stains and marks on the carpet were tiny – only visible to a humble footslave’s eyes. Nobody else cared about the marks on the carpet, or indeed about the tiny scuff mark on the back of miss Stephanie’s left boot which slave Pierre had also now noticed for the first time.

And, somewhat to his disappointment, nobody seemed that interested in slave Pierre either. He had thought, in his naivety, that the assembled photographers might take a few pictures of him, or at least of miss Stephanie’s beautiful Doc Marten boots, thereby inadvertently photographing him, but it seemed that the world was more interested in miss Stephanie as a person, rather than just her feet and footwear. That was disappointment no 1 for slave Pierre.

Slave Pierre then remembered, however, miss Stephanie’s words of wisdom when she had described him as a “faceless nobody”. How right the young woman was – and what a sharp contrast between her life and his life - she, the sought-after, talented soap actress in the limelight; he, the down-on-his-knees, two a penny footslave.

Miss Chan had evidently negotiated a quick interview for miss Stephanie with the show-business correspondent of one of the local TV stations, as both miss Stephanie and master Shahid, with footslave in tow, were now suddenly steered by the Korean PA towards a waiting TV reporter by the side of the red carpet.

Slave Pierre could only see the female reporter’s bare legs and black, shiny leather stiletto heeled shoes as he continued to keep his nose pressed close to the back of miss Stephanie’s boots. He could, however, hear everything that was being said above the din of the crowd:

‘Stephanie – Hi! You’re live on Showtime TV!’ exclaimed the reporter, doubtless hoping that the reference to ‘live’ TV would prevent the rebellious and ‘punky’ young, 20 year old soap starlet from swearing.

‘Cool!’ replied mistress Stephanie, ‘How are you doin’?’

Slave Pierre admired miss Stephanie so much at that point. She sounded so self-assured and in control. She was clearly lapping up all the well-deserved attention. The leather in the back of her left boot creased fetchingly in front of his slave face as she gave her ad hoc interview.

‘Stephanie, you’re a hot tip to win the “Best TV soap Actress” award tonight! Are you confident of success?’ continued the reporter.

Miss Stephanie, who was chewing gum, laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! I’m just happy to be nominated along with all those other girls! I’d be even happier if we won the “Best Soap” award though – I work with a great team,’ she replied, somewhat disingenuously.

Slave Pierre focussed on the crease in the back of miss Stephanie’s leather boot.

‘And what do you think, Shahid, is she going to win “Best Actress”?’ asked the reporter, anxious that her cameraman should have an excuse to get a close up of Stephanie’s handsome, and now almost equally famous, boyfriend.

‘Sure thing!’ exclaimed master Shahid, ‘My girl’s bound to win – I mean, just look at her! Isn’t she gorgeous?’

The female reporter smiled and laughed:

‘She certainly is! Is it true that you two are getting married soon?’ The reporter knew that she absolutely had to get that question in, otherwise her editor would be furious at the squandered opportunity.

Now it was Stephanie and Shahid’s turn to laugh. Shahid spoke on both their behalves:

‘Watch this space!’ he teased, deftly steering his gum-chewing, celebrity girlfriend away from the reporter. This brief ‘live’ television interview was clearly over!

Slave Pierre would have liked to know the answer to that question too, even though it was none of his business.

What was his business – was the backs of miss Stephanie’s Doc Marten boots as she continued to stroll down the red carpet, occasionally stopping to sign autographs for her excitable fans. From their footwear (for that was all slave Pierre could really see from his humble, kneeling position behind his superior mistress’s boots), he could tell that most of miss Stephanie’s fans appeared to be young women themselves. There were lots of sneakers and ankle socks, as well as ankle boots and brightly coloured tights and leggings – even a few DMs like the ones mistress Stephanie herself was wearing. Doubtless miss Stephanie was a role model to young women – a symbol of ‘girl power’, particularly as she played the role of a feisty young woman in the popular soap.

