Joy of Socks

Of course, just because a dumb footkisser can’t speak, it doesn’t mean he can’t read or write. Here is a rare insight into the pathetic mind of a dumb footkisser, in the form of an excerpt from an essay he was compelled to write for the Gynarchy authorities, entitled ‘My Pathetic Life as a Dumb Footkisser’.

The excerpt is from a chapter entitled ‘The Joy of Socks’:

‘…One of the great joys of my existence, perhaps the only one, is the joy of socks i.e. of studying my female betters’ socks as they present their dirty shoes or boots to my menial mouth for humble footkissing.

Of course, I don’t necessarily get a long time to study their socks. Most of the time it is just a fleeting glimpse of a sock, partially hidden by trouser hems and shoe or boot. But if the glorious mistress elects to leave her foot outstretched beneath my face for repeated kissing, I do get a very up-close and personal view of her sock.

Oftentimes I am confronted by plain and ordinary socks – though even these must be respected and admired by the likes of me as they are the socks of my betters. But what can really make my day is the sight of a fancy sock – fancy in the sense of being either frilly and lacy, or because it is patterned and brightly coloured.

Take the socks of the bright, young woman whom I was obliged to serve earlier today. Her shoes were plain enough – cheap, black flats with a goodly amount of mud and dirt for my lips to taste. But what really enamoured me to her were her bright purple and black socks containing an intriguing pattern of numerous exotic logos – a veritable melee of exotic animals and beasts which I would have been honoured and privileged to study all day long!

In the event I was only afforded a few seconds – the time it took me to kiss each of her shoes 3 times in turn. But that was mercifully long enough for me to make the following observations:

·         I could see from the corner of my eye that her bright, purple socks matched her bright, purple jacket. Clearly, she had not colour-coordinated her jacket and socks purely for my benefit. Indeed, I am sure I was the last thing on her mind when she was choosing which socks to wear this morning! But it is good to know that she cares about her appearance, and that her socks were a deliberate, fashion choice. She herself had put some thought into which socks to wear today, so I am truly honoured to have such an intimate view of her socks

·         After all, everyone else will only be vaguely aware of the fact that she is wearing a purple jacket, blue denim jeans, and purple socks, with black shoes. But I get to see those socks in magnificent close-up (as I taste her shoedirt) – the socks of a beautiful and sexy, young woman. The socks of a superior being to myself.

·         The first thing I noticed about my female master’s socks was that they contained a plethora of drawings of various mythical creatures and animals. Some of them were elephantine in appearance; others appeared to be scarab-like. All very exotic. South-East Asian, perhaps, though the young woman herself appears to be Southern European?

·         If I were physically able to speak (like most dumb footkissers my voice box was surgically removed upon my initial enslavement – some 15 years ago in my case), and if this bright young woman deigned to permit me to speak, I would seek to ingratiate myself with her and her socks by praising and blessing them; by complimenting them – all in a shameless effort to find out more about the meaning and provenance of her socks

·         I would politely ask her if the socks were a gift from her family or boyfriend, or had she purchased them herself, perhaps on some foreign trip?

·         I would then humbly seek an explanation as to the logos on the purple socks. Are they indeed mythical creatures, and, if so, what is their individual significance? I would sycophantically explain to the mistress that I am only asking her about her socks because they loom so large in my life as I kiss her feet, and would crave her mercy and indulgence

·         I would then politely enquire of the mistress as to the texture and weave of her socks. Are they comfortable on her feet inside her shoes? Do they garnish her foot moisture in an efficient manner and, if so, would she be so kind as to permit me to sniff her socks, begging her pardon? (I would explain that, being a public footservant, I rarely get to sniff my customers’ inner socks, but that the honour of sniffing such a nice and exotic pair of foreign, female socks would truly enhance my otherwise miserable existence. Thus, I would endeavour to tug at her sweet feminine heartstrings, and gently persuade the mistress to allow me to nose her socks – possibly even to slip off her flat shoes and permit my nose to have contact with the sweaty, reinforced toe areas of her socks!)

·         Throughout my shameless, sockslavish self-indulgence I would seek to reassure the mistress as to my undying admiration and respect for her feet and socks, explaining that my interest in her socks is not sexual, but purely slavish

·         Of course, this is all fantasy on my part, for as the sign says above my head, I am a dumb footkisser, and cannot speak. Nor would a fine, young, long-dark-haired woman such as this ever deign to speak to the likes of me, a lowly, down-in-the-dirt ornamental footkisser, or indulge me with her socks. For her, this is a purely routine transaction – having her dirty feet kissed on the way out of a public, female restroom by an anonymous, ornamental footkissing-slave. She has no idea of, and cares even less about, my pathetic obsession with her socks. She has much more important things on her pretty mind, such as meeting up with her boyfriend in order to go to the cinema. And then having sex with him back in his apartment later that evening. Yes, I have no doubt that an ornamental footkisser’s pathetic obsession with her socks is the very last thing on her female mind!

·         All too soon, even though I always try to kiss my betters’ feet slowly in order to get a good look at their socks, the exotic, animal-themed, purple socks are turning and walking away from me. Although my neck is virtually immovable, thanks to the heavy iron collar around my protruding neck, I can just make out the backs of the goddess’s socks as she exits the doorway

·         It is now, for the first time, that I spot some human-like figures on the backs of her socks – a revelation indeed which adds a whole new dimension to the socks! Are those human figures male or female? Are they worshipping the animals? Or sacrificing them?  

·         So many questions; so few answers; so little time. For, before you can say ‘I am a slave to socks’, the beautiful socks, and their equally beautiful wearer, are gone from my life – perhaps for ever! Only the memory of this girl’s socks shall linger in my mind for all eternity, for, like so many fancy socks I have studied and admired during the course of my humble work, I shall never forget them

·         Socks like this shall, in all probability, end up lying crumpled and ignored on the bedroom floor of this young woman’s lucky boyfriend’s apartment as she makes love to him tonight. But if I were good enough to serve as her personal sockservant I would happily kneel and study-sniff those same discarded socks whilst the happy young couple made love on the bed above me, for they are socks imbued with the sweaty, female foot-DNA of a bright and beautiful, young woman who is better than me in every way

·         Indeed, the socks themselves are better than me, being a higher lifeform as they are saturated in a bright, young woman’s feminine foot bacteria and tiny female flakes of dead footskin. I would humbly live and breathe her fancy, purple socks and mouthwash them during the night ready for her fresh feet in the morning

·         As it is, I am left, as I said, with only the memory of her socks – and rightly so, since I am far from being a qualified sockslave; I’m just a dumb ornamental footkisser!

·         But I am a dumb ornamental footkisser who has, however fleetingly, been close-up and personal to a bright, young woman’s fancy purple socks. And that’s good enough for me!...’

You’ll be pleased to know that this dumb ornamental footkisser was temporarily taken out of his wall and whipped by the female authorities for the disrespect he showed towards this young woman and her socks – in mind, if not in deed. After all, it is not a public footservant’s place to try to cajole a superior, young woman into letting him sniff her socks; or even to fantasise about being her personal, domestic sockslave! But I doubt the whip will have cured him. Even the mighty sting of the female whip on an ornamental footkisser-slave’s back is unlikely to diminish his fascination with his customers’ socks – simply by virtue of the fact that they will always be the highlight and focal point of his pathetic, feetkissing day.

Ha! Ha! What a sore, whipped loser!