Two Hours

Two hours!

I’ve been lickshining this same pair of plain and ordinary, dirty green canvas sneakers for two hours now – and counting! The tall, blonde-haired customer-mistress seated high above me at my public-shoelick stand is clearly in no hurry to move on. But then, that happens quite a lot, given that I am situated at a busy railway terminal, and trains are often delayed. She probably has nothing better to do whilst she waits for her train to be called.

Actually, that’s not quite true. She has been emailing, and texting, and surfing away furiously on her tablet PC high above me throughout my tongueshining of her scuzzy, student-girl sneakers. I know she’s a student because her bag, resting on the floor beneath my kneeling face, contains a book entitled ‘Advanced Physics – Volume 2’ . Not that she has looked at it even once since being seated on the shoelick chair high above me. And why should she? This is her free time!

I never have any free time, of course. I am a 24/7 slave – hopefully catching some fitful sleep in the small hours of the morning when the station, though never closed, is much emptier (though, even then, the female cleaners often utilise me during their breaks!)

One good thing about having to lickshine the same pair of green sneakers for two hours is that you become very familiar with the accompanying anklesocks – the pattern in the stitching; the various creases and folds in the socks which fluctuate in tandem with the customer-mistress’s subliminal foot and ankle movements.

She has not spoken to me, apart from her initial command to ‘lickshine my shoes, slave’. And rightly so – for she is infinitely high above me on the social scale, being a university student; some 40 years my junior; and a free, female citizen of the Gynarchy. A superior young woman who is going places (well, she will be when her delayed train finally departs!)

She sighs with boredom and frustration and her sock creases again in front of my face. I may not touch the sock – not without her express permission; and such permission has not been forthcoming – which is a bit of a pity, since it looks deliciously scuzzy, worn and faded in places. Clearly an oft-worn, grey cotton sock, to go with her grey sneakers, and no doubt saturated in her sweet feminine footsweat and odour deep inside the enclosed sneaker, since it is now late in the evening.

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And it’s been a good evening thus far for tired socks – ‘socks for sore eyes’, as the saying goes. The evening rush hour began with a pair of plain black anklesocks inside a pair of shiny, black leather Chelsea boots on bare, white leg below short, black skirt. An office girl, I would surmise – probably on her way home for the weekend (it’s a Friday evening). I particularly liked the way this black-haired customer’s plain black, ankle-length cotton bootsocks were unceremoniously twisted at the elasticated tops – completely randomly, yet somehow those twists and folds served only to accentuate the beauty of the weary customer-mistress’s naturally shapely ankles. Plus there had been a tiny, white speck of alien dust on the elasticated top of her right sock – always a winner as it is a detail I know no-one else, not even the pretty wearer of the sock, will have noticed. Only a slave like me would concern himself with such a seemingly insignificant sock-detail!

Like so many of my customers nowadays, this bright and bubbly office-girl was on her phone to someone throughout my tongue-cleaning of her boots. So she didn’t talk to me. But she seemed happy enough, and at least her smooth and shiny, black leather ankleboots had tasted a good deal better than the scuzzy, tongue-rasping, green canvas sneakers currently regaling my tongue!

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The flavoursome Chelsea boots had been followed by a familiar pair of plain, black leather, lace-up sneakers (non-designer) belonging to 40-something, tomboyish, regular customer-mistress Miss Kay Madam. I know quite a lot about customer-mistress Kay, not because she ever converses with me, but because she has been visiting my shoelick stand for years, and, inevitably, I catch snippets of her telephone conversations with her family and friends as she is seated high above me.

This evening, for example, she was telling her live-in boyfriend, whom I know from her previous conversations with him is called Master Samuel sir, that she has just defecated (or ‘had a shit’ as she so delicately puts it) in the nearby public lavatory after more than a week of constipation, and that it was a great relief to her. I feel I should congratulate irregular, regular customer-mistress Ms Kay Madam on the loosening of her bowels but, of course, it’s not my place to butt in on her conversation with her boyfriend. What her happy news doesremind me of, of course, is that I am lickshining the cheap, plain and ordinary, lace-up leather sneakers of a living, breathing shitting human-being. Ms Kay madam is not some divine goddess who is above such things. But she is above me. A human-being, like me, yes – but a much better one than me.

