patheticus555
02-11-2007, 2:31 PM
Roger sat nervously in the back of the limousine observing the sights of Jakarta as the car sped through the streets of the Indonesian capital.
The uniformed chauffeur was a heavily-built black man in his early 30s. The car had been sent to meet him at the airport.
The chauffeur wasn't saying much, and so Roger decided he would break the ice with, what he thought, was a fairly innocuous question:
'Have we far to go?’
The smartly dressed chauffeur paused for a moment before replying in a thick West African accent:
'I suggest you keep quiet, slave, and learn to speak only when you are spoken to by your betters.'
Roger's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. Slave! It was the first time ever in his life he had been called a ‘slave’, and it was a somewhat ominous development. He was, after all, as he understood it, going to be a household servant – not a ‘slave’. But how had he come to this humble position at the age of 45?
He thought back through the events of the last six months -- his descent into bankruptcy and homelessness; the utter desperation of living on the streets and in grubby, cold hostels and shelters in winter time; hiding from the gangsters to whom he still owed money; and then seeing the advertisement in a discarded newspaper:
'Wealthy Indonesian family seek male servant aged 35 - 55. No experience necessary. Full training and free board and lodging will be provided. Must relocate to Jakarta. Applications to Box no 765. No timewasters.’
In his state of hopelessness it had seemed a possible way out -- a chance to escape from all his problems and to live abroad at zero expense. After all, the advertisement promised 'free board and lodging if required'. Sure he would be some sort of ‘servant’ in the household, but how hard could that be? Dusting a few rooms; mopping a few floors; mowing the lawn; perhaps doing some odd-jobs around the house? He could do all that!
He had therefore responded to the advertisement and to his astonishment, within a week, received a reply at his homeless persons’ hostel confirming his appointment, on probation, and providing sponsorship forms for his Indonesian visa. His one-way air ticket to Jakarta was also included.
From the sponsorship forms he was able to tell that the family he would be serving were a Mr and Mrs Ramelan, both in their late forties, and their 20 year-old twin daughters, Lastri and Merpati. But he didn't pay too much attention to the forms. He just wanted to get his visa and get out of the country.
The Visa given to him had said 'Category - Indentured Servant.' On arrival at Jakarta airport, the pretty, young female Indonesian immigration officer had stamped his passport with a wry smile on her face. Another arrogant westerner, down on his luck, would soon be learning humility at the feet of his Asian superiors, she had thought. She had put his landing card to one side. For his part, Roger had simply been admiring her shiny, black leather, knee-length boots and her smart uniform.
And so, here he now was, in the back of the Ramelan family limousine being driven to their house to begin his new life as a servant – or ‘slave’ as the chauffeur would have it.
It actually took about an hour to reach the Ramelan family home which was located in one of the posh suburbs of Jakarta. As the car pulled into the driveway Roger was somewhat taken aback at the size of the place -- it was huge! It looked like a mansion! Perhaps keeping this place clean and tidy wouldn't be as easy as he had first thought!
On the other hand, Mr Ramelan clearly employed other servants, such as the moody chauffeur. So presumably he would have some help in his duties, whatever they may be. For the first time he wished he had actually made some inquiries as to what his duties and responsibilities would be before rushing off to apply for the position. But it was too late now -- this was going to be his new home whether he liked it or not.
Needless to say, the chauffeur didn't open the door for him when the car had come to a halt. Instead, the rather gruff black man had barked what appeared to be an order to Roger:
'Follow me, slave.'
There it was again! That word ‘slave’! What on earth was going on?
However, he dutifully followed the uniformed chauffeur through what appeared to be the 'staff entrance' into the large mansion, as it led directly into the kitchen.
The chauffeur approached a rather overweight black woman in her 30s who was standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing a brightly coloured traditional African dress and an apron, and greeted her with an affectionate kiss. This was Awa, the chauffeur’s wife and the cook for the household.
Roger stood somewhat awkwardly in the doorway whilst the chauffeur and his wife made some small talk before turning their attention to the new arrival:
'This is the new footslave,’ the chauffeur declared to his wife with an evil grin on his face.
Footslave! What’s on earth does he mean by that? Roger was now even more perplexed. It was like the African man was speaking in some sort of foreign language!
The cook, however, was smiling at him, and addressed him directly in a much more friendly manner than her husband had:
‘Hello, dear. Come in and put your bag down over there’ she pointed to a corner in the kitchen.
Roger noticed that the black woman also had a strong West African accent
‘My name is Awa, and this is my husband Komi,’ she continued.
‘But you can call us Master Komi and Mistress Awa, slave,’ interjected the male chauffeur, without smiling.
Roger put down his bag and stepped forward towards the friendly cook intending to shake her hand.
He sensed that the woman looked a little surprised as he did so:
‘Hello, my name is Roger, he introduced himself.
A split second later Roger was lying on his back on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, his head ringing as the black man and black woman were both towering above him, she still smiling, his face etched with rage. It took Roger a second or two to realize what had happened – the chauffeur had struck him hard across the face and sent him reeling to the floor. His jaw was stinging and he could taste blood inside his mouth:
‘Never speak to your superiors in that way again, dirty slave!’ the black man was shouting. ‘How dare you speak to my wife like that, you dirty no-good foot-licker!’ The big black man than kicked Roger in the ribs – temporarily winding him.
‘Enough Komi!’ urged the chauffeur’s wife. ‘He has only just arrived. He still has a lot to learn!’ she pleaded on Roger’s behalf, stooping down to help him up onto his knees.
At this point, the chauffeur placed his foot on Roger’s back forcing him face down onto the kitchen floor in front of the African woman’s feet:
‘Then I will begin his lessons now!’ said the African man in a dark tone. ‘Slave, you will now show my wife some proper respect – kiss her feet,’ he barked down at the still winded, confused, Roger.
Roger was not a violent man. In fact, he had always been something of a wimp. In any case, there was no way he would have been able to take on this brute of a man in a physical fight. Still gasping for breath Roger attempted to defuse the situation verbally:
‘Look, I’m sorry, there must be some misunderstanding. My name is Roger and I’ve just arrived from England to take up the position of house-servant to the Ramelan family. I am not a slave!’
Even Roger was no longer convinced by the last statement, not now that he was lying face down on the dirty kitchen floor at an African lady’s feet with her husband’s foot digging painfully into his back!
