Speaking The Truth
I can hear the pitter patter of the raindrops on her hooded anorak, and smell her stale smoker’s breath, as the pretty, Asian customer-mistress crouches down to mercilessly mock me to my face:
‘Haha! You a slave! All day, all night, you work. You lick dirty shoe here on dirty footblock. Haha! Look – you see dirt from people shoe beneath your ugly face? Haha! You not like me – I free; I beautiful; I clever; I a woman. Haha! I laugh at you, slave. You a rusty-neck. You a nothing and a nobody. Now you lick my shoe – show me respeck, or I have you whip! Haha! You in my power and at my mercy!’
The Asian customer-mistress speaks the truth – for I am all of those things. Now I smell rubber – the green rubber of her dirty, wellington boot. I therefore duly lick her ‘shoe’, most humbly and respectfully, in a manner befitting a lowly, municipal footslave serving his female better whilst she looks down on me – her voice no longer mocking me, but her body language continuing to do so. And the rain too still splatters its contempt for me.
And rightly so!
The muddy dirt from the Asian customer-mistress’s rainboots washes off into my mouth. It is such an honour for me – to taste where a beautiful young Asian woman has been walking. It’s the closest I shall ever get to tasting freedom.
Meanwhile I am acutely conscious that even her socks are higher, and freer, than me. When the Asian mistress eventually turns to walk away from me, leaving me behind in the dirt, her socks get to go with her!