Footslave Themepark
      Submitted on 06/12/08


Part 1 - The Welcome

The four young women and their boyfriends, all in their 20s, reached the 
entrance to the theme park. They read the sign on the gate:

'Welcome to the Footslave Themepark!

Strictly adults only.

No admittance to persons under the age of 18.'

'This is going to be fun!', exclaimed Olga, the leader of the group.

Her friends knew she was right. It had been Olga's idea to come to the theme 
park, and it was a brilliant idea! The excuse was to celebrate Angela's 25th 
birthday -- not that this particular group of friends needed any excuse to 
humiliate pathetic, male footslaves. They were all haughty, arrogant, spoilt 
young people -- confident in their innate superiority over mere slaves. And 
what better place to exercise and demonstrate that superiority than in a 
theme park devoted to the subject of foot slavery?

The women in the group had all chosen their footwear particularly carefully 
that day. They knew that their feet and footwear would be the centre of 
attention, and they had adorned their feet accordingly. Their boyfriends had 
merely come to watch, and to enjoy the sight of the footslave-losers 
worshipping their girls' feet.

At 27, Olga was the eldest of the group. She was walking arm in arm with her 
boyfriend Thomas. Olga had chosen to wear her blue denim jeans, black 
sneakers and red socks. She fully realised that this was something of a 
colour clash, but it was entirely deliberate. She wanted the footslaves who 
would be attending to her pretty feet to be able to distinguish clearly 
between her shoes, her socks and the bottom of her jeans. She intended to be 
quite specific about where they could look and what they could kiss or smell 
at any given point. The three different colours would give the slaves no 
excuse for getting it wrong. If she ordered them to kiss the bottom of her 
jeans, for example, they would be able to see clearly where her blue jeans 
ended and her red socks began. She would therefore have a good reason to 
punish the slave (if she needed a reason), should he inadvertently brush her 
socks with his slave lips. Similarly with her black sneakers, which had two 
white stripes on the sides - she could order the slave to lick the white, 
plastic stripe and not touch the black canvas, if she so wished.

Such absolute power was what turned Olga on. And it was his girlfriend's 
attention to detail when humiliating slaves that turned her boyfriend Thomas 
on. He was going to enjoy watching the various footslaves serving his 
girlfriend's feet. And, by God, he'd make sure they treated her with proper 
respect!

Angela, whose 25th birthday it was, was Olga's best friend. Angela had 
decided to wear her favourite pair of black, lace up, block-heeled, ankle 
boots. They were quite old and tatty, but that was just a reflection of how 
much she enjoyed wearing them. Besides, if your boots needed a spit and a 
polish, what better place to go to than a footslave theme park? Unlike Olga, 
Angela was not so concerned about colour coordination. She was wearing black 
trousers, tucked into thick, black bootsocks, the top of which were just 
showing above her ankle boots. She was, however, conscientiously wearing 
tatty, old socks to go with her tatty, old boots. It's not that her socks 
were dirty - just well worn. Her favourite pair of black socks. Her 
boyfriend, Richard, was so proud of her. She was his special girl and it was 
her special day. He would see to it that the footslaves understood that.

At 23, Nicola was the youngest of the group. She also looked the youngest --  
always had to take her ID with her when she went boozing or clubbing with 
her mates. And Nicola loved boozing and clubbing. She was the life and soul 
of any party, kind hearted and fun loving. Everybody loved her, and she 
pretty much loved everybody. Except for slaves, of course. She despised 
slaves. Their lives were everything hers wasn't - lives of abject misery and 
suffering at the feet of superior human beings like herself. How could she 
not despise them?

Brightly and sexily dressed as ever, Nicola was wearing a short, red 
mini-skirt and shiny, black, patent-leather high heels on her bare legs. She 
was turning heads wherever she went - not that her boyfriend, Robert, was 
concerned. In fact, he was delighted that other men lusted after his woman, 
for he knew that for all her fun-loving gregariousness, Nicola was a good 
girl -- totally faithful to him in the three years they'd been going out 
together. Other men could look, but could not touch. Except, of course, for 
the footslaves - but they were only allowed to touch her feet and shoes with 
their slave tongues and lips. The rest of her beautiful body was his. He 
loved her and would eventually marry her.

And then there was Olufemi, 'Femi' to her friends ('Mistress Olufemi' to 
slaves). Femi was from Africa and was on a student visa. She had only been 
in the country for 5 months, and her boyfriend, Alek, had only just joined 
her from Africa for a 2-week vacation. She was over-the-moon having him with 
her again, and was delighted at how well her new friends, Olga, Angela and 
Nicola, had taken to him. The girls loved his thick, West-African accent, 
just as Thomas, Richard and Robert loved Femi's accent.

Although it was a bright, autumn day Femi thought it was cold. She was 
therefore well wrapped-up in a thick, long brown suede coat with blue jeans 
tucked into knee-length, brown leather zip-up boots. Although they couldn't 
be seen, she was wearing thick, white socks inside her boots - keeping her 
soft, black feet cosy and warm. She snuggled into Alex, who had his arm 
round her, as the 8 friends strolled happily and excitedly through the 
entrance gate to the theme park.

Immediately inside the gate they were greeted by one of the park's 
'hostesses' - who was wearing the official hostesses' 'uniform' of white 
T-shirt with the words 'Footslave Themepark' emblazoned on it; red 
track-suit bottoms with a white stripe down the side; and red and white 
sneakers. Kneeling humbly beside the hostess's feet was footslave no. 42 - 
one of the so-called 'greeter' slaves.

'Hi folks! Welcome to the Footslave Themepark,' chirped the hostess with a 
friendly smile. 'My name is Amanda, and this is one of our footslaves. 
Please allow him to greet you, ladies, by presenting your feet for him to 
kiss!'

Pointedly, Amanda was not inviting the male guests to have their feet 
kissed, but the group knew the score already. Men could accompany their 
wives and girlfriends into the Park; they were welcome to watch their women 
humiliating the slaves; they could even assist their women in tormenting the 
slaves. But they could not use the slaves. Use of the footslaves was 
strictly for the women only.

As always, being the natural leader of the group, Olga was the first to step 
forward, an evil grin on her pretty face, in order to have her feet kissed 
by the 'greeter-slave'. She stretched forward her black-sneakered right foot 
under the kneeling slave's nose.

Footslave no. 42 was a fairly new arrival at the theme park. He had been 
bought by the park owners at auction and knew he could expect to spend the 
rest of his life in the park. It was usual for the most newly arrived, and 
therefore relatively inexperienced, slaves to be employed at the gate as 
'greeters'. After all, all they had to do was to humbly and respectfully 
kiss the feet of the park's female guests - under the watchful eyes of the 
hostesses, of course. It was quite a simple task - the greeter slaves didn't 
have to speak to the mistresses - just kiss their shoes or boots. It was 
difficult even for a dumb slave to mess that up!

As he lowered his head towards Olga's outstretched foot he could smell the 
rubber and canvass of her black sneakers. He could see that she was wearing 
bright, red socks under her blue jeans, and that her sock was now creased 
around the ankle - caused by the positioning of her outstretched foot. As 
his eye's focused on the young woman's shoe in preparation for kissing the 
toe of her sneaker, he noticed that it was quite dusty and dirty. The white 
stripes down the side of the sneaker showed up the dirt particularly well. 
They were by no means the dirtiest sneakers he had ever had to kiss during 
his short period in the theme park, but this young woman had clearly not 
made any effort to clean up her shoes prior to her visit . But, then again, 
why should she? Was that not what the theme park was for? For women to come 
and have their shoes licked and cleaned by male footslaves?

Footslave no. 42 lowered his slave lips to the black, rubber toe of Olga's 
sneaker and placed a respectful, audible kiss on the dirt.

Olga squealed with delight:

'Cool! I can feel his lips on my toes!'

Her friends all laughed, and the hostess Amanda beamed with delight as Olga 
then withdrew her right foot and replaced it with her left.

Again the slave placed a respectful kiss on the toe of her outstretched, 
black sneaker.

'Me next!' shouted Nicola, moving forward and stretching out her patent 
leather-clad foot under the slave's face.

Footslave no. 42 noticed how her shapely, bare ankle wiggled in its spiked 
heel as she positioned her foot for him to humbly kiss. He lowered his lips 
to touch the toe of her shiny stiletto. As he pulled away he saw that his 
slave lips had temporarily left a moist mark on the shiny leather.

'I can feel his breath!', exclaimed Nicola.

Robert, her boyfriend laughed:

'I hate to think what his breath must smell like after having to kiss and 
lick women's dirty feet and shoes all day long!'

The guests all laughed, but footslave no. 42 knew that he was not yet 
considered worthy to 'lick' women's dirty shoes or boots, let alone their 
bare feet. Even if the lady was wearing sandals or flip-flops he was under 
strict instructions not to allow his slave lips to touch the lady's bare 
skin. In the case of flip-flops he had to carefully kiss the very front of 
the sandal below the toes.

Nicola quickly placed her other foot under the footslave's nose. As he again 
kissed the shiny toe of the shoe he noticed this time how the skin around 
the top of her heel was creased, and he could even see a small area of 
redness at the top of her heel where, presumably, the shoe had been rubbing. 
The shoes looked very shiny and new. He could literally see his pathetic, 
slave reflexion in them.

Next it was the turn of the birthday girl herself - Angela.

Footslave no. 42 preferred kissing boots to shoes - not that anyone cared 
about his preferences. But he did like the sense of the lady's footwear 
towering above him as he kissed the toe of a feminine boot. Even ankle boots 
seemed to speak of a lady's power and authority over him. And when he could 
catch a glimpse of the top of the lady's bootsock it always made him feel 
even more humble. Even her sock seemed to tower above him. It made him 
realise that he was nothing - the lowest of the low - a boot-kissing queer.

Unlike her friends before her, Angela had decided to give a verbal order to 
the slave. And why not? It was, after all, her big day. She was the reason 
they were all here - and she was determined to enjoy herself:

'Kiss my black ankle-boot, dirty footslave, and make sure you don't soil my 
boots with your stinking, slave saliva!'

She stretched out her black boot under the slave's face as the others roared 
with approval. They could all see the irony (deliberate on her part, of 
course) of Angela being in the least bit concerned about the slave soiling 
the dirty, scuff-marked toes of her boots. If anything, the boots could do 
with a good dose of slave saliva, if only to remove some of the in-ground 
dust and street-dirt.

Fired up by his girlfriend's verbal abuse of the slave, Richard added his 
penny's-worth:

'Yeah, it's my girlfriend's birthday today, slaveboy. Make sure you kiss her 
boots respectfully and don't slobber over them!'

'Oh. Many happy returns, Miss!' exclaimed the hostess, Amanda.

Footslave no 42 also wished he could wish the superior young woman, now 
towering above him in her black ankle boots, a happy birthday, but he 
realised, of course, that such words of greeting, even from an official 
'greeting-slave', would not only be meaningless (because he was just a 
slave) but would also earn him a severe whipping. Greeting slaves were not 
allowed to talk. End of story.

