Coffee, Tea, and Me

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

What was Julie trying to do to me? Poison me? Mentally scar me, for life? Give me nightmares?

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

Satisfactorily massaged and relieved, Julie's bare right foot now prepared to settle down; making sticky, tacky noises on my face, and I shivered and cringed, in the fevered throes of abhorrence and revulsion, as Julie probed and tested for the optimum resting position, on the 'footrest'...

In a moment or two, when Julie had settled herself quite comfortably - just as Gillian had done before her - I was at least immensely grateful, for the considerable consolation of Julie's much lighter, less burdensome, relaxing weight. Immensely grateful, that at least she was relatively easy to support... as the greasy sole of her stinky bare foot pressed into my obediently proffered face... Leaning, resting, relaxing, reclining - 'luxuriating' - as she (in the words of Gillian) "Took a load off," on the 'footrest'.

A minute or two later, I became aware of the 'SPOILT!' Convention organizer, Miss Hazel Morgan, intently staring down at my face, upon which, Julie 'luxuriated' contentedly. Then, peering at my face in an even closer scrutiny, Miss Hazel Morgan asked, "Julie... unless I'm most terribly mistaken, sweetie... you're wearing the same shade of toenail polish as me, aren't you?... Wait, Jules - don't tell me what it is!" she exclaimed excitedly, just as Julie was about to supply the answer. "Let me guess!"

At overhearing Miss Hazel Morgan's inquiry, and then the subsequent, rather excitable outburst, of her rising-to-the-challenge follow-up remarks, many of the 30-strong contingent of 'SPOILT!' Representatives - each one of them, a 'SPOILT!' Fashion and Cosmetics Boutique Manager, herself - interrupted their refreshment-break conversations, to come and look down on me... Their professional interest was piqued and, they were, of course, curious to know if Miss Hazel Morgan's contention was correct: that the 2 toenail polish shades; as worn by Miss Hazel Morgan and Julie, actually were the same...

To find out, Miss Hazel Morgan conducted a simple, but effective experiment... Slipping her foot from her right, white slingback shoe and, resting the ball of her bare foot on my chin, Miss Hazel Morgan wiggled her toes; playing her toepads upon my lips... tapetty-tap-tap-tap...

Simultaneously, Julie; who was resting the ball of her right foot upon the bridge of my nose, flexed, splayed, wiggled and scrunched her toes - this light-catching toe-wiggling, apparently serving to facilitate these toenail polish comparison procedures.

The crowd of interested and intrigued onlookers gathered closer, looking down on my obediently proffered face... And, closely and critically observing this dual digital display of toe-wiggling - this simple, but effective experiment - (that was, at the same time, the most splendid of entertainment!), they seemed to arrive at a consensus of opinion, as they murmured their educated, informed, and expert opinions, as to what was, in fact, the exact shade of toenail polish worn by the two 'SPOILT!' Representatives in question - Miss Hazel Morgan and Julie.

"My boyfriend loves this shade on me, Hazel..." announced Julie, coquettishly.

Coming to a decision, Miss Hazel Morgan opined confidently, "Just as I thought... The two shades are definitely the same - it's 'Parisian Passion Pink'," she asserted, to nods and smiles of agreement all round: for, Miss Hazel Morgan was, of course, correct. "... So does mine..." she said, in reply to Julie's comment, as she continued to play her toepads upon my lips... tapetty-tap-tap-tap...

"Come on, Phyl! Your turn now," said July generously as, to my immense relief, she finally relinquished the 'footrest'.

Now, it was Phylis, who prepared to step inside of my accommodatingly wide-open, 'V' shaped legs. "Spread them wider, footboy! Unless you want to have a nasty 'accident'..."

"Yes, Miss Phylis," 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 way, that the 'SPOILT!' Representatives took me so, so for granted! As if I - my feelings - were of no account... The way - the bugging, irritating, annoying way - that they so arrogantly expected me to automatically obey their every single, demeaning, degrading order. Immediately. Without demur. "Or else!..." The way - the infuriating, blood-boiling, putting-my-nose-out-of-joint way - that they so confidently and so assuredly expected me to sit quietly, quiescently, while they did whatever the hell they liked, to me... gathering round and looking down on me, while they compared their shades of toenail polish - on my face!... Tapetty-tap-tap-tap...