Now it was the turn of the kindly African woman to speak again:
‘Be quiet, my darling, and let me explain. You are a slave. You are to be the footslave of all the women in this household. Master Ramelan is a very powerful man and he has obtained you as a special gift for us all. He told us you will be serving his wife and daughters as their personal footslave, but that you will also serve his female staff as their footslave too. So it will be best for you if you just do as my husband says and kiss my feet.’
With that the African woman shoved her dusty, broad, brown leather sandal-shod right foot directly under Roger’s nose – so close that he could smell the leather of her sandal straps and see the tiny lines in her soft, brown, african footflesh. For some reason his eyes focused on a piece of dead skin that was protruding at the top right-hand corner of her big toe. He felt repulsed. He had never been that close to another human being’s feet before, and the idea of kissing the African woman’s dirty foot was quite disgusting, not to say degrading and demeaning.
But Roger was, fundamentally, a coward. And he didn’t want to incur any more pain from the woman’s husband, and so, before the enormity of what he was doing could fully sink in, Roger actually found himself placing his lips onto the woman’s bare big toe and kissing it.
It felt soft, and he caught a faint whiff of human footsweat. Something stirred deep within him.
The woman, and perhaps more importantly her husband, appeared pleased with his act of humility and obeisance. Roger heard then both laughing
above him:
‘That’s right, my dear, now kiss my other foot,’ chirped mistress Awa happily as she withdrew her right foot from under Roger’s nose and replaced it with her equally broad and wrinkled left foot.
Roger had already crossed the line into footslavery, and so the second kiss on Awa’s left big toe came easier to him. Again the African couple laughed and he felt the relief of master Komi lifting his heavy foot off the small of his back.
‘Well done, darling!’ exclaimed mistress Awa to her new slave. ‘Now you see how much easier it is for you if you obey everything we say? You must understand that you are a slave, dear, and you must learn to obey all of us. We are all your masters and mistresses, and you must learn to call us that and to be humble and treat all of us with respect.’
She spoke in such a bizarrely friendly tone; it was almost incongruous with the content of the words she was actually speaking. She was informing Roger that he was, in effect, nothing more than a footslave, fit only to kiss her feet and the feet of all the other women in the house.
And yet, she was speaking nothing other than the truth, and Roger was in no position to argue. He remained lying face down on the kitchen floor staring at the African woman’s sandaled feet as she went on to explain a few more home truths to him:
‘You must forget your name ‘Roger’. You are no longer ‘Roger’. You are now just a slave, and that is what everyone will call you. You are now nobody and are the inferior slave of everybody.’
Mistress Awa then raised her right foot and, hands on hips in order to balance herself, placed her sandaled foot on top of the new footslave’s head, pushing his left cheek hard onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, and then rested the dusty sole of her sandaled foot on his upturned right cheek:
‘Aah! Such a pretty slaveboy!’ she exclaimed, clicking her teeth. How miss Lastri and Miss Merpati will enjoy teasing you!’
Master Komi laughed out loud at this point:
‘Speaking of the young mistresses I am going to collect them from the college. Get him changed into his slave tunic, and take him up to meet the master and mistress at 4 o’clock, Awa,’ he instructed his wife.
Still with her right foot resting on top of the footslave’s right cheek, Mistress Awa embraced her husband and kissed him goodbye on his right cheek.
As he turned to leave the kitchen Master Komi had some further words of warning for the new footslave:
‘Slave, see you obey your mistress Awa, or you will have me to answer to when I get back. Do you understand what it is I am saying?’ he barked down at the slave still lying prostrate under his wife’s feet big, brown, sandaled feet.
‘Yes, master Komi.’
The words came surprisingly easily to the new footslave. They rolled off his tongue as if they were now the most natural words he could utter.
Mistress Awa laughed:
‘Don’t worry, Komi. He is already broken. I can see hear it in his voice and see it in his stupid face!’
And she was right. Roger was no more. That first kiss to mistress Awa’s foot had marked his transition to household footslave. And now it was time for him to meet his new masters’ masters.
Some 45 minutes later he was kneeling beside mistress Awa as she politely knocked on the door of the main lounge.
The short tunic which mistress Awa had given him to wear was similar to those the footslave had seen being worn by house-slaves in movies set in Ancient Rome – brown, rough, plain, indicative of his humble status. His normal clothes had been removed from him by mistress Awa, and she had informed him that from now on the tunic was all he would be permitted to wear – indoors and out, whatever the weather. The tunic had the word ‘slave’ written on the back in both English and Indonesian.
The only other item he now had on him was a metal slave-collar around his neck which was endorsed with the words ‘Property of the Ramelan family’, followed by their address. Mistress Awa, ever the kind and gentle woman that she was, had made sure as she put the collar around the slave’s neck that it wasn’t too tight for him!
She had also been kind enough to explain to him that, as he was a footslave, he was no longer permitted to walk upright like a free human being, but must crawl everywhere on his hands and knees – ready to serve the feet of his superiors at a moment’s notice. She also advised the slave never to look a superior human being in the eye, but to always keep his head bowed and to focus on their feet.
It made perfect sense to the new footslave, and that was exactly what he was now doing as he stared at the hard skin on the backs of mistress Awa’s wrinkly brown heels.
He heard a male voice say ‘Enter!’, in response to mistress Awa’s knocking, and crawled behind her superior heels as she took him in to meet his new owner.
Mr Ramelan and his wife were both seated beside each other on a comfortable leather sofa in the middle of the lounge, apparently keen to meet their new possession.
The first thing that struck the footslave was how thin and wiry Mr Ramelan was and how plump by comparison his wife was. He wondered, fleetingly, whether all the women in this household were overweight, but soon remembered his place, and lowered his gaze to Mrs Ramelan’s feet as mistress Awa led him to kneel in front of the sofa at his new master and mistress’s feet:
‘This is your new slave, Sir and Madam,’ chirped Awa in her ever-happy, soft sing-song, west african voice.
‘Thank you, Awa,’ replied Mr Ramelan, ‘Sujatmi will be his trainer. Can you please ask her to join us?’
‘Yes, certainly, Sir,’ responded Awa shutting the door behind her as she withdrew from the lounge.
The new footslave, endeavouring to learn the conventions and protocols of this strange household, made a mental note of the fact that although mistress Awa was a servant, and referred to Mr and Mrs Ramelan as the ‘Master’ and ‘Mistress’, she was nevertheless allowed to address them as ‘Sir or ‘Madam’. He wondered whether he would be expected to do the same, although he wasn’t sure how that would square with having to address mistress Awa, their cook, as ‘mistress’.
