Humbled In The Underpass

The elderly master-sir likes to hang around the underpass watching me kiss girls’ feet. It’s how he gets his kicks.

After each customer has gone he then crouches down to my face, close enough for me to smell his bad breath, and, whilst painfully pinching my ear with his bony and wizened old fingers, mercilessly mocks me by asking me how I had liked it – having to kiss a girl’s dirty sneakers whilst she was still wearing them on her sweaty feet? Didn’t I feel humiliated and ashamed to be so weak and powerless in front of a girl?

I must, by law, respond politely and respectfully to the freemale master-sir’s mocking questions, and so in the humblest of humble slavespeak I inform the master that I had indeed felt shame and humiliation at having to perform such a lowly act, though at the same time it had been an honour for the likes of me – a public lickspittle – to kiss the dirty sneakers of such a fabulous young woman, if the master-sir would be so kind and understanding thanking you kindly for your kind questions please don’t beat me sir!

The master-sir laughs out loud at my reply, before asking me if I hadn’t felt disappointed by the fact that I was unable to see any of the beautiful, young Asian woman’s soft, bare ankleflesh – only her sneakers and socks – whilst I had been so humbly kissing her feet? I respond, again with the utmost respectfulness and politeness, that whilst I am grateful to the kind master-sir for his kindly concern, a slave like me is, unlike him, a free male, not worthy to observe a young woman’s bare flesh, even her lowly ankleflesh, if the master-sir would be so kind and understanding please don’t hurt me master?

The elderly, bearded master-sir laughs out loud again at my obsequious and fearful responses to his deliberately demeaning questions – his laughter echoing throughout the deserted underpass – before ordering me to describe in detail the young woman’s socks. He wants to know the pattern in the stitching, and about any creases in her socks. Fortunately, I had been diligently studying the customer-mistress’s plain black anklesocks whilst repeatedly kiss-respecting her yellow and orange sneakers, so I am able to give a humiliatingly fulsome account of the young woman’s socks, even down to describing the specific areas of worn and bobbled stitching on the outer surfaces of her socks. 

The master-sir, however, seems less than impressed – calling me a ‘queer sock-liker’ and a ‘sock-numpty’, before resuming his position nearby ready to observe me serving the next customer-mistress who happens along. I am secretly grateful that the mighty master-sir has moved away from my immediate vicinity as I would much rather breathe in the aroma of a dirty female sneaker than his rank halitosis!

Fortunately, we don’t have long to wait until the next mistress comes along…

















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