The Door to Door Footslave
      Submitted on 05/23/08


Part 1

Master Peter knocked on the door of the run-down looking apartment. Kneeling 
at his feet, naked but for his slave shorts and collar and chain, was one of 
the company's footslaves.

Peter had been commissioned with drumming up as much business as possible in 
this poorer part of town as the company was desperate to expand its client 
base. They already had plenty of customers on the richer side of town, but 
the company directors were gambling that the poorer inhabitants, many of 
whom could not afford their own slaves, would embrace the services their 
company offered even more willingly - providing, of course, the price was 
right.

To that end Peter was being sent around the homes in the area offering the 
good, honest, hard-working citizens a free 'one hour sample' of the services 
his company had on offer, in the expectation that a proportion of them would 
pay for similar services in future.

The door was opened by an attractive, if slightly overweight, black woman in 
her mid thirties. Peter noticed how she had her hair tied back in a bun, and 
was wearing a loose fitting black teeshirt and black leggings.

From his humble position, kneeling in the dirt, the footslave noticed that 
she had on a pair of blue and white flip flops and that her broad, black 
feet were quite leathery-callused. Her toe-nails had at some time been 
painted bright red, but the paint was now showing signs of chipping off.

As the slave took in these (for him) important details, Master Peter began 
his well-rehearsed spiel:

"Good Afternoon, Madam. My name is Pete and I represent the 'Footslaves4u' 
company. I would like to offer you now a one hour free trial of our 
services, using this dirty slave who is at this moment kneeling at your 
beautiful feet. Do you have your own domestic slave?"

In this area it was virtually a rhetorical question. Peter knew the answer 
would be 'no', but it was important to engage the customer in conversation 
at an early stage.

"Oh my God! No, I do not have my own slave", answered the woman in a thick 
west african accent, clearly somewhat startled at the unexpected sight of a 
tall, handsome master with a pathetic, semi naked male slave kneeling in the 
dirt at her doorstep. She was, however, instantly impressed by master Peter. 
He was just her 'type' - white, a businessman, about her own age, strong 
manly physique - clearly an 'alpha male'. The sheer contrast between the 
well-dressed salesman and the wretched near-naked male slave kneeling at his 
feet, excited her. She liked this vision of power and domination on the one 
hand, and powerlessness and humiliation on the other.

"In that case, Madam, may we come in so that I can demonstrate our services 
to you for free?"

"Yes, please", smiled the black woman. Peter smiled too - this was looking 
promising. Another customer soon to be signed up?

He pulled the pathetic kneeling slave after him as he entered into the short 
hallway and then the living room. It was not particularly tidy, and Aminata 
(for that was the black woman's name) somewhat embarrassedly, started 
picking up magazines and papers off the floor in an effort to improve the 
appearance of her humble dwelling.

"Please, Madam, don't bother yourself about tidying up", laughed master 
Peter. "That's one of the services our slave can offer you, if you wish!"

The woman relaxed and smiled:

"Please, call me 'Aminata'".

Pete smiled too. This was going very well. He liked this woman, found her 
attractive, and sensed that she fancied him too. Was she maried, he 
wondered? Although he had already noticed that there were no signs of any 
other inhabitants in the flat.

Aminata beckoned to Pete to sit down on the sofa which, as it happens, was 
the only seating facility in the room, meaning that she had no option but to 
sit beside him. The slave dutifully knelt without being told in front of the 
customer's feet as master Peter continued his sales patter, producing a 
sample glossy brochure from his briefcase.

"As you can see, Aminata, we can offer you a number of services - all free 
for today. Our dirty footslave can do anything for you from just kissing and 
worshipping your feet and footwear, to washing your dirty feet, to a full 
pedicure. Anything you wish him to do, in fact, and our prices are very 
reasonable - although, today you won't have to pay anything at all!"

Aminata smiled at Peter, and then glanced down at the kneeling male slave at 
her feet. She hadn't really taken much notice of the slave until now - so 
impressed was she by 'Pete'. However, she now observed that the slave was an 
older man - possibly in his late forties or early fifties, balding, 
unattractive and pathetic. Her expression changed to one of disdain as she 
sensed not only Pete's, but also her own superiority, over the kneeling male 
creature who was being forced to stare humbly at her black feet.

"Now, continued Pater interrupting her reverie, "How can my slave serve you 
for free today? Have you any dirty boots or shoes that need cleaning? Any 
dirty socks you want him to wash in his mouth? Or perhaps you would like a 
pedicure?. Remember, you can use him for a full hour absolutely free of 
charge by way of our introductory offer".

Aminata smiled again at Peter. She looked at her feet and considered her 
options. Her feet were tired and sore that afternoon. She had been 
waitressing in a restaurant all that morning from breakfast time until 
lunchtime, and her feet were still hot and sweaty. The thought occurred to 
her that it would be nice to have this wretched male slave lick clean her 
tired black feet with his ugly tongue.

"Can you make him lick my feet clean?", she asked Pete somewhat tentatively.

"Of course!", smiled Pete. He found her diffidence about the use of a 
footslave rather naive and enchanting.

"Dirty slave", he barked at the footslave kneeling at the woman's feet, 
"Take off Miss Aminata's sandals and lick her bare feet clean with your 
slave tongue. Make sure you remove all the sweat and toe cheese and leave 
her superior black feet feeling revived and refreshed!".

Miss Aminata was thrilled at the way the strong master spoke to the weak and 
feeble slave who was down where he belonged at her feet. She just wasn't 
used to having a slave to boss about and give orders to. She knew that rich 
women who could afford their own slaves took it for granted, but, apart from 
the odd shoe-shine by one of the public footslaves in the town centre, she 
had never had the opportunity to really humiliate and dominate a dirty slave 
in the privacy of her own home. However, she could definitely get used to 
this - total power over a pathetic, helpless male slave.

Inexperienced as she was at dealing with a footslave, she raised her 
sandaled foot to the kneeling slave's nose to facilitate him in taking off 
her right flip flop - something an experienced Mistress would never have 
done. It was a slave's responsibility to remove his Mistress's footwear 
without her help. Such a task was beneath her, and it was the slave's duty 
to work out how to remove a lady's footwear - it was his problem, not hers. 
If he failed or was awkward in his duty he would be deservedly punished. 
That was the way it should be.

