Typical

The following account of his humble existence was provided by the head-in-the-wall footslave beforethe Gynarchy Authorities did him the honour of placing a wooden footblock beneath his gormless, footkissing face (and a wall-whip over his humble head). But it still gives an insight into just how pathetic he is!

So you want to know what it’s really like being a head-in-the-wall footslave in the Gynarchy of Barbaria?

Well, I have been such a slave for nigh on 15 years now – in fact, all my adult life. And I shall remain so until my dying day, in this very same spot. So I am actually well placed to tell you what it’s like!

The first thing you will notice are my not very salubrious surroundings. I am located in a dark and dingy, dead-end alleyway, surrounded by rubbish and detritus. This is actually quite common for public footslaves in the Gynarchy. We are regarded, quite correctly, as things to be ashamed of; things, almost, to be hidden away, since we are the lowest of the low and subhuman (submissive humans).

My corner, you will notice, is a smokers’ corner, and hence I am designated, by means of a sign directly above my head, as a ‘Smokers’ Footkisser’ – though actually I am bound, by law, to kiss the feet of anyone and everyone who chooses to avail themselves of my footkissing services. So, a more accurate sign would probably read ‘Everyone’s Feetkisser’.

Nevertheless, I am particularly humbled to be branded as a kisser of smokers’ feet, since human beings who smoke are by nature superior, and highly deserving of respect and admiration from a non-smoking, teetotal and celibate slave!

Furthermore, even if I were minded to object to kissing a non-smoker’s feet I would be in no position to do so, and not only because of the requirements of the Gynarchy Law, but because I am literally dumb – unable to speak, having had my voicebox removed. Footslaves like me are often made mute, since we have no need to disturb our betters as they are having their feet kissed by us. And our customer masters and mistresses are so high above us on the social scale they would never deign to speak to us – not even to bark down orders at us; at least, not an ‘ornamental footkisser’ like me – qualified only to kiss feet. I mean, if I was a qualified shoe or boot licker I mightbe permitted to speak, if only to acknowledge or clarify a master or mistress’s orders. But a footkisser has no such specialist skills, and merely exists to kiss feet. Hence I have no need to receive orders, or speak to my customers. It is blindingly obvious what I must do whenever a superior male or female foot is presented to me.

And besides, ‘dumb’ is an apt attribute for a slave – for we are not just mute; we are stupid (compared to our betters).

So, if you take a closer look at me you will see that I am immured up to my neck at ankle height in the wall, and therefore perfectly positioned to kiss feet. Some head-in-the-wall footslaves are slightly higher up in the wall, and thus must stare perpetually down at a wooden or concrete footblock beneath their face on which the customer rests their foot. But I am so low down in the wall I only get to stare at the dirty ground. And it is dirty – strewn, perhaps unsurprisingly given my ignominious location, with used cigarette butts.

But though I may not have a footblock beneath my face, I do have a rusty, metal slave collar around my neck – designed to hold my neck motionless and in place, as well as being a symbol of my helplessness and powerlessness. The collar is heavy and weighs me down. It is an extra burden upon me – especially as it often prevents me from admiring the tops of my customers’ socks (about which more later).

Because of my collar I am also known pejoratively as a ‘rusty-necked footslave’. I am a figure of fun as well as a figure of shame.

So, as regards the ‘domestics’, I am technically on duty 24/7, 365 days a year – with no time off for good behaviour. I must serve in all weathers, and I am thus enslaved for life (if the alleyway I am located in is ever destroyed I will simply be transferred to another, similar spot – but I hope that never happens as I am depressingly used to my current location and my esteemed regular customers!).

My body is fully functioning behind the wall (apart from the fact that I am sexually impotent being a lifelong celibate footslave), and I can even be whipped for bad behaviour since there is room to swing a cat in the space behind my wall. In case you were wondering, I am actually confined in a kneeling position – not prostrate on my stomach as some people might think – as enforced kneeling makes my weary body even more painful and cramped, which the Gynarchy authorities consider a good thing!

And here I wait; and wait; and wait – sometimes for hours at the weekends until a smoker passer-by decides they would like to partake of a cigarette. I tend to be a lot busier during weekdays since the local office workers are regularly popping out for a quick fag.

Now let’s turn to a typical customer – the bright, young woman approaching me now. She is typical because she is young (early to mid twenties); female (though I do, of course, have to kiss male feet as well if they wish me to); casually dressed (even office workers rarely dress smartly nowadays in the Gynarchy); and arrogant. See how she approaches me vin an uncaring, matter of fact fashion – as I having her feet kissed by an inferior, human head-in-the-wall was the most natural thing in the world!

