Community Service Ch. 05

I supposed that this must be what was meant, by 'female intuition'.

And, I had never known, such blood-draining, falling-through-the-abyss, feelings. Had never felt, such intense, dreadful emotion. Had never experienced, such cataclysmic, end-of-the-world, fathomless depths of anguish, as in that awful, terrible, profoundly humiliating moment. I had never imagined, such an acute sense of ... mortification, existed, as when C.S.O. Karen 'outed' me.

I remembered what C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda had said, just a few minutes ago, about letting the sock-changing girls and women "have some fun", with me ... And I shuddered in dread, just at the very thought.

Because C.S.O. Karen was right: As terrible and as horrendously painful as the vicious, merciless infliction of their devastating, whippy canes upon my exposed bare bottom was, I was, even more in fear, of the heinous humiliations, of the "Sock Room girls".

And I just did not want to find out, what their idea of "fun", would be.

Or, to be more precise, what Mrs Newlove's idea of "fun", would be.

Because, the disturbingly insightful C.S.O. Karen, was right. There was, "some sort of history" between Mrs Newlove and me.

It was nothing, really. Just something I did, a few years previously, when I was just a mischievous, pesky kid. A childish prank.

But, Mrs Newlove had never forgot ... or forgiven.

"Get moving, double-oh-seven," ordered C.S.O. Linda. "The office ... you know the way."

* * *

This was the first time that I'd been inside my two supervisors' office ... but it wouldn't be the last.

The first thing I noticed, was the obvious similarity to the Reception office in the Community Service Operations Centre, where Harriet Harmman was Liaison Officer.

For, most of the wall space was taken up with full-size, full-colour posters of leading Authoritarian Female Party figures.

But, the poster that immediately captured my attention, and held it fast, was the poster depicting the Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt ... the woman who was, ultimately, responsible for my being here, in the Sock Room.

Caroline Flynt looked, I thought, as seductive as ever ... even if she was, old enough to be my mum. It was as though she was looking down on me, with that sardonic smile of hers, her dark brown eyes, mocking. I'd seen that same, demure, dimple-cheeked 'trademark' expression of hers many times, on TV. And, her mocking look now, seemed to be conveying a personal message: Well, David, thank you for your vote. You wanted to work ... and now, I have put you to work, haven't I? Heh heh heh.

Yes. But I wanted a proper job! I didn't mean like this! Having to hand-wash girls' and women's dirty socks! I silently complained, to her inanimate, yet eerily life-like image.

In fact, looking at the other posters, I saw that all of the senior A.F.P. figures' images were similarly eerily life-like: the colours, so vibrant; the focus, so sharp. It was as if the photographer, somehow, had actually managed to capture the A.F.P. Cabinet Ministers' very ... personalities.

The poster of the A.F.P. Cabinet Minister, to whom my attention was then drawn, was a mid-forties, quite attractive, if stern-faced, woman, who I recognised instantly. I'd seen her last evening, on TV, being interviewed on Channel Four's seven o'clock news programme.

The rather attractive, no-nonsense looking woman was the Home Secretary, Theresa Maynard.

Theresa Maynard wore her hair in the same, concave bob style as the C.S.O.'s. And her just greying hair was attractively streaked with highlights of silver and gold ... just like in real life.

At first, I'd thought that the full-colour poster of her, must be a blow-up of a sneakily-taken candid photo. Snapped, presumably, by some serendipitous, just-by-chance, on-the-spot paparazzo. I didn't think that the photo was of the sort that would be released to the media, and circulated in general publication ... But, having said that, it was here, in C.S.O. Karen and Linda's office.

And so, upon seeing all of the other posters, I could only conclude that the photographer hadn't been on the spot, just by chance. And, what's more -- and, I'm certainly no expert -- but, even to me, it was abundantly clear that all of the A.F.P. Cabinet Ministers' pictures were taken by the same photographer: They were all taken, in the same ... style.

The poster of Theresa Maynard, pictured her full-length, and the angle of view was almost full-on. Smiling, she was casually posed in a standing position, and she was looking right at the camera lens. As was often the case, with the Home Secretary, her legs were bare. And, with her right knee bent, the toes of her lightly-tanned bare foot were pressing down on the inside of the heel of her shoe -- a bright red flat -- causing it to stand up vertically.

