The Females of Wadi Ya Noh. Ch. 02

I finally managed to tear my eyes away from the somehow powerfully enthralling vision, and I reported back to the monstrous Miss Susan Smith, as instructed. "Yes, Miss Smith? What would you like me to do now," I asked her ... And, this time, I was careful to keep a civil tongue in my head.

"What I would like you to do now, David, is exactly what I brought you back here to do - and just exactly what I have been so looking forward to, for all of this time ... especially so, ever since you had the temerity to get engaged to Sandra," gloated Miss Smith. I was wondering when she would bring Sandra's name into it.

The dreadful woman went on, in similar vein. "Remember my little 'proviso', David? Remember when I told you, that I would one day have you on your knees, before me - at my feet? And at the feet of all of my office girls, too? Well, David, that day has now arrived ... Now, I want you to take off my pumps, and start massaging my feet for me. So, get to your knees - it's the best angle for you to work from, enabling you to apply an upward pressure to my soles," explained Miss Susan Smith matter-of-factly, as if that was the 'real' reason for her ordering me to my knees at her feet. "After all, if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well, don't you think? Now - office boy. Get on with it ... begin your new career."

"Yes, Miss Smith," I replied, wretchedly but compliantly ... as I knew that I must.

This was the moment that I had been absolutely dreading: having to massage Miss Susan Smith's feet, for her. Not to mention, having to massage all of her office girls' feet, too. But especially, for Miss Susan Smith, who was, after all, personally responsible for the unspeakable predicament that I was in - who was totally to blame, for my diabolical 'A Thousand Suns' sentence.

I got to my knees, at Miss Susan Smith's feet. I took hold of Miss Smith's right, black leather, well-worn office pump, and I carefully pulled it from her foot. I was sure that these office pumps were the same ones that she had been wearing when we were going away on our business trip to Arabia, 3 months or so ago - and they had looked very well-worn then.

I reflexively jerked my head away in revulsion, as my nostrils were overwhelmingly assailed. The rank, musty, strong-cheesy odour of the well-worn interior of Miss Smith's office pump was bad enough. But, much worse, were the far more powerful; far more pungent and abhorrent fumes that emanated in almost palpable waves from the sole of her dark panty-hosed foot.

"Face front - office boy!" snapped Miss Susan Smith domineeringly - wickedly. "Start your massaging. Start at the bottom of my heel," she instructed. "Use your thumbs. Rotate your thumbs, pressing firmly - but not too firmly. Use firm, circular motions with both of your thumbs, and gradually work your way up my sole - slowly, David! - right up to my toes, and rub them too. And then you can repeat the procedure all over again, with my other foot. Now, have you got that ... office boy?" demanded Miss Smith tauntingly - goadingly, I thought ... Oh! She would love me to give her the slightest of excuses, I knew, for her to be able to drop me right in it with Claudia (" ... anything less than one hundred per cent satisfactory, in your duties, and ...")

"Yes, Miss Smith," I said resignedly.

Just then, someone entered the office, and I heard a sweet, familiar voice say in a cheerful, happy-go-lucky, all's-fine-and-dandy, sing-songy way: "Hi, everyone! What's up!"

It was Sandra!

It was Sandra! Sandra, my former fiancee, who I had actually been just a week away from marrying ... when my lesbian boss, Miss Susan Smith, had so cruelly prised us apart. Miss Smith had unerringly tuned in to Sandra's latent lesbianism ("I can always tell.")

Miss Smith had seduced Sandra; won her heart and won her over, and stolen my darling straight from out of my loving arms. And the rest, as they say, is history. Ever since then, the 2 of them had been an 'item'.

I assumed now, that Sandra (who worked at another office nearby, that did business with Jordan's) had just popped in to drop off some paperwork, and ... to pay a quick visit to her 'better half' - her girlfriend, Miss Susan Smith!

Sandra came into the office, talking sunnily all the way - until she saw me ... saw what I was doing. "David ...? What - what are - what are you doing here?" spluttered the astounded Sandra, who obviously knew nothing whatsoever, about my appalling situation. Knew nothing, about Miss Susan Smith's employing me, as her so-called office boy. Knew nothing, of her girlfriend's so-called 'proviso'.

My God! As if things weren't bad enough already, but that Sandra had to be here to witness my unspeakable humiliation.

