Getting High On Her Socks

It is a real honour and a privilege for the likes of me to kiss a customer-mistress’s foot on the reinforced toe-area of her sock – especially in front of her handsome manfriend. Such humbling intimacies are normally reserved for personal, household footslaves – not public footservants such as myself.

Here you see local Gynarchy goddess, regular customer-mistress Ms Arabella madam, humbling me with her sandals and socks, as she has me kiss the white cotton, reinforced toe-area of her predominantly black cotton anklesock in front of her drug-dealer husband, master George sir.

To be clear, Ms Arabella madam is better than me in every way:

1)   She is unemployed (I must work 24/7, 365 days a year as a public footslave)
2)   She has no academic qualifications (I left college with a degree in Linguistics – prior to my enslavement in the Gynarchy, of course!)
3)   She lives on handouts from the Female State (I receive no financial remuneration whatsoever as I’m just a slave)
4)   She is a chain smoker (I am not permitted to smoke, even though I am a ‘smokers' footkisser’)
5)   She is a cocaine addict (again, I am not permitted to take recreational drugs)
6)   She is attractive (I am ugly)
7)   She is sexually active – not just with her live-in boyfriend and drugs supplier, master George sir (who appears to be setting up his next drugs deal on his phone right now), but, with the approval of master George, she often sleeps with other free males too for extra cash to help feed her drug addiction (I am sexually impotent and celibate, being confined permanently in a wall)
8)   She does not appear to have showered recently, or at any rate bathed her feet, judging by the tart, cheesy aroma emanating from deep within her socked toes (I'm just plain dirty!)

I can feel her big toenail beneath my lips as I kiss sock. I want, of course, to verbally praise and bless Ms Arabella and her sock, but, regrettably, I have not been given her female permission to speak. And besides, haughty Ms Arabella madam, quite rightly, thinks I am beneath her and she simply doesn’t talk to footslaves except to berate and/or admonish them. At the moment her pretty face is doing all the talking for her – contorted as it is by disgust and contempt for me, her lowly, public sock-kisser.

I may be imagining it, but I’m sure I can taste cocaine through her sock. Perhaps the drug is oozing out of her unwashed footpores and onto my foot-lackey lips via her sock? Maybe, indeed, that’s why this area of her sock is pure, powdery white, or am I starting to hallucinate? I do hope so, as it would be an especial honour to taste her used drugs mixed in with her feminine foot sweat, and thus get high on her socks!

















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