I remembered what Mum had said so approvingly last night, at dinner-time, about Theresa Maynard always wearing nice shoes. And my two sisters, Alison and Denise, twenty-one and twenty-three, respectively, and also my eighteen-year-old cousin, Rose, who'd joined us for dinner, had all enthusiastically agreed with Mum ... The women were shoe-mad, in our house.

During her interview, with the very attractive, wavy blonde-haired TV journalist, Cathy Newton, who co-presented Channel Four's flagship 7:00 p.m. news programme, Theresa Maynard had laughingly told Cathy that the Sock Room scheme was Caroline Flynt's own, personal brainchild.

I looked at some of the other posters, drawing-pinned to cork-boards on the off-white painted walls of C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda's office. And I readily recognised all of those A.F.P. Cabinet Ministers' faces; every single one of them, synonymous with the reprehensible repression of Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party regime.

And it was like a hideous Who's-who, of the agents of diabolical oppression ... The Minister for Employment, Helen Highwater ... the Treasury Minister, Tessa Jewel ... the Minister for Corrections and Prisons, Lynne Truss ... the Minister for Energy, Donna Cole ... the Minister for the Environment, Elaine Green ... the Transport Minister, Gill Carter ... the—

"So, double-oh-seven," said C.S.O. Linda, bringing me out of my disgruntled reverie. "Listen up, now. Listen up, to what me and Miss Karen are going to say to you. Because, this is how it's going to be, from now on ..."

"Every morning, first thing, you will go into the kitchenette," continued C.S.O. Karen, pointing towards the door at the back of the office, "and you will make two cups of coffee. One for me, and one for Miss Linda: milk, and two sugars in both ..."

"And then, double-oh-seven," continued C.S.O. Linda, "while Miss Karen and me enjoy our coffee, you will kneel on the floor, by our desk ... while we use you as a footrest."

What, the ...? I thought. I couldn't believe my ears. I mean, my two supervisors were just joking ... right? They were just pulling my leg ... right?

"No!" I yelled in outrage, when I realised that they certainly weren't joking, that they certainly weren't pulling my leg. "I will do no such thing! You can cane me. You ... you can both cane me -- as much as you want! But I'll -- I'll never—"

"Oh, but you will, David," said C.S.O. Karen, confidently ... assuredly.

"Now, unless you want me and Miss Linda to take our canes to you now, and give you the hiding of your life ... you had better get yourself into that kitchenette, and make those two cups of coffee, like I just told you."

*

Hell! This was just awful, I thought miserably as I put the kettle on. Those two were a complete nightmare. It was bad enough, them using me as their coffee-making skivvy as my work got more and more out of hand. But, to so casually tell me, that they intended to use me as their footrest -- their footrest! -- I couldn't believe it.

Hell! This was just terrible, I thought wretchedly as I got two thick white mugs from a cupboard above the counter, spooned instant coffee into them, poured milk, and then added two teaspoons of sugar into each ... just terrible!

And C.S.O. Karen had seemed so ... assured, that I would obey her. So, no-doubt-about-it certain.

Well ... she had another think coming, then -- they both did. Because I was certain, too! Because, I thought, there was no way -- just no way! -- that I was just going to meekly kneel on the floor, by their desk, while they used me as their damn footrest while they drank their damn coffee!

*

"Coffee is served ... ladies," I said -- in a manner that made it plain that I thought they were anything but ladies -- as I offered their mugs of coffee to them on a small laminated wooden tray that I'd found in a drawer in the kitchenette.

C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda glared at me; their eyes flashing dangerously, giving me menacing looks. Particularly, C.S.O. Linda, who pointedly looked at her friend and colleague, as if to say: See what I mean, Karen?

And then, after they'd both put their screen-savers on their computer monitors, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda rolled on their castor-wheeled computer chairs, from behind their desk -- that was sited by the window, and that overlooked the flag-stoned courtyard and, at which they were positioned opposite each other, so that they could both look out through the window and monitor me -- and came wheeling around to the inner-office side of their desk.

Sitting side by side, on their computer chairs, my two supervisors accepted their mugs of coffee without so much as a Thank you ... and then they promptly kicked off their A.F.P. issue, black leather, thick-rubber soled, backless (clog-like) shoes, lifted their legs, and pointed the soles of their uniform, yellow cotton ankle-socked feet, right at my face.

Ugh! What a sight!

Averting my gaze, in distaste and disgust, from the soles of their expectantly waving, ankle flexing, toe scrunching feet, I looked out through the office window ... and I saw the four coloured nylon clotheslines: one each, of blue, red, green, and yellow ... the four colours, representing the quadrants of the Authoritarian Female Party flag.