"Duh! Er ... what does it look like he's doing, Sandy?" asked Miss Smith, with a theatrical air of exasperation. "I mean ... isn't it perfectly obvious, sweetie-pie? He's massaging my feet for me, isn't he? David's just started back at work this morning. He's ever so glad to be back - to be back working for me - and he's settling in quite nicely. But, he's lucky to have a job here at all, really ... after what he's done - and with a criminal record, too!" exclaimed Miss Smith, in a manner that suggested she was generous to a fault, in allowing me to come back to work for her.

While Miss Smith spoke to Sandra, my boss looked down on me, on my knees at her feet. And there was an expression on Miss Smith's face, of such unadulterated satisfaction as, in a manner of abject servitude, I obediently massaged her right, dark panty-hosed foot.

Miss Smith went on, conversationally. "I was actually kind enough, to create a brand-new position in the company, for David ... as Office Boy. And, as you can see, Sandy ... he is perfectly suited to his new duties, isn't he? In fact, David's actually being of more use to me now, than the useless oaf's ever been. Of course, he's a bit rough around the edges, yet - he's still learning. But, don't worry, Sandy, I'll soon have him properly trained ... And, when I've finished with him - for the moment, that is - he's going to work his way around the office, massaging my girls' feet for them, too. Just like a good little office boy should. Starting with Corrine ... You haven't met Corrine yet, have you, Sandy? Corrine is French. She's ... ever so chic. Such a darling. Corrine has a certain ... je ne sais quoi. A certain: Ooh la la! Don't you think so, Sandy?" inquired Miss Smith lasciviously, of her stunned and almost speechless girlfriend. Miss Susan Smith then confidently predicted, "Between us, my girls and I will soon bring David to heel ... and keep him there."

At suddenly seeing my former darling's lovely, cherished face again, at hearing her sweet voice, I was totally overcome. I was overwhelmed, by the swift return of unbearable, grief-stricken emotions, that painfully opened up my partially-healed wounds, all over again. "I still love you, Sandra," I told her passionately. "I always will!" I wailed forlornly. "Always!"

Miss Susan Smith pulled her right foot from my servilely ministering hands and, using the tops of her dark panty-hose covered toes to lift my chin, thereby elevating my eyes and obliging me to look directly at her gloating face, she admonished, "Er, I don't think you are concentrating ... one hundred per cent, David, upon what you are supposed to be doing, are you?"

Turning back to my former sweetheart, Miss Smith dryly observed, "Sandy, darling, I don't think David likes the smell of my stinky dyke feet."

And then I realised! I realised that something was off - besides Miss Susan Smith's "stinky dyke feet," that is. It finally dawned upon me, that Sandra hadn't responded to what Miss Smith had said to her, a few moments ago: "But, he's lucky to have a job here at all, really ... after what he's done - and with a criminal record, too!"

And suddenly, the penny dropped ... Ting!

"My God!" I cried. "You don't know! You don't know, do you, Sandra? She hasn't told you, has she?" I wailed, in my new, unbearable anguish. "She hasn't told you!"

Sandra frowned, wondering what I was referring to; quite at a loss, as to what on earth I could possibly be talking about.

I then heard that unmistakable whooshing sound, as Miss Smith then eased her left foot from her other black leather pump and, before I had realised what she was up to, she had firmly planted the warm and moist sole of her left, dark panty-hosed foot slap-bang in the middle of my shocked face; her nylon enclosed toes, immediately cupping around my nostrils. "Speak out of turn, will you - office boy? Well, I'll soon teach you to keep a still tongue in your head," said Miss Smith maliciously.

The acrid, strong-cheesy, offensively pungent odour of Miss Smith's freshly unshod dark panty-hosed left foot, nearly knocked me over. It was awful, terrible - a hideous torment. It was as if someone had just prised off the lid of some long-forgotten, mould-colonised blue cheese vat - and then immediately regretted it. It was rancid. I was reeling.

Miss Susan Smith, though, was in heaven. And so were her office girls, too - if their unsuppressed snickers of delighted amusement were anything to go by. Each of them, obviously enjoying a keenly felt vicarious pleasure, in seeing Miss Susan Smith's cruel domination - her humiliating subjugation - of me.

"Keep still, David! This will help accustom you to my foot scent all the sooner. After all, you are going to have to get used to it, aren't you? Go on, then ... inhale deeply - office boy, fill your lungs with it. That'll help. Nice and deeply. Take some nice, big sniffs for me ... And why have you stopped massaging my other foot? You can keep on massaging my other foot, at the same time - you can do both: it's called multi-tasking ... Are you sure you are giving me one hundred per cent, David?"