‘Kiss my wife’s feet, slave,’ ordered Mr Ramelan.
Clearly, the men in this household, be they servants or masters, expected the footslave to pay his humble respects to their wives in front of them. Perhaps it added to their sense of machismo to see a lowly male footslave paying homage in such a demeaning way to their partners on their orders.
The slave had noticed that Mr Ramelan had spoken with a strong asian accent when issuing his order to the slave, and Mrs Ramelan now spoke with an equally strong accent as, from her seated position on the sofa she stretched out her right foot for the kneeling footslave to kiss:
‘Make sure you kiss only the toe of my leather shoe, slave. I don’t want your filthy lips touching my bare skin!’
Unlike the slave, Mrs Ramelan was wearing nice, and obviously very expensive clothes, displaying her status as a wealthy woman. She was dressed in a western-style, black trouser suit and black, high-heeled shoes on bare feet. She was also wearing an expensive-looking, gold ankle chain on her outstretched right foot.
As the slave crawled over to her, and then lowered his head to her shiny black shoe in order to kiss it, he noticed how her foot wiggled slightly in her high heel causing her forbidden, light brown, flawless, asian footflesh to flex on the top of her foot. He kissed the toe of her equally flawless, expensive shoe and tasted patent leather for the first time.
‘And the other one,’ ordered Mrs Ramelan curtly as she replaced her outstretched right foot with her left.
The slave noticed that, for a rather fat woman, she nevertheless had shapely ankles and calves as they disappeared up her trouser legs. They looked very soft and smooth.
His humble act of obeisance must have been satisfactory for Mrs Ramelan said nothing, and just twiddled with her curly, black hair as her husband addressed the kneeling slave again, this time answering some of the questions that had been racing through the stupid footslave’s inferior brain:
‘Slave, you are now my family’s foot-servant. Officially, your legal status is that of an “indentured servant”. In practice, however, as you will not be paid and will receive only your free board and lodging in return for your labour, you are nothing more than a slave, and you will be regarded as such by everyone in this household. Furthermore you will never be allowed to obtain your freedom. If you try to escape I shall inform my contacts in our Immigration Department that you are in breach of your visa conditions and you will be imprisoned for life. You should resign yourself, therefore, to the fact that you will be our family slave for the rest of your natural life.’
Listening to Mr Ramelan’s words the slave formerly known as Roger now realized that the advert had been deliberately misleading and he had effectively been duped into becoming a real-life slave in a foreign country. Yet he already felt this was his true destiny. He had sensed it the moment he had kissed mistress Awa’s foot.
His new master continued:
‘You will address me simply as “Master” and my wife as “Mistress”. Everyone else you will refer to as “Master”, followed by their name, or “Mistress”, or “Miss” followed by their name.
In particular, you will show the utmost respect to my twin daughters, Lastri and Merpati – “Miss Lastri” and “Miss Merpati” to you. They are at college now but you will pay your humble respects to them later.
In the meantime you will be introduced to Miss Sujatmi, who will be your trainer. Sujatmi is our laundry-maid, but you will be taking on some of her work as you will now be responsible, amongst other things, for the upkeep of my wife and daughters’ hosiery and footwear.’
The mistress was in the process of lighting a cigarette at this point and a cruel grin enveloped her pretty face as she listened, admiringly, to her strong husband informing the weak slave of the fact that he would now be responsible for washing all her dirty stockings and her daughters’ dirty socks.
Mr Ramelan continued his ‘welcoming’ speech:
‘Sujatmi will also see to it that you pay your way properly in this household by pimping you on the streets of Jakarta during the evenings as a ladies’ footslave. She will explain more about this to you later.
Your accommodation will be a hole in the barn attached to the back of the house. You are not permitted to sleep in the house itself along with the other servants, as you are just a dirty footslave , are lower than the rest of them, and must slave for them also. Sujatmi will therefore lock you in your hole every night, and will release you in the morning when it is time for you to recommence your servitude.
The penalty for insolence or disobedience on your part shall be the whip, administered by Komi, our chauffeur. I suggest you do your utmost to serve us well and to avoid the whip as I am reliably informed that its sting is most undesirable. However, if needs be, the whip will ensure your submission and compliance.’
As he listened to his new master’s stern lecture, still staring humbly at his master’s wife’s expensive, black high-heeled shoes as she flexed her pretty feet in front of his face, the footslave noticed how fluently and clearly, in spite of his accent, the master spoke English.
Indeed the master was only interrupted in his pronouncements when there was a faint knock on the door:
‘Enter!’ shouted the master.
It was Sujatmi, the aforementioned laundry maid:
‘Sir call for Sujatmi?’ came a high-pitched asian voice from behind the footslave.
‘Yes, Sujatmi, please come in. This is the new footslave and, as we discussed last week, I want you to take charge of him. See that you teach him how to serve properly at the feet of his superiors!’
‘Oh yes, Sir. Sujatmi learn slave well!’ responded the laundry-maid happily.
She sounded quite young, in her mid twenties, and her English was evidently not as good as that of her master and mistress. Even with his limited knowledge of Indonesian society the newly arrived footslave guessed that the maid was from peasant stock. As Miss Sujatmi moved over to stand beside him he could see from the corner of his eye that she, unlike the two other women he had met in the household thus far, was not overweight. Quite the opposite, she was petite and slightly built. He noticed also that she was quite traditionally dressed from the waist upwards, including a black head-scarf and modest blouse, but was wearing western clothing from the waist downwards – blue, denim jeans and white and blue sneakers.
Yet the mere fact that she was standing in the presence of the master and mistress, whilst he was kneeling, reinforced the message that the master had just been seeking to get across to him - that he was lower than miss Sujatmi, and she was his master too.
‘Take the slave to the barn, Sujatmi, and show him his hole, then take him to the laundry room and show him his duties there please. Miss Lastri and miss Merpati should be back from college in about an hour’s time. The slave can pay his respects to them after we have all had dinner.’
‘Yes, Sir. Sujatmi understand, Sir. Sujatmi thank master and mistress for giving Sujatmi footslave to train!’
Both Mr and Mrs Ramelan smiled. Sujatmi was so cute – almost like a third daughter to them. They treated all their servants well – apart from the family footslave. But they were both particularly fond of the hard-working and diligent Sujatmi. In a way, they wished their own daughters could be more like her; Lastri and Merpati were far from being hard-working and diligent. Nevertheless, they doted on them too.