He would, however, heed the birthday girl's order for him not to 'soil her 
boots', or, as her boyfriend had so eloquently put it to him, not to 
'slobber' over her boots.

He lowered his lips to the musty, scuffed leather of her black lace-up ankle 
boot and placed a respectful dry kiss onto the toe. Because of the scuff 
marks it felt rough under his lips. He wished deep inside that he could 
raise his face slightly and kiss the softness of her black bootsock, peeping 
out over the top of her ankle boot. He had 'ambitions' to become one of the 
theme park's sockslaves. He liked the idea of having to kiss and smell 
ladies' socks - the idea seemed so much more intimate than just kissing 
their outer footwear. But such 'promotion' was probably a long way off for 
him. For now, he was merely allowed to kiss shoes and boots.

After he had respectfully kissed mistress Angela's other, equally dirty and 
scuffed, black leather ankle boot, the group of friends encouraged mistress 
Femi to step up to the slave.

Femi at first appeared a little more reluctant than the other girls to have 
her feet kissed. She was still not used to the whole concept of slavery - so 
ingrained in this society which she had come to as a foreign student, but 
quite alien to her own culture. She was from a rich family in Africa, and 
her family had servants. But they treated their servants well and with 
respect. They certainly didn't make them bow down and kiss their feet!

However, 'when in Rome', as the saying goes.

Femi's boyfriend, Alek, had a particularly large grin on his face. Unlike 
his girlfriend he had no qualms about seeing these slave-men humiliated. He 
just wished he could humiliate them himself. He assisted his girlfriend to 
step forward, and put his arm round her as the slave lowered his lips to 
Femi's outstretched brown, knee-length, leather boot, protruding from under 
her coat.

Footslave no. 42 was excited. Knee-length boots were even more dominating 
than ankle-boots. They really did exude power and make him feel small. He 
stared momentarily at the black zip up the side of the spike-heeled boot. 
How he would love to undo that zip with his mouth and see what sort of sock, 
if any, she was wearing inside the long, brown boot. He could sense the look 
of disdain on the young woman's face, and her boyfriend's evil grin of 
pleasure, as he lowered his slave lips to touch the toe of the 
well-polished, outstretched boot. The hem of Femi's coat brushed the top of 
the slave's head as he placed his respectful kiss.

Both Femi and her boyfriend giggled with delight. She may not be used to 
dealing with slaves, but she could, and would, get used to it! This was fun!

Finally, footslave no. 42 kissed Femi's left boot, and the initial greeting 
process was done.

Hostess Amanda handed everyone a brochure each, listing the various 
attractions within the theme park, and the group of friends moved off.

Footslave no. 42, of course, remained kneeling at the feet of hostess 
Amanda. When not in the actual process of greeting female guests, he was 
under strict instructions to stare humbly at mistress Amanda's sneakers. If 
he was lucky, because her red and white track-suit bottoms were elasticated 
at the bottom, he would occasionally catch a glance of her thin white ankle 
socks underneath - or at least the top of them as she was wearing low-cut 
sneaker socks that barely showed above the top of her sneakers. The slave 
wished he could take off mistress Amanda's sneakers and smell her socks. But 
that was another 'privilege' he had yet to earn.

The 8 friends strolled slowly along into the theme park proper, reading the 
brochures as they went along.

'I like the sound of the "trampoline"', said Nicola, 'Imagine jumping up and 
down on a human trampoline!'

'Hardly human', laughed Robert, 'slave, more like!'

Nicola acknowledged her mistake.

'Well I for one intend to have my boots shined by one of the 
 "shoeshine-boys"', commented Angela.

The others couldn't help laughing.

'Oh, Angela, you're so funny!', screamed Olga, 'One minute you don't want a 
slave to touch your boots with his saliva, and the next minute you do!'

'Well, so what?', replied Angela, smiling. 'It's my birthday, and I can 
change my mind if I want to!'

'Well said, honey!', exclaimed Richard, giving her a big kiss on the cheek 
as he protectively put his arm around her. 'If you want your boots shined I'll 
make damn sure one of these footslave-losers does a good job for you. Don't 
you worry!'

Angela quivered inside. She loved it when her man was so strong and macho.

'I think Femi needs to have her boots cleaned as well', said Alek in his 
heavy West-African accent.

'They do not need cleaned!', exclaimed Femi, also in her cute African 
accent, 'I polished them myself just yesterday!'

'Why?' enquired, Alek, not unreasonably, 'that's what these dirty footslaves 
are for - to lick clean my girl's boots!' He snogged her as she giggled with 
delight.

'Well, I for one intend to visit the "sockslaves"', interjected Olga. 
'Thomas can vouch for the fact that I've been wearing these same socks for 3 
days and I want to see how a sockslave likes having to sniff them!'. She 
stopped momentarily in order to pull up her right trouser leg and display 
her red sock to her friends.

'I certainly can vouch for that', added Thomas. 'Olga darling, your socks 
stink. Trust me, you don't need a sock-sniffing slave to tell you that!'

Everyone laughed.

'What's this?', enquired Nicola, pointing to a section of the brochure 
entitled 'Grindstone'.

'I've no idea,' replied Olga. Looks like it's the centre-piece of the theme 
park, though, whatever it is!'

'Hmm, let's leave it till the end, then,' proposed Nicola. The friends all 
agreed.

Meanwhile, Angela had spotted her 'shoeshine-boy'.

Slave no 167, the 'Shoeshine-boy', was actually in his early fifties. He was 
one of the most experienced footslaves in the theme park, and had been 
enslaved on one of the shoe-shine stands for some 5 years. There were other 
shoeshine-stands dotted throughout the theme park, but this one was the 
busiest, as it was the closest to the entrance. Many women, rather like 
Angela, made straight for the stand. Indeed, he even had his regular 
customers, so good was he at his humble task.

The stand consisted of a comfortable, raised leather chair on which the lady 
could sit. Two metal foot-rests were available for her to rest her feet on, 
and they were positioned at just the right height for the kneeling footslave 
to lick clean the lady's footwear. Unlike on conventional shoe-shine stands, 
the theme park's shoeshine-boy had no cloths or brushes that he was allowed 
to use - just his slave tongue. If the shoe or boot was particularly dirty, 
he just had to lick all the harder, although, for exceptionally dirty or 
scuff-marked boots and shoes, he was allowed to dip his slave nose into some 
shoe polish and apply it to the lady's footwear with his nose. He was never 
allowed to touch the lady's footwear with his hands (which were secured 
behind his back), so his tongue and/or nose had their work cut out to do a 
good job. If truth be told, however, the purpose of this particular 
shoe-shine stand was not so much the polishing clean of a lady's shoes, as 
the humiliation of the slave.

And Angela, the birthday girl, was ready for some slave-humiliation. Her 
friends gathered round to watch as Angela strode purposefully up to the 
stand and raised herself up onto the leather chair. As she positioned her 
booted feet onto the two metal footrests she was very aware that she was the 
centre of attention - as she jolly well should be on her birthday! She felt 
like a goddess, like a queen sitting on her throne, and she literally looked 
down through her pretty nose at the pathetic underling kneeling humbly and 
submissively at her feet.

'Boy, shine my boots! I want to see them sparkling. Lick away all the dirt 
and grime, and make sure you remove all the scuff marks with your slave 
tongue!', she spat down at the much older man - old enough to be her father.

'Yes, mistress. At once, mistress,' replied footslave no 167. Unlike 
footslave no 42 the 'shoeshine boy' was allowed to speak to his mistresses - 
if only to humbly acknowledge their orders.

Angela's boyfriend, Richard, true to his word, wanted to make sure this sad 
old loser of a girls' footslave fully appreciated how important it was to do 
a good job on his girl's boots. He bent down so that his face was close to 
that of the kneeling footslave, and spoke quietly in his ear (yet making 
sure what he was saying was loud enough for Angela and the others to hear):

'Do as your mistress, says, slaveboy, or I'll warm your shoulders with the 
whip!'

Richard had noticed in the brochure that each and every 'attraction' in the 
theme park had a nearby whip for use by the clients if they felt that 
particular footslave needed some extra encouragement. Moreover the brochure 
had specifically stated that male guests were just as welcome to avail 
themselves of the whip as the female clients.

Richard lifted the single-tailed, short, brown leather whip from it's hook 
beside the shoe-shine stand and ran it through his fingers, ready to bring 
it down on the kneeling slave's bare shoulders should he deem it necessary.

Angela felt another erotic thrill pulse through her at the sight of her man 
being so dominant over the kneeling piece of male filth at her feet. She 
giggled, took out some gum, and popped it in her mouth. She knew that 
arrogantly chewing gum whilst the footslave licked her dirty boots clean 
would make her look even more cool.

Footslave no 167, the shoeshine-slave, shuffled forward on his knees and 
began licking mistress Angela's left ankle boot. He began at the top, his 
nose brushing against the exposed elasticated top of Angela's thick, black 
bootsock. The leather tasted foul and bitter. It always did. Despite having 
been a 'shoeshine slave' for 5 years he had never acquired a liking for the 
taste of dirty, sweaty boot leather. But his likes or dislikes were neither 
here nor there. What mattered was that he licked the dirt off the superior 
mistress's boot-leather as he had ben ordered to do. And so he licked hard.

'I think he likes it!' laughed Olga.

If she only knew, thought the footslave.

'Yeah, lick my girl's boots, loser!' shouted Richard, bringing the short, 
leather whip down across the slave's right shoulder with a loud crack.

Angela laughed:

"Whip him again, Richard!' she implored, in between chewing her gum, 'make 
him lick all the dirt off my laces!'

Richard, increasingly fired up, duly indulged his girlfriend's wishes:

Crack!

The whip cut across the slave's back again, causing him, momentarily, to 
stop licking as he let out an involuntary gasp of pain.

"Do as my girlfriend says, slave. Suck on her dirty laces! Suck off all the 
dust and dirt!'

The slave quickly obliged.

'This is so cool!' exclaimed Nicola. 'You look fantastic having your boots 
shined, Angela!'

Angela continued smiling and chewing on her gum as the pathetic old slave 
licked and sucked on the leather upper and the lace of her left ankle-boot. 
As he slowly worked his way down, his back still stinging from the two blows 
from the whip, the experienced shoeshine-slave quickly realised that he 
would need to apply some polish to the scuffed area around the toes. No 
amount of licking alone, however vigorous, could possibly hope to cover up 
the scuff marks on this young woman's boots.

And so, to the delight of the onlookers, he dipped his slave nose into a 
nearby tin of black shoe polish and began to apply it to the toe of mistress 
Angela's boot with his nose.

Even the normally quiet Femi was excited by this act of self-degradation and 
humiliation:

'Look!' she exclaimed to her boyfriend Alek, who was standing with his arm 
around still her, 'the slave is having to rub in the boot polish with his 
nose!'

