View Single Post
  #108  
Old 21-Aug-18, 03:22
jahampanah jahampanah is offline
Victory Pose Seeker
Points: 92,832, Level: 100 Points: 92,832, Level: 100 Points: 92,832, Level: 100
Activity: 0% Activity: 0% Activity: 0%
Last Achievements
Award-Showcase
 
Join Date: Jun 2011
Posts: 944
Thanks: 5,201
Thanked 13,759 Times in 846 Posts
Default Re: Femdom Stories of mine

Story Name: Three Wishes
Author: Patheticus Minimus


Part 2 – The Public Shoeshine Slave

George the regular shoeshine man was not unfamiliar with the taste of young women’s bootleather. He had, after all, been licking their boots in the privacy of his own home for some time now. But to be able to lick a superior, young, twenty-something, blonde, pony-tailed businesswoman’s black, leather, zip-up ankle boots in public in his new capacity as a women’s public shoeshine-slave – that really was a dream come true!

The leather boots somehow tasted all the sweeter due to the fact that she was still wearing them as he licked them; his sense of humility and inferiority was all the greater; and the fact that the young woman was haughtily ignoring him and pouring over the financial pages of her newspaper whilst he humbly licked the filth off her boots somehow made his feeling of degradation all the more complete – he, George, the former CEO of a major financial institution was now nothing more than a young woman’s public bootlicker, fit only to taste where she had been walking.

He began to speculate about the exact profession of the pin-stripe-trousered young mistress whose boot-dirt was currently swilling around inside his mouth. He guessed she worked in the stock exchange – probably a fairly junior financial trader, given her age. But so accustomed was he now to engaging in small-talk with his customers, he decided the polite thing to do would be to simply ask the young woman where she worked. She might, after all, be interested to know that he used to be a big-shot in the financial world himself. She might find that curious and interesting.

Slave George therefore decided to break the rather embarrassing silence which was being disturbed only by the background bustle of the busy railway station, the rustling of the young, blonde woman’s newspaper, and the slapping sound of George’s bootlicking tongue:

‘Do you work in the City, miss?’ he politely enquired in between bootlicks.

The next thing he was aware of was the young businesswoman setting aside her paper, unhooking the riding crop that hung to the right of the shoeshine stand, and a flash of searing pain suddenly coursing down across his right shoulder.

She had hit him with the whip!

‘How dare you, slave! How dare you speak to your superior mistress without being spoken to! Just who do you think you are? Do you think you’re my equal or something? Do you think a free woman like me would be interested in having a conversation with a down-in-the-dirt bootslave like you?!’ exclaimed the young woman incredulously.

She whipped him hard across the shoulders again.

Slave George bit his lip. The pain was significant, and the flimsy, plain, brown slave tunic that covered his back wasn’t affording him much protection from the sting of the whip.

How stupid could he have been! He had forgotten his place already! He was no longer George the shoeshine man; he was now just a public footslave. How dare he seek to engage one of his superior, female customers in polite conversation!

‘Oh pray, mistress, please don’t beat me, mistress. I beg your forgiveness, sweet feminine young mistress!’ he implored.

Thankfully, the pony-tailed, sweet feminine young mistress put the whip back onto its hook. But she clearly hadn’t ceased being offended:

‘I think you need to learn some slave manners, bootboy! What, is the dirt on my boots not interesting enough for you, or something? Are you so high and mighty that you need to concentrate your slave mind on something else?’

Slave George blushed with embarrassment. Here he was with a unique opportunity to live out his deepest fantasies and dreams, and yet he was blowing it! Of course the dirt on the young woman’s boots was all that interested him, and all that should interest him! There was no need for polite small-talk any more – he was a shoeshine slave, not a man; his tongue was for licking young women’s dirty boots and shoes, not for chatting them up!

He must make amends:

‘Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, please forgive this stupid, ignorant slave for his indiscretion. This slave is truly honoured to taste the superior dirt on his beautiful young mistress’s boots, if it pleases you mistress.’

‘Then shut up and lick, slave!’ barked the young woman exasperatedly, ‘Lick the upper parts of my ankle boots. Shine them with your dirty, slave tongue and make sure your ugly, slave nose doesn’t brush against the tops of my socks!’