Needless to say master Shahid was proving to be equally as popular with the young, female fans. Only slave Pierre was ignored. And rightly so. Why should any free young woman pay the slightest attention to another young woman’s dirty footslave? Nevertheless, slave Pierre couldn’t stop himself from feeling a little bit disappointed. He was so proud to be miss Stephanie’s personal footslave that evening – yet nobody else even appeared to notice him.

That, as we have indicated already, was disappointment no 1. Disappointment no 2 was that, when they eventually entered the lobby of the theatre, miss Chan led him on his hands and knees away from miss Stephanie and towards what appeared to be the cloakroom. It seemed that he was not to be allowed the privilege of kneeling at his mistress’s boots inside the auditorium during the awards ceremony, or of accompanying her onto the stage when she went up to collect her award, or of kneeling with his face behind her boots in front of a worldwide television audience as she gave her acceptance speech!

No, instead he was to be consigned to the cloakroom, or, more specifically, to the ‘slave-cloakroom’, where personal slaves were guarded by a theatre attendant known as a ‘slave-sitter’ whilst their mistresses enjoyed the performance. Every theatre had one.

Miss Chan was still wearing her black, leather, zip-up ankle boots under her black trousers. As he now crawled with his nose directly behind the backs of her boots slave Pierre knew that she was also wearing smelly, black socks inside her ankle boots. He knew that because she had not changed her socks since he had been granted the honour of sniffing them earlier in the day.

The theatre attendant who was employed as a ‘slave-sitter’ was, of course, also female – a young Afro-Caribbean woman in her early twenties:

‘This miss Stephanie footslave. Please to look after miss Stephanie slave while miss Stephanie receive award,’ explained miss Chan to the sitter.

The latter knew exactly who miss Stephanie was. Everybody knew Stephanie! She assured miss Chan that she would take good care of miss Stephanie’s footslave as miss Chan headed off to the auditorium herself to oversee her employer’s moment of glory (miss Chan had already been assured by the Awards’ Ceremony organisers that Stephanie had indeed won the coveted award for best actress. Amazing what good lighting and clever editing can do!)

For his part, slave Pierre knew that he must now, temporarily, banish all thoughts of miss Stephanie and her Doc Marten boots from his mind and concentrate on the feet and footwear of his ‘sitter’, the Afro-Caribbean girl. Slave Pierre was, let’s remember, an experienced footslave – and he knew only too well, from bitter experience, that mistresses who were employed in low-paid jobs, such as prison guards or slave ‘minders’ or ‘sitters’, could often be extremely cruel and difficult if they felt they were not being shown proper respect and submissiveness by their temporary charges. They were, after all, young women in positions of absolute power, deserving of their male charges’ respect.

As soon as the Afro-Caribbean girl stretched forward her right foot under his kneeling nose, therefore, he respectfully kissed it.

She was wearing a theatre attendant’s uniform consisting of a bright red waistcoat, matching corduroy trousers, and shiny, black, patent leather slip-on shoes. Because her right foot was now outstretched slave Pierre could also see that the young black woman was wearing thick, black ankle socks. He noticed a white speck of fluff caught in the stitching of the black, female sock as his lips touched the shiny patent leather on the top of her black, flat-heeled, slip-on shoe.

The shoe itself also contained tiny imperfections. Though shiny from a distance, close-up it was dusty and dirty. This young Afro-Caribbean woman’s shoe could really do with a good tongue-shine, thought slave Pierre, but the young woman, it seemed, was not interested in having her shoes shined at that point in time. She merely wanted them kissed:

‘And the other one, slave!’ she barked in a strong Jamaican accent , withdrawing her dusty right shoe to replace it with her equally dusty left shoe under slave Pierre’s nose. Again he caught a glimpse of her black sock under the hem of her red, corduroy trouser leg. No sign of any white fluff this time though.

