Cold Snap

On a decidedly chilly evening, regular customer-mistress Ms Fiona madam looks down on me with an icy stare as she curtly orders me to lickshine her shoes. Even her patterned socks are icicle-blue. 

‘STOP LOOKING AT MY SOCKS, SLAVE!’, she snaps suddenly from on high, her normally pretty face contorted with female outrage – a cold snap, if ever there was one! I swiftly apologise to customer-mistress Fiona, and lower my gaze, as I would much rather my naked back remained shivering from the cold night air, rather than burning from the sting of her warm angry whip!










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