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

Phylis now stood inside of my accommodatingly wide-spread, 'V' shaped legs, and turned her back on me. Phylis then carefully positioned herself; with the flat heels of her yellow, leather ballet shoes close to my vulnerable 'tender parts'... Alarmingly close!

"Hold me steady, girls," said Phylis. Gillian and Julie readily obliged and, they held onto Phylis's elbows, as she removed her right foot from her yellow, leather ballet shoe. Then, Phylis reached the sole of her sweat-stained, thin white cotton ankle-socked foot upwards, towards my obediently proffered face - towards the 'footrest'.

I watched, in a sort of horrified fascination: as Phylis's right, thin white cotton ankle-socked foot, came closer and closer to my face... I watched, as her thin white cotton ankle-sock: stained grey with her foot sweat; at her heel, at the ball of her foot, and all around the underside of her toes, came closer and closer... Then, there was the familiar, wretched sense, of being occupied - 'possessed' - by one of Mrs Hilary Harper's lady clients, as Phylis's warm, moist foot; as felt through the thin white cotton of her ankle-sock, 'claimed' temporary rights, to the 'footrest'...

And, I experienced the; by now familiar, heady, dizzying, distressing smell of Phylis's white-socked toes, as they found my nostrils... And cupped them.

For the first few moments, Phylis made herself comfortable, and made sure of a firm and secure 'anchorage', upon my obediently proffered face - upon the 'footrest'.

Once she was settled, Phylis began to do her own 'thing'... Her own, particular, personal - unique - little 'thing'. Something that; even blind-folded, I would have easily recognized as Phylis's own, 'trademark', tell-tale traits, habits and quirks, that was her distinctive and distinguishing 'behavioral signature' - her 'thing' - when occupying the 'footrest'...

Phylis began to firmly rub and massage her foot - every-which-way - upon my obediently proffered face... Then, after a minute or two of vigorous and invigorating, blissful, sigh-filled massaging, Phylis gratefully - 'a la Gillian' - "Took a load off"... The sweat-stained sole of Phylis's warm, moist, smelly, thin white cotton ankle-socked foot, firmly 'anchored' to my face; her leaning, resting, relaxing, reclining - 'luxuriating' - cumulative weight, quickly taking its toll...

What was Phylis trying to do to me? Wear me out? Rub my face smooth? Make me sick?

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

"Five minutes, ladies, please," advised the 'SPOILT!' Convention organizer, Miss Hazel Morgan, indicating that the final session was to begin shortly.

Now, with just 5 minutes of their afternoon refreshment break remaining, Gillian, Phylis and Julie were encouraged by, and had the blessing of their 'SPOILT!' colleagues, to continue availing themselves of my 'services' - of keeping the 'footrest' - for themselves.

Phylis: firmly 'anchored' the sole of her warm, moist, sweat-stained, smelly, thin white cotton ankle-socked foot, to my obediently proffered face... And, with her heel; resting upon the convenient curve of my upper forehead; with the ball of her foot, resting upon the bridge of my nose; with her toes, firmly cupping my nostrils... Phylis 'luxuriated'.

Gillian: positioned herself to my left, and with her back to me. She removed her left, large, broad, dark hosed smelly foot from her closed, soft black leather, thick rubber-soled loafer. Then, Gillian reached her foot behind her, and upwards, and she rested her dark hosed sole upon the left side of my obediently proffered face... and 'luxuriated'.

Julie: positioned herself to my right, and with her back to me. She removed her left, bare, greasy, sweaty, clammy, stinky, retch-inducing foot from her 4-inch spike-heeled, bright-red pump. Then, Julie reached her foot behind her, and upwards, and she rested her greasy, clammy, stinky bare sole upon the right side of my obediently proffered face... and 'luxuriated'.

And, it was in this fashion, that the 3 'SPOILT!' colleagues, Gillian, Phylis and Julie; as they enjoyed the last 5 minutes of their afternoon refreshments break, made simultaneous and efficient use, of Mrs Hilary Harper's "facilities" - made use, of her 'footrest'.