As soon as he had planted just one respectful kiss to the toe of her shiny, black, round-toed, flat-heeled, slip-on shoe his black Caribbean mistress kicked him with the same left shoe on his cheek:

‘Follow me, slave!’

And so once again slave Pierre found himself crawling to order behind a woman’s footwear – this time the black slip-on shoes and red corduroy trousers of the all-powerful theatre attendant come slave minder.

She made him back into, and then remain kneeling in, a kind of enclave in which she was able to chain him to the wall by means of a heavy, metal chain attached to the slave-collar around his neck. The thick, heavy chain also had the advantage of keeping his head bowed low towards the ground, so that all he could see was the black, shiny slip-on shoes and red, corduroy trousers in front of his face. Because the slave-minder was now standing up straight the hems of her trousers now covered the tops of her shoes. The young Afro-Caribbean woman’s black socks had consequently disappeared from view. Disappointment no 3!

Just as the young woman was about to move away to attend to her next charge slave Pierre, to his horror, suddenly realised that he needed to use the toilet. His bladder, doubtless due to all the excitement of attending an Awards Ceremony, felt very full and he desperately needed to empty it!

He realised that he had no choice but to ask the young Jamaican woman for permission to go to the lavatory. He should, of course, have asked her permission before she had gone to the trouble of chaining him up. She would not be pleased, but how less pleased would she be if he wet himself there and then!

He stole himself to do what had to be done – it is never easy for a slave, even a slave with permission to speak, to initiate a conversation with a superior mistress. But with a strange, unknown mistress – that was even more dangerous! How on earth would she react?

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this dirty, stupid footslave prays for its mistress’s indulgence, and begs its mistress for permission to use the lavatory, if it so pleases you most beautiful, sweet, kind feminine mistress.’

The young black woman clicked her teeth in evident annoyance and explained to the slave, in no uncertain terms, that his going to the lavatory was quite out of the question:

‘Tch! What that you saying boy? You wanting to ease yourself, boy? You ‘aint going nowhere! You’re gonna hold it all in boy, ‘cause I ‘aint taking you nowhere. I have other slaves to attend to. You hear what I’m saying?’

He could partly see his pathetic, slave reflection in the shiny leather of the young woman’s shoes as she berated and belittled him in her heavy Jamaican accent, denying him his basic human right to empty his bursting bladder.

But then, of course, slave Pierre had no human rights – he was just a slave.

The young Afro-Caribbean woman kicked him in the face with the side of her dusty, patent leather shoe:

‘I said, do you hear what I’m saying, boy?’ she snapped.

Slave Pierre, of course, at 49 years old, was far from being a ‘boy’. In fact he was old enough to be this 20 year old girl’s father. But slave Pierre was well used to being spoken to like this – indeed, one of the few ‘joys’ of getting older as a slave was being bossed about and spoken down to by seemingly ever younger people. Yes - respect for ones youngers was something every aging slave had to observe. And right now this young black lady was undoubtedly the one with all the power. If she wanted to address him like he was a naughty schoolboy, she had every right to do so, and if she wanted to deny him relief for his bladder, then denied it would be. He would just have to grin and bear it!

And so slave Pierre thanked the young Afro-Caribbean woman for graciously denying his foolish and selfish request:

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress. This slave apologises for disturbing the mistress with his stupid and thoughtless request.’

‘Too right, boy! Now shut your stinking beak, pig, while I attend to them other slaves!’ and with that the busy slave-sitter moved off.

A pig with a beak! What a truly bizarre creature I am, thought slave Pierre to himself.

He was left alone with his aching bladder for some 30 minutes – staring at the floor where the young Afro-Caribbean mistress had earlier been standing – before her now familiar black, shiny slip-on shoes and red corduroys suddenly came back into view.