Well, to be fair to her, I suppose in the Gynarchy of Barbaria it is the most natural thing in the world – if you are a free man or woman!

She looks – no disrespect intended – somewhat unkempt and slovenly, with her high-top, converse sneaker laces undone, and her socks crumpled and uneven on her shapely, feminine legs. Some free men might, unkindly and outrageously, describe her as ‘slutty’, but I, of course, would have nothing but undying respect for any young woman who gives the impression of having loose morals and being somewhat libidinous – since the fact she is sexually active is just one more reason why she is better than me – an impotent and sexually unattractive footslave.

And she is, praise be, a smoker – so, with any luck, I might catch a whiff of her stale, smoker’s breath if she stoops down above me (as many customer masters and mistresses do, in order to get a better view of my footkissing humiliation).

She languorously stretches forth her right, sneakered foot on the dirty ground beneath my waiting face, and I instantly lower my lips as far as the rusty slave collar around my neck will permit me in order to kiss the scuffmarked, white-rubbery toe area of her outstretched sneaker.

Hopefully you can see the dirt and grime ingrained in her sneaker toe? Mercifully, as I have already explained above, I am not a qualified shoelicker, so I am not expected to even attempt to remove the ingrained street-dirt from this superior, young woman’s sneakers. I am, however, required to kiss the dirt. A footslave, whatever his official role, must never baulk at a customer’s shoe or boot dirt, since it is dirt made superior by virtue of it being attached to the customer’s footwear!

What you can’t do, of course, is taste the young woman’s sneaker dirt, so I shall have to describe it to you. It is a mixture of bitter-tasting rubber and soil, and it feels gritty on the lips. It is also mixed in with the musty, rubbery smell of her well-worn sneaker – a sneaker, no doubt, imbued on the inside with the young woman’s personal footsweat (and possibly also that of her boyfriend if these are his sneakers; I wouldn’t put it past a young woman like this to shove her boyfriend’s sneakers on her feet if she can’t find her own – and they do, come to think of it, look a bit big for her dainty, feminine feet!)

My instructions are always to repeatedly kiss the outstretched foot in front of me until it is withdrawn. Audible kisses – my customer’s like to hear me repeatedly kissing their feet. Some customer masters and mistresses are perpetually switching feet beneath my face, but this young woman (who, I’m sad to say is not a regular – not yet anyway) does not appear to be a ‘switcher’, content instead to watch my head repeatedly bobbing up and down on her right sneaker-toe as I pay my labial respects to it, and to her.

I think, perhaps, the greatest frustration of being an ornamental footkisser is being in such close proximity to a customers’ socks, and yet being simultaneously prohibited from ever touching a customer’s socks with my lips, nose, or forehead. I oftentimes yearn to feel the softness of sock on my lips or face, since boots and shoes can be so harsh on the lips! And this young woman’s socks look particularly inviting – as I said before, scrunched up and slovenly, with thick creases in them; particularly the rightsock which is in front of me now! Can you count the creases in it? I can see at least 5, or possibly 6, creases – depending on your definition of a crease?

If I had time I would even count the individual stitches in her grey socks – out of respect for them.

The fact that her sock is so slovenly on her shapely, outstretched calf-muscle merely serves to emphasise her young-womanly contempt for me. She can’t even be bothered to pull up her socks for me!

And, hopefully, they are hersocks, and not her boyfriends (although they are dark grey socks, they do appear to fit her feet and ankles very well, so I am confident they are not ‘borrowed’ from her partner! And, incidentally, if you’re wondering how I could possibly know that she has a partner, well – just look at her! Does she strike you as the type of young woman who would be ‘left on the shelf’ in her twenties? In another world, in another life, I might even fancy her myself. But slaves, of course, are forbidden to lust after their customers – or their socks!)

And so, again quite typically for a smoker having a cigarette break, she stays with me having her foot (singular) kissed repeatedly for about some 2 or 3 minutes, before turning her back on me and walking off. Sadly, she has not yet finished her cigarette and so I don’t have the ultimate thrill of watching her stamp out her cigarette butt on the ground beneath my face by twisting her dirty sneaker sole over it. Can you just imagine the movement in her already creased socks there would have been if she had done so?!

Now, this is where you have the advantage over me, for, as she walks away from me I cannot see the expression on her (presumably pretty) face – but I’m presuming it’s one of smirking triumphalism? All I can see is the backs of her sneakers and socks – and rightly so. For I am what it says on the wall above my lowly head – a ‘Smokers’ Footkisser’; and I have just kissed a superior smoker’s dirty foot.

Why wouldn’t she appear triumphant?!