African Princess


The African customer-mistress only lets me kiss her scarlet-painted, big toenail after I have first kiss-respected her white leather sandal straps. She then crouches down to tell me to my face, in her matter-of-fact, sing-song West African accent, that she has a ‘nice surprise’ for me, and I start to sweat with fear as she suddenly produces from her jeans pocket a pair of her dirty, used, pinky-red socks. She unceremoniously throws them down onto the wooden footblock beneath my confined face – the same footblock where her sandalled foot had earlier been resting – and orders me to audibly breathe in the stale, sweaty aroma of her dirty socks until she gets back.

She then disappears for a few moments before returning with her male friend in order to mock me – the African girl’s dirty-sock sniffer, audibly sniffing her discarded socks in public. How they both laugh at me – and rightly so!












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