Alek loved the way his girlfriend had a propensity for stating the obvious. 
Really, he just loved seeing her so excited by the slave's humiliation.

'That's right, sweetie. And he'll do the same to your boots if you want him 
to!'

Femi kissed him long and hard on the lips, whilst the pathetic footslave 
used his tongue and lips to shine up the rest of mistress Angela's black 
ankle-boot.
It was a full fifteen minutes before he was ready to make a start on her 
right boot.

His slave mouth tasted of leather, boot-dirt and shoe polish.

His customer's mouth, in contrast, tasted cool and minty as she continued to 
chew nonchalantly on her gum.

Part 2 - Sockface

Slave no.167 spent a further 10 minutes licking, and polishing with his 
nose, mistress Angela's remaining black, lace-up ankle boot.

By this time Angela was becoming bored:

'Finish now, slave,' she ordered perfunctorily.

Her boyfriend Richard was keen to ensure that his birthday girl was 
satisfied with her shoeshine:

'Are you happy with the bootblack's work, darling?' he asked. 'If not -- you 
only have to say the word and I'll thrash the living daylights out of him!'

Angela smiled. She smiled because her boyfriend was so cute at such times, 
so protective of her, so strong and macho. She loved him at times like this.

However, she was smiling also at the thought that the fate of the pathetic 
shoeshine slave who was kneeling at her feet, his mouth full of the dirt 
from her scruffy, old ankle boots, was in her pretty, feminine hands. As her 
boyfriend had said, she only had to utter the word and the slave would be 
whipped in front of her. Such power! It exhilarated her. At that moment she 
was truly a goddess!

Nevertheless, she decided to be merciful towards the old man -- not because 
she felt sorry for him, or because she cared what happened to him, but 
simply because she was bored with him. She wanted to move on to the next 
footslave attraction:

'I guess he's done ok - not brilliant, but they'll do,' she replied, 
twisting her booted feet from side to side as she inspected them.

Indeed, despite his mediocre results, she kindly decided to give the 
hardworking bootblack a tip - she took her chewing gum out of her mouth and 
stuck it on the top of his bald head.

Her friends all laughed with approval.

Richard then stepped forward and helped his girlfriend down from the chair.

'Come on, Richard, I want to go for a pedicure now,' she indicated to her 
boyfriend. 'Are you guys coming with us?'

'I wanted to stay here for a bit to see Femi getting her boots shined,' 
replied Alek.

Femi blushed and looked somewhat coy.

'And I want to find this "slave-trampoline" mentioned in the brochure,' said 
Nicola.

'Well, I'm off to have my socks worshipped,' added Olga.

And so, the group of friends agreed to go their separate ways and to meet up 
in two hours time at the theme park restaurant for lunch.

The various boyfriends, gallantly, stayed with their respective women.

Alek had to somewhat cajole his girl Femi into sitting on the high chair on 
the shoeshine stand. Femi, unlike Angela, did not like being the centre of 
attention. And there were plenty of people around watching the shoeshine 
slave at work. Nevertheless she did as Alek requested and climbed up into 
the chair. After all, he had come an awfully long way to see her, and she 
did like pleasing him.

Once sat in the chair, her booted feet resting on the respective, metal 
foot-rests, Femi had to pull up the hem of her suede leather coat to ensure 
that her knee-length, brown leather boots were fully visible. She didn't 
want the shoeshine-slave getting any polish on her expensive coat (she 
dreaded to think what Alek would do to him if he did!)

Alek wanted to hear, as well as see, his girl dominating and humiliating the 
slave.

'Order him to polish your boots, darling,' he urged her, a huge grin on his 
face.

Femi felt her lips going a bit dry. She was actually quite nervous. She just 
wasn't used to dealing with slaves. Servants -- yes. Her family had plenty 
of servants back home. But dealing with, speaking to, giving orders to a 
slave was a wholely different matter. She had to steel herself -- make 
herself sound authoritative and tough. She was acutely aware that Alek was 
watching her every move, and she wanted him to be proud of her:

'Slave, polish my boots with your tongue,' she ordered in her thick, 
west-African accent.

To her relief, the old slave immediately obeyed with a 'yes mistress', 
placing his lips at the top of her left knee-length, brown leather boot --  
and licking.

The sight of his instant obedience emboldened her. She smiled with 
satisfaction at Alek, and was gratified to see his smile of approval in 
return.

She then spoke more confidently to the kneeling slave:

'Slave, make sure you remove all the dirt or I'll have my boyfriend flog 
you. You are nothing but a dirty slave!'

She leaned forwards and pointed with her pretty, scarlet-painted, fingernail 
at a muddy patch just above the stitching of the sole of her left boot:

'Lick here! Remove the mud and swallow it, dirty pig!'

'Yes, mistress. This slave obeys you, most gracious and superior mistress.'

Mistress Femi, for she was now behaving like a true slave-mistress, again 
smiled at Alek, who was so proud of her -- his girl, his African princess, 
sitting regally on her throne and making a pathetic old bootblack who was 
more than twice her age tongue-shine her brown leather knee-length boots. 
She looked wonderful and he wanted her now more than ever.

Footslave number 167, was aware that this young African mistress was 
becoming increasingly emboldened. He had seen it many times before, the 
initial diffidence of the lady giving way to her natural, feminine urge to 
dominate a lowly male slave. He therefore licked vigorously at the dirty 
patch on the side of her boot just as she had ordered him to. His back was 
still smarting and he was desperate to avoid more lashes. The taste of the 
boot-dirt was by far the lesser of two evils.

And so he tasted brown boot-leather, licked and swallowed, -- as he would 
continue to do on various female boots and shoes throughout the rest of the 
day. And the next day. And the next.

Olga and Thomas, meanwhile, had reached the 'sockslaves' booths. One of the 
theme park's uniformed hostesses greeted them at the entrance to the 
attraction, and explained to Olga how it worked:

'There are two types of booth. In the first type, with the red door, the 
sockslave is lying on his back in a hole in the ground, with only his face 
exposed. You can sit on the chair above him, remove your sneakers, and rest 
your socked feet on his face for him to smell, kiss, or massage your socked 
feet with his face - whatever you wish.

In the second type of booth, with the blue door, the sockslave is kneeling 
at the end of a couch on which you can recline and rest your feet. The slave 
again has to sniff, kiss or massage your socked feet - the only differences 
being that in this booth he can, if you wish, use his hands to massage your 
feet, and, unlike in the red booth, this slave can also remove your shoes 
for you.

It's really all down to your personal preferences, miss - or you can try 
both!'

Olga felt spoilt for choice, but quite liked the idea of the humble 
sockslave being imprisoned on his back, lying in a dirty hole and forced to 
look up at her pretty face as she tormented him with her sweaty socks.

'I think I'll try the red booth,' she decided. Red socks - red booth, she 
thought. I'll let the hand of fate guide me on this one.

'Can my boyfriend come into the booth with me?' she asked the hostess.

'Of course, miss. There is a separate chair at the side of the booth for 
male guests to watch.'

'No offence, Olga, but I've already caught a whiff of your stinky socks this 
morning before you put your sneakers on,' interjected Thomas. 'If you don't 
mind I'm off to get an ice-cream and have a wander round. I'll meet you 
outside here when you've finished - say in about 20 minutes?'

'Better make it half an hour!' replied his girlfriend. This arrangement 
suited Olga fine - she would feel less inhibited about humiliating the 
sockslave with her sock-smell without her boyfriend being present. After 
all, he was a real man, and she didn't want to impose her stinky feet on 
him!

A wicked grin crossed her pretty features as she entered the red booth 
alone.

It was fairly dark inside, with the only light being in the ceiling directly 
above the hole in which the socklslave's upturned face was lying. This was 
good, she thought - it helped to focus both the slave's and the mistress's 
minds on the task in hand - the worshipping of the mistress's socked feet.

Olga locked the door of the booth behind her. She didn't want to be 
disturbed.

She sat herself in the comfortable chair directly above the slave and peered 
down at him. He looked scared - humble and scared, just the way she liked 
them! She smiled at him, but it wasn't a friendly smile. It was a smile 
which said 'you are now at my complete mercy, and I'm going to humiliate and 
degrade you with my feet'.

Slave no. 451 knew that feminine smile all to well. He had been a sockslave, 
imprisoned in that very booth, for nearly 10 years now. He had experienced 
pretty much everything a sockslave could experience. And yet each and every 
female customer was different - hence the look of apprehension on his face. 
You just never know what the mistress might do to you. You are literally 
powerless and at her mercy as she towers over you in that chair - ready to 
rest her feet on your face.

Olga decided she would be particularly naughty and give him a taste of her 
sneakered feet first. She placed both her black-sneakered feet on top of the 
slave's face, making sure his nose was covered by the dirty, mud and 
gunk-encrusted grooves in her sneaker-soles:

'How do you like the smell of my dirty sneaker-soles, slave?' she asked him.

Sockslaves, like shoeshine slaves, were allowed to reply, humbly, to their 
mistresses:

'Please mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave is honoured to be 
allowed to see, smell and taste the soles of your dirty sneakers, mistress'.

Olga was pleased at his groveling response, but wanted to make this whole 
experience a bit more personal:

'You may call me "Mistress Olga",' she graciously advised him, 'and I shall 
refer to you as "Sockface".'

The newly named 'Sockface' knew that he had no choice in the matter. If ever 
there was a place where the adage 'the customer is always right' applied, it 
was in his sockbooth.

'Yes, mistress Olga. Thank you, mistress Olga.'

'I expect you'll be wanting to sniff my socks now, Sockface? After all, that's 
what you do all day long, isn't it? Sniff ladies' dirty, sweaty socks?'

Sockface wanted to make sure his customer was aware that he didn't only 
sniff socks:

'Yes, mistress Olga. But, if it pleases you, mistress Olga, this slave can 
also kiss and lick clean your socks, or massage your socked feet with its 
slave face, if it pleases you, mistress Olga.'

His pathetic, whining, cringing servility pleased Olga. She sensed that this 
slave really was frightened of her - as well he should be - for he was 
completely at her mercy.

She laughed.

'Let's see how we get on first with the sock-sniffing, Sockface.'

Mistress Olga reached down to untie her shoe laces and removed her sneakers.

The smell that emerged was more-or-less instantaneous, and strong. She had 
not been joking when she had told her friends earlier that she had been 
wearing the same pair of red, nylon ankle socks for 3 days. Equally, her 
boyfriend Thomas had not been joking when he had said that he didn't want to 
catch another whiff of Olga's dirty socks.

But Olga was not in the least bit embarrassed about the smell she was about 
to impose on 'Sockface'. He was nothing but a stupid sockslave - fit only to 
sniff and lick her dirty, smelly socks. And that was precisely what he was 
now going to do.

