Coffee, Tea, and Me

"Yes, Miss Gillian," I responded, obediently and respectfully... And, in strict adherence, to the terms of the 'Special Clause', as stipulated in the Job Description of my Contract of Employment...

Oh! Those women - those 'SPOILT!' Brats! They were insufferable - maddening!

The way they so casually, so complacently, so arrogantly, ordered me to my 'service' position - the 'service', as stipulated in the 'Special Clause', in the Job Description of my Contract of Employment...

How disrespectful. How demeaning. How belittling. How... humiliating!

Fighting against, and barely overcoming, the by now all-too-familiar, almost overwhelming and irresistible impulse to flee -- and say to hell, with the serious consequuences of doing so - as instructed, I obediently and compliantly sat down on the Lounge floor, in front of the commanding and expectant Gillian. I then spread my legs open, in a wide, accommodating 'V' shape.

As if it was the most natural thing in the world: as if it was the most mundane and unremarkable of ordinary, every-day occurrences, not a single one, of the rest of the 30-strong contingent of 'SPOILT!' Company Representatives, who were blithely chatting away to each other as they so congenially passed the time of their 30-minutes long, afternoon refreshments break, so much as batted an eyelid, at the decidedly singular scene before them... Not a single one of them, so much as raised an eyebrow - as though at something even in the slightest untoward - as they nonchalantly sipped their tea, while casually and carelessly and complacently observing the use that I was being put to by some of their 'SPOILT!' colleagues; as I sat, with my legs wide-open, in an accommodating 'V' shape, upon the carpeted Lounge floor of the Liverpool City-Break Hotel and Spa.

Oh! Those women - those 'SPOILT!' Brats! They were insufferable - maddening!

The way they looked down on me - down their noses... The way - the infuriating, blood-boiling way - that they viewed my 'service', to them, as if it was something... that was entirely normal and perfectly proper. As if it was something, that they had been naturally accustomed to, all their lives. As if it was something, to be expected; that they were actually 'entitled' to - their 'Birthright'...

How disrespectful. How demeaning. How belittling. How... humiliating!

In knowing the appalling nature of the trauma that was coming, I braced myself - both mentally, and physically - for the imminent and inevitable commencement, of my, by now, all-too-familiar, heinous ordeal...

In knowing the appalling, unspeakable - hideous - nature of the trauma that was coming, I braced myself, against the onset of my diabolical ordeal... Against the casual and complacent, careless and uncaring treatment (abuse), and against the horrendous and intolerable affront to my self-respect (humiliation), by the 'SPOILT!' Company Representatives. Abuse and humiliation, that was also a flagrant and appalling contravention of the Human Rights Act... Sadly, they were Rights, that my employer, Mrs Hilary Harper, had smirkingly and smugly informed me that I had actually waived, upon signing my Contract of Employment - with its 'Special Clause' - in the Job Description.

The very moment that I had assumed my 'service' position, and had sat on the carpeted Lounge floor of the Liverpool City-Break Hotel and Spa; with my legs spread wide and accommodatingly open, Gillian prepared to avail herself, of my 'service'... Gillian turned her broad back and her ample bottom on me and, positioning herself carefully, she stood between my wide-spread, 'V' shaped legs, close to my vulnerable 'tender parts'... Alarmingly close!

Gillian popped the last of her chocolate eclair cake into her mouth "Mmmmmm," she said, and she licked the smears of chocolate and cream from her fingers. "Sit still, footboy..." ordered Gillian, "... if you know what's good for you..."

"Yes, Miss Gillian," I replied, obediently and compliantly... And, in strict adherence, to the 'Special Clause', as stipulated in the Job Description of my Contract of Employment...

Now, the dreaded, awful - hideous - moment, was upon me, as Gillian rested one (sticky fingered!) hand on top of my head; as a means of useful support and, as a convenient aid to steadying, and carefully positioning herself...

In a well-practised manoeuvre, Gillian then shook and shuffled her right foot in such a manner as enabled her to loosen, and then ease her heel free from her closed, soft black leather, thick rubber-soled shoe (loafers, I think she wore). After pausing just a moment, to steady and balance herself, Gillian slipped her large, broad, dark hosed right foot from her shoe... Gillian then proceeded to raise her right foot - freshly released from within the confines of her closed, soft leather shoe - behind her and, I watched, mesmerised, and in a sort of horrified fascination, as Gillian's right foot reached, inexorably... reached up, and up, and up... until she felt the pads of the toes of her large, broad, dark hosed right foot, reach my waiting and compliantly proffered face... Until she felt her foot, reach 'service'.