As he removed the flip flop from the black Mistress's foot the slave saw 
that it was well worn and that the white sole of the shoe had become badly 
discoloured over time through a mixture of dirt and sweat from her black 
footflesh. He was glad that he had not (yet) been ordered to lick her flip 
flops clean.

Mistress Aminata and Master Peter looked down on the humble slave, both 
literally and figuratively, as he cradled the woman's dirty right foot in 
his slave hands and lowered his slave tongue to the skin at the side of her 
foot. They both had expressions of utter contempt and disdain on their faces 
for the humble slave - and rightly so. For he was a truly pathetic creature, 
barely worthy to be in their presence, let alone to be allowed the privelege 
of touching and licking a superior woman's feet.

As the footslave's tongue touched the somewhat leathery skin of Miss 
Aminata's beautiful black foot he caught a whiff of the unmistakeable aroma 
of feminine foot sweat, sweat which he knew he must now transfer into his 
slave mouth and down his slave throat - where it belonged. He concentrated 
initially on licking the hard skin around the edge of her black sole, 
admiring as he did so how her foot skin changed to a lighter hue of brown 
skin on the sole of the foot itself. He noticed the tiniest wrinkles in her 
foot skin as her foot flexed in reaction to his humble ministrations. He 
felt bits of dead skin mingled in with the foot sweat on his tongue, and as 
he moved his tongue inbetween her toes he tasted little balls of sweaty, 
salty toe cheese - food fit for a slave.

Miss Aminata giggled with pleasure and delight at the slave's humble 
servitude. She felt a surge of power and cruelty run through her. She truly 
was the one with all the power at that moment, and she looked lovingly at 
the man who had given her that power - master Peter. With a man like that in 
her life she could conquer the world!

The slave continued to lick her foot and suck her ebony toes for some five 
minutes, and, as he did so, Miss Aminata and Master Peter drew inexorably 
closer to one another, first tenderly stroking each other's faces and then 
kissing each other on the lips, pausing only to order the pathetic footslave 
to lick clean Mistress Aminata's other foot.

As he licked, chewed and swallowed Miss Aminata's dirty foot sweat and toe 
cheese, the footslave realised that he would soon be banished from the room 
whilst his Master and new Mistress made out on the sofa.

Sure enough, after some 10 minutes of foot-licking in total, the dirty 
footslave was ordered out of the room by his Master, a real man, and ordered 
to clean Mistress Aminata's dirty boots which she had informed him were 
lying in the kitchen.

As he crawled on his hands and knees into the kitchen, closing the living 
room door discreetly behind him, he could hear the groans of pleasure coming 
from Mistress Aminata as Master Peter did what he, the footslave, could 
never, and would never, do - give sexual pleasure and satisfaction to a 
woman. The footslave knew his place in the world - which was to clean the 
dirty boots of a superior woman whilst she made out with a superior man in 
the neighbouring room.

He soon found the dirty boots lying in a corner on the kitchen floor - and 
they were, indeed, truly filthy. They were a pair of block-heeled, black 
leather zip-up ankle boots, both literally caked in mud and grass on the 
soles and along the lower rim, with splashes of mud and dirt on the upper 
parts. The Mistress must have been out in the rain, and had allowed the 
street dirt to dry on her boots after taking them off and throwing them 
nonchalantly onto the kitchen floor - street dirt, which he knew now 
belonged in his mouth and stomach.

Still on his knees, as befits a footslave, he picked up one of the dirty 
black ankle boots and allowed himself a quick sniff of the inside of the 
boot. There it was again - the unmistakable smell of a black woman's foot 
sweat, a smell fit for a slave. He allowed himself the small, but pathetic, 
luxury of inhaling deeply the smell of the inside of the woman's dirty 
leather ankle boot for a few precious seconds, before beginning the chore he 
had been set by his master - that of licking clean his superior black 
African Mistress's boots and divesting them of all the accumulated street 
muck until they shone like new.

He began with the sole, making sure his tongue reached deep into the treads 
removing all the street gunk that was soiling his new Mistress's footwear. 
To swallow such street filth was an honour for the footslave, but only 
because it had been attached to the boot soles of a superior woman. As he 
moved his tongue to the upper part of the first boot, he wondered whether 
she had worn the boots with socks today. If she had, he would be honoured to 
wash those socks in his dirty slave mouth. He speculated as to what colour 
of socks she may have worn - black? white? red?. And would they have been 
proper, thick boot socks or just thin cotton socks? Such thoughts torment a 
footslave when he is working, as he is rightly obsessed with the feet and 
footwear of whichever woman he has been ordered to serve. However, he could 
see no sign of any dirty socks lying around, and he dare not take a sneaky 
peak in her laundry basket - he had too much work to do.

He picked up the second boot and tongued it thoroughly also. After some 20 
minutes or so of licking the boots clean, and just as they were starting to 
truly shine nicely with his slave saliva, he heard his master call him back 
into the living room:

"Slave, get back in here, and bring Mistress Aminata's boots with you for 
her inspection".

The couple were now seated comfortably again on the sofa. As he crawled back 
into the living room the footslave sensed that their love making had been a 
success as they both seemed relaxed and happy.

The slave crawled awkwardly as he carried the pair of black ankle boots in 
one hand and presented them, head suitably bowed, at Mistress Aminata's 
feet.

"Well, my darling, are you satisfied with your boots? Are you satisfied with 
my slave's work in shining them up for you?", enquired master Peter.

Miss Aminata gave her boots a cursory glance and then told master Peter, 
much to the kneeling slave's relief, that she was satisfied with her 
newly-cleaned boots. She thanked him -Peter - for having her boots cleaned. 
She, of course, did not thank the slave for his efforts. He had merely 
obeyed his superior master's orders. In fact, Aminata no longer gave the 
slave kneeling dutifully at her black feet a second thought. She only had 
thoughts for his wonderful master, with whom she was now falling in love.

But all good things must come to an end, and Pete had a job to do. He had 
another 15 houses to visit in this street this afternoon. Reluctantly, he 
and his slave had to leave. They would definitely be back at Miss Aminata's 
flat, and Pete had already made an executive decision - Aminata would never 
have to pay to use his slave.

As he knocked on the door of the next house, Master Peter wondered what 
delights may lay inside the next run-down apartment.