This time she was accompanied by a pair of high-heeled, brown leather, zip-up knee-length boots belonging to another female press reporter in her early to mid twenties. He knew this new woman was a reporter from the conversation the owner of the boots was having with the owner of the black slip-ons:

‘…Yeah, I’m from ‘Showbiz Weekly’…So is this him? Is this Stephanie’s slave?’ the reporter was asking.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied the slave-sitter, ‘all trussed up an’ helpless like a dirty pig!’

Both young women laughed.

‘Cool. Here, take this,’ said the reporter, apparently handing over a wad of cash to the slave-sitter.

‘Thank you, ma’am. He’s all yours!’ and with that the slave-sitter’s patent leather shoes disappeared again.

Slave Pierre was now left staring at the knee-length, brown leather, pointy-toed boots of the female reporter from ‘Showbiz Weekly’. What was going on?

‘So, you’re miss Stephanie’s personal footslave are you, boy?’

There it was again - a younger woman addressing him, the older man, as ‘boy’!

‘Yes, mistress, if it pleases you, mistress, I currently have the honour of serving mistress Stephanie as her rented footslave, if it pleases you mistress.’

The female journalist laughed. She appeared to be wearing a short skirt above her knee-length boots, so the whole boots, from top to bottom, were visible – although the heavy chain around his neck made it difficult for slave Pierre to focus on anything other than the lower half of the pointy-toed, high-heeled, brown leather boots.

‘Oh, so you’re just a raggedy old rented slave, are you? And how long have you been employed by her, dirty rent-boy?’

Slave Pierre still wasn’t sure why he was having this conversation with the pretty, female journalist’s boots, or where it was going. But in the back of his mind he remembered miss Chan’s warning for the need for discretion as far as giving information to the press about miss Stephanie was concerned. He had already decided, therefore, that he would keep his replies as short and to the point as humble slave-speak would allow him to:

‘Just since this morning, if it so pleases you mistress.’

The journalist was clearly enjoying her position of power over the ‘trussed up and helpless’ footslave-cum-pig. She moved closer towards him so that her booted feet were wobbling on their stiletto heels directly beneath his suitably bowed head:

‘Ha! Ha! Well, I’ll tell you what would please me, slave. Why don’t you tell me all about miss Stephanie’s drug habit? Have you seen her smoking weed or snorting coke?’

Slave Pierre’s heart started racing uncontrollably. This was a very uncomfortable situation for a helpless and weak footslave to be in. Every fibre of his being had been conditioned to answer a mistress truthfully – or perhaps, more accurately, to tell a mistress whatever she wanted to hear. And the superior female journalist-mistress clearly wanted to hear about miss Stephanie’s drug-taking.

On the other hand, a slave has an absolute duty of confidence towards his mistress and must never betray her trust – even if she is only his temporary mistress – as mistress Stephanie was.

The female journalist, of course, knew this – and was well aware that the slave would be in a quandary over whether or not to betray his mistress’s trust. But she realised too that she couldn’t bribe him to talk with money. What use was money to a slave?

She therefore resorted to a different tack:

‘Answer my question, slave, and I promise I won’t hurt you. I’d hate to have to use this on your already striped back!’ and with that she deliberately dangled the buckle-end of a brown leather strap - which matched her brown, leather boots- in front of his face.

The young, booted woman was referring, of course, to the stripes still visible on slave Pierre’s back from the whipping he had received from Madame Debroue. He began to break out in a sweat – even a strap could cause him serious pain on his already tender back!

‘Look, I’ll make it easy for you,’ continued the female journalist, keen to employ the ‘carrot’ as well as the ‘stick’ approach. ‘I know you must be sworn to silence by your mistress. But you don’t have to actually say anything. I’ll just ask you “yes” or “no” questions, and all you have to do is answer them by touching the toe of my nice, leather boot with your slave nose - once for “yes’ and twice for “no”,’ and with that she stretched out her right booted foot directly under the hapless slave Pierre’s nose.