As always, Ms Kay madam is wearing short, black sneaker socks with grey tops inside her low-top sneakers. Only the elasticated tops are showing, both of them at an angle which causes them to disappear entirely down insides of the heels of her low-top, black leather sneakers. ‘Secret socks’ I think they are sometimes called – but Iknow she is wearing them, even if nobody else (apart from Her) does; and even if nobody else cares!

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I’m relieved to say that the erstwhile constipated Ms Kay madam was followed on the shoelick chair of female power above me by a bright and intelligent young blonde woman wearing pink, low-top canvas sneakers with traditional, white, full length anklesocks. Plenty of creases and folds in the white socks for a sock-admirer such as myself to study as I dutifully lickshined pink canvas shoes and grubby-white shoelaces.

How can you possibly ‘lickshine’ canvas sneakers, let alone ‘shoelaces’, I hear you ask? It’s merely a euphemism for cleaning dirt off footwear with one’s slave tongue. Of course canvas sneakers cannot be brought to a ‘shine’ – not even after two hours of ‘lickshining’; not even the rubbery soles! But they can, to a considerable extent, be cleaned, as all but the most deeply ingrained street dirt and grime is removed from the surfaces of the female shoes and into my menial, male mouth (where it belongs). 

Miss pink sneakers and white socks is upset about something, occasionally sobbing quietly to herself as she sits high above me. Just said a sad farewell to her boyfriend perhaps, before she (or he) embarks on a long journey? I get a lot of that being based here at a busy railway terminal – though it’s not my place to interfere in my customers’ superior lives. My job is not to comfort the distraught customer-mistress with soothing words, but to provide her with a comforting lickshine of her dirty pink shoes. To make her feel strong and mighty, and much better about herself as she lords it over me.

If it’s any consolation for her, I’m not going anywhere. She looks to be in her early twenties, so, even though I don’t believe I have ever had the privilege of lickshining her shoes before, I have most definitely been lickshining shoes at this same spot in this same railway station all her life. And will continue to do so until the day I die – by which time she will in all probability still be a young woman. That thought should comfort her – though I suspect she has other things on her mind as she texts someone she really cares about on her mobile phone high above me.

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The next young woman to utilise my services, another blonde in her twenties, had been accompaniedby her thirty-something boyfriend, and they had kissed copiously above me as she sat having her brown leather, blocky-heeled, lace-up shoes lickshined by my tired old, sixty-something tongue. The thought occurred to me that the master-sir’s young and vibrant tongue was tasting this beautiful young woman’s soft pink tongue whilst I only got to taste the brown leathery tongue of her everyday officewear shoe. And I had to do so under the watchful eye of her socks, as she was wearing cartoon-print socks with a cartoon alien’s yellow face peering out at me from beneath her raised, trouser hem.

A fun pair of socks on a funtime girl, who nevertheless expects me to lickshine her office shoes sombrely, since it is such a humiliating and degrading task that I must publicly perform in front of her horny boyfriend. I do feel suitably humbled – both by her shoes and socks and by the thought of my elderly slave impotence vis-à-vis the young master-sir’s sexual potency.

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And I continue to be feel humbled as her successor in green sneakers has now been seated above me for more than two hours. There surely can be no more dirt to extract from her green footwear? What’s left is well and truly ingrained! But that’s not the point of course. She is quite simply enjoying my humiliation and degradation at her female feet – albeit subliminally as she takes out her subconscious frustration at her delayed, long-distance train on me. There is no legal limit as to how long she can use me in this way. The customer-mistress decides when she has had enough lickshining of her shoes. She can stay here all night of she wants to. Maybe she will, if her train is cancelled altogether!

I move my mouth over to her other foot – again, and begin the process of lickshining her green canvas shoe all over, again. She subliminally twists her ankle, again. Her grubby, grey cotton sock creases, again. I feel duly humbled, again…