Five Reasons To Feel Humbled
It’s late evening, and as I am dutifully lickshining regular customer-mistress Ms Arabella Madam’s dirty boots in the presence of her truly magnificent husband, master George sir, she mockingly gives me 5 good reasons why I should feel particularly humbled at her feet:
1) I am confined at feet level, and therefore obliged to stare at my betters’ feet all day and night – not just her feet, but the feet of all and sundry who stop by me
2) Even if I were to try to look up right now, all I would be able to see is the top of her white bootsock, which is higher than my head
3) Her white sock is all twisted inside her boot; that’s because (she informs me) she has been wearing these same socks inside these same boots all day, and they are therefore by now quite moist and sweaty, resulting in inevitable creasing and slippage down her shapely ankles
4) Inside the thick, white sock – the sock which I am in effect kissing – she has an unsightly bunion on her big toe (I am truly grateful to Ms Arabella Madam for this humbling information as there is no way I could possibly have known that, had she not so graciously informed me)
5) Her husband, master George sir, isn’t wearing any socks inside his shoes, and so hisbig feet – which, she gleefully points out aren’t a million miles from me – are particularly sweaty. She then joshes with me, suggesting that perhaps I should accompany her and her husband back to their apartment, so that I can file her bunion with a pumice stone, and wash both her and master George’s sweaty feet before they make love to one another? (She is, sadly, only joking of course, since it would take a pneumatic drill to dig me out from this solid brick wall in which I am so humiliatingly encased!)
In between kiss-respecting Ms Arabella Madam’s outer boot, I thank her kindly for pointing out to me these five very good reasons as to why I should feel humbled in her presence, and venture to suggest a sixth, if she would be so kind and understanding? Which is that even her socks would most probably be worth more than me on the open market, since they are a pair of female socks, and I am just a male slave. She laughs and says she wouldn’t know about that, since the socks had been purchased for her as a gift by her loving husband George. She then turns to the latter and asks him if he can remember how much they cost, and master George sir, after some deliberation, responds that he thinks they were part of a pack of 5 which only cost 1 fem* in total? Ms Arabella madam then says she remembers that’s right, and the happy couple both agree that in that case I am correct to say that her socks are worth more than me, since at 20 scents* a pair they are most definitely more expensive than a two-bit, public footwhore such as myself! Master George sir even, astutely, points out that his wife’s socks would be worth even more now on the black market, since she has worn them many times on her pretty feet.
The couple then walk off leaving me to ruminate on all the above – which I do for the rest of the evening. I think about Ms Arabella Madam’s boots, socks, bunion and footsweat, and about how all of those things are better than me.
*Fem/Scent – Units of Gynarchy currency (100 scents = 1 Fem)