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress’

Slave George realised this particular polite conversation was over. The superior young woman didn’t want to hear him talk – she wanted to hear him lick. And so that’s just what he did – he licked the tops of her boots taking great care not to brush his ugly, slave nose against the elasticated tops of her black, ankle socks, or even worse against the smooth, bare flesh of her leg above the tops of her socks!

As he did so, it occurred to George that not all his dreams and wishes were going to come true in this new situation in which he found himself, for he would, if truth be told, have loved to brush his nose against the tops of her socks – to sniff her socks; to kiss them respectfully as they were the bootsocks of a superior young, blonde, pony-tailed, be-suited businesswoman. Clearly his wish to be a slave overruled any subordinate wishes he may have – and quite rightly so! A slave should not have any say in which items of his mistress’s footwear he is permitted to worship at any given time!

Fortunately for slave George the tension was eased when the young woman’s cell phone rang. George heard a man’s muffled voice on the other end of the phone and surmised from the snippets he heard of the young woman’s part of the conversation that it must be her boyfriend or husband:

‘Hi, honey!...No, I’m still at the station…I’m just having my boots shined by the public footslave…Yeah….Yeah…Ha! Ha!...Nah, he’s an ugly old dork, and stupid with it...Ha! Ha!...Yeah!...What?...Sure, yeah, what time?...Are Angie and Philip coming too?...Okay, should be great…Where do you want to meet up?...Yeah I know it…Cool….OK, honey, see you there!... Love you!... Bye!’

All the while the telephone conversation was going on slave George was trying his utmost to concentrate on tongue-shining the uppers of the young woman’s boots whilst taking care not to touch her socks, just as she had commanded. Subconsciously, though, he was making mental notes about this strange new world of his dreams. He surmised, for example, from the overheard conversation, that some men must be free in this world – equals with women. That somehow made his own position all the more humiliating – which, after all, was what he wanted. It wasn’t men per se that this arrogant, young, junior female financial trader despised – it was just him, for he was in her pretty eyes nothing more than a ‘down-in-the-dirt bootslave’.

And so whilst the young woman sorted out her busy social life, slave George made himself busy sorting out her boots, bringing them up to a nice shine with his slave saliva, his only reward being the furtive view of the elasticated tops of her black bootsocks.

When he had tongue-shined her boots to her satisfaction, the young woman stepped down, unaided, from the high chair of the shoeshine stand and simply walked off. No words of thanks; no tip – just as George had always wanted.

He savoured the taste of the young businesswoman’s boots in his mouth for a few minutes until the arrival of his next customer.

Or rather – customers. For their arrival was heralded by girlish giggling and laughter. They were two young women in their twenties – tourists, backpackers; from Australia, judging by their accents. One was a black girl, dressed in very short beige shorts, black, calf-length, lace-up, Doc Marten style boots, and bright red, calf-length socks which were scrunched up on her bare, black legs above the boots. The socks would probably have reached her knees if she had been inclined to pull them up straight.

The other young woman was white, and was wearing light blue, denim jeans with turn-ups at the bottom containing a fetching pink stripe down the sides, and white, or rather dirty-grey, somewhat ‘flaky’, well-worn sneakers. From his kneeling position George couldn’t see what the two superior young women were wearing on their upper bodies. He was learning to keep his head, and his gaze, suitably low, and to concentrate on his customers’ feet and footwear – as befits a humble, public footslave. He only knew the second young woman was white because he caught a glimpse of her hands.

The two young out-of-towners were evidently talking about whether or not to avail themselves of his services. It sounded as though they were as unfamiliar with the situation of public slavery as George was:

‘Go on, Sheila…’ the young black woman in the Doc Marten boots and thick, red, scrunched-up bootsocks was saying. ‘…Your sneakers are truly filthy and need a good clean!’

Her companion, the young white woman Sheila – mistress Sheila to slave George – was laughing:

‘Ha! Ha! And what about your dirty, stinky socks, Chanelle? Are you gonna make him take off your boots and wash them in his mouth?’

‘Ha! Ha! No – but I will make him sniff them if you make him lick the dirt off your sneakers first! Deal?’

‘Deal!’

Mistresses Sheila and Chanelle appeared to have reached an accommodation – an accommodation in which slave George would have no say even though he would be a major player: he would, it seemed, be required to first lick clean the dirty, flaky, white sneakers of the white girl, mistress Sheila, and then sniff the sweaty, red socks of the black girl, mistress Chanelle.

