Focussed On His Mistress's Socks



































I am kneeling under the desk in the university library and quietly studying the backs of my mistress’s bootsocks as she works on her laptop high above me. That’s all I’m qualified to do because, unlike her, I’m stupid.

See how pathetic I look – a girl’s sock studier! Fortunately for me, my mistress’s socks have an interesting pattern for me to study, though her left sock is considerably more scrunched down than her right sock at the present time, and so I am focussing most of my attention on the top of her right sock. I am endeavouring to count the number of individual stitches in the large green flower motif at the top of her exposed sock, after which I will count the number of blue stitches that form the flower’s inner bud. Of course, my mistress is perfectly at liberty to subliminally, or deliberately, move her feet at any time – causing me to lose count and to have to start all over again.  But that’s not her problem; that’s my problem!

I very much envy and admire my mistress’s socks since they are in such intimate contact with her skin – absorbing her precious foot moisture inside her heavy duty, lace-up boots, and even collecting tiny shards of her dead footskin cells throughout the day as she sheds her skin. At night time, it is my onerous duty to clean her socks by mouth, and at such times not only do I have the honour of tasting and swallowing her salty footsweat and dry, dead footskin; on occasions I am even blessed with some stinky, sticky toejam, or even a broken toenail, inside the confines of the discarded sock. If that is the case, I must make sure to savourthe foot-debris delicacies contained within my mistress’s sweaty socks, for such treats are frustratingly rare!

It’s fair to say that my mistress’s socks are my life, and it is a privilege for the likes of me to be able to study, and smell and taste such superior entities.

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