From his helpless and prone vantage point, Sockface watched as mistress OIga's 
smiling face disappeared to be replaced by the bottom of her red-socked 
feet. As the socks loomed into view he observed little patches of grey and 
black , where her foot sweat had caused the material of the red nylon socks 
to stain in a chemical reaction with the insides of her sneakers. He also 
saw that, in parts, the stitching on the soles of her socks, particularly 
her right sock, was beginning to wear away. He could see her divine 
footflesh underneath the worn stitching. He also felt a few pieces of red 
sock lint fall onto his upturned face.

But the over-riding sensation was the assault on his nostrils - the 
familiar, strong, unpleasant smell of sweaty, feminine socked feet.

Just as the shoeshine-slaves never acquired a taste for shoe leather, so the 
sockslaves never acquired a taste for sweaty, female socks. It was a 
humiliating, degrading smell -and, of course, it was meant to be. Mistress 
Olga did not want Sockface to enjoy the smell. She wanted him to suffer, to 
gasp for fresh air, to beg her for mercy, for relief from the foul stink 
that now was enveloping him.

'How are you liking it, Sockface?' she asked mischievously.

Sockface spluttered and moaned:

'Oh mistress Olga, if it pleases you most beautiful mistress Olga, this 
slave is truly privileged to be smelling your dirty, red socks, but humbly 
begs its mistress, if it pleases you, mistress Olga, to allow the slave some 
respite from the smell, as it finds the smell somewhat overpowering. Oh, 
pray, mistress Olga.'

The slave seemed genuinely to hate the smell, and mistress Olga was pleased. 
He was such a pathetic cry-baby!

'Slave, I would have thought the answer to your problem was clear - if you 
want to get rid of the smell, instead of whining, why don't you start 
licking the sweat off my socks? Surely that would help you to get rid of the 
smell?'

Still surrounded by mistress Olga's sock-stink the pathetic sockslave had to 
agree. He could not, of course, have begun licking the soles of mistress 
Olga's socks without her permission. But now that he had that permission, he 
wasted no time in extending his pathetic slave tongue onto the smelliest 
part of her socks - the area beneath her toes, and started licking at the 
soft material in a desperate effort to remove some of the ingrained sweat.

Tasting feminine footsweat was always preferable to smelling it.

As he licked, he caught occasional glimpses of mistress Olga's smooth, bare 
legs above the tops of her red ankle socks under her blue, denim jeans. But 
he had little time to admire her smooth skin or shapely feminine ankles. He 
was a sockslave - with a job to do, and it was very much in his own best 
interests to get on with it!

Meanwhile, outside in the fresh air, Nicola and her boyfriend, Robert, had 
found what they had been looking for - the slave-trampolines. There were 
dozens off them, with a queue of women waiting their turn to jump up and 
down on them.

Nicola wanted a go, so they queued.

When they reached the front of the queue the hostess explained the rules - 
no shoes, unless the lady is merely doing a 'headstand'. When actually 
'trampolining' on the slaves, ladies had to be in their stockinged or bare 
feet in order to avoid excessive injury to the slaves (this was a 
particularly important rule for young women such as Nicola who had a 
penchant for wearing high-heels).

The hostess then showed Nicola to her personal trampoline-slave whilst 
Robert looked on from behind the barrier. The hostess explained to her that 
she could have fifteen minutes maximum on the trampoline as other ladies 
were queuing up. It was evidently one of the most popular attractions in the 
theme park.

Nicola decided she would give the slave a taste of her spiked heels by 
head-standing on him for a few minutes, before taking her shoes off and 
pounding up and down on his stomach.

Footslave no 238 hadn't been a 'trampoline' for very long. He hated it. He 
would have much preferred to be back in his previous position of 'sockslave'. 
Being a sockslave was humiliating and degrading, but at least you weren't 
constantly feeling winded and in pain as you were when a lady was jumping up 
and down on you.

He didn't like the head-standing either, and looked with some trepidation 
out of the corner of his eye at the young lady's shiny, black patent-leather 
high heels as she was escorted over to him. However, secured as he was on 
his back on the ground, he had little choice in the matter. He adopted the 
'starting' position that the trampoline slaves had to adopt for each new 
client - he turned his face towards the approaching young woman and rested 
his right cheek on the dusty ground. He saw her shapely bare legs 
approaching him under her tiny, red mini-skirt. At least she was petite and 
pretty, he thought (a somewhat outrageous thought for a slave!).

Mistress Nicola looked over to her boyfriend who smiled back his 
encouragement as she, somewhat gingerly, placed first her right high-heeled 
foot, and then her left, onto the slave's upturned cheek. She felt her heels 
digging into the side of his cheek as she struggled a little to keep her 
balance.

For his part, the 'trampoline-slave' remained perfectly motionless. It was 
ultra-important not to do anything to cause the young woman to lose her 
balance. The punishment for causing that just didn't bear thinking about 
(another reason why footslave no. 238 didn't relish being a 
'trampoline-slave'). He could feel the grains of dust from the soles of her 
shoes on his cheek.

In addition, from the corner of his eye, footslave no 238 could still see 
the red and white sneakered feet and track-suit bottoms of the hostess who 
had escorted the customer to the trampoline. It was usual practice for the 
hostesses to wait with the client until they were sure they had their 
balance and were confident in what they were doing. He saw the hostess's 
thin, white nylon sneaker-socks crease as she stepped forward to help steady 
Nicola as she stood on the trampoline's face. Footslave no 238 wished he 
could be sniffing and kissing those white socks, instead of having to bear 
the weight of the young woman in her high-heels on his face. But a themepark 
footslave had no choice over where he is placed - it was entirely at the 
whim of the park's owners who were all, needless to say, female. Perhaps if 
his stomach wasn't so fat and spongy?

'OK, miss. I think you've got the hang of it now. When you're ready just 
kick off your shoes and feel free to jump up and down on his ugly stomach,' 
the hostess advised Nicola.

'Thanks,' replied the latter, now beaming over at her supportive boyfriend:

'Go for it!' he shouted to her.

Nicola decided the slave had had enough of her heels digging into his face. 
She gaily kicked off her patent black leather high-heeled shoes and stepped 
onto his upturned stomach. She was gratified to hear him gasp, but she very 
much wanted to make him groan. And so, she stood with both feet together on 
the middle of his fat stomach, and then jumped.

The slave did indeed groan when she landed.

For a first attempt, Nicola landed quite well. Just a faint wobble.

'Bravo!' shouted her boyfriend Robert.

'I think I can feel his guts!' she shouted back, laughing.

'Ha! Ha! See if you can find his kidneys!', suggested Robert.

Given her limited knowledge of anatomy Nicola was never, realistically, 
going to be able to do that.

But she could jump up and down on a male slave. And so she did - several 
more times.

If he hadn't been winded, footslave no. 238 might have enjoyed the sight of 
Nicola's bare legs and undergarments as her miniskirt flapped around her. He 
might also have enjoyed the feel of her soft, bare feet on his bare stomach 
if they had rested there for any length of time. But Nicola was jumping up 
and down vigorously on him now. You could say the young woman was getting 
somewhat carried away. She had never been on a real trampoline, but being on 
a 'human', sorry - 'slave', trampoline was definitely enormous fun.

The hostess had to come back after mistress Nicola's fifteen minutes of fun 
was up to ask her to stop.

As she dismounted from her trampoline, the hostess did invite her, however, 
to place her bare feet on the slave's lips for him to kiss. It was another 
'ritual' of the trampoline attraction - the slave had to thank the customer 
for the privilege of having her trample him.

Still somewhat breathless from her exertions, Nicola duly raised her bare 
right foot to the top of the slave's lips and felt him place a reverential 
kiss on the bottom of her toes:

'Thank you, mistress, for using this slave as a trampoline', spluttered the 
slave, even more out of breath than mistress Nicola.

He would have five minutes respite until the next customer.

Nicola, for her part, put her shoes back on and was escorted back outside 
the barrier to her waiting boyfriend.

'You looked like you really enjoyed that, sweetheart!' remarked Robert.

'You bet. In fact, I want to go again!' exclaimed Nicola.

Robert laughed and kissed her on the cheek as they went, arm in arm, to the 
back of the queue again.

Meanwhile, back in the sockslave-booth, Sockface had done his best to lick 
and suck out the sweat from the bottom of mistress Olga's dirty, red ankle 
socks. The inside of his mouth tasted foul, and the smell of feminine, 
sweaty feet was still lingering, but it didn't seem as bad as before.

Although the bottom of her socks were now a bit damp, Olga was, on the 
whole, satisfied with Sockface's performance. She was pleased that his face 
now stank of her sock-sweat and that he looked duly humbled and submissive. 
She was now ready for her socked-foot massage.

'You can stop licking now, Sockface. I want you to start massaging my socked 
feet with your face. Use your nose to rub the ball of my foot and my 
arches.I want to feel your face relaxing my feet!'

Sockface was only too happy to oblige. Of all his degrading and demeaning 
duties this was probably his 'favourite' - if there as such a thing. It was 
relatively relaxing for him too - to feel the soft feet and socks of a 
mistress as she rubs her socked feet up and down his slave face. He enjoyed 
feeling the creases in the sock rolling up and down his face, and he enjoyed 
too the little moans of pleasure that mistresses often emitted as they used 
his upturned face as a foot-massager:

'Yes, mistress Olga. At once, mistress Olga. As you wish, mistress Olga'.

Best to remain ultra submissive and to continually try to ingratiate 
yourself with a customer. She could be there a very long time still - unlike 
with some of the other attractions in the theme park there was no time limit 
on how long a mistress could remain with a sockslave. He even had some 
regular visitors who liked to spend entire mornings with him.

As she sat above him having her socked feet massaged by his nose and face, 
Olga did contemplate the possibility of staying there all day! It must be so 
degrading and humiliating for the slave to have her socked feet rubbing up 
and down his ugly, slave face - but it was heaven for her - so relaxing, so 
peaceful. She closed her eyes and momentarily drifted off. She really hadn't 
had enough sleep these past few days.

She was awoken by a polite knock on the door and a female voice from outside 
the locked cubicle:

'Sorry to disturb you miss, but your boyfriend is here and wants to know how 
much longer you'll be?'

Olga came back to reality with a bump.

'Tell him I'll be out in a few minutes please', she shouted back.

She looked down at Sockface who was still dutifully massaging the bottoms of 
her socked feet with his slave nose. He had not stopped during her little 
slumber.

She laughed at him:

'Ha! Ha! I do believe you're beginning to enjoy nosing my socks, Sockface! 
What a pathetic loser you are!'

'Yes, mistress Olga', agreed Sockface.

''Well, I'm afraid all good things have to come to an end. I have to go now. 
But don't worry, I'm sure other ladies will be waiting to use your face to 
clean their dirty socks!'

'Yes, mistress Olga. Thank you, mistress Olga.'

Sockface breathed a sigh of relief as mistress Olga finally removed her 
stinking feet from his face and put her sneakers back on. She looked down at 
him one last time as she stood up:

'Here, I'll help you wash your face for your next customer!' - and with that 
she puckered her pretty lips and spat a huge globule of saliva onto his 
face- her way of thanking him for all his efforts.

