Community Service Ch 10

Ch. 10: David Smith goes along to get along.

I, eighteen-year-old David Smith, had now been Canford town's Sock Room community servant for two months.

It felt like two years.

Though for the last few weeks, I had been working all day Saturday (with no extra remuneration on my weekly Unemployment Benefits payments), at least for now, and despite the importunate clamourings of the Sock Room 'regulars' in particular, the sock-changing facility wasn't yet open on Sundays.

So, although I could no longer enjoy that Friday feel-good factor (and today was Friday) with the whole of the weekend to look forward to, I knew that things could be even worse. A lot worse.

And soon, they probably would be.

*

Things weren't too great now, of course.

Ms Harriet Harmman, the Community Service Liaison Officer and local Authoritarian Female Party representative, as a means of making me 'earn my keep', and giving me a powerful incentive to find gainful, tax-paying employment, had assigned me to Canford town's Sock Room to hand-wash the females of Canford's dirty socks.

But, as diabolical a day job it was, I wished with all of my heart and soul to be just left alone, not picked on and antagonised and preyed upon by sock-changing girls and women, and just allowed to get on with my dreadful drudgery in peace.

Because now, my repugnant remit was no longer confined, to just hand-washing and steam-ironing the dirty socks that the civic-minded females of Canford went out of their way to deposit at their town's Sock Room.

Now, the sock-changing females of Canford wanted, expected - and, were getting - much more, from their Sock Room community servant.

Foot massages, now, were almost de rigueur.

My across-the-road neighbour from hell, Mrs Norma Newlove, had set that ball rolling.

Even that, in the scheme of things, wouldn't have been so bad.

But Mrs Newlove had set another, and a much bigger ball rolling.

Because when a few weeks ago, Norma Newlove had also occasioned my having to respectfully and apologetically kiss, and reverently and remorsefully lick and suck clean her Sock Room crony Cheryl Chubb's days' unwashed, filthy dirty, stinky feet - her Monday-morning feet - 'tongue-bathing', had become all the rage.

I was now spending at least half of my time, at the on-demand service of whomsoever Sock Room attending females happened to be occupying the twelve well-padded black leather 'Lazy Girl' recliners sited on the 'Spectators' Gallery' overlook.

Stopping immediately, whatever I was doing, and standing against the five-foot high bare brick wall beneath the overlook's two-barred safety rail to attend at the foot of the recliner of whomsoever sock-changing female had summoned me. Either, to massage (in the traditional sense), or to tongue-bathe her feet.

But, as hideous, as heinous, and as humiliating an imposition as it was, I knew I had to go along, to get along.

*

And, speaking of heart and soul, in truth, all that was keeping them together, and was holding me together, during my turbulent times of trials and travails, was my girlfriend Tina - the heaven, of Burger Heaven.

Tina and I were going steady. And ... well, let's just say we were now past the hand-holding stage.

But I was worried about Tina. Worried sick.

Tina Marshall and her Burger Heaven counterperson colleague and friend Janice Middleton, who was also her flatmate, had several times now been brought before Ms Harmman for publicly protesting against the Authoritarian Female Party and their 'female-friendly' policies.

Night after night, Tina and Janice were out on the streets, decrying everything the AFP stood for and espoused. Demanding the revocation of their female-friendly doctrine, the immediate dismantlement of their community servant exploitative apparatuses, and the discontinuation and absolute abandonment of all of their Placement schemes.

Above all, Tina, and Janice - who'd helped Tina tend me back at their flat after I'd assumed upon myself Tina's Standard Six public bare-bottom caning punishment in the High Street Stocks - were demanding the prompt and permanent closure of all of the country's Sock Rooms.

But, as laudable and benevolent and self-sacrificing as their motives and actions were, for their own, sakes, I wished they would throw away their anti-AFP placards and banners and their loudhailers, and just keep their noses clean.

Because Ms Harriet Harmman, the Community Service Liaison Officer and local Authoritarian Female Party representative, had warned them that they'd now exhausted her patience. She had given them every chance and every opportunity to reform and conform. But now their continued troublemaking and dissent, as exemplified by their rigid and intransigent anti-AFP stance, had left her with no alternative but to give them their final warning and her unequivocal ultimatum: Behave - or else!