‘You’re welcome, my dear,’ responded Mrs Ramelan. ‘We know you’ll do a good job training the footslave! Now, take him to the barn and show him the filthy hole he will be living in,’ she added, clearly excited at the thought that whilst she and her family, and even the other servants would be spending each night in the warmth and comfort of the luxury mansion, the footslave would be tethered to a stake inside a dark hole in the draughty old barn – cold and alone.
‘Yes,sir. Yes, madam,’ replied the young maid rather coyly.
She then changed her tone and whole demeanour to address the kneeling footslave:
‘Slave, follow Sujatmi feet,’ she barked in her thick asian accent as she kicked him in his already tender ribs with her right-sneakered foot. She was determined to demonstrate to her master and mistress that she was fully up to the job of slave-trainer.
The footslave promptly lowered his head to the back of miss Sujatmi’s sneakers and crawled after her heels as she exited the lounge. Sujatmi said nothing as he continued to crawl after her sneakered heels down a corridor and out onto a gravel path at the back of the house which led to the ‘barn’ that apparently housed his humble accommodation. The gravel chafed and cut his knees.
As he stared at her sneaker-heels the footslave occasionally caught a glimpse of the elasticated tops of miss Sujatmi’s short, thin white ankle socks under her denim trouser legs. He wondered how long it would be before he was ordered to kiss her feet? Perhaps she too was married and had a husband who wanted to see him pay his slavish respects to his other half?
As soon as they had entered the barn the slave got the answer to at least the first of those two questions. Miss Sujatmi ordered him to stop in the middle of the barn and moved to stand in front of him on the dirt floor. She then stretched out her right sneakered foot in the dirt under his kneeling face and gave the inevitable order that the footslave was now almost expecting:
‘Slave kiss Sujatmi foot,’ the young woman barked, adjusting her headscarf as she did so.
The footslave slowly and respectfully lowered his lips to the top of her outstretched blue and white sneaker. It was dirty and chapped. Part of the outer material around the area of the toes had clearly worn off. He could also smell ingrained sweat in the fabric of the sneaker. This was truly a well worn sneaker.
But the footslave had already realised that, whether he was kissing the dusty brown leather sandals of the cook, mistress Awa, or the pristine, shiny, black patent leather high heel shoes of the mistress of the house, or the dirty, worn blue and white sneakers of the laundry-maid, mistress Sujatmi, it was the chosen footwear of his superior mistress, and had to be kissed with the utmost humility and respect.
And so, he kissed the flakey, worn, leather and plastic of miss Sujatmi’s pungent sneaker.
It elicited a little squeal of delight from the young woman:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave kiss Sujatmi dirty sneaker! Sujatmi better than slave! Slave obey Sujatmi!’
It was as if the young laundry-maid couldn’t believe the power and authority she now had over another living being, and she quickly withdrew her right foot, replacing it with her left, as if to test that the first act of humble obedience hadn’t been a fluke:
‘Slave kiss Sujatmi other foot!’
As he lowered his lips to the top of her equally flakey left sneaker the slave now had a clear view of the top of miss Sujatmi’s white, ‘no show’ cotton sock and her light brown, shapely asian ankle. The pure whiteness of the sock contrasted with the dirty-white of her worn-down sneaker. In spite of her dirty outer footwear, she must keep her feet fairly clean, thought the inexperienced footslave.
Little did he know that he was about to find out that this was not necessarily the case, for at that moment Sujatmi pulled up a nearby stool and sat down on it in front of him:
‘Sujatmi tired. Feet tired. Feet sweaty; dirty. Slave take off Sujatmi shoes and socks. Clean Sujatmi feet with tongue. Slave obey!’
It hadn’t taken Sujatmi long to assimilate the role of slave-mistress. The latent desire to dominate that resides in many oppressed young women had quickly risen to the surface.
The footslave unfortunately fumbled somewhat as he strove to undo miss Sujatmi’s dirty, white shoe laces. In fact, they were more gray than white, demonstrating that, like the sneakers they were a part of, they had fulfilled many years of service on the asian girl’s feet.
Unimpressed by his ineptitude, Sujatmi kicked the slave’s face, leaving a dirty streak on the side of his right cheek:
‘Slave hurry! Obey Sujatmi! Take off shoe!’
Every time she shouted she had to adjust her head scarf.
The clumsy slave finally managed to get the lace on her right shoe undone and to remove her sneaker from her small, dainty, white-socked foot. The sneaker came off with a ‘whoosh’ as the warm, sweaty air that had been trapped inside escaped. It really was quite pungent – a heady mixture of feminine footsweat and musty, moist leather.
The slave observed too, as he placed the sneaker on the ground, that the inner lining of the shoe was completely gray with wear, and that whole patches of the inner lining had worn off.
He hesitated for a moment wondering whether he should proceed to remove the young woman’s sock, or first take off her other shoe.
Miss Sujatmi put him out of his misery:
‘Slave take off Sujatmi sock. Clean foot. Lick!’ she screamed at him, seemingly exasperated at what she perceived to be a reluctance on his part to obey her entirely reasonable orders.
The short white ankle sock in question no longer looked so pristine. Yes, the elasticated tops that had been visible before were still snowy-white, but the bottom of the sock contained yellow and brown sweat stains, and there was a small hole developing on top of the big toe.
As he started to peel off the young mistress’s sweaty, white ankle sock, Sujatmi suddenly decided that he should first pay his respects to her sock:
‘Slave stop! Kiss Sujatmi sock! Worship it!’
The young woman, slightly built though she was, seemed to tower over him in her position of power seated above him on the wooden stool. The footslave was frightened of her, and knew it was only right and proper that he should pay his respects to the young woman’s inner footwear.
So he kissed the toe of her worn, white ankle sock, feeling her wiggle her big toe with delight inside the sock, causing the thin white cotton to crease and fold.
‘Ha! Ha! Slave miss Sujatmi sock-slave! Slave like kiss Sujatmi dirty sock?’
Inexperienced though he may be, the new footslave knew there was only one answer he could possibly give the superior young woman seated above him:
‘Yes, mistress Sujatmi, this slave is indeed privileged to kiss your sock.’