''Thank you, most kind and generous mistress Olga.'

Olga had a smirk of satisfaction on her face. If he hadn't been a prone and 
vulnerable footslave, his comment could almost have been interpreted as 
sarcasm. But she knew that Sockface actually meant it - he was actually 
grateful to her for washing his stinking face with her precious saliva.

She laughed and exited the cubicle.

Sure enough, in addition to her boyfriend in the brightness outside, was a 
young woman waiting to go in to the sockslave's booth, with what looked like 
a pair of very dirty and smelly white canvas plimsolls and short, white 
ankle socks with an orange trim.

Part 3 - The Pedicure

Meanwhile Angela and her boyfriend Richard had located one of the 
pedicure-stands.

Angela sat down on the comfortable leather chair, with Richard standing 
beside her. The first thing she noticed was that this chair was at ground 
level, unlike tthe raised chair on the shoeshine-stand. However, as with the 
shoeshine-stand, the slave was on his hands and knees in front of her --  
head humbly bowed over her booted feet, ready to obey her every whim.

Footslave number 701 fully realized how privileged he was with his position 
as a pedicurist-slave. Unlike many of his compatriots he got to smell, 
touch, lick and kiss the bare feet of his female Masters -- not just their 
outer footwear like so many of the other footslaves in the themepark. 
However, he felt that he had earned this privilege after many years of 
service in the Park.

Not that he had become arrogant. He realized too that however privileged he 
might feel, to his customers he was nothing more than a pathetic 
footslave -- fit only to clean and pedicure their dirty feet with his slave 
mouth. As he stared humbly at the black, block-heeled, lace-up ankle boots 
of his new customer he noticed immediately the smell of fresh boot-polish. 
Yet the polish could not disguise the scuff marks around the toes and the 
creases in the leather -- all sure signs that these were the young woman's 
favourite pair of well-worn ankle boots. He noticed also the tops of her 
thick, black, nylon boot-socks peering out of the top of her ankle boots, 
and into which her black trousers were tucked.

Footslave number 701 humbly lowered his lips to the toe of each boot and 
gave each a respectful, slavish kiss as an indication of his readiness to 
serve the mistress.

A nearby, uniformed hostess explained to Angela all the options --  
basically, she could have the slave do anything to her bare feet from just 
kissing and licking them clean, to having a full pedicure. Her wish was his 
command!

Angela had decided she would begin by having him suck clean her dirty toes. 
She had not bathed her feet that morning, and they were starting to feel a 
bit sticky and sweaty inside her thick, black socks and her leather ankle 
boots. She cleared her throat and announced her wishes:

'Slave, take off my boots and socks and suck the dirty toe-jam and 
toe-cheese from my bare toes!'

She glanced over at her boyfriend Richard to see if he approved. The evil 
grin on his face indicated that he did.

' Yes, mistress. At once, mistress.'

Footslave number 701, acutely aware that both the themepark hostess, and his 
customer's boyfriend, were watching him intently, wasted no time in obeying 
the mistress's orders.

Still with head bowed, he reached up to the top of her laces and began to 
untie first the left boot and then the right. As he removed the young 
woman's boots his fumbling, slave fingers inadvertently brushed against the 
tops of her black boot-socks. He hoped he would not be punished for touching 
her socks before he had actually removed her boots. But of course, neither 
mistress Angela, nor her boyfriend, nor the themepark hostess, had even 
noticed his small ineptitude in this regard. Indeed such matters were 
inconsequential to everyone except the humble footslave himself. He alone 
needed to concern himself with such insignificant details, as he alone was 
the one who had been tasked with removing the young woman's footwear with 
the utmost respect and humility -- as befits a pathetic footslave.

He was acutely aware of the fact that the very act of having to remove his 
customer's boots and socks from her feet was a deliberate part of his 
humiliation. She was, after all, a fully grown woman, more than capable of 
taking off her own footwear. But why should she? Why should she do anything 
to help him? He was the slave and she was the mistress. Removing her own 
footwear was, quite literally, beneath her, but it was an honour and a 
privilege for a mere slave such as he.

Having removed her ankle boots and placed them on the ground beside him, 
footslave number 701 had his first close-up sight of the mistress's thick, 
black, nylon boot-socks. They had felt warm, and rather like the boots, were 
evidently a favourite pair as they displayed unmistakable signs of being 
well worn -- notably the areas of grey around the toes where some of the 
black colour had faded. However there was only the faintest odour of 
feminine foot-sweat. The socks did not appear to be very dirty. He 
respectfully kissed the toe of each socked foot.

As he did so, Mistress Angela wiggled her toes inside her socks, enjoying 
the feel of the cool air around her socked toes.

Her boyfriend Richard, however, was becoming a litle impatient. He wanted to 
see this loser-slave sucking his girlfriend's dirty toes:

'Come on, Angie,' he exclaimed, 'make him take off your socks and eat your 
toe jam!'

Angela smiled lovingly at Richard before barking down at the humble 
footslave:

'You heard my boyfriend, footlick! Now do as he says -- take off my socks 
and get licking. I want my toes cleaned and polished with your tongue!'

'Yes, master and mistress. At once, master and mistress. This slave obeys 
you,' responded footslave number 701.

And with that he quickly, though respectfully, peeled off the mistress's 
thick, black, nylon boot-socks to reveal her bare feet.

They were not the prettiest feet he had ever seen - quite long, pale and 
white, and her left foot in particular had quite a prominent vain across the 
top. Furthermore, her toes were rather long and one or two of them might 
even have been described as mis-shapen. He noticed too that her unpainted 
toenails, especially on the big toes, were chipped and rough at the edges, 
and there were clear signs of dark toe-jam under the tops of the nails. In 
addition, her socks had left some tank-marks around the top of her ankles 
where the elastic had been digging into her skin.

Nevertheless, they were unmistakably the soft, warm, bare feet of a superior 
young woman -- and they needed his slavish attentions. So he gently raised 
mistress Angela's left foot to his slave lips and allowed her big toe to 
penetrate into his slave mouth.

The toe tasted salty. He could feel the roughness of the big toenail on the 
roof of his mouth as the little balls of sweat and dead skin, commonly known 
as toe-jam or toe-cheese, slid onto his tongue and down his throat -- where 
they belonged.

'Ugh! That's totally gross!' exclaimed Richard. 'What a pathetic loser! He 
really is having to swallow your dirty toe jam, Angie!'

Angela giggled, and smiled lovingly again over at her boyfriend. She was 
pleased that he was disgusted. She would never want him to do what she was 
making the footslave do. He was a real man, and she would lose her respect 
for him if he were to perform such a humiliating task on her feet. As far as 
the footslave kneling humbly at her feet was concerned, however, she felt it 
entirely appropriate that he should be compelled to eat her sweaty toe jam. 
That was, after all, all he was good for.

The footslave, for his part, had moved on to the other toes on her left 
foot. Mixed in with the salty toe-cheese he could taste little pieces of 
black sock-lint. It was a feast fit for a footslave. He could see the dirt 
disappearing from the superior young woman's feet into his inferior, slave 
mouth, and felt satisfied with his efforts. Everything was as it should be.

It took him some 10 minutes of vigorous licking and sucking to clean both 
mistress Angela's bare feet. By this time, Angela had decided her toenails 
could do with being painted. She glanced over at the equipment arranged on 
the ground beside the kneeling footslave. There was a cloth - presumably for 
drying her feet; an array of little bottles of paint of various colours; and 
some spongy, white toe-dividers. She decided that she would have the slave 
paint her toenails black as she was a bit of the closet 'Goth' (even though 
she was currently blonde!). She was very much into the Goth music scene, and 
liked the Goth fashion even though she wasn't quite brave enough to wear all 
the heavy Goth style make-up. Dressing in black was about as far as she 
normally went!

'Finish that now, slave. I want you to dry my feet with that cloth and paint 
my toenails with that black paint. Move!' she barked down impatiently at the 
humble slave kneeling at her feet.

A flash of inspiration entered Richard's head. Inspired by what he had 
witnessed at the shoeshine-stand, he made the following suggestion:

'Ha! Ha! Why don't you make him paint your toenails with his ugly nose, 
Angie!'

Angela laughed out loud. She thought it was a brilliant idea -- anything to 
humiliate the slave even further had her unflinching support.

'Great idea, Richard!' she chirped happily. She then looked down on the 
footslave and altered her tone to a more dominant one, suitable for 
addressing a mere slave:

'Slave, you will do as my boyfriend suggests, and apply the black paint to 
my toenails with your stupid, slave nose. And you'd better make damn sure 
you don't smudge any of the paint onto my skin or I'll paint your flesh red 
with the whip!'

She was referring to the thin, leather whip hanging by the side of the 
pedicure-stand -- for use by the guests on any inept or recalcitrant 
footslave who failed to please.

Actually, this wasn't the first time that footslave number 701 had been 
ordered to apply toenail paint using his nose. The young couple were not the 
first to come up with that particular idea. However, he knew it would make 
his job all the more difficult, and could sense that this particular young 
mistress was not bluffing when she had threatened to punish any ineptitude 
on his part with the whip:

'This slave obeys you, master and mistress,' he replied humbly. He was an 
experienced footslave and knew it was essential that he remained 
ultra-humble and submissive in front of this young woman and her boyfriend 
as they became increasingly emboldened in their domination towards him.

He obediently dried mistress Angela's bare feet with the clean, white cloth 
before inserting the soft, white, spongy toe-dividers in between her 
feminine toes. To the great amusement of the young couple he then began 
painting the tip of his nose with the black toe nail paint, using the small 
brush from inside the bottle, before lowering his nose to the big toe on her 
left foot.

As the slave dutifully lowered his nose in order to apply the paint to her 
big toenail, mistress Angela consciously kept her foot still. She fully 
realised, of course, that she didn't have to do anything to help the dirty 
footslave in his humiliating task. However, she genuinely did not want to 
see the paint smudge onto her skin. She actually wanted the footslave to do 
a good job and to beautify her toenails with the paint. To the slave's 
relief, therefore, she did not wiggle her toes, and because his ugly nose 
was quite thin and pointy at the end, he did manage to apply the paint 
relatively efficiently.

Mistress Angela indicated that she was quite impressed at his efforts:

' Who's a clever slave-boy, then?' she said in a mocking tone, 'able to 
paint his mistress's toenails with his pathetic slave nose?'

Her boyfriend Richard didn't quite pick up on her mocking tone:

'There's no need to praise him, darling,' he urged, 'he's just a dirty 
footslave doing his job!'

Angela laughed. She loved it when her boyfriend displayed even the tiniest 
signs of jealousy -- especially jealousy towards a slave:

'Don't worry, honey, if he smears even the slightest trace of paint on my 
skin he'll soon hear the harsher side of my tongue as his back feels the 
sting of the whip!'

