Regular As Clockwork

You are regularly my first customer of the day, in your orange, running sneakers. You are regular as clockwork – a clockwork orange. Even in the wintertime, like now, when it’s still dark. I have been serving you for over five years now – kissing your feet.

So, what do I know about you?

·         Well, I know that you are in your mid twenties – that much is obvious

·         I don’t, yet, know your name, but I hope to discover – one day

·         I know that you originate from Romania for, although you have, quite rightly, never deigned to speak to me, not even to bark down your female orders at me, since I am but a lowly, head in the wall, public footservant and therefore, quite literally beneath you – I have overheard you speak on your mobile phone; in Romanian; to your husband

·         And yes, I have met him too – or rather his feet, as he occasionally will accompany you on your early morning run, and has me kiss his feet too; the feet of a realman; a sexually active man, who knows how to satisfy a young woman, like you. How I respect him for that! He’s clearly not as fit as you, however

·         I don’tknow if you work; or study; or are just living on Female State benefits. You reside on the nearby local sink-estate, so any one of those things could be true; or even all three!

·         I respect and admire you – especially for the way you roll up your tracksuit hems to afford me a clear and uninterrupted view of your sneaker-socks whilst I am kissing your sneakers during your early-morning ‘pit stop’. At least, I like to think that’s why you wear your tracksuit bottoms at half-mast, though, if I’m honest, it’s probably NOT for my benefit. It’s just your fashion statement; your style; like your ubiquitous beanie hat

·         I hear you slurp from your bottle of water high above me as I apply my dry and parched lips to your outstretched sneaker toe. Sure I’m thirsty – and made all the more so by the sound of your slurping – but I am even more thirsty for the sight of your socks. Today they are plain grey. I recognise them. I have come to know all your socks, since I must get up close and personal to them each morning. My eyes are glued to your socks. I feel like I know each and every weave, even though you only ever wear ultra-short, sneaker-style socks, so I rarely get to observe more than their elasticated tops.

·         To give you credit, you never wear the same socks inside your sneakers two days in a row. You are a clean and fastidious, young woman. It’s not your fault that your sneakers are perennially dirty. It’s just the state of the inner city streets you must run through

·         I would, of course, endeavour to lickshine your sneakers, should you order me to. Taste where you have been jogging. But that is never your purpose in visiting me. Your purpose in stopping (apart from having a breather) is merely to have your feet kissed, in order to feel superior and respected by a lowly slave. To receive public confirmation that you are better than me – which you are

·         As you tower over me – silent but for the occasional slurp – I am reminded that I am in the presence of female greatness. Sure there are those free persons who would probably describe you as just an ordinary girl, of average looks, living on one of the Gynarchy’s many sink estates. But to me you are a goddess – a sneakered and socked goddess – and I kiss your feet with humility and respect

·         Your laces are coming loose. I hope and pray that you don’t command me to tie them with my mouth – the most difficult task that a footslave can ever be asked to perform! But I’m quietly confident that you won’t so command me – since, as I indicated before, you have never once spoken to me in all the five years I have been serving you. You view me as just a feet kisser. You would not trust me to tie your sneaker laces properly. You shall do so yourself – if needs be – since I am an incompetent fool

·         All too soon you leave me, resuming your early morning jog. I am left staring wistfully at a dirty pair of sneaker heels – until tomorrow morning when you will appear again, regular as clockwork; same tracksuit; same sneakers; but different socks. I can’t wait!

·         And as you turn to leave me, is there a supercilious and mischievous smile on your pretty, Romany face? I can’t see. But you should be triumphant. For, yet again, you have demonstrated to the still-sleeping world that you are my better. My lip-DNA will linger on your dirty sneaker-toe for the rest of the day as you go about your daily business – whatever that is!