Behave. Or Ms Harmman would have no recourse other than to use her AFP vested summary jurisdictional powers to have Tina and Janice arrested, stripped of their female-friendly rights (which anyway they'd spurned - denounced and rejected), and interned at the recently opened and already infamous Correctional Centre, down near Brighton - Greystone Prison.

I'd heard about the place ... The disturbing descriptions. The unsettling stories. The disquieting rumours.

From the Governor to the Staff Canteen pot washer, Greystone Prison - originally a male-inmate-only prison, but would now soon be admitting female prisoners too - was staffed entirely by females.

The prison officers (some of them man-hating lesbians, if the rumours were to be believed), who wielded canes and were reputed to be a law unto themselves, were all glamour-model gorgeous and wore skimpy, deliberately provocative pale blue uniforms. And because of this, they were known as the Jailhouse Blues.

And the reason I was so worried - worried sick - about Tina and Janice, was because I knew that when it came to Prime Minister Caroline Flynt, her all-female member government and their so-called female-friendly policies ... Tina and Janice wouldn't go along, to get along.

*

Because I was now spending at least half of my time, either massaging or tongue-bathing the feet of whomsoever sock-changing females happened to be occupying the twelve black leather 'Lazy Girl' recliners sited on the 'Spectators' Gallery' overlook, my dirty-sock workload was just getting more and more out of hand.

Dirty socks were just left to pile up on the floor beside their respective colour-coded wheelie bin receptacles.

The greater part of my dirty-sock workload consisted of the long, white sport and leisure socks: the sock of choice, of the majority of the Sock Room attending females of Canford.

As and when I was able, via the automated hydraulic apparatus I emptied one of the overflowing wheelie bins of dirty white socks into the industrial sized hopper signed: 'White Socks Only!' But even that giant hopper was overflowing too.

Sock-changing females, upon seeing the wheelie bins over-capacitated, just casually tossed their pairs of dirty socks onto the ever growing piles.

Some of the Sock Room attending girls and women glowered at me disapprovingly. Others would go further, verbally berating me with hurtful haranguing admonishments and strongly worded adjurations to greater sock-washing efforts.

But just as long as there was a clean pair of socks waiting for them on the shelves, most Sock Room attending females would leave it at that.

But the sock-changing females of Canford were beginning to kick up a stink about their stinky socks left lying around and stinking the place up.

Why should they have to put up with it? Why wasn't I earning my Unemployment Benefits handouts? Why wasn't I keeping my dirty-sock workload overspill down to an acceptable level? In short: Why wasn't I pulling my finger out?

Some of the Sock Room attending girls and women would ask me these questions and put other related queries to me while I was actually in the midst of massaging or tongue-bathing the feet of a reclining female who'd summoned me from my work.

Sunday opening was inevitable - and it was bound to happen soon.

The only reason there were sufficient pairs of socks on the shelves, was because the female Socks r Us delivery van driver Stella from Heeling was delivering two big consignments per week, on Mondays and Fridays.

Two weeks ago, in front of an enthused Sock Room audience, retrospectively Stella had administered the Standard Six caning punishment to my bared bottom for my offence the week before of Talking out of Turn - a sanctionable violation of the female-friendly Crimes Against Females Act legislation.

Responding to the clamorous urgings and egging on of the Sock Room attending females who'd been present, Stella had taken her sweet time, prolonging the punishment proceedings pitilessly.

Stella certainly knew how to use a cane. And man did she let me have it!

Stella hadn't left it at that, though - she said she wanted me to learn a valuable lesson: A community servant didn't Talk out of Turn to her, without incurring severe and long-lasting repercussions - no siree!

Stella from Heeling had told me that from now on, she would no longer be troubling her own, Sock Room community servant with her dirty socks. No: She would in future be depositing her days'-worn dirty white sport and leisure socks with me to hand-wash - on Mondays and Fridays.

Once again, another sock-changing female had left me wondering why I couldn't keep my fool mouth shut.

*

In fact, since then things had gotten even worse.

For the last three weeks, it wasn't only that Friday feel-good factor, I'd lost.

Because on Fridays now I also had other, after-work duties to fulfil: Serving in a town centre theme-pub popular with office girls and other female 9 to 5ers, during the 5:30-6:30 Happy Hour - as Footboy.

CSOs Karen and Linda had told me that if I offered to serve as Footboy, I would be doing so purely on a voluntary basis - I'd fully acquitted my obligated 'keep-earning' duties for the day.