And the speed with which he had come to accept his new role in life did not even occur to him, so obsessed was he with paying his genuine respects to the young Indonesian laundry-maid’s dirty white ankle-sock.
The uniformed chauffeur was a heavily-built black man in his early 30s. The car had been sent to meet him at the airport.
The chauffeur wasn't saying much, and so Roger decided he would break the ice with, what he thought, was a fairly innocuous question:
'Have we far to go?’
The smartly dressed chauffeur paused for a moment before replying in a thick West African accent:
'I suggest you keep quiet, slave, and learn to speak only when you are spoken to by your betters.'
Roger's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. Slave! It was the first time ever in his life he had been called a ‘slave’, and it was a somewhat ominous development. He was, after all, as he understood it, going to be a household servant – not a ‘slave’. But how had he come to this humble position at the age of 45?
He thought back through the events of the last six months -- his descent into bankruptcy and homelessness; the utter desperation of living on the streets and in grubby, cold hostels and shelters in winter time; hiding from the gangsters to whom he still owed money; and then seeing the advertisement in a discarded newspaper:
'Wealthy Indonesian family seek male servant aged 35 - 55. No experience necessary. Full training and free board and lodging will be provided. Must relocate to Jakarta. Applications to Box no 765. No timewasters.’
In his state of hopelessness it had seemed a possible way out -- a chance to escape from all his problems and to live abroad at zero expense. After all, the advertisement promised 'free board and lodging if required'. Sure he would be some sort of ‘servant’ in the household, but how hard could that be? Dusting a few rooms; mopping a few floors; mowing the lawn; perhaps doing some odd-jobs around the house? He could do all that!
He had therefore responded to the advertisement and to his astonishment, within a week, received a reply at his homeless persons’ hostel confirming his appointment, on probation, and providing sponsorship forms for his Indonesian visa. His one-way air ticket to Jakarta was also included.
From the sponsorship forms he was able to tell that the family he would be serving were a Mr and Mrs Ramelan, both in their late forties, and their 20 year-old twin daughters, Lastri and Merpati. But he didn't pay too much attention to the forms. He just wanted to get his visa and get out of the country.
The Visa given to him had said 'Category - Indentured Servant.' On arrival at Jakarta airport, the pretty, young female Indonesian immigration officer had stamped his passport with a wry smile on her face. Another arrogant westerner, down on his luck, would soon be learning humility at the feet of his Asian superiors, she had thought. She had put his landing card to one side. For his part, Roger had simply been admiring her shiny, black leather, knee-length boots and her smart uniform.
And so, here he now was, in the back of the Ramelan family limousine being driven to their house to begin his new life as a servant – or ‘slave’ as the chauffeur would have it.
It actually took about an hour to reach the Ramelan family home which was located in one of the posh suburbs of Jakarta. As the car pulled into the driveway Roger was somewhat taken aback at the size of the place -- it was huge! It looked like a mansion! Perhaps keeping this place clean and tidy wouldn't be as easy as he had first thought!
On the other hand, Mr Ramelan clearly employed other servants, such as the moody chauffeur. So presumably he would have some help in his duties, whatever they may be. For the first time he wished he had actually made some inquiries as to what his duties and responsibilities would be before rushing off to apply for the position. But it was too late now -- this was going to be his new home whether he liked it or not.
Needless to say, the chauffeur didn't open the door for him when the car had come to a halt. Instead, the rather gruff black man had barked what appeared to be an order to Roger:
'Follow me, slave.'
There it was again! That word ‘slave’! What on earth was going on?
However, he dutifully followed the uniformed chauffeur through what appeared to be the 'staff entrance' into the large mansion, as it led directly into the kitchen.
The chauffeur approached a rather overweight black woman in her 30s who was standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing a brightly coloured traditional African dress and an apron, and greeted her with an affectionate kiss. This was Awa, the chauffeur’s wife and the cook for the household.
Roger stood somewhat awkwardly in the doorway whilst the chauffeur and his wife made some small talk before turning their attention to the new arrival:
'This is the new footslave,’ the chauffeur declared to his wife with an evil grin on his face.
Footslave! What’s on earth does he mean by that? Roger was now even more perplexed. It was like the African man was speaking in some sort of foreign language!
The cook, however, was smiling at him, and addressed him directly in a much more friendly manner than her husband had:
‘Hello, dear. Come in and put your bag down over there’ she pointed to a corner in the kitchen.
Roger noticed that the black woman also had a strong West African accent
‘My name is Awa, and this is my husband Komi,’ she continued.
‘But you can call us Master Komi and Mistress Awa, slave,’ interjected the male chauffeur, without smiling.
Roger put down his bag and stepped forward towards the friendly cook intending to shake her hand.
He sensed that the woman looked a little surprised as he did so:
‘Hello, my name is Roger, he introduced himself.
A split second later Roger was lying on his back on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, his head ringing as the black man and black woman were both towering above him, she still smiling, his face etched with rage. It took Roger a second or two to realize what had happened – the chauffeur had struck him hard across the face and sent him reeling to the floor. His jaw was stinging and he could taste blood inside his mouth:
‘Never speak to your superiors in that way again, dirty slave!’ the black man was shouting. ‘How dare you speak to my wife like that, you dirty no-good foot-licker!’ The big black man than kicked Roger in the ribs – temporarily winding him.
‘Enough Komi!’ urged the chauffeur’s wife. ‘He has only just arrived. He still has a lot to learn!’ she pleaded on Roger’s behalf, stooping down to help him up onto his knees.
At this point, the chauffeur placed his foot on Roger’s back forcing him face down onto the kitchen floor in front of the African woman’s feet:
‘Then I will begin his lessons now!’ said the African man in a dark tone. ‘Slave, you will now show my wife some proper respect – kiss her feet,’ he barked down at the still winded, confused, Roger.
Roger was not a violent man. In fact, he had always been something of a wimp. In any case, there was no way he would have been able to take on this brute of a man in a physical fight. Still gasping for breath Roger attempted to defuse the situation verbally:
‘Look, I’m sorry, there must be some misunderstanding. My name is Roger and I’ve just arrived from England to take up the position of house-servant to the Ramelan family. I am not a slave!’
Even Roger was no longer convinced by the last statement, not now that he was lying face down on the dirty kitchen floor at an African lady’s feet with her husband’s foot digging painfully into his back!
