Her Socks Or My Life

‘Which is more important, slave? My socks, or your life?’

‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if you would be so kind, pretty mistress, your socks are much more important than this slave’s life, madam, since, although your socks are mostly hidden within your sneakers and below your jean hems, miss, they nevertheless beautify your feet and ankles, mistress, whilst absorbing your precious, feminine foot-perspiration, miss. Your socks are therefore imbued with your holy foot-nectar, madam, and are thus the socks of the gods. I’m just a dirty, public feetlick, madam. I’m a nothing and a nobody, if you will forgive me mistress, thanking you kindly for your kind question, mistress?’

She doesn’t answer me, but by her actions she demonstrates that she agrees with my humble assessment of the relative merits of her socks and my life. And, let’s face it, how could she not agree? For I spoke the truth. I mean, just look at her green socks as she walks away from my humble head, and try telling me that her socks are not infinitely superior to my face!












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