Patheticus Minimus 3D

It’s New Year’s Eve and the good citizens of the Gynarchy are celebrating another year of female supremacy over the enslaved male. Meanwhile Old Rusty Neck, the veteran public shoelick, has yet another year of licking female boots and shoes under the pain of the female whip to look forward to…

For the lonely slave There is no warm embrace. For the lowly slave Just a boot in the face!

Her boots are brown Her socks are red. Her ankles dig deep Into my forehead. Humbled I am Feeling less than a man, As I feel the squeeze From an expert socktease. Oh pray, pretty Miss Please finish all this, And leave me to bow My sock-furrowed brow In the abject shame Of a footslave in pain! Well might you hang your head in shame, footslave. See how your pathetic, poetic whinings and pleadings have failed to impress this immensely bright and beautiful young woman, who is your superior. See how, after she has finished her cigarette, she shoves her booted foot into your face for kissing, and, no doubt, to shut you up. Your mouth should be used to kiss boot, stupid footslave; not wax lyrical! Remember your lowly place – which is down amongst the boots and socks of your betters!

Regular customer-mistress Ms Paramjit Madam loves revelling in my misfortune whilst having her designer, black patent leather ankleboots kissed. She mocks me as to my loneliness; my sexual impotence; my poverty; my dirtiness; my ugliness; my inferiority – basically, all the things she is not. For she is married, sexually active, rich, clean, beautiful and superior. To give her her due, she is also an extremely kind, young woman; a Christian girl. For, she could, obviously, hurt me physically as she looks down her nose at me – with a designer-booted kick to the face. There is nothing to stop her in law from doing so. But she refrains, because she likes to show sweet feminine mercy towards her inferiors. No wonder she leaves me with a smug, self-satisfied grin on her pretty face, for she will definitely go to female heaven.

The pretty Muslim girl takes it for granted that I will kiss-respect her ballet flats as soon as they are presented to me on the wooden footblock beneath my face. She does not interrupt her phone conversation high above me even for one second to acknowledge me; nor to thank me when she has finished using me. Indeed, the only tacit acknowledgement I receive is when she subliminally twists her foot at one point so that the pointy toe of her shoe might better penetrate my menial mouth.  And rightly so, for she is a young woman and therefore my infinite better. It is right and proper that she should not deign to speak to the likes of me, for she is above such things. And thus, as she turns to walk away from me, I am left staring at the empty footblock – a wooden platform now made holy by the residual dirt from the bottom of her shoe.