Unlike Richard, the slave realised that mistress Angela had been mocking 
him. But he realised also that her mocking words had been the closest he 
would ever get to genuine praise and gratitude from a superior female 
customer. He was therefore pleased, and redoubled his efforts to avoid the 
sting of the whip - successfully, as it turned out.

When he had finished painting the final toe on her right foot to her 
satisfaction, mistress Angela barked down her final orders at the slave:

'Finish now, slave. Blow on my toenails to make them dry, and then put my 
socks and boots back on my feet.'

'Yeah, and don't forget that's all your slave breath is good for - drying my 
girl's toenails!' added Richard.

'Yes, master. Yes, mistress', agreed the footslave. How could he not agree 
with the young master's observation? It was true.

When her toenails were suitably dry, footslave number 701 put mistress 
Angela's socks and boots back on her feet, kissing each sock and each boot 
with humble adoration as he did so. As he laced up her black ankle-boots he 
was acutely aware that all the work he had just done was, effectively, in 
vain as mistress Angela had no intention of displaying her newly pedicured 
feet to anyone else that day. Her feet were firmly back in her comfortable, 
tatty old boots and socks.

As she walked away from him, arm in arm with her boyfriend, without so much 
as a backward glance or a word of thanks to the pedicure-slave for all his 
efforts, mistress Angela was aware of it too. She laughed.

The happy couple made their way towards the themepark restaurant as it was 
getting close to the prearranged time for their rendezvous with the rest of 
their friends. Sure enough, when they reached the entrance to the restaurant 
the others were already waiting for them.

The group of 8 friends talked excitedly for a few minutes about the various 
services they had witnessed thus far in the Footslave Themepark. It was Olga 
who then suggested that it was time to have lunch.

As they approached the door into the restaurant a red-and-white sneakered 
themepark hostess greeted them:

'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,' she chirped happily. 'Welcome to our 
restaurant! Before you go in, can I ask the ladies, in the interests of 
hygiene, to please wipe their feet clean on this footslave-doormat?'

She pointed down at a footslave who was secured, on his back, in a hole in 
the ground with only his pathetic slave face exposed to the elements at 
ground level.

'And please don't worry if your boots or shoes aren't very dirty! You can 
dirty them up first in this mud-bath', continued the hostess helpfully - 
pointing to a large tray of mud and dirt just a few feet away from the prone 
and vulnerable footslave.

Olga squealed with delight and clapped her pretty hands. How deliciously 
perverse! The request to wipe your feet on the footslave-doormat was clearly 
nothing to do with 'hygiene' - not just because the men weren't required to 
wipe their feet, but because if your shoes weren't already caked in mud you 
were being encouraged to 'dirty them up'!

'I want to go first!' she declared excitedly.

Although her black and white sneakers were already quite dusty and dirty, 
Olga wasted no time in going over to the mud-bath in order to smear even 
more mud and filth onto the soles of her shoes.

She then made her way over to the doormat-footslave, a wicked grin on her 
face. As she towered over him, hands on hips and with one sneakered foot on 
either side of his upturned face, his pathetic, frightened features reminded 
her of 'Sockface'.

Olga lifted her right foot and slowly brought it down onto the doormat's 
face.

Footslave number 63 did not enjoy being a doormat. He had much preferred his 
previous role as a 'ladies' footwasher', as it had allowed him much more 
intimacy with his female masters' bare feet. As a doormat, he never got to 
feel the softness of ladies' feet -- even on his face. All he ever got to 
experience was the roughness of their dirty shoe and boot-soles as they 
wiped their footwear clean on his upturned face. The best he could hope for, 
in the summer, was that they were wearing sandals -- as their bare toes 
would occasionally brush against his skin.

Even worse than that, however, was the fact that, as a doormat, he was 
regarded by the ladies as nothing more than an object. As a 'footwasher' 
they had at least deigned to speak to him -- even if only to bark down their 
orders at him. They never addressed him in his role as a doormat. He was 
just a thing that they wiped their feet on.

As Olga lowered her sneakered foot onto his face he caught a glimpse of her 
bright, red ankle-sock above the black of her sneaker and inside the blue 
hem of her denim jeans. The sole of the sneaker was actually beige in 
colour, and had thick treads which were now ingrained with mud and grass 
from the mud-tray.

Footslave number 63 instinctively closed his eyes as the sole of the sneaker 
pressed into his face. He could smell the rubber of the sneaker-sole and 
feel the wet mud rubbing off onto his eyebrows, his nose and his lips as the 
mistress rubbed her shoe up and down his face.

Olga rubbed vigorously, occasionally raising her foot to inspect the 
underside of the sole in order to make sure the mud and filth was coming 
off.

It was.

She did the same with her left foot, endeavoring to get as much of the mud 
as possible into the slave's mouth.

When she had finished, the slave swallowed the bitter mud and grass, and 
uttered the only words he was ever allowed to as a doormat-slave:

'Thank you, mistress.'

Olga walked away smiling happily, but without saying anything. She wasn't 
going to speak to a doormat!

The hostess crouched down to wipe some of the excess mud from the doormat's 
face in preparation for his next customer.

It was Femi who elected to go next. Unlike her friend Olga, Femi did not 
feel the need to 'dirty up' her brown, knee-length leather boots prior to 
wiping them on the footslave's face. Femi was actually quite fastidious 
about the cleanliness of her footwear, and she was worried that smearing mud 
on them would not be good for the leather. Furthermore, she had just had her 
boots tongue-shined by the shoeshine-slave, and she didn't want to lose that 
sparkle. However she did like the idea of wiping her dirty soles clean on 
the doormat's face.

Her boyfriend, Alek, helped her with her balance as she stood over the 
footslave's upturned face and raised her left booted-foot to bring it down 
on him.

Footslave number 63 observed how the African mistress's bright red painted 
lips were pursed into a cruel smile on her pretty face as the sole of her 
boot descended onto his face. Just before he was again forced to close his 
eyes he noticed also how the hem of her knee-length, brown, suede coat 
fluttered in the breeze around the tops of her boots, which in turn covered 
her blue denim jeans.

The sole of this African mistress's leather boot was quite smooth and not 
too dirty, but he nevertheless could feel little bits of gravel and grime 
rubbing off onto his face -- where it belonged. He realised, that for all 
his moaning, he was actually a very privileged slave to be able to use his 
face to clean the soles of a beautiful African mistress's boots in the 
presence of her boyfriend.

Unlike Femi, mistress Nicola had decided that her shiny, black, 
patent-leather, high heeled shoes could do with some mud being splattered on 
them. Whilst Femi was rubbing her boots up and down the slave's face, 
Nicola, with the help of her boyfriend Robert, was vigorously rubbing the 
soles of her shoes up and down the mud-bath. She was particularly keen to 
get lots of mud stuck onto her spiked heel, as she wanted to penetrate the 
slave's mouth with the heel.

She reached the doormat-footslave just as the themepark hostess was 
finishing wiping away the remainder of Femi's boot-dust and dirt from his 
face.

Nicola looked down at the pathetic footslave's upturned face and saw only a 
receptacle for her shoe-mud. Again, the girls' boyfriends were proving 
themselves to be real gentlemen, and Robert was no exception. He happily 
held on to Nicola's hand as she positioned her left foot onto the slave's 
face.

Footslave no 63, not unsurprisingly, feared high-heeled shoes above all 
others. The women who wore high-heels to the Footslave Themepark were often 
amongst the cruellest, and had chosen their footwear with the specific aim 
of doing damage to the poor footslaves beneath them. However, unbeknown to 
him, Nicola was not a particularly cruel girl. She just liked to wear heels, 
and her boyfriend liked her to wear her heels as well! They made her ankles 
and legs look ultra-sexy and feminine, and she knew she was turning heads 
everywhere she went.

Footslave number 63, however, was unable to turn his head as he saw the 
dirty sole of the young woman's leather shoe descending onto his face. If he 
had been a real man, he might have taken some pleasure out of the brief 
glimpse of her shapely, bare legs and her sexy, frilly red underwear 
underneath her short, red miniskirt. But footslave number 63 was not a real 
man. He was just a footslave -- and so as he closed his eyes to protect them 
from the shoe he opened his mouth to take the young woman's dirty, spiked 
heel. He also dutifully sucked all the mud off the heel and made sure it was 
left as clean as it had been before the mistress had dirtied it up in the 
mud-bath.

Again, under the ever watchful eye of the hostess who was standing nearby, 
the slave humbly thanked the mistress.

Mistress Angela, the birthday girl, was the last of the group to use the 
doormat.

It might be thought that, rather like Femi, having had her boots recently 
tongue-shined and polished by a shoeshine-slave, mistress Angela would not 
want to dirty up her black leather ankle boots in the mud-bath.

Wrong!

Angela was straight over to the tray of dirt and mud, and with the help of 
both Olga's boyfriend, Thomas, and her own boyfriend, Richard, who kindly 
smeared the upper soles of her boots with extra mud using sticks, she 
managed to cake the bottom of her boots with a thick layer of dirt and 
filth.

Angela had a truly wicked grin on her pretty face as she stood with her feet 
on either side of the doormat-slave's vulnerable face.

As he looked up at her pretty features, framed in her bob of blonde hair, 
footslave number 63 prepared himself for the next onslaught of boot leather 
and mud. As the young woman raised her right foot and began to lower it onto 
him he saw and felt globules of wet mud falling off the sole of the boot and 
landing on his face. He just hoped his face would be up to the job of 
removing all this filth and muck from the superior lady's boots.

Fortunately for him, mistress Angela gave the impression that she knew 
exactly how to use a doormat to best effect. She moved her boot not only up 
and down his face but also from side to side, ensuring that the extra mud 
that had been smeared on the side of the boot-soles by Thomas and Richard 
was transferred onto the slave's cheeks. The slave was grateful to her.

With the ladies' boots and shoes all suitably wiped clean, the group of 
friends entered the restaurant and sat down to a light lunch.

The restaurant had supplied a footslave for each of the female customers. 
These restaurant-footslave's didn't really serve any purpose, other than to 
make the female guests feel superior and important as they had a personal 
slave kneeling humbly at their feet like an obedient puppy-dog, perhaps 
waiting for a tasty tidbit from their mistresses' plates.

Angela's restaurant-footslave was the only one in this particular group to 
be honoured with such a tidbit -- a piece of cold ham from her sandwich, 
although, needless to say, she only threw it to him after she had spat it 
out from her own mouth and had sucked all the flavour and goodness out of 
it.

Still, compared to the pedicure-slave who had earlier dined on her dirty 
toe-jam and sweaty toe-cheese, the restaurant-footslave could feel himself 
truly privileged.

Part 4 - The Grindstone

The party of eight friends finished their light lunch and discussed what to 
do next. It was Olga, ever the 'group leader', who decided that they should 
now go to the main attraction in the themepark -- the curiously named 
'Grindstone'. Everyone was in agreement.