But how would these two apparently inexperienced, out-of-town mistresses cope with the equally inexperienced slave?

Admirably, it seemed. Mistress Sheila took off her backpack and climbed up first into the high chair of the shoeshine stand as per the girls’ agreement. When she rested her feet on the two metal footrests in front of slave George’s kneeling face the turned-up, pink and blue hems of her denim jeans rode up further to reveal a delightful pair of short, white sneaker socks with a tiny coloured logo on the elasticated tops. Slave George immediately noticed that the sock on the left foot had slipped further down inside the back of the young woman’s sneaker than the sock on her right foot. Therefore he could see more of her pale, white, ankle flesh and pink heel on her left foot. Such a tiny, insignificant detail excited him, for it held out the prospect that the young woman might order him to pull her left sock up. He might get to touch her precious, white feminine sock whilst she was still wearing it! It would be a wonderful preamble to the certainty of having to sniff mistress Chanelle’s sweaty, red bootsocks!

But first there was the small matter of having to do what mistress Sheila herself wanted done:

‘Slave, clean my sneakers. Lick away all the grime and filth!’ she barked down at him in her antipodean accent, in between chewing on some gum.

‘Ha! Ha! Way to go, Sheila!’ exclaimed her delighted friend (it had been Chanelle’s initiative to kill some time by tormenting the public footslave. The girls had over an hour to wait for their train, and not enough money for a coffee. The services of the public footslave were, however, completely free!)

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress,’ responded slave George, his back still stinging from the attentions of his previous pony-tailed customer.

Speaking of which, slave George was immediately struck by the contrast between the smart, if dirty, black, pointy-toed, spike-heeled ankle boots of his previous customer - the young businesswoman - and the scruffy, tatty, well-worn grey-white sneakers of his current customer - the young Australian backpacker. Her white socks looked clean – or at least the elasticated tops did for they were all that was visible – but that only served to highlight how dirty and ‘off-white’ the sneakers were. As he lowered his lips to the flaky toe of mistress Sheila’s right sneaker slave George was sure he could smell the delicate aroma of sweet, feminine footsweat – sweat that had seeped into the very fabric of the sneakers over the many years of wear and tear.

He was sure he could taste it as well as he began to run his tongue along the part of the round-toed sneaker that covered the tops of the young woman’s toes. The sneaker tasted of rubbery salt!

‘Eww…gross!’ exclaimed the female owner of the sneakers.

‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry, Sheila, I expect he’s used to it! He has probably grown to like the taste of women’s sweaty sneakers over the years. Isn’t that right slave?’ enquired mistress Sheila’s friend, mistress Chanelle, who was standing just to the left of the shoeshine stand so that she could get a good look at slave George’s humiliation at her friend’s feet.

Slave George had to admit that he had acquired a taste for young women’s sneakers since he had taken up his job as a shoeshine man, and, as with the young businesswoman’s boots, the feminine footwear tasted all the better for still being worn by the mistress whilst he was licking it:

‘Yes mistress,’ was all he could say. He resumed licking.

Miss Chanelle clearly wasn’t satisfied with his answer:

‘Well go on then, slave, tell my friend Sheila how much you are enjoying licking her dirty, sweaty sneakers. Tell her what an honour and privilege it is for you!’

Slave George clearly still had a lot to learn about when a mistress wants a slave to speak and what she wants him to say. He stopped licking momentarily:

‘Oh pray, mistress Sheila, if it pleases you mistress Sheila, this dirty footslave is truly honoured to taste your dirty sneakers and humbly enjoys the taste of your sneaker-sweat, if it so pleases you, most beautiful and superior mistress.’

Both girls creased up laughing. In fact, mistress Sheila was laughing so much that she couldn’t keep her feet still and slave George was accidentally kicked in the nose by her right sneakered foot as it swung uncontrollably in the air. Not that mistress Sheila felt any compulsion to apologise to the footslave – it was his own stupid fault if his ugly, slave face got in the way of her dirty sneaker!

Slave George never did get to straighten mistress Sheila’s left sneaker-sock, for her friend Chanelle was impatient to have him remove her Doc Marten boots and sniff her sweaty, red bootsocks – and both girls had known all along that Sheila’s sneakers were never going to be cleaned up by a slave’s tongue alone! They were beyond repair, and Sheila would have to simply buy a new pair as soon as she could save up enough money to be able to afford them!