Part 2 - The Goth Girl

The door of the next apartment was opened by an attractive, slim blonde 
woman, in her early 40s, dressed in a nurse's uniform.

From his lowly kneeling position all the footslave could see was her white 
stockings under her blue knee-length skirt and her white, flat, lace-up, 
sensible nurse's shoes. The slave who could also hear the heavy thud of rock 
music in the background.

Master Peter gave his usual spiel, introducing himself and his company to 
the potential new customer, and explaining all about today's special offer 
of a free session with their 'travelling footslave'.

The nurse indicated that she was just getting ready to go out to work, but 
suggested that her daughter may be able to make use of the footslave's 
services. She therefore invited Master Peter to come in. The slave followed 
humbly on his hands and knees.

As the trio entered the living room master Peter asked the woman if she was 
sure there was nothing the footslave could do for her before he served her 
daughter.

The woman laughed:

"Well, I do have to go out to work in about one hour's time, but I suppose 
my shoes could do with a quick clean!".

"No problem, Madam", replied Master Peter, inviting her to sit down and 
extend her right foot under the kneeling slave's face:

"Slave", he continued, "lick clean the lady's shoes - and be quick about 
 it!"

The slave obediently lowered his mouth to the top of the nurse's flat white 
shoe and set to work with his tongue. The shoe was made of canvas and 
therefore smelt a little rubbery. Although it already appeared relatively 
clean, it was nevertheless a working shoe with all the inevitable tell-tale 
signs of some wear and tear. In particular, the footslave noticed some scuff 
marks around the toe of the shoe. He therefore concentrated licking first 
that particular area, before moving his tongue around to the side of her 
shoe and then towards her shapely ankle.

As he did so he noticed how her thin, white stocking was now slightly 
creased around her ankle - caused by her extending her foot under his 
nose -and, presumptuous of him though it was, he couldn't help wondering, as 
he licked her flat white shoe, how long she had been wearing those white 
stockings. Were they fresh on that day? Or had she been wearing the same 
stockings two days, or more, in a row? Would he be given the privilege of 
sniffing the nurse's white stockinged feet, or would he be restricted to 
smelling and licking her white nurse's shoes? Such pathetic thoughts torment 
a footslave whilst he is at work.

After he had extended his tongue to clean the flat heel of her white shoe, 
the blonde nurse-mistress then withdrew her right foot and replaced it with 
her left. The humble slave repeated the process with his female-master's 
left shoe which he noticed was, for some reason, slightly dustier and 
dirtier than her right one. Again there were the stocking creases around the 
ankle. How he longed to pay his respects to her stockings - even just to 
kiss her stockinged ankle. But his orders were merely to lick clean her 
canvass shoe - and a slave has no choice but to merely obey his betters' 
orders.

The woman was clearly enjoying the slave's attention to her shoe. Being a 
nurse by profession she was, of course, a kind-hearted and caring woman, but 
it was a nice change for her to have a humble slave 'worshipping' her in 
this way. It stirred in her the deep-seated feelings of superiority and 
dominance that exist in every woman. She told master Peter as much as the 
slave removed her shoe-dirt into his slave mouth.

"Yes, Madam, all our customers comment on how rewarding it is to dominate 
and humiliate our footslaves. You can basically do what you like to them 
with impunity. All that we ask is that you return them to us more or less in 
the same condition you found them!"

The two free human beings laughed, revelling in their mutual power over the 
pathetic shoe-licking creature at their feet.

After some 5 minutes or so the nurse appeared satisfied with the slave's 
ministrations to her shoes:

"I was just going to make myself a cup of tea before I head off. Can I get 
you one?", she asked master Peter.

"Thanks, that would be great", responded Pete. A shag in one apartment 
followed by a cup of tea in the next - can't be bad, he thought to himself.

Of course, the footslave was not offered any refreshment. The thought never 
crossed the nurse's mind.

"Tracey!", she shouted, as she rose from the sofa.

There was no response initially as the heavy thump of the rock music 
continued upstairs.

Tracey's mother shouted more loudly:

"Tracey!"

This time the music was turned down and an impatient female voice could be 
heard shouting back from upstairs:

"What? What is it?!".

"Come down here a moment", replied her mother.

'Tracey' was clearly feeling inconvenienced by this rude interruption to her 
music session.

"What do you want, for God's sake Mom - I'm trying to listen to my music!".

"Just come down will you please - I've got something for you!", continued 
her mother. She then apologised to Peter for her daughter's petulance, 
explaining that although she was 20 years old she still behaved like a 
spoilt brat sometimes.

The sound of heavy-booted feet could then be heard clumping down the stairs 
of the two-storey apartment as the music now appeared to be turned off 
altogether.

"What is it?", shouted a young voice in exasperation as the beautiful Tracey 
entered the living room, followed by an exclamation:

"Wow, what's this?!"

Master Peter smiled at the girl as the footslave stared humbly at her feet. 
Tracey was a 'goth' - slim and attractive, her long hair dyed dark black 
with various nose and facial piercings enhancing the natural beauty she had 
inherited from her mother. She was wearing a black sleeveless top with the 
name and logo of her favourite goth band emblazoned in red on the front, a 
very short black skirt, thick purple and black stripy tights and heavy 
black, lace-up Doc Marten style ankle boots. Whilst master Peter admired the 
girl's striking appearance, the footslave admired her boots and tights - 
such a wonderful combination of femininity combined with girl-power.

Tracey's mother answered her daughter's question:

"Say hello to Peter, darling. He's from the 'Footslaves4U' company".

The young woman smiled at the handsome master Peter:

"Hi, Pete!", she chirped.

"And this is one of their footslaves", continued her mother, "I thought you 
might like to use him to clean your dirty boots?"

"Wow, can I? That would be cool!", responded Tracey excitedly.

Her mother laughed:

"I knew you'd be pleased, and those disgusting boots of yours sure need a 
good cleaning. How many times have I told you not to wear them around the 
house!"

This was clearly a long -running bone of contention between mother and 
daughter. Tracey's mother continued:

"Why don't you take the slave up to your room whilst I get Pete a cup of 
tea?"

"Great", responded her daughter. The younger woman then looked down at the 
slave:

"You, the slave, follow me on your hands and knees!", she snapped. Master 
Peter smiled to himself - this young woman was a natural, however he felt he 
should offer her some professional advice:

"And Miss, remember he has to do everything you say. If you're not happy 
with anything just give me a shout and I'll see to him!".