"Well ...? What are you waiting for, double-oh-seven," demanded C.S.O. Linda. "Why are you gawping out of the window -- cretin! -- instead of obeying my orders? Don't worry, you'll be spending enough time out there, pegging up the thousands of socks you've washed. Now, we've told you what to do -- now do it ... Humph! Right, then. I will repeat, one last time: Get on your knees, before us, while we use you for our footrest ... Now!"

"No!" I yelled. "I won't! And you can't make me! Cane me -- cane me all you want. But I won't! I won't do it! I—"

"Oh, but you will, David," said C.S.O. Karen, confidently ... assuredly.

"Lindz, just pop upstairs a minute, would you? And ask Norma Newlove, if she'd like community servant David double-oh-seven to massage her feet for her ... with his tongue? Ask her, if she'd like him to give her feet a nice, long, relaxing tongue-bath, would you? ... Ask her, would she like us to handcuff him to the foot of her recliner, so that she, personally, can order him to put his tongue to work, for her? Sucking her heels, licking her soles, sucking her toes -- and, licking all in between them, too -- for maybe ... an hour, or so? Ask her—"

I was shocked to my core. Profoundly appalled. How could C.S.O. Karen, dream up something so hideous, so odious, so totally diabolical? How could she inflict such a horror on me? To perform a ... "tongue-bath", on Mrs Newlove's feet!

C.S.O. Karen, obviously, was even more of a sadist than I'd thought!

"No!" I shouted. "You can't do this! You can't—"

"And Lindz," continued C.S.O. Karen, as if I hadn't spoken, "if Gina Stainham is here, she also, might like community servant David double-oh-seven, to give her feet a nice, long, relaxing tongue-bath, too ... And Cheryl Chubb, too, if she's here ..."

This was monstrous! Absolutely heinous! I could not let that happen ... Just the very idea, of it! It was gross, heinous -- unthinkable!

Being made -- no, Mrs Newlove, personally, ordering me -- to lick her bare soles ... to suck on her heels ... to suck her toes ... and to lick in between her toes, for "maybe an hour, or so" ... I just could not let it happen. I couldn't!

Not Mrs Newlove!

"No!" I shouted again ... But this time, it was in tones of compliant capitulation, not defiant refusal.

And the taste, of such a bleak defeat -- of such a humiliating surrender -- was like bile.

But, I knew when I was beat. I knew when the game was up ... I knew when to fold.

"All -- all right ... all right, Miss Karen," I said, my voice cracking, overcome by the awful emotion of the moment. "All right, then. I'll -- I'll be your ... footrest ... your's, and Miss Linda's ... Just -- just don't give me to Mrs Newlove ... okay?"

"We don't give you promises, double-oh-seven -- only orders!" snapped C.S.O. Linda. "Now -- and don't make me tell you again, or we'll take you upstairs now, and handcuff you to the foot of Norma Newlove's recliner again, just like we did yesterday! -- get on your knees, before us ... Do you hear me ...? Last chance: Say, 'Yes, Miss Linda'. And now!"

I could see, now, that there was nothing else for it. That there was no other acceptable alternative. That there was no way out, of this terrible, humiliating predicament.

"Yes, Miss Linda," I said dejectedly.

This -- submitting to C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, and allowing them to use me as their ... coffee-time footrest -- was bad enough. But, the alternative ...

*

C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda raised their legs again, stretching them out towards me, expectantly. The soles of their yellow cotton ankle-socked feet, once again pointing right at my face.

"Kneel! Kneel there, double-oh-seven, facing us," instructed C.S.O. Linda, in tones that were not to be argued with, pointing her finger at the dark grey, institutional weave carpeted floor, at a point between her and C.S.O. Karen's hovering, outstretched feet.

The time for argument, with my two supervisors, was now over. I knew I was defeated. My resistance, I knew, was comprehensively crushed.

C.S.O. Karen, had intuitively spotted a weakness, a chink in my armour ... a vulnerability.

And she had ruthlessly prised it wide open.

Wretchedly, I looked at C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda ... at my nemeses. And they looked back at me, expectantly ... and authoritatively.

Sipping their coffee from the thick white mugs ... while I went without.

Coffee, that they had ordered me into their kitchenette to make for them ("milk, and two sugars in both"), and had then accepted without so much as a Thank you.

