Socks On The Brain
As you can see, I am stationed in a dirty pedestrian underpass in a rundown part of town. My job is to lick the public’s shoes and boots, as they are all better than me. I’m just a slave. At least I have some degree of protection from the elements – many of my fellow public humble-heads are completely exposed to the wind and the rain (though I do still feel the wind when it’s blowing cruelly through the underpass). But the main disadvantage of being positioned where I am is that many members of the superior public just pass on by me. It is an underpass after all! I am therefore reliant on those kind and thoughtful members of the public who take the trouble to take time out of their busy schedules in order to stop by me and have me lickshine their dirty shoes or boots - or their sandals in the summertime!
But it is currently the autumn, and a young woman has stopped by me in her ankleboots and socks. As you can see by the humiliating sign above my head, placed there by the Gynarchy authorities, her socks are particularly important to me, even though I can only just make out the tiniest slither of black cotton, elasticated sock-top above her brown leather bootrim, as I am declared to be a ‘queer socks-liker’. I can’t help it – I very much admire all my customers’ socks; hence the Gynarchy authorities have displayed my shame to all and sundry – for their amusement.
Again, though, it’s not all bad news. The sign above my head gives me legal authority to enquire after my customers’ socks. They aren’t obliged, of course, to answer me or engage in a conversation with me about their socks. But they oftentimes do, since it amuses them. I decide, therefore, to compliment the young woman on the beauty of her, mostly hidden, bootsocks as I lickshine her boots – by way of an opening gambit:
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, begging your pardon, pretty mistress, I like your socks madam. I’m queer that way, miss.’
That last phrase is mandatory and stipulated in law – I must always acknowledge my queerness in front of a customer master or mistress, and in effect apologise for my unseemly obsession with their socks. Fortunately, the current customer-mistress on this occasion takes the bait; she is amused – not to say bemused – by my admiration of her socks, and she therefore kindly engages in a conversation of unequals with me about her socks:
‘Why thank you, slave! They’re just a cheap pair of plain, black socks that I bought as part of a pack of three identical pairs in my local ‘Femland’* shop!’ *Femland Shop – a shop where everything costs just 1 fem – the unit of currency in the Gynarchy
So, what this young woman is telling me is that, in her eyes, her socks are nothing special – just a plain, everyday pair of socks that she wears inside her boots to absorb her daily, everyday footsweat. Precisely the kind of socks I like! I tell her so:
‘Oh pray, mistress, if you will forgive my forwardness, mistress, your socks are far from being plain or ordinary, since they adorn the most shapely pair of ankles this slave has ever seen, madam! Oh your socks, madam! Your socks!’
It might sound like I’m making a pathetic, slavish pass at the customer-mistress, but they are all well used to hyperbolic flattery on the part of footslaves. Indeed, by law, a slave mustflatter his master or mistress, and humbly and respectfully express his admiration for them. Or for their socks, in my case!
‘Haha! Don’t think your weaselly words mean that you can touch my socks, slave. Concentrate on lickshining my boots. You’re queer!’
‘Oh no, mistress! I mean, yes mistress! This slave would never aspire to touch your holy socks, miss. Your socks are too precious madam, as they are the socks of a goddess, miss, begging your pardon miss.’
‘Haha! What a loser – liking my socks but unable to touch them! It must be so frustrating for you, slave? I was reading the other day about a young woman’s personal sockslave. She had him fitted with a ‘sock-concentrator’ device that constantly repeats her voice saying the word ‘socks’ in his ears on a permanent loop, so that he has now developed a condition called ‘socks on the brain’. All day and all night all he can think about is his mistress’s socks, and he is even forced to dream about her socks thanks to the constant repetition of the word ‘socks’ in his subliminal consciousness! Haha! He’s not as much of a loser as you, though, slave – since at least he gets to serve and touch his mistress’s socks! Haha! Don’t you wish you could be my personal sockslave, queer slave?’
‘Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray! Oh do, mistress! Oh to be your personal sockslave and serve your plain black socks, madam! Oh mistress – I would not need a sock-concentrator device in order to focus my menial mind constantly on your socks, since I already have your socks on my brain, miss, begging your pardon, miss. I’m queer like that, miss!’
‘Haha! Less sock chat and more boot licking, slave! I haven’t got all day to stand around talking about my socks! I’m off to meet my boyfriend which is why I want my boots looking nice and shiny for him. He won’t even notice my socks inside my boots. That’s because he’s not interested in my socks. Unlike you, he’s a real man – not a sock queer!’
‘Yes, miss! I do most humbly apologise, miss!’
‘Do you like men’s socks too, slave? Would you like me to bring you a pair of my boyfriend’s dirty socks for you to sniff and admire? Or is it just ladies’ socks you hanker after?’
‘Oh pray, mistress, begging your pardon, pretty mistress, this slave is admiring of all his betters’ socks – be they male or female – but especially of the socks of a man who is the sexual partner of a bright and intelligent young woman such as yourself, miss! Truly it would be an honour for the likes of me to sniff your boyfriend’s socks, miss – the socks of a real man, if you would be so kind and understanding, miss. I’m queer like that, miss!’
‘Haha! Well, I’ll have a word with him and see if he’ll oblige you. But for now get a move on with lickshining my boots. I want my boyfriend to be able to see his handsome, manly face in them!’
‘Yes, miss. At once, miss. God bless you, miss!’
No mention of her permitting me to sniff her socks! Perhaps she’s embarrassed by their sweaty smell? She has no need to be, for a socks-liker like me is well used to the aroma of sweaty bootsock! You will notice too that, throughout this conversation, I did not once mention the beauty of the customer-mistress’s soft, bare, white legflesh above her sock – even though a tiny slither of her leg was visible to me. That’s because my menial mind is programmed not to look above a customer’s sock. Truly I do have ‘socks on the brain’!