Slave Pierre temporarily forgot all about the pain in his bladder as he now faced a truly slavish dilemma. Could he, should he, obey the female journalist-mistress, or should he remain loyal to his mistress Stephanie, and disobey the female journalist’s orders, thereby feeling the buckle-end of her strap? The journalist-mistress had been kind enough to give him a way out of his dilemma, except that it wasn’t really a way out – just a different way of betraying his mistress Stephanie, with his slave nose rather than his slave mouth!

‘Now, I’ll ask you one more time, slave,’ continued the female journalist, running the business end of her leather strap very deliberately through her fingers, ‘have you ever witnessed miss Stephanie taking illegal drugs. Just tap my boot with your nose once for yes or twice for no. Do it!’

Slave Pierre even contemplated doing the unthinkable – lying to a mistress. What if he tapped the pointy toe of the pretty journalist’s knee-length, brown leather boot twice for ‘no’ –even though he had witnessed both mistress Stephanie and master Shahid smoking cannabis earlier that afternoon?

As he was ruminating about this he heard a familiar, Korean voice that seemed to signal his salvation:

‘What going on here! Who are you?’

Praise be to God! It was miss Chan – come to rescue him!

‘Stacey Culverton – Showbiz Weekly. And you are?’

‘Chan-Sook – miss Stephanie PA.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Chan-Sook.’

The two women appeared to be shaking hands.

‘I was just trying to get some information from Stephanie’s footslave about her alleged drug-taking. You don’t mind, do you?’

Slave Pierre thought he could hear the sound of paper money rustling above him. He looked at miss Chan’s black, zip-up ankle boots under her black trousers as she appeared to be counting some money that had just been handed to her:

‘No. Be my guest,’ replied the Korean PA.

Slave Pierre was dumbfounded. Was his mistress’s trusted PA really prepared to accept a bribe to let the female journalist quiz him about miss Stephanie’s private life? Surely the ultra-loyal PA miss Chan could not be bribed?

Poor, naïve slave Pierre!

‘I’ve told the slave he doesn’t need to speak, just answer my questions by touching the toe of my boot with his nose once for “yes” or twice for “no”. But he still hasn’t answered my question as to whether Stephanie does illegal drugs!’ complained the journalist bitterly to miss Chan.

‘I help you,’ offered miss Chan, and with that she crouched down beside slave Pierre and grabbed his hair with both hands (she had evidently already pocketed her bribe). She then lowered slave Pierre’s face towards the female journalist’s outstretched brown leather boot once so that his nose briefly touched the pointy toe of her boot.

‘Once for “yes!” squealed the journalist excitedly.

If slave Pierre had been a free man he would have thought that miss Chan was something of a hypocrite. After all, had she not indulged in smoking cannabis also? And had she not been the very one to warn him of betraying their mutual employer’s confidences? But slave Pierre wasn’t a free man – he was a slave. So he couldn’t think that. He just felt shame at his wilful betrayal.

The journalist continued with her interrogation

‘Which drugs were they? Cocaine?’

Again miss Chan pushed slave Pierre’s head down until his nose touched the pointy toe of the female journalist’s brown leather boot, this time twice in quick succession, to indicate “no”.

At least miss Chan wasn’t prepared to make him lie!

‘Cannabis?’

His head was manipulated downwards once by the Korean PA

‘And what about her boyfriend, Shahid? Does he smoke it with her?’

Slave Pierre saw the hem of the crouching miss Chan’s black trouser-leg flapping around her left ankle boot as she again pushed his nose once onto the leather toe of the journalist’s brown, knee-length boot. As he smelt the brown leather he felt like a cad.

And so it went on, with slave Pierre even ‘answering’ questions only the PA knew the answer to. But her conscience was clear, of course, for a mistress can do no wrong.

The following day, whilst slave Pierre was kneeling at miss Stephanie’s red-slippered feet as she sat in her bright, red dressing gown at the breakfast table, miss Chan feigned shock and disgust as she showed miss Stephanie the headline in the weekly ‘Showbiz News’ supplement of the Sunday paper.