The dirty, white-sneakered feet of mistress Sheila were, therefore, soon replaced by the black leather booted feet of mistress Chanelle on the two metal footrests in front of public footslave George’s now throbbing nose.

Unlike mistress Sheila’s dirty, white sneakers, mistress Chanelle’s black, lace-up, calf-length, Doc Marten style boots were actually quite new. The boots themselves were also quite clean – for a young female-backpacker’s boots. It was her socks that let down mistress Chanelle’s footwear hygiene – for she had been wearing the same pair of thick, red bootsocks for three days now as she didn’t have any clean socks to replace them with. In fact, the smell emanating from her now discarded backpack suggested a number of items of feminine underwear that needed a good wash.

Slave George wondered, as he began to unlace her boots, whether mistress Chanelle, who appeared to be the more dominant of the two girls, might actually make him suck clean all her dirty underwear from inside her smelly rucksack – her dirty pants and socks!

His mind, however, was soon focused on the job in hand as mistress Chanelle’s first boot came off. The stink was, quite simply, overwhelming and most unfeminine! The cheesy, vinegary stench of truly rancid socks!

Even miss Chanelle herself noticed it, as she pinched her nose with her fingers:

‘Strewth! Those bitches really do stink!’ she exclaimed.

Slave George, whilst he would not himself have been so disrespectful as to describe the young woman’s superior socks as ‘bitches’ (for he regarded all young women’s socks as his betters), nevertheless had to agree that they did reek! Unfortunately for George, however, he was not permitted to pinch his nose. Indeed, miss Chanelle’s next order made it clear he was to do his utmost to sniff in the cheesy aroma of her three-day-old bootsocks:

‘Slave, sniff up all my sock-stink. Get your nose deep inside the folds of my socks over the area of my sweaty toes and audibly sniff!’ she commanded, still holding her own nose thereby causing her antipodean voice to sound very nasal.

Mistress Sheila, meanwhile, was exaggerating the smell of her friend Chanelle’s socks by moving several yards away from the shoeshine stand:

‘Oh my God, Chanelle, how can you do that to him? I wouldn’t wish those socks on anybody! Ha! Ha!’ she laughed.

Slave George, however, had, indirectly, wished for it – for he had made a wish to be a women’s public footslave, and his wish had come true. Smelly socks came with the territory! And so, as directed by miss Chanelle, he audibly sniffed.

She made him sniff her thick, red bootsocks for a full five minutes – almost as if she thought that by vacuuming up her sock-stink into his slave nose the smell of the sweaty socks would go away. But, of course, it didn’t and, having humbly and self-deprecatingly sniffed the young black woman’s sweaty, red bootsocks, slave George then had the equally humiliating task of lacing the young woman’s Doc Marten style boots back onto her sweaty socked feet. His work had been nugatory – other, perhaps, than achieving his humiliation and entertaining his two young, twenty-something, back-packing, antipodean tormentresses.

They soon bored with him and moved off.

It all went downhill thereafter. Several hours, and dozens of female customers’, later George - the middle-aged former CEO and shoeshine man, now the young women’s public boot-licker, sneaker-licker, and sock-sniffer - was finding the reality of his fantasy life as a women’s public footslave difficult to endure. His knees ached. Even though it had previously been his dream to live life on his knees, he now actually found himself wishing he could stretch his legs for a bit – perhaps have a fifteen minute coffee break, like he used to do as a shoeshine man. But a slave, a real 24/7 slave, secured by a heavy chain in a kneeling position to the shoeshine stand, doesn’t have that option.

Furthermore, his shoulders ached, not just from his permanently crouched position kneeling in front of the shoeshine stand, but from the frequent blows of the riding crop from many seemingly ‘dissatisfied’, and probably unsatisfiable, arrogant young female customers. It began to feel like everything he did to clean their shoes, from licking off foul-tasting, ingrained dirt to removing chewing gum from the dirty treads of their scruffy sneakers or boots, just wasn’t good enough for them. He received no words of praise – just a constant barrage of criticism. One or two young women even slapped him across the face, or spat on him. To his surprise, the constant verbal and physical abuse was actually getting him down!