Now it was the turn of the kindly African woman to speak again:
‘Be quiet, my darling, and let me explain. You are a slave. You are to be the footslave of all the women in this household. Master Ramelan is a very powerful man and he has obtained you as a special gift for us all. He told us you will be serving his wife and daughters as their personal footslave, but that you will also serve his female staff as their footslave too. So it will be best for you if you just do as my husband says and kiss my feet.’
With that the African woman shoved her dusty, broad, brown leather sandal-shod right foot directly under Roger’s nose – so close that he could smell the leather of her sandal straps and see the tiny lines in her soft, brown, african footflesh. For some reason his eyes focused on a piece of dead skin that was protruding at the top right-hand corner of her big toe. He felt repulsed. He had never been that close to another human being’s feet before, and the idea of kissing the African woman’s dirty foot was quite disgusting, not to say degrading and demeaning.
But Roger was, fundamentally, a coward. And he didn’t want to incur any more pain from the woman’s husband, and so, before the enormity of what he was doing could fully sink in, Roger actually found himself placing his lips onto the woman’s bare big toe and kissing it.
It felt soft, and he caught a faint whiff of human footsweat. Something stirred deep within him.
The woman, and perhaps more importantly her husband, appeared pleased with his act of humility and obeisance. Roger heard then both laughing
above him:
‘That’s right, my dear, now kiss my other foot,’ chirped mistress Awa happily as she withdrew her right foot from under Roger’s nose and replaced it with her equally broad and wrinkled left foot.
Roger had already crossed the line into footslavery, and so the second kiss on Awa’s left big toe came easier to him. Again the African couple laughed and he felt the relief of master Komi lifting his heavy foot off the small of his back.
‘Well done, darling!’ exclaimed mistress Awa to her new slave. ‘Now you see how much easier it is for you if you obey everything we say? You must understand that you are a slave, dear, and you must learn to obey all of us. We are all your masters and mistresses, and you must learn to call us that and to be humble and treat all of us with respect.’
She spoke in such a bizarrely friendly tone; it was almost incongruous with the content of the words she was actually speaking. She was informing Roger that he was, in effect, nothing more than a footslave, fit only to kiss her feet and the feet of all the other women in the house.
And yet, she was speaking nothing other than the truth, and Roger was in no position to argue. He remained lying face down on the kitchen floor staring at the African woman’s sandaled feet as she went on to explain a few more home truths to him:
‘You must forget your name ‘Roger’. You are no longer ‘Roger’. You are now just a slave, and that is what everyone will call you. You are now nobody and are the inferior slave of everybody.’
Mistress Awa then raised her right foot and, hands on hips in order to balance herself, placed her sandaled foot on top of the new footslave’s head, pushing his left cheek hard onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, and then rested the dusty sole of her sandaled foot on his upturned right cheek:
‘Aah! Such a pretty slaveboy!’ she exclaimed, clicking her teeth. How miss Lastri and Miss Merpati will enjoy teasing you!’
Master Komi laughed out loud at this point:
‘Speaking of the young mistresses I am going to collect them from the college. Get him changed into his slave tunic, and take him up to meet the master and mistress at 4 o’clock, Awa,’ he instructed his wife.
Still with her right foot resting on top of the footslave’s right cheek, Mistress Awa embraced her husband and kissed him goodbye on his right cheek.
As he turned to leave the kitchen Master Komi had some further words of warning for the new footslave:
‘Slave, see you obey your mistress Awa, or you will have me to answer to when I get back. Do you understand what it is I am saying?’ he barked down at the slave still lying prostrate under his wife’s feet big, brown, sandaled feet.
‘Yes, master Komi.’
The words came surprisingly easily to the new footslave. They rolled off his tongue as if they were now the most natural words he could utter.
Mistress Awa laughed:
‘Don’t worry, Komi. He is already broken. I can see hear it in his voice and see it in his stupid face!’
And she was right. Roger was no more. That first kiss to mistress Awa’s foot had marked his transition to household footslave. And now it was time for him to meet his new masters’ masters.
Some 45 minutes later he was kneeling beside mistress Awa as she politely knocked on the door of the main lounge.
The short tunic which mistress Awa had given him to wear was similar to those the footslave had seen being worn by house-slaves in movies set in Ancient Rome – brown, rough, plain, indicative of his humble status. His normal clothes had been removed from him by mistress Awa, and she had informed him that from now on the tunic was all he would be permitted to wear – indoors and out, whatever the weather. The tunic had the word ‘slave’ written on the back in both English and Indonesian.
The only other item he now had on him was a metal slave-collar around his neck which was endorsed with the words ‘Property of the Ramelan family’, followed by their address. Mistress Awa, ever the kind and gentle woman that she was, had made sure as she put the collar around the slave’s neck that it wasn’t too tight for him!
She had also been kind enough to explain to him that, as he was a footslave, he was no longer permitted to walk upright like a free human being, but must crawl everywhere on his hands and knees – ready to serve the feet of his superiors at a moment’s notice. She also advised the slave never to look a superior human being in the eye, but to always keep his head bowed and to focus on their feet.
It made perfect sense to the new footslave, and that was exactly what he was now doing as he stared at the hard skin on the backs of mistress Awa’s wrinkly brown heels.
He heard a male voice say ‘Enter!’, in response to mistress Awa’s knocking, and crawled behind her superior heels as she took him in to meet his new owner.
Mr Ramelan and his wife were both seated beside each other on a comfortable leather sofa in the middle of the lounge, apparently keen to meet their new possession.
The first thing that struck the footslave was how thin and wiry Mr Ramelan was and how plump by comparison his wife was. He wondered, fleetingly, whether all the women in this household were overweight, but soon remembered his place, and lowered his gaze to Mrs Ramelan’s feet as mistress Awa led him to kneel in front of the sofa at his new master and mistress’s feet:
‘This is your new slave, Sir and Madam,’ chirped Awa in her ever-happy, soft sing-song, west african voice.
‘Thank you, Awa,’ replied Mr Ramelan, ‘Sujatmi will be his trainer. Can you please ask her to join us?’
‘Yes, certainly, Sir,’ responded Awa shutting the door behind her as she withdrew from the lounge.
The new footslave, endeavouring to learn the conventions and protocols of this strange household, made a mental note of the fact that although mistress Awa was a servant, and referred to Mr and Mrs Ramelan as the ‘Master’ and ‘Mistress’, she was nevertheless allowed to address them as ‘Sir or ‘Madam’. He wondered whether he would be expected to do the same, although he wasn’t sure how that would square with having to address mistress Awa, their cook, as ‘mistress’.
