Public Sock Concentrator
I am a head-in-the-wall, public footservant and I fitted with a high-level ‘socks concentrator’ device – forcing me to think constantly about my customers’ socks, even when they are not there, or feel the consequences (painful electric shocks to my temples and brain!).
To assist me, the device has headphones which repeatedly play the word ‘socks’ in a whispered, mocking female voice:
‘Socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks…’
It never stops – morning, noon and night – forcing me to even dream about my customers’ socks, even when I am fitfully sleeping (my sleep is always ‘fitful’ because of the constant interruptions I have from customers during the night requiring their shoes to be kissed or lickshined; I am neveroff duty!). And when a foot is actually placed on the footblock beneath my face, the concentrator device goes into overdrive, recognising that my brain is receiving sock stimulation and compelling me to focus on the customer’s sock as I tongue or lip attend to their dirty, outer footwear.
The authorities have kindly not only placed a ‘humbling plank’ at the back of my confined neck with the disparaging words ‘Socks Fancier’ emblazoned on it for all to see. They have also written the word sockson both the concentrator helmet and on my actual forehead, so that my customers know full well what is going through my menial mind as I kiss-respect and lick their shoes. I am thinking that their sock, whatever its texture, colour or hue, is the most magnificent thing I have ever seen, and I am yearning to be a part of it – a single, footsweat-absorbing stitch in their superior sock, seeped in their unique and personal footjuices and odour. That’s what I aspire to be!
The sock concentrator device, you see, has driven me quite mad about socks, much to the amusement of my customers. Some of them visit me on a regular basis, just to torment me with their socks. They will ask me all kinds of questions about my sock thoughts as they wantonly reveal their socks to me by hitching up their trouser or jean hems. The more pathetic my verbalised thoughts, the more they glory in their power and authority over me, and the more they despise me – a sock obsessed madman. Or rather, not even a man – a slave; a slave of their socks. Ha! Ha! No wonder they laugh at me, and lord it over me. I am less than their socks!
In the scenes below you see one such superior customer-mistress who regularly visits me in order to humble me with her socks. Ms Mukta madam is what I call a ‘talker’ i.e. she likes to ask questions of my thoughts and to hear me verbalise my obsessions with her socks.
Today she is wearing grey, lattice-stitched anklesocks inside her ubiquitous dirty sneakers, and she deliberately hitches up her blue denim jean-hem in order that my eyes might feast on her sock as my mouth attends to her dirty sneaker-toe. You will no doubt have noticed that the latticed, diamond-shaped pattern of the stitching in her otherwise plain grey anklesock lends itself to a furtive view of her precious, bare brown ankleskin underneath. But I’m happy to say that the sock concentrator device ensures that my own eyes and thoughts remain steadfastly focussed on Ms Mukta’s sock material. It’s as if her bare footskin is completely invisible to me as I focus on the grey cotton sock material covering her shapely ankle. Indeed, I sharpen my focus, aided and abetted by the cruel concentrator device, onto the intricate individual stitches within each diamond-shaped quadrant of her sock. That’s very much because I yearn to be such a sock stitch – a much higher lifeform than I am at present, seeing as how I am nothing more than a sock outsider at the moment, gazing wistfully upon her sock.
As I taste young woman sneaker dirt and focus on young woman sock stitching, mocking Ms Mukta madam starts quizzing me as to my pained thoughts about her socks:
‘Ha! Ha! How are you liking it, slave? How are you liking the sight of my sock? Do you like the way I have hitched up my jean hem so that you can see my sock in all its glory?’
Remember, every sentence of my response to Ms Mukta’s mocking question must contain the words ‘sock’ or ‘socks’, and, indeed, in a respectful tone, otherwise I shall experience the sharp pain of an electric shock to my temples. Sock or shock, as they say!
‘Oh pray, ms Mukta madam, if it pleases you, ms Mukta madam, truly your sock is a sight for sore footslave eyes, madam, and this slave is indeed most grateful to the pretty mistress for revealing her upper sock to him, if you would be so kind and understanding, mistress madam. Please don’t hurt me, miss; your sock is my life, miss!’
‘Ha! Ha! You’re nothing but a pathetic sock-silly, slave! You’ve gone mad for my socks! Ha! Ha! Tell me, what is more important – my socks, or your life?’
‘Oh pray, sock mistress, oh pray! Your socks are the most important thing in the world, miss, since they are the socks of a goddess. I prostrate myself at your socks, madam!’
‘Ha! Ha! Count the stitches in my sock, slave, while you are kissing my foot. Count each and every stitch you can see, and then work out how many stitches there must be overall in my sock. Then double it to get the total for my socks. I already know the correct answer, because I found out from the manufacturers how many stitches go to make up this pair of my socks. If your guess is wrong, I’ll have you whipped – one lash for every stitch you are out, plus or minus. Ha! Ha! That’ll teach you not to disrespect my socks!’
‘Oh pray, sock mistress! Oh sock bliss! Oh what a joyful sock task, mistress! And yet, one this slave fears very much, mistress, as this slave is stupid, madam, and will almost certainly get the answer wrong, miss, so intricate and developed is the stitching in your socks, madam!’
‘Well, in that case you’d better prepare yourself for the whip, slave! Ha! Ha! I’m glad that you’re frightened of me, and my socks. We’re better than you. You’re just a slave. A nothing and a nobody. A sock chump. A sock basket-case! A sock whore. You’re worthless!’
‘Yes, sock mistress Ms Mukta madam. Thanking you kindly, most glorious sock mistress Ms Mukta madam!’
And so our conversation of unequals continue in similar vain, with Ms Mukta proceeding to even have me woo her sock, and ask it if I can kiss it, though, being a chaste and bashful sock, it hastily repels my advances. And rightly so, for I could neverbe worthy enough to actually touchsuch a superior, female sock with my mouth!
And all the while, the headphones in the concentrator device are playing their one word whispered mantra:
‘Socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks… socks…’
A mantra which continues long after Ms Mukta madam has departed from me in triumph, off back to her normal life and leaving me behind in my singular, sock-obsessed world of pain and humiliation, pathetically longing and yearning for the next exciting sock to come along…
P.S And what of your sock-stitch count, I hear you ask? Did you get the answer right, or were you subjected to the biting sting of Ms Mukta’s whip? I’m afraid she had been bluffing all along. She never even enquired as to my guesstimate! She had just wanted to humble me by having me occupy my brain with her socks, and to watch me sweat as I desperately tried to work out the intricate composition of her socks. For what it’s worth, my humble guess was 14,112 sock stitches in total.