Above all, he was disillusioned by the fact that he had absolutely no say over which women’s shoes and boots he had to lick clean, or which women’s dirty socks and sweaty, bare feet he had to suck and sniff. Being a shoeshine man had had its drawbacks in that regard too – a shoeshine man can’t pick and choose his customers either. But at least the worst he had to do then was shine the shoes of some unattractive person with a cloth. Now, as a public footslave, even though he at least wasn’t having to clean the feet or footwear of male customers, he was nevertheless, in amongst servicing the feet and footwear of the occasional attractive young woman, having to suck the dirty, deeply unattractive, fat toes of grossly overweight, middle-aged women, and to feign respect for them whilst doing so. Some of the unkempt feet and footwear he was having to service with his slave mouth and tongue were, quite frankly, making him feel sick. Oh why hadn’t he specified to mistress-genie Johara that he should be the public footslave of attractive young women only!

If truth be told even if he had made such a wish, slave George was already fed up with his new fantasy life. Reality never seemed to live up to fantasy!

George therefore, somewhat to his own surprise, after just a few hours of being a proper, public footslave for women, wanted out! But there was no sign of mistress-genie Johara’s sparkly-silver slippers, so, worryingly, he wasn’t currently in a position to wish for anything! He began to wonder how and when he would be able to find the silvery slippers again and wish his life back to normal. A horrible thought occurred to him. What if genie-mistress Johara has deceived me? What if I was only ever going to be able to make one wish? What if I will be stuck as a public footslave for the rest of my life? Do I really want that?

No!

Somebody, it seems, however, was looking over slave George, for whilst he was pondering these questions who should approach his shoeshine stand but the exotic miss Basmah – the real owner of the silver slippers. And, what was more, she had the same carrier-bag full of her shoes and boots that she had had with her the previous day – including the silvery slippers. Indeed, she was dressed in the same clothes too – the blue denim jacket, the pink top, the matching pink, eastern-style, pantaloon-type, lightweight trousers that tapered in at the ankles, and, of course, the pretty, low-heeled, shiny black, court shoes on her shapely, brown ankles.

It was like some kind of time warp – a repetition of their encounter yesterday morning, only this time her tone of voice reminded George that he was no longer the friendly, neighbourhood shoeshine-man; he was the public shoeshine-slave:

‘Clean the muck off my shoes, slave’ miss Basmah barked down at him as she climbed up unaided into the high seat of the shoeshine stand.

Slave George had never heard miss Basmah speak in such an aggressive tone before. But then, he had never been her slave before. As she rested her feet on the metal footrests in front of his face he noticed something else that caused him some consternation. The small tattoo of a crescent that had been on her right ankle now appeared to be on her left ankle! ‘Oh my God!’ he thought to himself. ‘I’m in some sort of parallel universe! This is miss Basmah – but not as I know her. She is a doppelganger! Where exactly am I?'

‘Didn’t you hear what I said, slave? Clean the filthy muck off my shoes. Do it this instant!’

Miss Basmah’s piercing voice brought him back to his senses - you know where you are – you’re the public footslave in the main railway station, and your mistress Basmah wants her dirty shoes licked clean! So do it!

‘Yes mistress Basmah. At once mistress Basmah!’ he cringed; and he began licking away with his slave tongue the very same dirt that yesterday he had wiped away with his shoeshine-man’s cloth.

Mistress Basmah didn’t seem to bat an eyelid at his use of her name. So she must be a regular customer of George the footslave, just as miss Basmah is a regular customer of George the shoeshine-man in my own universe, thought slave George to himself.

He couldn’t quite get his slave head around all of this, but then, he didn’t have to. All he had to do was lick the muck off the side of miss Basmah’s left shoe (unlike yesterday it was her left shoe that was the most splattered with mud, not her right one).

Also as yesterday, slave George noticed that mistress Basmah’s left foot had some specks of wet mud on it. What should he do? Should he offer to lick it off – or, rather, beg permission to lick it off? Is a slave permitted to speak to his mistress without first being spoken to?

Slave George wasn’t sure. He only knew that he had to do something. He braced himself for a possible further encounter with the riding crop:

‘Oh pray, mistress Basmah, if you would be so kind, mistress Basmah, this dirty slave begs his superior mistress for forgiveness, but humbly beseeches his mistress’s permission to lick some specks of mud off his superior mistress’s divine foot, if it so pleases you, most gracious and merciful, feminine mistress.’

Mistress Basmah appeared to click her teeth in some annoyance:

‘Tch! Very well, slave – just get on with it!’

