Free Man vs Slave Man
The freemale master-sir looks down upon me with contempt as I must kiss-respect my customer-mistress’s flowery green patterned ballet flat in front of him. Note how close my nose is to the decorative bow on her outstretched shoe toe – how deeply humbling for me!
Meanwhile another customer-mistress is joining the queue to have her feet kissed. She appears to be in somewhat of a hurry but, needless to say, no matter how pressed for time she is, the watching freemale master-sir – magnificent and superb man that he is – would never be expected to abase himself and kiss a girl’s sneakers. That’s because he’s a real man – and not like me, a slave man. His masculine mouth will never taste a girl’s dirty shoeleather, and nor will his face ever suffer the indignity of the very near proximity of her sock. No wonder he despises me!