‘Kiss my wife’s feet, slave,’ ordered Mr Ramelan.
Clearly, the men in this household, be they servants or masters, expected the footslave to pay his humble respects to their wives in front of them. Perhaps it added to their sense of machismo to see a lowly male footslave paying homage in such a demeaning way to their partners on their orders.
The slave had noticed that Mr Ramelan had spoken with a strong asian accent when issuing his order to the slave, and Mrs Ramelan now spoke with an equally strong accent as, from her seated position on the sofa she stretched out her right foot for the kneeling footslave to kiss:
‘Make sure you kiss only the toe of my leather shoe, slave. I don’t want your filthy lips touching my bare skin!’
Unlike the slave, Mrs Ramelan was wearing nice, and obviously very expensive clothes, displaying her status as a wealthy woman. She was dressed in a western-style, black trouser suit and black, high-heeled shoes on bare feet. She was also wearing an expensive-looking, gold ankle chain on her outstretched right foot.
As the slave crawled over to her, and then lowered his head to her shiny black shoe in order to kiss it, he noticed how her foot wiggled slightly in her high heel causing her forbidden, light brown, flawless, asian footflesh to flex on the top of her foot. He kissed the toe of her equally flawless, expensive shoe and tasted patent leather for the first time.
‘And the other one,’ ordered Mrs Ramelan curtly as she replaced her outstretched right foot with her left.
The slave noticed that, for a rather fat woman, she nevertheless had shapely ankles and calves as they disappeared up her trouser legs. They looked very soft and smooth.
His humble act of obeisance must have been satisfactory for Mrs Ramelan said nothing, and just twiddled with her curly, black hair as her husband addressed the kneeling slave again, this time answering some of the questions that had been racing through the stupid footslave’s inferior brain:
‘Slave, you are now my family’s foot-servant. Officially, your legal status is that of an “indentured servant”. In practice, however, as you will not be paid and will receive only your free board and lodging in return for your labour, you are nothing more than a slave, and you will be regarded as such by everyone in this household. Furthermore you will never be allowed to obtain your freedom. If you try to escape I shall inform my contacts in our Immigration Department that you are in breach of your visa conditions and you will be imprisoned for life. You should resign yourself, therefore, to the fact that you will be our family slave for the rest of your natural life.’
Listening to Mr Ramelan’s words the slave formerly known as Roger now realized that the advert had been deliberately misleading and he had effectively been duped into becoming a real-life slave in a foreign country. Yet he already felt this was his true destiny. He had sensed it the moment he had kissed mistress Awa’s foot.
His new master continued:
‘You will address me simply as “Master” and my wife as “Mistress”. Everyone else you will refer to as “Master”, followed by their name, or “Mistress”, or “Miss” followed by their name.
In particular, you will show the utmost respect to my twin daughters, Lastri and Merpati – “Miss Lastri” and “Miss Merpati” to you. They are at college now but you will pay your humble respects to them later.
In the meantime you will be introduced to Miss Sujatmi, who will be your trainer. Sujatmi is our laundry-maid, but you will be taking on some of her work as you will now be responsible, amongst other things, for the upkeep of my wife and daughters’ hosiery and footwear.’
The mistress was in the process of lighting a cigarette at this point and a cruel grin enveloped her pretty face as she listened, admiringly, to her strong husband informing the weak slave of the fact that he would now be responsible for washing all her dirty stockings and her daughters’ dirty socks.
Mr Ramelan continued his ‘welcoming’ speech:
‘Sujatmi will also see to it that you pay your way properly in this household by pimping you on the streets of Jakarta during the evenings as a ladies’ footslave. She will explain more about this to you later.
Your accommodation will be a hole in the barn attached to the back of the house. You are not permitted to sleep in the house itself along with the other servants, as you are just a dirty footslave , are lower than the rest of them, and must slave for them also. Sujatmi will therefore lock you in your hole every night, and will release you in the morning when it is time for you to recommence your servitude.
The penalty for insolence or disobedience on your part shall be the whip, administered by Komi, our chauffeur. I suggest you do your utmost to serve us well and to avoid the whip as I am reliably informed that its sting is most undesirable. However, if needs be, the whip will ensure your submission and compliance.’
As he listened to his new master’s stern lecture, still staring humbly at his master’s wife’s expensive, black high-heeled shoes as she flexed her pretty feet in front of his face, the footslave noticed how fluently and clearly, in spite of his accent, the master spoke English.
Indeed the master was only interrupted in his pronouncements when there was a faint knock on the door:
‘Enter!’ shouted the master.
It was Sujatmi, the aforementioned laundry maid:
‘Sir call for Sujatmi?’ came a high-pitched asian voice from behind the footslave.
‘Yes, Sujatmi, please come in. This is the new footslave and, as we discussed last week, I want you to take charge of him. See that you teach him how to serve properly at the feet of his superiors!’
‘Oh yes, Sir. Sujatmi learn slave well!’ responded the laundry-maid happily.
She sounded quite young, in her mid twenties, and her English was evidently not as good as that of her master and mistress. Even with his limited knowledge of Indonesian society the newly arrived footslave guessed that the maid was from peasant stock. As Miss Sujatmi moved over to stand beside him he could see from the corner of his eye that she, unlike the two other women he had met in the household thus far, was not overweight. Quite the opposite, she was petite and slightly built. He noticed also that she was quite traditionally dressed from the waist upwards, including a black head-scarf and modest blouse, but was wearing western clothing from the waist downwards – blue, denim jeans and white and blue sneakers.
Yet the mere fact that she was standing in the presence of the master and mistress, whilst he was kneeling, reinforced the message that the master had just been seeking to get across to him - that he was lower than miss Sujatmi, and she was his master too.
‘Take the slave to the barn, Sujatmi, and show him his hole, then take him to the laundry room and show him his duties there please. Miss Lastri and miss Merpati should be back from college in about an hour’s time. The slave can pay his respects to them after we have all had dinner.’
‘Yes, Sir. Sujatmi understand, Sir. Sujatmi thank master and mistress for giving Sujatmi footslave to train!’
Both Mr and Mrs Ramelan smiled. Sujatmi was so cute – almost like a third daughter to them. They treated all their servants well – apart from the family footslave. But they were both particularly fond of the hard-working and diligent Sujatmi. In a way, they wished their own daughters could be more like her; Lastri and Merpati were far from being hard-working and diligent. Nevertheless, they doted on them too.
