If Truth Be Told

At the end of another long, hard day kissing the public’s feet, my final customer of the evening is regular customer-mistress Ms Mukta madam. She mockingly asks my tired face if I have had a good day kissing people’s feet, to which I politely and humbly reply that I have indeed had a good day with lots of different styles of boots, shoes and socks to study and admire, thanking the mistress kindly for her kind question madam.

She laughs at me and sarcastically enquires where I would rate her socks in the ‘grand scheme of things’? Are they anywhere near the top of the league when it comes to the socks I have been forced to study throughout my lowly working day? I hastily seek to assure Ms Mukta madam that her plain grey socks are most definitely at the very top of the league of socks I have seen, since they are her socks, on her feet, and she is a goddess, begging her female pardon and understanding for my footslavish forwardness madam.

She snorts derisively down at me and says that she bets that I ‘say that to all the girls!’ Again, I seek to reassure Ms Mukta madam of my undying respect and admiration for her socks (though, if truth be told, there is an element of veracity in what she says, since a public footslave has little option other than to praise his customers’ socks when asked for his humble opinion on them!)

A clearly fatigued Ms Mukta madam then curtly orders me to ‘shut up and concentrate on kissing her sneakers in silence’, which I promptly do!

My last customer of the evening - Ms Mukta madam

She enjoys verbally mocking me and teasing me about her socks as I must kiss-respect her sneakers

They really are a splendid pair of plain, grey socks on her feet...

...no doubt all sweaty and moist inside her sneakers from having been on her fabulous feet all day!

My humbling view of the front of her sock

As she mocks me, I have a privileged view of the inside of her jean leg

But my slavish focus must remain on her SOCK!

I am not worthy to look at Ms Mukta, or indeed any of my customers, above the sock

She angrily orders me to shut up and concentrate on kissing her sneakers...

...as she switches feet on the footblock in front of me so that my menial mouth might pay homage to both her shoes

Then she abruptly turns her back on me, heading home to warm and loving arms of her mighty husband...

...and leaving me feeling bereft; bereft of her female presence...

...and bereft of her socks!

I humbly study the backs of her socks for as long as they remain within my lowly field of footslave vision


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