Backpacker Mistress vs Backstreet Footslave

This backpacker tourist-mistress certainly knows how to treat a backstreet footslave!













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See-Through Footstool

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I am a helpless footslave at a bus stop. My customers can see right through me, just as I can see through the glass footstool at the soles of their feet! Here you see three superb young women imposing their bare feet on my glass-confined face. So near, and yet so far! Lying on my back in the dirt - helplessly awaiting the arrival of my next 'customer' at the bus stop! A gaggle of girls approaches. They laugh out loud at my ignominious position The black goddess is first to kick off her flip flops and sit regally over me on the bus-stop bench The sole of her bare left foot is now resting on the glass immediately above my humble head I can see she has red-varnished toenails But it's the base of her toes that dominates my lowly field of vision Her foot is almost  resting on my face. So near, and yet so far! I wonder if her feet smell? Oh to be able to respectfully kiss and lick her bare black foot sole! I would endeavour not to tickle her sensitive sole with my footslave tongu...
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His Slave's Place

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When a master sir is gently caressing his pretty girlfriend, the slave’s place is at his master’s feet, staring at his hairy ankles and toes. The slave adopts his lowly default position at his master's feet whilst master is caressing his lovely girlfriend The slave must STUDY his master's hairy ANKLES and TOES And must do so reverentially These are, after all, the hairy ankles and toes of his superior - of his master and owner! Haha, how utterly demeaning and degrading for the slave! The feet the slave would much rather be studying... ...The feet of the master-sir's pretty girlfriend! But slaves can't be choosers, so hairy feet it is! The slave's utterly humiliating view! Haha, observe how downcast the slave is! You can almost smell the cheesy, sweaty STINK emanating from the master's rotting toenails!
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The Indentured Footservant

Part 1 – A new life Roger sat nervously in the back of the limousine observing the sights of Jakarta as the car sped through the streets of the Indonesian capital. The uniformed chauffeur was a heavily-built black man in his early 30s. The car had been sent to meet him at the airport. The chauffeur wasn't saying much, and so Roger decided he would break the ice with, what he thought, was a fairly innocuous question: 'Have we far to go?’ The smartly dressed chauffeur paused for a moment before replying in a thick West African accent: 'I suggest you keep quiet, slave, and learn to speak only when you are spoken to by your betters.' Roger's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. Slave! It was the first time ever in his life he had been called a ‘slave’, and it was a somewhat ominous development. He was, after all, as he understood it, going to be a household servant – not a ‘slave’. But how had he come to this humble position at the age of 45? He thought back through t...
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