Miss Stephanie read the article out loud:

‘Stephanie’s little weed! By our correspondent Stacey Culverton

Award winning actress Stephanie’s new personal footslave “grassed” on his mistress last night during the Soap Awards. He confirmed that the sexy soap starlet, 20, was busily smoking weed along with her reality-show celebrity boyfriend, Shahid, 26, just hours before the actress received the ‘best Actress’ award at the TV soap awards yesterday evening.

The dirty, low-down rental-slave snitched on his mistress backstage whilst she was celebrating her award with a witty speech in which she slagged off her fellow nominees. Let’s hope she has some harsh words also for the little weed of a slave who felt it was appropriate to betray his mistress….’

The article continued but Stephanie had read enough:

‘Well, dirty slave, what have you got to say for yourself? What do you think I should do to punish you? Should I have you flogged to within an inch of your life? Or should I leave it to your employers at ‘Rent-A-Slave’ to decide how to discipline you?’

Not for the first time in the last 24 hours slave Pierre was at a loss what to do. As miss Chan looked on with a smug grin on her face, enjoying seeing him squirm, his slavish instincts took over, and he realised he could only throw himself on miss Stephanie’s mercy.

He therefore showered her bare feet and soft, red leather slippers with feverish kisses:

‘Oh pray,’ … kiss; kiss … ‘miss Stephanie,’ …kiss; kiss …’please have sweet feminine mercy,’ … kiss; kiss … ‘on this dirty, no-good, slave,’ …kiss; kiss; kiss … ‘if it so pleases you,’ … kiss … ‘most kind and merciful mistress Stephanie,’ kiss; kiss.

But mistress Stephanie, if truth be told, was not at all displeased with the article in the ‘Showbiz Weekly’ In fact, the whole article read, almost word-for-word, exactly as she had discussed it the day before with her journalist-friend, Stacey. Moreover the accompanying pictures of herself receiving the award for best actress, were very pleasing to her. She looked superb! And, let’s face it, the allegations of smoking cannabis would only enhance her carefully cultivated reputation as a rebel and an inappropriate role model for young women of her generation – just what she had wanted!

Nevertheless slave Perry, or whatever his name was, had to be punished for his indiscretion.

She wasn’t in the mood for inflicting corporal punishment, however. Her head was still spinning from the mix of cannabis and booze from the night before! No, since he had behaved like a naughty schoolboy telling tales on his teacher after school, she would give him a schoolboy punishment:

‘Slave, I’ve decided on your punishment. I’m going to give you 10,000 lines. You will write out the following sentence 10,000 times in your best hand-writing:

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

She then picked up the pair of dirty knee-high, nylon pop socks that she had been wearing to the Awards Ceremony inside her DMs the night before, and shoved them into slave Pierre’s mouth:

‘Here, slave, you can suck on these sweaty nylons while you do your lines!’

Miss Chan laughed out loud as she placed a huge wad of blank paper and a pen on the floor under the kneeling slave Pierre’s face, and then watched as he began his arduous chore of writing out the humiliating line 10,000 times:

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”

“I must respect the privacy of my superior mistress, the beautiful and award-winning actress miss Stephanie, at all times, for I am just a dirty, good-for-nothing footslave, who is not even fit to look her in the foot, but who is nonetheless honoured to be allowed to sniff her dirty socks and to lick the soles of her dirty boots.”…………

And so we leave slave Pierre, with his mistress’s sweaty nylon pop socks in his mouth, as he continues to write out his punishment lines. 10 down; 9,990 to go!

Indeed we must now leave all the slaves and mistresses of ‘Rent-A-Slave’ as they go about their daily business. Our thanks to everyone who has participated in this story. It has indeed been a fascinating insight into the world of the rented footslave. We only wish we could have stayed longer.

After all…business was booming!

The End.