A Bit (of) Rough

She looks a bit rough – probably from the local sink estate – and she is carrying some sort of wooden club. I very much fear this young woman intends to do me some harm. I brace myself, for there is nothing I can do to stop anyone from hurting me!

She does have some redeeming features, however, notably her black leather Chelsea boots and orange socktops, and as she stands dominantly over me I can see that her boots are in need of a good lickshining. Perhaps if I do a good enough job of tongue-cleaning her boots she won’t hurt me?

Surprisingly, however, the belligerent young lady does not require a lickshining. Instead she crouches down to my face and informs me that I am going to kiss her boots 1000 times, out of ‘respeck’ for her! And how do I like that?

I assure this frightening young woman that I will do whatever she says, as she is my customer-mistress and I am her slave, and with that she stands up straight and shoves one of her booted feet directly underneath my face. I promptly pucker up and kiss her dirty bootleather, though I am still yearning to lick her bootdirt (I haven’t eaten all day as my mistress ‘minder’, Miss Carla Madam, has seemingly forgotten to stop by and feed me yet again; or, more likely, has spent my Female-State food allowance on herself, yet again!)

Meanwhile I hear the young woman in the black leather Chelsea Boots and bright, orange socks chortle triumphantly above me as I abase myself before her. I’ll bet nobody in the outside world shows her this much respect (or ‘Respeck’ as she calls it). So humbled am I become in her eyes she even rests one of her dirty, booted feet on top of my head for a while, after I have delivered my 1000 kisses to her boots (500 per boot).

She then crouches down again and asks me, to my face, how I had liked being her footslave, and wouldn’t I like to be her slave all the time? She says she could ask her boyfriend, a local gang leader, to bribe the authorities and have me ‘released’ into her custody. What do I think?

I stutter and stumble through my reply as I seek to explain to this bright and intelligent, young unemployed woman that, undoubted honour though it would be for me to become her personal footservant, I feel that my calling is more towards publicservitude, as I am just not good enough or skilled enough to serve permanently at the feet of a superior, young woman such as herself. She laughs at me and tells me not to worry – she was only ‘joshing’ with me, and that she wouldn’t want such an ‘ugly, decrepit old man’ as her personal footslave in any case! Footslaves, she says, are ‘two a penny’, and she is sure she could find a much better slave than me on the open slave market!

She’s right, of course! But, as she turns to walk away from me, her mocking laughter still ringing in my ears, and as I observe the backs of her beautiful, muddy Chelsea boots with their black leather bootstraps framed against the backs of her bright orange bootsocks, a part of me already regrets turning down her kind, if jocular, offer to become her personal footservant – the footservant of a rough, tough, sink-estate girl! 

What about you? Would youlike to be her personal slave?