‘You’re welcome, my dear,’ responded Mrs Ramelan. ‘We know you’ll do a good job training the footslave! Now, take him to the barn and show him the filthy hole he will be living in,’ she added, clearly excited at the thought that whilst she and her family, and even the other servants would be spending each night in the warmth and comfort of the luxury mansion, the footslave would be tethered to a stake inside a dark hole in the draughty old barn – cold and alone.
‘Yes,sir. Yes, madam,’ replied the young maid rather coyly.
She then changed her tone and whole demeanour to address the kneeling footslave:
‘Slave, follow Sujatmi feet,’ she barked in her thick asian accent as she kicked him in his already tender ribs with her right-sneakered foot. She was determined to demonstrate to her master and mistress that she was fully up to the job of slave-trainer.
The footslave promptly lowered his head to the back of miss Sujatmi’s sneakers and crawled after her heels as she exited the lounge. Sujatmi said nothing as he continued to crawl after her sneakered heels down a corridor and out onto a gravel path at the back of the house which led to the ‘barn’ that apparently housed his humble accommodation. The gravel chafed and cut his knees.
As he stared at her sneaker-heels the footslave occasionally caught a glimpse of the elasticated tops of miss Sujatmi’s short, thin white ankle socks under her denim trouser legs. He wondered how long it would be before he was ordered to kiss her feet? Perhaps she too was married and had a husband who wanted to see him pay his slavish respects to his other half?
As soon as they had entered the barn the slave got the answer to at least the first of those two questions. Miss Sujatmi ordered him to stop in the middle of the barn and moved to stand in front of him on the dirt floor. She then stretched out her right sneakered foot in the dirt under his kneeling face and gave the inevitable order that the footslave was now almost expecting:
‘Slave kiss Sujatmi foot,’ the young woman barked, adjusting her headscarf as she did so.
The footslave slowly and respectfully lowered his lips to the top of her outstretched blue and white sneaker. It was dirty and chapped. Part of the outer material around the area of the toes had clearly worn off. He could also smell ingrained sweat in the fabric of the sneaker. This was truly a well worn sneaker.
But the footslave had already realised that, whether he was kissing the dusty brown leather sandals of the cook, mistress Awa, or the pristine, shiny, black patent leather high heel shoes of the mistress of the house, or the dirty, worn blue and white sneakers of the laundry-maid, mistress Sujatmi, it was the chosen footwear of his superior mistress, and had to be kissed with the utmost humility and respect.
And so, he kissed the flakey, worn, leather and plastic of miss Sujatmi’s pungent sneaker.
It elicited a little squeal of delight from the young woman:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave kiss Sujatmi dirty sneaker! Sujatmi better than slave! Slave obey Sujatmi!’
It was as if the young laundry-maid couldn’t believe the power and authority she now had over another living being, and she quickly withdrew her right foot, replacing it with her left, as if to test that the first act of humble obedience hadn’t been a fluke:
‘Slave kiss Sujatmi other foot!’
As he lowered his lips to the top of her equally flakey left sneaker the slave now had a clear view of the top of miss Sujatmi’s white, ‘no show’ cotton sock and her light brown, shapely asian ankle. The pure whiteness of the sock contrasted with the dirty-white of her worn-down sneaker. In spite of her dirty outer footwear, she must keep her feet fairly clean, thought the inexperienced footslave.
Little did he know that he was about to find out that this was not necessarily the case, for at that moment Sujatmi pulled up a nearby stool and sat down on it in front of him:
‘Sujatmi tired. Feet tired. Feet sweaty; dirty. Slave take off Sujatmi shoes and socks. Clean Sujatmi feet with tongue. Slave obey!’
It hadn’t taken Sujatmi long to assimilate the role of slave-mistress. The latent desire to dominate that resides in many oppressed young women had quickly risen to the surface.
The footslave unfortunately fumbled somewhat as he strove to undo miss Sujatmi’s dirty, white shoe laces. In fact, they were more gray than white, demonstrating that, like the sneakers they were a part of, they had fulfilled many years of service on the asian girl’s feet.
Unimpressed by his ineptitude, Sujatmi kicked the slave’s face, leaving a dirty streak on the side of his right cheek:
‘Slave hurry! Obey Sujatmi! Take off shoe!’
Every time she shouted she had to adjust her head scarf.
The clumsy slave finally managed to get the lace on her right shoe undone and to remove her sneaker from her small, dainty, white-socked foot. The sneaker came off with a ‘whoosh’ as the warm, sweaty air that had been trapped inside escaped. It really was quite pungent – a heady mixture of feminine footsweat and musty, moist leather.
The slave observed too, as he placed the sneaker on the ground, that the inner lining of the shoe was completely gray with wear, and that whole patches of the inner lining had worn off.
He hesitated for a moment wondering whether he should proceed to remove the young woman’s sock, or first take off her other shoe.
Miss Sujatmi put him out of his misery:
‘Slave take off Sujatmi sock. Clean foot. Lick!’ she screamed at him, seemingly exasperated at what she perceived to be a reluctance on his part to obey her entirely reasonable orders.
The short white ankle sock in question no longer looked so pristine. Yes, the elasticated tops that had been visible before were still snowy-white, but the bottom of the sock contained yellow and brown sweat stains, and there was a small hole developing on top of the big toe.
As he started to peel off the young mistress’s sweaty, white ankle sock, Sujatmi suddenly decided that he should first pay his respects to her sock:
‘Slave stop! Kiss Sujatmi sock! Worship it!’
The young woman, slightly built though she was, seemed to tower over him in her position of power seated above him on the wooden stool. The footslave was frightened of her, and knew it was only right and proper that he should pay his respects to the young woman’s inner footwear.
So he kissed the toe of her worn, white ankle sock, feeling her wiggle her big toe with delight inside the sock, causing the thin white cotton to crease and fold.
‘Ha! Ha! Slave miss Sujatmi sock-slave! Slave like kiss Sujatmi dirty sock?’
Inexperienced though he may be, the new footslave knew there was only one answer he could possibly give the superior young woman seated above him:
‘Yes, mistress Sujatmi, this slave is indeed privileged to kiss your sock.’
And the speed with which he had come to accept his new role in life did not even occur to him, so obsessed was he with paying his genuine respects to the young Indonesian laundry-maid’s dirty white ankle-sock.