Another Day, Another Sock

Another Day, Another Sock - Part of Ms Mukta week

Yesterday it was grey socks; today regular customer-mistress miss Mukta madam (this time in the presence of her manly husband master Simon sir) is wearing her pink socks inside her grubby, red white and blue sneakers.

You will note how the normally haughty miss Mukta comes across all coy in the presence of her husband? That’s because she loves hearing him ‘lord it over’ me, and she is quite prepared to do whatever it takes to bring his machismo to the fore.

Her faked coyness works, for the master sir, whilst he is supportively holding his pretty wife’s hand, male-mockingly asks me what I think of his beautiful wife’s pink socks?

I reply most humbly and self-deprecatingly that they are truly the most wonderful pair of socks I have ever since, since they are gracing the feet of such an esteemed goddess as his god and beautiful wife, if it would be so pleasing to the master-sir? (Hyperbole, incidentally, is an integral part of the humble language of slavespeak, and is designed to elicit mercy in our masters and betters, as is the fearful and obsequious tone I which it must be delivered).

Master Simon-sir laughs at me (and miss Mukta madam giggles above me), as the master then goes on to order me to describe the weave of his wife’s pink sock. He explains it is not something he has ever bothered to study in great detail himself, but he is nevertheless curious to know my thoughts on the matter.

I reply that the sock is largely composed of vertical, latticed stitching, but crossed at centimetre long intervals by lines of horizontal stitching, if the master would be so kind and understanding, sir? Master Simon sir then enquires as to whether there are any creases in his wife’s sock. Again he explains that it’s not of any great interest to him personally, but he knows that such things must prey on the mind of a humble sockslave like me.

I thank the master sir kindly for his question, and confirm that such things as the creases and folds in my customers’ socks whilst I am kissing and licking their footwear do indeedloom large in my footslave-consciousness, if the master-sir would be so kind and forgiving to a pathetic foothead such as myself, and that I can indeed detect some creases in the mistress’s pink sock – about three in all, though because I am just a stupid slave I might be wrong, begging the master’s forgiveness and indulgence, sir.

Master Simon sir then mockingly asks me if I can see his wife’s bare leg above the sockline and beneath her jean hems, and, if so, am I lusting after his wife’s flesh? I immediately reassure the master sir that, whilst it is true his wife’s bare leg is a feature of my peripheral vision, I would never dare to focus on the mistress’s bare legflesh as, being a mere footslave, I have absolutely no business looking at the mistress above the sock, craving the master sir’s kindness and indulgence, master Simon sir.

But master Simon sir is clearly not satisfied with this answer as he probes me further on the matter of his wife’s bare flesh. He asks me whether I can see his wife’s bare, brown, soft foot and ankle pores through the latticed stitching of her sock, and whether I am, as a consequence lusting after her flesh albeit through the ‘veil’ of her pink sock? Again, I seek to assure the master sir that nothing could be further from my thoughts, and that, in my pathetic footslave psyche, the background brown of the mistress’s soft, bare footskin merely serves to enhance and augment the pinkness of her feminine sock, if the master sir would be so kind and understanding to a humble slave at his, and his wife’s, feet. Please don’t beat me, master sir!

The couple both laugh at me, as well they might.

Of course, throughout this humiliating (for me) conversation between unequals – i.e. between the master and the slave – I must admire, albeit only in the back of my mind and at a distance, my interlocutor’s black socks, since they are the socks of a free man who is married to the pink-socked customer mistress who is currently standing over me. Respect for master Simon sir’s socks!

But the bulk of my brain is preoccupied with his wife’s pink, feminine socks as I taste where she has been walking from the soles of her sneakers.

Those same sneakers walk away from me arm in arm with the master sir, and my eyes follow the backs of their accompanying pink socks until they are out of sight – but still very much in my mind, as they will be for the rest of the day.