Day Of Rest

Sunday may be a day of rest for some, but for me it is just another day of foot worship.


















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Nice Footwear

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The public footservant has some nice footwear waiting to be lickshined in front of him this afternoon – after he has finished tongue-attending to the equally nice, black, patent leather mary-janes and white socks of the attractive Pakistani businesswoman at the head of the queue:           The brown leather, mudstained Chelsea-boots of a smartphone-obsessed, beautiful blonde girl          The grubby, black and white canvas sneakers of a magnificent, stubble-faced master-sir Lucky slave – to be serving a trio of such good-looking customers!
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Teepee Feetwasher

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A slave humbly adjusts the hem of his mistress’s trouser leg prior to washing her feet in the privacy of her teepee.  It is, needless to say, very  important that the stupid slave doesn't soil his pretty mistress's trouser-hem with water! So, he must first carefully adjust it prior to beginning the humiliating (for him) reitual of washing her dusty feet She watches him carefully... ...her WHIP ready to strike him if he fouls up on his simple, slave task! It looks like this slave is forever fouling up, judging by the stripes already adorning his back? KMeanwhile, his mistress's pretty, moccasin shoes, which he has just removed from her feet, are festering nearby I'll wager there's a goodly amount of musty-smelling sweat emanating from the tops of those moccasins? Gently... gently... he adjusts her trouser leg Her toes await his menial ministrations in the water WORK, slave! Or be WHIPPED! Better to WASH FEET than be WHIPPED... ...even if it means your pretty mistress...
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The Indentured Footservant

Part 1 – A new life Roger sat nervously in the back of the limousine observing the sights of Jakarta as the car sped through the streets of the Indonesian capital. The uniformed chauffeur was a heavily-built black man in his early 30s. The car had been sent to meet him at the airport. The chauffeur wasn't saying much, and so Roger decided he would break the ice with, what he thought, was a fairly innocuous question: 'Have we far to go?’ The smartly dressed chauffeur paused for a moment before replying in a thick West African accent: 'I suggest you keep quiet, slave, and learn to speak only when you are spoken to by your betters.' Roger's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. Slave! It was the first time ever in his life he had been called a ‘slave’, and it was a somewhat ominous development. He was, after all, as he understood it, going to be a household servant – not a ‘slave’. But how had he come to this humble position at the age of 45? He thought back through t...
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