The Sock, The Whole Sock, And Nothing But The Sock

My mistress Karen and her husband, master Russel sir, are enjoying a slap-up meal in the privacy of their own home. Needless to say, I, in my capacity as their household footservant, am only permitted to partake of the meal as an observer, since I am rightly deemed unworthy to share my master’s and mistress’s food, being a mere slave. Not only that, but I am permitted to be present merely as an observer of my mistress’s boots and socks, as I kneel on the floor behind her with my neck weighed down by a heavy, wooden cangue, and my humble head adorned with a silly footfool’s cap.

Both the cangue and the cap are designed to emphasise my lowliness and stupidity, and to remind me of my inferiority, as are the smarting whip marks across my bare back which were kindly delivered to me earlier this evening by master Russel sir for allegedly disrespecting his wife’s socks by not studying them hard enough. So, I am absolutely determined not to invoke the ire of my master and mistress again, and have resolved to be a good and diligent sockslave from now on – studying my mistress Karen’s socks hungrily, even though I am also hungry for food, not having been fed my one meagre bowl of tasteless slave mush today (my mistress has forgotten to feed me again, having been preoccupied with the wellbeing of her own stomach, and that of her beloved husband; and, of course, that of their pet dog, Fido).

Still, socks are food for the soul, and so I make a particular point of studying my mistress Karen’s right bootsock whilst she eats, this being the sock nearest to me. Come and join me down amongst the socks.

As you can see, she is wearing a brightly coloured pair of red plaid socks, so there is much for me to study and admire in this particular pair of female socks. It is well worth my while contemplating the various shades of pink, purple, orange and red in the vertical stripes of her socks, without, of course, neglecting the thick, horizontal lines of dark purple stitching that criss-cross them, because master Russel sir may well ask me questions about his wife’s sock stripes later on this evening (and I DON’T fancy yet another sore whipping!). If I was numerate, I would endeavour to count the number of stitches in each coloured line of visible stitching, and then calculate the overall number of lines and ultimately the total number of stitches in my mistress Karen’s socks.

But I can’t count – I’m just a dumb slave.

So, instead I focus on the creases and folds in my mistress’s right sock. My ambition is to one day write a dissertation on sock creases – their causes and consequences – since they play such a major role in we footslaves’ lives. I mean, mistress Karen is probably blissfully unaware of her sock creases as she socialises with her husband high above me, but to me, a stupid down-in-the-dirt footslave, her sock creases are the highlight, and the biggest fear, of my day. They raise so many questions:

·        How and when did they develop (for her bootsocks were pristine neat when I humbly smoothed them onto her feet and ankles first thing this morning!)?

·        Should I, as her personal footslave, be blamed for her sock creases? And, if so, should my punishment be commensurate with the number of creases in her socks i.e. one whip cut for each sock crease?

·        Should I seek to ‘nose’ away the sock creases i.e. flatten them and smooth them out with my footslave nose?

·        Or should I leave them be, as evidence of a living, working sock on a beautiful young woman’s shapely ankle?

·        Are the creased areas of her socks less sweaty, being no longer in direct contact with her precious footskin, unlike the non-creased areas of sock?

·       What does my footslavish obsession with my mistress’s sock creases tell me about myself? That I have ‘sock on the brain’ (a well-known footslave condition often leading to ‘sock madness’, when a slave is unable to function properly without being in the constant presence of his mistress’s socks)?

Whatever, I am acutely aware that socks are meant to be a part and parcel of my humble existence, as the word ‘socks’ is emblazoned on the heavy wooden cangue around my neck (along with the words ‘dirty’, ‘fool’, ‘fear’, ‘whipped’ ‘feet’ and, of course, ‘slave’. I am truly grateful to my mistress and master for choosing a cangue for my neck which so eloquently sums up my humble existence).

Of course, the creases in my mistress Karen’s socks are very much a moveable feast, coming and going with every subliminal movement in her feet and foot muscles beneath the dinner table.

Furthermore, they are the only feast my humble eyes shall be feasting on this evening! And rightly so – for I have no business concerning myself with my empty stomach and the food on the table above me, when down here there are creases and folds in my mistress’s plaid socks to explore!

And so, as my mistress and master converse with one another high above me and tuck into their slap-up meal, I kneel and obsess over my mistress’s sock creases like the dirty and fearful, whipped feet-fool that I am; the slave of my mistress’s socks, thinking about sock, the whole sock, and nothing but the sock.

Truly I am a sockhead; a sock-goof; and a sock schmuck. I’ll bet you must be glad not to be me?!