To be fair, I am there to be used by the general public, so whenever a member of said public spots me they are perfectly entitled to walk up to my face and have their feet kissed.
The under-desk office footslave must stare at the undersides of the feet and footwear of his office superiors, and occasionally even act as their humble footrest! It’s a humiliating and degrading existence, but one he is ideally suited for, being a mere slave! An office mistress is seated at her desk with the office footslave lying below her He is legally obliged to stare up at the bottom of her office shoe Oh how he yearns to taste her dirty shoesole... ...not to mention her pedicured TOES! But she ignores him, her grainy sandal-sole hovering in the humiliating air just inches above his face! At one point, she subliminally kicks off her SHOE... ...to give her TOES room to breathe.. ...directly above the slave's upturned face! Haha, the fool must observe the lady's toes wriggling just out of reach! He instinctively sticks out his tongue in the forlorn hope of a quick taste of sweet feminine footsweat! But, although he can smell her delicate sweat, he can't touch it! Th...
An office footslave yearns to touch the teasing office-mistress’s sweaty, bare foot, fresh out of her shoe, with his frustrated tongue! So near and yet so far - the sweaty, soft foot of a beautiful, blonde office-mistress! She's mocking him - as is her friend and colleague! The blonde foot has literally just been liberated from its high-heel shoe! The toes are still glistening with delicious SWEAT! But his tortured tongue cannot reach them! The TOES are laughing at him! Wriggling unobtainably just above his face! 'Haha, how are you liking it, slave?... ...Don't you wanna touch my TOES?... ...Aren't they good enough for you?' Meanwhile, her sweaty, discarded shoe rests nearby... ...adding to the vinegary aroma surrounding his confined face! Oh to lick that FOOT! To clean it for the office mistress! He only wants what's best for her - and her FOOT!
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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