As they left the restaurant, Olga, in particular, was pleased to notice that 
the footslave-doormat, as always under the watchful eye of the uniformed 
themepark hostess, was still licking clean the dirty soles of the boots and 
shoes of other female customers who were about to enter the restaurant. She 
couldn't help smiling. It tickled her to think that whilst she and her 
friends had been enjoying their tasty food inside the warmth and comfort of 
the restaurant, the pathetic footslave had been outside, lying in the cold, 
bare, dirt, tasting nothing but female shoe-mud and boot-filth. She hoped he 
had a taste for it, for she knew he would be consuming mud and dirt for the 
rest of the day -- and the day after that, and the day after that.

According to the brochure, the attraction known as ' The Grindstone' was 
located right in the centre of the themepark - so it wasn't difficult to 
find. It was really just a case of following the crowds -- it was, after 
all, by far the most popular attraction in the Park.

As they approached 'The Grindstone', the group of friends, in common with 
virtually everyone else who saw it for the first time, were stopped in their 
tracks with a sense of awe. The women in the group, particularly, felt 
tingles rushing down their spines.

There in front of them, on a raised platform, surrounded by hordes of 
screaming and shouting women, was a semi-naked male hunk, on his knees, his 
hands and arms shackled to a heavy, wooden beam which in turn was attached 
to an even heavier, concrete grindstone. He was pushing slowly and 
laboriously on the wooden beam as he followed a repetitive circular path 
round and round the platform on his bare knees, causing the heavy grindstone 
to creak and shudder as it in turn moved slowly round.

The male slave was sweating profusely, his facial muscles contorted in pain 
and agony as he was employed in his backbreaking chore. But what really 
impressed the ladies was his sheer manly physique. 99% of the slaves in the 
themepark could be described as 'wimps' - pathetic, sickly-looking 
individuals whose only expressions were of fear and submission under their 
mistresses' feet. The superior women, rightly, despised them.

But this guy was something else - long, blond hair and rippling, sweaty 
muscles, the veins in his arms protruding as they felt the pressure of the 
unbearable weight of the grindstone. And yet, he was, somehow, bearing it! 
He was succeeding in moving it! What a brute! What a powerful beast of a 
man! Totally unlike any of the other exhibits in the themepark!
But what really made the sight impressive, was the fact that, seated on a 
raised leather chair in front of him, a chair which was somehow attached to 
the wooden beam, with her pretty, dainty feet resting on a metal foot-rest 
directly under the slave's nose, was a petite Japanese girl, urging him on 
with a whip!

The slave was not only having to move the heavy grindstone, but was 
simultaneously having to 'give a ride' to the young woman who was seated in 
front and above him! He was like 'Samson' being tormented at the feet of his 
Asian 'Delilah'!

'Wow!' exclaimed Olga, echoing the thoughts of her three female companions, 
'check him out, girls!'

Nicola laughed:

'He's absolutely gorgeous! Look at the size of his biceps! What a spunk!'

'Yeah', agreed Angela, 'that's what I call a male slave! Imagine being in 
control of that!'

Even the normally quiet and bashful Femi had to say something:

'He is more like a god than a slave!'

Thomas, Robert, Richard and Alek, had they been insecure men, may have felt 
jealous at their respective girlfriends' obvious desire for this slave-hunk. 
But they couldn't really argue with the comments - this 'slave' was truly 
unlike any other male slave they had ever seen. He was like something out of 
a mythological story from ancient times!

And yet, footslave no 34, as he was known by the themepark staff, knew that 
he was not a 'god'. Indeed, footslave no 34 was actually one of the humblest 
creatures in the Park. Yes, he was physically strong - but years of 
unrelenting toil at the themepark grindstone had taught him humility. He 
knew he was attractive to women - but only in his proper place, shackled at 
their feet as he pushed them slowly round the circuit of the grindstone.

And at that very moment, as if to reinforce that very point, the young 
Japanese mistress who was presently towering above him in the grindstone 
chair, brought her slender, black leather whip down sharply across his 
already aching shoulders, and shouted at him in her pretty Japanese accent:

'Slave go faster! Move! Slave obey!'

The sting of her whip caused him to redouble his efforts and move just that 
little bit faster. His shoulders ached, his neck ached, his back ached and 
his knees ached. But he was a slave and had to satisfy his mistress's 
wishes.

As always his sweating, grimacing face was just inches from his female 
tormentor's feet. This particular tormentress was wearing large, rather 
unshapely, beige-brown, suede knee-length boots, with suede tassels hanging 
down from the tops which swung in the breeze, and dark blue knee-length 
socks, the tops of which were only just visible above the tops of her boots. 
Not that the grindstone-slave had any energy to look up at her knee-socks. 
It was all he could do to concentrate on the toes of her boots - so close to 
his face that he could smell the musty smell of the suede leather.

The boots appeared somewhat unkempt - the toes were heavily scuffed, and, if 
truth be told, they could have been said to have been rather too large for 
the petite japanese girl's pretty, slender legs. But that was, apparently, 
the current fashion amongst young Japanese women - the grindstone-footslave 
had a lot of Japanese female 'customers', and was well used to their often 
'eccentric' footwear.

The watching crowd, for their part, were admiring the sight of the 
slightly-built Japanese girl controlling the great strapping hunk of the 
male slave. Her name was Aiko, she was 20 years old and on her first trip to 
western Europe, and in the crowd was her best friend, Fujita, also 20. They 
had read about the 'Footslave Themepark' back in Japan and had been 
determined to visit it. They had both persuaded their respective fathers to 
pay for their trip, although exactly what Aiko's father would think of her 
now wasn't entirely clear to her!

Footslave no. 34 continued to push Miss Aiko, in her booted feet, around the 
grindstone-circuit. As she towered above him seated in her comfortable 
chair, whip in hand and her boots resting in front of his nose, nobody, 
least of all he, could be in any doubt as to who was the superior master and 
who was the inferior slave. Miss Aiko reigned supreme -- and she knew it. 
Her face was beaming as the grindstone-footslave's circuit brought them both 
round once more to where her friend Fujita was standing.

Fujita shouted something at Aiko in Japanese, some words of encouragement, 
or perhaps impatience, as she too wanted a go on the grindstone.

Fujita didn't have long to wait. Because of the popularity of the 
'grindstone' attraction, ladies were limited to 10 minutes each on the 
chair. Aiko's 10 minutes were now up. The themepark hostess indicated to 
her, politely, that it was time for her to stop.

As she had earlier been instructed by the hostess, Aiko gave the slave the 
'stop' signal by means of a sharp cut with the whip across his bare right 
shoulder, and the simple command:

'Slave stop!'

Easy! So much muscle and energy -- and so easy to control, just a flick of 
the whip and a crisp command from a young woman's voice!

As Aiko was helped down from the chair by the hostess, to be replaced by her 
friend Fujita, the two girls exchanged views excitedly in their own 
language. Fujita had an evil grin on her face. She was really going to enjoy 
this!

She made herself comfortable in the leather backed chair. The first thing 
that struck her was how high up she was -- and how many people were looking 
at her, dare she say it, even admiring her. She was a pretty girl, and she 
knew it. Petite and slightly built, rather like her friend Aiko, indeed, 
rather like most young Japanese women.

And also in common with most young Japanese women, Fujita had a cruel and 
dominant streak. She was determined to not only make the slave work, to make 
him sweat and ache in every limb, but also to humiliate him at her feet.

Fujita had chosen to wear sheer, black nylon tights under bright green 
shorts that day. On her feet she was wearing a tatty old pair of green and 
white converse-style sneakers, sneakers which, it has to be said, were doing 
nothing to enhance the fragrance of her nylon-covered feet. As she 
positioned her feet on the footrest in front of the chained and kneeling 
grindstone-slave, Fujita decided that, before she put him to work, he would 
get a taste of her nylon-covered toes.

She listened somewhat impatiently as the hostess explained to her the basic 
commands and the use of the whip. Although Fujita's English was somewhat 
limited, she had witnessed her friend in action and got the gist of what was 
being said.

Footslave number 34 was always grateful for the brief respite in between 
customers. There was also, inevitably, a sense of apprehension -- what would 
his new customer be like? Would she be cruel, or kind? Would she insist on 
him going ever faster, constantly applying the whip to his back and 
shoulders, or would she be content for him to take her slowly and 
respectfully around the circuit - perhaps slowly enough for her friends in 
the audience to get some good photographs for their photo-albums?

Even more importantly, what sort of build would the mistress be? Heavy or 
slight? This was perhaps the most important question of all for the 
grindstone- footslave - for, strong though he was, pushing a heavier woman 
around the grindstone circuit was always an extra burden -- particularly on 
his aching knees which were swollen and bruised due to their continual 
journey around the stone platform.

Perhaps most important of all, however, was the chosen footwear of the 
superior mistress sitting in front of him. It would, after all, dominate his 
senses for the next 10 minutes. He would be so close to that footwear that 
he would not only see it, but smell it, and taste it. At the very least, he 
was required to kiss the feet of his 'slave-driver' as a means of showing 
his respect and readiness to serve.

As he duly lowered his lips to kiss the white, rubber toes of Miss Fujita's 
rather dirty converse sneakers, he could smell rubber, canvas, and just the 
faintest hint of warm, feminine foot-sweat.

No sooner had he done so, than Fujita leaned down to untie her dirty, white 
laces and take off her tatty sneakers (of course, she had to do this herself 
as the slave's hands were bound to the wooden beam - otherwise she would 
have made the slave do it for her!)

She threw the sneakers down onto the ground and then wiggled her dark 
nylon-stockinged toes directly under his nose:

'Slave smell Fujita's stinky toes!' she barked.

The watching crowd roared its approval. It was always nice when a mistress 
indulged in a bit of slave humiliation before putting a slave to work!

The grindstone slave instantly and obediently lowered his nose to the dark 
area of reinforced nylon covering the Japanese girl's stockinged toes, and 
audibly sniffed.

The aroma was rather strong - very tart and vinegary. Not at all pleasant. 
But slave no 34 appreciated that it was an aroma fit for a footslave, and 
that was, at the end of the day, all he really was - a glorified
'footslave - just like all the others in the Park. He was no better than
the rest, he was equally as pathetic, equally as down-trodden, equally
'underfoot'. He therefore took in his Japanese mistress's foot odour with
resignation and humility - as befits a footslave. Besides, the longer he
was required to sniff her stinky, sweaty nylon toes, the less time he
would have to push her round the exhausting grindstone-circuit.

Fujita was laughing:

'Slave like smell Fujita's toes? Smell strong?' she asked him.

The grindstone-slave was permitted, indeed required, to answer a mistress 
whenever she deigned to ask him a direct question:

'Yes, mistress, if it pleases you most glorious mistress, this humble slave 
is indeed privileged to be allowed to inhale the strong odour of its 
mistress's sweaty nyloned toes.'

Fujita didn't quite catch everything the groveling, servile slave had said, 
but she guessed from the crowd's loud and gleeful reaction that it had been 
suitably respectful and submissive.

So Fujita laughed too:

'Slave wipe sweat off Fujita's toes with mouth. Use tongue!'