"Thanks Pete - sure thing!", replied Tracey, as she turned to climb the 
stairs.

The footslave followed humbly after her on his hands and knees, keeping his 
eyes fixed on the back of her heavy, black ankle boots.

As they entered Tracey's bedroom the slave's first impression was that it 
was rather untidy. He could sense that there were lots of posters of rock 
bands on the walls, but from his lowly vantage point his best view was, of 
course, of the floor. There were CDs lying about, a pair of old black 
sneakers, and a pair of dirty white socks lying in one corner of the room.

Tracey sat on the edge of her bed and ordered the slave to kneel in front of 
her, head bowed at her booted feet.

"You heard your Master, slave, you have to do everything I say". She wanted 
the slave to be in no doubt as to who was in charge - not that the slave had 
any doubts:

"Yes, Miss".

"What is your name, slave?".

The footslave was somewhat taken aback by the young woman's question. She 
seemed so naturally dominant, yet was asking such a naïve question!. However 
he had to answer her in the only way he could, even if his answer did appear 
rather rude:

"I..I don't have a name, Miss, I'm just a slave."

The young mistress laughed, apparently not offended by his answer at all:

"Is that so? Well, my name is Tracey, but you can call me 'Mistress Tracey'. 
Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mistress Tracey".

"And how come you are a slave?", she continued inquisitively.

Again, the slave was staggered by the apparent naivety of the question. He 
realised that this, apparently one-parent family, probably had never owned a 
slave, but could this young 20 year old woman really be so ignorant of such 
matters?

"I...I was born a slave, Mistress Tracey", he replied, somewhat hesitantly. 
Was she just playing with him? Teasing him?

"Well, in that case you should be good at it!", exclaimed Tracey, reaching 
down to point with a purple-painted finger nail at the side of her right 
boot. "Do you see this dried-on muck on the side of my boots? It's been 
there since last weekend when I was at a music festival. You're going to 
lick it all off, slave, and make sure you do a good job. I want my boots to 
be gleaming. I want to be able to see my reflection in them, so you'd better 
start licking long and hard!"

"Yes, Mistress Tracey. It is my privelege to obey you, Mistress Tracey".

"Get on with it!", she shouted down at the pathetic footslave - a man who 
was at least twice her age, but, much to her delight, totally within her 
power.

The obedient slave lowered his tongue to the side of her dirty black boot 
and immediately tasted the, for him, familiar, bitter taste of mud mixed 
with boot-leather.

"Yuck! Filthy pig!", exclaimed Mistress Tracey as she watched the slave obey 
her orders. "I'd hate to be a slave, having to lick people's dirty boots and 
shoes and that. It's like, totally gross, or something!".

Yet again, the slave couldn't help being amazed at the naivety of the young 
woman's comment. There was no way she, a female, would ever be a slave. Only 
males - some males - were slaves in this enlightened society. Mistress 
Tracey would never have to lick the mud of someone's shoes!.

Tracey may have found what the slave was doing totally disgusting, but she 
had no compunction about making sure he did it properly. As he lathed her 
dirty boots with his slave tongue she continually pointed out the patches of 
dirt and mud she wanted him to lick off, even slapping him once or twice 
about the face when she thought he had missed a bit. She also made sure he 
sucked the dust and dirt off the black laces of her boots.

After some ten minutes of his licking and sucking her heavy black ankle 
boots she ordered the footslave to take off her boots and 'polish the soles' 
with his tongue.

As the slave unlaced and pulled off each of her boots he was assailed by the 
unmistakeable aroma of feminine footsweat. Moreover, it was the smell of 
stale footsweat, suggesting that the young mistress may well have been 
wearing the same stripy purple and black tights since her rock festival last 
weekend!. She certainly hadn't washed her feet in a while! But he was an 
experienced footslave. He didn't flinch. Female foot odour comes with the 
territory when you are a humble footslave and, after many years of service 
at women's feet a slave almost becomes used to it, unpleasant though it is.

The boots had deep treads on the soles and extracting the muck, grass and 
stones from them was quite a demanding task. But again, Mistress Tracey 
kindly assisted the slave by pointing out to him where the dirt and grime 
was as he licked clean the soles of her boots whilst kneeling at her 
stripy-stockinged, smelly feet.

He felt he was making good progress with the second boot when her mobile 
phone rang:

"Hi, honey", Tracey answered it. The slave heard a young man's voice 
mumbling on the other end of the phone - presumably it was Mistress Tracey's 
boyfriend. The slave noticed how she now went all soft and 'girly' whilst 
speaking to her boyfriend on the phone, using a very different tone from 
that which she used to order him about. But he realised that this was 
perfectly natural and proper. He was, after all, this young woman's slave - 
not her boyfriend. She, quite rightly, despised him and had no reason to 
speak softly or gently to him - nor did any woman. He continued licking the 
sole of her left boot.

"Guess what", he heard her say to her boyfriend, "Right at this moment I've 
got a slave licking the soles of my boots clean! That's right!. It's so 
cool. He must be in his forties, or something, and he's having to do 
whatever I say. His master is downstairs having a cup of tea with my Mom. He's 
some sort of door-to-door footslave or something, but it's really cool 
having a man to obey me and do lots of disgusting things for me!".

It occurred to the slave that it wasn't often anybody referred to him as a 
'man'.

The young woman then appeared to laugh as her boyfriend made a suggestion 
down the phone:

"Sounds cool!", she said. She then addressed the slave, still keeping the 
phone to her ear so that her boyfriend could hear her:

"Slave, put down the boot. My boyfriend wants you to smell my tights, but 
you're to begin by only smelling the purple stripes". She giggled as she 
thrust her right foot under the kneeling slave's nose.

As she did so the slave had his first real close-up view of the young woman's 
tights. The alternate black and purple stripes began with a purple area over 
the toes. These were definitely well-worn tights - a favourite pair - a 
fashion statement by the goth-girl. He even noticed the beginnings of a 
small hole in her tights over her big toe. As he obeyed her boyfriend's 
orders by lowering his nose in order to sniff the first purple area covering 
her toes he was once again assailed by the unpleasant smell of stale, 
feminine foot-sweat.

