Please Join The Queue
On occasions I get a queue of public feet waiting for my tongue to attend to them. But, even though I can see that some lovely feet await me, I must, by law, concentrate on the equally lovely feet in front of me, until such time as they turn to walk away from me.
So, what am I thinking right now?
Well, on the one hand, in my subconscious, I am aware that a pair of grey and green, laced-up sneakers with white socks beneath skinny jeans await me, and I am very much looking forward to getting a closer view of those white socks and studying the pattern in the stitching.
Likewise, even further away, are a pair of high-heeled, black leather platformed shoes with a red trim, black straps, and grey socks on black ankles which it will be an honour for me to serve – if they can just be bothered to wait in line for a few moments? I surely hope they will!
But right now, my full-frontal vision, and tiny brain, is very much focussed on the pair of pretty, tan leather ankleboots and dark grey socks of the young woman whom I am currently serving. These boots, and their owner, currently dominate all my senses – not just my sense of sight, but also of smell and taste, and touch; even of hearing, as she barks her orders down at me in an Australian accent. She is a white girl; early to mid twenties; blonde; and her boots taste foul!
As you can see, she has ordered me to lickshine her dirty bootsoles, and is graciously lifting up her booted foot to facilitate my unworthy tongue. I am, therefore, literally tasting where she has been walking, and it is such an honour! A side-effect of her twisting up her booted foot is that her grey sock is creased. I can just see it in my peripheral vision beneath her slightly raised jean hem. It is simultaneously a marvellous, yet humbling, sight, as it reminds me that even her sock is higher than me; and worth more than me. For it is a living, moving sock on a beautiful, young blonde woman’s ankle – something I could never aspire to be!
Meanwhile my nostrils are filled with the aroma of musty bootleather – again I must be grateful to this superior, young woman for filling the air that I breathe with the aroma of her musty boot. Oh if only I could get a whiff of her sock – a sock imbued with her unique and very personal footsweat DNA!
And my footslave tongue has the inestimable honour, of course, of actually touching her precious, female bootleather, and feeling all the little bits of street-dirt and grime coming off into my menial mouth.
The irony is, of course, that whilst I could look at, taste, feel and smell this young woman’s boots and socks all day, and listen to her barking her haughty orders down at me from on high, a part of me is anxious to move on to the next pair of feet waiting in line. But I must be patient; and diligent. For it is not for the likes of me, a mere slave, to decide when enough is enough. I must lick this young, blonde woman’s bootsoles clean until there is no skin left on my tongue, if that’s what she wants.
And I shall then do the same with the sneakers, followed by the platform shoes. For this is all I do – lick and kiss feet. So please join the queue, ladies. My tongue humbly awaits your boot and shoe leather!
