Need To Know

It’s no good! I needto know! There’s nothing else for it – I shall just have to politely ask regular customer-mistress Ms Arabella madam whilst I am lickshining her boots:

‘Oh pray, mistress Arabella madam, begging your pardon, goddess-mistress Ms Arabella madam. This slave was wondering whether the mistress was wearing any socks inside her boots today, madam, please don’t beat me madam?’

‘Ha! Ha! Is you pafetic, or somefing, slave? Why does you need to know that?’

‘Oh pray, mistress, begging your pardon, madam, this slave is indeed pathetic – a pathetic admirer of your socks, madam. Your socks are my life, mistress! Hence his unseemly desire to know about the colour and texture of your socks inside your boots, if you would be so kind and forgiving to an humble public footservant at your feet, mistress Arabella madam. God bless you, mistress!’

‘Ha! Ha! You’re queer, slave! Well, if I remember, I is wearin’ my black socks inside my boots today, an’ that? Would you like to see them, slave?’

‘Oh pray, mistress! Oh joy! Oh your socks, mistress! Your socks! Oh pretty pray, madam!’

She laughs out loud at me, in between taking drags on her cigarette and blowing her stale, smoker’s breath down onto my servile face. But, sweet and kind customer-mistress that she is, Ms Arabella madam duly indulges me by taking off her right boot and ordering me to sniff and kiss her sweaty, black bootsock.

And a truly wonderful sock it is too – imbued with her footsweat and stinky dirt stains from the insides of her boots, especially on the reinforced toe and heel areas, which are actually a lighter shade of grey compared to the rich black of the rest of the sock. I make sure to respectfully kiss and inhale the proffered reinforced toe-area of her right sock, much to her triumph and amusement. I can feel her big toenail twitching beneath the soft cotton material of the sock on my sensitive, sock-lackey lips.

Meanwhile a passing Gynarchy priest master-sir – a man of the cloth as opposed to a man of the sock – smirks at the sight of me, a slave, kissing and sniffing a girl’s warm, dirty bootsock on her foot in full public view. But that’s just the sort of ignominious thing a public footslave has to do from time to time, being, as he is, at the mercy of his customers’ boots and socks!

Afterwards, my lips taste salty and stink of sweat. But I’m still glad I asked Ms Arabella madam about her socks. For not knowing the nature of her socks inside her boots would have been a thousand times worse!












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