"He's doing it", mistress Tracey informed her boyfriend, excited both by her 
boyfriend's wonderful, humiliating idea and by the sight of the humble 
footslave obeying her degrading orders.

The slave ran his nose over the purple material of the stocking, inhaling 
deeply through his nose. Although he was indeed well used to the smell of 
women's feet, it was still an unpleasant and debasing experience to be 
ordered to sniff someone's sweaty feet.

He then moved up to the next purple stripe, missing out, as he had been 
ordered, the first black stripe. This second purple stripe was naturally, 
given the shape of the foot, a bit longer than the one covering her toes and 
he noticed how the stitching of the material was more stretched over this 
part of her foot. Again, he brushed his pathetic slave nose across the thick 
purple material and inhaled the young woman's foot odour.

As he repeated the process with the next purple stripe Mistress Tracey 
ordered him to stop when he got to the top of her ankle. He therefore 
repeated the process until he got to a purple stripe that was just below her 
shapely ankle-bone.

"Now, you have to smell the black stripes", she giggled, passing on the 
instructions her boyfriend was giving her down the phone.

One by one the slave sniffed the black stripes on his mistress's stocking 
until he reached a black stripe that actually covered her ankle bone.

"Now, slave, my boyfriend wants to know which smell the stinkiest? The 
purple stripes or the black stripes?".

It was clear to the slave that this was purely an exercise in his 
humiliation. The young woman's boyfriend clearly wanted to demonstrate his 
mastery over the slave at his girlfriend's feet - even from a distance.

The slave wasn't quite sure how to answer the question. There was really no 
discernible difference in the foot odour coming from the various stripes on 
her stockinged feet. If he had been asked whether the area around the toes, 
which happened to be purple, was smellier than the area around her ankle, 
which happened to be black, the answer would, of course, have been yes. The 
toes were always the sweatiest part of the feet. But he couldn't, hand on 
heart, say that all the purple stripes were any smellier than all the black 
stripes. It was a meaningless question designed purely to demean him, and 
the slave decided that the best thing to do was to answer it using some 
ultra-humble slave-speak:

"If it pleases you, Mistress Tracey, this dirty, worthless slave can detect 
no difference in the odour coming from the purple and black stripes of your 
beautiful stocking".

Mistress Tracey laughed out loud at the slave's grovelling response:

"Did you hear that, Luke? He says that, if it pleases me, he can't detect 
any difference in the smells!".

The slave could hear the young master laughing down the phone.

"My boyfriend wants to know, in that case, how you would rate the stinkiness 
of my feet on a scale of 1 to 10 - with 10 being the stinkiest?. What's your 
answer, slave?".

The slave realised he had to be careful again. If he gave too high a rating, 
a 9 for example (which was probably what her feet merited) the young woman 
might be offended. But equally, she would want to know that he had found the 
experience of smelling her tights degrading and humiliating. He therefore 
answered his mistress as follows:

"If it pleases you, mistress Tracey, this foot-sniffing slave would give its 
mistress's divine feet a rating of 7 out of 10".

Tracey and her boyfriend seemed pleased at the rating. They both laughed 
again at his subservience.

"Carry on sniffing my other foot", ordered the young mistress as she 
positioned her left, purple and black striped, stockinged foot up to the 
slave's nose, and then largely ignored him as she indulged in some gossip 
and small-talk with her boyfriend over the phone.

As soon as she had finished her telephone conversation Mistress Tracey 
screwed up her face as if she was in some discomfort:

"Slave, my foot is itchy. You're going to scratch it for me - with your nose 
and face", she told him in a matter-of-fact way.

With that she extended the base of her right, stripy-stockinged foot up to 
the slave's face and began to rub her sweaty foot all over it. She moaned 
contentedly as the slave's face brought some relief to her itch through the 
stinky stocking. How wonderful it was to have a human scratching post for 
one's itchy foot!

For his part the slave could only think of how his whole face must now be 
reeking of mistress Tracey's foot-smell.

At this point master Peter knocked on her bedroom door, which was half-open, 
and entered her room.

"Everything OK, Miss?", he enquired.

"Yeah, great. Thank's Pete", responded Tracey. "I've just been making your 
slave scratch my itch with his face, and before that I made him clean my 
boots and then smell my feet. But he seems to think my feet are quite 
stinky. He gave them a rating of 7 out of 10 on the stinkometer!"

"Oh, really", laughed master Peter. "Well, perhaps we should make him do 
something about that. Why don't we make him wash your feet?".

"Cool!", replied Tracey

"We have a special way of making our slaves wash ladies' feet. I'll go and 
get a bowl of water from the bathroom whilst you take off your tights. Where 
is the bathroom?"

""It's the second on the left, Pete. You'll find a basin in there too".

With that mistress Tracey stood up and removed her purple and black thick 
stripy tights in front of the kneeling slave. He didn't even attempt to get 
a glimpse of her knickers under her short black dress. Such sights were 
completely off-limits to footslaves.

She then sat on the edge of her bed again in front of the slave as master 
Peter returned with a bowl of warm water and placed it, together with a 
towel, beside the young woman's bare feet.

The slave now had a close up view of mistress Tracey's bare feet. The most 
striking thing about them was that her toenails were painted deep purple 
(matching her fingernails) although the paint was looking chipped and worn 
on some of the toes. He also noticed some track marks on her foot-skin from 
the stitching on her tights.

"Slave, you know how to wash this young mistress's feet in the special way. 
Do it now!", ordered master Peter. Tracey thrilled at Peter's authoritative 
tone.

The slave then began to wash mistress Tracey's feet, as ordered, in the 
company's 'special' way. To Tracey's evident delight he didn't, initially, 
place her feet in the bowl of water. Instead, he dipped his slave tongue 
into the water, washed her boot-dirt off it, then placed his wet, warm 
tongue between the big toe and the second toe of her right foot, moistening 
the sides of her toes and lathing them as he licked away the sweat and the 
toe-jam that had accumulated over the past few days on the young woman's 
unwashed feet.

Mistress Tracey, clapped her hands:

"This is so cool! He's having to clean my sweaty toes with his dirty, slave 
tongue!. This is just totally awesome!", she exclaimed.

The slave repeated the process again and again, licking between each and 
every toe first on her right foot and then on her left foot. Mistress Tracey 
felt as though she were in heaven.

