A Face Fit For A Footslave
Local girl, Gynarchy goddess-mistress Ms Nikki Madam, has come to gloat over me in her new, but already muddied, boots. She shows them to me from every conceivable angle, and asks me how I like them? I reply, in the most humble and respectful of slavespeak tones, that I like them very much, if it would be so pleasing to her? She laughs, and points out that her boots, though not all that expensive, are worth more than me, since I’m just a decrepit and clapped out ugly, old head in the wall. Even her argyle-patterned socks, she opines, are worth more than me!
I wholeheartedly agree with the taunting Ms Nikki madam that her boots and socks are, individually as well as collectively, worth more than me, since they are the boots and socks of a much better, and higher, person than me. She then laughingly asks me how I feel to be in the presence of such greatness (i.e. her good self), and I respond by saying I am truly honoured to be in her presence, and especially in the presence of her glorious boots and socks. I also make so bold as to express the pathetic, forlorn hope that some of Ms Nikki’s greatness might rub off on me, via her boots and socks? She laughs and says she doesn’t know about that, but she can certainly arrange for some of her bootdirt to rub off on me. And with that she smears my head with the dirty, street-soiled sole of her otherwise new boot, sullying my foot-lackey face with the common or garden streetdirt she has evidently just been walking in.
I praise and bless Ms Nikki madam, in between swallowing her bootsole-dirt, for allowing me to taste where she – a great one – has been, and thank her kindly for the privilege of tasting her dirt. She sneers down at me saying she is too kind to me, and that a lowlife, common footslave like me is only good for one thing – which is the sting of the whip on my back. She then turns her own, perfectly unwhipped (and never to be whipped) back on me as she walks female-triumphantly away from me, showing me a clean pair of flat bootheels as she does so – clean thanks to the dirt that was on them having now been transferred onto my stupid face and mouth.
Oh I do hope Ms Nikki madam visits me again soon in these wonderful boots! And maybe next time she will do me the honour of taking off one of her boots and rubbing her divine, argyle-patterned socksweat onto my face. Then my ugly face would be adorned by both her foul-tasting bootdirt and her stinky-smelling footsweat – a face fit for a footslave!