The remainder of the 30-strong contingent of 'SPOILT!' Representatives didn't seem to mind - too terribly! - at missing out on their turn with the 'footrest'. The 'footrest', as they could see, perfectly well, was being made good and proper use of - and that was the main thing, as far as they were concerned.

As I breathed in the musty, foul-smelling air, that hung around my head like an invisible, insalubrious miasma of malodorous, wispy clouds - which was choking, cloying, highly offensive smell of the combined foot odours of Gillian, Phyllis and Julie -- I listened, to their conversation...

I listened; to the incessant, mind-numbing verbal outpourings, of Gillian, Phylis and Julie, as they simultaneously 'luxuriated', upon my obediently proffered face...

I listened to them - above the hubbub of the interminable background babble of chit-chat of their 'SPOILT!' colleagues - drone and rabbit on, as they 'talked shop'...

I listened to them, as they waffled on and on, about the wonderful and amazing merits of different - myriad - colours, shades and tones of the various 'SPOILT!' cosmetics: nail polish; lip gloss; eye-liner; mascara; blusher; make-up foundation; hair tints, etc, etc, etc...

I listened to them, chinwag about the nationwide chain of 'SPOILT!' Fashion and Cosmetics Boutiques, that sold absolutely anything and everything that a modern, fashion conscious female could conceivably want and desire: shoes, purses, handbags, jewellery, clothes, outfits, dresses, hats, lingerie, hosiery... Plus, every imaginable accessory and acccoutrement, with which to accompany and to compliment their pricy purchases of latest fashion, must-have, can't-do-without fashion ensambles: hair brushes, hair stays, brooches, bracelets, earings, necklaces, anklets, trinkets, rings, watches, bangles, baubles and beads... Hell! - every kind of thingamebob...

I listened to them - listened, to their soporific nitter-natter chitter-chatter, to their non-stop, oh, so tiresome tittle-tattle - as they frequently switched from foot to foot; so as to avail themselves of maximum use, advantage and benefit, of their 'footrest'... to 'luxuriate', upon my obediently proffered face...

And, I listened to them, as they 'chewed the fat' about the subject that excited and animated them most: this year's 'SPOILT!' 'Boutique Manager Of The Year' Award, which would be presented by the Convention organizer, Miss Hazel Morgan... The Award: of which they - Gillian, Phylis and Julie - were each entertaining serious hopes of winning. Serious hopes, of being awarded this highly coveted, prized and prestigious accolade. The Boutique Manager, to be announced the winner of this marvellous and meritorious award, would bask in the glow of the warm congratulations and the unstilting appreciation and respect of their colleagues and, their ringing applause of adulation would finally bring the curtain down, on this year's 'SPOILT!' Annual Convention.

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

Oh! The way that they chinwagged and chewed the fat, chattered and chunnered away, casually, carelessly, complacently... as they looked on, and watched, approvingly, as 3 of their 'SPOILT!' colleagues: Gillian, Phylis and Julie, simultaneously and efficiently, availed themselves of Mrs Hilary Harper's "facilities" - of her 'footrest'... Looked on, and watched them 'luxuriate', upon my obediently proffered face.

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

Compounding the abject misery of my bright, hot, sizzling shame and humiliation, I saw that; from their vantage point behind the Serving Tables, my employer, Mrs Hilary Harper, and her 2 bratty female assistants, Petra and Claire, were, at the sight of my pitiful plight, clinging together for mutual support. For, such was the leg-buckling effect, of their malicious, uncontrollable hilarity, at observing my hugely comical and farcial predicament...

... Sitting on the carpeted Lounge floor of the Liverpool City-Break Hotel and Spa, with my legs spread wide-open in an accommodating 'V' shape, and with my face being used as a convenient 'footrest' - being 'luxuriated' upon - by 3 of the Representatives of the 'SPOILT!' Ladies Fashion and Cosmetics Company.

It seemed that it was all that my employer and my 2 co-workers could do, in the unshakable grip of their great and gleeful mirth ("Oh! This, is much better than a pay rise, isn't it, my dears!"), to stop themselves from helplessly collapsing to the floor, in a tittering, giggling, cackling heap.

