Sock Quiz
It’s late evening, and my somewhat nerdy-looking backpacker customer mistress has decided to quiz me about her white socks whilst I lickshine her dirty, beige-brown ankleboots. She reminds me (as if I need any reminding!) that the wall-whip is not far from my back, and warns me that she’s not afraid to use it if I get any of her questions about her socks wrong. I thank the customer mistress kindly for her kind warning, and promise that I will do my humble best to get my answers to all her sock-related questions right, if she would be so kind and understanding please don’t hurt me mistress?
She begins by asking me whether I like her socks, and I reply, in the most reverential and respectful of slavespeak tones, that I like her socks very much, if she would be so kind and understanding thanking her kindly for her kind question? Indeed, I would go further, and say that they are the nicest socks I have ever seen, begging the mistress’s pardon for any perceived impudence on my part (always best, I find, to indulge in hyperbole when praising a customer mistress’s socks. They tend to like it, and a bit of sock flattery can get you everywhere – well, everywhere a slave can expect to be!)
She then asks me whythey are the nicest socks I have ever seen, and I respond, of course – as I do to all my customers who ask me a similar question – that they are the nicest socks I have ever seen because they are hersocks, on her pretty feet and ankles, and that she is the prettiest customer mistress it has ever been my privilege to serve, thanking her kindly for her kind question please don’t whip me mistress.
She then commands me to describe her white socks in more detail: how many stitches overall do I believe there to be in her socks? How do I envisage the reinforced toe areas of her socks to look? And the heel areas? How do they smell? What will be the temperature of her socks at the present time, and are there likely to be any pieces of fluff or dust stuck to them due to the clammy moisture inside her boots? How many visible creases can I count in her socks right now? Where do I think her socks were manufactured and how do I think she came by them? Were they a gift from someone, or did she purchase them herself? How many times has she worn them and how many times have they been in the wash? And what do I think about the elasticated tops of her socks – do they sit well on her ankles?
I steadfastly answer the pretty customer mistress’s questions about her socks to the best of my humble abilities, and she concludes her sock quiz by asking me the inevitable 64,000 dollar question: what is more important – her socks, or my life? I give my standard, respectful answer to this relatively common question, which is that, objectively speaking, her socks are much more important, since they are the socks of a beautiful young woman who is my infinite better, and therefore her socks too are my betters being imbued as they are with the beautiful mistress’s precious footsweat DNA. I then go on to thank her kindly once again for her kind question, but venture to respectfully suggest that the question is somewhat academic, since her socks are my life – even though I’ve just met them – and I then plead with the wearer of the socks not to beat me for my impertinence towards her socks since I am in their power and at their mercy.
The customer mistress orders me to apologise directly to her socks for my impudence towards them which I duly do on bended knee in between my continuing licks to her ankleboot leather. Eventually, the nerdy customer mistress says her socks have forgiven me, but that she herself will not, and she is therefore going to report me to the Gynarchy authorities and have me flogged. She says that many of my answers to her questions about her socks were either just plain wrong, or were disrespectful in some way. She therefore opines that I deserve to be beaten and will be reporting me first thing in the morning. I apologise most profusely to the customer mistress (not wishing to rile her any further) and thank her kindly for arranging for me to be corporeally disciplined and corrected. I also thank her socks for being merciful towards me, and wish them well on her feet.
The nerdy, late night customer mistress then ups and leaves. I never did hear from her, or the authorities, again in connection with her socks, so she must have forgotten to report me after she’d had a good night’s sleep. I didn’t get a good night’s sleep that night as I had several more customers to serve at my public shoelick stand, but I did manage to retain the memory of the nerdy girl’s socks in my menial mind, and I still think about them to this day.
