The Toe Ring

The Toe Ring

In this works of domestic servitude and erotic mind control, set at the time of the Suffragettes, Wilson Henshaw brings us the tale of most unfortunate husband.

A husband who finds himself on the wrong end of a decision made by his wife and her wealthy aunt to make him no more than a domestic and sexual flunky in his own home.

Aided and abetted by a strange Indian housekeeper with the most compelling eyes and a shiny gold toe-ring



As he had been taught, he sucked each of her brown toes in turn that his saliva might supply her nails with an extra lustre. He was a long way past any feeble and futile demur he knew would only win him her displeasure. Knowing also that, if she were displeased his wife would be sure to follow suit.

And, given the history he had shared with the former love of his life, punishment at her hands seemed even more excruciating and humbling than the considerable shame he felt at being chastised by a younger woman.

And a woman of colour, to add to his sense of personal and manly disgrace.

The sing-song, almost Welsh in nature, English in which she addressed him also a matter of some personal angst and debasement.

Angst and debasement he felt now as her words drifted down to him as he sucked upon the big-toe of her left-foot from a kneeling position on the kitchen floor below her.

“You must consider yourself favoured,” she told him, pomposity all the more outrageous for its certainty it would not be taken to task by the wretch at whom it was aimed. “It is not all servants who are favoured by their Malkin enough to be allowed to serve in such a way.”

The delightful prospect of serving her in sections to the wildlife in the zoo at Regents Park presented itself to him once again and, also again, he wondered just how it was she managed to keep him not just at her feet without any possibility of retaliation, but deferential to all women he met. His own wife most of all.

“There are many theories about where and when nail polishing actually began,” she told him in that hatefully accented English, this as his thoughts bemoaned the onslaught of yet another of the low-caste and hatchet-featured woman’s educational reveries. “It would appear, however, India was where the practice first originated. When you suck upon my superior Indian toes that they may be bright and vivid before I allow you to colour them, you are privileged to be playing your part in a custom thought to date back well over 5,000 years.”

He made no reply, conversation necessarily limited by the presence of the toe around which his tongue was currently wrapped; though his thoughts bridled at the knowledge this low-born and evil woman truly considered herself his superior.

The suggestion offered by a more realistic inner voice that she would be hard-pressed to feel any other way, given the deal of almost total control she exercised over him, he allowed to be swamped by the more immediate concerns of his eviscerated male pride and the various scenarios of vengeance forever writ large across his inner diary.

“Soon,” she continued, the magnificent eyes which were so out of keeping with the rest of her features fair dazzling with the vitality lent them by her complete and utter control over the demoralised and abjectly beaten Englishman at her feet, “if your progress warrants it, you will have earned the honour of serving Miss Christina in such a fashion. Perhaps even Miss Cora, should she find the time and be receptive to having her feet attended by you.”

He felt himself begin to tear up at the prospect of having the woman he had married watch him perform such an emasculating and repulsive chore and fought the urge back.

It was enough for his tormentor to degrade him, without aiding and abetting her in what she seemed to consider her life’s work.

But then why, if he felt as degraded as he did, and hated the woman with an impotent passion, a passion he could not act upon and felt must end in his insanity, was his cock tenting out the black-trousers that served as a part of his working “uniform”?

The silky smooth skin of the shapely calf-muscles he could see above his mouth and the nail shining tongue within it; calf-muscles upon legs that shared nothing in common with his preconceptions of Indian women with thin, rickety lower limbs; going some way to answering his question.

As did the nipped in waist over which flowed her vivid pink sari and the magnificent breasts contained within it.

But that face…?

And the cess-pit of a mind contained behind it…?

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