And, my face burned with shame, at hearing them. Finally (at long, long last!), the 30-strong contingent of 'SPOILT!' Representatives began to disperse, and they slowly made their way back to their Conference Room for the final session of their 'SPOILT!' Annual Convention.

At the very moment that my 'footrest' services were no longer required, and were finally dispensed with by the 'SPOILT!' Representatives - Gillian, Phylis and Julie, carelessly discarding me and arrogantly disregarding me, and still chatting and chunnering as they sauntered nonchalantly away - my 2 bratty superiors, Petra and Claire, grabbed hold of my arms, and roughly dragged me to my feet. "Come on, David! Sitting around all afternoon!" accused Petra drily.

Badgering me mercilessly, Claire got in my face. "Didn't you hear what Petra just told you, lazy arse? Start tidying up this Lounge! Come on, David! What are you waiting for? You've got a lot of work to do! Get cracking!!" ordered Claire imperiously.

"Yes, Miss Petra... Yes, Miss Claire," 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...

I glumly did as I was told, by my 2 bratty, bossy, hectoring, domineering - tyrannical - co-workers, Petra and Claire; performing the menial and mundane tasks, that they took such great pleasure and malicious satisfaction in ordering me to do... so that they wouldn't have to do them.

And, as I obediently followed Petra and Claire's orders, I reflected, gloomily and disconsolately, upon the awful, terrible - hideous - realities of my miserable predicament: as an unspeakably put-upon employee, of Harper's Conference Catering... as Mrs Hilary Harper's 'footrest'.

Wallowing in self-pity, I was at an all-time low: dejected; downhearted; demoralized. My morale; at rock-bottom - on the floor. My self-respect and self-esteem; downtrodden and trampled upon, by bratty, insufferable - maddening! - women.

Surely, things couldn't get any worse... Could they? Worse... than having my face 'luxuriated' upon... while serving as 'footrest', to the female Representatives of 'SPOILT!'?

"David!"

I jumped, at the sudden, harsh and authoritative voice of my employer, Mrs Hilary Harper, interrupting my sad and sorry, and decidedly resentful musings...

"David! Stop your daydreaming! Or I shall have to get Petra and Claire in here to supervise you! Then, you'll know about it - they'll give you 'what for', for interrupting their hard earned tea-break!" my employer hustled and harried me, shrewishly. "You've got far too much work to do... When you have taken all of these cups and saucers and plates through to the kitchen, you can make yourself useful in here... and wipe all of the Lounge tables down, for me... Then, you can give this Lounge carpet a jolly good vacuuming. Our lady clients have left a right mess for us to clean up - crumbs everywhere! Then, you can help Petra and Claire put our equipment in the van..." she droned on, piling on the misery, in her peremptory and domineering manner... Her authoritative voice; carrying on the air, and broadcasting the humiliating message of my abject, downtrodden, trampled upon status.

When I had finished wiping down the Lounge tables, and was just about to switch the vacuum cleaner on, to give the Lounge carpet " A jolly good vacuuming," Mrs Hilary Harper spoke to me again. And, the tone of her voice - Mrs Hilary Harper, didn't 'do' nonchalance - instantly had me fearing the worst...

As if it was just an unimportant, trivial afterthought; a casual, throw-away remark (but I knew better! Oh, yes, after 6 long and miserable, unspeakable - hideous - months of working for her, I knew better!), Mrs Hilary Harper said, with patently false nonchalance, "... Oh, by the way, David... We shall be here, at the Liverpool City-Break Hotel and Spa, for all of next week, too... catering to another Annual Convention..."

I waited, with bated breath: for Mrs Hilary Harper's inevitable 'punchline'...

There was a momentary, 'pregnant' pause, as my employer revelled in my obvious discomfiture; gloated, in my trepidation... maliciously milking the tense and suspenseful - dramatic - moment, to the max...

When my employer, Mrs Hilary Harper, spoke again, her eyes gleamed gleefully, as she delivered her delicious bombshell...

"You'd better be on your best behaviour, next week, David... The ladies of 'FEMINIST and LESBIAN' Magazine, have booked our 'Services'..." she said.

THE END.

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