CSOs Karen and Linda said I didn't have to. And that they couldn't make me. It was totally up to me. It wasn't incumbent on me. There was no onus. And if I preferred, I was absolutely free and at perfect liberty to just go home, and report to the Sock Room as usual on Saturday morning.

But what CSOs Karen and Linda had said, and what they meant, were two entirely different things.

What my two young Sock Room supervisors didn't say, but I knew damn full well they meant ... was that if I wanted to get along, I'd better go along.

*

At 5:25, when CSOs Karen and Linda escorted me into the town centre venue of my post-work 'voluntary' service, the Foot Bar theme pub was already heaving. Alive with loud, thumpy music, and with the shriller cacophony of alcohol influenced girl-talk chatter and letting-their-hair-down giggly laughter: The weekend started here - and it was well underway.

"CSOs Karen and Linda! How nice to see you!" exclaimed Jacqueline, all bubbly and welcoming. "Two Bacardi and Cokes, coming right up! On the House, of course!"

Jacqueline, in her mid-thirties, was the stunningly attractive, dark-haired and olive-skinned proprietress of the female-patrons-only establishment Foot Bar.

"Thanks, Jacqui - Lindz and I could do with one, after supervising this bozo all day!" said CSO Karen seriously.

The nerve!

"And Community servant David double-oh-seven!" said Jacqueline. "My barmaids will be glad to see him - he's a sight for sore feet! Ha ha ha!"

Her barmaids?! As if she, didn't avail herself of a frequent 'foot rub'.

"Thank you for volunteering for Happy Hour again, Community servant David," said Jacqueline. "You are becoming quite the regular!"

"Um ... not at all, Miss Jacqueline," I said respectfully. "You are ... quite welcome. I mean, what would I be doing otherwise?"

CSO Karen shot me a look. But she decided not to respond - for now.

"Just a quick one, Jacqui, before we shoot off home," said CSO Linda (though I hadn't yet seen CSOs Karen and Linda turn down the offer of a second on-the-House Bacardi and Coke). "I'll just put double-oh-seven in-situ."

I looked around the Foot Bar, to see where I might be "put in-situ".

And I saw that unless any other drafted-in community servants were already in attendance at the partitioned four-seater booths, I was the first Footboy to be brought in.

Upon their becoming aware of my arrival, some of the 9 to 5er females - both, seated in the twelve partitioned, banquette style four-seater booths, or seated loftily and comfortably upon the long row of plush red leather and chrome high barstools - brazenly gave me the once-over.

Some of the females, depending upon how intoxicated they already were, smiled, laughed, giggled, or whispered into a friend's ear something about me.

Selecting two of the 'unattended' barstool-perched young ladies, who were seated midway along the bar, and whom from their dress I took to be legal secretary type office girls, CSO Linda nodded towards them and told me, "Come on, you - over there. You know what to do."

Sitting on their high, well-padded red leather barstools and facing each other, the two early-twenties office girls both sat with one leg crossed over the other; the foot of their supporting leg, resting on the barstool's chrome circular supporting bar.

"And remember the rules!" adjured CSO Linda, hissing in my ear.

"Yes, Miss Linda," I said respectfully.

The two young ladies, upon seeing me approach them, on my way to 'attend' them, bent over their tall glasses of what I took to be either vodka or gin and tonic with ice and lemon sitting on coasters on the bar top, and snickered to each other.

Classic signs of early-onset inebriation, I thought. This pair had downed one or two already.

Both slim and very eye-catching attractive, one of the two office girls had long, blonde hair, and blue eyes, while her companion, green-eyed, was a particularly striking redhead.

Straight from work, they both wore their office attire thin-pinstriped jackets, above-the-knee navy blue skirts, dark pantyhose, and three-inch heeled black pumps.

The in-service protocol (or "rules") for 'attending' community servants was to remain silent unless required to speak, and not to look the females you served directly in the eye. (The latter, observation of protocol was easier to comply with for community servants stationed under the tables in the booths - just as I had been, last Friday, in 'attendance' of four post-work shop assistant, letting-their-hair-down females, at booth No. 5.)

"Down, double-oh-seven! Sit!" commanded CSO Linda, asserting her authority in the tone and manner of someone impatiently bringing their slow-to-respond dog to heel.

The two barstool-perched trainee solicitor types giggled tipsily.

