Her Socks Or My Life (ii)

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

It’s a question I’ve been asked before, and doubtless will be again. And my answer is always much the same – humble; self-deprecating; and delivered in the most obsequious and grovelling of humble slavespeak, whilst feverishly kissing the questionner’s outstretched foot. For who knows what she might do to you if you give the wrong answer – and do to you with impunity!

‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if it pleases you pretty mistress, your socks are undoubtedly more important than my life, mistress, for I am just a two-bit, down-in-the-dirt, common footslave, miss, and your socks are a thing of a great beauty, madam, since they not only protect your feet inside your sneakers by absorbing your divine footsweat, miss, but they also look good on your feet, miss, if you would be so kind and understanding, thanking you kindly for your kind question please don’t beat me mistress?’

It's all true, of course – her socks are worth more than me. If you tried selling them on the open market, unwashed, they would fetch at least ten times the amount I would go for at auction.

‘Praise my socks, slave.’

‘Yes, mistress. At once, mistress! … Oh customer-mistress’s black socks, praise and glory be to you, oh socks! Truly I am honoured to be in your presence, oh divine feminine socks. Oh pray, socks! Have mercy on me, socks! I am just a poor footslave, mistresses the socks!’












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