After some ten minutes master Peter ordered the slave to place the young 
woman's feet into the basin of water and clean them properly. He explained 
to Miss Tracey that this was more to clean her feet of the slave's saliva as 
his tongue would have already removed her foot sweat and toe-jam.

When he had finished doing this the slave was ordered to dry Mistress Tracey's 
feet with the towel.

After he had done so Tracey made to pick up the bowl of now dirty water and 
take it to the bathroom. But master Peter stopped her in her tracks:

"No need to do that, Miss. The slave will dispose of the water for you. 
Slave, lap up Miss Tracey's dirty foot water like the dog that you are!".

And with that, the slave started lapping up the now lukewarm, foul-tasting 
water that contained the remaining dirt and dead skin from mistress Tracey's 
soft, feminine feet.

As she watched him lapping up and swallowing her dirty foot-water, Tracey 
was confirmed in her opinion that being a slave was totally gross.

Being a mistress, however, was tremendous fun!

Part 3 - Oriental Hospitality

The front door of the neighbouring apartment was opened by a young man of 
oriental appearance. As soon as the door was opened both master Peter and 
the kneeling footslave could hear a television blaring inside and lots of 
excited voices speaking in some sort of oriental language.

Master Peter explained about the offer of the free use of the footslave for 
one hour and was invited in by the young man.

Peter quickly established that there were five men and three women in the 
living room all crowded around the television set watching a soccer match. 
Peter loved soccer, and the outcome of his negotiations with the family 
members (somewhat tortuous negotiations, it has to be said, given the 
language barrier) was that Peter would join the men watching the soccer 
match whilst the three women would make use of the footslave in the 
'basement'.

As Peter was handed a cold beer and invited to take a seat in a comfortable 
armchair in front of the television, the company footslave was being led 
away on his hands and knees by the three oriental women down some dingy 
stairs and into a dark and somewhat forbidding basement room.

As soon as he entered the basement one of the women switched on a bright 
light. The first thing that struck the footslave was the dusty, bare wooden 
floorboards. The second thing that struck him was the wooden trestle 
situated in the centre of the room, and the rattan cane hanging from a hook 
on its side. It looked like a professional dominatrix's punishment room.

What the pathetic and perplexed footslave did not realise was that the 
trestle and cane had been brought by the family from their own country when 
they had fled for political reasons some three years previously. The head of 
the household, Mr Anuar, had been the chief official flogger for the 
previous regime, responsible for caning criminals and dissidents. Following 
a military coup, however, he had been forced to flee the country with his 
family. But they had managed to bring his punishment paraphernalia with 
them.

The three women who were now in the process of securing the door-to-door 
footslave over the punishment trestle were Anuar's wife, Mme Suria, and his 
two twin daughters, Faara and Darshen. The twins had been 21 years old when 
the family had fled the far-east, and they missed greatly their life of 
luxury in their home country. In particular, they missed taking part in the 
punishment of the criminals along with their father. On their 18th birthday, 
on the suggestion of their mother, he had invited them for the first time to 
the prison to witness a criminal being flogged. The girls had been keen not 
just to witness but also to participate in the disciplining of the criminal 
and their father had eventually relented allowing them to escort the 
criminal to the punishment trestle and to secure him to the trestle ready 
for his flogging.

Although the girls were slight of build, and the criminal had been a 
stockily-built brute of a man, he had been so weakened by fear of the 
impending flogging the two girls had had no problems in ensuring his 
compliance as they escorted him to the punishment trestle. He had wept as 
the soft hands of the two girls had then tied him to the trestle leaving his 
naked butt fully exposed and ready to receive their father's cane. They had 
then stood one on either side of him and witnessed his suffering at close 
hand. They enjoyed it. And it was to be the first of many such floggings 
that they were to enjoy witnessing over the next few years- right up until 
the change of regime that led to their father falling out of favour with the 
government. They had even, on one or two rare occasions, been permitted by 
their father to lay a few strokes of the cane themselves on the backsides of 
criminals who had been sentenced to flogging.

Now aged 24, the twins were living with their parents and four brothers in a 
cramped apartment, in a strange country, and in the rundown part of town. 
They weren't exactly resentful at the loss of their previous wealth and 
status, but they did so miss the perks of being the daughters of a top 
government official. In particular they missed taking part in the floggings. 
Now was their chance to relive old pleasures.

As the three women secured him over the wooden trestle and pulled down his 
slave shorts to fully expose his bare buttocks, the frightened footslave had 
a better chance to see exactly who he was dealing with.

The elder of three women appeared to be in her mid-40s. Like nearly all 
oriental women she was quite petite, had dark hair, and was very pretty. 
From his prone and vulnerable position, bent over the wooden trestle with 
his face now just inches from the dirty wooden floor and his butt sticking 
high up into the air, he could see only that she was wearing brown, leather, 
knee-length, zip-up boots and black nylon stockings under a black, 
knee-length skirt.

The two younger women, who appeared to be identical twins, were, like their 
mother, dark haired and petite. The one on his left was wearing white 
shorts, white sneakers and short, pink sneaker-socks. The one on his right 
was wearing blue shorts, blue sneakers and white ankle socks with a blue 
trim at the top. The difference in footwear was the only way he was going to 
be able to distinguish between the two girls.

All three women were talking animatedly and excitedly in their own language 
as the two younger women tied his hands and legs to the punishment trestle. 
The older woman, whom he had guessed was their mother, was standing in front 
of him observing their work.

The girl with the pink sneaker-socks then knelt down and explained to the 
footslave what was going to happen. She appeared to be the only one who 
could speak good English, albeit with a cute asian accent:

"My name -Faara. This my sister, Darshen, and mother, Suria. You a slave - 
you call us 'mistress'. Now we beat you while you kiss our mother's feet. 
Lick boots".

The footslave's heart sank. He realized that he had no cause for complaint. 
He was a company-owned footslave and this family were potential customers, 
and if they wanted to beat him, even though he had done nothing wrong, they 
were, of course, perfectly within their rights to do so. The customer is 
always right. But right now he wished he wasn't a slave - he wished he could 
be sitting upstairs enjoying a beer and watching the soccer match on TV 
along with the free men, rather than being tied over a punishment trestle 
about to be caned by three beautiful, but evidently cruel, oriental women.