The slave obediently placed his tongue on the underside of her stockinged 
toes and began licking. The reinforced, dark nylon was already damp, 
presumably with the young woman's toe-sweat, and he could feel little bits 
of fluff and dust
coming off onto his tongue - little pieces of shoe-debris that had 
inevitably come off the inside of her sneakers and had stuck to her nyloned 
feet.

'Ha! Ha! That's right, darling, make him suck on your sweaty nylons! Give 
him a taste of your stinky toe-jam!' shouted one of the free men in the 
crowd, excitedly.

Again, Fujita didn't really understand what the free man had said. People 
spoke too quickly! But she knew she was definitely enjoying the feeling of 
this great hulking brute's delicate tongue as it licked the underside of her 
nyloned toes:

'Mmm, Fujita like feel slave tongue on toes!' she sighed wistfully, 'slave 
good licker!'

Encouraged by this unexpected compliment, the slave enthusiastically turned 
his attentions to the tops of her toes. He could see and feel her dainty 
toes moving underneath the stitching of the nylon. If only his customers 
would realize that he didn't need the whip to instill him to greater 
efforts - just tell him what to do and he'll gladly do it - however 
humiliating, however onerous - for he was a slave. He had to obey!

Both mistress and slave were, momentarily, in a dreamy world all of their 
own.

It was her friend Aiko who brought Fujita back to reality - reminding her 
that she only had ten minutes in the chair!

Suddenly the slave felt the dreaded sting of the whip across his left 
shoulder - the signal to start crawling!

'Slave start! Move!' barked mistress Fujita - annoyed that the slave had not 
reminded her himself of the time limit on her stay in the chair (as if it 
was his place to remind her!)

With her pretty, nylon-stockinged feet still only inches away from his face, 
and the sharp aroma of feminine foot-sweat still assailing his nostrils, the 
slave garnered his muscles and slowly moved off - the noise of the large 
grindstone creaking into action beside him.

The hostesses were often asked what exactly the grindstone was grinding? 
Flour? Wheat? The answer, of course, was 'nothing'. It was there purely to 
make the slave's task of pushing round the seated mistress all the more 
difficult and painful. At the end of each day, the grindstone-slave had 
achieved nothing other than his own exhaustion and humiliation - and had the 
prospect of looking forward to another day of the same, 365 days a year.

As she looked down on his rippling shoulder muscles, covered in whip-marks, 
Fujita was overwhelmed by a sense of her own power and authority over the 
huge brute. He really was at her mercy - like her friend before her, she 
just couldn't resist giving him another stroke of the lash:

'Slave go faster! Obey Fujita! Work!' she screamed.

The slave flinched momentarily at the whip-stroke, and then found some inner 
reserves of strength to move the heavy grindstone just that little bit 
faster. All the time he was concentrating on the beautiful young woman's 
stockinged feet, as they wiggled and moved on the footrest in front of his 
face, causing the nylon to crease and flex. 'Those are the feet of your 
superior mistress' he kept telling himself, 'you must obey her. She is your 
goddess!'

Slave no 34 had the right attitude, and Fujita was well-pleased with his 
efforts, not that you would have guessed it from her constant barrage of 
commands:

'Slave move! Keep head low! Look at Fujita feet! Work hard! Slave obey!'

Slave no 34 did all of those things - until miss Fujita's ten minutes was 
up, when he kissed her stockinged toes one last time prior to the hostess 
helping her down from the chair. His only regret, was that he could not put 
the mistress's sneakers back on her feet for her. He was embarrassed that 
his female superiors had to take off and put on their own footwear. That 
should surely be his job!

Meanwhile, Olga and her female friends had already, somewhat regretfully, 
realized that there was no way they were going to get a ride on the 
'grindstone-slave' today. The queue was just too long!

It had been great fun watching, however!

In fact, the group of 8 friends would have to leave the themepark in an hour 
or so's time if they were to catch their train home. They had traveled quite 
a distance to be here. And so Richard whispered something in Olga's ear - it 
was, he had decided, time for him to present his girlfriend, Angela, with 
her secret birthday present. He had already presented her with a necklace, 
but she had no idea that Richard had another present planned for her that 
day. In fact only Olga and Richard himself knew of his big surprise.

'Let's go to the souvenir shop', suggested Olga at Richard's behest.

Nobody ever disagreed with Olga, and so off they all went, the four young 
couples - each arm in arm.

The themepark souvenir shop consisted of two levels- a ground floor and a 
basement. On the ground floor were lots of, what might be described as, 
'novelty' items - little miniature models of some of the footslave exhibits, 
including the glorious 'grindstone'; picture-postcards of the themepark; 
'Footslave Themepark' T-Shirts - just like those worn by the hostesses; 
whips etc

But Angela's 'present' was on the shop's other level - in the basement. 
Richard was naturally keen to lead Angela and the rest of the group down the 
stairs.

As they entered the large, rather dimly-lit basement, the women's eyes lit 
up - all along the walls, kneeling and in chains, were male footslaves for 
sale.

A young, female shop-assistant, dressed in the themepark hostess's uniform, 
greeted them:

'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen - please feel free to browse and 
inspect the goods. All our footslaves have been fully-trained in the Park 
and would make an excellent house-pet for the ladies. Please don't hesitate 
to ask me any questions if you have any!'

Nicola giggled and whispered to her boyfriend Robert:

'Like any of us could afford one of these! Look at the prices!'

'Yeah, they'd have to be very well-trained at these prices!' Robert 
whispered back.

At that point Richard declared to everyone that he had an announcement to 
make:

'Angela, darling, I hope you like the necklace I bought you for your 
birthday. But I'd have to be the first to admit that it's not enough for a 
beautiful babe like you!'

Angela blushed and looked quite coy for a moment.

'And so, I'd like you to now choose your real 25th birthday present' 
continued Richard, 'I'm going to buy you your own personal footslave!'

Angela gasped and put her hands up to her mouth:

'Richard, are you serious!' she exclaimed delightedly.

The others were aghast too, apart from Olga who was just beaming with joy.

'I sure am!' replied Richard, moving to put his arm round his girlfriend and 
kiss her on the lips.

Angela's friends all cheered:

'Happy birthday, Angela' shouted Olga. 'Three cheers for Angela and Richard, 
everyone.hip! Hip! Hurrah!'

The whole group of friends, all the other customers, and all the hostesses 
in the shop joined in - then applauded. Only the kneeling, shackled 
footslaves remained silent - heads humbly bowed.

'But.but.where did you get the money from?' croaked Angela, tears of joy in 
her eyes.

'Never you mind!' ,chided Richard, 'All you need to know is that money is no 
object. You can have any one of these creatures that you like - just take 
your time, and take your pick!'

Angela still couldn't believe her ears! Her very own footslave! This was 
just too good to be true!

But she composed herself, and began, hand in hand with Richard, to 'inspect 
the goods'.

Olga was inspecting the goods also:

'What about this one, Angie?' she shouted over to her - pointing with her 
outstretched foot to a rather thin and scrawny looking individual who, in 
common with the rest of the goods, was kneeling humbly, head-bowed, with his 
back to the wall on which was secured a chain, which in turn was attached to 
a collar around his neck. 'He's a bit scrawny, but the card says he 
specializes in foot massages!'

Olga was referring to the card which was on the wall beside each slave 
outlining their age, distinguishing traits, and any 'specialities'.

Angela and Richard, now inseparable, laughed and moved over, holding hands, 
to look at Olga's suggestion:

'Ugh! He's pig-ugly!' exclaimed Angela. 'I don't much care if he's a good 
foot massager or not. With that ugly face he'd make me feel sick however 
good he was at rubbing my feet!'

The friends all laughed.

The slave in question could only see mistress Angela's booted feet as she 
expressed her disgust for him, but, in his mind, he had to agree that she 
was a very astute and perceptive young woman - he was ugly and was not good 
enough to be a woman's personal footslave. He was convinced the shop-owners 
would have to reduce him in price if they were ever to sell him.

After some 10 minutes of careful browsing, however, one kneeling footslave 
did catch mistress Angela's eye. He wasn't all that good-looking, but, 
unlike with the 'pig-ugly' one, she would not be offended to have her bare 
feet resting on his face. What excited her even more was the information on 
the slave's card:

'Lot no 23. Aged 45. Fully trained boot-slave. Fears the whip. Skilled in 
all aspects of boot care and boot-worship. £499.99'

Angela knew that any footslave of hers would have to know how to care for 
her boots. She wore virtually nothing else - and her slave would have to 
appreciate the taste, the smell and the sight of ladies' leather boots. It 
sounded like this one fitted the bill - plus he was an old man - much older 
than her beloved boyfriend Richard, and therefore no threat to him or to his 
'machismo'.

She moved closer to the slave to have a better look. The hostess had noticed 
her interest:

'This would be a fine choice, miss!. One of our fully trained bootslaves. He 
has served 14 years in the themepark as a bootblack and we're only getting 
rid of him to make way for some younger models. He is very humble and 
submissive - please step forward and have him pay homage to your boots.'

Angela, still holding hands with her boyfriend Richard, stretched forward 
her right foot and watched as the kneeling slave lowered his lips to the toe 
of her black ankle-boot.

Lot no 23 knew this was a crucial moment. This was the first time he would 
be kissing his potential new owner's boots, and he had to make a good 
impression if he wanted to get out of the dank and dim basement of the 
themepark shop. Anything, even a life of drudgery and servitude at the 
booted feet of an arrogant and cruel young woman, would be preferable to the 
sheer boredom of being chained to a wall day in and day out!

As he placed his lips gently and respectfully onto the toe of her 
outstretched boot, he could feel the scuff marks under the recently 
polished, well-worn leather.
Angela withdrew her right foot and slowly replaced it with her left.

Again lot no 23 kissed the scuffed leather toe of his potential mistress's 
boot, and Angela knew that he was the one:

'I'll take him', she said gently, and turned her head to one side to gaze 
lovingly into her boyfriend Richard's eyes before kissing him.

Everyone cheered.

'What are you going to call him, Angela?' asked Nicola.

'I don't know', replied Angela. Do slaves have names? I thought they just 
had numbers!'

Nicola laughed:

'I think personal slaves ought to have names - unless you're planning to 
have so many that they need to be given a number each!'

'I know what you could call him!' exclaimed Olga. 'Since you always wear 
boots, Angie, and since he's going to be spending nearly all of his time 
from now on staring at your boots, and kissing them, and licking them, why 
don't you call him 'Bootface'!'

Angela clapped her pretty hands with approval:

'I like it! "Bootface"! It suits him, especially since his face looks a bit 
like an old leathery boot! "Bootface" it is!'

And so, the party of friends who had earlier in the day entered the 
'Footslave Themepark' as a group of 8 people, ended up leaving the Park as a 
group of 9 people - or rather 8 people and one pathetic, down-in-the-dirt 
footslave who went by the name of 'Bootface', crawling on his hands and 
knees behind his new mistress's dirty black ankle-boots.