Gillian, having unerringly and effortlessly found my compliantly proffered face with her reaching (reaching, for 'service') right foot, immediately then sought the familiar, conveniently protruberant resting place - my nose - with her toes...

(My employer, Mrs Hilary Harper - or 'Harpy', as I thought of that lady - had told me at my job interview, that "Your short stature, David, is actually your biggest asset... It is exactly, what makes you so perfectly suitable for the new position that I have created. Your lack of height, David, will facilitate 'service' proceedings admirably, and will make life so much easier, for our lady clients," she had enthused, at having found the 'perfect employee'. Business had been picking up, ever since...)

... And, I felt a great and distressing - all-but unbearable - weight of pressure, when Gillian then rested the ball of her right foot; placing it firmly and squarely, right onto the bridge of my nose...

... Now; for extra grip, and a more secure 'anchorage', Gillian closed her long, dark hosed toes, in a tight and grasping - enwrapping - hold, around my nostrils. And, while my shocked brain was still numbly registering the first; but, by now, all-too-familiar, whiffs of her pungent, decidedly unpleasant foot scent, she firmly pressed her arch over my eyes, and she firmly planted her big and blocky heel against my upper-forehead, in a rock-solid, immovable grip...

... So as: to take maximum advantage, of the natural curvatures of my facial and cranial contours. So as; to rest, and to lean back upon. So as; to recline, and to outrageously use my compliantly proffered face and head, as a convenient support upon which to relax...

... So as: to rest her considerable weight -- to "Take the weight off" and, to  œTake a load off" -- were 2 of Gillian's customaryy phrases, when availing herself, during the morning and afternoon refreshments breaks in the Hotel Lounge, of my 'service'...

...So as; to 'luxuriate'...

I barely had the time, in which to register - or, rather, re-acquaint myself - with the revolting, tangy, sour-vinegary smell of Gillian's long, nostril-cupping, dark hosed toes, before I was 'obliged' to focus my attentions, upon a rather more critical, and 'pressing' problem... more serious, even, than being 'obliged' to breathe in the pungent, darkly aromatic fumes, from Gillian's tightly-gripping, clutching, nostril-cupping toes...

With all of the neck muscle and upper-body strength that I could urgently and desperately summon, I focused my frantic attentions, and I began to concentrate my wholehearted efforts, upon the critical emergency at hand: that, of supporting Gillian's appallingly burdensome weight... Gillian's resting, relaxing, leaning, reclining, pressing weight, increased: gradually, cumulatively - inexorably - as she further relaxed, and as she further reclined... As she further 'luxuriated'...

After mere moments, I was struggling and straining - despairing.

Panic-stricken.

I was 'obliged', to engage in my Titanic, humiliating struggle, with all of my might and mind... I was desperately - maniacally - pressing my face into the sole of Gillian's large, broad, blocky-heeled, dark hosed smelly foot, in an unsustainable and, ultimately, futile and un-winnable battle... I was 'obliged' to do so, in a colossal - Herculean - bid, to prevent the unthinkable... To stop myself from collapsing backwards - to avert certain, and disastrous consequences!... To prevent collapsing, like some kind of grossly over-burdened scarecrow finally and inevitably giving way, under the intolerable weight of some perching, careless and uncaring gigantic bird.

Oh! Those women - those 'SPOILT!' Brats! They were insufferable - maddening!

What was Gillian trying to do to me? She was stressing me out: 'obliging' me to inhale the decidedly unpleasant fumes from her dark hosed, gripping, clutching, nostril-cupping toes... She was pulverizing my nose, with the heavy, stressing pressure, of the ball of her broad foot... She was crushing my forehead, with her 'anchoring', blocky heel... She was straining my neck, with the steadily increasing, cumulative weight and pressure, of her leaning, resting, relaxing, reclining - 'luxuriating' - posture.

How disrespectful. How demeaning. How belittling. How... humiliating!

After a dreadful, stress-filled, humiliating eternity (though, it could only have been a few nightmarish minutes, at most), 'relief', was soon at hand...

After being 'obliged': to inhale the tart, acidic, sour-vinegary fumes from Gillian's long, dark hosed, nostril-cupping toes... Of being 'obliged', to support her considerable, steadily increasing - cumulative - weight and pressure: straining every ligament and sinew almost to snapping-point, in an almost super human, tendon-tearing, muscle-rupturing effort; desperately and frantically pressing my compliantly proffered face into the firmly 'anchored', broad and fleshy sole of her smelly, dark hosed foot flesh as hard and as forcefully as I possibly could, to prevent certain - disastrous! - consequences... it was Julie, who came to my 'rescue'...