Mme Suria then said something to Miss Faara, which the latter duly 
translated into English for the benefit of the footslave:

"Mistress Suria say slave kiss boots after stroke of cane. Thank her for 
pain. Beg for more pain!"

Mme Suria was now duly positioning herself in front of the slave - hands on 
hips with her right booted foot stretched out on the wooden floor directly 
under the slave's nose. As she did so the footslave noticed how her 
knee-length leather boot creased around the ankle. He noticed also how the 
brown boot, which had at first sight appeared immaculate, was in fact a 
little scuffed around the toes, with traces of street dirt along the rim of 
the sole. Her boot seemed to tower above him as, out of the corner of his 
eye, he saw mistress Faara take the metre long, dark brown whippy cane off 
its hook on the side of the trestle and move behind him. Meanwhile Faara 
appeared to be telling her sister, miss Darshen, to stand well back as she 
readied herself to deliver the first stroke of the cane.

As miss Faara tapped the end of the cane against the footslave's bare 
buttocks, measuring her distance and deciding exactly where to place the 
first stinging stroke, the footslave, although he could see miss Faara's 
white socks and pink sneakers behind him and miss Darshen's blue sneakers 
and white ankle socks to his right, decided to concentrate on Mme Suria's 
boot in front of him. It was Mme Suria who was clearly going to be calling 
the shots, and it was her boot he was going to have to kiss following the 
first dreaded stroke.

As he stared at the asian lady's creased boot he found himself wondering 
whether her feet were sweaty inside her heavy boots and in her dark nylon 
stockings. His musings, however, were rudely interrupted by a swishing sound 
and a sudden blaze of unbelievable pain that started in his buttocks and 
seemed to spread instantaneously to ever organ in his body apart from his 
hair.

Involuntarily, he screamed out in agony. The first stroke!

His initial thought was how could such a slightly built girl deliver such a 
dreadfully stinging blow? The answer, of course, was that she had been 
expertly taught by her father how to whip criminals. And the footslave, 
although not a criminal, was now experiencing what the criminals had 
undoubtedly deserved - a real, judicial caning.

As he caught his breath the footslave became aware that the three women were 
laughing and joking about his reaction to Faara's expertly delivered stroke. 
Indeed, Mme Suria was demonstrating that she could, in actual fact, speak 
some English, as she was laughing at the slave:

"Ha Ha! Pain! Slave feel pain!"

Presumably she was speaking in English to let the slave know how much she 
was enjoying his discomfort. However, her English was not, apparently, good 
enough to remind the slave to kiss her boot as she then said something to 
her daughter Faara before the latter barked at the slave:

"Footslave kiss mistress Suria's boot. Thank her for pain. Beg for another 
pain!".

The humble footslave needed no further reminder. Sobbing with the pain, he 
lowered his lips to the toe of Mme Suria's brown, leather boot and 
respectfully kissed it:

"Thank you, Mistress Suria, for the pain. Please can I have some more?".

Miss Faara translated the slave's groveling utterances for her mother. The 
latter's reaction was to laugh, and replace her right boot with her left 
boot under the slave's nose.

The footslave guessed he was to kiss her left boot also. As he placed his 
lips on Mms Suria's scuffed, leather toecap, Miss Faara gave him further 
orders:

"Slave lick dirt off mistress Suria's boot. Use tongue - clean filth into 
mouth".

The slave duly licked with as much strength as he could muster. He knew he 
was almost certainly going to receive another stroke of the cane - after 
all, he had 'begged' for one - but he was also conscious of the fact that 
whilst he was groveling at Mme Suria's boots the women were content to watch 
and relish in his degrading and slavish servitude, giving him more time to 
prepare himself for the next stinging cut. He therefore tasted Mme Suria's 
boot leather for all he was worth, causing great satisfaction to both her 
and her two daughters:

"Slave good boot-licker. Slave like dirt", laughed mistress Faara as she 
watched the footslave's tongue lathing the dirt off her mother's boot.

At this point, Miss Darshen, the girl with the blue sneakers and white ankle 
socks, who had hitherto been quite quiet, suddenly became animated and 
appeared to be arguing with her twin sister. Unbeknown to the footslave, the 
argument was over who would deliver the next stroke of the cane.

The argument was settled by Mme Suria - it was Darshen's turn. Faara, 
somewhat reluctantly, swapped places with her sister and handed her the 
cane.

"Slave stop licking", said Faara. "Miss Darshen now cane slave. Slave 
prepare for pain!".

Miss Darshen was clearly a bit of a drama queen. She ostentatiously swished 
the whippy cane through the air several times as she limbered up to deliver 
the second terrible stroke across the footslave's buttocks. Although Mme 
Suria's booted left foot was still stretched out in front of him, the 
practice strokes of Miss Darshen caused the footslave to momentarily 
concentrate his attention on her feet. He saw how the white ankle sock on 
her right foot creased each time she swung the cane through the air as she 
twisted her foot in order to get a firmer footing on the wooden floor. He 
noticed too that her blue sneaker was picking up dust from the dirty wooden 
floor of the basement. If only he could do her the service of licking off 
that dust - perhaps she would go easier on him?

Miss Faara appeared to be guiding her sister as to where exactly to place 
the second stroke, as the slave felt her soft fingers pointing to an area on 
his buttocks some two inches or so below the red weal she herself had 
raised. Miss Darshen then appeared to advise her sister to stand well back 
as the slave saw her white ankle sock crease again before...

Swish - Crack!

The cane bit again into his already sore buttocks - this time on the exact 
spot miss Faara had recommended.

The slave heard miss Darshen squeal with delight behind him as he himself 
squealed - in agony.

Again the three women laughed at his agonized reaction.

"Ha Ha. Slave cry out like pig! Slave at mercy of Darshen and Faara. Slave 
kiss mistress Suria's boot. Beg for mercy! Beg pain to stop!"

This time the footslave could wholeheartedly repeat the words he was being 
instructed to say. At that moment in time he wanted nothing more than for 
the acute, burning pain to stop. He again kissed and licked the toe of Mme 
Suria's outstretched leather boot:

Oh please, Mistress Suria, please mistress Faara, please mistress Darshen , 
please have mercy on this poor footslave. Please don't beat him anymore. 
Have
mercy please, sweet, feminine mistresses!"

