The New Sock Washing Machine
Princess Serena sits deep in her armchair like the living room belongs to her alone. In front of her is the footrest. Her feet are up on it, comfortable, casual, exactly where they should be. Her favorite sneakers are still on — worn soles, gray edges, dirt from the whole day. Underneath are her socks. Warm. Damp. Dark at the balls of her feet. The fabric clings slightly to her skin.
There is no carpet under the slave. Only cold tile. Hard, smooth, unforgiving. Every movement is audible.
She leans back, folds her arms, and whistles once.
The slave comes crawling. Knees and palms on the tiles, head down, until he is in front of the footrest. Above him are her filthy sneakers. The soles are the first thing he sees: street dust, wet grime, little stones caught in the tread.
“Tongue out. And swallow whatever comes off.”
He starts at the heel. His tongue drags through the rough grooves, pulls the dirt out of the ridges, works across the whole sole, left, right, again, more thoroughly. What comes off the rubber does not fall onto the tiles. It goes into his mouth. He swallows. No face. No comment. Just a wet tongue on a filthy sole while she stays seated above him on the footrest and watches.
Serena wiggles her toes inside the sneakers, checking the work.
“Take them off. Socks stay on.”
He opens the shoes carefully, slides them from her feet, and sets them on the tiles. Now only the socks are left, still up on the rest. The smell hits immediately: worn fabric, warm sole, a full day trapped in closed shoes. She holds the first foot toward his face, almost to his nose.
“Smell. Slowly.”
He inhales. Deep. She does not let him pull away. Then she switches feet, presses the second sock against his face, pulls it back, pauses, comes closer. A smelling game. The ball. The toes. The heel. She decides how long he is allowed to breathe it in.
“Now lick. From today on, you are my sock washing machine.”
His tongue goes to the fabric. First the sole, then between the toes, then the cuff, every dark stain. Spit instead of water. A mouth instead of a machine. He works the dirt out of the weave while his knees stay on the cold tiles. Serena pushes her heel deeper into his mouth.
She laughs quietly.
“Good. Every evening, the same thing. Crawl across the tiles, lick the soles, swallow the dirt, sniff, wash the socks. I stay on the footrest. You stay on the floor.”