Coffee, that, from now on I would have to make for them, first thing, every workday morning.

Coffee, that, sitting side by side, in their comfortable castor-wheeled computer chairs, they would enjoy beside their desk, as they used me for their ... coffee-time footrest.

Wordlessly (I couldn't have trusted my voice; it would probably have come out all whiny and cry-baby), I complied with C.S.O. Linda's humiliating instruction.

I knelt, where and how C.S.O. Linda had indicated I do so: on their office's dark grey carpet, between their outstretched legs, and facing them.

And, once on my knees, I found that my head was on a level with my two supervisors' outstretched, yellow cotton ankle-socked feet; my face, midway between them.

On my knees, and facing them, C.S.O. Karen was positioned slightly to my left, and C.S.O. Linda, slightly to my right.

As it happened, neither of my two supervisors had found it necessary to suffer the before-and-after inconvenience of having to meddle about with the lever that hydraulically adjusted the seat heights of their computer chairs ... But, apparently, I was an inch or two too far away ...

So C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda hooked the backs of their heels over 'their' shoulder, and together, exerted sufficient pressure to enable them to roll their castor-wheeled computer chairs forward, so as to avail themselves of the perfect, optimum distance for comfort.

This put a whole new meaning to the term: Being put in your place. And that was exactly what C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda were doing now: Putting me in my place, and establishing their new ... routine.

In all my life, I had never felt so ... used.

My two young supervisors, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, were actually going to use me as their early-morning coffee-break footrest -- and there wasn't a thing I could do about it ... Unless, that is, I wanted to find myself handcuffed to the foot of Mrs Newlove's recliner again, for her to ... have at me.

Simultaneously, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda placed first one, yellow cotton ankle-socked foot, and then their other foot, ankles crossed, on top of 'their' shoulder.

And so, C.S.O. Karen's feet were resting on my left shoulder, and C.S.O. Linda's feet, were resting on my right shoulder ... as they put their feet up.

I felt my bare knees sinking further, into the scratchy textured, nylon-rich fibres of the office carpet. Sinking further, under the twin pressures of my belittling burden. Sinking further, under C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda's ... oppressive, weight.

And my heart was sinking, too ... sinking further.

C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, sitting comfortably in their castor-wheeled computer chairs, with their ankles crossed upon 'their' shoulders, sipped their coffee contentedly. Coffee, that I had made for them -- and that they had then accepted without so much as a Thank you ... while I went without.

Although the combined weight of my two supervisors' resting legs and feet, upon 'their' shoulders, was both a truly galling physical and mental imposition, they were a trial and travail that I could just about tolerate.

But, what I was far less ... amenable to -- what I certainly could not tolerate -- was C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, complacently taking it in turns to wave the sole of their topmost yellow cotton ankle-socked foot, right in my face. Mere inches away, their unpleasant foot odours, were both mingling, and wafting up my nostrils, alternately.

But, when I turned my face to my left, or to my right, in a bid to escape from their foul foot fumes, C.S.O. Karen, or C.S.O. Linda, with the ball of their foot, would immediately re-position my face, facing front again ... Facing, right towards them. Facing, their concave bob framed, domineering faces.

I'd already seen the soles of C.S.O. Linda's uniform, yellow cotton ankle-socked feet, close up. I'd seen them yesterday morning, after she and C.S.O. Karen had picked me up at home. When, while we were en route to the Community Service Operations Centre, she had ordered me to massage her feet, in the back of their A.F.P. van.

And now, I was seeing the soles of C.S.O. Karen's uniform, yellow cotton ankle-socked feet, close up, too. Extremely, close up. Right-in-my-face, close up.

C.S.O. Karen's feet, were a little larger, a bit broader, and rather more prominent-heeled, than C.S.O. Linda's feet.

I knew this, because I was now closely comparing them -- had little choice, but to closely compare them ... With their ankles-crossed, shoulder-perched, topmost feet right in front of my face; side by side, and just mere inches away, I could hardly have been closer, to their uniform, yellow cotton ankle-socked soles.

The bright yellow colour of their ankle-socks, I saw, was coloured a slightly darker, brownish-orange, at their heels, at the balls of their feet, and the area around the undersides of their toes. Moistened, and dampened, by their foot sweat, I realised uncomfortably.

"Well, Lindz, at least Sock Boy can make a decent cup of coffee," said C.S.O. Karen, scrunching and flexing the toes of her topmost foot in pleasure and appreciation, right in front of my eyes.