So I was right: Obviously, the drinks before them on the bar top weren't the first ones to wet their lips this evening.

They were already liquored up a little. Which was bad news for me, if they were becoming uninhibited. But they were sitting in a bar and drinking alcohol - so what else was going to happen?

The two office girls then turned to look at me directly, appraisingly. And under their smug, haughty, superior gaze, as they pointedly took in my ID, as emblazoned in black print on my white uniform T-shirt - Community servant David 007 - they made me feel two inches tall.

Sipping their refreshing and reviving post-work thirst quenchers, over the rims of their highball glasses the two fledgeling legal eagles regarded each other, a silent message seemingly transmitting between them.

Simultaneously, and as if on cue, the two immoderately imbibing barstool-perched barrister types popped a heel from the three-inch heeled black office pump of their resting, crossed-over leg, and allowed their shoe to dangle.

I thought: Here we go ...

Compliantly I sat on the floor between the two loftily seated office girls, with my back against the bar. To either side of me, at my head height, their three-inch heeled black office pumps dangled precariously from their dark-pantyhose covered toes.

And promptly, as though guarding against the possibility that I might suddenly treacherously spring up and try to do a runner, CSO Linda crouched down beside me and pulled out from the bar, the pull-out, well-padded red leather footrest used to enclose the attending community servant's neck, pinning him conveniently in-situ.

I then heard the distinct 'click' of finality as CSO Linda snapped shut the clasp of the imprisoning if well-cushioned necklace ... Now, I wasn't going anywhere.

Ostensibly, until the end of Happy Hour at 6:30.

But, in reality (if my experiences of my first and second Fridays here were any guide), I would be left in 'attendance' at these two barstools at the feet of Blondie and Ginger - and at the feet of whomsoever, other successive 9 to 5er females might occupy their vacated barstools - until someone decided to spring the catch to release me from my imprisoning if well-cushioned necklace. Either Jacqueline herself or one of her barmaids.

Patting my face, CSO Linda said pleasantly, "That's you sorted, double-oh-seven. And now, with your leave, I'll go sit with Karen and catch up on all the goss with Jacqui."

With that, CSO Linda stood up, smiled cheerily at the two sharply dressed office girls, and went off to enjoy her freebie Bacardi and Coke with CSO Karen.

As though oblivious of my presence at their feet, Blondie and Ginger proceeded to chat about some hunk of a guy in their office; the three-inch heeled black pump dangling from the foot of their crossed-over leg, toing and froing and shoe playing, right next to my protocol adhering facing-forward face.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but the name of the hunky office guy they were talking about, seemed to ring a bell ... I almost had it-

But I then heard the green-eyed, particularly striking redhead, perched upon the high barstool to my right, say pleasantly, "Same again, please, Joy! When you've got a min."

Joy was one of Foot Bar proprietress Jacqueline's barmaids.

I heard Joy reply familiarly, "Gotcha. Two vodka martinis, coming right up, Beryl!"

So, the green-eyed, particularly striking redhead's name was Beryl.

A minute later I heard the pleasant-sounding chink of ice cubes tinkling against the sides of highball glasses of vodka martinis, as Joy set Blondie and Ginger's- Beryl's, fresh drinks down on the bar top.

And then Blondie, perched upon the high barstool to my left, casually, with her shoe dangling foot, turned my 'attending' face toward her and rested the roughened leather sole of her three-inch heeled black leather office pump against my forehead.

Through the leather sole of her shoe, I could feel the pads of Blondie's toes, repeatedly pressing; the action causing her pump to keep popping on and off her heel, causing her toing and froing shoe to keep wafting her foot scent right into my face like a warm unaromatic prevailing wind.

Facing hard to my left, I was soon feeling the strain.

The careless and gradually increasing pressure of Blondie's resting shod foot was inexorably pushing my head back, and I had to proportionally lean forward, into it, in such a way as was calculated to support and maintain her comfortably relaxed posture at zero inconveniences to herself.

It was as if I was nothing but an inanimate, insentient object; my face, just some convenient, unfeeling footrest. And Blondie - resting the roughened, scuffed and scarred leather shoe sole of her repeatedly heel-popping foot against my forehead and absently fanning her all-day-confined foot fumes in my 'attending' face - and Ginger- sorry: Beryl, resumed their conversation right where they'd left off.