"Yes, Miss Smith," I replied wretchedly - helplessly, hopelessly - as I deeply inhaled Miss Susan Smith's horrible, nylon-covered, in-between-the-toes foot stink.

"Susie? Haven't told me what?" asked Sandra bemusedly, suddenly coming back to the point. Coming back to what I'd just said to her, after having taken a moment to mull over my blurted emotional statement; after trying to make some sense of it. "Susie ...? What is it? What is David talking about? What haven't you told me, Susie?"

"Oh! This is just so tiresome, Sandy. You shouldn't take any notice of David. Must we really go there? After all, it's all water under the bridge now, Sandy. I mean ... So what? if I happened to forget to tell you, what ... really happened. That - that - well, that it was me ... all along, darling."

"You ... all along, Susie?" said the confused Sandra. "You're not making any sense. What do you mean - what was you, all along?"

"It was all her fault, Sandra! She did it!" I interjected mumblingly from the dark panty-hosed sole of Miss Smith's malodorous left foot; the ball of her foot, pressing against my lips; her foul-smelling toes, still cupping my nostrils. "I'm innocent, Sandra! She's to blame! Miss Smith! She's the guilty one! She did it!" I ranted, doing the best I could to get my words out - in the circumstances.

"I am warning you - office boy!" threatened Miss Susan Smith; an ominous hint of finality, in her tone. "Keep your insolent tongue still! Keep on sniffing! Keep on massaging! I want one hundred per cent effort and obedience from you, at all times. And I shall have it - or else!"

"Well, Susan ...?" prompted Sandra, persistently - impatiently. (Ah! It wasn't the lovey-dovey 'Susie', now. But the less affectionate - decidedly cooler - 'Susan'). "I'm waiting for an explanation," pressed Sandra. "What was you, all along? Well, Susan ...? I am waiting ... Tell me now! I want to know!"

"Oh! All right, all right. All this fuss! Okay, okay, I'll fess up ... It was me. Okay, Sandy? It was me, who pinched Claudia's bottom. There, Sandy! Now you know. Are you happy now? It was me, all along ... Anyway, babes - look! Everything has turned out for the best, hasn't it? I mean, we are together, aren't we? And---"

But, clearly upset, at suddenly and finally being acquainted with the true, sordid facts of the matter - the awful truth, of her girlfriend's appalling deception, and of her other wicked machinations against me - Sandra was storming out of the office. Gone, was her sunny, all's-well-with-the-world demeanour and, flapping a hand behind her as she made for the office door, Sandra wailed melodramatically, "I - I have to go, Susan ... I can't do this now!" Then Sandra glanced back at me. "Oh! Poor David!" she lamented, almost on the verge of tears. And, hurrying from the office, Sandra slammed the door shut behind her.

"Now, David. Do you see the trouble you've caused?" complained Miss Susan Smith peevishly. "Letting the cat out of the bag like that? Still, I suppose she was bound to find out sooner or later ... Not to worry, though; she'll soon come round - I'll see to that. I'm just going to have to be ... extra, extra, especially nice, to Sandy tonight. Still ... that's no hardship," said Miss Smith, leering at me suggestively.

"Thank you, office boy," said Miss Smith sardonically. "That will be all, for the moment. Now ... I think Corrine is waiting for you."

I looked over towards Corrine. She had finished her doughnut, but she still had her bare, sun-tanned feet propped up on the corner of her desk, ankles crossed. Corrine was still repeatedly scrunching her toes, too. One second, I could see the sun-kissed, lightly-tanned undersides of her medium-long toes. The next second, I could see her pink-painted, perfectly pedicured toenails. And their polished surfaces gleamed attractively as they caught reflexions from the overhead office lights.

Corrine was regarding me with her smouldering gaze, and she was beckoning me with her pink-painted forefinger. Corrine's voice was husky, and laden with untold promise, when she said to me in her alluring, sexy French accent, "Come here. Come to Corrine ... office boy."

Suffice it to say, that Miss Susan Smith ensured that I earned every single penny of my (minimum wage) salary, as her so-called office boy.

Though, when it came to Corrine, during the period of her 6-months' student exchange visit - to paraphrase Miss Susan Smith: "it was no hardship." No hardship at all.