As he groveled and kissed her mother's boot miss Faara continued to laugh at 
him:

"Ha Ha!. Slave at mercy of women. Women better than slave. Slave only fit to 
lick women boots".

Mme Suria then chipped in something in her own language which Faara, again, 
dutifully translated:

"Mistress Suria say slave smell her feet. Slave take off boot. Pull down zip 
with teeth. Slave obey now!"

The footslave was determined to obey his three tormentresses in any way they 
pleased. He reckoned it was the only way he was going to avoid more pain. 
They were only supposed to use him for up to an hour - after that it would 
be time for him and master Peter to move on to the next house, so the longer 
he spent kissing and smelling their feet, the less time they would have to 
beat him. That, at any rate, was his somewhat desperate calculation.

He therefore obediently raised his head as best he could to the top of Mme 
Suria's outstretched knee-length boot, grabbed the zip on the side of her 
boot with his slave teeth, and pulled the zip slowly down her leg, revealing 
her shapely stockinged calves and ankles. When the zip had reached the 
bottom of her ankle Mme Suria kindly helped the slave by shaking off the 
boot, pushing it with her stockinged foot to one side, and then returning 
her stockinged toes up to his slave nose, ready for him to sniff:

"Slave sniff! Smell toes", ordered Miss Faara from behind him as her mother 
pressed her foot into his face.

The footslave had been right to speculate earlier that Mme Suria's feet must 
have been quite sweaty in her nylons. Once again his nostrils were assailed 
by the unmistakable bitter-sweet aroma of female foot-sweat. The reinforced 
area of the dark nylon stocking which covered Mme Suria's toes was 
particularly damp and pungent. Yet the slave felt comforted by the 
familiarity of the smell. As a full-time footslave, he was used to the smell 
of foot-sweat - unlike the pain in his buttocks. Although, as a slave, he 
was not unaccustomed to pain, it had been many years since his last serious 
flogging, and the two, throbbing cane marks on his ass were a shocking 
reminder to him of just how painful a flogging could be.

He therefore sniffed the stockinged toes long, hard and loud, to the great 
amusement of the three ladies:

"Ha Ha! Slave nothing but a stinky toe-sniffer", commented Miss Faara on 
behalf of her mother and sister. "Slave fit only to lick women boots and 
sniff women smelly stockings! Slave like smell?"

The pathetic footslave answered mistress Faara with the utmost respect and 
humility:

"Yes, thank you, mistress Faara. This slave likes to smell women's sweaty 
stockings".

At that point Miss Darshen pushed her sneakered foot in front of the slave's 
face beside her mother's stockinged foot. She said something to her sister 
which Faara duly translated:

"Slave kiss miss Darshen's foot. Lick sneaker. Kiss sock. Beg miss Darshen 
not to beat more".

At this point the footslave noticed that the terrifying, whippy cane was 
still dangling from miss Darshen's hand.

He hurriedly switched his attention to Miss Darshen's footwear. Fortunately 
her mother didn't seem to mind.

The slave kissed the top of miss Darshen's blue sneaker, his lips brushing 
her white laces:

"Oh pray, Mistress Darshen, please don't beat this pitiful slave any more. 
Oh the pain!", he whined.

As he then licked some dust off the side of miss Darshen's blue sneaker and 
kissed her white-socked ankle, Miss Faara translated his pathetic pleadings 
for her sister's benefit.

The willful and impulsive miss Darshen, somewhat remarkably, appeared 
satisfied at the footslave's begging. Mme Suria, however, was not so easily 
won over. In her opinion there were two matters still outstanding: one, she 
had yet to deliver a stroke of the cane to the slave herself and two, the 
slave had yet to pay his respects to the feet of her other daughter Faara.

She decided that she would 'kill two birds with one stone', and would cane 
the footslave whilst he kissed Faara's feet. She explained this to Faara as 
she zipped her boot back on and took the cane from Darshen. The latter moved 
to one side again whilst miss Faara positioned herself in front of the 
footslave.

Under his nose now, and through eyes moistened by tears of pain, the 
footslave saw that the nylon-stockinged foot and the blue-sneakered foot had 
been replaced by the outstretched right foot of Miss Faara in its white 
sneaker and short, pink sock. Only the elasticated top of the pink sock was 
visible, and it was creased at the heel - caused by the angle of her 
outstretched foot. Miss Faara, although she wasn't being paid as an 
interpreter, kindly explained to the footslave what was about to happen:

"Now Madam Suria cane slave while slave kiss Faara's foot. Slave obey! 
 Kiss!".

The slave lowered his lips to the top of the young woman's dusty white 
sneaker and braced himself for what he hoped would be the last stinging cut 
of the rattan cane. In the corner of his eye he saw Mme Suria's booted foot 
twist behind him as she raised the cane above her head and then brought it 
crashing down onto his buttocks:

Swish...Crack!

Agony! She had caught him just on the crease between his upper legs and his 
buttocks - a particularly sensitive area. The slave screamed into mistress 
Faara's sneaker, much to her delight.

All three women laughed with joy, intoxicated by the power they had over 
this pathetic and helpless male slave. In fact, it occurred to Faara that, 
unlike the criminals who had been sentenced by the courts to a specific 
number of lashes, this hapless slave was completely at the mercy of their 
feminine whims. There was, in theory, no limit to the number of strokes they 
could inflict upon him.

Except that the soccer match on TV was now over, and the men of the family, 
together with the footslave's master, master Peter, were now making their 
way down the stairs to the basement to see what the women were up to.

How the men all laughed when they saw the slave bent over the wooden trestle 
and howling into Miss Faara's sneakered foot. Mr Anuar, the girl's father, 
seemed particularly impressed at their handiwork on the slave's buttocks. He 
had indeed taught them well - how to reduce a criminal or a slave into a 
gibbering wreck after only three well-delivered strokes. Anuar too missed 
the punishment canings.

For a moment the footslave feared that Mr Anuar was going to cane him. 
Imagine how painful that would be - a caning from a professional flogger! 
But, fortunately for the footslave, it wasn't to be. Master Peter had 
several houses still to see on this street and time was pressing.

The footslave was untied from the trestle by Faara and Darshen and handed 
back safely to master Peter. The master and the slave had certainly had two 
very different experiences of eastern hospitality in this particular 
household!