Though of course, I knew all too well, by then - near the end of that appalling and miserable week, of the 'SPOILT!' Company's Annual Convention - that, it was not a rescue, in the conventional sense... For, far from my wretched, unspeakable - hideous - ordeal being over, it was only to be a classic case, of 'Out of the frying pan, and into the fire'...

Julie - who, I had noticed, had been constantly shifting her weight from foot to foot, in her steadily worsening discomfort; due to standing around in her latest fashion, 4-inch spike-heeled, bright-red pumps - asked Gillian to let her "Have a turn of the 'footrest'."

From the lowly vantage point of my 'service' position, I had been aware (despite my 'preoccupation'...) of Julie's evident distress, gradually taking its toll... Aware; as it had escalated from a mere, mildly concerning discomfort, to a relentless, apparently agonized, all-but intolerable, near frenzy of footsore agitation... Aware; of Julie's restless, pain-relieving, foot-to-foot weight shifting in her 4-inch spike-heeled, bright-red pumps... Aware; of Julie alternately easing first one, olive-skinned bare foot, and then her other, in grateful, sigh-filled momentary relief... Aware; of Julie rotating her ankle, flexing and splaying and scrunching her tired, sore, pink-painted toes...

Aware (from my experience, this long, miserable week); of what was coming - the footsore Julie's importunate, frantic follow-up: her urgent and animated entreaty, to the leaning, resting, relaxing, reclining - 'luxuriating' - Gillian... "Come on, Gill! Don't hog the footrest. My feet are killing me!"

Gillian - being a very considerate and obliging sort of person - with good grace, and appreciating the need to share-and-share-alike, with her 'SPOILT!' colleagues, she acceded to Julie's desperate request, and she relinquished the 'footrest'.

After all, Gillian knew (and so did I!) that there were many others, of the 30-strong contingent of 'SPOILT!' Representatives, who wished to avail themselves of the services of the 'footrest', before the end of their 30-minute, afternoon refreshment break. And my relief, now, was immense, at the sudden release of the awful stress and strain: of the terrible trauma, of bearing the almost intolerable, steadily increasing - cumulative - weight and pressure, of Gillian's leaning, resting, relaxing, reclining - 'luxuriating' - posture, as she at last removed her large, broad, blocky-heeled, dark hosed smelly right foot, from my obediently proffered face.

After slipping her right, black, soft leather, thick rubber-soled shoe back on, Gillian then stepped outside of my accommodating, wide-open, 'V' shaped legs... "He's all yours, Jules," invited Gillian generously.

Now, it was the footsore Julie, who prepared to avail herself of Harper's Conference Catering's "Rather splendid 'facilities'" - of the 'footrest'...

Julie wasted no time - time, was of the essence! - in following Gillian's example. Julie carefully positioned herself: turning her back on me, she stood inside the 'V' shape of my wide-open, accommodating legs, with the 4-inch spike-heels of her latest fashion, bright-red pumps, close to my vulnerable 'tender parts'... Alarmingly close! "Don't move, footboy. Or else!..."

"Yes, Miss Julie," I responded, obediently and compliantly... And, in strict adherence, to the terms of the 'Special Clause', as stipulated in the Job Description of my Contract of Employment...

Oh! Those women - those 'SPOILT!' Brats! They were insufferable - maddening!

The callous, cruel way they treated me! The way - the galling, infuriating, blood-boiling, getting-under-the-skin way - that they so casually and carelessly made their appalling, unspeakable - hideous - 'use' of me. Using me, and then passing me along, from one to another, like a convenient and comfortable piece of soft furniture!... Like a pouffe!

How disrespectful. How demeaning. How belittling. How... humiliating!

I mentally prepared myself, and physically braced myself, as bravely and stoically as I was able -- foor I knew, full well; from my numerous previous 'exploits', this long, miserable past week, just exactly what to expect -- of the olfaactory onslaught that Julie was about to subject me to, as she gratefully availed herself, of the 'footrest'. Of all of the 30-strong contingent of 'SPOILT!' Representatives, it was Julie, who had the stinkiest feet... Despite the highly singular hardships of my humiliating predicament, it was hard not to admire Julie's pert little behind, as her buttocks stretched the already taut and bottom-hugging confines of her very short, bright-red skirt, right in front of my face... And it was hard, not to appreciate the shapely thighs and calves of her bare, olive-skinned legs, that tottered, slightly, as she balanced rather precariously on her 4-inch spike-heeled, bright-red pumps, that: to my eyes, seemed to glow - as though in ominous warning... Like 2 danger signals; foretelling of the imminent threat of great and dire peril.