But alas, I could not say the same for Melissa, Valerie and Judy. For, just like their boss, the incomparable Miss Susan Smith, who they all looked up to and admired, they also took the greatest possible satisfaction in making my office life an unremitting hardship. Miss Smith's 3 permanent office girls frequently - incessantly - took maximum advantage of their newly acquired power over me. They imposed their authority routinely, and as a matter of course. Why? Because they could. It was as simple as that ... After all, I was their office boy.

* * *

The days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months. The strictly enforced pattern of my life was set.

And I began to wish that I had listened to the British Consulate representative, Miss Withenshaw. Wished that I had listened to her sound advice. Wished that I had not 'married' Claudia. But it was too late for that. Way too late. Marry in haste ... repent at leisure.

Every month, there was a turnover - a "relay, as it were" - of another 5 visiting females of Wadi Ya Noh. I hardly ever had a moment of free time to spend on myself - I was always far too busy. Working as Miss Susan Smith's so-called office boy during the working week, and slaving away for the females of Wadi Ya Noh for the rest of the time, virtually all of my time was accounted for.

At home, I was dominated and controlled; used and abused, by the females of Wadi Ya Noh. They gave me no peace - no peace at all. I was their overworked house slave and their downtrodden foot slave.

During the evenings, they were usually happy enough to stay at home - since they were so splendidly entertained by sitting on my large sofa, and watching my 50-inch high definition plasma flat-screen TV. And, as they enjoyed their TV programmes, I lay on the floor along side my sofa; a comfortable footrest for our 5 visitors. Occasionally, they would let me get up off the floor - to go and make them some mint tea.

At the weekends, Claudia would have me take herself, Meena, and their 5 visiting village sisters, for day's out - or 'outings' - as Claudia preferred to call them, in the people-carrier.

Each month, when the latest batch of visitors arrived to stay with us, Claudia would have me drive them all to the Trafford Centre the next day, shopping for shoes. When they had (finally!) made their selections, they would all throw their old, ratty, tatty, bin-worthy footwear straight into the bin ... and I would be getting out my ever depleting wallet; my ever diminishing billfold - yet again.

* * *

And, all the while, money was getting tighter and tighter, my wallet, lighter and lighter.

I was amazed though, at the time, just how easy it was to borrow money from all of those banks. Ridiculously easy. The banks all seemed perfectly happy; were all-but falling over themselves, to just keep on throwing more and more money at me. Lots of money, pots of money, each and every time I asked them for it - no questions asked ... or, at least, none that would have given the game away.

And so I kept on going back to the banks, for more and more credit cards: Gold cards; Platinum cards; However-much-you-want cards. I just simply kept on going back, again and again, for more and more money ... I was laughing all the way to the bank.

But, however much money I borrowed, it was never enough. Claudia was spending it faster than I could borrow it. The females of Wadi Ya Noh had been milking me mercilessly. Now they were squeezing me dry. Pretty soon, they would be trying to get blood out of a stone.

And so I looked for more credit card companies, and I took out yet more credit cards. I took out as many as I could, while I still could ... Before the penny dropped. Before they smelled trouble - with a capital 'T'. Before they were onto me. Before the banks and the credit card companies eventually and inevitably cottoned-on to the glaringly obvious fact that I was having financial difficulties. Before they finally sussed out that I was no longer making any more monthly repayments on my credit cards - and then promptly blocked them. Pulled the plug on my plastic.

By then, though, I had maxed-out all of my credit cards. Every single one of them. And it was frightening - the money I owed.

Now though, it was - quite literally - payback time. The banks and the credit card companies wanted their money back. They wanted it now, and they weren't shy about asking for it, either. And it wasn't long before they started demanding - and in no uncertain terms - that I cough up. I started receiving a constant stream of letters from all of those banks and credit card companies; like a paper waterfall, they poured through my letter-box.

I just simply ignored them all; all of their letters of steadily increasing concern - of increasing threat. After all, what could I say to my highly disgruntled, out-of-pocket creditors? Tell it to the females of Wadi Ya Noh?

The letters from the banks and the credit card companies got more and more frequent. Each letter; redder, more menacing than the one before. Like hate mail. Threatening this; threatening that ... The Bailiffs. Court proceedings.

I had also managed to get the bank to re-mortgage my house - again - so as to reduce the monthly repayments a bit more. Though this was harder to achieve; trickier ...

I had succeeded in this quest, but only after undergoing a lengthy grilling by the bank manager who was, not unreasonably, more than a little concerned by a lender who was asking to re-mortgage his house - for the second time in the same year.