eternal footslave

You never even had a chance to live a life. As soon as you were out of highschool you had been thrown in the back of a van and taken away. You had been told you would be living a life as a slave, not even to the mistress of the house, but as a slave to the maids.

You had hoped a group of overworked and underpaid gals would have some sympathy for your situation...how wrong you were.

They were truly ruthless and sadistic, happy to have someone beneath them, sometimes literally. You were forced to clean footwear and sweat oozing nylon stockings with your tongue, often times while still on their feet.

The only meals they prepared you were bowls of dog food and pedicure water. Sometimes if you were good they mash bread up in their shoes like tattered insoles during a work day for you to eat.

All escape attempts had failed and been swiftly punished. Ypu shivered as you remembered the "boot locker cage" incident. You knew your place now.

So when she points at her steamy overworked feet, still wrapped up in the acrid smelling nylon, you knew better than to groan or complain. You simply began lapping away as much foot waste as you could, like a dog. Or more like what you were, a slave. A slave to the help.

You never even had a chance to live a life. As soon as you were out of highschool you had been thrown in the back of a van and taken away. You had been told you would be living a life as a slave, not even to the mistress of the house, but as a slave to the maids.

You had hoped a group of overworked and underpaid gals would have some sympathy for your situation...how wrong you were.

They were truly ruthless and sadistic, happy to have someone beneath them, sometimes literally. You were forced to clean footwear and sweat oozing nylon stockings with your tongue, often times while still on their feet.

The only meals they prepared you were bowls of dog food and pedicure water. Sometimes if you were good they mash bread up in their shoes like tattered insoles during a work day for you to eat.

All escape attempts had failed and been swiftly punished. Ypu shivered as you remembered the "boot locker cage" incident. You knew your place now.

So when she points at her steamy overworked feet, still wrapped up in the acrid smelling nylon, you knew better than to groan or complain. You simply began lapping away as much foot waste as you could, like a dog. Or more like what you were, a slave. A slave to the help.