Reflected Glory

She’s a highly successful, rich and powerful, beautiful young Asian businesswoman in her early thirties who is clearly going places. Whereas I am nothing but a raggedy-assed, wizened and ugly old public footslave in my early seventies, with whipmarks on my back. I am not even worthy to touch her socks – but that doesn’t prevent me from eyeing them up and admiring them whilst I tongue shine her boots.

See how my beady old eye is glued to the top of the Asian customer-mistress’s grey cotton bootsock – studying the weave of her sock, and in particular the vertical lines of stitching forming soft cotton grooves along which I would dearly love to run my ugly nose, as a demonstration of my footslavish respect for her sock.

But such intimate contact with a lady’s superior foot garment is never afforded to a public footservant such as myself. I can look but not touch. And, as she climbs down from the chair to walk away from me – without so much as a word of thanks or praise for my public-bootlicking efforts – I reflect upon how those socks have almost certainly got hours to go on her booted feet yet, as it is still only lunchtime.

Oh how I would loveto follow her on my hands and knees to heel, so that I might kneel at her feet in the boardroom in the capacity of her personalfootslave and study her socks whilst she cleverly and expertly secures her latest business deal high above me, thereby adding still further to her personal wealth. Afterwards, as she relaxes at home in the arms of her equally successful, Asian businessman husband, and with her socked feet resting on the edge of their opulent sofa, I would congratulate her socks by kissing them, and nosing them by running the tip of my nose down the lines of soft, grey cotton stitching in the aforementioned manner, as I inhaled the ammonic aroma of the bright, young woman’s personal footsweat on the reinforced toe-areas of her successful socks. And as I did so, I would contemplate how much more important her socks are than me, since they are imbued with her precious foot moisture and DNA, some of which, I can only hope and pray, will rub off on me.

I would, in effect, humbly bask in their reflected glory – my face stinking of bright, young, Asian-businesswoman grey sock.

















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