For, now, my trepidation eclipsed my admiration, as I watched Julie ease her bare, olive-skinned right foot from her slightly tight-fitting, 4-inch spike-heeled, bright-red pump. Balancing even more precariously, now, on just her left foot, Julie gratefully accepted the helpful, steadying assistance of her concerned and considerate colleagues, Gillian and Phylis who, standing to either side of her, held her by her elbows, by means of aiding her somewhat awkward manoeuvre. And, I had but a brief moment, in which to register the sight of Julie's bare, olive-skinned sole as it gratefully and urgently zeroed in... on Mrs Hilary Harper's "Rather splendid 'facilities'" - on her 'footrest'.

Julie's penchant of wearing latest fashion, high-heeled shoes, I saw, was exacting a painful price... Julie's heels, her toe pads, and the balls of her feet were rather red and angry-looking and, those red and rather tender-looking areas of her feet, contrasted starkly, with the olive-skinned colour of her arches. I saw also, the smear of greasy moisture on her sole, that was like a thin film of over-used cooking oil... Julie's feet, were not only tired and sore and achey, but also hot and sweaty, and... stinky.

Now, my harrowing and unspeakable - hideous - ordeal, began in earnest...

Julie's right, bare, sweaty, greasy, stinky foot, gratefully - seemingly gleefully; as though it had a mind of its own - urgently took 'possession' of my obediently proffered face. I shuddered, in the throes of a spine-tingling revulsion, as Julie did her 'thing' -- as I knew she would!....

(All of Mrs Hilary Harper's lady clients, I had come to know - whoever they were, and from whatever Company, or social gathering - seemed to have their own, personal, 'trademark' quirk... Their own, personal - unique - little 'thing', that they did, when occupying the 'footrest').

... Julie's rather frantic movement caused her gold, 'SPOILT!' anklet to glint and gleam as it caught the light from the overhead spotlights in the Hotel Lounge, as she gratefully indulged herself, in her usual - 'trademark' - pain-relieving procedures, at the 'footrest'...

Squeezing my nose, between her sticky and clammy - toejammy - big and second toes; sliding her toes, in a wiping motion... Wiping, as though to thoroughly impregnate my nose with her noxiously pungent foot stink - so that she can be sure that the anguishing aroma of her foot scent will be with me, always... Sliding her greasy sole, firmly, up and down my obediently proffered face; rubbing, massaging... Tracing her sole, from heel to toes over my nose, mouth and chin, over and over... Bringing the underside of her bare, flexing, splaying, wiggling and scrunching, distressingly stinky toes, to the twin air intake portals of my twitching, involuntarily dilating nostrils...

Cupping them.

And, although I had prepared myself mentally, and braced myself physically, to face the horror of what I knew was coming as bravely and as stoically as I could, I knew my efforts to be puny and futile. For, there was no effective defence, against the diabolical, devastating - hideous - olfactory onslaught, of Julie's stinky feet...

It was an instinctive, defensive, self-preserving reaction: to try to at least inhibit and minimise the overwhelming invasion of the highly offensive waves of Julie's stinky, fetid foot fumes into my involuntarily dilating nostrils, by breathing in through my mouth. But, breathing in through my mouth did not seem to help -- seemed counter-productive, in fact... My tongue; the sensitivve lining of my mouth; my throat lining, drew in and seemed to absorb like a sponge, the greasy, palate-coating fumes from the nausea-inducing stinky toes of Julie's bare foot. My palate, tongue, throat lining; all felt as though thickly coated, with a gag-inducing, slimy, membranous film; which was the cloying cocktail of contaminants, that comprised Julie's toxic-toed, nasty, stinky foot fumes.

The sickly sensation was so unbearably acute, as made me want to retch - to want to unceremoniously deposit the entire contents of my stomach, onto the carpeted Lounge floor of the Liverpool City-Break Hotel and Spa. And; upon becoming afflicted by the onset of such severe, stomach-clenching, breath-depriving gagging spasms, it actually seemed the lesser of two evils, to breathe Julie's nasty, stinky foot fumes in through my nose, instead... Which is what I did...

Minutes, dragged by like months... I was in a world of unspeakable, diabolical - hideous - torment.