My Pimp Master-Sir
Day in and day out I must stare at the backs of my master-sir’s dirty shoes and stockings as he pimps me out as a public shoelick in the town square. His whip is also never far from field of vision – a constant reminder to me of his power over me.
Here you see him pimping me out to a beautiful, young, long-haired woman and her husband. The man sir must originate from the same country as my master sir as they strike up a happy conversation in their own language, before the bright and intelligent young woman crouches down in order to shamelessly pick her nose in front of me, and then smear the results onto my confined face – a sure and certain gesture of her utter, young-womanly contempt for me! I am then compelled to lickshine her dirty shoes, including the soles, whilst the two foreign men gleefully watch.
Afterwards, as the happy couple are leaving, my master sir asks me, in his broken English, whether I had liked the taste of the young woman’s shoes? More specifically, he asks me how they had tasted on my slave tongue? I politely and respectfully inform my pimp-master sir that the young lady’s shoeleather had tasted foul and bitter, if he would be so kind and understanding, but that such tastes are appropriate for the likes of me to have to savour, seeing as how I am nothing but a lowlife, down-in-the-dirt, public shoelicker. I also thank the master sir kindly for his kind question.
The master sir laughs in my face (I can smell his bad breath) and enquires as to whether I would like a taste of the whip on my back, by way of a reminder as to my lowly status in life and to ensure I lick the next pair of shoes that come my way with vigour and humility (or words to that effect)? Once again, I thank the kind master sir for his kindly offer, but humbly explain that I am a coward when it comes to the whip, and very much fear its mighty sting, especially when it is wielded by such an expert whipper as my master sir. Therefore, if it is acceptable to the master sir, I would politely decline his kind offer to whip me on my back, and shall ensure that I do indeed lickshine the next pair of shoes or boots he presents to me with zest and verve as befits a public footservant, if it would be so pleasing to him, and thanking him kindly once again for his kind offer?
The master sir lovingly fingers his whip in front of me and then, mercifully, stands up straight and turns his back on me once more, looking for my next ‘customer’ who may be casually strolling across the town square in dirty shoes or boots that could do with a lick and a shine!