Slave George’s gamble had paid off! He was learning how to talk and act like a humble slave:

‘Yes mistress. Thank you mistress.’

He gently tongued the dirt off the side of mistress Basmah’s soft, brown foot, and swallowed it. It tasted like manna from heaven!

Indeed it was, pathetically, the highlight of his day so far – licking clean his Arab mistress’s bare foot – and slave George found himself suddenly wishing he could be her personal footslave. Her next words, as she stepped down from the shoeshine-stand, her feet and shoes now gleaming thanks to slave George’s tongue, reminded him that he had the opportunity to be just that:

‘Slave, I’ve brought some more of my shoes and boots for you to clean. Have them ready for me by Friday!’

‘Yes mistress Basmah. As you wish, mistress Basmah. Your wish is my command!’

For all his humility and self-deprecation George had not lost his sense of humour. ‘Your wish is my command’ – that was what genies normally said, wasn’t it? (although genie-mistress Johara had not struck him as the kind of genie who treated men’s pathetic wishes as her commands. She presumably fulfilled their wishes out of choice and the kindness of her female heart. Like so many women, she indulged men’s fantasies!)

Whatever, George’s mood had vastly improved again. Lust and fantasy had once more triumphed over common sense, and George now decided that he wished not to return to his old life as a shoeshine man after all, but to be mistress Basmah’s personal slave. That would be his second wish, and he now had the sparkly-silver slippers to be able to summon genie-mistress Johara and make his second wish come true. They were in the carrier bag mistress Basmah had just left him, along with the other pairs of boots and shoes she had left in the carrier bag in the parallel universe the day before – the brown leather, zip-up, pointy-toed and spike-heeled ankle boots; the bright yellow Wellington boots with the dirty, grey-white drawstrings; the blue and white sneakers; and the shiny, black, block-heeled, strappy mary-janes.

He crawled over to the bag on his knees as far as his slave-chain would allow and took out the soft, silvery slippers. He hesitated for just a few minutes before licking them. ‘Do I really want to remain a real-life slave – to be the personal footslave of mistress Basmah?’ he thought to himself. ‘Yes, I do,’ he concluded, ‘and if I don’t like it I can still use my third and final wish to wish myself back as a normal shoeshine-man again!’

It was a logic of sorts. He therefore picked up the slippers and licked them.

There was another sudden puff of smoke and genie-mistress Johara appeared in front of him – once again in her ‘belly-dancer’ outfit, with the transparent, blue veil covering the lower half of her pretty face, and with the silvery slippers somehow magically transferred onto her pretty feet:

‘Why have you summoned Johara again so soon, oh mortal one? Are you already desirous of making your second wish?’ asked the exotic mistress-genie in a somewhat incredulous tone.

‘Yes please, most beautiful and kind genie-mistress Johara. I …I now wish to be the personal footslave of mistress Basmah!’

Once again, genie-mistress Johara appeared to sneer at George’s pathetic request. Indeed, this time she even seemed to query it:

‘Are you sure, pathetic mortal? You should have learnt by now that you must be careful what you wish for! As you have discovered, fantasy can sometimes be better than reality!’

For all his innate submissiveness George was somewhat taken aback at genie-mistress Johara’s questioning of his desires. I mean, she was quite a scary genie – clearly superior to him as a mere, male mortal. More of a ‘goddess’ than a genie. But it was his wish and, as far as he knew, she had to fulfil it. So it was with an air of entirely inappropriate and uncalled for impatience that slave George repeated his request:

‘Yes, genie-mistress Johara, I think I’m old enough to know my own mind!’

A flash of excruciating pain suddenly traversed the entire length of George’s feeble, middle-aged body like a bolt of electricity. It snapped his heavy, metal slave chain and forced him to lie contritely on his belly at genie-mistress Johara’s silver-slippered feet. She truly seemed to tower over him now like an Arabian goddess:

‘Insolent fool!’ she declared. ‘I shall grant you your second wish, and may your back feel the sting of a thousand whips!’

Genie-mistress Johara then waved her hand contemptuously and the next thing George knew he was kneeling at the end of a couch on which mistress Basmah was reclining, massaging her bare, brown feet with his slave hands.

He was alone with mistress Basmah in what must be her living room! He was her personal footslave! His second wish had come true!

Thank you, goddess-mistress genie Johara! Thank you!
Reply With Quote